Fatal Knockout (Knockout Series Book 1)

  Fatal Knockout

  By Julie Bailes/Jewel Nicole

  Copyright©2015 Julie Bailes/Jewel Nicole

  Published by

  Edited by

  Amazon Kindle

  All rights reserved.

  License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only.

  This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people.

  If you would like to share this ebook with another person, please

  purchase an additional copy for each recipient. This work may not be recreated in any form, digital or otherwise, without written permission from the author.

  Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are

  either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously,

  and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business

  establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright©2015 Julie Bailes/Jewel Nicole

  Published by

  Edited by Kellie Montgomery

  Cover Art/Design/Photography by FuriousFotog

  Cover Model Darren Hitchcock

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  One

  May 2005

  Trembling with outrage, I slam my fist against the heavy bag swaying before me. It’s been three weeks since my parents’ accident, and yet, the sting of death burning within me intensifies with each passing day. I’m sick of hearing people tell me that pain fades with time. It isn’t true. Do I hurt more than others because I feel guilty? Do I blame my mother and father for their own deaths? Yes, I wanted them to be at my graduation, but I wanted them alive more than anything. But, no, Dad wouldn’t dare break a promise—especially not to his baby girl.

  “Hey, Daddy!” It’s been four days since I’ve seen his face. “Hey, bug! How’s everything going? Are you gettin’ excited?” I flip back to the local weather channel and watch the line of storms move across the radar. “Uh, a little,” I drift off, reading the warning at the bottom of our television screen. Daddy chuckles. “A little, huh? What’s on your mind?” I sigh. “Daddy, there’s a massive line of storms moving into our area, and they’re expected to reach Davidson County around the time y’all are scheduled to land.” He tsk. “Bug, what becomes of a man when he doesn’t follow through with his word?” Rolling my eyes, I mumble, “A coward.”

  “Exactly. I made you a promise that I fully intend to keep,” he reminds me. He and Mom were to fly across the country for a competition, but before I would step a foot away from blocking our front door, I made him promise me that he’d make it back in time to see me walk across the stage. “But, Daddy, you—” He cuts me off. “But nothing, bug. Promise or not, nothing is keeping me from seeing my baby girl graduate high school. It only happens once, ya know. And come hell or high water, Mom and I will be sitting in that auditorium at seven o’clock. Now, promise me something?”

  “Anything,” I answer. “Promise me you’ll stop worrying about us and you’ll have Dawson save our seats?” I release a long, exaggerated breath. “I’ll tell Dawson to keep your seats open.” He clears his throat and waits for me to give him my word. “And… I promise that I’ll try not to worry about you and Momma.” He chortles. “Hey, bug?” He remains silent and waits for my reply. “Yes, Daddy?” Still, he doesn’t speak a word and a lump forms in my throat. “We love you,” he says, finally. I don’t know why, but those three words cause butterflies to fly wildly inside my stomach. Swallowing hard, I shake my head and tell myself to stop being such a darn worrywart. I mean, Daddy’s jet isn’t the first to fly through a thunderstorm. They’ll be fine. “I love you, too. Call me before you takeoff and as soon as you land?” Though I can’t see him, I know he’s shaking his head at me and smiling. “You have my word.”

  At 5pm, my parents boarded their plane, and at 6:40pm I joined my graduating class as our friends and families trickled into the auditorium. At 7:42pm my name was called, and without a care in the world, I strutted across the stage—a smile on my face—and received my diploma. When I took my seat, I looked down and saw I had a missed call from an unfamiliar number. As the students in the rows behind me made their way to the front, I skimmed the crowd for my brother and parents. After five minutes of no luck in finding them, I gave up. The class of 2005 had over 612 graduates, and there didn’t seem to be an open seat anywhere.

  After each student had crossed the stage and taken their seat, our principle stood and congratulated us. Just as he gave us the instruction to move our tassels over to the right, I heard my phone vibrate in my chair. As Mr. Tribue began the countdown for us to toss our caps, I flipped open my cell. At 7:59pm, Dawson sent a text and asked me to meet him out by the fountain. Ready to wrap my arms around my momma’s neck, and to feel my daddy scoop me up into his large and loving arms, I left my graduating class before our ceremony ended.

