Consumed: A MMA Sports Romance

CONSUMED

By
Claire Adams

This
book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are
products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not
to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual
events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

Copyright
© 2015 Claire Adams

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Chapter
One

Of Bruises and Resurrection

Mason

The punch lands hard
against the side of my face and, for a moment, I’m off-balance.

This wasn’t supposed to
be so much a fight as it was supposed to be me dominating this no-name guy who
thinks so little of his body, he’d actually put it in the ring with me to get
taken apart. Not that I’d really call this a ring.

I shake my head a little,
getting the blood and sweat out of my eyes as best I can. He throws another
left, but I duck it easily and counter with a strike to his torso. He’s trying
to move in closer to get into a grapple, but I’ve got him right where I want
him: Just close enough for me to close his eyes.

That’s the plan, anyway.

He lunges at me, and it’s
all I can do to prepare for the takedown.

MMA hasn’t always been a
passion. When I was a kid, I hated getting into fights—not that that ever
stopped other kids from picking them.

Eventually, I realized
that the fights weren’t going to stop until I learned how to stop them myself,
and the hard way. That’s when it all started to get fun.

I land hard on the hard
floor of the abandoned shop.

The place used to be a
greeting card store, but that was a long time ago, before people like me and
the two or three dozen others came across it and decided it would be the
perfect place to spill some blood.

It helped that they
cleared everything out when the place went under. One dream dies to make way
for another. Or something like that.

I’m in full guard, trying
to keep my opponent away from my kidneys. That burst he came out with at the
beginning of the fight took more than I think he wanted to give, and he’s
catching his breath right now, more than anything.

Only, I’m not going to
let him.

I’ve got one of his arms
more or less neutralized. He can still make contact with me, but I won’t let
him pull his arm back enough for him to land anything that’s going to make a
difference.

When he pulls the other
arm back for another strike, I open my legs and twist my body, releasing his
right arm in the process. It’s not pretty, but at least I’m back on my feet.

He gets up slow, but
rather than rush him and blow all of my energy trying to end the fight right
now, I think I’d rather play with my food a bit.

I give him a couple light
shin kicks to the side, just enough that he knows where this is going. He’s
trying to get close again, so I give him a moderate scoop kick to the thigh to
keep him back.

He’s tired, but I’m
getting him nice and frustrated.

Finally, he’s had enough
of me messing with him and he comes at me with a flying knee, but he’s slow. I
sidestep the blow and counter with a right hook to the temple and he’s on the
ground.

I pounce, but it’s over.
The ref—some random guy they picked from the crowd whose only likely experience
is watching UFC on pay-per-view—calls it.

There are cheers from the
crowd, but the next two guys are already lining up as I make my way through the
crowd to see Tom. On the way, I pick up my shirt off the ground, though I’m not
planning to put it on until after I get cleaned up a little.

“Good fight, man,” Tom,
our in-house, off-duty and off-the-books paramedic says as I walk up to him.
“Sit down.”

“Be straight with me,
doc,” I tell him, sitting, “am I going to lose the baby?”

“Well,” Tom laughs, “I
hate to break it to you, but I don’t think you’ve got the right parts. That was
a hell of a fight. What was the deal with the end, though? You had him. Why
didn’t you just finish it?”

“I got bored,” I tell
him. It’s not too far from the truth. “Are you going to patch me up or not? I
was thinking about hitting a club after this, and I don’t think that too many
women are into guys with open wounds all over the place.”

“Ah, you’ve just got a
bit of a cut on the forehead. The rest are just minor scrapes,” he says,
pulling out his portable triage center.

Tom used to fight with
Pride until his knee got bent the wrong way. He’s about the only guy in the
building tonight I’ve never seen fight up close and in person.

Of course, the rest of us
are amateurs. Tom was actually there.

“All right,” Tom says,
“this is going to sting like you wouldn’t believe.”

I open my mouth, but
before I can answer, Tom is pouring his stinging liquid and I’m trying not to
unravel all the good work I just did by screaming like a dying rabbit.

None of the alcohol gets
in my eyes, but it gets close enough for the fumes to get me squeezing them
shut.

“Hey, could you hand me a
towel or something?” I ask. “I can’t see.”

There’s a loud crash and
a lot of shouting, and I can feel the vibration of people trying to get out of
here.

