Table of Contents
Prologue
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
OTHER CONTEMPORARY NOVELS BY SAMANTHA TOWLE
Under Her
Breaking Hollywood
Wardrobe Malfunction
Unsuitable
Sacking the Quarterback (BookShots Flames/James Patterson)
The Ending I Want
When I Was Yours
Trouble
REVVED SERIES
Revved
Revived
THE STORM SERIES
The Mighty Storm
Wethering the Storm
Taming the Storm
The Storm
PARANORMAL ROMANCES BY SAMANTHA TOWLE
The Bringer
THE ALEXANDRA JONES SERIES
First Bitten
Original Sin
Copyright © 2018 by Samantha Towle
All rights reserved.
Visit my website at www.samanthatowle.co.uk
Cover Model: Mitchell Wick
Photographer: Brian Jamie
Cover Designer: Najla Qamber Designs
Editor and Interior Designer: Jovana Shirley, Unforeseen Editing, www.unforeseenediting.com
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 and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
ISBN-13: 9781973585862
Prologue
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Zeus
The arena is full. Thousands of people are here to watch this fight.
Watch me fight.
This is where I’ve gotten. The point I’ve reached in my career.
Everything I’ve had to do, endure, sacrifice has brought me to this moment.
I’m waiting in the dressing area with my team, ready to go. TV cameras are with me, ready to follow me to the ring.
It’s a big production. My manager, Marcel Duran, likes to make a show out of everything.
I don’t give a shit about any of that.
I just want to fight.
It’s all I know. All I’m good at.
Twenty-five years old, I’m undefeated. Olympic champion. International Boxing Federation and World Boxing Council world heavyweight champion.
But my opponent, Kaden “The Canadian Devil” Scott, has the World Boxing Organization title, and I want it.
It’ll give me three titles.
And I always get what I want.
Then, after this fight, I’m going for the other two titles—World Boxing Association and the International Boxing Organization—held by that fucker Roman Dimitrov.
I get those, and I’ll have all five. I’ll unify the division.
I’ll be the ultimate.
I’d say it’d make me a god, but I already am.
Zeus “The God” Kincaid.
I was born to do this.
And every fucking thing I’ve lost and had to sacrifice to get here will be worth it.
The hush comes. My heart pounds harder and faster.
I get to my feet.
The cameras move in front of me. I don’t focus on them. I can’t. I’m already in my head.
Walk to the ring. Fight. Win.
That’s all I can think about.
I bounce on my heels. I’m wired. Restless. Filled with pent-up energy that I’m about to expel on the Canadian’s face.
The crackle of the microphone echoes throughout the stadium.
Then, the most recognizable voice in the boxing world starts to speak, “Ladies and gentlemen, get on your feet and be upstanding to welcome your champion…Zeus…‘The God’…Kincaid!”
The soft piano beginning of Eminem’s “Lose Yourself” starts to hum throughout the stadium.
I always come out to this song.
Because it’s what I do when I fight. Lose myself. I forget everything and everyone. Forget my regrets, my mistakes.
I forget her.
The beat kicks in, and that’s my cue. I start walking. Out of the dressing area. Into the hall toward the tunnel.
White curtains hang in front of me, ready to reveal me.
I don’t break stride as they’re drawn back by two ring girls dressed in togas.
The tunnel is lined with Grecian pillars. Marcel fucking loves to ham “The God” theme up.
I jog up the steps and into the arena.
The screams are deafening.
People. Lights. Strobes. Pyrotechnics.
I hear and see none of them.
I see one thing.
The ring. And the person waiting in it for me.
My whole being is taut, rigid, focused as I walk toward the ring, flanked by my team.
A quick glance to where I know my family is sitting—my brothers, Ares and Lo, and my sister, Missy—and then I’m up the steps. I slip in between the ropes.
And it’s time.
My eyes meet Scott’s across the ring.
He looks hard. Empty.
But I’m harder and emptier.
Two rounds, motherfucker, and you’re done.
My music fades out, and the announcer starts to speak again, “And here’s the moment we’ve all been waiting for. Our fighters are in the ring, and they are ready. In the blue corner, standing at six feet four inches and weighing in at two hundred forty pounds, the current WBO heavyweight champion of the world…‘The Canadian Devil’…Kaden Scott!”
There are a few cheers but more boos from the crowd. Not because Scott’s an ass. From what I know, he’s a decent guy. But he’s Canadian, and we’re in my home country tonight.
And, of course, I’m better.
