Takedown Read online

  TAKEDOWN

  The Novel

  GEMMA BROOKS

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Part of this book was previously published in September 2014. It has since been remastered, with approximately 50 pages of story added, and re-released. If you previously read Takedown and want to read the rest of Gia and Rowdy’s story, you’ll want to start at Chapter 20.

  COPYRIGHT 2014 – GEMMA BROOKS

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission from the publisher or author. If you are reading this book and you have not purchased it or received an advanced copy directly from the author, this book has been pirated.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or, if an actual place, are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  DEDICATION

  To my MMA-loving husband. Thanks for always fighting for me. I’ll never stop fighting for you.

  -Gemma

  OTHER BOOKS BY GEMMA BROOKS

  Starstruck I

  Starstruck II

  Starstruck III

  Beckett (coming January 2015!)

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  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

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  SAMPLE - BECKETT

  DESCRIPTION

  “You might not be what I want, Rowdy,” she said with a strain in her voice. “But you’re what I need. What am I supposed to do about that?”

  Stoic and reserved, Rowdy Matthews was a lot of things, but most of all he was a fighter. At the age of 8, he fought for his life. As a teenager, he fought off the bullies that harassed his kid brother for being different. As an adult, he fought in underground fighting rings for what little money he could get.

  But nothing could've prepared him for the biggest fight of his life...his feelings for Gia Caruso.

  His dreams to go pro within reach, he should be concentrating on wins. But he can't stop thinking about the girl he met at a fight, the one with the sweet ass and gentle hands. Like two forces of nature they seem fated to collide and he resists with all his strength and training, but deep down he knows she might be the one person who will be able to take Rowdy Matthews down.

  Standalone. No cliffhanger. New Adult Contemporary Romance/MMA Fighter Romance.

  CHAPTER 1

  A hundred dollars and a promise to keep my mouth shut. That was the agreement. As I entered the abandoned bread factory on the south side of town, I had no idea what I was about to get myself into. It seemed innocent enough at first. A few guys fighting while some rich people watched. They needed a nurse on site, the man told me. The old one had walked when it became more barbaric than she could stand. The fighting was brutal at times. There were no rules and someone always got hurt. Nothing major. Cuts. Bruised ribs. Broken noses. Nothing I hadn’t seen before at the clinic.

  With my first aid kit tucked neatly under my arm, I thought I’d come prepared. But I wasn’t prepared for him: the sandy blond, Herculean statue standing quietly in the corner talking with the man who had recruited me at work earlier that day. With his back towards me, I imagined his face resembled that of a mangled beast. Scars. Broken, bumpy nose. Thick brow. And then he turned slowly, revealing his face.

  He was beautiful, if a man could be called that. His hair, which was slightly grown out, was tousled and slightly damp from the sweat that beaded around his neck and hairline. He’d likely just finished warming up before I’d arrived. His jaw was chiseled, slightly clenched, and his full lips were pressed as he held a serious expression. He appeared to be listening to his coach, but his eyes were on me. I tried not to stare, but it was no use. There was something about him, like a powerful stillness that radiated from within.

  I took my seat on a bench next to some men in suits who were clearly salivating at the thought of making money off these poor behemoths.

  The humid summer air filled the poorly ventilated space that surrounded us as industrial fans spun above and made the fluorescent lighting flicker just a little.

  “My money’s on that one,” a silver haired suit said to his buddy as he nudged towards the blond. “I heard he’s a fucking freight train. Never lost a fight.”

  “I don’t know, Roger,” his buddy replied with a smirk on his face. “He might go down tonight. First time for everything.”

  “What, you think that sad sack you brought stands a chance against my guy?” The silver haired suit’s eyes honed in on the blond as he licked his lips, probably dreaming about the nice pile of cash he was about to make from his little bet.

  “What’s his name anyway?”

  “Rowdy,” the silver haired suit said. “Rowdy Matthews. And don’t forget it either. He’s about to be the next big thing in MMA. Just you watch.”

  Rowdy and his opponent, a Hispanic man covered in an ungodly amount of intimidating black tattoos, took their positions in the middle of a makeshift ring. Fluorescent lights above them flickered and every sound was magnified in the empty warehouse as a few late spectators entered through a side door and hurried to their places.

  For a split second, my stomach began to churn and a lump formed in my throat. It all seemed so wrong. Those men in the ring, they were probably fighting for pennies compared to what those rich guys were going to be making off of them. But before I had a chance to fully digest what was going on, the fight had already started.

