Dirty Fighter: A Bad Boy MMA Romance (5 page)

A
irplanes never ceased
to amaze me.

If you ever feel like everything in your life is closing in on you, it helps to be rocketed into the sky for a little bit of perspective. The world is huge, sprawling, ever moving. There is no lack of experiences, or people, or places.

There’s nothing but time for you to think.

By the time we landed, I had come to the realization that I still hadn’t forgiven my mother. I was glad to be away from her, and glad to be free of worry about my dad.

I saw the suitcase. I saw how prepared she already was for me to be left behind.

Regardless of what she did after the fact, she still had a bag packed and wasn’t planning on letting me know. She was going to leave me with him, that asshole, and she wasn’t even going to warn me. He could have killed me.

If she had left, I would have been there when he discovered it.

He would have been uncontrollably angry, uncontrollably loud, and I would have been the only person who had any information on where she went. My mom packing that bag and deciding to go without me was basically a death sentence, no matter how you looked at it. It didn’t matter what she did after he was dead, it didn’t change the fact that she was almost always only concerned with what was in her best interest.

She would have been just as guilty in the case of my death as he would have been.

My fists were held tight as the plane began to unload; my knuckles were bright and white, looking like they wanted to bust out through my pale skin. I didn’t even get to choose where I went after she told me I needed to leave. My mom even had her hands on controlling my exit.

Regret filled me for leaving Adam on that bus. I could have left with him, gone anywhere in the world, or at least in the country. He could have come with me, booked a flight with all that dough, and we could have just gotten lost in New York together, running off from my aunt. He was the closest thing to a friend I had anymore, I just left all of mine behind without any warning. He was the only person who seemed to really understand what I was going through, even if he didn’t know the full truth.

I wished I had just figured out a way to keep him near me, his strong arms blocking off the awful world I kept getting sucked into. I kept picturing his face, so full of concern, caring for me even though I know I’d probably only been awful to him. I felt more guilt for him than I felt for either of my parents.

I grabbed my carry-on and began to get off the plane, suddenly surrounded by the loud hum of people in the JFK airport. There wasn’t much room to be left alone with your thoughts there, and I was more than thankful for that.

My Aunt Jo met me at the luggage carousel and pulled me into a sweeping hug. She had tears prickling at the wrinkles on the corners of her bright green eyes. I couldn’t help but feel a strong sense of sympathy basically radiating off her. I hated it and got the impending sense of doom that I’d be getting that look from a lot more people in the following weeks.

“How was your flight honey?” she asked, looking me over.

“It was fine,” I lied. I kept my eyes flat on the luggage carousel, not wanting to give her more pity ammunition. She’d eat up every word if I gave her any.

A man kept looking over at us, I could feel his eyes on us, and I regretted my aunt’s reaction to seeing me. I was worried we’d made a huge spectacle, and I couldn’t stand it if more people were going to be giving me looks of pity. Frowning, I turned and looked over at him, curious to see what the hell he was looking at.

That wasn’t pity on his face.

He began to approaching me, and somehow I didn’t think he was checking me out. “Hi, I’m Chet Hayver,” he said, thrusting his hand out to me. He was tall, moderately attractive in the way that most fake things are. I shook his hand though, cinching my brows together a little in a confused smile.

“Brooklyn White,” I replied, letting go of his hand. I could feel my aunt tensing up behind me.

“Brooklyn, how old are you?” he asked. That was straight forward. He was refreshing after what I’d been surrounded with for the last day. My aunt cleared her throat, we both looked toward her and she was borderline glaring at him.

“Oh! Nothing funny,” he said, waving his arms for a moment, before he reached into his pocket and pulled out a card.

“I’m seventeen, but I’ll be eighteen in December,” I said, still looking down at the card. It was pretty classy, thick off white cardstock, light gold over the lettering. Springs Eternal wasn’t in the best taste for an agency name, but what did I know—I hadn’t been approached by one before.

“I’m sorry, she’s grieving right now, I don’t know if this is appropriate,” my aunt said with that same damn sad face. It struck me that she was living off the drama in my life. She didn’t care if I was upset, she cared that it made her look good to care. Chet was quick to rebuttal: not to her though, to me.

