Throw Down: Caged and Dangerous Book 1

By James Grace

A gritty and emotional MMA Fighter Romance, featuring a tortured anti-hero and a straight-talking heroine...

Evan Crowe –
I fell in love with her when I was just a kid. That age where you just live your life and never think about the consequences. I gave her everything – all of me.
When she disappeared, part of me died.
Then, one day, there she is... looking at me from across the street with those big brown eyes of hers...
But I ain’t a dumb kid anymore. The girl is poison, I know that now. No matter how much I still want her, I can fight it.
Fighting is what I do.
In the cage, they call me ‘The Pitbull’. They say I’m rabid.
And they’re right... because I can’t decide if I want to choke her out, or fuck her.

Scarlett Adams –
I fell in love with him when I was just a kid. But even then, I knew that good things never last.
Still, I couldn’t resist him.
Strong, intoxicating and violent, he was everything I knew I should be afraid of – but I never felt safer than when I was with him.
He gave me everything, and I took it. I let him love me, even though I didn’t deserve it. I was weak...
But that was a long time ago. I’m stronger now, and I’m back.
The thing is, the boy I left behind is gone. The man that’s here in his place is damaged. Twisted. Broken.
And it’s all my fault.

WARNING: Throw Down contains drug use, sexual scenes, possible triggers and profanity. 18+.

• Language: English
• Publisher: James Grace
• Release date: Apr 21, 2018
• ISBN: 9781370882984

Book preview

TABLE OF CONTENTS

TITLE PAGE

COPYRIGHT

SOUNDTRACK

PRE-FIGHT COMMENTARY

ROUND ONE

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

REST PERIOD

ROUND TWO

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

30

31

32

33

34

35

36

REST PERIOD

ROUND THREE

37

38

39

40

41

42

43

44

REST PERIOD

ROUND FOUR

45

46

47

48

49

50

51

52

53

54

55

56

57

58

59

60

61

62

63

64

65

66

67

68

69

70

71

72

73

74

75

76

77

78

79

80

81

82

83

84

85

86

87

88

89

REST PERIOD

ROUND FIVE

90

91

92

93

94

95

96

97

98

99

100

101

102

103

104

105

106

POST-FIGHT COMMENTARY

ALSO BY GRACE JAMES

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

© 2018 Grace James.

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or actual events, is purely coincidental. All opinions expressed in this novel are the opinions of the (entirely fictitious) characters and are not to be confused with the opinions of the (entirely real) author.

Contact: [e-mail]

Cover: Addendum Designs

Bring Me the Horizon—Throne

Theory of a Deadman—Bad Girlfriend

Luke Combs—She Got the Best of Me

Jay Z / Linkin Park—Points of Authority / 99 Problems

Luke Combs—Hurricane

Eminem—Love the Way You Lie

Taking Back Sunday—Cute Without the ‘E’

Bring Me the Horizon—True Friends

Maroon 5—One More Night

Eminem—My Mom

Sia—Fire Meet Gasoline

Chris Stapleton—Fire Away

Arcite - Icarus

The Used—Buried Myself Alive

Eminem—Go to Sleep

You Me At Six—Take on the World

I was fifteen when I killed my father.

I slammed an antique paperweight against his temple and sent him tumbling down the sweeping staircase of my childhood home.

He lay there, bleeding and convulsing on the marble floor, for a good thirty seconds before I realized that the manic laughter echoing around the cavernous lobby was mine.

Even then, I couldn’t stop.

It wasn’t until my mother’s screaming reached deafening volumes that I clamped my hands over my mouth and slowly turned around to see her cowering against the dark, oak paneled wall, looking at me like I was a monster.

That’s how she’s looked at me ever since.

My dad couldn’t hurt us anymore—at least not physically—but that didn’t mean it was over. It was far from over. Even now, a decade later, my mom still can’t stand to be in the same room as me for longer than five minutes.

That’s okay, though. I can’t stand to be in the same room as her either.

