Filthy Daddy

“No. Fucking. Way. Not on my watch. You’re not getting in that ring to get your ass kicked, or to advertise to Jett that you’re here, if he’s around.”

“I won’t lose.”

“I get that you believe you can take on anyone who steps into the ring with you. That’s not the fucking point. I need to do my job.”

“You can do your job while I fight.”

“It’s not up for discussion. You’re not getting in that ring. Keep it up, and I’ll seriously throw you over my shoulder caveman style, if that’s what it takes to get you out of this hellhole. If you’re not doing the nursing gig, you don’t need to be here.”

“We didn’t hire you to stop me from earning a living,” she shrieks. “Do your job.”

She wrenches out of my grip, pushes me backward, and runs up the steps into the fucking ring. I try to follow her, but meatheads appear with the organizer. While I’m busy with them, I see Molly strip off her clothes to reveal the same tiny matching short-shorts with a bikini top that the other fighters have been wearing all night.

She’s been planning this all along.

She leans over the ropes and reaches her hand out to mine. “So, I fight here sometimes. I probably should’ve mentioned that.”

I look behind her at the shadow of a figure she’ll fight. The crowd erupts, cheering their asses off when her opponent steps into the middle of the ring. The woman’s a fucking giant. She’s probably taller than me and twice my width.

“Are you fucking nuts? You’re fighting her? She’ll annihilate you in there.”

“I’m doing this.”

“Step out before you get yourself killed. Right now!

“I beat you, Tate. I can take on this bitch,” she says.

“That’s not the same thing.”

“Do me a favor and go back to the first aid room for my bag, will you?” she asks as the girl with the clipboard steps into the ring and pops a mouth guard over her teeth.

This fight can only end one way.

Bad. Very bad for Molly.

Chapter 11

Molly

I stretch my arms to loosen up and catch a glimpse of my opponent out of the corner of my eye. She’s focused on some fancy footwork, probably to stay warmed up.

She’s big and she’s skilled, but I can take her.

I’ve seen her fight a few times.

Her moves are predictable.

Mentally going through my sparring techniques, I prepare myself.

Tate crosses my mind. It’s kind of cute that he’s so protective, but my anxiety about Jett doesn’t mean that I’m weak. Stepping into the ring to face a fighter is in a different ballpark from watching over my back in case some crazy ex who’s fucked up in the head shows up and tries to slice me up into little pieces.

I wish I could’ve gotten that across to Tate, but he’s in a state of panic. I take a second to look for him. He’s not back yet.

He should know I’m determined. Stubborn. Tenacious. At the same time, he’s bold enough to follow through on his promise to eventually step into the ring and cart me off.

But I need this. A win within this roped off square means more to me than the prize money. It’d be a win for my busted-up psyche, victory over my fear, triumph over the months of psychological intimidation that Jett put me through.

I picture Tate’s face from a few minutes ago. He’s terrified for me, but I know this girl. I understand her moves inside and out. I can do this. I have a shot, and there’s a heck of a lot of money on the line. Money that I can say I earned, as opposed to what my mother inherited from her family and what she was given after my father died.

I’m doing this.

Pain isn’t a factor. I’ve never been scared of physical pain. If anything, it’s a damn good motivator for this fight. This chick is mine. That’s the pep talk I give to myself after the girl with the clipboard steps into the ring and puts a mouth guard over my teeth.

The bell rings twice.

I put my hands up to guard my face. Time to kick some ass. The world narrows to nothing and everything. My opponent does her usual. Within seconds, she’s thrown three jabs toward my face, kidneys, and stomach.

Dip, duck, dodge.