“Brooklyn, I’m looking for some new talent, and you have such a look,” he motioned to me. I didn’t feel like I looked like much and I wasn’t wearing my best things, but I had to admit I’d always considered going into acting. “I could easily get you gigs in Hollywood, you’d be a star in no time I guarantee it,” he said, as if I was supposed to take his word just because of a card. “Actually we’ve got a project coming up for the ‘Southfield Axis’ series—”

“Please stop bothering her, she’s been through a lot,” my aunt cut him off, tugging on my arm to lead me away from Chet. Just another fucking relative doing whatever they assumed was best, not bothering to even ask how I felt about any of it. I saw my luggage on the carousel and couldn’t help but think about my mom’s luggage sitting beside her dresser. That damned purple paisley. I wouldn’t be able to look at a print like that again without thinking of her betrayal.

I was sick and tired of my fucking relatives saying what they thought was best, when in the end they didn’t give a shit about how I felt. Stepping away, I grabbed my luggage and hauled it back to the two of them.

“Chet, tell me more about what you can do for me,” I said, much to my aunt’s chagrin. Chet smiled and began to rattle on information I’d need to know. The airport was swimming around me in an almost dream like state as I had my hands on the reigns to my own life for once. It felt incredible.

Fuck my mom.

Fuck my aunt.

They didn’t want to take into account what I wanted—I sure as hell wasn’t going to give a fuck about what they wanted from me.

W
hen you have nowhere
to go it can feel helpless. Hopeless.

People always say all of these things they’d do if they didn’t have to work, didn’t have family tying them down, or a job to hold them accountable. However when you have nothing in the world that’s yours it isn’t like that.

I had money, but what the hell was I going to do with that? Maybe a couple thousand at most, and that wasn’t going to get me an apartment without an ID card, it wasn’t going to even last me a month of motels. I couldn’t go back home, and I couldn’t just follow Brooklyn. So I stayed on the bus. It became a dizzying game of musical seats where I’d get off on random stops, or when the buses hit their final stops before turning around, and then I’d buy a ticket on a bus I’d hadn’t been on before.

I went places I’d never been.

Saw landmarks and states, through the vibrating windows of those buses that I never saw before. The people were never the exact same people, but they were always the same in other ways. There would be people my age, some homeless, some going home because after a couple weeks of living on their own they gave up. Older people visiting family, entire families moving. I never had the same bus driver twice.

The buses were revolving doors of glimpses into possible paths I could take.

I didn’t see any people that reflected me or who I wanted to be. I didn’t see any paths that looked like they would fit me. I know that everyone else has their troubles but I felt truly alone.

Every now and then I’d find myself spending a week or two in a town I’d never seen before. It made me feel a little more human, going to the same diner every morning for a week, jogging through a park with a dozen others. It connected me with other people more than I could have hoped for.

One of the cities I wound up in was right on a river, almost built right on top of it, and it was amazing to see how a city could grow and thrive so close to something that could destroy it. I thought about Brooklyn a lot while I was there. I wondered what she liked to eat, what kind of jokes made her laugh. Once I decided not to get too carried away in my thoughts of her, I let a bus do it instead.

If you circle around a revolving door enough, it’ll spit you out eventually.

I was spit out onto the hot cement of California. I stuck there, somehow just knowing that my time on the busses was over. My legs weren’t used to walking so much after getting off the buses, at first, but I got used to it. I wasn’t angry, wasn’t sad, shit I don’t think I even let myself feel anything those days. I was homeless but I don’t think I gave a shit about even that back then. I remember thinking about Brooklyn’s beautiful and sad face a lot still.

I didn’t want to get caught by cops, so I couldn’t use my ID. That kept me from getting a job most anywhere, and kept me from renting an apartment or even using most hotels. They’re strict on these things, but I didn’t mind it. I could survive outside in California.

I was quick to realize just how many other people were like me, thrown out by a rough cycle. The concrete hot under our heels. California is that perfect mix of weather that makes it so much easier to live when you have nowhere else to go. It’s a state that likes to have the best in life, but it’s also coated with a homeless problem like no other. In summer it doesn’t burn your skin off so there’s no worry about heat stroke, and in winter—well there really isn’t a winter, it’s California.