Looking at her reminds me of all the things that I’ve done, all the ways I tried to escape, and all the people I hurt in the process.

And no matter how far I ran, or how fast, or how hard, I could never get away… because if the thing that haunts you is you, then there’s never anywhere to hide.

But now it’s time to face my past.

It’s time for me to go back and stand trial for my sins.

Seven Years Ago

I’m jumping at the side of the mat, keeping warm. The wrestling match taking place in front of me is almost done. Our guy, Flynn, is flagging and about ready to tap out, so I know I’m gonna be up pretty quick. I scan the bleachers again, but even as my eyes are skimming over the crowd, I know she ain’t there. My teeth are clenching so fucking hard I’m getting a headache.

Crowe, get your head in the game, Coach Dennis grumbles from beside me. This is a tournament not a goddamn date night.

I don’t have to look at him to know that he’s giving me that look. That old-man-ain’t-been-fucked-in-over-a-decade-can’t-remember-what-it’s-like-to-get-my-dick-wet look. The look that tells me he thinks he knows exactly why my eyes are shooting all over the damn gym—‘cause I want my girl to see me end the motherfucker I’m up against.

But that ain’t it.

Not even close.

Don’t get it twisted, I do want my girl to see me win this match. But, in the grand scheme of things with Scarlett, her missing watching me wrestle ain’t a big deal. I’m gonna be a pussy here and admit it stings. But it’s what she’s doing instead that feels like a knee strike to the fucking balls.

Shit.

I wish I was kickboxing tonight instead of wrestling. I need to punch the fuck out of something. But boxing is tomorrow, so I’ll have to settle for pinning this bitch in a half nelson.

I hear the dull squeak of my teeth in my scull as I grind them up against each other.

Evan, you good, son?

I turn to see my mom’s boyfriend, Jim Mason, the dude currently auditioning for the role of my new step dad, approaching along the front of the bleachers. He’s wearing a black and white track suit with Mason’s MMA Gym emblazoned on the left side of his chest, over the white silhouette of fighter with his fists up. He dresses like a coach even when he ain’t coaching.

I grunt at him. He can take that to mean whatever he wants.

That sounds like I don’t like the guy, which ain’t right. I do. I just don’t want to hear what he’s about to tell me. And I know he’s about to tell me something, ‘cause I just sent him and my mom out on a little fact-finding mission ten minutes before I stepped up to the mat. And now he’s back, and I’m guessing by the look of sympathy on his face that he’s got the fucking facts.

Just tell me, Jim, I mutter as I snatch up my battered headgear and start to fit it into place.

He steps closer to me, like he’s trying to keep this shit private, as if Coach Dennis doesn’t already know what my girl gets up to most nights. Fuck, most people in this town know.

We found her outside, he says quietly, running a hand through his graying hair. She was stoned off her ass. Your mom is putting her in a cab right now—she’s going to go home and sleep it off. Said she’ll call you tomorrow.

I try my hardest not to let my face show even a hint of what’s going on inside my head, which right now is the mental equivalent of my fists pounding into a concrete floor repeatedly until my fucked up, bloody knuckles shatter under the impact.

‘Cause she swore she’d try.

And like the shit-for-brains, special-case that I am, I believed her.

I always fucking believe her.

I make the mistake of glancing at Jim before I answer, and the concern in his blue eyes makes me want to lay the motherfucker out. Alright, that’s what I figured, I bite out before I turn away.

I jump some more. Stretch. Try to focus.

When Coach Dennis says, Crowe, are you up for this or not? in his usual cry-like-a-little-girl-on-your-own-time-‘cause-I-don’t-give-a-fuck-as-long-as-you-get-on-the-damn-mat-and-wrestle tone, I nod.

Yeah, I’m up for this.

I want to make this bitch cry for his momma. I want to break him. I want him to know what it’s like to need something so damn much but know you ain’t never gonna get it.

I want him to know what it’s like to be me.

