Reckless Attraction Vol. 2 Read online

  She turns to me. Her blond hair is lit by the streetlamp behind the car. Her face is in shadow, but I can see the concern there. Her lips are pressed together, and her eyebrows draw toward each other.

  “I don’t know how to convince you,” I say. “But I’m asking for you to give me a chance. Give us a chance.”

  She closes her eyes. I feel bolder. She’s really thinking about this. It’s working.

  “How about I get a SpeedRide from you back to the hotel?” I ask her.

  “Hey,” the driver says. “Why wouldn’t you take this one?”

  “She’s a driver, too,” I tell him. “That’s how we met.”

  “Well, that’s a new one,” he says. “Should I close out this ride?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “It’s up to her.”

  Both of us look at Chloe. She shifts her gaze from me to the driver and back again. “You don’t have to do that,” she says to me. “I’ll take you to the hotel.”

  “Close the ride,” I say to the driver. “Thank you.”

  “No problem,” he says. He taps the phone attached to a holder on his dash. “We’re done here. Good luck, you two.”

  Chloe opens her door.

  I slide across the seat and follow her out of the car. She doesn’t look at me as we walk toward the little yellow Beetle. She unlocks her door, and I circle around to the other side. She hesitates a moment, almost as if she’s contemplating taking off and leaving me there. Then she leans across and pops the other lock.

  Chloe doesn’t start the car right away. We sit there in the silence of the packed parking lot.

  “Look at all the people I sent to jail,” she says.

  “Look at all the people doing something illegal and getting caught,” I say.

  “That includes you,” she says.

  “I knew what I was doing,” I tell her. “And I knew getting caught was a possibility. It’s the risk I decided to take. Something I felt I needed to do.”

  “Why?” Her hands grip the wheel. “Why did you feel like you needed to go to a hidden fight in a terrible part of town in a broken-down warehouse just to beat up somebody?”

  “Technically, I was participating in a sport,” I say. “But I know what you mean. MMA is not for everyone.”

  “I’ll say.” Her hands tighten on the wheel. This really upsets her.

  Surely I can convince her why this is important to me. I’ve had similar conversations in the past. The first was when my mom found out I was boxing. Another when Tutu found out. And the families of a girlfriend or two along the way also questioned me about it.

  “Let me explain it to you,” I begin. “There’s a lot of athleticism to MMA. It’s a martial art. It takes strength and power and mental toughness.”

  “I don’t need this mansplained to me,” Chloe says. “It’s pretty clear that it takes a certain level of testosterone to fuel a need like yours.”

  “I’m not going to argue that particular point,” I say. “Because it does take a lot of determination and drive to keep going when the fists hit home. But I started this when I was nothing but a gangly teenager who didn’t have a muscle that you wouldn’t find on a four-year-old.”

  This gets a little laugh out of her. “I can’t picture that,” she says.

  “I’m not who I used to be.” I hesitate. I’m not sure how much to spill tonight. We’ve said a lot already. I know about her dad, but she knows very little about me.

  “So tell me,” she says.

  “My father died before I was born,” I say. “I didn’t meet my mom until I was about five.”

  “Who raised you?” she asks.

  “My aunt and uncle. They were great, but they always made it very clear that they were just my aunt and uncle.”

  I can see that she wants to ask me where my mother was, but instead she holds onto the steering wheel and waits.

  “Mom was in prison. When she got out, we moved to Honolulu. She started cleaning houses for a living. Sometimes I would ask her what my father was like, but she never would say. She’s a very tiny woman, and I started growing up very tall and skinny. It was obvious there were some other genes at work. I didn’t know whose.”

  “You never knew your father at all?”

  “No. I could only guess about him based on how I was turning out.”

  I leave out the parts where I worry that I will be a criminal like him. A monster.

  “I started working on the docks when I was sixteen. We had to throw a lot of boxes around. It was pretty clear that I wasn’t pulling my weight.” I laugh a little. “Actually, I was pulling my weight fine, just not the same weight as everyone else. At that point I was already over six feet tall and, at most, a hundred and thirty pounds.”

  “That’s pretty skinny,” Chloe says.

  “Tell me about it. I got pushed around. I guess it would qualify as bullying. But most everything they said to me was true. I couldn’t push a cart filled with the same produce the others could. I had to live with it.”

  “So why did you start fighting?”

  “My sister showed up. And with her came her husband, who was an MMA fighter who had been shot by some thugs.”

  Her face contorts with horror. “Someone shot him?”

  “It was big news. I got inspired watching him work out, determined to get back in the cage even after such a terrible injury. Not to mention his father was this famous boxer. They had a life I couldn’t imagine. Limos, big houses, everything. It made me realize that I did have a way out. I had to be determined like Colt.”

  “Don’t you think you could’ve been determined in other ways?” Chloe asks. “You didn’t have to go down this path.”

  “I didn’t have a lot of opportunities in front of me. When this one came along, it felt like fate. The Cure liked me. He admired my sister and her fighting style.”

  “I’m sure there is more to admire about your sister than her fighting style.”

  “Sure. But that’s what counted to The Cure. And I could see she and I were a lot the same. She grew up without our mother, too. It made her fierce. Her fighter name is Hurricane. It’s exactly right.”

