Fight Like A Girl Read online

  Fight

  Like A

  Girl

  A. D. Herrick

  This book is a work of fiction. Any similarities to any person, place or theory is in no way intended or to be inferred as fact or reference.

  The work is the singular property of the Author, and may not be reproduced in whole or in part without permission, unless as part of a Review, Interview or Public push of the work and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Contains adult situations. 17+ only

  Cover Design by A. D. Herrick

  Copyright ©2018 Herrick

  All rights reserved

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty One

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Chapter Twenty Four

  Chapter Twenty Five

  Chapter Twenty Six

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  Chapter Twenty Nine

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About The Author

  Chapter One

  Ginger

  Thwack.

  Thwack.

  Thwack.

  The sounds my fist made as they landed blows against the sand filled black leather bag in front of me helped to ease the tension pulling my shoulders tight, like a drawn bow.

  The tension had a name – Marco. The brother I loved to hate. I mean, I really do love him. I just also hate him more days than not. Especially lately. With each strike of my fist against my sleek black opponent the anger projected at my older brother dissipated, replaced by the feeling of contentment.

  Immense pride filled my chest at the sound of the chains clanking together against the onslaught of my wrapped knuckles making contact. It seemed like it wasn’t long ago my strikes barely moved the bag. My small fist scarcely made an indentation in the slick leather target.

  But now, after years of practice, I was able to harness my power into a controlled strike with enough momentum to move the sixty-pound bag in front of me. My fist created smooth depressions in the material, jerking it against the metal rings holding it in place.

  I continued to hammer away equally switching between my left and right hand, allowing myself to get lost in the rhythmic movement. All thoughts of Marco erased as my body moved with the fluid grace of a dancer as I pranced around the bag landing strike after strike to my wily black opponent.

  A gleam of sweat covered the bag, as a testament to my brutal workout, matching the sweat that covered my brow, drizzling down my face, and the small of my back. The thin white spandex sports bra and black running shorts I wore did nothing to absorb the moisture as it dripped to the ground beneath me, pooling on the cool gray concrete.

  The loud up-tempo music pulsed through the gym's speakers. The music was an eclectic mix of 80’s jams and today's pop hits. I preferred the heavy riffs and deep throaty gruff vocals of heavy metal music, but it wasn’t my gym so instead of bitching, I allowed my body to move to the beat. The rich fluid rhythm and lyrics kept my momentum from dropping.

  “Jump in there and strike. You’re hesitating.” Chaos yelled over the music spilling from the speakers and loud grunts of the other gym patrons as he came up from behind me. His deep rich voice sent heat flooding through my body as it caressed along my sweat licked flesh. His words encouraged me, pushing me to go harder.

  Every cell in my body went on high alert as he closed the distance between us. I was hyper-aware of his dazzling autumn colored eyes raking over my body. They were the color of deep green moss creeping over freshly turned soil - mesmerizing.

  I felt the heat of his gaze lingering on my flesh. Every hair on my body stood on end, standing at attention, under his watchful eye. Pulling back my shoulders I thrust my chest forward, shoulders drawn back, I tightened my form, following his advice. Willing my body to cooperate when all it wanted was to sink back into his warmth. Instinct had my body begging for the heat of his body pressed against mine. It took all the strength I had in me not to slink myself around him like a mink coat in the dead of winter.

  That was a very bad idea.

  A definite no-no.

  Worst idea ever.

  Shaking my head of the errant thoughts, I blinked hard trying to rid my brain of the lust filled haze that threatened to consume me. As badly as I wanted him, I knew I couldn’t have him.

  I was clearly delusional.

  I only imagined his eyes filled with heat. My mind playing tricks on me, desperately searching for things that could not be. To Chaos, I was like a little sister and nothing more. The thought was sobering and effective. I focused on that thought, allowing it to restrain the filthy images running through my mind.

  I ignored the tightness in my lungs. The disappointment of reality was dead weight on my chest. My fist slammed heavily into the bag in front of me in frustration. I was a ball of nerves around this man. I had been since the day I met him. It didn’t matter how many years had passed, my body felt the magnetic pull just as strong today as it did six years ago.

  Readjusting my stance, I doubled my efforts and moved in closer to the bag, raining in a barrage of strikes, eliciting a roaring cheer from the gorgeous man behind me, oblivious to my inner turmoil. My shoulders began to slump forward, defeat bearing down on me from within. I was a medley of emotions all at once, each one struggling for dominance. Anger at Marco. Attraction to Chaos. Defeat at not being able to do anything about either.

  “Come on, Baby. You got this, G.”

  That voice.

  It was deep and thick, sticky sweet like molasses.

  The way my name sounded across his lips as he roared and cheered. The way he called me baby. It had my heart skipping beats like a scratched record player in my chest. It was enough to leave my head spinning, pulling me back from the edge. I felt like a scrap of material in the washing bin as I fought against the impermeable pull he had on me. One second I was down wishing to wallow in self-despair and in the next I was filled with hope and light. The cycle was endless.