Seven Years Ago

I cry the whole way home in the cab. I cry harder in my bedroom, when I pull the faded denim duffel bag from the bottom of my closet and start to toss my stuff inside. I don’t even know what I pack, and it doesn’t really matter, because I’m leaving behind the only thing in this whole town that ever meant anything to me anyway.

I wonder if he looked for me tonight.

Did he realize I wasn’t there? Is he mad? Does he hate me?

If he doesn’t, he soon will.

Those thoughts are what really rip me apart. I can barely see through my tears as I leave that dark, empty house—the place that has been my home for the last two and a half years, since Aunt Marie and Uncle George took me in after my mother decided she couldn’t cope with me any longer.

They probably won’t even realize I’m gone until tomorrow. They’ll be out late, working at the diner they own in the center of town. Not that they’d expect me home even if they were around, because they knew I was going to Pine Falls High to watch Evan wrestle. After that, it’s almost a given I’ll stay at his place. Our sleepovers aren’t exactly covert anymore, since we both turned eighteen.

And watching Evan… God, that’s what I want to be doing so badly.

I promised him I’d be there.

But then, I promised him a lot of things.

He never deserved someone as damaged as me, but I was just too selfish to stay away from him. Since the moment I laid eyes on him, across the street, on the day I moved into my aunt and uncle’s house, I knew he was it. The other part of my soul.

I rub my face, trying to wipe away the tears that just keep coming as I wait at the bus stop at the end of the block. I don’t look across the street at the small, one-story house Evan shares with his mom, because I know if I do I won’t be able to leave. I’ll end up climbing through his bedroom window to wait for him, curled up in his sheets and his scent. I know he’ll find me there in an hour or two, and he’ll hold me while I sob against his chest. He’ll tell me it’s okay. He’ll tell me he’s got me. He’ll tell me he loves me…

But I know I can’t go much longer without a hit.

I’m going to give in.

The eight ball in my back pocket, the one that I couldn’t toss away, no matter what I told him, guarantees that.

So, when the bus comes, I get on it.

And I don’t look back.

Because I love him, too.

Present Day

Eva-an, where are you go-ing? The needy whine follows me as I haul my ass out of bed and grope around the floor for my clothes. Come back to be-ed, we’ve got some unfinished business.

I don’t answer; don’t even really look back.

The owner of that grating voice is blond with big fake tits if I remember right—but there’s two of them in there. Pretty sure the brunette was more natural though, which I prefer. Now, if she were awake I’d maybe go back in for more.

I locate my jeans and yank them on after checking my pockets for my wallet and cell ‘cause I wouldn’t put it past these chicks to have jacked that shit while I was asleep. Not that I had much sleep. By my estimations, we only stopped the fuck-fest a couple hours ago.

Hey, Eva-an, don’t leave yet, the blond whines again, and fuck is she nasal. Got one of those voices that makes you want to shove something in her mouth to stop her talking. Guess that’s what ball cocks were invented for. BDSM never looked so inviting.

Gotta go, I mutter as I pull on my black Mason’s t-shirt and then look around for my sneakers.

That’s when she pushes herself up from the bed and does this slow walk over to me that she probably thinks is seductive, but really makes her look like she has some kind of painful muscular condition. And I did remember right—if those tits are real, call me Sandra and fuck me anally.

When she reaches me, she goes to hook her finger in the waistband of my jeans, but I catch her hand before she can get close and hold it firmly away from me. She does that dumb pout that women do when they take a selfie—the one that makes them look like a duck. What’s your problem? You couldn’t get enough last night.

I have to bite the inside of my mouth to stop from laughing in her face. If that’s how she thinks a dude acts when he can’t get enough of her then she’s had a sad sexual history and that’s for damn certain.

Last night’s over, I tell her bluntly. Keep your hands to yourself.

Her face goes slack with shock, before scrunching up in rage—and that’s my cue. I drop her hand like she has the plague and get the fuck out, snagging my sneaks from where I spotted them by the door as I go.

