Making it Right (Tap Zone) Read online

  Copyright 2015 Margaret Madigan and Merissa McCain

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarities to real persons living or dead are purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Formatter: E-Book Builders

  ISBN Print: 978-1-943430-00-0

  ePub: 978-1-943430-01-7

  Mobi: 978-1-943430-02-4

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  COMING SOON

  ABOUT MARGARET

  ABOUT MERISSA

  FOR THE READER

  The shitty little warm-up room didn’t compare to the rush of the arena. Drew “The Juggernaut” Warner paced the tiny space, waiting for his turn in the cage. He itched to have the rough canvas under his feet, the spotlights throwing heat on him, the roar of the crowd come to watch modern-day gladiators pound on each other, testing their mettle, their skill, their strength. Drew’s heartbeat thundered as he anticipated the fight.

  He had done everything he needed to be ready. His training, his experience, his long hours of preparation all combined to make him unbeatable. He would move up. Garcia was the sole thing standing between him and a shot at the championship, and he could destroy Garcia. He’d watched all the man’s fights. He’d learned his moves and worked out how to counter each. He had a plan.

  I’ve got this.

  The door cracked open, and his manager, Bob, poked his buzz-cut head into the room, assessing Drew before he smiled.

  Drew answered with a wild grin of his own. He couldn’t be more ready.

  “Looking good. They’re waiting for us. Let’s go.” Bob nodded toward the arena, where the thunder of hundreds of fans cheering for him and Garcia, and MMA in general, echoed off the walls. Who cared whose fans they were? He’d channel their energy into a win.

  “Yeah, I’m ready.” Drew grabbed his walk-out shirt, emblazoned with sponsors. They’d become bigger and parted with more money with every win. He was so freakin’ close to a shot at the top. Only Garcia blocked his way. He’d destroy the guy.

  Bob talked the entire way up, like every good corner, reminding Drew of strategy, of Garcia’s weaknesses, of the things he needed to watch for. Drew let Bob’s voice, graveled with adrenaline, buoy him. He was ready and Bob knew it, but they both had their role to play. Bob talked. Drew fought.

  The pounding bass at the beginning of Drew’s walkout song reverberated the air, thumping his body. Then the roar of the crowd ballooned, drowning out the song. He paused, closed his eyes and let the intensity pouring from the arena wash over him. The refrain from his song echoed in his head.

  I live for this.

  Then he stepped through.

  The roar peaked in a powerful crescendo. Individual screams from the fans nearest him broke through the din. The rest of the Tap Zone walkout crew surrounded Drew, carrying his banner, and blocking the reaching arms of screaming fans as he strode down the walkway. He focused on the lit cage where he’d meet Garcia, and the noise faded.

  He climbed the three iron steps to the platform, and just inside he turned and posed for the crowd. The fight announcer’s voice echoed off the rafters of the arena as he finished announcing Drew’s name. The screams and cheers and rumble of the crowd faded to a lull, followed by the beginning of Garcia’s walkout song. Drew held the underdog position for the fight, so Garcia had the privilege of entering last—a privilege that would soon be Drew’s.

  I’ve got this.

  Garcia strutted down the walkway, preening for the crowd. Drew gave him respect; Garcia fought well. But Drew knew he fought better.

  Garcia stepped into the cage, raised his arms and pivoted. Drew stepped forward to meet him beside the announcer who recited the familiar numbers: Drew Warner, 6 feet 2 inches, reach 79.1 inches, fighting at 205 pounds, 27 years old. Record of 8 and 2. Drew raised an arm, pumping it to whip up the fans.

  The announcer rattled off Garcia’s stats, Garcia mirrored Drew’s arm pump, and the referee ordered them to touch gloves.

  The lights worked their magic. Garcia’s face shone as slick with sweat as Drew’s and they hadn’t yet landed a blow. They bumped gloves and backed away, like two magnets repelling one another.