  “You’re doing so well, G. I’m proud of you.”

  The praise in his voice had me snapping to attention, like a switch being flipped. My posture straightened, back ramrod straight. My chin jerked forward, nose held high. I preened like a peacock during mating season as I basked in the compliment.

  Chaos didn't praise lightly, nor did he take the time to coach anyone at the gym that wasn't a fighter. He had a reputation for training the best and I was the exception. An exception that had left me stumbling confused for the past six years.

  He’d taken it upon himself to train me to fight. Not for the ring, he would never let that fly, but for self-defense. I could never - would never be a fighter. Not only was I not interested in the sport, but also because Chaos absolutely forbids it. At first, I was slightly miffed to be told I wasn’t allowed in the ring. But after one round with Shank in the ring, I was sold on the ruling. The ring was not for me. Not now. Not ever. It was strictly for training purposes only.

  When it came to overprotective brotherly figures, Chaos took the role seriously. O
nly I didn't look at him in a brotherly fashion. There was nothing brotherly about the sinister thoughts I had of the man behind me.

  His tall muscular mass made it nearly impossible. His hard chiseled features begged for a soft touch I was only too happy to provide. Golden hazel eyes with flecks of amber and rich forest green lit my body on fire, penetrating me with their gaze.

  But that smile.

  It did things to my insides. Things I could never put into words.

  His smile was one hundred percent wolf.

  Perfect straight white teeth with elongated canines tucked behind perfectly molded lips had me begging for a bite, just one. When he turned that wolfish smile on me my blood began to heat, my pulse spiked, and my breasts grew heavy. It made me wish he saw me as his prey, not his pseudo pesky kid sister.

  He was the big bad wolf and I was begging to be devoured.

  “Work that front strike, G.” He yelled from behind, oblivious to my inner turmoil, ripping me back to the cold harsh reality around us.

  I needed to banish the silly little notions inside my head. I needed to face the facts of reality. Today it was proving even harder than usual. Damned Marco and his screwing with my mind. I was going to smother my brother with a pillow in his sleep.

  Chaos was my trainer and friend. He would never be more. I needed to remember that.

  It was the same scolding I gave myself daily. It was just as ineffective today as it was the first day he brought me to the gym, even more so since my brother and his antics started messing with my head, muddling my concentration. Marco’s bullshit leaked over into my life, forcing me to work out harder and longer in the gym.

  Said gym belonged to the gorgeous man behind me with the drool-worthy physique, Chaos. Destruction was a small private gym that sat on the corner of Main Street and Vine, right on the dividing line of MC territories, dead center of the Folds, surrounded by old abandoned building and small decrepit houses. It was an oasis in the sea of forgotten lands in an undesirable neighborhood. A neighborhood we called home.

  The gym was a safe harbor for those in need. It was the one place untouched by the corruption taking place around us in the Folds. It was the only place held sacred by all the local MCs and residents of the Folds.

  It was our church, our place of gathering, it was where patches were left at the door along with old disputes, and unsettled scores. It was the one place everyone was safe, no matter who they were or where they came from.

  Chaos had taken me on when I was just a kid, offering me the safety and comfort of his father’s gym to work out my childhood aggression. It was under his tutelage and guidance I survived the streets, survived my teenage years, and survived the eventual death of my parents. Now the gym belonged to him and had become my home away from home, my safe harbor, and refuge. It was the only place I felt truly alive.

  Destruction offered me solace, security, as well as the tools to defend myself. For which, I would forever be grateful.

  The gym felt more like home than my own. I think a large part of that was due to Chaos’s mother, Mamá Lopez. Mamá Lopez was a short rotund Latina woman with a larger than life personality. She never failed to bring the gym down in laughter when she walked in the door. She would place her meaty fists on her hips and bellow out Chaos’s name, commanding the attention of all those around her.

  There was nothing better than watching the six foot tall, tatted up wall of muscle bow his head in shame, his cheeks taking on a bright red hue. Mamá Lopez was my trump card. My second mother, and the one and only woman in my life that I knew I could count on no matter what.

  Chaos knew that if he ever pissed me off I would run straight to her and have her spank his ass all over town. I had no shame in playing dirty.

  Mamá Lopez was a surrogate mother to us all, never failing to make everyone feel like family, no matter their faction. I don’t believe there was ever a woman more loved by all those around her, myself included. It was her presence that made Destruction feel like home. It wasn’t the empty concrete brick walls, the loud clanking of iron weights, or the grunts of the men and women working out. It was her big heart, warm hugs, and her mother bear boisterous attitude.

  “Carlos.” As if on cue Mamá’s shrill voice echoed through the gym.

  Chaos uttered a string of curses under his breath causing me to giggle. “Don't stop. Work your backhand strike.” He commanded cutting his eyes at me before stomping off in the direction of his mother.

