His strong arms held me to him. Pop smelled like Marlboros and Old Spice with a hint of barbecue sauce from dinner. Mostly, he smelled like home.
“Thanks, Pop,” I said when he let me go.
“I want my little girl to be happy.”
“I just need to grow up a little.”
“A little.”
“Not too much,” I promised.
Tall and powerful like the boys he fathered, Pop stroked my hair then looked into the dark night. He whistled and a few dogs rushed over.
“Danger is a good indoor dog,” he said then called out to her. Once the Rottweiler rushed up the stairs, we pet her for a minute. “See you at breakfast,” Pop said, hugging me once more.
I stood at the top of the stairs until Pop reached the house and disappeared inside. Danger and I walked into the apartment where I locked the door. While the dog got comfortable by the TV, I pulled out my journal. Keeping my ideas in one place was my therapist’s idea. She had a lot of great ideas, but once I had my new life plan in motion, I didn’t really need her anymore.
In the journal was my four part plan to happiness.
Step one ~ buy new boobs. Check. They were excellent too.
Step two ~ get serious about my career. Check. I changed my major to business and hired a personal assistant to practice bossing people around.
Step three ~ move into a place of my own. Check. The place smelled new. Not even a hint of whorehouse remained.
Step four ~ get me a good man.
The final part proved to be the trickiest so far since Nick Davies wasn’t cooperating.
Chapter Two ~ Nick
The first time I stepped into the cage at the Thunderdome I could barely breathe. The crowd was smaller then, yet rowdier. Wasted guys threw empty beer bottles at the cage. Hell, sometimes they tossed hot dogs and nachos.
My first opponent was a Reaper’s son who had won his last three fights. Wearing sweatpants and an oversized tee, I stood in my corner and wondered if getting pounded was worth a hundred bucks.
Never imagining I’d win and make the three hundred winner’s pot, I only hoped for easy cash to take the pressure off of paying my bills. After getting a concussion from Cooper Johansson, his family paid for my freshman year tuition. I figured making extra money the first year would make the rest of my college experience easier.
When the biker’s kid came at me, I feared the first blow, yet the pain awoke something dark in me. Growing up, I took more punches and abuse than this fucker. I knew I could beat him. Not through brute strength, but by lasting longer. After he came crashing to the ground and I held the winner’s fee in my hand, I knew Dragon was back.
Fighting in the Thunderdome became a chance to act out my ugly past. I pretended I was defeating every asshole that ever treated me like shit. Every douche standing in my way. Every loser who made me hide as a kid. Once I kicked the asses of all those imaginary foes and lost the fire for winning, I simply fought for the money.
A lot of my opponents were real athletes while others were jerks looking to impress girls. A few were crazy fucks wanting to legally hurt someone. I dealt with each opponent differently.
The athletes arrived with a plan of attack, so I had to frustrate them until they made a mistake. With the jerks, I only needed to score a few hard punches before they didn’t want to play anymore. As for the crazy fucks, well, I made those fights personal.
They were easy to spot. Unlike the other guys who played the crowds, the crazy fucks only cared about their prey. I was a victim they got paid to pound into the ground. Once the gate closed behind them and they focused on me, I doubted the freaks even remembered the money or crowd. They only wanted me to bleed.
My dad was the same kind of man. How many times had he bitched about laws against hitting wives and kids? He claimed what happened in a family should be family business. I knew he wanted a legal way to pound on people.
The crazy fucks were mere obstacles between me and my money. Even so, the Dragon part of me wanted them to feel like the people they preyed on. No way was I the first one they viewed as easy prey. I wouldn’t be the last either, yet I enjoyed the look on each freak’s face when my first punch took him off guard.
Everyone said I had a boyish look about me. The Thunderdome manager Axel mentioned the same thing when I arrived for my first fight. Why does a sweet boy like you want to get your ass kicked? I just smiled at his comment since I never had a talent for the kind of trash talking that made so many men scary. As a teenager, I practiced acting tough in front of the mirror. I always ended up laughing because even I didn’t believe the bullshit coming out of my mouth. Though tall and strong, I’d never be scary.