  Rowdy’s hunched stature and quick jabs told me this wasn’t his first rodeo.

  “Kid was a street fighter,” the suit said. “Eastwood found him beating the pulp out of some guy in an alley a few years ago. Approached him. Taught him how to really fight. Kid’s a fucking machine now.”

  “A street fighter, eh?” his buddy said. “Oh, shit! Did you see that?!”

  I glanced up quickly enough to catch the tail end of a jab Rowdy had thrown to his opponent that knocked the guy clean to the floor. Rowdy fell to his knees and laid on top of him, throwing ground and pound punches one after another until the other guy got his second wind and managed to free himself from Rowdy’s hold. The moment they were head to head again, the opponent threw a surprise left hook and got Rowdy into a clinch position.

  The sound of the men in the ring grunting and groaning echoed through the open space. I couldn’t imagine what kind of sick, twisted pleasure the fighters got from inflicting pain on one another and why on earth anyone would enjoy watching it.

  The sight of sweat dripping down their muscled torsos made me question how this was even remotely entertaining. A guy I’d dated once was really into watching pro fights. I’d always cuddle up to him with a magazine in hand, feigning interest and pretending to watch what was going on every so often, but I never did get into it. I could neve
r see the appeal. It was too barbaric for my taste.

  My temporarily curious gaze turned towards the hard cement floor. I couldn’t take it anymore. I couldn’t watch another second. I wasn’t sure if I had the stomach to do this again.

  A collective grumble and a few cheers from the small crowd brought me back to reality a short time later. By the time I looked up, the Hispanic man was in a heap on the floor while the blond man was walking away. His coach caught my eye and waved me over there.

  Heart pounding, I made my way past the rich bastards and towards the cut and bleeding fighter.

  “This is Gia Caruso,” Eastwood said to the fighter as he rubbed his shoulders. “Gia, this is Rowdy.”

  We locked eyes, and for a moment the whole world around me became frozen. Nothing existed in that space around us.

  He said nothing but his crystal blue eyes had a sort of magnificent intensity behind him. His hair, disheveled and in desperate need of a cut, told me he was a man with other priorities. I sensed his eyes on me eyes as I fished around in my first aid kit and grabbed gauze pads and alcohol swabs.

  “You have a cut above your eye,” I said as I reached up slowly towards his face. My hands trembled, and I tried to focus on the wound and not his smooth, tan skin or mesmerizing blue eyes or the way he sat so still, so quiet and let me work on him. “This might sting a bit.”

  I dabbed an alcohol swab on the cut and began cleaning off the blood that had begun to dry. For such a sensitive area, Rowdy didn’t so much as flinch when I touched him.

  “You did good, kid,” Eastwood said. “Real good.”

  I was quickly realizing Rowdy was a man of few words. His eyes glanced over to all the men in suits who were gathered in a circle laughing and exchanging what appeared to be wads of cash. Behind them, laid the Hispanic guy. He was still on the ground writhing in pain and floating in and out of consciousness while a few people tended to him.

  The closer I stood to Rowdy, the more intense his energy felt. I wanted him to say something, anything, but the silence continued. The scent of his natural musk filled my lungs as I braced my hand on the back of his shoulder, walked behind him, and gave him a once over.

  Raised, gnarled scars ran up and down the length of his muscled back. I tried not to stare too long, but I guessed there were at least ten if not more of them. Phantom sympathy pains in the form of electric shocks ran down my own backside as I could only imagine what gave him such horrid marks.

  “Are we done now?” He finally spoke. His voice was low as his eyes concentrated on my face. He reached down and grabbed a sweatshirt from the chair next to him and threw it over his head so the scars were no longer visible.

  “Yes,” I said, paralyzed by his gaze. I took a step back and tucked a strand of dark hair behind my ear with my free hand.

  “Thank you, Gia,” Eastwood said as he slipped me a hundred dollar bill. “There’ll be another fight next week. Same time. Same place.”

  The thought of sitting through another one of those awful things made me want to tell Eastwood to take his hundred dollars and shove it, but I’d made a promise, and that extra cash was going to help me pay for the new car I so desperately needed.

  Eight hours earlier, Eastwood had come into the clinic for a regular checkup. I’d never met him before in my life. His scruffy face, wrinkled jacket, and slicked back ponytail hinted that he was more than likely an old bachelor. As soon as his coat came off, he revealed a faded navy Washburn High wrestling t-shirt.