“What’s going on?” I ask,
hoping Tom hasn’t just left me here to the mercy of whatever everyone else is
trying to run away from.

“Police, freeze!” someone
shouts in the distance, and I’m on my feet.

I have to squint, but I
manage to get my eyes open enough to see where I’m going as I try to make my
way inconspicuously to the back door.

Someone grabs my hand,
and I turn, ready to get pepper sprayed or tackled, but definitely handcuffed.
I turn to find one of the guys from the crowd turned halfway away from me, and
he’s tugging on my hand as if he’s my dad and we’re about to cross the street.

“Where are you going?”
the guy asks.

“Let go,” I tell him.

“Take me with you,” he
says. “I can’t go back to jail.”

“Let go of my hand,” I
tell him.

He’s panicking and not
hearing a word out of my mouth.

“I can’t go back to
jail,” he repeats. “Come on.”

The problem is that he’s
not moving. He’s just standing there with those eyes all big and white, and I
try to pull my wrist away again, but he’s got me in a death grip.

“You’ve got three seconds
to let me go,” I tell him.

“Come on, man,” he says.
“Tell me what I’m supposed to do.”

“I’m not your mom,” I
tell him. “And time’s up. Let go now.”

He doesn’t let go.

My free hand stings as I
pull it away from his face. I think my first intention was to punch him, but
it’s bad form to knock someone else out when police are raiding a place, so I
opened my hand at the last moment.

He’s still standing
there, but he’s let go of my wrist.

There must not be that
many cops here, because they still haven’t made their way through the rest of
the crowd, and I make my way toward the back of the building.

There’s no rear entrance,
but there are a couple of windows, though they’re small and I have no idea
whether or not they actually open. I’d hate to have to break something, but
time is a factor here.

I duck down before I get
to the first window, just in case I was wrong and there are police waiting out
back for someone to try what I’m about to try. I test the window.

It opens, but not easily,
and it makes a piercing squeak as I lift it, drawing the attention of at least
one officer, because someone behind me is shouting, “Step away from that
window!”

I don’t think I will.

I climb out the window
and, as soon as my feet hit the pavement, I’m running. There’s no telling how
many cops are out front, so for now, I’m just staying behind the buildings.

“Hey!” a voice shouts a
little ways behind me, but I’m not stopping for anything.

I’ve gone about three
blocks before the exertion of the fight kicks in and I watch the last bit of
useful energy draining from my body. I duck behind a dumpster and peek my head
out to look at the path behind me.

If someone was chasing me
at first, they’re not anymore.

I stand up again, slowly.

I’m all alone.
Unfortunately, with the increased heart rate, the open wound on my forehead is
just gushing, and I seriously doubt anyone is going to let me into their cab like
this.

It’s not too far to walk
home from here. I just hope I don’t run into any neighbors on the way.

My body shivers a little
and I realize that, in all the confusion, I never bothered to put my shirt on.
I think I had it when I came out the back window, but I can’t really be sure.
In all the chaos and confusion, the shirt wasn’t really the first thing on my
mind.

I look back in the
direction from which I came, but if it’s back there somewhere, I’m not seeing
it.

Looking down, now, I’m
trying to think of any excuse I could give for my general appearance other than
the obvious. If tonight were Halloween, it wouldn’t be a problem. People would
just ask how I got the cut on my head to look so real.

Unfortunately, between my
black trunks, bare feet and tape-wrapped hands, I don’t think there’s any way I
can walk down the street without looking like exactly what I am.

Given the fact there was
just a police raid on an underground fight, now’s probably not such a good time
to not have real clothes.

I’m walking back home
using back alleys as much as possible. When it does become necessary to come
out onto the sidewalk for a block or two, I try to move as quickly as I
possibly can until I’m back where people can’t see me so easily.

When I get within sight
of my house, though, I stop.

I don’t know how they
knew where to find me or why they’d go to such lengths over something like
this, but there’s a police cruiser going up and down the street.

I don’t have my keys, my
phone, anything. What’s really on my mind right now, though, is the police car
coming from the other direction.

Seriously, don’t these
guys have anything better to do with their time?

I can’t go home, at least
not yet. I can’t very well stay out here on the streets, either. Besides, it’s
barely spring and Wisconsin gets cold.

I’ve got a buddy that
lives about half a mile from here. He’s a bit of a pain in the ass, but I don’t
have too many other options at the moment, so I start walking.