Strike: Dax

  Strike

  Sphere of Irony Series

  Book 2, Dax

  By Heather C. Leigh

  Copyright © 2015 Shelbyville for Heather C. Leigh

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 1512138023

  ISBN 13: 978- 1512138023

  First Edition, License Notes

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental

  Table of contents

  Cover

  Quotes

  Disclaimer

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Epilogue

  The Rules

  End of Book Stuff

  About the Author

  Books by Heather C. Leigh

  QUOTES

  There is no such thing as a lost cause or a dead end, through persistence, attitude and creativity, there is always an escape route.

  —Urijah Faber (MMA World Champion)

  Forget about past mistakes and focus your energy on the victories of tomorrow.

  —Carlos Gracie (creator of modern Jiu Jitsu)

  Know the rules well so you can break them effectively.

  —Dalai Lama

  The more anger towards the past you carry in your heart, the less capable you are of loving in the present.

  —Unknown

  Dedication

  To everyone who loves Syd and Drew as much as I do, it means the world to me that you brought them into your hearts and homes.

  cover art

  Design by Deborah at Tugboatdesign.net.

  Photo by Andrea Mages. Andrea Mages Photography, LLC.

  Model, Brian Carman.

  disclaimer

  I would just like to clarify what you will be reading in STRIKE Dax is British. I am not. I have done my best to keep the language true to his heritage, however, keep in mind that I will not be using British spellings or always use the British vernacular for certain words. I don’t want to confuse the non-British readers or explain what a clanger is or what Gordon Bennett means.

  I will be using friends from the U.K., for reference now and then, but I can’t ask people to repeatedly edit my book and fix every single Briticism. I made some creative changes to the school system in the UK among other things. Let’s not nitpick the small stuff.

  Happy reading! Cheers!

  HC Leigh

  CHAPTER 1

  Dax

  I was eight years old when I broke my first bone. My older brother is the one who did it, while my father watched, criticizing my fight stance as it snapped.

  If you’re male and born in the Davies household, you have one and only one job—to fight. My parents have four boys, which means most of our childhood was spent beating the absolute shite out of each other. As the youngest, and for a long time, the smallest brother, I’ve had so many fractured bones I’m not sure if there are any left that haven’t been cracked at least once.

  “C’mon lad, you’re up.”

  Out of the corner of my eye I see my dad poke his head into the tiny locker room of his underground fight club, his bushy eyebrows raised as he waits for my response. The strong scent of antiseptic stings my nostrils when I take a few deep, calming breaths.

  “I’ll be out in a second.”

  He glares at me. “Don’t make me come back in here, Dax. There’s a big crowd and a lot of money riding on you tonight. Plus,” his angry face breaks into a grin. “I got a nice reward for ya afterwards, aye?”

  Fuck calm.

  A blaze of heat rushes up my chest and neck. “I said I’d be out in a second!” I’m not sure exactly who it is I’m yelling at as my dad is long gone, the doorway he was standing in is empty.

  I can’t help my short temper. My dad wants me this way, molded me to be this way, the same he did my three older brothers. Pent up frustration leads to domination in the ring, and my dad is an expert at making you frustrated. He dictates everything—what I eat, who I fight, he even has a system for when I can get laid.

  The rules.

  I’m so fucking tired of being told what to do. I ache for the day that I can be in charge—dictate, and be as bossy of a prick as I want.

  A loud roar surrounds me as I make my way to the ring. The energy seeps into me, my body itching for some kind of release—physical release—whether sexual or not, I need relief.

  Heavy hands slap my shoulders and back, sharp voices wish me luck or yell at me to fuck up and lose so they can collect their fifty quid. I stretch my neck from side to side, hopping on my toes once I hit the small set of stairs that leads into the cage. I’m ready and all too willing to set the beast inside me free.

  My opponent tonight is hideous. Not just any kind of ugly, mind you. He’s a right minger. Ewan Blair—eighteen, black hair, black beady eyes, acne scars all over—and the meanest bastard I’ve ever met.

  “Ya ready for me to pound yer arse into the floor, Davies?”

  The dull roar of the crowd fades into the background as I calmly stare at Ewan and his big, bloated face, following dad’s rules to the letter. Even if you’re bleeding from every orifice and your kidney is falling out, if you’re angrier than a bull with a red flag in it’s face, you keep yourself under control, never let your emotions show. It’s part of the rules.

  Rule 1—Family first.

  Without saying a word, I stare at Ewan’s hideous face. My brother, Liam, puts in my mouth guard and leans close, his massive arm coming round my neck. “Nasty prick is weak on his left. He never remembers to keep his chin down when he throws a right uppercut.” I already know this, but reviewing your enemy’s flaws is part of the ritual dad beat into our skulls. Literally.

  I nod and shrug Liam off, more than ready to get this fight going. I feel like I might explode I’m wound so tight. The ref for tonight is one of dad’s regulars, Tommy MacGregor. He’s an okay bloke, fair enough, lets the fighters have a go without interfering too much. Plus, he’s a Scot, which holds more weight than anything else in dad’s eyes.