  Drew circled, throwing out feeler jabs. Garcia mirrored his movements, keeping distance as he tried to figure out Drew’s rhythm and style, but Drew knew his opponent’s weaknesses. As Garcia flashed a jab, Drew threw a leg kick, catching him on the upper thigh.

  First blood.

  Garcia took it without flinching, and continued to back away. He fought okay in a brawl, but on the ground he turned deadly so he’d want to get Drew down as soon as possible.

  As though Drew’s thought triggered it, Garcia dove at his legs for a takedown. Drew skipped back, avoiding the charge. His plan had been to deliver a knee to the chin when Garcia made that move, but Garcia moved faster than Drew had expected. Bob screamed at him from his corner, “Knee, knee.” Drew tuned him out to focus on Garcia.

  Garcia stood between Drew and what he wanted, so Drew would mow him down. Fuck him.

  Drew threw another kick, forcing Garcia back to avoid it.

  That’s right—keep him on the defensive.

  Drew advanced, throwing a flurry of jabs and crosses, circling so he didn’t present a steady target. He landed a good jab to Garcia’s face, followed by a cross to the side of the head. Garcia rocked, but threw a hook back, catching Drew in the left side.

  Damn, the guy could hit.

  Drew pushed forward, shoving him against the cage, landing knees to his body. Garcia responded with a couple body blows, but the knees were softening him up. Garcia’s muscles clenched before each knee landed

  Progress.

  Garcia tried for a reverse, forcing Drew to break the clinch and back up in order to avoid being shoved against the cage himself.

  Sweat dripped off Drew’s brows, and he blinked. Hands up, he backed away, putting distance between himself and Garcia. His opponent shot for his legs again and this time Drew saw him coming. He threw a knee, but it glanced off Garcia’s shoulder. Garcia bounced back to his feet, and Drew delivered a leg kick, reminding him to keep his distance or Drew would own him, but Garcia advanced again. Drew sent another kick his way, pounding the same spot he’d hit twice before. As Garcia retreated, Drew followed, trading kicks.

  The buzzer echoed.

  Drew backed to his corner, panting. Bob and the other guys talked at him while he sucked down water. So far he’d dominated the fight and won the round on points. Of course, the corner guy always said that, but Drew knew he’d taken that round.

  I’ve got this.

  The buzzer sounded again and Drew bounced up, ready to take Garcia out. They circled, then Garcia threw a kick. Drew sidestepped and came in close, throwing combinations at Garcia’s head. Garcia landed another body blow to Drew’s ribs so Drew gave him some space. He knew that move—body blows to distract followed by a leg sweep takedown. Sure en
ough, there went the sweep, easily avoided because Drew predicted its approach.

  Drew retaliated with another kick, this time to the head. Garcia got his arm up in time to block the majority of the blow but grunted explosively as it landed. Drew flashed his mouthpiece in a ‘fuck you’ grin and pushed forward, following with combos to the body. Garcia stood his ground, and answered by throwing knees, so Drew backed up, avoiding the flurry before landing another leg kick. Garcia’s frustration showed in his grimace, and in the ragged, wild jabs he threw. A frustrated opponent made mistakes. He needed Drew on the ground, but Drew wasn’t going there. No way.

  Time stretched and compressed like it always did in the cage.

  The buzzer rang.

  One more round to go, and Drew had taken the first two. He was golden.

  Sucking air, he retreated to his corner. The cut guy worked on Drew’s face—at least one of Garcia’s blows had opened up a gash. It hadn’t affected his vision, so he didn’t notice. Getting hit fucking hurt, regardless of whether it bled, but you got used to it, or you quit fighting. Bob shoved water Drew’s way, and he gulped a couple mouthfuls, trying to moderate his breathing. The buzzer sounded again, way too soon.