  “What did the ref say yours was?”

  “Reckless.” I intend to explain that the name is new, and maybe doesn’t even fit. But Chloe’s expression stops me. She’s still angry. She doesn’t understand. Maybe she never will.

  The world outside our car is quiet and still. I feel like I’ve done the best I can to explain to her why fighting is important to me personally. How it was the best option at the time.

  Up until yesterday, I’d failed at this one goal. But last night in the cage, I succeeded. Even if nobody else witnessed that Face Wrecker went down, I know.

  I can feel the power of all that training. All the faith that everyone has had in me. My life has finally come together.

  I thought Chloe was part of it all. That meeting her was another part of my destiny.

  I can see now that she isn’t. She’s actually the opposite of that. And maybe I’m fooling myself that whatever connection I felt with her mattered in the face of six years of work finally coming to mean something.

  If she’s this against me, then I’m wrong. We’re not meant to be together at all.

  After long moments of quiet, Chloe finally says, “Thank you for telling me this.”

  And she starts the car.

  It feels like the end.

  Chapter 3: Chloe

  Hudson has told me a lot.

  There’s the words he’s saying, which rouse me to anger. The importance of the fight. Only seeing your self-worth through success and fame in a sport.

  Then there’s just plain him. Handsome, strong. I want him to kiss me again. I want to feel his hands on me. How can I be so attracted to someone who stands for everything wrong in my world?

  Damn it. What a mess.

  Outside our little space is the car graveyard. All the people I sent to jail have been forced to abandon their lives, for tonight
or maybe longer depending on their circumstances.

  Yet I’m out. A ransom paid with blood money. The lawyer of the enemy.

  I carefully bump Jonesie off the grass lot and into the street. Everything is quiet compared to the chaos a few hours ago.

  Hudson and I seem to have run out of things to say. I feel argued out, tired, resigned. It takes no time to get to the hotel at this hour.

  As we approach the front doors, he says, “Can I convince you to come up?”

  I answer easily. “No.”

  I could give him an excuse. My roommate will worry. I need sleep. Anything.

  But I don’t do that. I let the negative word hang in the air.

  “Ooo-kay,” he says. His eyes take me in as if he’ll never see me again. I’m not sure why this hurts him, but I can see that it does. “I’ll catch up with you later.”

  Will he? I have a feeling he might try. But I’m not so sure I can or should respond.

  I don’t watch him as he walks away. I push the gas pedal and head off into the sunrise.

  It was just one encounter. A drive, a hike, a few stolen kisses on a private beach.

  It doesn’t have to matter. I can’t afford to let it.

  When I get home, I realize my roommate hasn’t made it back. I snatch my phone and search for any messages I might have missed in the craziness. Zeba didn’t tell me she was spending the night with this guy. It’s their first date, and that isn’t her style at all.

  Suddenly my hackles are rising. Did something happen to her? With everything going on with me, including my phone being confiscated, I hadn’t given her a thought. I picture her cut into pieces and floating in the ocean. I frantically text her.

  I’m home. You’re not! Are you okay?

  There’s no answer right away, so I flop on my bed and plug my phone into the charger. How can I track down this date of hers? Could I figure out his last name? Adeel. Adeel what? Maybe she has a list somewhere of the class.

  Damn!

  There’s no way I can sleep. Zeba is trusting. Quiet. Sometimes she doesn’t pick up that guys are creeps.

  I’m about to snatch my phone and dial 911, when a text comes through.

  So sorry. All fine here. And by fine, I mean wow.

  I let out a long breath. She’s okay. And apparently, more than okay.

  My quiet, fairly naïve roommate is getting action.

  And I’m not.

  I lie on my bed, and my thoughts definitely turn to Hudson. I was pretty hard on him. And not just by calling the cops on the fight. About his explanation. His family. Everything. I didn’t really listen.

  Now that the stressful part is over, the easy moments flood back. The way he smiled at me in the car as we talked about the T-rex and dystopian lands. Our laughter as we dashed from the beach through the woods in the dark.

  And, of course, the time on that bench by the car. He is such a package. Strong on the outside, and so kind and charming on the inside. How often did you meet a man like that? And when you did, how often was he someone you could actually have?

  Why did he have to be a fighter? Why couldn’t he have been literally anything else?

  These questions are pointless. If he hadn’t been a fighter, and I hadn’t been out to bust the match, we never would have met. He mentioned fate, but I don’t see it.

  Destiny appeared to exist just to put us together, and then to cause more suffering than if we had never known each other at all.

  I grab one of my smiley-face pillows and pull it over my face. My life is doomed. Literally. I had twenty great years with a loving family where my biggest problem was my screwed-up sister.

  But now nothing goes right. I can’t finish my degree. My boss has turned out to be someone I can’t trust. My job, which once seemed so important, has become the cause of suffering for innocent people. Not to mention me.

  I toss the pillow away. For my trouble, it knocks over my makeup bag and spills the contents across the floor. Great. I roll over on my stomach. I want to rewind this night. Not take Hudson to the beach. Not have known who he was. If he had simply been a SpeedRide client when I saw him in that cage, I would not have hesitated.

