“Some moments don’t need a camera to be remembered,” Chris said.
He grabbed my hand and we both looked off into the distance and watched the start of the new day and our new life together.
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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.
© 2015 Claire Adams
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.