By Ashley Suzanne
Available from Loveswept
Prologue
“It doesn’t matter if you’re a man or a woman, you’re gonna wanna get in our next contender’s pants. Show some love for our hometown legend, the Switch Hitter!” I snort at the name, expecting to walk out and see a fighter carrying a baseball bat. What do ya know? No bat in sight. Extra reinforcements might not have been a bad idea since I’m on fire and ready to bust the bricks off this clown.
Waiting for the emcee to call my name, I think of all the crazy things in my life that have led me to this point. I’ve experienced more than any one person should by the age of twenty-one—few happy moments surrounded by almost constant anguish. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, right?
“Being escorted to the cage by the most badass entourage I’ve seen tonight, all the way from Corbin, Kentucky…the newest fighter this side of the Mississippi…the Raven!” At least my name makes sense. Ravens are known for being alone, having no problem flying solo. That’s what I’ve done for the past four years, anyway.
After my announcement, the crowd erupts into cheers that I can hear loud and clear, even over the song streaming out of my earbuds. Bouncing back and forth on the balls of my feet, I crane my neck side to side, examining the mass of people. It’s a good-sized crowd for this venue. I sometimes wonder if these guys come to watch the fights for the love of the sport or because they like to see the ring girls walking around, barely dressed, carrying signs indicating the round. Oh well, they paid their cover, and that money, if all goes according to plan, will be in my pocket later tonight.
With my coaches leading the way, I follow, bobbing my head to “Down with the Sickness” by Disturbed, mentally preparing myself. I run over everything I’ve been taught over the last year—how to get out of a submission hold, finding opportunities to take my opponent down, remembering not to be a cocky asshole.
It took a lot of convincing for Zan to let me fight tonight. He’s not the kind father figure he portrays himself to be. He says he loves and supports his “children,” but deep down he’d rather I not get in that cage. I know damn well if I blow my first match, it’s going to be a long time, if ever, until he puts me on another card.
“You ready for this?” Zan asks, pulling out one of my earbuds.
Smirking, I eye up my competition that’s already inside the cage—a small, tiny thing that doesn’t look to have much muscle mass. I got this. Standing on the opposite side of the mat surrounded by coaches, glancing in my direction, the slightest tinge of fear flashes across those brown eyes, similar to mine. Physically, I’m not very intimidating—weighing in at an average weight for my class with an average stature to match—but the menace written across my face is an entirely different thing.
Since my first introduction into the world of mixed martial arts, it’s all I can think about. It may be cliché, but I live, breathe, and sleep MMA. It’s the one place I have control. Nobody can take a match from me unless I allow them to, and my opponent isn’t going to walk away with anything…except maybe disappointment, since I’m taking the purse. I already know I want it more; I can taste the victory, and it’s going to be as sweet as I imagine it to be.
Stepping into the steel cage, I shrug my midnight-blue robe off, right into the hands of my coach. Wearing standard MMA gear and my hair pulled back tight, I walk straight to the official, who checks my taped hands. Once cleared, I step back to Zan, who pops my mouth guard in for me, pats me on the shoulder, and whispers in my ear, “It’s only you two. If you want it, make it happen. If not, we can leave right now.”
“Don’t worry, Z. I wouldn’t bring you all the way here to disappoint you.”
Zan and the other coaches walk out of the cage, and the door slams shut, leaving only me, my opponent, and the official inside. I meet them in the middle, and the ref goes over the standard rules for the fight. My opponent and I nod and bump fists, and the bell dings, indicating round one is under way.
Pacing myself and testing Switch Hitter’s skills, I toss a few jabs in the direction of my opponent, gauging for reaction, if any. Without even flinching, my advances are shut down, and every punch is dodged while some are tossed in my direction, as well. None land, and Switch Hitter never breaks a sweat. I may have to reevaluate my plan. Weight class isn’t everything in the MMA world. Sometimes the smallest contender can be the biggest fighter. This isn’t going to be as clean as I thought.
It doesn’t take long before Switch Hitter makes a dive for my lower half, and I feel hands wrapped around my legs. I try my hardest to center myself to stay on my feet, but I’ve been hit in just the right spot, and gravity is an impossible opponent. I position my body to flip and mount, like I’ve been taught, but I’m not quick enough.
Before I know it, a strong forearm, stronger than I assumed, is wrapping around my neck, pulling back to cut off my air supply. Rear naked choke, shit. Taking a few deep breaths, I try to calm my overheated, exhausted body and find a way to maneuver out of this situation. From the corner of my eye, I see Zan signaling me to tap. Not yet. If I’m going to go down, the officials are gonna have to call a medic in here—quitting isn’t an option. Dangerous or not, it’s how I’ve been taught.
The phrase that’s been drilled into me for months dances around in my head. Don’t let the fight consume you.
Well, I’m consumed and I’m not giving up. I’ll figure a way out. I always have. I always will.
Chapter 1
From a young age, I knew that I wasn’t like the other kids. I was the outcast, the one who was talked about on the playground, the one who didn’t have many friends, the girl with a boy’s name. The worst part about being the brunt of all the jokes was that none of it was my fault or anything I had control over.
The problem, which I didn’t really understand when I was seven, revolved around my mother. On any given day, you could find her on the front porch, swaying back and forth with a funny-smelling cigarette in her mouth, which I now know was a joint, mumbling along with Jimi Hendrix playing on the radio. She would more than likely be dressed in a floor-length dress and always in bare feet. My momma was a hippie—so carefree, so happy, but hiding a tinge of sadness behind her brown eyes that were identical to mine, as if she was missing something. I never had a father, so I always assumed she was just lonely.
As a little girl, nothing was more exciting than getting off the bus, knowing my momma would be in the same place she always was, waiting to hug me and ask about my day. After the grand inquisition would be over, she’d toss me a piece of fruit and we’d dance together on the porch, rain or shine.
She used to dress me in adorable circa-1975 floral-print dresses with fresh flowers in my hair. I loved every second of it; I was her personal dress-up doll. She would comb my hair for hours, and it was all about the quality time I spent with her.
The real bullying started when Kyle Jamison decided that ripping the fresh flowers out of my ponytail would make a great game. Every. Single. Day.
After spending the better part of my childhood miserable, I started to dress more like the other kids—Jordache jeans and high-top Converse or LA Gear sneakers. The shirt didn’t really matter, as long as I could tie it on the side and it wasn’t a floral print. I never did anything else exciting with my hair after the last carnation was ripped out by Kyle; it just hung down my back, crimped or feathered, much like the other girls’. I’d traded my love for Stevie, The Doors, and Janis for mainstream music like New Kids on the Block. Some of the songs weren’t so bad once I got used to them, but Donnie and Jordan had nothing on The Mamas and the Papas. I couldn’t even compare the two.