Dirty Fighter: A Bad Boy MMA Romance by Roxy Sinclaire, Natasha Tanner Page A

could say he was worse than he’d ever been before, but none of that was true. It was a summer night and sunny as hell, not even dusk yet, and he was the same as he’d been for the last eighteen years of my life. Angry, loud, drunk. You see, I took his wife from him when I was born. It wasn’t a fair trade as he saw it, he thought it was a first indicator of my selfishness. He kept that thought in his head for the rest of his life.
    Not to say I wasn’t guilty for that, I felt guilt every day of my life over her loss.
    I got that he was upset, I understood why completely. It’s rare in your life that you find someone that makes you think you’re actually worth anything. He had that in my mother, she was the only person he’d ever loved, and I snatched that away from him, replaced her with a whiny son instead. So he’d beat me to ease his pain.
    I took it because I loved my father and I hated myself. I hated what I took away from both of us.
    It was one hell of a pattern, but I could always see it coming on. He’d get more and more aggravated for a couple days, at little shit, and then one night he’d get off work and just let the fucking floodgates open. I’d be wailed on until he was tired of me crying, or sleepy from his drink, and then he’d wander off while I fixed myself up.
    He taught me that I needed to be able to take care of myself.
    I had to learn to be self-reliant. I had to learn that if I couldn’t count on myself then I was out of fucking luck. It wasn’t an easy lesson to learn but I had no choice in it.
    I got into fighting so I could defend myself and stop the beatings from going too far. I could wait through it, let him get out what he needed, and then we’d move on like it never happened. I tried to at least, but I usually flinched if I knew he was in the house. Often, maybe once a month or so, he’d go out of town for a week or more and I’d get to relax. It was like losing the handcuffs that usually kept me chained down. I’d use the whole house, instead of just my room. I’d watch television, eat properly and even have friends over.
    Then he’d be back in town and I’d go back to acting like I didn’t exist.
    He worked construction even though he didn’t need to, that’s just the kind of man he was. He needed some extra dough to get an even nicer car than his brand new one, so he got the most grueling job he could. He had enough money from when my grandparents passed, but he had a plan for spending it so he could make sure to make it last. The side hustles were just for perks.
    I didn’t get any perks.
    So that night, with the sun still up and orange above the horizon, my dad was in a mood when he got home. He got off work and was slamming down beers, just chugging them like they were vital to his life. The television was roaring and I had locked my door. I knew better than to go out there and try to eat or use the bathroom, I knew he’d be on me and start wailing.
    I kept my head in a book and distracted myself, doing what I could to drown out the man out there. It didn’t help too much because soon I heard my doorknob jiggle. Immediately there were three loud and punctuated bangs, his heavy fist knocking so hard on that door it was deafening.
    “WHO THE HELL SAID YOU COULD LOCK YOUR DOOR?” he said, angry. I closed my book and set it aside. I was shaking, I was scared, I had trained forever and I knew I could take him down if I wanted, but I was still fucking terrified of him.
    “Dad, I’m going to bed early,” I lied. I wanted him to leave me alone. I wanted him to get the hell away from my door.
    “ADAM, OPEN YOUR FUCKING DOOR,” he shouted, his words were pretty clear for how drunk he was. I knew that the longer I put it off the worse the beating would get. I was muscular enough, I was strong enough, I knew that I could have kicked his ass, hell he probably knew that, but that didn’t fill the narrative of our relationship. I stood up from my bed and the mattress