  Tommy raises his hands in the air, motioning us forward. “Fighters to the center!”

  Ewan and I walk towards each other, converging in the middle. My training takes over, as natural to me as breathing. I’m thinking about that reward. Like one of Pavlov’s dogs, my cock is already anticipating it, twitching in my shorts.

  I never break eye contact with my opponent, studying, intimidating, showing him I’ll never back down. Tommy’s voice booms over the sound system and I simply stare when Ewan frowns. The noisy crowd falls silent as he announces the match.

  “Tonight you’re in for a great show. We have two former youth champions meeting up as adult fighters for the first time.”

  Loud hoots and hollers bounce throughout the open space of the warehouse that holds the fight club. Tommy thrusts a finger at Ewan.

  “In the black corner, we have our challenger, last year’s welterweight under eighteen London Underground champion, at six foot even, weighing eighty-eight and a half kilos or one-hundred ninety-five pounds, Ewan Blaaaaair!”

  Ewan does a three-sixty spin for the crowd, holding up his hands and air-punching as he goes round. What a tosser. The idiots in the audience eat it up, going wil
d for Blair. Dad told me the betting was especially heavy tonight, with me only getting a slight edge in the odds. Ewan and I have never fought before because until recently, I hadn’t been in his weight class—that plus I used to fight without the thin, fingerless gloves I’m currently wearing.

  Tommy turns from Ewan to point at me, once again doing a bang up job of whipping the crowd into a frenzy.

  “Aaaaand in the red corner, standing six foot three inches, weighing in at ninety kilos or two-hundred pounds, we have last year’s London Underground seventeen and under bare-knuckle boxing champ, Dax Daaaaaavies!”

  Wild shouts come from all sides of the warehouse. The men (and quite a few women) who bet on me call out their cheers of approval. Mingled in are a few boos and hisses, but I could care less. I’m going to shred this prick and I’m going to do it quickly. Yep, I’m a fucking cocky bastard, but I’ve earned every bit of it.

  We step to the center, tap gloves, and it’s on.

  Kate

  I’ve been in love with Dax Davies since the moment I laid eyes on him in year three of primary school at the tender age of seven. Sadly, I’m not sure if he even knows that I exist.

  Now, we’re in our final year of school, newly turned eighteen, and he still hasn’t said more than a few words to me here and there and when he has, it’s only because we shared a class so he didn’t have a choice. He’s on an entirely different level of existence than I am, beautiful, perfect, girls throwing themselves at him. It’s not surprising that he never noticed plain, boring Kate, the least girly female in school.

  It’s the first day back after the winter holiday break, so I’m desperate for a fix of Dax’s gorgeous face. I mentally cheer for myself because lucky me, this term Dax ended up in front of me in class. I can’t help but stare at his wide, muscled back, defined perfectly under his tight T-shirt, as we wait for Mr. Patel to take roll call.

  They always seat us alphabetically first thing in the morning. Since my name is Campbell and his is Davies, Dax either sits several seats behind me, or, like this year, the beginning of the next row. Obviously, I prefer him to be in front so I can ogle as much as I want without anyone knowing how pathetic I am.

  “Kate Campbell?”

  “What?” I jerk my eyes away from the back of Dax’s head and drop my hair, which I had been twirling in my fingers nervously.

  “Are you with us today, Miss Campbell? I’ve called out your name three times.”

  Mr. Patel stares at me from behind his wire-framed glasses with a bemused look on his face. Most of the class turns to gawk at me and I hear a few giggles from them, but it’s when Dax’s dark eyes meet mine that I feel the burning shame spread up my face and cheeks. He doesn’t look amused, he looks… well, hot, but he’s always hot, even with the dark bruise that spans the length of his jaw. No, scratch that, he looks… totally uninterested. Bored to death. By me.

  I shift in my seat, utterly humiliated. “I-I’m here. Sorry Mr. Patel.”

  Well, Dax certainly knows I exist now—as the class imbecile.

  Mr. Patel clears his throat and everyone quiets down, my stupidity seemingly forgotten. Dax has already turned back towards the front of the classroom, likely thinking I’m a total nutter.

  The bell rings sharply, dismissing us for first period. I wait for the room to clear before gathering my things and heading for maths.

  “Kate! Wait up!”

  My teammate, Tasha, comes dashing up the hall like a maniac, nearly crashing into me. We’ve done girl’s football together for ages so I’ve known her a long time. My mum says I’ve always had too much energy, been impossible to keep still. They signed me up for footy as an outlet for my insatiable need to be on the go.

  “Tasha, I’ve told you to stop drinking so much caffeine.” I almost never drink caffeine. I can hardly keep still as it is. If I drank my favorite tea with milk, I’d be off the wall.

  She throws her head back and laughs, tossing her long dark hair over her shoulder. I smile wistfully. I’ve always wished I were more exotic looking like Tasha, with her almond-shaped eyes and creamy white skin. But no, I’m not flashy or girly. I’m just boring old me. Boring brown hair, too big for my face murky greenish-brown eyes, average height, average weight, average… everything.