  At 8:05pm I saw Dawson standing with Memaw and Papa by the fountain, not Momma and Daddy. Each of them were facing away from me with their heads hanging. At 8:10pm, my brother turned to me with tears streaming down his face. He didn’t have to say it, because I already knew. I ignored my intuition. And because of me, on May 22, 2005, my daddy broke his first and last promise.

  Blaze

  Sliding my access card, I push the door open and step into Maddin’s MMA. I’ve trained here every day for the last four months. No one has been here since Trace’s accident, except for me. Trace was a great man, phenomenal even, but I didn’t know him or his wife well enough to show up for their service. I don’t know what’s going to happen to this gym now that he’s gone. My hope is that he left it to a family member and it’ll remain open. But, no matter who takes his position, no one will ever replace Trace Maddin. The man died a legend.

  I make my way farther inside the gym and become shocked when I hear the familiar sound of skin striking leather. Curious, I look over to the bags and see a breathtaking sight. She has a physique most women would kill for; slim, toned, and full in all the right places. She’s dressed in a red sports top and a pair of black board shorts. Her body shimmers with sweat and her soft, strawberry blonde ponytail sways with each ruthless punch she throws.

  I inhale a deep breath and force my feet to move. Not wanting to frighten her and possibly feel one of those fierce fists collide with my face, I clear my throat to grab her attention. But, I fail. I try several more times, but she never turns around. On guard, I take three steps forward and stand directly behind her. We’re close, too close. We’re so close I feel the heat radiating off her body and onto mine. And, if she were to squat so much as a centimeter lower, she’d feel me.

  “That’s not how you do it, sweetheart.” Way to sound like a judgmental tool. She doesn’t bother to turn and see who I am, she just keeps punching. “Funny… I don’t remember asking you for your opinion,” she grunts. I stand back and watch her as she throws a right hook, left, and right again—a classic 1, 2, 3 combination. Her strikes are strong, but her foundation is weak. She’s go
od, not great. But, judging by her physique and speed, she could be. So, to help her out, I reach over her shoulder to halt the bag and place my lips next to her ear. “You’re right. You didn’t ask for my opinion, but, you kind of need it.” Without hesitation, she straightens her body, trails her finger along my arm, and grabs my wrist—tight. And before I have time to make sense of what she’s doing, she thrusts her hips back, extends my arm, and flips me over her onto the mat.

  After I catch the breath she knocked out of me, I look up at her and think, dynamite really does come in small packages. I’ve been in the cage with 200 pound men, many of them who couldn’t get me off my feet. Yet, this girl—who can’t weigh more than 130 pounds—slammed me, effortlessly. Lying flat on my back—somewhat dazed and a lot amazed—I smile and fall in love with a girl whose name I don’t even know.

  Shaking my head to regain my composure, I push myself up off the floor, and say, “I was only trying to prevent you from hurting yourself.” She rests her hands on her hips and looks up at me. “Listen, whatever your name is… If I want your assistance, I’ll ask you for it. But, don’t hold your breath waiting for me to do so, because I don’t—nor will I ever—need your help,” she spits, slinging her ponytail as she spins and returns her attention to the heavy bag. Again, I position myself behind her, and I say, “Sweetheart, you don’t need anyone to defend you, you proved as much. But, if this relationship is going to last, I have to be honest and let you know that you’re sort of a shitty striker.”

  Instantly, her punches come to a stop. “You can’t be serious,” she half laughs. “As a heart attack,” I tell her. Her face turns red and she drags her teeth over her bottom lip. “You listen to me—” she starts, but I don’t let her finish. I wrap my fingers around her wrists and turn her around to face me. Instead of looking up at me, she keeps her eyes on my chest. Holding her wrists with one hand, I lift my other hand up and tuck two fingers under her chin. Slowly, I tilt her head back and her green eyes lock with mine. My mouth goes dry when I realize she’s not looking at me, but she’s seeing through me. I gaze deep into her eyes, wet my lips, and say, “No, you listen to me. Your foundation is weak. Your stance is terrible. And in case you haven’t noticed, you’re bleeding.”

