Unraveled (Undisputed Book 2) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  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

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Unraveled

  Copyright © 2016 A.S. Teague

  All rights reserved. No part of this novel may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted without written permission from the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. If you would like to share this book with others please purchase a copy for each person. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people.

  Unraveled is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and occurrences are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, events, or locations is purely coincidental.

  Cover designed by Book Covers by Ashbee Designs

  Editing by Mickey Reed Editing

  Proofreading by Author Services by Julie Deaton

  Formatting by Uplifting Designs

  Dedication

  To my husband

  You are, and always will be, my favorite person, my soul matey, and the love of my life.

  I stare out the window, not focusing on anything. The sky’s gray, and a light drizzle’s been falling for the last few hours. I’ve always been superstitious, and today’s weather is a bad sign. This weather is exactly why I moved from Washington to Miami.

  I’m still staring at the rain, trying to shake the memories it had brought, when someone clears their throat behind me. Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath in through my nose and count to ten. Once I’ve slowly released the air from my lungs, I open my eyes and turn my body away from the depressing view to face the men sitting across the table.

  The man in the suit speaks. “Ryker. You know why we’ve called you in here today.”

  I shift my gaze in his direction. I blink at him once and lean forward in my seat before resting my muscular forearms on the large conference table. My stomach somersaults as I lace my fingers together, but I never take my eyes off him. When he begins to squirm under my penetrating gaze, I let the corners of my mouth tip up just enough for him to notice.

  “Actually, Mr. Brown, I haven’t the first clue as to why you dragged me from my bed and out in this nasty weather. Please, enlighten me.” I make sure the smirk remains on my face. My chest feels as though a two-hundred-pound weight is settled in the center of it, but I don’t let that show.

  The man to the left of the suit frowns at me, but I don’t break eye contact with the president of the fighting league.

  “Don’t play games with me. You know exactly why you’re here.” A scowl appears on his thin face, and it dawns on me that he looks just like the weasel he is.

  I have to give him credit. Even though he’s squirming under my stare, he never breaks eye contact. After another moment, I stop toying with him and lean back in my seat. I expel a breath in the hopes that it will ease the vise grip around my heart. Then I stretch a wide grin across my face. I raise my arms above my head, wiggling my fingers before placing them behind my head and trying to relax a bit.

  “Why don’t you go ahead and let me in on your little secret, Mr. Brown, so I can get the hell out of here and back to my bed.” I wink at him and reach for my glass of water. I take a small sip and hope that the water will soothe my parched tongue, but it does nothing to help.

  When my agent called this morning and told me that I needed to get down to headquarters as soon as possible, dread filled my belly. Being called in to talk with the president of the league just days before a fight is never a good thing. But I’m not going to give the asshole the satisfaction of knowing he is making me sweat. Fuck that.

  I glance out the window at the overcast sky. Every time I’ve received bad news in my life, the weather was like this. My stomach began to ache as soon as I hung up, and it has grown worse with each passing minute I’m forced to sit across from these two men.

  It’s the man beside Mr. Brown who speaks this time. “I’ll just get straight to the point then, Mr. Hawke.”

  I recognize him as the league’s resident physician. He’s always been a nice enough guy, but today, I have no doubt that I’ll leave here detesting him almost as much as I hate Brown.

  “Your drug test came back positive for performance-enhancing drugs.”

  Like I’ve been punched in the gut, the air rushes from my lungs. There’s no way in fuck I tested positive for anything, much less steroids. I gasp for breath and see the corner of Brown’s lip tip up. Refusing to give him the satisfaction of knowing he’s shocked me, I silently tell myself to buck up. Even though the fear magnifies, I don’t let it show.

  Blinking once, I respond, my voice strong and steady. “Not possible.”

  The doc glances down at the folder in his hands, and the lights gleam off his shiny bald head. He flips through a few pages before folding the page and holding it out to me. “See for yourself.”

  I look at his outstretched hand and shake my head. “Nah. Don’t think so.”

  He clears his throat and says, “Mr. Hawke, we had both samples tested––twice. It’s positive.”

  “There’s no way,” I growl.

  The doctor continues to hold the papers out to me, and finally, unable to resist any longer, I snatch them from his hands. The papers vibrate, and I realize that my hand is shaking.

  I quickly scan the document, but there’s no mistaking the bold letters that say Positive.

  My manager, Smitty, has been silent at my right the entire meeting, but with the news, he springs to his feet. “Test him again. Until then, we’re not listening to any more of this bullshit.” Rounding on me, he says, “Get your ass up, Ryk. We don’t have to take this.”

  “Oh, but you do,” Mr. Brown informs us, a sinister smile on his face. “You’re suspended. Effective immediately. Two years.”

  The moment his words register in my brain, my lungs deflate.

  Two years?

