Read Southbound Surrender Online
Authors: Raen Smith
Southbound Surrender (28 page)
“We took some pictures,” I laugh. “But you’re not going to believe some of it.”
“Oh, I’ll believe,” he says as he claps my arm. “We’ve got some talking to do, but I’m going to let you two alone for now. I’ll see you at home, okay?”
“Sounds good. I hope you are in for some awkward Christmases and family functions.”
“We’ll work it out,” he says as he walks away. “There you go worrying again. Don’t you worry about Big Dave.”
He stops to give Piper a hug before he waves and disappears down the sidewalk. I hold out my hand as she walks closer. She grabs my hand, and we walk to the headstone together, squeezing each other’s hands tight.
“Luella, I want you to meet Piper Sullivan. This is
the girl
, but something tells me you already know.”
THE END
About the Author
Raen Smith writes romance and suspense novels with happily ever afters. She lives in a small corner of Wisconsin with her husband and two sons, and loves to be contacted by readers.
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Links to other Books
Suspense Series:
Unraveled #1:
House of Steel
(FREE)
Unraveled #2:
House of Fire
Unraveled #3:
House of V
Acknowledgements
A special thank you to my husband, Brandon, for being incredibly supportive and for pushing me to pursue my dreams. I couldn’t have done this – or much else – without you.
Another thank you goes to my two sons, Cole and Holden, who make me laugh, cry, and above all, make me realize that life is short, and we all grow up way too fast.
A special thank you to Stephanie, Reba, Chalyce, Heidi, and Jenny who provided sound advice and feedback on first drafts. Thank you to my editor, Melissa Westemeier, for whipping me into shape.
Thank you Eric Van Handel and Henry Lukaszka for introducing me to the world of trucking. Without your expertise, this story would not have come alive.
Last, thank you to all the readers! Without you, I wouldn’t be able to pursue my dream.
Sneak Peek: Southpaw
A Kelly Black Novella
I fight because I have no other choice. I fight because it’s in my blood.
Given Name: Kelly James Black
Nickname: “The Dude”
Born: Madison, Wisconsin
Age: 24
Height: 6’1”
Weight: 205 lbs
Weight Class: Light Heavyweight
Record: 12-0-0
This is what my bio says in chalk on the blackboard in front of me. The chain-link fencing breaks up some of the words, but I know what it says. I know who I am. I’m “The Dude,” a fighter with a perfect record in an underground fight club run by the finest fraternity at Wisconsin’s most heralded university. In fact, right now I’m in the cement-block basement of a frat house only eight blocks away from the state capitol building. Surrounding me is an open-top cage engineered by some of the most brilliant student minds at UW-Madison, scholars who spend their Tuesday nights waving Jacksons and Grants sucked out of the open-mouth of the ATM just two streets over. Money comes straight out of their trust funds right into my tape-wrapped hands.
By day, I’m a research scientist at a biotech company who goes by the name Kelly Black. My parents bestowed their fourth and final son with a name reserved for the daughter they never had. Inevitably, people anticipate I’m a girl, until they see me of course. Rock hard abs, chiseled jawline, cobalt eyes, bad-ass tattoos, and nine percent body fat. Like I said, there’s no mistake when people see me.
And finally, I’m a Sagittarius with one last thing missing from that bio you might be interested in knowing. Relationship Status: Train wreck.
I’m not particularly proud of the last fact. It was never my intention to have a track record with women that would make the infamous robed Hugh Hefner proud, but in the last six years I have amassed an embarrassing list of women I no longer have the privilege of calling, mentioning, or remembering. It’s not that I sleep with every single female that lays eyes on me; it’s just that I have a strong propensity to serial date and an even tougher inability to commit. Combined with my looks, you have a classic Casanova. Despite what you may think, I don’t want to be an eighty-something-year-old creep trolling around with silicon-enhanced platinum blondes a quarter of my age.
I never meant for my life to turn out the way it is. I don’t plan to take girls home, and I never plan to ditch them the next day. It just happens. My college days were a mixed bag of science labs, beer, beakers, and girls. My post-college days haven’t been much better, although I’ve replaced some of my bar time with time at a boxing gym. It’s just the last part I struggle with: girls.
Nor am I particularly proud of getting into a wire cage to smash in some guy’s face on a Tuesday night for a couple hundred bucks. Becoming a fighter wasn’t a life-long
dream
of mine. But the fight courses through my veins like oxygen to lungs. It’s an addiction. My therapist, Dr. Denise, tells me that physical exertion is therapeutic as long as it’s in a safe, controlled environment. An underground ring probably isn’t the safest choice, but it’s a better choice than the ones I’ve made in the past, which include a hole-in-the-wall bar called The Silver Dollar, a back alley off Doty Street, and the Governor’s Club Suite at the Concourse Hotel. So here I am.
Dr. Denise also tells me I need to get the whole Casanova thing under wraps. She attributes my hamartia to a treatable disorder she’s diagnosed as narcissism. Apparently, I’m plagued with low self-esteem with an exaggerated sense of self-worth. Sounds like a paradox to me. I prefer to self-diagnosis, like 47% of adults with the help of WebMD, and attribute my actions to an extraordinarily high level of testosterone. Despite our varying diagnoses, I see Dr. Denise anyway because her legs are sexy as hell, and she occasionally has a good piece of advice. Like this one. It keeps me out of prison. I’ve never been caged behind
bars
, and I’ll do anything I can to keep it that way.
So it’s only natural that my head jerks when a woman with ridiculously tight shorts and a shirt – the coverage is so minimal that “shirt” is a questionable term – that exposes her toned stomach walks in front of me. Whistles and cheers erupt from the crowd. Her blonde hair wraps around her shoulders and brushes her breasts as she walks beneath the fluorescent lighting. Her silhouette is cast on the floor, lean with a slight curve, and moves toward me. I assess her black high heels, the sheen of her legs, and the pair of shorts hugging her thighs with no restraint. Before I can finish studying this never-before-seen ring girl, an elbow jabs into my ribs.