She throws something after me, but it doesn’t make contact and I doubt if she really wants it to. It just smashes uselessly on the floor to my left. She’s breaking up her own shit over me and I ain’t even out the door yet.

Fuck if I can keep the smirk off my face when I think about it that way.

Yeah, I know I’m an asshole. Thing is, I ain’t ever tried to hide that fact. The sluts that follow me to bed know in advance what they’re getting into. They ain’t got no-one to blame but themselves.

When I get into my blood-red Lexus, I head straight to Mason’s MMA Gym. It’s just on the outskirts of Pine Falls, north past the high school. A big, modern building that sent the town cronies into panic induced palpitations when my stepdad, Jim, and a bunch of investors got the planning permission around six years ago.

Before then, Mason’s was located above the bowling alley in town.

To say Jim’s come a long way is an understatement—but he got tired of training fighters only to have them move on to the bigger, better facilities when they made a name for themselves. Now, he’s the biggest name in MMA training for at least three counties in any direction.

Pulling up in my space outside the gym, I glance up at the giant, twelve-by-twelve billboard on the wall of the building. Mason’s: Home of Evan ‘The Pitbull’ Crowe, it states in bright red lettering, shadowed in black, over a picture of me in the cage, snarling at my opponent like a rabid dog—hence the nickname—with fresh blood splattered across my chest. It’s a badass pic. Almost makes me grin.

The other fighters have been giving me hell over it, but I honestly don’t give a fuck. Every morning, I get a high definition reminder of what I’m here for.

To win.

In two months, I’m gonna be the UFA Middleweight Champion.

Nothing else matters. Not women or bullshit gym politics. Nothing but that golden belt of fucking glory.

The second I walk through the revolving door at the front of the gym, Scotty—who’s manning the reception desk—starts the predictable slow-clap. All the other half-pumped dudes in the place turn to me and start smirking and joining in.

I flip them off and head straight for the locker room.

They might think banging two willing sluts in a less-than-fucking-average-ménage is something to congratulate a dude about—and maybe it was for me too, once—but now it ain’t nothing special. And any chicks you pick up at 4AM in a dive bar are never gonna set your world on fire.

I walk past the lockers and through to the sinks where I start the water running. I splash some on my face and then drag my wet hands back through my hair, trying to wake myself the hell up.

I wasn’t drunk last night—I hardly ever drink when I’m training for a fight—but I had a case of blue balls bad enough to overlook how irritating those skanks were long enough to nail ‘em into the floor. There’s only so long you can go until your left hand just doesn’t cut it, and I don’t have the time or the inclination for a regular girl. So, every couple months—or less, depending on how restless my dick gets—I go out and find something to tide me over.

But the truth is, now I’m pissed at myself, ‘cause my training is gonna suffer today. Two hours sleep ain’t enough.

I let out a sigh as I prop my hands on the stainless-steel sink and look at my reflection. Even with wet hair and water dripping off my face, I look like an evil motherfucker. Never used to look like this. Couldn’t tell you with any degree of certainty when I started looking like I’d steal food from the mouth of a starving baby, but that’s where I’m at right now. Could be the deep, white scar running through the dark line of my left eyebrow, or the blacker than midnight hair, or the murderous glint in my pale eyes—and I know for a damn fact I have that. A girl I knew in college told me that looking into my eyes was like looking at death behind a vale. She was a Lit major, all dramatic and shit, but I’m starting to think that maybe she had a point.

Evan? Son, you in here? I hear Jim’s rough voice call through from the entrance to the locker room.

Yeah. I push myself up off the sink and grab a towel to dry myself off. In here.

Jim appears behind me a second later, wearing his red track suit today. Mason’s MMA Gym emblazoned over the left breast as standard. Did you have a good time last night? Dawson’s birthday, wasn’t it? He casually leans against the grey tile wall, like we’re having a father-son catch up, but I know that’s bullshit. He knew it was Dawson’s birthday yesterday. He’s so anal, watching every move, that he probably also knows the exact poundage of the turd Dawson laid out this morning.