  And I would’ve gotten away. I’d be sitting right here in this bed, never having gone to jail, never having had to doubt my boss. I would’ve done a good job and felt great.

  But that didn’t happen. Now all I have is this terrible rock in my stomach, and a stupid foolish hope in my heart that somehow I can see Hudson again and it will be okay.

  I try for at least an hour to fall asleep. I should be dead tired. But I can’t. So I reach over for my phone and drag it onto my pillow. And I start typing in names. The Cure McClure, for starters.

  That boxer has a million hits. Rags to riches. Multiple title fights. And the scandals. He took a mistress and left his wife and daughters. Had a son by the new woman. His autobiography is apparently half fake to make him look heroic. Gross.

  Then there’s his son Colt McClure. That story is just as wild. His struggle to become a champion. The gunfight in an alley. Hudson’s sister was shot, too. There’s mention of them recovering in Hawaii six years ago. So that’s when Hudson got to meet her. I’m curious how all that went down.

  The story is a huge rabbit hole that takes hours to read. Jo went through a lot, getting sued by her former stepbrother for abuse. He claimed she nearly killed him.

  So violence really does run in the family. All of this makes me feel so much worse. But even as I read these hard things, I can’t stop looking at the pictures. The Cure, holding a baby with Colt and Jo. Leaked photos of Colt and Jo’s wedding in Hawaii. Heck, Dylan Wolf sang at the ceremony.

  I find a much younger Hudson with Colt and another fighter named Parker in some huge arena surrounded by flashing lights.

  Despite the dramatic stories, they all seem so happy when they’re shown together.

  There’s an entire spread in a sports magazine about Colt and Jo and their baby boy. He was born on Christmas Day. They show the nursery, which is decked out to look like an MMA fighting arena. Even the crib is an octagonal cage.

  Hudson seems to have told me the truth about never doing any fights until last night. There are no win-loss records to display. I search for information about his mother. But even in the stories about Jo and Colt and the baby, she’s only a passing reference.

  In fact, they never give her name. Not even her first name. It must be deliberate, because several other family members are quoted. Are they protecting her, and why? Hudson said they didn’t know each other until he was five.

  I set my phone aside. This hasn’t been the worst night of my life, not by a long shot. I’m not sure anything will ever surpass the one that cost me my father.

  But tonight feels pretty bad.

  Chapter 4: Hudson

  I’m supposed to head to the gym the next morning. We work out every day of the week other than Sunday.

  Maybe no one expects me, since I was in jail half the night. But then, maybe they expect me to work even harder.

  I’m not ready to face the questions and their anger. Most of all my sister’s. Instead I go down to the crummy weight room of the hotel and stack weights onto a bar for a grueling workout on my own.

  Every image in my head is of Chloe. It really doesn’t make sense. She was just a girl. In fact, she was the worst kind of girl. The sort of girl who can wreck my career.

  In the light of day, hours after having seen her last, I start to see The Cure’s point of view. How could I ever trust her? If she called me today and wanted to be all cute and maybe come to my gym, would she actually want to see me?

  Or would she be scouting more people to bust?

  I pump the weights harder as my anger is fueled by the thought of her hurting the people I love. My sport is completely legitimate. It’s actually one of the higher grossing sports on pay-per-view. It has rules. It has referees. It has an entire system of making sure things are fair for the fighters.

  An
ything can be illegal if people start betting on it. You could probably get busted for illegal marbles tournaments. Or hackey sack. Or flying kites.

  My arms begin feeling the strain, but I press on. Does she think she’s some kind of pious do-gooder? I doubt anybody was feeling thrilled with her from their jail cells this morning. Not to mention she wrecked my very first fight. One that I was going to win.

  A thirty-something woman comes into the weight room. Her eyes get wide when she sees me jerking the bench press bar up and down like it’s made of plastic.

  “Take it easy,” she says. “You don’t have to work out for all of us.”

  She pays more attention to me than I’m comfortable with, making obvious plays to get me to spot her or help her reset the weights. So after a couple more rounds of leg press and lat pulls, I grab my towel and head out.

  I click my phone out of airplane mode as I take the steps three at a time up to my floor. I don’t like being disturbed during workouts by its relentless pinging. But I probably should’ve made an exception today. There are no less than fifteen text messages, half from my sister. A few are from Colt, telling me I might want to take my sister’s call.

  There are also a couple from my friends Mike and Josh. They want to know if I got out of jail yet. I haven’t responded since I told Mike I was in a cop car.

  They’re pretty pumped about the fight and want to talk to me about the chatter in the MMA underground.

  I text my sister that I’m headed up to the gym. I might as well get this over with. I dash through a brief shower and change into a fresh set of workout clothes. I have to search a minute through the messy closet for my old duffle and back-up gloves. I’m going to miss my new stuff until I can replace it.

  The walk over to the gym doesn’t take five minutes. I’m no more through the blacked-out door of the front lobby when Jo comes flying at me.

  “I’m so angry at you right now, I don’t know whether to yell at you or hit you,” she says.

  “Take your pick,” I say. “I probably deserve it.”