Cutter: A Fight or Flight Novel

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Prologue

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

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Epilogue

Dedication

Acknowledgments

About the Author

The Editor’s Corner

Excerpt from
Raven

P
RESENT

Across the table from me a reporter sits, gathering her thoughts before she drills me with the questions I’m sure she’ll ask. They’re the same questions they all ask.
When did I start fighting?…How do I feel tonight’s match went?…Who am I looking forward to getting in the cage with?…Do any other fighters intimidate me?…
It’s all redundant and I wish, for the love of everything holy, that just one reporter would come to me and ask a question worth answering. I’d even settle for one that you couldn’t Google the answer to.

“Are you ready to get started, Mr. Greer?” the woman asks, clicking open her pen and placing the tip of it near her pad of paper.
Christ, it’s going to take her forever to write down the answers. Why can’t she use a recorder like everyone else?

“Fire when ready.” With each interview I learn a little more about the process, and I’ve effectively mastered the art of distraction. I give the reporter my most charming grin and wave her on.

“There’s not much mention of you before you started your MMA career. Where were you before you wound up in the gym?” Fire she does. Instead of catching her off guard with my grin, I’m the one stuttering my response.

“W-what do you mean?”

“Precisely what I asked, Mr. Greer. Before Lexington, where’d you come from?”

My thoughts drift back to a place they haven’t been for some time now. Suddenly, visions of my stepdad and my mom wrestling over the last drop of whiskey, busted lips and black eyes along with a little bit of peeing blood for a few days after the most recent ass-beating, the verbal abuse that had the most lasting effect, and finally being left by the people who were supposed to love me more than anything.

“Ohio,” I stoically respond. “I’m originally from a little town outside Columbus.”

“Were you always interested in fighting?” She doesn’t waste a beat, moving on to her next question.

“I didn’t really think about it much until I was seventeen.”

Seventeen. Even though this question is more along the lines of what I’m used to answering, I can’t stop my train of thought. Fighting was the absolute last thing I wanted. It just happened to become my way of life.

“Hmmm, everything I could find on you said you didn’t enter your first formal match until you were twenty-one. Were you training all that time?”

“You could say that,” I mutter, my heart starting to race.

Being homeless at any age is terrifying, but at seventeen, it’s so much worse. Fighting was all I could do. I fought for every meal, every place to sleep, and any money I came across. Most of it was mental, but the others who lived in the campsites—they were the real animals. They’d kill you for your backpack if they thought you had something valuable inside. Fighting was how I survived. It’s how I made it out. How I found that good people in this world still existed.

“If you could offer your younger self a piece of advice, what would you say?” What the hell is it with this woman and her off-the-wall questions? This is what I get for wishing for something different. I make a mental note to never do that again. Hell, I might talk to my manager about finding someone else to handle the media for me.

“To my younger self? I’d have to say…‘Don’t worry, it gets a lot better.’ ” Now, if I could really go back in time and hear those words, I might not have gone through everything I did. But then again, there are no wrong choices, only forks in the road. One might take you longer, but eventually, you’ll reach the final destination you’re destined for.

“Thanks so much for the interview, Mr. Greer. It’s been a pleasure,” she says when she finishes jotting down my answers to the few routine questions she was able to get in. As she rises, I follow suit, stick out my hand for a shake, and hold the door open while she walks out of the locker room into the crowd gathering in the hallway.

Before the groupies start to line the hall, I decide to wait until I’m back at the hotel to change and shower. Texting my driver to be ready in five, I gather up my belongings, shrug into a sweatshirt, pull the hood over my head, and rush out of the locker room. As expected, my driver’s waiting right outside the back door and I waste no time hurling myself in the backseat as I see a flock of fans coming right toward me.

“Where to, Mr. Greer? Hotel?”

“Yes, please,” I answer Gavin, my driver. Technically, he’s supposed to be my bodyguard. Apparently, fighting outside of the cage can land me in some hot water. He’s there to handle issues so I don’t get in trouble, but he also drives me where I need to go.

I quickly shower, rinsing off the grime from the night, and throw on a pair of sweatpants. I plug my phone into the charger and flick on the TV. I debate purchasing a movie, but something about watching reruns of
Scrubs
reminds me of Josette and eases my spirits after an intense day. Things with her could have gone so differently. We could have really been something. I’ve met a lot of women over the years, had plenty of them throw themselves at me, and, sure, I’ve partaken in some fun, but not a single one can hold a candle to the first and only girl I ever loved. It could have all been so different.