Yeah, I grunt as I pass him. I open my locker and pull out some faded gym shorts. Shucking off my jeans, shoes and shirt, I start to change.

Jim follows me closely, like a blood hound after a juicy bone. Personal space doesn’t mean shit to my stepdad. What was the applause for? he asks, eyebrows raised.

I shrug. He probably knows that already too, but he just wants me to admit it. Tough luck motherfucker.

How are things going with you and Ashleigh?

I shrug again. Close my locker.

He huffs and runs his hand through his thinning, silver hair. Evan, Ashleigh is the daughter of a good friend of mine, please tell me you’re not fucking around on her.

Here we go again. This good friend of his is Harry Carson, an investor in the gym and a Grade A prick. One of those dudes who thinks that just ‘cause he has stacks in the bank and a stake in an MMA gym, he’s a tough guy by extension.

Anyway, his daughter, Ashleigh, has a thing for me. And because she needed a date to a friend’s wedding and Jim wanted to do a favor for his number one investor, he convinced me to go with her. Pity dates aren’t usually my thing, but I thought it’d be hilarious to dick Carson’s daughter, so I went.

And I realized that Ashleigh is nice. Genuinely nice. Beautiful, too, in a classy, understated way.

Put simply, she ain’t the type of girl you just fuck—and that’s the only type of girl I have anything to do with. I even have a little rhyme, so I don’t forget: If she ain’t a slut, she don’t make the cut. I like ‘em fast, easy and then gone.

So, I made nice, acted like a gentleman, and dropped her off at her daddy’s house afterwards.

Spoiler Alert: That ain’t good enough for Jimbo.

I fight the urge to roll my eyes and say, as patiently as I can, You can’t fuck around on someone you ain’t with.

So that’s a ‘yes’ to the fucking around?

I just look at him. He knows me; he knows I don’t do monogamy, exclusivity, or anything even remotely related to keeping my dick in one place for longer than it takes for everyone concerned to get off. I did long-term-serious once before, and I won’t make that mistake again.

Damn it, Evan, couldn’t you just give this girl a chance? She seems real nice. I know your mother would like to see you actually dating someone for a change.

Huh. The mother card. Jimbo’s own personal favorite.

It’s no secret I love my mom. She raised me pretty much alone my whole life until Jim came along. And I wasn’t easy. In fact, I was a little shit—again, ‘til Jim came along. He used to be a fighter, back when cage fighting wasn’t so big as it is now, or regulated even half as much, so he’s a tough fucker. He took me under his wing and gave me somewhere to direct my bullshit. He promised to train me to fight MMA if I stuck it out at wrestling, kickboxing and Jiu-Jitsu first and learned discipline, instead of fighting in school or on the streets. Made me a deal, said if I got a wrestling scholarship and went to college, he’d waive all fees and train me to fight MMA. Promised to get me endorsements and the opportunity to get a contract with the UFA if I was good enough—all on the understanding that I got an education and stopped going down the wrong path.

Never seen my mom happier than the day I graduated from the University of Michigan with a Bachelor of Science in Athletic Training.

And Jim’s been as good as his word.

I have the endorsements and the career I wanted, including an upcoming title fight in New York with Luke Morrison, the reigning UFA Middleweight champ.

I owe this son of a bitch a lot, not least ‘cause he takes care of my mom, and it’s nice to see someone look after her for a change.

So, he fucking has me, and he knows it.

Fine, I mutter, I’ll call and invite her to dinner with you and mom on Monday night. That work? I always have dinner at their place on Monday nights. It’s a long-standing tradition—and if I take Ashleigh there, then at least I don’t have to think of anything else to do.

Sounds good.

I pretend I don’t see the look of triumph on his face. You gonna train me now or what?