  I take a second and lift her hands up between our faces. “Why aren’t you wearing gloves?” She pulls her hands down and tears her eyes from mine. “That’s none of your business,” she snarls. She turns to walks away, but I take her hand and walk her over to where I laid my duffle bag. “Sit,” I instruct. Surprisingly, she listens. She sits on the stool behind her and I position myself between her legs. I unzip my bag and remove a pack of 4x4 gauze pads, salve, and new wrapping. Then, I take her hand in mine and remove the crimson stained cotton from her bleeding knuckles.

  Madisyn

  His hands, strong and warm, send waves of heat up my arms. His fingers, rough but gentle, graze my skin and send chills up my spine. “I don’t have anything girly. So, take your pick. Red or orange?” I point to his right hand. “Red,” I answer. “Good choice,” he smiles up at me. He locks his dark eyes with mine as he slips the loop over my thumb and starts wrapping the elastic cotton around my wrist, three times. His eyes finally fall from mine, and I take the opportunity to look him over. His hair is dark brown, but I can’t tell by the beanie he’s wearing how long or short it is. His skin is a perfect olive, illuminating his straight, white teeth with his heart stammering, boyish grin. From head to toe, he’s flawless. His arms are burly and lined with veins. His calves are hard and sculpted. And oh, my word, his abs… His mouthwatering, well defined abs make me want to— My, Gosh, Madisyn! Get it together. He’s just a boy. A toned, fit, dark eyed, and sexy— “Do I meet your standards?” he smirks, catching me ogling him. Awesome. Immediately, heat floods my face. Trying to hide my embarrassment, I push my chest out, sit tall, and ask him, “What’s your name?” With a lopsided grin, he shakes his head, looks down to my wrist, and circles the wrap around my thumb. “Blaze.” Biting the inside of my cheek, I cock my head, and ask, “Is Blaze your birth name or a nickname?” He spreads my fingers with his and takes the wrap between each one. “Birth name.” He keeps his eyes on my hand as he finishes enveloping my knuckles. Then, he picks up my other hands and cleans away the blood with a cold washcloth. “Yours?” Leaning up next to his ear, I whisper, “Guess.”

  He stops what he’s doing and sets the elastic wrap down to the mat. Lifting his chocolate, mischief gleaming eyes to stare into mine, he asks, “There are more than a million girls in this world, more than a million possible names, and you want me to guess?” Flirtatiously shrugging, I bite my lip and nod. With a cocky smirk, he spreads his hands and places them on my legs. “Tell me your name.” His voice is low, demanding and sexy. I shake my head. “No way. Guess it.” He moves his face in closer to mine and licks his lips. Then, he uses the pads of his thumbs to draw soft circles on the inside of my thighs, causing a huge ball of fire to form deep within me. Yeah, his name fits him well.

  Blaze cups the side of my face with one of his hands and urges my head back. My face is pointed towards the ceiling and my neck is fully exposed. He places a tender kiss to my collarbone, and then trails the tip of his nose up the column of my neck until his lips meet my earlobe. My body, not used to this sort of attention, quivers from the warmth his touch shoots through my body. Of course, he notices and smiles against the side of my neck. “What’s your name, beautiful girl?” Craning my neck back farther, I breathe, “Guess.” His breathing in my ear causes goosebumps to breakout over me, entirely. Blaze places a kiss beneath my ear, and then takes my earlobe between his teeth. “Tell. Me. Your. Name.”

  Mind blown, I stammer, “M-Ma-Madisyn.” I don’t sound like an innocent school girl at all. Not. Bringing his face around to mine, he grins. “Nice to meet you, M-Ma-Madisyn.” Frustrated by how I let a tool like him affect me and make me weak, I shove him away from me. “You’re a douche,” I huff. “And you, M-Ma-Madisyn, are beautiful… and feisty, and completely stubborn. He winks at me and reaches for my unwrapped hand. “So, M-Ma—” I glare at him. “Don’t you dare,” I warn. “I wasn’t,” he laughs. Good. It would be a shame to give someone as gorgeous as he is a damaging roundhouse kick to the face, but I will do it if he mocks me one more time.

