Break Away (3 page)

I stared down my opponent, taking time to study him carefully and form a plan of attack. We stood across from each other inside a circle drawn in chalk on the cold cement of the basement floor, surrounded by dozens of people shouting last minute bets before the fight started. The air was musty, tinged with sweat, and buzzing with adrenaline, but I blocked everything out and zeroed in on the man who would try to beat the shit out of me as soon as the bell rang. He had a deadly expression on his face, but he couldn’t intimidate me. I had already won the fight; he just didn’t know it yet.

My lips curled up into a smile. He would find out soon.

“What are you smiling at, you fucking pussy?” he goaded. “You’re not even a Marine anymore. You ain’t shit, Porter. I almost feel bad that they put me up against your sorry, has-been, disabled, ex-Marine ass.”

My smile only got wider. I couldn’t wait to teach this prick a lesson. There was no such thing as an “ex-Marine.” Once a Marine, always a Marine. The fact that I was no longer considered “fit” for active duty didn’t change that. It pissed me off that pieces of shit like him didn’t understand that. If it weren’t for the partial hearing loss in my left ear, or “acoustic trauma” as the doctors referred to it, I would still be overseas with the rest of my unit. Everything in me wanted to be out there fighting for my country alongside them. But I was stuck here, honorably discharged and forced to retire before the age of thirty.

My body still hummed with the energy and lethal power of a Marine. My brain still functioned and strategized like a Marine. The only way to take the edge off was by beating the shit out of other guys, which is why I participated in “underground” fighting. It was strictly other guys in the military – some who had been discharged for whatever reason, and others who weren’t on active duty – but never any outsiders. Outsiders couldn’t be trusted, and keeping it secret was crucial because any active military would be kicked out immediately if they were caught fighting. Sure, there was a lot of shit talking and rivalries between the different branches of the armed forces, but there was also a bond of trust. We were all warriors. Fighters.

We got together every couple of weeks and some people fought while others would just watch and place bets. In the end, we were all looking for the same thing: a way to take the edge off so we could function in our “normal” lives. No one ever got seriously injured. There was always someone assigned to monitor the fight and ensure that it didn’t get out of hand. There was an element of structure to the whole thing that set it apart from the average bar fight and kicked the intensity up a notch or two.

Reece—the guy who was in charge and organized all the fights—would send out a mass text message when there was an upcoming fight to let us know where and when to show up. With both the Parris Island Military Base and the Citadel nearby, there was never a shortage of fighters or spectators. The locations rotated between different basements, garages and warehouses in the area, usually every couple of weeks or so. Reece took bets on the winners, and it was crazy how much money people were willing to throw down for one fight. I wasn’t in it for the cash, but it sure as hell didn’t hurt that I made a nice chunk of change every time I won. Which was often.

As barbaric as the whole thing sounded, it provided an outlet for those who needed it and was done in a controlled environment that made it safer for everyone. Before I found this group, the rage was practically eating me alive, and I was picking fights with random strangers in order to get my frustration out. It was better for everyone if my opponents were willing volunteers. Not to mention, it made for a much better fight when I was going up against someone who had the same kind of training that I did.

It was also one hell of a rush.

Some people had counseling or medication, but I had this. This was my fucking therapy. My momentary dose of freedom. The relief was fleeting, and I wasn’t stupid enough to believe it was a cure, but it was all I had.

The bell rang, signaling the start of the fight. I watched as my opponent lunged forward, wasting no time before coming at me full force.

That was his first mistake.

I never struck first. Instead, I watched and analyzed my opponent. I examined their technique and looked for their weaknesses. Then, I waited for them to tire, and I used those weaknesses against them. I fought smart and efficiently because that’s what I’d been trained to do. I let them think that they had the advantage, and then I took them down.

My opponent landed a few decent punches. A pair of body shots to my ribs and a hard right hook to my face that split the skin and started bleeding. He was strong, there was no doubt about that, but he was already running out of energy.

His breathing got heavier, and I went in for the kill. As he came at me with another hit to the side of my head, I ducked, throwing him off balance and making him stumble slightly. Before he could completely regain his balance, I had already landed a solid blow to his side and an uppercut to his jaw that sent him tumbling backwards. He flung a sluggish punch that I dodged easily and countered with a powerful shot to his ribs.

The fight was as good as over.

I threw a vicious right hook that landed on his cheek and propelled him into the crowd before he dropped to the floor, not moving. The ref slammed the ground three times, declaring a knockout, and half the crowd began to cheer while the other half groaned.

“That’s the match, folks!” Reece yelled over the megaphone. “Your winner, and still undefeated champ, is Dex Porter!” He raised my arm above my head and slapped a pile of cash in my other hand.

Piece of cake.

***

I rolled over in my new bed, wide awake and unable to fall back to sleep even though it was barely six o’clock in the morning. It probably had something to do with the fact that I’d gone to bed before the sun even had a chance to set last night.

All the driving—and not to mention the emotional turmoil—of the past couple of days had left me beyond exhausted. I managed to unload and unpack everything from my car and had put my sparse collection of clothing away in the dresser drawers and closet. I was beyond thankful for the fact that Amy had the apartment nicely furnished with everything I needed, including towels and bed linens, so I didn’t have to buy any household items. After taking a nice long shower, I’d fallen asleep immediately, without even bothering to eat dinner. Not that I had any food anyway.