  “I haven’t been drinking caffeine, silly. I’m just excited. All last term was footy this and footy that, around nothing but girls all the time. Now, since it’s off-season, we can flirt and find blokes to chat up and have fun.”

  We had been walking towards class, but after that comment I stop to face Tasha. “Firstly, we still have football, just not as much. Practice starts next week. Secondly, you can flirt and find a bloke. I’m not interested. I need to get out of this town.” It’s a partial lie. I do want a bloke, a specific one. Only he doesn’t want me. Letting out a huff, I continue down the hall to the maths classrooms.

  “Hey.” Tasha grabs my elbow, pulling me over to the side of the hall so we don’t block traffic. She lowers her voice and leans in close. “He’s an idiot to not notice you, Kate. You’re bloody gorgeous, smart, and fucking brilliant on the pitch. Either forget about Dax or make a move. I’ve heard he’s a cold, soulless bastard anyway. This is our last term together and we’re going to have some fun if it kills us.”

  While I’m glad to have a friend like her who knows what I’m thinking even when I don’t say it, hearing her insult Dax ruffles my feathers a little. Yeah, he seems unapproachable and icy, but there’s something there. I just know it.

  Regardless of how she feels about him, Tasha always lets me prattle on and on about Dax Davies and his magnificence and never once makes me feel stupid or obsessed—even though I’m ashamed to admit I’m both. “We’re going to have fun, huh?”

  “Yeah.” She grins.

  I pull my hair out of its elastic, run my fingers through it, and immediately whip it right back up in a ponytail. Nervous habit. “Right. You’re right. We are.” I’m not sure if I’m convincing Tasha or myself.

  “Good. I’ll see you at lunch. Lucky us, they’re welcoming us back with that dodgy shepherd’s pie you love so much.”

  I wrinkle my nose at the thought of eating the horrid school lunches for another term. Oh well, could be worse. I could be eating nothing for lunch—something I’ve had to do many, many times.

  “See you then.”

  When I reach my class I notice that my streak of misfortune continues—making a fool of myself during attendance, dodgy lunch, and to top it off, Dax is already seated in the back row of my maths class, running one of his huge hands over his short, dark blonde hair. His round, well-defined bicep flexes as his arm moves, making my mouth practically water. Brilliant, I’ll be spending the entire term thinking about Dax and his perfect muscles, sitting behind me. I’ll probably fail maths whilst I daydream.

  Make a move or forget about Dax. Yeah right, not a bloody chance.

  Dax

  “No, no, no! Lad, are you payin’ any attention to what yer doing? He’s gonna leather you if you lower yer right hand!”

  Aggravated, I take a step back into the corner of the cage, praying that my temper will lessen. I know my dad’s angry—really angry, because his Scottish brogue is so bad it’s almost unintelligible. That says a lot since I grew up with the sorry prick. I should know what he’s saying after eighteen years.

  “Look at me, ya numpty!”

  Gritting my teeth, I control my face before I turn towards my old man.

  “Freddie, take a break,” he snaps at the bloke I’m sparring with, never once breaking our eye contact. Fred silently exits the cage, disappearing somewhere in the massive old warehouse my dad uses for his underground fight club. You wouldn’t believe how widespread and organized the illegal fight scene is in London. There are tournaments and everything.

  My dad steps over until we’re nearly chest-to-chest. I’m a huge bastard, six foot three and over fourteen stone. Dad? He’s tall enough to look me right in the eye. If he were younger, I co
uld possibly be scared of him.

  Who am I kidding? I am scared of him, or at the very least greatly intimidated.

  My dad only knows one way—very controlling, very painful, and absolutely terrifying. He’s a decent man, mostly. It’s just that he puts fighting over everything else, including us. Plus, if there’s one thing I absolutely loathe, it’s being told what to do.

  Unconsciously, I shift my gaze away from his dark, piercing stare. Faster than you’d think the old man could move, his hand whips out and catches my chin, yanking it until I look at him.

  “Face me like a man, lad. Never let yer opponent see weakness.”

  Opponent… what a joke. He’s my fucking father. He’s supposed to be on my side. He’s the only man on earth that can intimidate me. With everyone else, I’m fearless.

  Rule 2—Never let your emotions show.

  He stares for what feels like forever, searching my face for something. Looking in my eyes as if they hold the answers to all of his questions. I wait, not daring to move an inch. You never, ever flinch.

  He narrows his gaze. “Did you have a shag?”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. Did you get fucked?”

  I shake my head, hardly able to move with his thick fingers still squeezing my chin.

  “Did you have a wank?”

  “Dad! No!”

  Horrified, I try to pull my head out of his tight grip, but it only makes him clamp down harder. His normally light eyes are nearly black as he scowls.

  “You know the rules, aye?”

  “Yes.”

  Of course I know his bloody rules. They’ve been beaten into me since I was a kid.

  Rule 3—No fucking, shagging, wanking, sucking, or getting off for seven days leading up to a fight.