Life After?: Kayleigh Summers, #1

By Harper Maze

Will Kayleigh be able to face the consequences of her actions?

Description

With no future plans, Kayleigh Summers fought for her dream most of her life.

After life-changing surgery, she receives an unexpected offer from a sports entertainment company to become their latest star, which means relocating to America.

Within a training academy full of glamorous people, Kayleigh recounts how she struggles with her self-image, relationships and her confused sexuality.

Bursting into the limelight, Kayleigh becomes burdened by the pressures of her sudden fame and turbulent love life and finds herself on the brink of a breakdown.

One drunken night, she breaks her most sacred rule.

Will Kayleigh be able to face the consequences of her actions?

Or will her new future crumble around her?

The author will donate $1 of every sale to transgender youth charities.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Harper Maze
• Release date: Nov 12, 2019
• ISBN: 9781916244313

Book preview

Chapter 1

The cold January wind and snow battered the window of my small South London flat. I called it ‘my flat’, but it belonged to Curtis. I couldn’t ask for a better brother. He had taken his role of looking after his baby sister with real gusto. I got to live there for free, I drove his wife’s hand-me-down 10-year-old battered Ford Ka and worked for him at his gym too, although I was stuck at home again with my thoughts while Curtis closed the place for a refit.

I sat there, on my own as usual, and settled down to some deep introspective examinations. For a screw-up like me, that could be quite dangerous, and it was the primary reason I always tried to keep busy. You see, I carried a lot of baggage. Bullied at school continuously since the age of seven for ‘not fitting in’, I was taken to my first child psychologist two months later by my mum, Mary. My father [Lincoln. Or the Wazzock as I prefer to call him. He, in turn, calls me the Embarrassment so is it any wonder I’m a screw-up?] called me pathetic and accused me of making it all up for the attention. Once the details of my quack visits got out at school, combined with a cruel reference to my coppery coloured hair, the other kids constantly referred to me as ‘Ginger Nuts’.

When my parents received the first tentative diagnoses of my confused, reluctant admissions, not that I declared much to them at that time, the Wazzock went ballistic and told me to toughen up. He put me into kickboxing classes with Curtis [which is the only positive thing the Wazzock ever did for me, and I do include being the sperm donor at my conception] and sent me to a string of alternative therapies to, in his words, ‘sort me out’. Funny, in a way, that he chose self-defence classes. The Wazzock used to beat me quite often, but by the time I reached nine, I could punch harder than him. Despite my mental frailties, I was surprisingly skilled at kickboxing. I punched him back and put him in the hospital with a broken nose. Afterwards, his abuse was only mental.

[I digress, this is not meant to be a descent into the depths of the human psyche, especially not the Wazzock’s.]

I looked myself in the eye that morning, in the mirror obviously, and said to myself Well Kayleigh Summers. We finally made it through the years of pain and heartache. What the hell do we do now?

At 22, you may suppose I would have had more of an idea. Having undergone major surgery the previous October, I had virtually recovered and resumed my duties training the junior and disabled classes at the gym. As rewarding as it was, I needed something more. Like any young woman, I guess, I dreamt of fame and fortune; a house with more bedrooms than I had friends, a fast car, movie-star beauty and a hunk of a man on my arm. At that point, I lived in a flat I didn’t own and drove an old charity-gift car. As far as achieving my dreams of celebrity, I had gotten as far as filling in a Big Brother application form. And relationships? Who was ever going to want to be with me, the geeky, dorky, gangly mental screw-up? I had dated once, but my issues ruined that too.

As I said, Curtis closed the gym for refurbishment. It was not your standard fitness venue because Curtis specialised in training people in Mixed Martial Arts (MMA). He set up a place that taught a whole mixture of contact sports in addition to the usual health and fitness stuff. He bought the gym with his quarter of a syndicate Lottery jackpot win when he was 20 Because of his gym’s specialism, Curtis had attracted the interested of one of the American wrestling companies – the No Holds Barred Corporation (NHB). They hired the gym on some long-term contract which included exclusive use for a week every few months. The sum was enough that when Curtis combined it with his savings, he was able to close the whole place for a refit the week before they arrived. They were soon due in the UK for a tour, culminating in a pay-per-view at the O2 Arena on Saturday. I asked Curtis to attempt to get me some tickets, I loved a bit of glamour, and a couple of the guys were quite dreamy.