Now my stomach was growling for breakfast… and coffee. A trip to the grocery store was definitely on the agenda for today.

After brushing my teeth and running my fingers through my messy blonde hair, I threw on a loose V-neck tee and a pair of short denim cut-offs that I hadn’t seen since my high school days. It was a beautiful sunny morning and on my way out the door, I grabbed my camera so I could snap a few pictures while I was out.

The camera had been buried among the other stuff in our storage unit, and I couldn’t bear to leave it there any longer. My mom had always loved taking pictures. There were probably about a million photographs of me growing up because she almost always had a camera in her hand. Never one of those cheap, digital things, but an actual film camera that required more than just pointing and clicking a button. When I was old enough, she showed me how to use it and taught me all about lighting, exposure, and all the different elements that went into taking a picture. It wasn’t long before I felt at home behind the camera and was addicted to experiencing life through the lens and capturing the beauty of everything around me.

For my eighteenth birthday, my mom saved up for months to buy me a Nikon FM-10, an expensive film camera that she’d caught me eying at the store one day. It was the best gift I’d ever gotten and the fact that she worked so hard to get it for me meant more than anything. When she died a few weeks later, it was too painful a reminder to use it, so I’d boxed it up and put it in storage.

I was glad that I’d decided to bring it down here. I missed taking photographs. Being behind the camera granted a sense of control; choosing how to capture an image and how it would be perceived, and freezing a particular moment in time the way I wanted it to be remembered. I’d never had any control in my own life, but when I was behind the camera, I could control what I wanted to portray. Besides, South Carolina was far too beautiful a place not to take pictures.

I grabbed a coffee and a bagel from a café I found nearby and drove down to the Folly Beach Pier to sit on the quiet beach and eat. It was still early, and there was nobody else around, giving the beach a sense of stillness and calm that only occurs before the chaos of a new day rushes in.

I plopped down on the sandy beach and watched as the seagulls dove around the pier, hunting for scraps that yesterday’s fishermen had left behind. Small waves rolled in and lapped up on the shore, splashing against the large wooden pillars of the pier before fading back into the ocean. Houses lined the beach as far as I could see, but with the summer season still several weeks away, they sat empty and vacant. Everything was so peaceful. I’d only ever been here during busy vacation weeks, and I was glad to experience it this way.

I began snapping a few pictures, reacquainting myself with the camera and looking around through the viewfinder. I noticed movement down the beach and zoomed in on it, turning the dial to bring the image into focus.

It was a man jogging along the beach in my direction. He was shirtless, and the closer he got, the harder it was to look away. His muscular torso glistened in a thin sheen of sweat, like he’d been running for a long time, though he didn’t seem to be tiring. His stomach rippled in a defined six-pack, trailing to a distinct inward cut of his hips that disappeared into his mesh shorts and had me practically salivating when I thought about where it led.

He slowed his pace a couple hundred feet away from where I was sitting and stopped running, turning to face the water. I couldn’t help but admire the sleek, toned muscles of his back that sloped to what I could imagine was an amazing backside hidden beneath those shorts. His body was marked with several tattoos – one on his back across his shoulder blades, another along his forearm, and one on his bicep. I couldn’t make out what they were, but the black ink stood out against his sleek, lightly tanned skin.

For a while he just stood there, not moving, and I wondered what he could be thinking about as he gazed out over the open ocean. He seemed… lost. I snapped a couple of pictures, unable to resist capturing the moment.

He turned around suddenly, his eyes meeting mine through the lens. I flushed and lowered the camera, embarrassed to have been caught not only staring but taking pictures of him. It was easy to forget that I wasn’t invisible when I was behind the camera.

I turned and began taking pictures in the other direction, trying to brush off the awkward moment, but I could feel him approaching me. I glanced over at him, and I could have sworn I felt my heart skip a beat. I’d been too distracted by his body to notice his face before, but now that I saw it… wow.

He had short brown hair and handsome, chiseled features. His sturdy jaw line was brushed with light stubble, and there was a slight dimple on his chin. His eyes were dark and deep, and I couldn’t look away. I noticed some bruising over his ribs and a small cut above his eyebrow, telltale signs that he’d been in a fight recently. Somehow it made him look rough and sexy, and a little bit dangerous. Bottom line: he was unbelievably gorgeous.

Then… he opened his mouth.

“What’s up, baby? You see something you like?” His lips morphed into a cocky grin as he sat down next to me.

I inched away from him, immediately turned off by his arrogance, and pretended to look around. “Nope, I don’t think so.”

“You sure about that?” he smirked. “Cause you sure seemed interested, not that I mind. In fact, I’d be more than happy to recreate whatever fantasy was playing through your head while you were gawking at me. In fact, I’ve got some free time right now…”

“Yuck.” I stood up and brushed the sand off me. “Somebody’s a little full of himself, don’t you think?”

“So, that’s a no then?”

“Actually, that’s a hell no.”

He grinned, his eyes dancing in amusement. “Suit yourself, sweetheart. I’m around if you change your mind.”

“Don’t worry,
sweetheart
… I won’t.” I heard him laugh as I walked away, but I didn’t bother looking back. What a typical, asshole guy. He was attractive enough that he probably never even had to put any effort into getting girls, and therefore never bothered to have a decent personality or act like a civilized human being.