Killian

  Killian

  “Fit to Love”

  Book 1

  By Tarin Lex

  All Rights Reserved.

  Copyright © 2020 by Tarin Lex.

  No part of this work may be transmitted or reproduced by any means without the express written permission of the author/publisher, except for brief excerpts in the form of a book review.

  Published by Tarin Lex.

  “Killian” is a work of fiction. Names, characters, locations, and events are products of the author’s imaginations, or used in a fictitious manner. Any similarities to real-life persons or situations are entirely coincidental.

  Cover by DesignRans.

  Killian

  An Alpha MMA Fighter & BBW Second-Chance Romance

  The one with the knockout artist.

  **Killian is a SHORT, OTT (‘over-the-top’), STEAMY romance. No cliffhangers, no cheats! Guaranteed HEA. :) This is a standalone short story part of the Fit to Love MMA fighter romance series.**

  Tarin Lex writes short, sexy, romantic stories. She lives in a Big City but she’s a country girl at heart. Tarin’s a sucker for the misunderstood Bad Boy—preferably of the hardworking, tattooed, blue-collar variety—and the sweet, curvy women who tame them.

  To every time you got back up.

  Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Epilogue

  One

  Kate

  “Kiss, fuck, or marry?” Jennifer, my coworker, smiles mischievously when pics of the last of the prelim fighters appear on the mounted screen.

  My other coworker, Sarai, and I turn as one to look up. They’re fighting here, in our city. Both of the bantamweight fighters have decent lean, ripped bods, but I’d want a man with more meat on his bones than those guys have. That is, if I wanted a man right now.

  There was only one guy who could ever make my heart stagger. That same guy ripped it out and tore it to shreds five years ago. I’ve dated since then, but no one seems to rev me up like Killian did.

  Geez—I sound like a sadist. Why do I even think of him? It’s been five years!

  “Kiss,” I answer. “If I have to?”

  “You’re kidding,” Sarai pipes up. “Those guys are hot!” She wags her brows at the one on the left. “I’d fuck that one, for sure.”

  “Eh. I like my men with more tattoos.” Jennifer points to the other man. “Fuck. And other stuff.” She makes a vulgar motion with her fist next to her cheek.

  I grin into my Guinness—chilled to just under room temp, like it’s meant to be served—and take a long, slow sip. We’re not really into the fights. I’ve seen enough bloody noses on television and in real life. When the aforementioned Killian needed me to nurse him after his bouts. Or when he inflicted one on someone else.

  Those wounds were always worse.

  “Why even include marry?” Sarai giggles. “We never say it.”

  Jennifer laughs. “For fun I guess.”

  “You wouldn’t want to marry one of them,” I add, soberly. They look at me, confused. “Worrying every time they get in the Octagon? Being second place to their number-one passion? All that testosterone and aggression—Pfft.” I shake my head. “Be the wife of a fighter? No thanks.”

  Sarai makes a thoughtful expression. Jennifer almost spits out her cocktail when a thought strikes.

  “I bet the sex is ahhmazing when they win!”

  We all laugh. Secretly I want to admit, yes, it is.

  Sarai lowers her voice. “D’you think they spar with their girlfriends and wives?”

  None of us is sure. The bout begins and then ends in the first half of the first round. Jennifer’s tattooed man wins by TKO—knockout. I let the Guinness do its job and relax me. Jennifer and Sarai dive into work-gossip-mode while I drift. I look around the cozy pub.

  Next up is the first of the maincard fights. We’re only halfway paying attention as the commentator segues smoothly from talk of the last prelim TKO to the rumored “knockout artist” making his Fit to Fight debut. Not only is it this man’s first live televised bout—he’s going head-to-head with a veteran fighter.

  “Didn’t you think so, Kate?” Sounds like Sarai’s voice. I don’t know why my attention is suddenly so tuned to the TV. I stopped caring about mixed martial arts a long time ago. “Kate.” Fingers snap.

  My eyes lurch from the screen. “Sorry,” I mutter. “Got lost in thought.”