  That’s a death sentence for my career. My mind spins as I think about the implications of two years out of the octagon. The weight on my chest has doubled, and I can’t seem to get any oxygen into my lungs.

  Brown continues to smirk at me, and I realize he’s enjoying this. I knew that this jerk has had it out for me, but I had no idea how badly he wanted me out of the cage. Not one to show any weakness, I pull myself together in less than sixty seconds. Reaching deep inside, I find the willpower to match his smugness.

  “Fuck you, Brown,” Smitty barks beside me, jumping to his feet. “Two years is outrageous. No one’s ever been suspended for that long just for pissing hot. What kind of bullshit are you trying to pull here?” His round face is red, and spit flies from his mouth as he shouts. His hands are hanging at his side, his fists clenching and unclenching repeatedly.

  “Let’s not get worked up here, Smit,” Mr. Brown says, finally looking away from me. He holds one hand
in the air. “It’s an appropriate suspension given his position and stature in this organization. It wouldn’t look good for us to just give him a slap on the wrist, now, would it?” The motherfucker stares at me and lifts a shoulder, “I don’t know why he’s so upset with me, Ryk. It’s you who tested positive for the drugs, after all.”

  “You sonofa––” Smitty lunges across the table.

  I finally break out of my trance. Grabbing him by the arm, I pull him back.

  “Well, that’s gonna be a ten-thousand-dollar fine,” the president says, completely unaffected, his fingers steepled beneath his chin.

  I’ve heard enough. My heart is pounding nearly out of my chest, and my stomach twists, but I push the feeling of fear to the back of my mind and stand. “You know, Mr. Brown. I was needing a vacation anyway. I’ll be in touch.”

  Turning on my heel, I don’t spare another glance as I stride out of the conference room. I keep walking, ignoring Smitty until we get to my Chevelle.

  When I reach to open the door, he grabs my arm.

  “Ryker! What the fuck?”

  I shake his hand off my arm and grip the doorframe, unable to face him. I don’t have an explanation for what just happened, but I know how it looks. After a few tense moments, I finally look at him, and once I’ve released the door I turn toward him. The rain’s falling even harder now, and I’m completely soaked. Smitty’s wisps of gray hair are sticking to his forehead, and if it weren’t the worst day of my life, I’d laugh at the sight.

  “Tell me it’s not true. Tell me right now that that jackass is fuckin’ with ya,” he demands.

  “It’s not true, Smitty. I mean, the fucking test results sure looked legit, but I didn’t take shit,” I tell him honestly.

  I don’t know what the fuck just happened in there, but I know I’m not a cheater.

  His expression morphs from anger to shock and back again in the blink of an eye. “You’re fired, Ryker,” he barks at me.

  My heart skips a beat.

  Fired? For what?

  I want to argue, but he’s stomping away from me before I get the chance. Like a hot poker is sticking me in the gut, my stomach burns.

  We’ve worked together for years. How the fuck could he just walk away from me like that? I watch as he stalks away from me, never bothering to look back.

  Once he’s out of sight, I fold my large frame into my classic muscle car and then start the engine. The pleasure I usually get from hearing the car roar to life never comes, and while I sit in the parking lot, the realization of what’s just happened hits me. My shoulders slump, and I drop my head into my hands.

  This morning, when I woke up, I was on top of the world. The reigning light heavyweight champ. Highest-paid fighter in history. Loved and adored by millions of people worldwide. And, now, just a week before my first fight since my injury—the fight that was being billed as the best comeback in sports—I am out. Suspended for two years, which may as well be a lifetime ban at the age of thirty-four.

  After allowing myself to wallow for far longer than I should have, I sit up and square my shoulders. Blowing out a breath I didn’t even realize I was holding, I put the car in gear and pull out of the parking lot. I don’t bother looking in the rearview mirror. There’s nothing left for me back there anyway.

  Eighteen months later

  Leaning back in my office chair, I take a minute to admire my work, pleased with myself. A grin spreads across my face. It isn’t often that I have to take matters into my own hands, but when I do, I never disappoint. The bell above the door jingles as it’s opened, and I roll my eyes. I hate that fucking bell, but Brec insisted we put it up so I would know whenever someone came in. Something about needing to look professional. I glance up and see that it’s none other than the boss himself, so I ignore him and go back to patting myself on the back for a job well done.

  “Working hard, I see,” he grumbles, stopping in front of my desk.

  I proudly grin at him. “Yep. That only took me, like, half an hour!”

  “Jesus, Rebecca. You spent half an hour on the clock painting your fucking toenails.” He groans, scrubbing a hand down his face.

  My grin turns into a frown. “Uhm. How about, instead of bitching at me, you take a minute and look at what a good job I did. Seriously, Breccan. That looks like I paid fifty bucks at the spa!”

  He barely glances at my feet when he mutters, “Yeah, they look great. Can’t believe I pay you to paint your damn nails all day.”