Despite myself, I was quite excited, because the following day, I would be the first person to see the new-look gym.

After another poor night’s sleep, [bags under my eyes mixed with my abundant freckles always give my cheeks an unhealthy rusty glow, the same sheen as when I blush profusely], I dressed in my customary comfort-clothes of skinny jeans, loose black jumper, sneakers and a long shapeless black coat that any Pepperpot, a retired old woman whose overall shape resembles a saltcellar, would be proud to wear. I pulled my waist-length copper hair, which I refuse to call it ginger, although it is ginger, into a ponytail and tucked it up inside a North Face woollen hat. I didn’t tend to wear makeup often because I liked to blend in as much as possible. I slouched when I walked too, although five-eight is not overly tall for a woman, in a self-conscious attempt to remain unnoticed.

I arrived at the gym in Streatham, called St Reatham if you are local and want to appear posh, in South London at midday, thoroughly glad to escape the snow. I sneaked in the back way, using my key-card first to enter the underground car-park and then the secure entrance to the staff changing room. The new lockers and benches gleamed, and the room smelt of fresh paint and varnish. It appeared bigger than I remembered, too. I poked my head through the door into the central room we called the Hub, but no-one was around. Sounds of sawing and hammering echoed dully from upstairs. I changed into my well-worn workout shorts, padded sports bra and vest. Grabbing my kickboxing pads, a towel and a bottle of water, I went exploring.

The smells of decorating, which always give me a headache when fresh, still permeated throughout the cavernous space, although the giant fans in the ceiling had extracted the worst of it. The varnish on the expansive wooden floor shone like brown glass and sucked at my bare feet like low-tack plasters. The central room formed the hub of the entire gym, the ceiling stretching three stories above in the centre, with a mezzanine encircling the entire space. In addition to providing access to the upstairs restaurant and training rooms, the mezzanine converted to provide extra seating for hosting MMA, boxing and martial arts events. A new sparring ring sat proudly in the centre, sunk a little into the floor to provide better viewing. The ring could be replaced in an hour with any shape or style of ring, or even converted to a flat floor for some events. I had observed the staff in action, and it always reminded me of when they put the covers on and off at Wimbledon. Gleaming new weight machines and exercisers lined the far wall before the floor-to-mezzanine mirrored wall. On the left, punch bags of various sizes, for boxing and kick-boxing, dangled invitingly from the mezzanine beams, while on the right, a line of doors led to smaller training rooms and customer changing facilities which stretched beneath the restaurant.

Finally, numerous small screens peppered the walls beneath the mezzanine, with an immense screen fixed to three of the walls on the upper level. The right side had no wall but instead led to the restaurant and bar. The black screens all blazed into life simultaneously as some thumping dance music started to pump through the custom stereo system. A video, I assumed from MTV, fired into life, and the whole room seemed to dance with motion.

The new mat in the warm-up area was soft and springy, which made stretching easier. When my limbs were relaxed and supple, I moved to one of the full height bags and began to punch in time to the music. At first, I jabbed with lefts and rights, and then progressed to combinations, ducking and swaying, gliding in and out of range. My skin glistened with fresh perspiration, more trickling down my back and slithering towards my chest. I tried some kicking next, first right then left, always on my toes, always moving, slapping the new bag into submission.

Wow, dude, you look great! exclaimed Curtis appearing from the exercise rooms at the back. The sounds of drilling and hammering grew louder until the door swung shut. My stomach cramped taut, and I paused mid-swing. I guess he saw the hurt on my face because he ran over and pulled me into a tight hug. Sorry Sis, it’s just an expression. It’s not that... he sighed. You know, I love you, right?

I hugged him. Yeah, I do, Curtis. I love you too.

And I did mean it. You do look great. If you weren’t my sister...

Stop it. I pushed back from him and tried to hide my bruised legs behind my towel. My arms crossed in front of my chest. Please?

