Wicked Bad Boys (54 page)

T
ara couldn’t believe
it was over. She sat in the back of a police van, covered in blankets as the officers talked to Brian and Bruce. She thanked heavens for Brian and Bruce. If it weren’t for them, she’d still be in the cave, or worse.

They had been on their way to pick up two park visitors for a winter hike, but the couple never showed up, so they went looking through the park trails. That’s how they found the cave, and Tara.

After a few minutes, one of the officers got into the driver seat to speak to her.

“How are you feeling, Ma’am?”

“Better,” she answered softly. “Have you caught him yet?”

“Our men are doing a grid search of the area. Not to worry, we’ll find him.”

“When can you take me home?”

“Officer Green and I will take you to the hospital first, to have you checked out. After that we’ll get your statement and take you home, alright?”

“Thank you. My phone died after I called 9-1-1. Can I use a phone to call my fiancé or my mother?”

“Yes use—” The officer was cut off mid-sentence, but the sound of a hail of gunfire in the distance. “Use this phone. Stay here. I’ll be back.”

Tara watched as he hurried out of the car to the other officer, and both men pulled out their radios to call and find out what was happened. As she was in the patrol car, she heard the car’s radio dispatch communications.

Shots fired! Shots fired, control, over.

Ten-four. Please confirm the officers’ status, seventy-two, over.

Control, perp is down, I repeat the perpetrator Crawford is down, over.

Seventy-two, please repeat your status, over.

Control, the perpetrator Crawford is down, vital signs absent, over.

Ten-four, seventy-two. Please report if your status changes over.

T
ara wasn’t
sure if she understood what they were saying, but she heard Crawford and felt they were talking about Jake. Brian came over to the car and leaned in from the driver side door.

“They got him, Tara,” he said. “He’s dead.”

Her body was so tense, it shook from the news. She could laugh and cry and scream at the same time. She let the waves of relief and grief wash over her as she tried to key in Kevin’s number. He picked up on the first ring.

“Hello?”

“Kevin.”

“Tara! Where are you? Are you okay?”

She could barely speak. “I’m fine. Kevin?”

“Yes?”

“It’s over, honey. I’m so sorry. Jake is gone.”

“Baby, Jake was gone for a long time. I’m hurting like crazy, and I miss him. But now we have closure. Now we can all move on. Montana is waiting for us. I love you, Tara.”

“God, I love you so much, Kevin. I can’t wait to hold you again.”

“I’ll be right here waiting for you, baby. See you soon.”

“
I
t’s a TKO
!” The announcement boomed over the sound system, and the arena echoed with roars and boos from the audience.

The crowd went ape-shit. Fans of both fighters were on their feet in the stands, people clambering over one another to keep their eyes fixated on what had happened in the octagon.

“And Roxy Punisher is down!”

Somewhere in the nosebleed section, a fight broke out, fan against fan. The chaos forced part of the security team to head up there to break it up.

Back in the cage, the referee dropped to his knees beside Roxy’s limp body. He paused, his fingers clocking a weak pulse on her neck.

One second passed…then two…

The roar of the crowd began to die down. Their excitement quickly turned to horror as Roxy’s coach ripped the door off the cage and ran to her side. Another three seconds passed. He waved frantically to signal someone from the sidelines. A cluster of medical crew and staff entered the fray, armed with a stretcher and paramedic equipment.

The time wound down. The winner of the match was confirmed with a raise of her arm. It was Jessie Rage. Once Roxy went down, Jessie was escorted out of the cage. Her victory lap was cut short by the group of emergency staff and people from Roxy’s camp swarming around her body. She was unconscious, just lying there on the ground. The crowd was silent as the medics worked to get her seemingly lifeless body onto the stretcher. Roxy Punisher, rising MMA star, was carried away and out of the spotlight. She had unknowingly just had the last fight of her career.

There was another truth she didn’t yet know—the man in the second row, hidden by a baseball cap, could one day be her savior.

“
W
hat a long
, shitty day,” I said to no one in particular.

I sank down onto my favorite spot on the couch. I eased my shoulders back against the cushions, finally allowing myself to relax. I turned on the TV and listened, letting the chatter fill the room. For a moment, I closed my eyes and let my head rest on the back of the sofa. My neck was a mess. I turned left and right, gently stretching out the tension that had been building up over the course of the day.