The only tough thing is how obvious the difference of wealth between people was. People would either be so poor that you’d see them picking out of trashcans any time of the day (you learn not to look), or they’d have enough money they probably wiped their ass with Benny Franklin’s face. It was best not to make eye contact with either of these kinds of people.

I made myself stick to a routine to keep my mind off Brooklyn.

Food was the worst of it. I had money for it, so that was fine, but I was never able to get more than I could carry or store in my locker. I blew through a lot of money quickly in the beginning just eating. I’d almost completely ruined all of the work I put into my body by living off fast food. There were healthy places to eat also, but they were expensive and usually didn’t have much in the means of protein. Healthy out there meant mostly vegetables and smoothies.

Eventually I discovered an Asian fusion restaurant that grilled all of their meats and could give me any veg I needed. I know I shouldn’t complain, I was able to eat, but I needed to be able to eat food that would sustain the body I’d worked so hard to cultivate.

I slept where I could for the first couple weeks, not having any one spot as my home base I jumped all over California. I slept in front of museums, on peoples’ covered porches, and in parks. People wouldn’t be so keen on kicking you off their porch because a lot of people would drop a shit on your porch the second you went back in if you pulled that shit. I never had trouble like that.

I considered getting a job so I could get a place, but nothing suited me. Not to mention, most places won’t hire you if they find out you’re homeless. Finally, I figured out the best way to live when homeless.

I found a gym that had enough of a discount with 24/7 hours.

Endless showers, a locked place to keep what little stuff I had, a place to keep up my regimen of taking care of my body so that I didn’t have to focus on my mind. I didn’t want to know what happened to Brooklyn’s mother, I tried hard not to think about it, but I knew it was my fault. I knocked the asshole out, and then Brooklyn and I fled so her mom would be left with the mess.

It was sloppy. I’d lost a lot of control in my life, so I controlled my body. I could make sure what I’d get out of it, what I could put into my workouts, it kept me comfortable. Every push-up pushed me toward who I wanted to be, away from who I knew I was.

I didn’t always sleep in the gym; I actually tried to avoid it if I could so that they wouldn’t try to take away my membership. I’d sleep in shelters (although getting into those was hell), or I’d find a camp of other people like me and crash there. I avoided personal property, wanting to keep my head down and out of the eye of the law. My money stayed at the gym, and I always stayed within five miles of it. Sometimes people from the gym would offer me a place to crash for the night, but I didn’t wait for or ask for these nights.

I felt like I was redeeming myself for who I was.

I’d done enough shit in my life that living off nothing wasn’t even going to scratch the surface. I wasn’t looking to be blameless, or guiltless, I just wanted to be able to exist without it haunting me. Without having to look over my shoulder constantly. If I could sleep through one night without smelling blood, I considered that a success. I didn’t have many of those in the beginning.

I needed a distraction, and if you ever have nowhere to be, the best place to do that is California. Endless entertainment to draw your eye, an endless carnival of people who are clawing to get that chance, their big spotlight moment. Your waitresses, barbers, gym mates, meter maids, everyone, everyone is looking to get into The Business, and if you miss that you’re blind.

A lot of entertainment is free—they need studio audiences, or there’s a live street performance, but every now and then there were things I’d actually be happy to lay my money down for. I’d seen a few MMA fights, the events were usually hyped up all over the city. The energy during those was always extremely high, the martial artists so completely in the fight that they didn’t notice the crowds roaring around them. It sounded more than ideal.

So when I saw fliers hanging up in my gym advertising auditions for MMA fighting my interest was more than just piqued.

I’d been training in martial arts since I was old enough to get myself to lessons. I’d trained mostly in Brazilian Jiu Jitsu, dabbled in boxing as a side sport. It worked because I grew up a lean kid, Jiu Jitsu kept my body fast, and the drills kept my mind in line. My brain was as worked and beaten as my body was, until both could stand for themselves. It wasn’t until I was starting high school and dabbled into other forms of martial arts that I was able to gain any actual mass, and by then I could throw down with the best of them.

I wrote down all the information on the flier, tucked it in my duffle, and got back to my work out. I’d finally have something to do. Something close to a job to keep my mind off it all.