  Sarai tips her head in question.

  “Don’t you think Jess is kind of a bitch?” Jennifer brings me up to speed.

  “Oh. Um…”

  The TV voices filter back in.

  ‘…taking a last-minute fight after Alex Ryan tore his ACL in training…’

  ‘…undefeated professional fighter…’

  ‘…balls of a steel tank…’

  ‘…knockout artist…’

  “She’s always been friendly to me,” I answer. I don’t know either of them half as well as they know each other, and I’m certainly not keen on the dos and don’ts of the office politics. Better to just stay neutral. Who cares about office drama anyway?

  ‘…Killian Ashe,’ I hear someone say.

  My gaze whips back up to the screen. Well slap my ass and call me fanny! It’s really him! Sexy—feral. My heart grows as big as a melon inside my throat. My peripheral vision goes dark.

  He fuckin’ did it. Killy made it to the top…and if I know him, he’s not done climbing.

  “There you go, Kate!” Jennifer quips. “Now tell me you wouldn’t wanna marry that.”

  “I’d kiss, fuck, and marry him!” Sarai beams.

  “Greedy slut,” Jennifer teases.

  “Mm,” I hum, disinterestedly. I finish my beer.

  If only they knew. Killian Ashe was my actual first kiss, first fuck, first and last guy I ever wanted to marry.

  He was … everything.

  Two

  Killian

  My heart’s pounding a mile a minute, adrenaline surging into every muscle, every pore. The veteran Muay Thai fighter throws me a look like I’m way in over my head. Is that true, am I outclassed tonight? How badly is he gonna pummel me, embarrass me—in my hometown? Maybe I shouldn’t have taken the fight. Not here.

  No, fuck that! He’s just try’n’ get in my head. I won’t let him.

  “Touch gloves,” the ref says.

  The moment our gloves make contact, my mind and body activate and I’m laser-focused on the fight. I don’t see anything but his next move. I don’t hear anything except what my corner calls out to me. The man’s reputation precedes him, and he proves to be an excellent striker with a reach advantage he isn’t afraid to use, not only with his fists, but also his elbows and knees. He isn’t particularly powerful, but his near-perfect accuracy makes up for that. He’ll exhaust me like this.

  “Welcome to the big leagues,” the fighter taunts. He throws a jab and I see the opening and land two body strikes of my own, dodging his punch.

  “Too feckin’ easy,” I bite back.

  In the second round I beef up my defense and start to wear him down with leg kicks to his calf, thigh, and even his shin. Almost six years ago I was severely injured when my sparring opponent checked one of these low kicks, and I immediately keened, toppling down over a fractured tibia that almost ended my fighting career before it began. You’d think after that I’d be more reluctant to try the low kicks now. But no, I’m not.

  My mum would call it resilience; Kate would say I’m stubborn as hell. In truth my Muay Thai opponent never checks the kicks, I gleaned that tidbit watching his fights, so before long he’s got nasty bruises blossoming down the sides of his legs. That’s gotta hurt like a bitch.

 
“Fucker,” he growls when I get him again. I just grin, sardonically.

  When he’s had enough of that brand of assault, he pulls us into a tight clinch against the cage. Neither of us does much damage here before the second bell rings and the referee separates us.

  “You gotta take him down,” Coach Darren says, hydrating me in my corner before the final round. The cameramen hover and for a split second I wonder if Kate’s watching, and my heart strains harder.

  Forget her already! Nothing can throw you off your game quite as definitively as mooning over your ex.

  “I’m not a grappler,” I groan, feeling too winded for the kind of exertion Darren’s suggesting. I open my mouth to suck in air.

  “It’s called mixed martial arts. You wanna be here? You grapple.” Coach gives me another drink of water. He means well when he roughly grabs my jaw. “Catch your breath and then for Christ’s sake close your goddamn mouth, son. You want him to think he’s got your number?”

  “No.”

  The bell signals us to return to the center of the Octagon. We trade looks. We touch gloves.