I felt uncomfortable as he regarded at me. Don’t misunderstand, because it was never like that. I hated being scrutinised or gawped at, especially close-up. Curtis was the best brother in the world. Both he and Joanne, his wife, had been there for me through everything. She loved him dearly, and ever since they met at a fitness convention, they had barely been apart. Joanne was everything I wanted to be, blonde, bubbly with the curvy fitness of an aerobics instructor. On the downside, she was high-maintenance. The two of them, plus me and Joanne’s best friend Julia, used to hang out most of the time. Before things changed.

So, what do you think of the place?

It’s awesome.

Curtis beamed with pride. Yeah, almost done. We’ll be ready on time.

When are they due? I asked, referring to the NHB.  

Tomorrow, at eleven. They are here until next Saturday. Next weekend I’ll prepare the gym for the Grand Opening on Monday. I still can’t believe the wrestling company booked out the whole gym.

You deserve it, Curtis. You invested your win wisely. Are you positive the regular customers won’t mind it being shut for two weeks, though?

Maybe. But look at the place. The NHB fees made up the difference I needed to re-equip the entire building and more. The facilities will be amongst the best in Europe, and we can specialise more in full-contact sports, add more classes in the new rooms and the like. Oh, and I have a repeat contract too. Their contract covers three one-week slots each year for three years, every time they’re here on tour. You will come tomorrow, won’t you?

Maybe, I answered. The thought of potentially coming face to face with some of those Adonises, and perhaps worse the Goddesses, I watched live every week on TV in the early hours of Thursday morning was, simply, horrifying. I shuddered at the image. I would be an ugly duckling, a sow amongst thoroughbreds, in a room filled with the women on the Roster. Although, of course, I would be able to ogle the numerous toned guys up close! Perhaps Connor would be there? I blushed again at the thought of being in the same room as the Highlander.

Curtis peered at me with those intense brown, pleading eyes.

I was unable to resist his puppy-dog expression. I’ll come. As long as the NHB don’t mind.

Hell Sis, you’re staff. And family. You’re supposed to be here. And I built your own space in the staff room when you needed it, didn’t I?

Yeah, okay, okay, I said defeated, although I guess I didn’t argue too much. Oh, that’s why the staff room appeared bigger.

Yeah, you don’t need your space now, you’re all grown up.

I experienced a little pang of loss, now that my little refuge had gone. I said as much.

Well, I gave you your own office upstairs next to mine instead. It’s not ready yet, though.

Aw, thanks Bro’, I said, hugging him. He was so toned and solid it was like squeezing a statue. Now, how about a spar? I want to try the new ring.

Curtis grinned at me. You know I don’t like hitting the ladies!

This again?

[You see, growing up I sparred with Curtis more times than I can remember. He’s a lot bigger than me, six-one and a solid two-forty pounds to my one-fifty, and much stronger. I possess speed and agility on my side though, so provided he didn’t become too physical, I could hold my own.]

Oh, and none of that MMA stuff, I said, pulling my pads on. Curtis boasted a real mishmash of styles in his arsenal, and his most recent adoption was the Chinese strain of Sanshou. I had no chance against him when he used it, me being a pure kickboxer.

Whatever you say, Sis. He took off his tracksuit, exposing his muscular frame. He is my brother, but I must admit he is an attractive guy with a toned physique. I would never tell him, though!

Curtis was blonde where I was copper, tanned where I was ghostly pale like someone had painted me with Plaster of Parris, and broad where I was slender.

[Sometimes I wonder if I was adopted. Curtis resembles the Wazzock and, aside from getting my mum’s hair and hazel eyes, I look nothing like either parent. My hope that I have a different father is probably wishful thinking. The Wazzock hates me enough he is bound to be my biological dad. Regardless, I do often wonder if (or pray that) I might carry more than a passing resemblance to a postman or a milkman somewhere.]

Ever the showman, Curtis sprang from standing on the floor straight onto the apron and vaulted over the ropes. Feeling less flamboyant, I climbed up the steps and bent between the top and middle ropes, then stretched while he set the remote to three two-minute rounds.

