Sick Heart: A Dark MMA Fighter Romance

I pump my fist in the air like an asshole and walk over to the sidelines where tiny Ainsey high-fives me with a crooked smile. She’s my BFF now.

This entire world, and my place in it, is pathetic, and sad, and insane. I get that. But this is Fight Club, OK? It’s every man for himself and fuck the rules. And besides, kicking Jafari’s ass means I am making him better. When he fights for his life in a few months his opponent won’t be eighteen years old. He or she will be six. And Jafari’s gonna win that fight. He’s gonna live because of me.

“Go clean yourself up,” Maart barks. “And don’t be late with dinner. I’m fucking starved.”

No “Good job!” from him. No pats on the back. No encouragement of any kind. I’ve watched him with his own kids, and he definitely treats me differently. He only has four—Irina, the oldest girl who I have decided is probably thirteen, and Maeko, Peng, and Paulo, who are right about that age as well. Paulo probably a year or two older than the other two. Maart’s four kids are serious fighters. They practically kill each other every single day during training. And Maart is forever calling out encouraging things. Especially to Irina, who I’m pretty sure is his favorite because while I’ve deduced that Paulo is the most accomplished, Irina is definitely the most ruthless.

Maart hates me. I’m very sure of that. He hates the way Cort looks at me, and the way Cort pays special attention to me on the mat, and most of all he hates that Cort and I were out here alone for an entire month before Maart showed up.

They have a thing going. I’m not sure how to explain it, but they definitely have a thing going. I haven’t caught them doing anything, but we had sex together the night of the fight. And maybe I don’t remember very much of it, but I remember enough to know that there were no inhibitions. Sex together was something these men did.

At first, I thought Rainer was gonna be the same way with me, but he’s not. He’s nice, always cracking jokes. But he’s that way with everyone, so I’m nothing to him. He has five kids—Evard, who I am now one hundred percent sure is Cort’s biological son, plus Raffie, Budi, Oscar, and Rasha, the middle girl in camp. They are all about eight or nine. Also tough as nails and ready to kill or be killed when on the mat.

I walk into the bathroom and splash cold water on my face to wash away the blood, then study the reflection looking back at me from the dirty mirror on the wall.

Bexxie would not even recognize me if she were here. My skin is bronze now. My normally blonde hair has nearly-white streaks running through it. It’s tangled and wild from lack of proper care. There have been no more baths or showers. Only Cort, Maart, and Rainer are allowed to use the shower. They let us hose each other off every four days and the rest of time we just jump into the ocean and swim around until our caked-on sweat floats away.

But I like the way I look.

It’s a wild look.

An abandoned look.

A look that says I’m a savage.

I think the savage life suits me.

Cort does pay attention to me on the mat, but after we’re done training, he barely looks at me. At first, I was hurt. I mean, he took me down to the stairwell that first day of my real training and we had sex. So what the fuck, right?

But then I looked at it all logically. Sex in our world means nothing. It’s just a physical act and nothing more. I knew this. I was hopeful that it would be different with Cort. But now I’m glad it’s not. His cold shoulder forced me to concentrate on more important things. Like fighting.

I like it. I really like it. And I’m getting better.

So what if my sparring partner is six?

This makes me smile as I hold a rag over my nose with my head tipped back to stop the bleeding.

When that’s taken care of, I go into the kitchen and start making dinner and spend the entire time fantasizing about what I might be allowed to cook tomorrow when we celebrate the end of our first test on the Rock.

CHAPTER TWENTY - CORT

The last night of the boring, disgusting if-I-never-eat-this-again-I-won’t-miss-it rehydrated chicken and rice dinners is spent up on the top platform, as usual, but we eat all together tonight, instead of in small groups. The kids are sitting next to each other in a loose circle. Not talking or signing, of course. They want to, and they are so close now, they can taste it. But they are as disciplined as kids their age can be, so they feign patience.