“And, in the red corner, standing at six feet five inches and weighing in at two hundred fifty pounds, he is the IBF and WBC world heavyweight champion—twenty and O with twenty knockouts—your
homegrown champion…‘The God’…Zeus Kincaid!”
The crowd roars. I lift my arms in the air, like I’ve already won. Because, in my mind, I already have.
And he continues, “To the thousands in attendance and the millions watching at home, ladies and gentlemen, from Boardwalk Hall in Atlantic City…let’s…geeet…rrrreeeaaady…toooo…ruuummmble!”
The crowd is cheering.
And I’m ready to fight.
I go to my team. My robe is taken off.
I sit down on the stool.
“You’ve got this, Zeus.” My trainer, Mike, is in front of me, his hands on my shoulders, his face in mine. “You can nail this motherfucker. He’s good. But you’re better. Three rounds, tops, and he’s yours.”
“Two,” I rumble out before my shield is put in my mouth.
I’m up on my feet. I go to the center of the ring. My team follows.
The referee stands between Scott and me.
I focus on Scott. From hours spent watching tapes of his previous fights, my eyes are on the weaknesses I already know he has.
A fractured cheekbone from a year ago. Cuts easy above his right eye. Nose broken four times.
The referee starts talking, “We went over the rules in the dressing rooms. I want you to keep it clean at all times. Protect yourselves at all times. And what I say, you must obey. Good luck to both of you. Touch gloves. Back to your corners.”
We bang gloves. I turn and walk back to my corner.
Mike is in my ear with last-minute directions. “Don’t go in fast. Make him come to you. Step back when he swings. Frustrate him. It’s his Achilles heel. Scott has no patience.”
The bell rings, and I go in, fists up.
We fight. Longer than I expected. He’s a tough motherfucker.
We’re nine rounds in, I’m pretty sure my nose is broken, and Scott’s not giving in. I already put him down twice, but the stubborn bastard got back up each time.
I’m not worried. Just ready to be done now.
Round ten.
I take him to the ropes. Punch after punch after punch. The referee separates us. Bell goes. Scott is in his corner, glugging water. It’s a sign he’s tired. He’s bleeding from the eye.
Round eleven.
I’ve got him. He’s mine now. I go in there, blazing. The Vaseline coating his cut isn’t stopping the blood. It’s in his eye. I see him lose focus, and that’s when I strike. I hit him, uppercut. He goes down. And I know it’s all over.
The referee is there, bending over him. Scott tries to get up. He can’t.
The referee waves his hand, calling time on the fight.
And I’ve won.
My team floods the ring. Mike is hugging me. Then, Ares, Lo, and Missy are here, hugging me and telling me how proud they are of me.
But one voice is missing.
There’s always one voice missing.
Hers.
My eyes do what they always do after every fight. They look for her. Like some part of my brain, even now, thinks she’s going to be here.
Why would she be here?
You left her. She’s not here because of you.
Then, the cameras are in front of me. Post-fight interview. Of course, Marcel is here for this. Always here for the cameras.
I thank my family. Thank Scott for the fight.
Marcel takes over, talking about himself—his favorite subject.
A commotion going on behind me catches my attention. I look over my shoulder. I can see people crowding around Scott. He’s still on the floor.
What’s going on?
I step away. Moving toward Scott.
Marcel stops me. “Where do you think you’re going?” he grits out between clenched teeth.
“Scott is still down.” I tip my head toward where he’s on the floor.
“So?” is Marcel’s response.
I hear a medic being called for. I go to move again.
Marcel tugs me back to the camera. “He’s fine. Leave him.”
I’m asked a question by the interviewer. I respond, half-distracted. Marcel starts talking about the fight.
I look back at Scott. The medic’s there, bent over him, shining a flashlight in his eyes.
“Zeus,” Marcel barks at me.
I ignore him this time. I pull away, quickly moving toward Scott again because I know this isn’t right. He shouldn’t have been down for this long. Something twists hard in my gut.
I push past the people crowding around Scott, almost reaching him, when I hear the words that will come to haunt me for the rest of my life.
“He stopped breathing. We need an ambulance. Now.”
Cam
One Year Later
That feeling…when the music is pumping, the bass pounding the floor beneath your feet, vibrating up your body…there’s nothing like it.
Not for me anyway.
Dancing has always been my thing. I love it. And I’m damn good at it.
I trained in ballet and street dance. But I dropped street when I was a teenager, as ballet was always the dream. It was everything.
I was at Juilliard on a full scholarship, eyes set on the New York City Ballet. I was in my second year when everything changed.