  They met in a clash of kicks. Drew stepped in close enough to grab Garcia and deliver some knees, taking him all the way to the wire of the cage. Pressing Garcia against it, he drove his knee into Garcia’s side, feeling the fighter’s ribs flex. Before he could deliver another, Garcia landed a foot stomp, sending a sharp pain streaking from Drew’s foot up his leg. Garcia tried for another but missed, and Drew threw an elbow to Garcia’s head, opening a cut above his eyebrow. Blood welled, so Drew worked the cut. If he opened it enough to impair Garcia’s vision they’d call the fight.

  Garcia tried the same reverse as before, and this time it worked. The mesh of the cage pressed against Drew’s back in small diamonds as he drove a knee into Drew’s thigh. Drew responded with an elbow, still working the cut, and Garcia stepped back to get some distance. He’d gotten the message after all.

  Drew sent a kick Garcia’s way, landing on his left thigh. Garcia limped back out of range—Drew’s kicks were having good effect. Then he advanced in just close enough, and Drew threw a head kick.

  At the apex of the pivot, Drew’s foot slipped in the blood and sweat on the canvas and he slammed to the mat. The spotlights whirled above him as he struggled to suck in a breath. Garcia rushed to take advantage, straddling him immediately, his knees pinning Drew to the canvas.

  His fists slammed into Drew’s face, driving his head into the floor of the cage. Garcia elbowed Drew’s cheekbone sending a comet flash of light across his vision. Everything went dark.

  When Drew opened his eyes again his corner guys crowded around, and the fight doctor knelt beside him. He closed his eyes.

  Shit.

  Guess I don’t have this, after all.

  He levered himself off the canvas, raised himself to his feet, wobbled over to shake Garcia’s hand and waited while they announced the winner by knockout.

  Not him. Fuck.

  Again, he stood back in the little white room, this time on unsteady legs. It seemed even smaller with the doctor and all his corner guys squashed in. Rage bubbled in his belly, shot through with cold slivers of shame. He’d been cocky. He’d fucked up.

  Drew kept his eyes down, not wanting to look at his teammates. He’d had it, then lost it. Just like that. He collapsed onto the stool in the corner and stared down at his blood dripping onto the mat, until the doctor grabbed his chin, forcing eye contact.

  “You lost consciousness Mr. Warner, which means you probably have a concussion. I can check you out here, or at the hospital. Your choice.”

  “Do it here.”

  The doc nodded, and went about his business. Drew cooperated, answering his questions, all the while replaying that moment in his head—the moment where he’d lost the entire fucking fight. When the doctor got done he informed Drew he had a concussion, and that he needed stitches for the cut.

  Big surprise.

  Drew let the doc stitch him up, welcoming the pricks of pain. They focused him, helped him shove down the sick mix of emotion left behind by failure. The guys commiserated, and he nodded and grunted and acted like it helped. It didn’t.

  The doc tied off the last stitch, wiped the leftover trail of blood dripping down the side of Drew’s face, and tossed his gloves, finally done. He stepped away after some last minute wound care instructions and left Drew to his misery. Drew leaned his head back on the wall and gathered his strength, then stood on shaky legs and collected his stuff. He needed outta there. He needed alone time to come to terms with failure. He might need quite a bit of time for this one, because by God he’d fucked up big.

  The next morning, Drew’s head pounded. It throbbed in excruciating waves, worse than any hangover he’d ever experienced. He felt like he’d been run over by a—

  Shit. He felt like he’d been pounded on by Garcia. Like he’d lost the biggest freakin’ fight of his career.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  He scrunched his forehead, trying to block out the shrill noise echoing inside his skull. Bad choice. The small movement just set off a shitstorm of pain, and didn’t make a bit of difference in the noise.

  Drew opened one eye. Blurry light filled his bedroom, exploding into his head with the intensity of an atom bomb. He squeezed the eye shut again and took a breath before forcing both eyes open. He’d have to face the day sometime—might as well get it over with. Besides, the hellish screeching noise blared over and over and over again. He needed it to stop. He turned his head slowly. The pain spiked and nausea roiled his gut. The blinding brightness, and doubled images reminded him he’d got his ass handed to him by a guy he should have beaten.