He grins, claps a coarse hand to the back of my neck, and strolls with me into the gym where he spends the next several hours punishing me for my indiscretions.

People say you can never go home again, that it’s never the same.

Well, those people have obviously never visited Pine Falls.

The wide, main street that runs through the town—which, surprise, is called Main Street—looks completely unaltered. The picturesque awnings out front of some of the stores and cafes look just as I remember. The pale sandstone war monument in the park still has the exact same pillar-box red and canary yellow flowers growing around its base.

It’s so normal it’s almost boring—but I think that’s part of the reason that I loved it here as a teen.

Before I moved to Pine Falls, my life had been unstable to say the least.

I was a city girl, born and raised in New York among the rich kids of the Upper East Side. From the outside, it probably looked like I had the perfect life: Money. Privilege. Two loving parents.

The first two assumptions would be correct… the last one? Not so much.

Moving to Pine Falls marked the beginning of the only time in my life that I ever felt truly safe and loved.

It’s barely ten minutes since I drove past the Welcome to Pine Falls sign, and I already feel more at home than I have since I blew out of this place seven years ago.

As I park my rust bucket of a Ford up outside my aunt and uncle’s diner—called Dale’s Diner after my grandpa—my nerves finally get the better of me. I want to jump out of my car and run… that totally sounds like I want to run away, but that’s not what I mean. I want to shove my feet into my Nike Airs and run for sport. For me, nothing gets rid of stress better than running. At least not anymore.

In the end, I settle for deep breaths and positive visualization.

I focus on the idea that when I walk into the diner my family have owned for the last fifty years, the first thing I’m going to smell is sweet homemade blueberry pie.

I imagine my aunt and uncle looking at me with happiness rather than apprehension bordering on horror.

To be fair, it really could go either way.

They know I’m coming back, but the idea of it and the reality of it are two different things. And only an idiot would view me coming back here with blind positivity.

That’s why I need the positive visualization; otherwise, I’m going to walk in there looking jittery and on-edge. With my history, that would go over about as well as a beer bong at a church camp.

Shit, I murmur to myself. Shit, shit, shit.

Before I even realize what I’m doing, my hand is in the pocket of my faithful, battered leather jacket. I sink my fingers deep into the satin softness of the weathered pocket and wrap them around my coin.

It’s always there, in the right pocket—this one, or one just like it.

I squeeze it into my palm and feel the weight, then loosen my grip and rub my thumb over the face of it. Like a ritual.

Finally, I draw it out into the pale evening light and look down at the flat, shiny circle nestling in my hand. Four years clean. I was presented with it at my last meeting in Detroit. I remember the face of my friend and sponsor, Remy, when I took him aside afterwards. How his eyes gleamed with unshed tears under the yellow strip lighting as I thanked him for everything he did to help me get to this point. How the pink Hawaiian shirt he was wearing made the serious expression on his handsome, dusky-brown face look almost comical and I’d had to bite my lips together to stop from sniggering. He was—is—such a sap. But one who believes in tough love.

Smiling at the thought of Remy telling me to grow a pair—which he would totally do if he were here—I slide the coin back into the safety of my pocket, and then force myself to get out of the car and walk across Main Street toward the familiar diner.

Retro red and blue neon lights are buzzing in the windows, bright and cheerful, welcoming me in. I push the door open to see the unchanged black and white floor tiles and the same old jukebox in the corner that plays Elvis and Chuck Berry on a constant loop. The sense of nostalgia I feel is so strong I have to dig my fingernails into my palms to stop from shaking.

I remember coming here after school for waffles and helping out on weekends. Even the memory of refilling the salt shakers—a chore I used to hate—now holds a kind of charm.

As the scent of buttery pastry, sweetness and warmth winds its way around me, I spot Aunt Marie behind the cash register. She’s smiling at a customer as she hands him his change. She’s short, like me—but unlike me, she’s fair skinned and blonde, and her short hair is spiked up, giving her a sweet pixie look which she pulls off despite the fact that she’s in her fifties now.

