Fierce

By L.G. Kelso

Three years ago, Tori beat the wrong man. Her MMA training partner, nursing a bruised ego, snapped—shattering her trust and confidence.

Now, she's putting herself through college, avoiding all things fight related, and keeping her fists to herself. That is, until her uncle's failing health draws her back to his gym and her old pounding grounds. With her demons still haunting the cage, she's determined to keep the wall she's so carefully constructed between the past and present.

Until pro-fighter Max Estrada saunters into her life.

The temptation to go glove-to-glove with the sexy Columbian is too much, drawing her back into the world of MMA—a world where her ex-partner reigns as current Middleweight Champion. The secret they share is a liability to his career, and he'll do anything to keep her quiet. If she wants her old life back, and a future with the fighter she's fallen for, she'll have to do more than just survive. With her life on the ropes, she'll have to face her past and fight like she's never fought before.

• Language: English
• Publisher: L.G. Kelso
• Release date: Aug 11, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310996535

L.G. Kelso

L.G. Kelso writes authentic sports fiction about characters falling in love with combat sports and also each other. She's a fan of anything that bashes gender stereotypes, and she can be found in her MMA gym when not writing.Visit her website at http://www.lgkelso.com for more information about her and upcoming projects, including another book in the Whatever It Takes universe.

Book preview

Chapter One

I’ll admit it. As I poured the twentieth cup of coffee of the night, I decided the best birthday present would be if some idiot attempted to rob the place. Preferably without a gun, so I could beat the crap out of him.

A solid pummel. Was that too much for a girl to ask for?

Granted, keeping my fists to myself was my number one goal for the rest of my life. It fit into my failure-free life plan: college, career, marry a guy who can’t throw a punch, get old, and die. A robber could definitely throw a wrench in my plans.

I slid the coffee pot back onto its burner before handing the cup to the customer with the golden piecrust flakes peeking out from his thick, scraggly beard. He tried to give me some change, but I shook my head.

I got this one, I said. It was cold out, and the least I could do was give the guy something warm to drink.

I pulled two dollars out of my pocket, and slipped them into the register.

My hand curled into a ball, relaxed, and then fisted again.

I could have tried to lie to myself and blamed my wish on current events. Tuition was due soon, and I refused to ask my parents for more money, especially since they were still paying off my hospital bills. That was why, on the night of my twenty-first birthday, I was at work and completely sober.

Twenty-first birthday. Sober. As if that right there wasn’t enough, the second semester of my junior college year was about to start and I still had zero interest in my field. However, that was a necessary life choice, albeit a crappy one. My boyfriend was getting wild by playing a video game back at his place, and for my birthday, he had gotten me a curling iron.

No freaking joke.

Even though we had only been dating a few months, I had known him for years. I had absolutely no idea what possessed him to think I would want a curling iron.

But I knew, deep down, that the urge to fight didn’t stem from any of those things. It simply stemmed from me.

It had been too long since I had an outlet, too long since I had put this energy toward anything.

Laughter filtered in as the door opened. Five guys walked inside. Well, some of them walked, some of them could barely stand. Their loud voices covered the buzzing of the lights and the percolating of the coffee pot.

It was Cherry’s turn, so I picked up a rag and wiped down the counter as she went to their table to take their orders.

What can I get you? Cherry’s voice fluctuated to her annoying level, indicating she was flirting.

I tuned out their answers, until I heard the word MMA.

Sure, Cherry said. Hey, Tor, do you have the remote?

No. Why?

These nice gentlemen want to watch the recap for some fight that was last night.

New goal: destroy the remote.

Unfortunately, Cherry had found it and already the TV blared. She walked around the counter and turned on a fresh pot of coffee before she leaned against the counter, on her elbows, so her butt stuck out.

That guy is so flippin’ hot. Look at that, Tori!

I didn’t. I stared at my dishrag.