The new springs beneath the canvas were wonderful under my feet and made moving feel like I was gliding around on solid clouds. I swayed back and forth, tempting Curtis in, and then flicked my right leg up between us to push him back. Keeping on my toes, and watching his movements, I avoided most of his harder kicks and punches, while getting in a few counters of my own. Towards the end of the first round, an advert for the Winter Freeze pay-per-view appeared on the giant screens. A ten-foot-high Connor beamed down at me. Distracted, Curtis was able to catch me with a roundhouse kick as I stepped into a jab and I barely ducked in time.

The kick caught me a glancing blow on the side of the head. I tried to roll with it, but it made my head fog. I dropped to the canvas, sucking in the viscous air, still thick with varnish and paint fumes. I landed on my hands and knees and squeezed my eyes shut while I waited for the dizziness to pass. A few moments later, I tentatively climbed back to my feet. The buzzer sounded, and Curtis ran over to check on me.

Hell Sis, what’s wrong with your concentration today?

Curtis, my dear brother Curtis, stood above me in the ring, his hands, feet and head padded. He offered me a hand up and a bottle of water; which I gratefully poured over my head before shaking off the ringing in my ears. "I don’t know. Just stuff," I replied.

[‘Stuff’ was my generic term to encompass my generic state of mind. It was easier to say that than to mention my self-loathing, low self-esteem, deep-rooted sense of worthlessness and the fugue which coated the whole mess that was my mind. And how in truth could I broach the subject of Connor ‘The Highlander’ Cameron?]

I shook myself off and flexed my shoulder, spinning my left arm in a windmill motion like a biathlete coming in to shoot. Curtis was far too skilled and strong for me to lose focus like that. Apart from Curtis’ size and power, my foremost problem was he knew almost all my tricks. In fact, over the years, I had practised most of them on him first.

I started the second round more cautiously, using my speed to dart in and out, landing several scoring punches and kicks but without executing the ‘money shot’. We both breathed heavily when the buzzer sounded, mostly my fault because I had kept the pace high.

You should never have given up competitions, he said between breaths. He threw another water to me, and we rested while we waited for the buzzer.

How could I carry on? Who can I fight? The drink streamed down my throat, cold and refreshing. I poured some on my head and flicked my hair back spraying water everywhere in a giant arc. Fine, I admit it, I could be a show-off too, and I never tired of doing it, ever since I let my hair grow long. I called it my hair-spray move!

I drove forward as soon as the bell went, firing off combination punches as quickly as I could, aiming at his head guard. I jumped back out of range of his counter and landed a side-kick to his thighs, pushing him back a little, keeping him moving and off-balance. I decided to try the new attack I had been dreaming up. I stepped in, ducking low in a sweep position. At the last moment, I span, raising my right leg high in a roundhouse to the head. Curtis leapt up and forward instead of back as I had expected. He caught my right knee beneath his left shoulder and twisted, pulling me forward and off-balance. I grunted with the force of his momentum. He rotated me around in the air, his right arm looping behind my neck.

My back thudded to the canvas, driving the air from my lungs. Curtis twisted, pulling on my left arm and locked me in an armbar with his feet pushed into my shoulder, applying pressure. I tapped his shin with my right hand, and he released me. I lay there on the canvas gazing up at the vaulted brightly-lit roof and painfully sucking in air. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a hefty, silhouetted figure standing on the balcony where the restaurant overlooked the Hub. The man started clapping and headed for the stairs.

I was not annoyed at losing, well maybe a bit, I hated losing, especially to Curtis, but his use of martial arts that got my goat. An MMA move? I growled as I first sat up, shook my arm and then slowly clambered to my feet.

Sorry, Sis, he said. And he did look apologetic. That last kick of yours was going to knock my head off. The counter was all I could think of.

Most impressive, said a voice with a deep Southern American drawl. The giant of a man from the balcony stood next to the ring. He seemed a little familiar, like some forgotten, distant Uncle who turns up at weddings [not that I was permitted to attend family weddings anymore].

Hey Larry, said Curtis jumping down to the mat. You liked that, huh? Curtis shook the man’s hand firmly, and they bashed shoulders in a manly hug. Standing next to Curtis, I could see how big this man was, at least six-five or six-six with a massive chest and portly stomach, like a barrel with legs. Larry boasted a neatly-trimmed beard and cropped black hair, both tinged with grey.