The job hadn’t necessarily been difficult, just long. I had been one of fifteen other security guards at a fundraising luncheon for some senator I never heard of before. With this many guards, all I had to think about was my zone. No decision-making, no leading a team, no risk assessment. Today was just about putting my head down, keeping my game face on, and staying in do-my-job mode.

That was part of the problem. There was no challenge to it. It was like being spoon-fed. Everything had been planned out by someone else, and all I had to do was show up. To me, it would be more interesting if I could plan the setup. That meant I could assess risks, build a team, and come up with the strategy beforehand. That’s the type of work I was interested in doing.

I sighed, bored with the same conversation that had been rattling around my mind for months now. I always came to the same conclusion—I should be running my own security company. Without any foreseeable means to start it up, it seemed pointless to even spend the energy running through the pros and cons anymore.

Not when I’m this tired
, I told myself, before shifting my attention back to channel-surfing on the TV. I stopped on one of the sports channels out of habit. I was slightly caught off guard to see myself on screen, dressed in all my sports gear. It took my tired brain a few moments to figure out which match it was, but then it all flooded back. I smiled at the recollection. It was my third nationally-broadcast fight. I had faced off with Justice Rivers, a firecracker from somewhere out West. This competition was instrumental in launching my career as a female MMA contender. Everything snowballed from there until I was accepted as a full-fledged MMA superstar.

Well…okay…superstar might be my own spin on things. It was more accurate to say I was recognized in the MMA world. The top sports channels would air over a dozen of my fights all across the country. And hey, it was looking like several of my prizefights had finally hit syndication. For a moment, I wondered why my manager hadn’t given me a heads-up that this fight would be on tonight. He was so proud of me, and tended to get swept up in my achievements, big and small. Surely being put in the replay rotation was worth something.

I sat up straighter and leaned forward, automatically bobbing and weaving from my seat on the couch as I relived the fight.

“Right hook! Bam!” I punched into the air. “Didn’t see that coming, did you?” I laughed, and flopped back against the cushions as the channel went to a commercial break in between rounds.

When the show came back, it switched over to another recorded fight. I realized then it was more of a mash-up show, to get the energy going before the prime-time event. Oh well. It was still cool to be featured. I had been wondering if people would just forget about me after my forced retirement.

That short walk down memory lane had me feeling more recharged. I decided to tackle some long overdue cleaning. I lived alone, in an average-sized Miami apartment complex. My apartment wasn’t that big, but its size had more to do with my preference than anything else. I didn’t have much growing up, and in some ways, the minimalist lifestyle carried over.

I could now afford to buy just about anything I wanted or needed, within reason of course. I never felt it was important to surround myself with frills that meant nothing to me. Keeping things simple meant I also didn’t need much in terms of square footage. And those were two fundamental facts about me—I preferred simplicity, and I never wanted to find myself needing for anything; or anyone.

I left the TV on for background noise and crossed the room to enter the kitchen. The apartment had an open concept room layout. From here, I could see the dining area, living room, and down the hallway that led to two bedrooms, a bathroom, and a laundry room-slash-closet. My stomach erupted in a loud grumble once I was in the kitchen. I had to laugh at the timing. Tracking back, it hit me that I hadn’t eaten anything all day. I had rushed out of the house at four in the morning. It was an ungodly hour, but this was the time they scheduled for all of us to get to the security team briefing. We met up at the downtown hotel where the banquet was planned. After the briefing, we had done a sweep of the place, and then the event started. I ended up working over twelve hours before finally being able to come home and crash.

I did not expect the gig to last as long as it had. The man they put in charge of the security team was a major stickler. He probably could have cut an hour off his prep speech in the morning just by taking out all the times he said, “Now pay attention, this is important”. He made us comb every inch of the hotel prior to anyone arriving, and then we each were assigned a zone in the large banquet hall. We were tasked with babysitting our own batch of politicians, and kept watch as the lobbyists and billionaires who bankrolled them hovered around kissing ass. An open bar and endless outpouring of food at the buffet had dragged out the luncheon. I had to wonder if this day was a wake-up call from the universe.