He’s so strong. Look at that back! He can totally beat the crap out of people. You would have nothing to worry about if you were with that. You would always be safe. Her heel squeaked, and I could guess that her other hip popped out, and that the customers now had a better view of her other butt cheek.

The irony in Cherry’s statement made me stomach clench.

Now, that’s a man right there. He put on one hell of a fight last night. STRIKERS got lucky with that one, one of the guys said.

STRIKERS. My chest tightened as longing crept into my mind.

I couldn’t help it. I looked at the TV.

Two girls, scantily clad and with major boobage, were on it. They draped their arms around a man. White teeth, flowing hair, boobs. I didn’t need to see the man from head-on to know who it was. Just the walk gave him away. He turned to face the camera, smiling and hugging the girls. He had always loved the girls.

Those kind of girls anyway.

The phantom pain returned, dragging its fingertips first across my face, lingering just long enough at the edge of my hairline near my cheekbone to give the thickened skin a pulse of its own, before continuing down my back.

My urge to hit something flared. Anger and desperation mixed with yearning. I looked away from the screen.

The coffee pot beeped.

Would you take some cups over there with me? Cherry asked. I nodded, and poured two cups. Coffee burned between the burner and the pot, and my nerves sizzled right along with it. I followed her, and frowned when the stench reached my nose. Alcohol radiated from the pores of the man on the edge of the booth.

Cherry put her coffee mugs down.

Damn! shouted the man closest to the edge—and to me—as glove-on-skin impact echoed from the TV. At the same time, the man across from him exploded into applause and the door dinged opened. The man’s arms went up; his left hand neared my face.

My fingers slipped off the mug in my right hand. The cup plummeted to the floor, coffee splattered and rebounded off the tile back onto my shoes, and shards of cheap ceramic skidded. My right hand, now in a fist, hovered over my face, the cross ready to fly if he made a move.

God, Tori, what is the matter with you? You got coffee on my tights.

The man’s arms flopped to his side and he didn’t even notice me in his drunk haze.

I don’t think fishnets really count as tights, I pointed out.

I lowered my arm and took a step back. A pair of dark eyes from over Cherry’s head locked on mine. I’m not sure what threw me off about Max, a frequent customer and possibly one of the local university students, standing there. Maybe it was the way his eyes tracked my hand, now balled at my side. He studied it for a second, as though I had exposed myself in some way. I forced my hand to relax. His gaze moved away and lingered on each of the drunks for another second before he said, Hey, Tori.

Hi, Max. I’ll be right with you.

He nodded, and turned away. Cherry grabbed a new cup of coffee while I swept up the shards from the mug and mopped up the mess with a towel. Once done, I hurried to the counter.

I started to talk, but stopped when I looked at Max. He had the hood of his sweatshirt pulled up, over his head. Something sparked in the black pools of his eyes, beneath the shadows cast from the hood.

Would you mind turning the channel? he asked.

Gladly.

You hate it that much, huh? His tone held a mix of relief and disappointment. Max had been frequenting the diner weekly for a few months now, and even though I was far from figuring him out, I had managed to pick up when he was happy or not.

You have no idea.

I spotted the remote on the back counter and plucked it out of the row of glasses Cherry had tried to hide it in. We had disagreements about the TV station often, and remote placement had become a covert mission around here.

The all-too familiar face flashed in front of the screen again as I fumbled with the remote. I dropped it. Seriously? Finally, I got my hands to stop being so jittery and pressed the off button.

Max had burrowed himself deeper into his sweatshirt, his entire face covered in shadows now, his black eyes melting into the darkness, and only his chin in the light. I wondered if he was cold, because the room felt a hundred degrees to me.

The usual? A cup of coffee? I asked, wiping my hands on the dishrag.

He glanced from me to the floor and back to me, smiling. That depends. Are you going to give it to me or the floor?

I threw the dishrag at him before I could stop myself.

He caught it, and tossed it onto the counter.

Ha-ha. If you’re not careful, I’ll give it to your shirt.