  Mamma stood, her fists on her hips wearing a bright orange and white muumuu. Her salt and black peppered hair was pulled back into a tight bun. The scowl on her face let me know that whatever had brought her down to the gym today was not good. Chaos was in trouble. I snickered at the thought of the monster of a man being scolded by his short aging mother.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I watched as his body retreated. He walked with a smooth swagger, like a panther on the prowl. It was sexy as hell to watch.

  He was dangerous. Deadly. Sinfully sexy. His walk said it all.

  The thin white tank he wore did nothing to conceal the ripple of muscle along his broad shoulders and back or the splashes of black ink that jetted out, peeking around the painted on hem. A loose pair of deep black net shorts hung low on his hips proudly displaying his tapered waist. His calves were the size of tree trunks, thick rich corded muscles that begged to be licked.

  “Head in the game, G.” Shank’s voice boomed around me pulling me from my lustful haze. Heat immediately flooded my cheeks at being caught ogling the gym’s owner.

  “I don't know what you're talking about.” I played for innocence batting my eyes.

  Shank just laughed.

  “It's your story, tell it how you want. Who am I to judge?” He shook his head shooting me an incredulous look.

  Ignoring him I turned back to my work out, punching the bag in front of me alternating between the straight punches and the backhanded slaps and punches Chaos had told me to work on.

  I could feel Shank’s eyes on me. They didn't wash over me with the same heat I imagined from Chaos. Instead, Shank’s gaze was more clinical, accessing. He watched my moves, cataloging my strengths and weaknesses like a true coach, not that Chaos wasn’t a true coach. I just like to imagine that Chaos had ulterior motives for guiding me through the moves.

  “Lift your elbows and watch your breathing. You need to level your breath or you’ll be gassed too soon.” He called out.

  “Got it.” I corrected my form as directed, slowing my breathing, exhaling slowly as I threw each punch.

  “There you go. That's it.” He praised as he studied my form. “Keep it even.”

  Shank was one of the few men I had sparred with in the ring. Most men were afraid or simply bored at the thought of going a few rounds with a girl, namely a girl that wasn't a fighter. Shank didn't seem to mind. He had taught me how to grapple as well as a few tricks I was sure were illegal in a real fight, but that he thought were necessary for self-defense.

  Shank and I had a great working relationship. He never once made me feel uncomfortable or inferior. He always took the time to explain the moves and help me work through them. I trusted him and in our world trust was one of the hardest things earned. It was the most expensive currency.

  Shank was good looking. And I do mean really good looking. He was around Chaos’s height and just as wide. Both men resembled human refrigerators. His dark blonde hair fell over his forehead giving him a boyish look. His wide eyes were the color of the deepest sea, pulling you in under there hypnotic gaze. The small pink battle scars that littered his face reminded you that he was a man, adding to his attractiveness.

  His crooked smile was genuine, lighting up the whole room. He was easy going and laid back with an undercurrent of raw sexuality that seeped from his pores.

  In short, he was the kind of man a girl would fall all over herself for and plenty did. Only, I didn't. The brotherly feelings I should have for Chaos instead fell upon Shank. As attractive as he wa
s I just couldn’t summon the feeling for him that went beyond friendship and brotherly affection.

  “Tighten your frame. You're too loose.” He ordered.

  His callused grip tightened on my shoulders, tugging them back. He held me firmly in place. There was no zip of electricity. No spark of interest. His hands held me firm offering easy comfort and direction.

  “Do you feel the difference?”

  I did.

  In more way than one. Though I knew that wasn’t what he was asking. Shank’s touch was the reprieve I needed to pull me from my Chaos induced haze. Shank’s touch carried a heavy dose of reality, pulling me from my dreamy fog, thrusting me back into the here and now.

  “Difference? G? You with me?” Shank barked out as he pulled my shoulders back tighter.

  I felt the pull of muscle from the new stance in every fiber of my body, mainly my pecs. “Yes.” I croaked out in response. My body protested at the new movement.

  “Okay, good.” He smirked, his eyes glowing with an evil glint, knowing the position was brutal torture.

  “I think you’re trying to kill me.” I squeaked out barely able to hide the sharp pain from the new movement. Shank chuckled.

  “Drawing back like this will help you put more power behind your punch. Keep yourself centered.” He coached as he angled my body the way he wanted it. He bent and twisted my body as though I were a tiny toy, a figurine created for his torturous enjoyment. “Now strike.”

  The movement was sheer agony. But with each straining punch, I felt the difference. Though my body was screaming in pain, the bag in front of me slouched away in fear. The chain clanked loudly. Shank’s grip remained confidently on my shoulders, holding me in place.

  “That's it, G.”

  “It hurts.” I protested weakly.

  “It’s a new move, you’re working new muscles.” He replied dryly unbothered by my whining. We had been working together long enough that he knew to ignore my protest. If things were ever truly uncomfortable or actually hurt he knew I would say something and would help me find an alternative stance.