Those two pink lines on the test changed everything. And my future changed into something else.
And, even now, up here on this podium, dancing my ass off like I do every Friday and Saturday night, I know I made the right decision.
And, no, before you ask, I’m not a stripper. I’m a go-go dancer at this upscale club in Manhattan.
Granted, this wasn’t the stage I expected to be on when I was growing up. But life throws curveballs at you, and you have to go with them.
And my little curveball goes by the name Gigi, and I love her more than I imagined I ever could love anyone. She is the best decision I have ever made.
Okay, so she wasn’t exactly planned.
I was on the pill, but I had been with her father for four years.
He was my childhood sweetheart. The absolute love of my life. I thought we’d grow old together.
Obviously, it didn’t work out that way.
He dumped me. Over the phone.
Yes, he was in England at the time, and I was here, in New York, but hearing that the love of your life had cheated on you over the telephone isn’t the best way to have things go down. And then to find out, a few months later, that I was pregnant with his baby, only to have him tell me he didn’t want anything to do with either of us—actually, he didn’t even tell me himself; he got his manager, the great fucking Marcel Duran, to tell me and offer me money to go away, which I refused, of course—you could say, it made me a little bitter about him.
But I have to be grateful for one thing—his donation of sperm—because it gave me Gigi, and she is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.
The song currently playing, “Stay” by Zedd and Alessia Cara, comes to an end, and then Christina Aguilera’s “Dirrty” blasts out from the speakers. The crowd goes nuts. And I’m thrown back fifteen years to nine-year-old me standing in front of the TV, watching the music video on MTV, trying to learn the dance moves to this song, and my aunt Elle joining in with me.
Aunt Elle doesn’t have a rhythmic bone in her body. Great cop. Terrible dancer.
The memory makes me smile as I pump my body to the beat, pushing to excess, doing the dance routine my body remembers, even now from all those years ago.
I’m sweating. I’ve been dancing for a while now. Kim should be coming to take over soon. We always switch, doing twenty- to thirty-minute intervals.
I’m ready for a break, so I can recharge.
I push tendrils of hair off my face with my palm. My long brown hair is tied back in a high ponytail. I have naturally straight hair, but I have that overprocessed, shitty hair that goes frizzy without products and straighteners—hence the ponytail and stray hairs.
I feel a hand curl around my ankle, grabbing it. This isn’t unusual fo
r people, especially men, to get a little overly friendly. They think because I’m up here, dancing, that they have the right to touch me.
I look down and see a suit and a head of blond hair styled in that just-rolled-out-of-bed look that everyone knows he spent hours perfecting.
I meet his stare, and the telltale sign of too much alcohol shows in the glaze of his eyes—well, that, and the beer bottle he’s holding in his hand, which is forbidden on the dance floor.
I glance up and scan the area for security to alert them, but I can’t see any of them. My eyes cut to the bar, but it’s busy with customers, and I can’t catch any of the bartenders to make eye contact.
For fuck’s sake. Looks like I’m gonna have to handle this myself.
Keeping my expression friendly, I crouch down, putting me at eye-level with the handsy drunk. He’s actually not bad-looking close up. Still doesn’t give him the right to put his hand on me though.
I tap him on the hand. “No touching,” I kindly tell him.
“Oh. Sorry.” He removes his hand from my ankle.
See? Wasn’t that easy? No security needed at all.
“No problem.” I smile. Feeling generous toward the guy, I ask him, “Did you need something?”
He returns my smile—well, it’s more of a grin—and then he says, “Yeah. You naked and in my bed, baby.”
Ugh. And my good feeling toward him evaporates.
I resist the urge to roll my eyes.
If I had a dollar for every time I heard that line or one close to it, I’d be lying on a lounger right now in the back garden of my mansion in Beverly Hills, sunbathing by my Olympic-size swimming pool, with a Jason Momoa lookalike rubbing my feet in between serving me margaritas and servicing me—wink, wink—all day long.
“Yeah, not gonna happen, buddy.” I laugh.
I go to stand up, but he snatches my wrist, keeping me there. His grip is tight, and even though I’m surrounded by hundreds of people, I still feel that momentary spark of panic, but I fight it back down.
One good thing my ex did do, aside from giving me Gigi, was teach me how to defend myself. The plus side of dating a boxer for four years.
I stare him straight in the eye. “Let go of my arm.”
“Aw, baby, don’t be like that. I’m just being friendly.” He flexes his fingers around my wrist.
“I think you need to go back to school and learn the meaning of the word. This is your last warning. My next one won’t be so nice.”