Hey now, no need to make threats. I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to be trying to sell me coffee.

"I’m not trying to sell you coffee. I already did." I gingerly placed a cup of coffee down on the counter in front of him.

You getting ready to close up? His hand wrapped around the cup, the tips of his fingers brushing mine as I let go. He shoved his hood back, exposing his face. He took a sip as I focused on a stained spot on the counter with the dishrag.

Soon. My boss is here, in the back, so he wants us to stay open a little later. I’m afraid we are all out of your apple pie, though.

Seriously? Max’s face fell. His bottom lip puckered out. My night is ruined now. Just so you know.

Sorry. We have cherry, rhubarb, and I think a slice of peach.

This is the hardest decision I’ve made all weekend, he said.

You’re totally screwing with me, aren’t you?

He nodded and grinned. His smile eased the rest of his features and the stiffness faded from his shoulders. Okay, I decided. Can I get a slice of peach?

Sure. Peach. My attention went back to the group as I walked over to our pie cabinet. The door opened, and two more men walked in. Their steps were steady, but smoke and alcohol clung to the air around them.

We’re closing in a few minutes, I said.

We still have a few minutes, then, one of them replied. His gaze settled on Cherry as he dragged a chair to the booth where the other men sat, the scrape of wood against tile making me twitch. The men knuckled each other. Of course I couldn’t make it through one shift without getting some Mr. Attitude up in here.

Cherry rolled her eyes and sighed as she looked at the clock.

I handed Max the box of pie. He already had a ten waiting for me. Keep the rest. I’ll see you next weekend.

I nodded. Someday, maybe, I would talk to Max more. Figure out why he was always in here at such weird hours. He usually had a book with him. I had assumed he went to the university down the street, but I never saw him with a backpack. There were also times where he looked straight up ripped, like he had come from the gym. Not that I noticed, or anything.

He started to stand.

"Just a second there, Cherry, is it? I’d like a piece of cherry pie. It looks absolutely delicious."

The voice belonged to Mr. Attitude. As I stared, the man’s hand wrapped around Cherry’s wrist. Max sat back down, the movement catching in my periphery.

The smelliest guy cooed and hawed at the joke. Cherry took a step back, but the man clung to her. She shook his wrist as though she was trying to bat a fly, and not a douche bag, off.

Let go of her arm, I said as I neared the table.

The man let go and laughed. I met Cherry’s eyes and looked at the counter. She got the hint, and walked away, rubbing her wrist. You guys should go. We’re closing up.

I didn’t get my cherry pie, yet, the man said. He angled the chair at the end of the booth, and kicked his long legs out in front of him. He slouched back, his legs spread, and he tossed his hand over his crotch like he wasn’t in public.

What an idiot.

I don’t care. We’re closed.

The man kept my gaze, and smiled. Run along, now. Cherry, I’d like my pie.

Don’t touch her again, you understand me? I stepped to the side but didn’t walk away. Bring their bill, Cherry.

As Cherry’s heals squeaked against the tile, I studied the man. I couldn’t tell if he was built, thanks to his large coat, but he was thick. Thick and drunk, although his motor skills were still intact. How carried away would he get?

A few seconds later, Cherry delivered the slice of pie and a check. The man pulled his legs in a little, and for a moment, I thought the idiot behavior had passed. But, no. I apparently had too much faith in people tonight. The man slapped her ass as she turned away.

That was it.

Get out, I snapped as I smashed my palms against the cool table and leaned into him at eyelevel. Take your pie with you. It’s on the house. Now get the hell out.

Standing, his chair slammed into the ground. I straightened as he moved closer to me. His chest, easily three times as broad as my body, touched my boobs. For once, being 5’11 made me happy.

You have a problem, sweetheart? His breath burned my nose, the acidic stench of cheap alcohol and cigarettes coating the back of my throat.

Yes, I do. So get out.