I stand still, watching her.

Anxiety is roaring through me. And it’s not because I haven’t seen my aunt since I left, because I have. She and Uncle George have visited me plenty of times over the last few years. They made the two-hour drive from Pine Falls to Detroit about every four months or so. No, I’m anxious because I’m back on their turf. The place where they welcomed me and made me a part of their little family, no questions asked. They treated me like I was theirs—the daughter they never had—until I threw all of that back in their faces by leaving the way I did.

And although they’ve told me a dozen times that they forgive me, I’m not sure I’ll ever really forgive myself for repaying their kindness with total abandonment.

While I watch Aunt Marie smiling at the customers and flitting around behind the counter, Uncle George comes barreling out of the kitchen with two plates full of steaming pie. Blueberry, if I’m not mistaken. As he strides across the diner, his eyes flick up in my direction and do a double take. For a moment, I hold my breath, but then his warm, friendly face is breaking into a huge grin.

Scarlett, you’re early! he exclaims before turning to yell to Aunt Marie, Honey, look who it is!

My aunt sends up a shriek, almost dropping her coffee pot in excitement.

A few seconds later, I’m enveloped in a bone-crushing hug from the only real family I ever knew. No more positive visualization needed.

Scarlett, I almost didn’t believe you’d go through with it, Aunt Marie tells me, her grin still firmly fixed in place, when they both finally step back and let me go.

I let out a little chuckle and decide not to tell them that I’ve been so nervous that I turned back three times on the freeway before I finally made it here. No other choice at this point, I say. There’s already a family of Armenians moving into my apartment, and the woman they hired to do my old job started yesterday.

Uncle George shakes his head. "You did have a choice and you made the right one, kiddo. I can’t help a grin when he calls me that. I’m twenty-five, but to Uncle George I think I’ll always be the sixteen-year-old he took in. Why would you want to be in the city when you could be here?"

Aunt Marie’s hands go to my shoulders, and she studies me closely for a moment, like she does every time she sees me. You look wonderful. So pretty.

I grin at her. So do you.

She waves away my comment and pulls me over to the counter where she tells me to hop up onto a stool.

You hungry? Uncle George asks. Want some pie?

I’d love some! It’s all I’ve been thinking about on my drive over here, I enthuse, wishing that were really the case.

He grins in triumph and disappears back into the kitchen.

We have your bedroom all made up and ready for you, Aunt Marie says as she busies herself refilling coffee cups for a couple of the regulars sitting at the counter, before sliding one across to me.

Thanks, I say, taking a tentative sip from my cup. It won’t be for long, I promise.

Nonsense. You can stay with us for as long as you want. It’ll be nice to have you there again. There’s no rush to find your own place. You’ll be busy settling into your new job at first anyway.

The mention of my new job sends another wave of nerves through me.

Big picture, Scarlett, I remind myself.

Blueberry pie as ordered! Uncle George announces melodically as he barrels back out of the kitchen with the largest slice of pie I have ever seen, complete with two huge dollops of melting vanilla ice cream on the side.

Oooh, gimme! I grin as he presents it to me with a flourish. The first spoonful melts on my tongue just like I remember. Holy mother of shit, that’s good.

Aunt Marie sniggers as Uncle George gives me a vaguely disapproving look. That’s the only thing he and my dad ever had in common—the idea that ladies shouldn’t curse.

Sorry, I mumble, before shoveling another spoonful into my face. "But, my God!"

So, what’s the plan?

I look up from my plate to see Uncle George studying me with perceptive eyes. His tone has changed from playful to serious in less than a minute.

The plan? I ask, around a mouthful of buttery pie crust.

Oh, come on, George, she just arrived, Aunt Marie chides. Give her some time to get settled.

It’s always good to have a plan, Uncle George replies. You need to know where you’re headed so you don’t lose focus.

George. The warning tone in Aunt Marie’s voice is clear, as is the sharp look she sends his way.