  Rolling my eyes, I ask him, “Who’s your first client this morning?”

  His eyebrows draw together. “I don’t know.”

  “And your business lunch with that new featherweight—what time is that again?”

  He shrugs. “Again, I don’t know.”

  “And tell me one more time: Where’s the charity gala you’re speaking at tonight being held?” I arch an eyebrow while I wait for his response.

  “I don’t know. You haven’t told me yet.”

  “Exactly. You don’t know. And do you know why you don’t know?” I don’t bother waiting for him to answer. “Because you pay me to know.” I point a bright-red fingernail at my chest. “So don’t come in here bitching at me for painting my toenails or I’ll quit, and you’ll be fucked.”

  He scowls at me but concedes. “Okay, fine. Please, Rebecca the Great, tell me who the first person on my schedule is.”

  I give him a smug smile. “That’s more like it.” I open the calendar on my computer before rattling off the names of his first three clients and then waving him off.

  It may be true that Breccan pays me considerably more than he would any other secretary, but I have two things going for me. One, I keep his schedule running smoothly. Light heavyweight champion Breccan Carlisle tried to leave the world of mixed martial arts when he retired, but it didn’t take long for him to realize that fighting was in his blood. Instead of going back to competing, he approached my brother and his best friend, Tripp, about opening a gym together. Together, they had the money, the connections, and the reputation to start the gym. What they didn’t have was any idea of how to run a business. The first six months were a complete train wreck. Between scheduling errors and ineffective communication, it was a wonder they had anyone showing up each day. I didn’t have any actual experience running a business, but I did have an associate’s degree in business I was excited to finally put to use. And what I lacked in real-world experience, I made up for with people skills Breccan lacked.

  Since I took over, Breccan hasn’t missed a single appointment. They were lucky I was able to sweet-talk several clients into giving us another shot after that debacle.

  And, two, I kicked his ass in middle school, and he’s been afraid of me ever since. I can’t help but smile to myself when I think about how far we’ve come from that day in elementary school when I first met Breccan. I never would have guessed that jumping on those boys who were picking on my big brother would result in a lifelong friendship. I may not be able to physically take him anymore, but I have an ace up my sleeve—his wife has become my best friend.

  Grinning to myself at the number of times I’ve tattled on Brec to Sidney, I turn my attention back to my computer screen. It’s nearly the end of July and time to begin working on the calendar for next month.

  After I finish up with Brec’s schedule, I pull Tripp’s up. He doesn’t do any of the training, but meeting with prospective fighters and convincing them to join our camp is more than enough to keep his schedule packed. While he isn’t the muscle in the gym, he’s definitely the brains. Well, besides mine.

  Growing up, Breccan had always been the fighter, so naturally, it made sense that he would join a mixed martial arts league and be the undisputed champ for as many years as he had. But Tripp was always a lover, and in school, he was relentlessly picked on for being a wimp. Most girls with older brothers were being looked out for, but in our case, I was the one defending him. My mama nicknamed me Mighty Mouse the first time I came h
ome with a busted lip for kicking some kid’s ass after he’d messed with Tripp. The guys laughed but decided that it was an appropriate name and took to calling me that any chance they got. Once Breccan came along, though, the fights and teasing vanished virtually overnight. The nickname stuck––even though, by the time I reached tenth grade, I was five foot ten and the captain of the track and the volleyball teams. Everyone still called me Mouse most of the time, and even though I rolled my eyes every time, I secretly loved it.

  The phone rings, snapping me out of my memories, and I pick it up and put it to my ear.

  “Team Undisputed,” I greet.

  “Yes, may I speak with Rebecca Toler?” a snooty voice says on the other end.

  “You’ve got her,” I reply. I swear, if this is another damn telemarketer, I’m going to scream. I’ve been telling myself to stop putting the gym’s number down every time I fill out another online survey for a chance to win beachfront property, but I just don’t want them calling my personal cell phone. It’s backfiring though, because I am answering the damn phone every three minutes, it seems.

  “Miss Toler. This is Mandy Edens. I’m a real estate agent for Maxx Reality.” Her voice is nasally, and I wonder why anyone would hire her if it meant they have to listen to her talk.

  I settle in the chair behind my computer and bring my web browser up. “Oh, hi, Mandy. How can I help you?”

  “Miss Toler. I showed your condo today. I tried contacting your agent first, but she wasn’t available, and I felt this was something that could not wait.” Her voice becomes shrill.

  “Shit,” I mutter to myself. I completely forgot that my agent told me there would be a showing today. I rack my brain, trying to remember what the place looked like when I left this morning. I think I had laundry on the couch and dishes in the sink, but that isn’t too bad, right? I’m still trying to figure out what could be so important that she bypassed my agent and went straight to me.

  “Miss Toler––” she starts again before I interrupt.

  “It’s Rebecca,” I snap.