His shoulder moved. I exhaled slowly as his hand touched my chin, pinched it between his index finger and his thumb. Jealous over Cherry getting all the attention?

Stop touching me.

His hand didn’t move. Instead, his finger rubbed against my jawbone.

One more time. Stop touching me. I met his eyes, daring him to give me a reason.

He smiled. His hand tightened on my face and his finger continued to trail my jaw. My right leg moved out and back, and my right-hand cross went out before I gave it another thought. The muscles in my hand flared as the force of my punch compressed them, threatening to put my metatarsals in a thousand pieces. My fist hit him squarely in the jaw; his face snapped to the side at the impact. I hadn’t pivoted enough, hadn’t kept my shoulder level enough, hadn’t rotated my hand enough.

I flexed my hand once, just enough to tell me that I hadn’t given myself a boxer’s fracture with that piss poor throw.

Well, yet anyway.

Bitch, the jerk snarled as he clutched his jaw. He stepped toward me. I resisted the urge to step back. I needed him close, and besides, I could feel the other drunk’s leg behind me, sticking out from the booth. He reached toward me. Grabbing his shoulder, I pushed down and slammed my knee into his nose.

Cherry screamed. Or was that my boss?

Warm liquid gushed down my leg, dribbling into my shoe and squishing beneath my foot. The man fell forward, onto his knees. His hands covered his face, but the blood leaked between his fingers, dribbled down his arm. Well, this was going to be a mess to clean.

Stubby fingers curled around my arms, and I almost punched until I realized it was my boss. Once we stood a few feet from the group, Bill turned to the man holding his nose. He handed him a towel and started apologizing profusely. I’ll give you some gift cards. Would that work? There’s no need to get the police involved.

No, the man said, his voice muffled through the towel. There’s no need to get the police involved.

Was there a hint of a threat there, or had I imagined it?

Please, everyone, I need to have a talk with my employee. Ex-employee. The pie is on the house. Have a good night.

Ex? Shit.

The man met my eyes again before leaving with his group. Irritation, anger. Probably feeling emasculated. Cold chills shot through my hot skin, shot through my anger. I had seen that look before.

They left, and I guess Max left as well, but I was too busy arguing with Bill about my newly fired status.

You can’t be hitting our customers. That’s unacceptable. He paced, his fingers pulling at the excess skin under his chin.

"He was touching me. He touched Cherry. That’s unacceptable." I darted in front of him in an attempt to make him stop and listen, but he girthed around me and continued pacing.

That doesn’t mean you break his nose! He could charge you. He could sue the diner. We could lose business over that behavior.

What exactly should I have done, then? I crossed my arms over my chest as Bill’s hands flailed around him while he talked. At least he stopped pulling at that gross skin.

Walk away. Smile pretty and flirt until he forgot what he was doing. I don’t know. Anything but break his damn nose!

Walk away or break someone’s nose. Huh. Seemed like I had that dilemma often.

Sorry, Tori. But you’re fired. Clock out. I’ll mail you your last check. Bill walked away, to the back. Cherry had disappeared. The diner, so loud only minutes ago, was quiet.

And I was screwed.

Totally, flipping screwed.

Chapter Two

I left the diner a few minutes later, after I had tossed my name tag on the counter and grabbed my coat. It had been a dry, desert winter but the wind had been particularly nasty and cold. I slipped into the night, made a right, and stumbled to a stop.

A shadow stretched out in front of me, blocking the light from the streetlamp. The man with the broken nose leaned against the wall, and the super drunk guy had his back to the lamppost.

That was pretty shitty what you did in there, sweetheart, the man said. He ran the tip of his finger over the bridge of his nose.

I gave you a chance to back off. I kept my arms loose, and stopped myself from biting my lip. The man looked at his hands, dark in the minimal lighting, and I took the chance to look down the street to make sure they were the only two left of the gang. I tried to think of a plan. I could deal with the two of them. But another shadow had caught my attention.

Three? If I didn’t freeze, I would be fine.