  “How old are you, Madisyn?” He annunciates the n at the end of my name. “Seventeen,” I answer. “Ah… jailbait,” he tsks. “Jailbait? I’ll be eighteen next week. How old are you, Blaze?” He finishes with my other hand and helps me stand. “Twenty.” I figured as much by the thin beard lining his jawline. I mean, there aren’t many teens who wear any type of beard in this area, unless they come in to town from one of the rural areas surrounding our county. I help him clean up the mess we made, and he asks, “So, you fight?” I half laugh. “Goodness, no. I don’t fight.”

  “Really?” I nod. “Really. I mean, I have my black belt in Muay Thai and I’m well rounded in Jiu Jitsu, but my daddy would never let me compete.” He grabs a pair of gloves and motions for me to hold out my hands. “What about you? How long have you been fighting?” Blaze keeps his eyes cast down as he straps the gloves securely around my wrists. “I didn’t say I fight.” Once my hands are geared and ready, he nods over to the bags. “You didn’t have to. You don’t have much hair on either of your wrists, which lets me know you tape them often. And your knuckles,” I pause and give a nonchalant shrug, “you have classic fighter hands.” Cockily, he smiles and asks, “You think you know fighting, huh?”

  “Think? Uh, no. I know fighting.” He doesn’t know that I’m his trainer’s daughter. And as Trace Maddin’s daughter, I know how selective he was with who he let into his gym. “We don’t teach martial arts, we enhance it,” he’d say. Trace didn’t train amateurs, he trained champions. And there’s no way Blaze would have access to this gym if he wasn’t a dedicated and hardcore fighting machine. My daddy didn’t tolerate slackers. The fact that Blaze is standing here next to me lets me know he isn’t
going to be someone big someday, he is somebody big already.

  Blaze steps aside and extends his arm to the bag. “Oh, okay. Well, my Muay Thai queen, show me your skills.” Rolling my eyes, I stretch my neck from side to side and position myself within clinching range. Quickly, I go through several combinations and finish with a 1, 2, 3, 4; left jab, right cross, left hook, and right uppercut. “Not too bad.” I once him over. “Not too bad?” Seriously?” He nods and grabs my hips. “Seriously.” He angles my hips so they’re vertical to the bag. “When I said your foundation was weak, this is what I was referring to. You’re right handed, yeah?” I nod. He glides his hand down my right leg and circles his fingers around my ankle, pulling my foot back and flattening it to the mat. Then, he stands and lines his body with mine.

  “Two things. One, when you throw hooks, having a steady stance is crucial. Balance yourself.” Doing as he says, I place both feet flat, gain my balance, and lift my hand up to guard position. “Good. Now, tighten your quads and slightly bend your knees.” He turns my hips with his hands. “Twist, pivot,” he pauses to move my foot with his, and adds, “and hook.” Inwardly smiling, I nod and say, “Got it.” He takes several steps back and tells me, “Show me.”

  So, I do. I show off my ten years of training; twist, pivot, hook, repeat. I make it through ten reps before I decide to stop for a water break. Drenched in sweat, I pick up a clean towel from the rack to dry my face, neck, and chest. As I dry between my breasts, Blaze approaches me from behind and rests his hands on my shoulders. I freeze. “Ready to work on kicking techniques?” He nuzzles his nose behind my ear and inhales. Suddenly, my ability to form a simple, coherent sentence vanishes. He’s only touched you. Woman up.

  Listening to myself, and resisting the urge to close my eyes and let my head fall back against him, I focus my eyes on the banana bag ahead. I shrug his hands from my shoulders and take off to the bag, but he reaches his hand out and stops me. I’m not the least bit surprised when I turn and see the self-satisfied grin dancing across his face. “How about we start with power kicks?” he asks, attempting to sound innocent. Nice try, buddy. But, the cat that ate the canary look on your face speaks for itself. He knows exactly what he doing to me. Well, I got news for him. I’m not like most girls. I’m attracted to guys who are capable of being independent and can carry their own weight. I prefer someone who can keep a conversation, is positive, optimistic, and shares the same interests as me. Looks don’t impress me, character does. Get real, Maddie. Every single inch of him is dangerously impressive.