Hi, Curtis. And I didn’t mean you were impressive, although you are first-rate, I meant your girlfriend here.

Curtis smiled. Kayleigh, meet Larry James. He runs the training and business division of the NHB. Larry, this is my sister, Kayleigh.

Sister, eh? Well, you sure can fight, Sweetcheeks!

Not that well, I lost, I said. I wandered over and took Larry’s offered hand, determined not to do the ridiculous shoulder-bash thing. Larry ignored my hand and pulled me into a tight hug. Hell, he is strong. His arms must be as thick as my thighs.

Do I recognise you?

Maybe, Larry said with a wink. I used to wrestle in a silver mask.

I pondered for a moment, and then it came to me; "The Human Wrecking Ball?"

A smile stretched across Larry’s face almost splitting it in two. An array of dazzling white teeth, punctuated by two shiny gold veneers, sparkled back at me. Attractive, talented and a fan. Where were you twenty years ago?

I turned away knowing he was mocking me. With my freckled skin, covered in bruises from sparring too much, and my gangly limbs, I possessed the grace and majesty of a new-born giraffe. Feeling self-conscious, I decided to go and change. Water had soaked through my shirt, thanks to my hair-spray performance, and I felt exposed and vulnerable from being scantily clothed in the company of such an imposing stranger.

[Weird how that struck me at that moment. I mean, Larry is at least old enough to be my dad. Plus, I am accustomed to running classes with large, fit guys. Perhaps it was the cavernous room with only the three of us in it? Thinking for a moment, if I do have a different dad, I doubt it is Larry, he’s not ginger-haired for one.]

I smiled at them both and headed for the changing rooms.

Curtis said you are coming over tomorrow? Larry called after me

I stopped and turned, then fired one of my ‘what do you think you are up to?’ frowns at my brother, an expression that would have made Chloe from 24 proud. He asked me to come, but if it’s a problem...

No, not at all, Larry said, interrupting me. I am looking forward to it. He flashed that smile at me again, and I waved [lamely] as I walked to the changing rooms.

On the way home, the reality of what I had agreed to do struck me. I was going to meet some of the most glamorous women and hunky men outside of Hollywood and modelling, although some have done that too, including Playboy! If I was uncomfortable in my own company, what horrors would I face the next day?

Chapter 2

I suffered another sleepless night. The next morning, I was wrecked and looked worse than usual. I put some concealer on to hide the bags, most of my freckles and rusty cheeks, then added a touch of foundation over the top. I applied a sliver of green eye shadow and a naked shiny lipstick; largely because my face looks unbalanced if wear base makeup without anything else.

Meeting the Roster was a daunting prospect, and I felt like I was Velma from Scooby-Doo being forced to enter Miss America or something. When I had sporadically managed small bouts of fitful sleep, I dreamt everyone had laughed at me. I wrestled Quasar in a packed Arena at one point, she is beauty and the beast in one, and I was the one getting booed and ridiculed. I woke up naked in a cold sweat. [Yes, I do sleep naked, I like the sensation of soft sheets against my skin as I sleep, it’s a girly thing.]

On the way home the day before, I had spent a chunk of my remaining cash on new tops, shorts, sports bras and stretched my funds to some new pads. I added a new kit bag to carry them all in. I dressed in my usual camouflage of skinny jeans and a baggy jumper, but at least they were new too. I chucked on the long-line black leather coat I got from Camden Market in a sale, it made me feel a bit like Trinity from The Matrix.

A little after noon, I parked my battered red Ka in the corner away from the fleet of hired BMW and Mercedes the NHB Corporation had provided for its staff. A couple of uniformed chauffeurs stood close to the exit smoking. I grabbed my new kit from the back seat and went in via the staff entrance.

Inside, the gym thrummed with noise and energy. Pounding music and yelled instructions of encouragement or admonishment seeped through the staff room door. I dropped the bag on the bench and slipped inside the door to the Hub. Although the Hub appeared sparsely populated compared to normal training