Peeking around the corner of the building, I watch the man get in his truck. Craning my neck to look at the clock tower in the median, I see it’s the same time he left yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that. All three nights he didn’t return and nobody else came. Feeling a little glimmer of hope spring to life in the pit of my stomach, I wait a few more minutes before hoisting myself up on the rusty dumpster underneath a window. As the plastic lid of the dumpster dents with my weight, I put my hands on the wooden window frame and push upward as hard but delicately as I can. Squeaking and almost bucking me each step of the way, the window finally creaks open, inch by inch, until there’s just enough room for me to fit through. I rub my palms together, brace them on the cement sill, and take a deep breath. With all the upper body strength I can muster, I lift my lower half and inch off the dumpster, letting my sneakers claw against the brick face. The moment my belly hits the sill, I breathe again, a sigh of relief this time, and then carefully maneuver myself inside the building, making sure to close the window behind me.

My first stop once inside is to the restroom to relieve myself and wash up a little. I make sure the door is shut behind me before I dare switch on the light, as I don’t want to alert anyone to an intruder and have the cops show up asking questions. It’s bad enough I’m twenty years old, with no high school education and homeless…add in that I have a criminal record, and I’ll never get through this rough patch.

I finish my business, turn off the light, open the door, and walk straight into the barrel of a gun being held by the man I saw leave earlier.

“Stop right where you are, asshole,” he growls. I’ve already stopped, but I instinctively put my hands in the air to show I’m not a threat.

“I’m sorry. I’ll leave,” I whisper, wishing my voice would come out stronger.

“You’re fucking right you’re leaving. In the back of a cop car.”

“Sir, please. I’ll go. I didn’t take anything or break anything. Please don’t have me arrested. I’ll leave and you’ll never see me again. Please, just don’t call the cops.”

The man flicks on a light, never lowering the gun pointed at my head, and studies me before he speaks again. “Why are you here if you’re not stealing shit?” he asks, furrowing his brows in confusion.

“I just needed a place to sleep, sir. I was going to leave before anyone knew I was here. That’s all, I swear.”

“You’re nothing but a kid. Give me your address, I’ll take you home and tell your parents what you’re up to. They’re probably worried sick.” He finally lowers the gun and tucks it into the holster on his hip.

“Sir, I’m twenty years old. I ran away three years ago. My family didn’t miss me then, I’m sure they don’t miss me now. I’m also not sure where my mom lives.”

“Come on with me.” The man walks past me and toward the back door. Unsure why, I follow instead of running. He leads me to a staircase just outside and up to the top. When he opens the door, a fully furnished apartment awaits me. “This was my place. You can stay here for the night. We’ll figure out something more permanent in the morning.”

“Why are you helping me?” I stupidly ask. I should just take his kindness and roll with it, but after three years of being out there with the worst of the worst, it’s hard to take people at face value, especially strangers.

“I’ve got a feeling about you, kid. And I like to help. My wife says it’s my best and worst quality.” He gives me a brief tour of the place, shows me where some clean clothes are stashed and even a few groceries, mostly TV dinners in the freezer, and leaves me on my own.

“I’ve got a feeling about you, too,” I mutter to myself as I look around, finally able to feel some sort of peace after leaving home. This could be the fresh start I set out to find. This could be my good luck.

Pulling myself from the dreams of my past, I curse the reporter who started digging and opened a box I had buried in the back of my mind. There’s only one thing for me to do.

Grabbing my phone from the charger, I dial the man who helped me get my life together. The man I owe all of this to.

“Speak of the devil,” he says.

“I’m shocked you’re awake,” I joke, grinning as soon as he answers.

“Greg’s been sick, kept us up most of last night, so we slept all day. Now we can’t sleep again. Vicious cycle, kid. Saw the fight, though. Looks like I trained you well.”

“You did have great material to work with.”

“Yeah, I wouldn’t say all that,” Garrett laughs, and in the background, Rian yells to give her the phone.

“Thinking about coming home for a bit before my next fight. The apartment still available? Might be a nice place to lie low for a couple days.”

“Same way you left it, kid. Come on home.”

“See ya tomorrow.”

It’s been at least two years since I’ve been back to Lexington. I got picked up to fight professionally at the perfect time. Shit with Josette didn’t end too well and it was easier to stay away. I wanted to give her the time she needed to work through whatever demon she was wrestling and figured it would be best if she didn’t have to stare at my face the whole visit. Who am I kidding? There’s no way I could get over us not being an
us
anymore if I had to be around her all day. I’ve missed Garrett and Rian, though. They’ve been out to a few of my fights, stayed at the hotel with me, but it’s not the same as being back in my apartment. A trip home could do me some good, especially with all the thoughts of my past swirling around in my head. A break sounds fantastic right about now.

Before I change into my street clothes, I send a quick text to my manager:
Get me on the first flight to Lexington. One way. I’ll let you know when I’m coming back.