I fight to hold in a sigh because I really can’t blame Uncle George for acting this way. So, I decide to throw him a bone and try to set his mind at ease. It’s okay, you have every right to check on my plans. I’m staying under your roof, after all.

Aunt Marie is practically shooting daggers at my uncle now.

"Really, it’s fine. You guys can ask me anything—about anything," I offer, even though I already know they won’t take me up on it.

My aunt and uncle are wonderful people. Caring and affectionate. But they’re not super-hot on discussing anything overly deep or highly emotional. Positive vibes, coffee and food is what they’re about. Anything else, they tend to leave alone, like they’re not equipped to deal with it. That doesn’t mean they don’t feel things, it’s just that they aren’t the type to crack open a Bud and ask you to pour your heart out.

Also, they never had kids of their own. Never wanted any, as far as I know. So, when I got dumped on their doorstep at sixteen with all my issues, that was literally the first time they’d had to take care of anyone but themselves. They don’t exactly have a road map for this—but then neither do I.

Okay, I start, when their silence becomes too much to bear. My plan is this—number one, start work tomorrow at the shelter.

They both nod. This isn’t news. My new job at New Hope—a shelter for women who are victims of domestic violence—is why I moved back to Pine Falls… well, it’s the official reason I moved back here.

But not the whole reason.

Part two of the plan, I continue, is to help out at the diner if you’ll have me?

They both look shocked at that, but then Aunt Marie’s starts beaming. Well, of course we will!

Great. I missed this place.

You can start by being responsible for filling the salt shakers, Uncle George says. That never gets done right.

I hold in a snort at this colossal responsibility he’s entrusting to me. No problem. Part three of the plan—find a local narcotics support group to join.

There’s one on Fifth, my uncle states immediately. Got the pamphlet at home for you.

It’s in the Community Center, Aunt Marie adds. The group leader seems very nice. He has twenty years sober, apparently. He’s looking forward to meeting you.

Well, okay.

A small part of me is pissed that they’re pre-organizing my meetings for me—I’ve always taken care of that for myself—but a bigger part of me recognizes that they’re doing it out of love. That, and they don’t want to have to share their house with a drug addict again. Which is understandable.

Okay, sounds good, I agree with a nod. When do they meet?

Mondays at eight.

Then I guess that’s tomorrow all planned out.

Well, that’s all the plans you need for now, Aunt Marie says, a little too cheerfully.

I wait for them to mention the elephant in the room. The one currently accompanied by a herd of really conspicuous gazelle, and maybe a dozen buffalo. The elephant you can’t miss, no matter how hard you try. The elephant that goes by the name of Evan Crowe—the boy I loved more than life itself back in high school.

But, just like when I was a teenager, they don’t.

I don’t rush as I guide my old Ford through Pine Falls toward my aunt and uncle’s house. I take my time—mainly to kill time—before I have to face that street.

Aunt Marie and Uncle George are still at the diner. They’ll be there late since they don’t close until eleven, so I’m heading home alone with the newly cut key they gave me and a car that’s probably not as full as it should be considering it contains my entire life.

I have three stuffed-to-bursting duffel bags of clothes and shoes, and two cardboard boxes of books and toiletries. It won’t take me long to unpack—so I drive.

I detour through the safe, vanilla suburbs, noticing stupid things, like, Oh, look, old Mrs. Peterson got a new gnome, and, The Smiths finally repaired their porch swing, before I eventually psych myself up to just do it.

But when I finally pull onto that street, I realize I’m totally unprepared for the memories that hit me. How sudden and painfully crystal clear they are.

Remembering is good. It’s like purging a wound. Embrace it. After you get all the old crap out, what’s left is clean and fresh, and you can start again. Those were Remy’s words to me before I left Detroit. He’s the one person in the world who knows everything about

Reviews for Throw Down

[Danielle Shetler · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

This book was phenomenal! I enjoyed reading it by far more than I expected! The author did an extraordinary job!