You broke my nose.

I shrugged.

You need to get out of here, now. Max’s voice came from next to me. I glanced at him quickly, but didn’t startle. The other drunk hadn’t moved from the lamppost. Now, fellas, there’s no reason to get carried away. How about everyone calls it a night?

Had he moved closer to me, or had I moved closer to him?

I know you. Boys, do you recognize him? I could kick your ass. I’ll even give you a free pass. Go ahead, hit me, Mr. Attitude said.

I don’t start fights. Just back off, Max replied.

The man’s attention had focused on Max, but behind Max, the drunk moved in. Brass flashed under the glow of the streetlamp.

Move! I snapped as I shoved into Max. The fist came fast. I slipped it and planted a hook onto the guy’s side. I don’t think your talking is working, I groaned.

Nope. Oh, well, Max said.

The broken-nosed man charged forward. Max ducked to the side.

You going to fight now, show boy? I thought you didn’t start fights? the man asked.

Max shrugged as he answered, I don’t, but I finish them. He straightened back up and punched. Max had moved in, next to the man, and the hook landed on the side his head. One hit, one moan of fractured air, one solid impact and the man went down.

Anyone else want a go? I’ll finish it quick. I’m not here to screw around, Max said. I didn’t see anyone else, but after he spoke, a faint echo of feet dragging on the pavement sounded.

The man on the ground stirred and groaned.

Max turned to me and said, "Now. We should probably leave now. He shook his hand in front of me, and I took it. The minute my skin touched his, he bolted, pulling me behind him. I’ll walk you to your car. In case those drunk morons decide to be drunk morons. You parked nearby?" His low voice made my skin tingle. Must have been the adrenaline.

I walked here. Really, I’m fine.

And I went down. My heel caught in a crack in the concrete. My ankle swiveled, and I knew that I had sprained it before my knees even slammed into the cold ground.

Dammit. Figures. It wasn’t the big, drunk gangbanger who took me out tonight; it was my damn shoes.

Max offered me his hand, but I brushed it away and stood. I’m fine, I said. I can get home. I took a step. Nope, not in these shoes. I yanked the shoes off and tried another step. Cold concrete burned against the bottom of my bare feet, and my ankle stung.

Come on, Max said.

I could do this. I would get home on my own. An ankle sprain was nothing. But for some reason, as I took small steps to test out the ankle, I let Max continue to lead me. He came to a sudden stop, and I looked at the car next to me, parked on the street. You’re barefoot. There are drunk morons out. You hurt your ankle. Let me drive you home.

The barefoot part made me stop before I could rant out a rebuttal. I loved being barefoot, but not when walking around the ghetto part of downtown Albuquerque in the middle of the night.

Broken glass or metal in the foot didn’t sound appealing. I nodded, he opened up the passenger door for me, and I slid in as he went around to the driver side.

Did you know those guys? I asked once he started the car and pulled onto the road.

No.

They said they recognized you?

I’ve never met them before. Maybe I just have a common face. He shrugged, but in the soft glow from his dashboard, his knuckles blanched as he gripped the steering wheel.

That seemed unlikely. I had never seen a face like his before. Caramel-colored skin, which was different from my Hispanic friends, black pools for eyes, faint stubble running across his sharp jaw and chin.

Well, this was awkward.

Address?

I listed off the way to get to my apartment, located a few streets away.

You’re not from here, are you? I asked, my thoughts apparently still stuck on his uncommon face.

Nope. I’m from Bogata.

Bogata?

Colombia.

Are you like some Colombian singer, like a male Shakira? Is that why they thought they knew you?

He chuckled. You don’t want me to sing, trust me. Or dance like Shakira either. That wouldn’t be a pretty sight. I’m an average Joe, that’s all.

Yeah, if average Joe was a hot Colombian. My cheeks turned warm, and I leaned back in my seat.

Where’d you learn to throw a hook? he asked after a minute of silence.

Nowhere.

