Stryker

I sighed as I spotted her walking toward me with a sour expression on her face, as though she’d eaten a lemon. It soon changed to a smile when Mrs. Grant appeared to her right.

Mom certainly had something on her mind though because her path continued toward me. I hated being center of attention, which she knew so I hoped that I wasn’t expected on stage or anything while my father made his speech, even though I knew I wouldn’t get away without.

“Evie dear.” Mom took the cup of water from my hand and tugged me up. “Straighten your dress. Your father is about to make his speech and we both need to be at his side to show our support.” And then she had to go and ruin it all. “We’ll be on the front page of the newspaper tomorrow.”

My heart sank and I wanted to run. I would have except her grip around my wrist tightened…almost to the point of being painful.

“Just be pleasant for the rest of the night, and,” her lips twisted with annoyance, “I’ll let you go on the trip with Millie and her family.”

While her words sunk into my shocked brain, I let her lead me across the room to where my father stood with his team.

Mom knew how to get her way but I didn’t for one minute believe she’d just thought about that to get me to do their bidding. She’d have something else up her sleeve and need me out of the way so that she didn’t have a child to supervise. I wasn’t about to complain because I wanted to go to Chicago with Millie more than anything. When I’d brought it up to Mom, she’d scoffed at the idea because she considered Millie’s family beneath her. I couldn’t see why she couldn’t treat everyone the same.

“Smile,” she hissed between her teeth.

And like the world’s most lifelike puppet, I did exactly what she wanted. My smile was full of love and support as we greeted Father.

“There she is.” His smile was real as he enclosed me in his warm embrace and I felt a pang of guilt that mine wasn’t. “My princess,” he whispered against my ear before he kissed the top of my head.

Chapter 1 ~ Stryker ~ Present Day

“WHO’S THE BEST?” COACH yelled into my ear causing my head to pound as hard as I punched

the bag in front of me.

Instead of replying to the old bastard, I grunted and took all my anger and hatred out on the bag. Sweat glistened on my skin with the furious pace I’d set…the one that I’d been doing since seven that morning…the one that I’d usually still be doing at seven in the evening but not today.

Tonight I had a fight.

Thud. Thud. Thud. Kick.

Each strike pushed a worry away from my mind and reminded my body that I was ready. I’d have to work hard during the fight but I’d win. My stamina would hold longer than any opponents they placed me against.

I had no life outside of the gym or the East Coast Martial Art Fighters Club (ECMAFC), and I hadn’t since I was fourteen. It had been beaten into me over and over again that I could be the best if I accepted my fate.

Thud. Thud. Thud. Kick.

Beaten down, I took it, and now, those same money hungry fuckers wanted even more out of me…to throw a fight.

Not once in my fighting career had I thrown a fight, and regardless of what they wanted, I planned on winning. It was my name that would be talked about, not theirs.

My one time dream had been to be a fighter so I could share something with my dad. They took my life and made sure I accomplished the first. The second would never happen.

At twenty-four, I was so fucking tired of them, the life, and every damn thing.

I wanted a life…

A family…

I learned at an early age that opening my mouth could cause a whole lot of trouble. So silent I stayed—most of the time. Which had always pissed the men in their ivory fucking towers off because I refused to talk to the media about upcoming or past fights. What the press really wanted to know was about me—where I came from, who my family were, and, most of all, they wanted to know my true identity. Scoop of the century for them would be to discover the real name of Stryker.

As I glanced at Coach, who hovered in my peripheral vision, I was so fucking pissed with him and everyone else. I always had been but nothing like I was now. If Coach weren’t so fucking old, I’d have knocked him down years ago.

He knew it as well.

Sucking in a breath through my nose, I let it out slowly as I paced my hits to my breath but it didn’t work. Each blow filled me with anger and I hit harder…faster. So they thought that by telling me to throw a fight, I would with no questions asked. They could think again.

The fuck who had decided the loss was going to discover that I didn’t always do as they ordered. And the pissant who’d decided they needed a fight throwing had been too fucking scared to come and tell me to my face.