“Focus, Kelly.”
It’s Piper Sullivan: friend, roommate, cage-side assistant, and voice of reason extraordinaire. As much as I want to tell her to go to hell, I know she’s right. I’ve got to focus on the guy on the other side of the cage, Jax “No Crier” Beyer. I’ve seen him at Rocco’s Gym a few times. He can throw a mean right hook, he reeks of diesel, and his hands are always smudged with grease. I don’t want some meathead like Jax ruining my record or my face just because I can’t get some girl’s legs out of my head.
Legs. Long, lean, and never-ending legs. Legs have always been a weakness of mine. There’s so many ways that legs can wrap…
“She’s off limits. Olivia is Jax’s girlfriend,” Piper says, grabbing my arm as if this information is enlightening enough to change my mind. If anything, it makes me more interested and less focused. Jax doesn’t deserve a girl like Olivia. He’s the epitome of fighters in this ring: brainless steroid pumpers with shrunken balls, missing teeth and scars so rampant that they’d make one helluva connect the dots. Plus, his name is ‘No Crier’ Beyer, which taunts me to achieve the antithesis of his calling card.
This makes for a perfect kind of pummeling. I’ve successfully objectified my victim (that’s another one of Dr. Denise’s phrases).
There’s a crowd of guys, mostly UW students, smashed into the small space behind me. They’re all vying to get a closer spot to the ring, packed like a herd of cattle off to slaughter. They’re jostling and making noises, pushing forward. Mick suddenly appears in front of the crowd and hops over the fence. His presence silences the room.
Mick, the Jersey transplant who’s the head of the fight club and fraternity, runs through the rules of the cage. Mick is the second leader of this club that started three years ago; the torch was passed from his older brother who is now rumored to be involved with some professional rings in Vegas. Mick’s black Mercedes parked outside tells me that the Henley brothers are doing alright. Mick’s mouth moves, but I don’t hear any of his words until he lifts up my arm and calls my name.
“Kelly ‘THE DUDE’ Black!” Mick yells. The crowd hollers in my favor before Mick drops my arm and walks to the other side of the cage.
“Jax “The Crier” Beyer!” Mick holds up Beyer’s arm. Beyer gets a mix of whistles and boos. The crowd finally settles in and is going nowhere for, what they hope, is a solid fight lasting longer than the minute I have planned. See, I plan to knock ‘No Crier’ out with one punch.
Don’t get me wrong, I love a good brawl every once in a while. The sweat pouring down my body and the burn in my muscles makes me feel real. The pain that shoots through my body when I’m hit only solidifies my existence in a spinning world that chews up and spits out the weakest links. I’m here. I’m alive. I’m Kelly “The Dude” Black.
But tonight I’m not in the mood for the reality check. I’m going to knock him out and go home. I’ve got a big time trial to run tomorrow at BioSystems that involves a thousand test tubes and way-too-expensive pharmaceuticals.
Piper whispers her usual good luck through the metal links, “Don’t get killed,” and takes a step back. It’s worked the last ten times so I take it in stride, put up my fists, and look at the rage-filled eyes of Beyer who is jaunting back and forth, throwing practice punches in the air. It only makes me want to hit him harder.
The crowd taunts us, urging us to get closer. Beyer puts his arms out and pumps them in the air, rallying the crowd. I didn’t want him to go down like this; after all, it seems too easy and formulaic. But I decide to call him out as the jackass he is and close the gap between us with two quick movements. I raise my left fist and explode it into his face.
‘No Crier’ Beyer is on his back seeing stars before anyone can blink.
The crowd is silent for a few seconds and in this moment, I see the look that is going to change the rest of my life. I stare past Beyer’s blank face to see Olivia smiling at me from the other side of the fence.
Mick rushes toward me and raises my hand amid the noise from the crowd. It’s like a swirl around me as I keep my eyes focused on Olivia and her lips that have clamped together. I can tell that she’s holding her smile in. She suddenly averts her eyes and begins to look concerned as the guy next to her climbs over the fence and huddles near Beyer with a small vial. I see Beyer’s small movements out of my peripheral vision, still maintaining my attention on Olivia. She’s acting concerned, but I think it’s just that. It’s an act, and that’s when I think Olivia and I could get along pretty well.
The sound of Piper Sullivan’s voice finally pulls me out of the haze. “Way to not get yourself killed.”
“Thanks,” I mutter as I take a few steps back toward her. Olivia’s head disappears as she is jostled into the crowd.
“You know you could have made it last a little longer,” Mick says as he pulls a wad of bills from his back pocket. He knows I don’t like staying longer after a fight than I need to. “You pissed off a few people who came here tonight for a good fight. We can usually expect a brawl from you. Some showmanship at least.”
“I wasn’t in the mood,” I reply as he shoves the trust fund bills into my unharmed hand.
“Not in the mood, eh?” Mick asks. “You know some fighters would kill to be able to turn it off and on like that. You’re something else, Kelly. You sure you don’t want to take my brother’s offer? They make some real good money out in Vegas. The kind of money that you’ll never see as some nerd in a lab coat.”
“I’ll pass,” I say, clenching my hands around the bills. What Mick and the majority of capitalist America don’t understand is that it’s not about the money. I do this because I have to satiate the need to buff the dullness every once in a while.
“Nice try, Mick,” Piper says through the fence. “Just consider yourself lucky that he even keeps coming back here.”
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll see you next Tuesday?” Mick asks.
I think for a fleeting second, trying to get Olivia’s smile out of my head, before I reply. “If you’re feeling lucky.”