As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I realized what I had done wrong. I should have played stupid and asked what a hook was.

A scent emerged through the stale smell of heat coming from the vents, and I inhaled sharply.

Familiar. Hard work and boy. Clean but lingering sweat. Leather? I peeked over my shoulder, but I couldn’t make anything out in the backseat thanks to the darkness.

Sorry if I smell bad, Max said.

What? I looked at him. He glanced over, out of the corner of his eyes.

Oh no. You don’t. I just… What? Am taking creepy stalker breaths?

We had one more street to go. Thank God.

You smell fine. That didn’t sound much better.

He pulled into the lot for my apartment complex.

Thank you, I said, turning my face toward him but grabbing the door handle at the same time.

Wait. He turned on the light in the car, and settled onto his right hip in his seat. Let me see your hand.

What?

May I see your hand?

Why? I asked as I showed him my hand.

Cool fingers pressed against my hot skin as he touched my knuckles. His sleeves were rolled up and black words ran down his forearm in a straight line.

Never let fear create your fate. Six numbers were inked below it in date form.

Does this hurt? he asked.

No. My hand is fine.

I just wanted to make sure you didn’t have a boxer’s fracture. The way you hit that guy looked like it may have hurt something.

I don’t. Really. It’s fine. I yanked my hand back.

You’re lucky, then.

I felt about as lucky as a fat man’s pony.

You sure? he asked again.

I’ve had my fair share of injuries. I know when it’s not fine. I knew Max didn’t mean it, but his repetition reminded me of my younger years—years when everyone expected something to be hurt because I was a girl.

Max’s jaw flexed, and I was sure he caught the icy tone in my voice that I hadn’t meant to slip out. Fortunately, he let it go.

I cleared my throat, and tried to pull back bitch-Tori. Thank you. Really. I’ll see you next… Oh crap. No I won’t. How had I almost forgotten that I had been fired? Did he distract me that much?

Well, at least I wouldn’t have to relive this awkwardness. Although, I couldn’t deny that a part of me felt a little bummed about not seeing my regular customer.

You go to the university?

I nodded.

Then maybe I’ll see you around. Night, Tori.

Night.

I flung the door open and hurried out—well, more like gimped out—to my apartment.

As I drifted off to sleep that night, two words danced through my mind.

Fear.

Fate.

***

Imaginary fists haunted my night for the first time in months. While it left me feeling tired and groggier than normal, it also made it far too easy to get out of bed the next morning.

Two hours into my morning, and two cups of coffee later, I had found zero jobs. I was going over my monthly bills and my semester dues when the knock came from outside. The tip of my pen skid across the page, scoring out the lump sum I would need this month.

I could keep my electricity payment low. I could layer clothes and wear blankets. I had an idea my roommate wouldn’t agree, but she wasn’t exacting rolling in dough either. The cost for water and waste removal was at least consistent. I already had rent—well, what was supposed to be rent—saved from last month. That left me with groceries and school tuition and fees. Part of my deal with my parents was that they paid for half of my school tuition, so long as I stayed in this preset, safe, failure-free plan.

They had offered to pay for all of my tuition this year, but I couldn’t let them do that. They were still paying off my surgery and physical therapy bills from my ACL tear in my right knee, which happened during my last fight almost three years ago. That had just added to the other hospital debt I had racked up from the night that changed everything.

The knock came again. Oops. I had already forgotten about that.

Tori. You ready?

Great. I had forgotten about that as well.

I slipped off the couch. Slight pain flared in my ankle, but I refused to gimp. So, I half-gimped and half-walked and opened the door.

Good morn— Trevor leaned in to kiss me, but stopped and pulled back as he looked me over. You forgot about breakfast, didn’t you?

Crap. Yes.

We can still make it if you hurry. My mom is usually late anyway.

I backed up, letting him in, and closed the door behind him. A piece of blond hair flopped in my face. "Trevor, I’m sorry, but I really need to stay home and work on stuff