  His eyes closed against the light—without his permission. Even his fucking body punished him for losing. And the noise still hadn’t stopped. What the hell made that much noise? He threw out an arm and bumped something off the nightstand. Oh. The phone. He fumbled around on the floor, his head throbbing like a jack hammer, and finally dragged the thing to his ear as he flopped onto his back. “What?”

  A woman’s voice, harried yet hesitant. “Hi, is this Mr. Warner?”

  Drew shut his eyes, blocking out most of the light. So much better. With his vision darkened and the ringing stopped, he could almost rub two thoughts together.

  “Yeah. What?” Silence echoed on the other end of the line, and when the voice returned, it sounded clipped. “Mr. Warner, you have a storage unit with us at Lone Star Storage, correct?”

  “Uh…yeah. Why?”

  “Well, there’s been a break-in, so I’m notifying all the renters who’ve been affected.”

  “What are you talking about, lady?” Drew tried to force his brain to work, but the bastard refused to cooperate because nothing the woman said made any sense.

  She paused, then spoke deliberately, over-enunciating every word. “Someone broke into your storage unit. You need to come and see what’s missing so we can file a report.”

  Drew let the words sink in for a moment. All at once he figured out what she’d said. “What? Are you saying you let someone steal my stuff?” Drew’s stomach clenched as he thought of his Mom’s things—all he had left of her, stolen. He bolted to a sitting position, which made his vision fade to black and white.

  “Shit,” he muttered, trying to talk himself out of keeling over. It didn’t work. He slid to the side, still clutching the phone to his screaming head. At least he hadn’t fallen out of bed.

  “Mr. Warner, there’s no need to curse at me.” The voice had gone from clipped and enunciated to outright snippy.

  Drew snatched at words, trying to form a coherent sentence, one that explained he hadn’t been cursing at her. His brain still refused to cooperate and any argument appeared pointless because she cut him off.

  “I just called to let you know you need to come down and identify your missing items for the police. They’
ll be here most of the morning, so you might want to wake up and come see them.”

  A dial tone told him she’d had enough. Bitch. She called, woke him up to one of the worst headaches he’d ever had, told him she’d let his mom’s stuff get stolen, and hung up on him. Talk about customer service.

  Drew eased the covers off before inching up to a sitting position. He’d much rather spend the day in bed, nursing his cracked head. He didn’t need a medical degree to know that being out in the sunshine and noise was stupid. But sleep would have to wait because all he had left of his Mom had been in that storage unit, so he needed to see how much damage had been done more than he needed rest.

  He’d take a shower, some Tylenol—okay, a shit ton of Tylenol—then make the drive to Lone Star Storage. Apparently, he had an unscheduled fight to attend. This time, he wouldn’t be the loser.

  Nina shoved a hand through her short blonde hair, and tried to tune out the customers clamoring for a turn to blame her for their losses. What a mess. She glanced past the Harris County Sheriff’s Deputy, scanning the customers who’d already yelled at her. Most of them either sorted through the remainder of their belongings, or griped to each other about her inability to keep their stuff safe. Every single one of them radiated enough fury that’d she’d have guessed someone peed in their cornflakes. A couple had even threatened lawsuits, like she’d invited the burglars in or something.

  “Just a couple more questions, Ms. Osborne,” the officer said, eyeballing her like he’d rather be anywhere else.

  Join the club, buddy.

  “Please, call me Nina. And I already told you everything I know, Officer. I did my rounds this morning and found it like this. Locks snipped, boxes, and tubs, and stuff everywhere.”

  “Deputy Perkins. I’m a deputy, not an officer. So, no sign of forced entry?” He peered down at her over the top of his shades. Not that he had to peer down very far, since he couldn’t have been much more than five nine or ten. The wide brim of his sheriff hat hovered just above his salt and pepper eyebrows.

  “No. I walked the fence myself while I waited for you. The fence is as intact as ever and there’s no evidence anyone dug in underneath. I suppose someone could have climbed over, but I doubt it. That’s razor wire up there.”