  I get off two vicious leg kicks before Muay Thai pulls us into the clinch, predictably. If I try to trip him and he doesn’t fall he’ll know what my end game is and I’ll have no chance of pulling it off. Right now he doesn’t expect me to take him down. Hell I don’t even expect me to take him down, until I just do it.

  With strength I didn’t know I had, I switch levels and drive all one hundred and ninety-eight pounds of my opponent into the mat. Man you should see his face, all lit up and wide-eyed. The crowd goes berserk. This is my city. And who doesn’t love a good underdog?

  The infinitesimal second when he’s on his back and shocked is my best chance to inflict damage. He scrambles but I maintain control. His reach advantage means nothing here, as I wrestle his arms under my legs and work my best ground and pound. Muay Thai’s got an iron chin, I’ll give him that—his lights just will not go out.

  But soon he stops defending my strikes, and that’s when the ref stops the fight. Did that just happen? My breathing rips through my lungs. I move on sheer primal instinct, releasing a thunderous noise from deep in my gut. I go back to help my opponent to his feet.

  Everything else happens fast. The ref raises my hand up, declaring me the winner by TKO, two minutes into the third round of my Fit to Fight debut—live on TV. The audience roars. My home—my people! One of the cameramen circles around me. I shouldn’t look into it as if I can see Kate’s hazel eyes staring back.

  Just for one second.

  My head spins, dizzy from the sudden blast of heightened adrenaline.

  A rush like I’ve never felt.

  “Go out tonight,” Coach Darren suggests. “Get you a Guinness.”

  I look at him, unsure.

  He grins, reaching ’round to palm my back. “Someday soon everyone in this town will know your face. Heck. You might already need to wear shades and a baseball cap.”

  “What about the post-fight?” The press conference—I hate doin’ the short interviews as it is. Definitely wasn’t looking forward to further drawn-out inquiry on TV. My game is my game—they wanna know, they can watch the fight.

  “I gotchu,” Coach says. “Go, enjoy being somewhat anonymous while you still can.”

  I’ll take his advice. There is someplace I’d like to be now, a quaint Irish pub, imbibing a nice dark stout served at a perfect forty-five degrees. It was my place, and then it was our place, and then it was painful going back. Always hoping she’d be there. Hoping she’d change her mind and take me back.

  Still hoping.

  Three

  Kate

  The girls leave a little after midnight but I hang back. Last call isn’t for another two hours, not that I feel like ordering more. The restaurant is clearing out already, the excitement from the fight petering out the closer it gets to bedtime.

  It’s silly, but I just want to be here. Even after five years, thoughts of Killian never left the deeper recesses of my mind. Okay, the forefront of my mind. Tonight he took centerstage, even before I saw him onscreen. It’s just this place. We used to say this pub was ours. This whole town felt like ours, once. We had a whirlwind romance that lasted for three amazing years…before I gave him an ultimatum: MMA, or me.

  It seems so unfair in hindsight. But given the chance to do it all again, wouldn’t I still come to the same conclusion? I can’t love a man the way he deserves, the way I want, and stand by and watch him put himself in that kind of danger. Bout after bout. I thought I could…then Killy fractured his shinbone as my heart tore in two. It killed me to see the pain on his face. Killed me to witness, helplessly, as he worked through months and months of painful surgeries and physical rehabilitation.

  I thought he’d stop fighting after that, at least professionally. He said he never would. So I asked him to choose and his choice wasn’t me. Maybe he thought he’d call my bluff. But I wasn’t bluffing. So I said goodbye.

  And the anguish on his face then was nothing like I’d seen before, and almost made me change my mind.

  So, what am I still doing here? I could tell myself I’m proud of him. Killian was a big part of my life and knowing he made his choice and is doing well with it now does make me proud. It feels good to sit here, quietly now, and reflect on our history with a smile on my face. I’m doing that now, aren’t I?

  I’d be lying if I said there weren’t more reasons though. Like wanting to just feel his presence again, even if he isn’t physically here. I can almost hear his voice. Not the post-fight interview voice that aired—which was adorably soft-spoken yet matter-of-fact—but the one he used to use only for me. His cadence breathless for other reasons.

