Fighting for Flight by JB Salsbury (easy readers TXT) 📕

“Milena.” His firm tone gets my attention.

Back at my bedside, he holds the bundle of blankets and baby for me to take. Raven. My daughter. No. Not mine.

Don’t show him my weakness. Suffering in silence is torture. But he can’t touch what I don’t give him.

I wrap my arms tightly around my body, locking them in place. With the last pieces of my resolve, I shove the mother in me to the back corner of my soul and lock her there.

“Take her, darling.” His words carry a heavy warning.

I shake my head.

He stands straight and studies me with narrowed eyes. “Very well.” He turns and heads to the door. “I’ll give you a few hours to come to terms with this. In the meantime,” he looks at the rumpled bed and the floor, both riddled with the gore of childbirth, “clean this mess up.”

Then he’s gone, taking Raven with him.

I scan my surroundings, taking in the carnage: The product of the last twenty-four hours of labor; the bloodied result of an unsanitary home birth. Something deep down registers that mine are not the only horrors that haunt this room. I can almost hear the screams of the women who have been here before me.

My hand absently rubs my now soft belly. Once full of life and promise, and now, completely void. And through all this, I feel . . . nothing.

One

20 years later…

Jonah

Well, shit. I didn’t think the headache to fuck all headaches could possibly get worse. Between the strobe lights and the crappy music, my brain feels like it’s twenty-four hours off a three-day bender. The stench of stale beer, sweat, and perfume swirl in the air, topping off my list of cranial irritants.

And add to that the gang of silverback gorillas at the table behind me. They grunt and holler at the stage, likely beating their chests for attention. Amateurs. I turn and give the frat-boy pussies a look that has them all sitting with their mouths sealed shut.

My head is going to explode, and it’s putting me in a fucked-up mood. The only reason I agreed to come to the strip club was the hope that pounding a few beers might take the edge off the pile-driver in my head. So far, not so good.

With one long pull from the bottle, I check out the half-naked girl on stage in front of me. She’s a typical Vegas stripper: bleach blond hair, dark tanned skin, and huge fake tits. There’s an identical one for every slot machine on the strip.

“That chick’s been eyeball-fucking you all night.” Blake yells to be heard over the music. “You gonna hit that?”

I glare at my training partner. After all, it’s his dumb ass that talked me into coming here tonight.

“May as well.” Getting rid of this headache is my first priority. Since the booze isn’t helping, maybe some female intervention will. “But only if she’s off soon. I’ve got to get out of here. This place is killing my head.” I attempt to rub the pain away with my fingertips.

Blake raises an eyebrow along with one side of his mouth. “I better get going too. I need my beauty sleep if I’m going to keep kicking your ass.”

I give him the backside of my middle finger.

His knee connecting to my temple in training today is what got me in this brain-thumping predicament. I make a mental note to pay him back with a solid ball shot next time we’re in the octagon.

“Right. You kicked my ass.” I tilt my head, indicating his fresh black eye and bloodied lip.

Maybe I should feel worse about flipping the switch on him as I did. But he of all people should know better. He’s seen what happens when I let the monster out. If I get hit hard enough, my brain goes into protection mode. I go feral. I can’t help it.

I’ve learned to control it during training, for the most part. But Blake’s knee hit hard out of nowhere and set me off. Luckily, I was able to rein it in before I really hurt the bastard.

“Hey, sexy,” a seductive voice purrs in my ear.

Feminine hands run from my biceps, down my chest, and still on my abdomen. I turn to see the blond stripper from the stage resting her chin on my shoulder, biting on her cherry-red bottom lip. She slides her hands back up, skirting around to my front. Her long, naked legs straddle my thighs and she leans in close, placing her assets at eye level.

“I think I know you.” Her hips undulate in front of me to the beat of the music.

I yawn. “Is that right? And where is it you think you know me from?”

I study her face, trying to pull up something familiar from my memory and coming up empty. There’s no way I’ve had sex with her before. I would have remembered. And if I had, that would have a direct effect on how this night will end. I do not hit the same honey pot twice.

She allows her weight to drop so that she’s sitting straddled on my lap. I feel the familiar stir of arousal as my body responds to the heat and friction, but nothing else. I know her type. They’re all the same: fake—from their practiced, ditzy voices to their ass implants. These women are good for one thing, and she seems more than ready to go. Perfect.

“I’ve seen you on all the billboards.”

My eyes roll to the ceiling then squeeze shut at the throbbing in my still-aching head. I don’t have time for small talk. “You want to get out of here?”

Her face lights up and her eyes sparkle. “Sure.”

What a surprise.

“Can we go to your place?” She’s practically bouncing with excitement.

I can almost see the dollar signs flash in her eyes, she’s so transparent. This chick is all about status, the money, and the right to brag that she bagged a fighter. She’s looking to snag someone with cash that