Page 1 of Fight for Forever

Chapter One

I awake to bright sunlight pouring in through the massive window in the bedroom of my loft, my eyes squint tight to block it out, and I throw my forearm up because my eyelids are doing jack shit to keep the sun out of my eyes.

Usually, the blinds are down, preventing this from happening. For whatever reason, I didn’t do it last night. It’s not like I have to get up. All the blinds in my loft work via remote control. It’s a perk of being a heavyweight champion for the fifth time in a row. As is the place I live.

My Brooklyn loft is the quintessential bachelor pad with its exposed brick and steel beams, huge warehouse windows, and leather furniture. It’s not barren. I like things to be cosy and comfortable. This is my home, a place very few people step foot in, my private sanctuary. It’s very different from what goes on out in the real world with my insane life.

The sheets are tangled around my legs, and I kick at them, opening one eye to look around the room. It comes back to me when my head feels as though I’ve just gone ten rounds. Malicecame around last night. And the asshole brought a lot of tequila and a few of his friends.

One of whom is still here. The body beside me shifts, disturbed by my fighting with the sheets that are now pulled taut across her ass. She’s lying on her front with her face turned away from me.

Ah shit, I must have got fucked up to let her stay over. I never let that happen. I scratch my head. My usual buzz cut is longer than I normally wear it, the curls growing back in. I need to get it cut.

I have a certain image now and curls aren’t a part of that.

Shit, that isn’t important right now. How do I extract myself from this situation? And not just getting out of my bed unnoticed, but getting this woman out of my apartment. Having people in my private space makes my skin itch, especially people I don’t know.

I’m not a small guy. When I lift off the bed, the mattress is gonna shift, so stealth is out.

I glance at her again. Her hair is covering her face. I vaguely remember fucking her, but also thinking about other stuff while doing it. My body moved by muscle memory on auto pilot, my head somewhere else.

My relationships with women are mostly that way. Nothing and no one is doing it for me lately. Maybe it’s a sign of getting older. Jesus, I need to slap myself. I should be fucking grateful I have women falling at my feet. Problem is, I can never tell if they want me forme, or The Slayer.

I don’t remember her name, or whether I asked for it before we disappeared into the bedroom, me yelling at Malice and the rest of his asshole friends to get lost.

The thought of not even talking to this chick before we fucked is depressing as hell.

I’m not about to tiptoe around my own place. I get up and walk over to the bureau to pull out some fresh underwear.

Her voice cuts through the silence and grates on my nerves. I look over my shoulder as I pull the tight boxers over my ass.

“Don’t cover up on my account,” she purrs. Her hair is a mess, and her face looks puffy, probably from the alcohol last night. She flips the sheet back, revealing herself.

She has a tight body, fake tits but they’re not like tennis balls beneath stretched skin, and despite the just woke up look, she’s pretty. But I’m done. My head hurts too much to care about being polite.

“Get up, I’ll call you a cab.”

Her face contorts from sex kitten to confused, to pissed off. I go back to my bureau and grab a t-shirt, tug it on, then step into some grey sweatpants.

“Are you serious?”

Spotting her clothes on the floor, I scoop them up and toss them on the bed. That should answer her question. I’d leave the room to finalize the point, but I don’t want her in here alone. So I cross my arms over my chest and watch her. She clambers out of the bed in a huff and gets dressed, mumbling something I don’t careto listen to. I grab my phone and check my messages, keeping one eye on her.

Once dressed, she struts across the room in her heels, her hips swaying like she’s letting me know what I’m missing out on if she leaves. I pull the bedroom door open, making it clear I’m done.

“You weren’t even that good,” she snarls as she passes me.

“It was definitely forgettable.”

Now she’s really pissed and is about to start in on me when I stride past her without another word and open the front door. As soon as she steps through, I slam it shut, then scrub my hand down my face, feeling the scratch of stubble.

“Fucking hell,” I groan when I turn back to my living room. The place is a mess. Fucking Malice. He’s never coming around here again.

I pick up the mess, throwing out bottles and putting glasses into the dishwasher, then straighten up the couch cushions, grimacing at the ground up chips that have been dropped on the rug.

After a long hot shower, a protein shake and some scrambled eggs, I felt better. Checking my schedule, I have an appointment with my nutritionist later, but that’s all. For the rest of the day, I’m free to do whatever.

A run will help sweat out some of the toxins I put in my body last night. My running shoes are by the door, and I’m always dressed to work out. It’s what my wardrobe consists of.

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