  I can see, feel his smirk, his laughter, his warmth. Mixed with the pub’s familiar earthy, smoky, grainy fragrance, I swear I catch never-forgotten hints of Killy’s scent too. My memory is a wonder to register the notes of cardamom and sweet eucalyptus, after all these years that I haven’t seen him. Even his aftershave wafts toward me, so very subtle, yet as clear to me as if he were sitting right over there.

  Because, I realize when I turn to look—he actually is.

  I swiftly turn back around as my heart stills then sinks low in my gut. My chest feels pressed in, and hot, and I press a hand to it to steady my lungs. Or to steady my hand.

  What is Killian doing here, of all places? I assumed he’d be at the press conference now, and after that, who knows. Maybe a strip club for a victory dance, or twenty. Maybe back home…maybe back to his girlfriend. Oh god. Like I’ve never prayed for anything else, I pray he doesn’t have a girlfriend.

  Not that I should care.

  As soon as I get ahold of myself, I peek at him over my shoulder again. He’s looking out the window, contemplative, wrapping his freshly served brew in one hand. Killian’s bigger now, broad and chiseled as if he were hewn over an anvil. He’s a shade darker and his beard has grown, but I’d know that man even cast entirely in silhouette. The hold on his beer, steady gaze fixed on nothing and everything at once, his posture one of strong, easy repose. I stifle a giggle, remembering he hated wearing hats; he’d say they were uncomfortable but I know what he really hated was how they flattened his hair. So the navy ballcap he’s donning now must be Killy’s attempt at disguise. I can’t help but smile. Here soon, he’ll need to get better at hiding his face. A lot better.

  I haven’t changed. I’m still curvy, introverted, prone to staring…so when he suddenly flicks his gaze toward mine, there isn’t a shadow of doubt he knows it’s me.

  I don’t move. I barely breathe. Subdued by his dark, intense gaze once again, as if a single moment never passed…as if a hundred thousand tears or more hadn’t been spilled…I’m not in a hurry to shift away.

  Surprise and recognition paint his cheeks a warmer shade of pumpkin spice. Just one look, and I’m wet to my thighs. I want to breathe him in, closer, and taste his skin, ferreting out every trace of him I can remember, and every p
art of him that’s new.

  A smile spreads over his lips, setting my core on fire—and my heart gallops toward him like a wild horse.

  “Hi.”

  “Hi.”

  He indicates the vacant seat next to him. Ah, but it’s late. It’s reckless. I shouldn’t.

  Like any of that’s ever stopped us before.

  Four

  Killian

  I find it hard to believe that all of this is real. I finally made it to Fit to Fight. I fuckin’ won. And now I’m sitting next to Kate, tripping over memory lane over a nice roasted stout.

  “You look different.”

  “You’re kidding,” Kate remarks, “I look different? Have you seen you lately?”

  I chuckle into my beer. I’ve definitely beefed up more since we were together. Thanks to a very high-protein diet and about ten thousand hours at the gym. “I’m just saying…five years look good on you.”

  It’s the understatement of the century. Her naturally light-brown hair is highlighted blonde. Her feminine curves are even more paralyzing than I remember. Kate still has that big bold cheerleader smile that earned her more attention than she wanted back then. She still smells like wildflowers.

  We reminisce on some of the funny, lighthearted memories we share—good times. We catch up on everything since. What her life is like today; what I’m doing. We skirt the topic of what went wrong.

  “I watched you tonight.” Kate scoots closer to me as we comfortably chat. When she crosses her legs, the toes of her shoes graze my shin. “You were so good. You did it.” She proffers that magnetic smile.

  “Yeah.” I sip my beer. “Guess I did, huh.”

  “I’m proud of you, Killy.”

  My heart jumps, suddenly. I slide her a look. “No one calls me that anymore.”

  “Oh, sorry.”

  “Don’t be. It’s nice hearing you say it.” I can’t take my eyes off her lips as I silently beg her to say it again.