  “You, uh, looking for any part-time work?” he asked while I was wrapping a blood pressure cuff around his arm. His eyes traveled down to my worn and faded sneakers. Once a vibrant shade of turquoise with neon pink piping and lime green laces, they were now a sad representation of their former glory days. It had been almost a year since I’d bought them. Money had been tight ever since I’d dumped my boyfriend and inherited the lease to an overpriced one-bedroom apartment.

  “What kind of work?” I asked him, keeping my voice low.

  “Medical supervisory type stuff,” he said as he chomped his gum. A loose strand of gray hair fell into his eyes.

  “You’ve got to be a little more specific than that,” I chuckled. I decided to humor him. Most people his age seemed to have no clue what the rate for a good RN went for anymore.

  “I coach this guy,” he stated, keeping his tone rather hushed. “He does these fights. We need someone there. Just in case. It’ll be mostly first aid type stuff. Nothing major.”

  I pursed my lips as I wrote down his blood pressure reading in his file. “Your blood pressure is 140 over 90. It’s a little high. Do you have a history of high blood pressure?”

  “Yeah, I guess,” he said. “I used to take meds for it, but I stopped.”

  “Why would you do that?” I asked. “Were you able to control it with diet?”

  He let out a boisterous laugh as he rubbed his hand around his bulbous belly. “What’s it look like to you?”

  I tried not to laugh at the stupidity of my question. “I’ll get the doctor in here shortly.”

  “Wait,” he called out. “So are you in or are you out?”

  “Huh?” I was confused.

  “The job,” he reminded me. “We’ve got a fight tonight at the old Country Hearth warehouse. Seven o’clock.”

  I paused with my hand clutching the door handle. The money was tempting. My car was on the fritz. I was just one inevitable blown gasket away from having to take the bus to work. “I don’t know.”

  “Fifty bucks,” he said. “Once a week. And you can’t tell anyone.”

  I tried not to laugh at his paltry offer. “I’ll pass.”

  He furrowed his brow. “Seventy-five.”

  I said nothing and batted my hand away as I continued writing in his chart.

  “Alright,” he sighed. “You drive a hard bargain. A hundred bucks a week. And maybe even a bonus every once in a while.”

  “Fine,” I said. Money talked and his name was evidently Roger Eastwood.

  After I had cleaned Rowdy up and put my kit back together, I shuffled to the bathroom to wash my hands. I was easily the only female there, and every sound in that warehouse echoed and reverberated. Slamming doors. Laughter trailing down the hall. The buzz of fluorescent lights as they flickered. I got out of there as fast as I could and made a beeline outside to the gravel parking lot. The deep midnight sky was an indication that it was far too late and we’d been in there far too long. I should’ve been warm in my bed, not watching men beat the ever-living shit out of each other in an old bread factory.

  The Beamers, Lexuses and Range Rovers exited the parking lot one by one, heading back to their McMansions on the upper middle class side of town I supposed. Within minutes, nothing but my aging Toyota Corolla and a rusting red pickup truck remained.

  The second I stuck my key into the ignition and switched it into position, I heard a clunk. The stupid thing wouldn’t even turn over. Not once.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I groaned.

  I pulled the key out and tried again in vain. The engine wouldn’t turn over at all. Dead. Completely dead. At my last oil change, the shop had given me a laundry list of repairs and upkeep that my car was long overdue for, but I just shoved the list into the glove compartment. I couldn’t afford any of it.

  Six more months and I’d be out of my apartment lease. I never should’ve let Drew talk me into signing an eighteen-month lease, but I figured we’d be married by the end of it or at the very least engaged. My dad offered to let me move back home with him, but no one wanted to sublease a 500 square foot, third floor apartment with no laundry, no dishwasher, and no elevator for $2000 a month.

  Drew was so caught up in living in the historical part of town in this up-and-coming neighborhood and I was caught up in Drew. It was a terrible combination, and I was paying for it dearly. The coffered tin ceilings and exposed brick walls, which were once so charming, were now sucking the life out of my bank account.

&
nbsp; “Please, please, please,” I chanted as I tried one last time. Nothing. I banged my head against the steering wheel and sighed as I racked my brain as to which one of my friends would be up this time of night. I was going to need a ride.

  The thud-thud of a knuckle knocking against the glass of my window startled me straight up into position. I whipped my head to the side only to see Rowdy leaning towards my car with his hands on his hips. He was almost unrecognizable in his faded jeans and white t-shirt with his hair pulled free from his earlier ponytail.

  I pressed the button to roll the window down before remembering I needed power for it to actually work and then climbed out of the car sheepishly.

  “Car won’t start?” he said as he stared at my car with furrowed brows.