As a reward for surviving, I let myself cheat a little. I ordered a pizza to be delivered. In the year and a half since retiring from the MMA world, I had kept up with my athletic mindset and behaviors. It included clearing my head, sticking to my workouts and eating lean, as if still in training mode. Occasionally, I let it slide and indulged in some of the foods I had craved back then. And tonight, that meant a gooey, cheesy carb-fest.

While waiting for the pizza, I finished neatening up the kitchen and washed some dishes. My arms were up to the elbow in soap suds when I heard my name. Well, not my real name. My stage name and alter ego extraordinaire—Roxy Punisher.

“
Roxy was certainly one of the greats!
” The commentator on the right said when I turned to look over at the TV. “
In fact, I don’t think anyone would deny that she paved the way for other women in the sport, and helped to elevate the visibility of the sport to what it is today. She had talent, discipline and charisma. That’s how she was able to help make female MMA wrestling more mainstream. It’s all that aggression and passion she brought to each match.
”

The one on the left chimed in. “
I agree, Tommy. To have her career cut so short, that was a real tragedy. You know, we should get Roxy down here one of these days. She could help us size up this new crop of female fighters.
”

I laughed and said to the TV, “Make me an offer, boys! I’m just standing here doing dishes.”

I had no idea what going rates were for a guest appearance or commentator job, but at this point, I’d take anything. It would all add up eventually, and help me save to start my own private security company. Plus, it would probably be a heck of a lot of fun. I could trash-talk, name names, dish out some dirt, and get paid for it! It would probably never happen, but might be worthwhile to have my agent make some calls. He could fish around to see if any real job offers were out there.

The doorbell rang, so I abandoned the sink full of half-washed dishes. Smelling the pizza was enough to have my stomach twisting and burning with hunger pains. I paid, thanked the delivery guy, took the box with me back to my spot on the couch, and went to town. I wolfed down three slices before getting up to grab my tablet off the dining room table. In between bites, I started crafting an email to my agent to check into some side jobs for me. My schedule was already packed with gigs from the security firm I worked for. Still, if I could do a couple of sports shows, and make a few appearances here and there, it would help.

Until tonight, I hadn’t realized there might be a demand for me anymore. Right after I was forced to retire, everyone wanted to talk to me, to rehash the fight that had ended it all. They wanted me to come on their talk shows or have a spot in their magazines. I was the idiot who had turned it all down. At the time, I couldn’t deal with it. I was humiliated, and with my fighting career over, it felt like my world was over. I wanted to be left in my own cocoon and not face the world. Eventually my agent gave up on trying to secure any appearances or new work for me. As time passed, my budding fame had dwindled down. I assumed it was because I was officially a “has-been.”

I pressed my temples as these less glamorous memories filled my mind. It replayed like a movie infused with strobe-light effects. There were flashes of entering the ring with Jessie Rage that night, the swing of her last punch, waking up in the hospital, hearing the diagnosis, and the worried faces hovering over my hospital bed, full of pity.

“Geez. Let it go, Baker!” I scolded myself, shoving the thoughts from my mind.

I didn’t have time or energy to think about it right now. I hit send on the email. Still a little sentimental, I flicked across the screen to open my fan page. One thing that remained consistent, through all the ups and downs of my career, was my loyal fan base. After all the time that had passed since I had fought, it was shocking to me how many people still knew my story. And they continued to follow me on social media.

A couple days before, I was in one of those ‘poor-Amanda-the-victim, why-can’t-I-get-my-shit-together’ kind of moods. I had posted about wanting to start my own private security company. A few of the die-hard fans had left comments like “
that’s right up your alley
”, “
good luck
” or “
cheering for you, Roxy
”.

A new reply flashed on the screen tonight. When I clicked on it, I instantly broke out with a smile at the name attached to the post. It was stonefaceviper79. He—at least, I had always assumed it was a ‘he’—had been consistent in replying to messages and communicating with me for several years now. He was a super-fan when I had been an active fighter. Unlike many other fans, he would only communicate online. He had never made himself known at any of my live events or appearances. And now, from time to time, he still made an effort to keep in touch. This was his reply to my post about starting my own business.

“I can see that happening for you. Any day now, you’ll see. Keep your chin tucked, Roxy. You got this fight.”

I hoped so, because I was tired of watching over politicians with overinflated egos. I could end up putting one of them into a sleeper-hold submission on a banquet room floor one day, if I wasn’t careful.