Fighting for Forever

  Also by J.B. Salsbury

  Fighting for Flight

  Fighting to Forgive

  Fighting to Forget

  Fighting the Fall

  A Father’s Fight

  FIGHTING FOR FOREVER

  J.B. SALSBURY

  Fighting for Forever

  JB Salsbury

  Copyright © 2015 JB Salsbury

  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.

  All rights reserved. This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Edited by Theresa Wegand

  Cover by Amanda Simpson of Pixel Mischief Design

  To every girl whose been judged unfairly. No one can truly understand your struggle until they walk a day in your shoes.

  “For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.”

  --The Holy Bible, Jeremiah 29:11

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-one

  Thirty-two

  Thirty-three

  Thirty-four

  Thirty-five

  Thirty-six

  Thirty-seven

  Thirty-eight

  Thirty-nine

  Forty

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Fighting for Forever Playlist

  About the Author

  Prologue

  Four years ago . . .

  It’s cold. Way colder than I thought it’d be. Even as my bare legs quake and I shove my hands into the pockets of my shorts, I’m shocked at how it’s possible to be so cold and yet sweat simultaneously.

  Lana would hate this. She despises the cold.

  Reality washes over me in a sickening wave, intensified by the stagnant smell of death mixed with the pungent stench of formaldehyde. Lana can’t feel the cold. Not anymore.

  “Miss Langley.” The chill of the coroner’s voice is absent of emotion. Sterile, just like the room. “Are you sure you don’t want to wait for your parents.”

  “No. They . . . they aren’t coming.” Her body has already been identified through dental records. There’s really no reason for me to even be here, other than the fact that I just have to see my sister to believe she’s truly gone.

  “The remains are”—he fumbles with a set of keys in his coat pocket—“disturbing. I just want to make sure you’re fully aware of what you’re about to witness.”

  The remains?

  “Her, not the. My sister is a her.” A twinge of anger boils behind my chest as I glare at the middle-aged man. His hair is short with only a few hints of silver that give away his age. His slim stature and thick glasses combined with the formal way he speaks would classify him as a nerd. A dead-body-studying nerd. “I’m aware.”

  He nods. “Very well, follow me.” He directs me down a short corridor to a private room that is intended for family viewings. Motioning to the door, he studies me when I don’t move through it. “I’m happy to stay, or I can leave you if you’d like.”

  I nod, staring blankly at the wood panel that separates me from Lana. Not Lana, but her corpse.

  He clears his throat. “Miss Langley—”

  “I’m good,” I whisper. “I’d like to be with her alone.”

  He stalls for a few seconds before walking away, the only sound the squeaking of his shoes against the linoleum, which plays second to the pulse in my ears.

  I lift my hand to the door and watch in eerie slow motion, as if my arm isn’t an extension of my body. Deliberately, inch by inch, I push into the room. A stark white sheet draped over a table reveals the telltale lumps of her body. First her feet then the dip of her legs, belly, chest, and finally the contours of her face all shrouded in white.

  I’m stuck. My hand braces the door open, but I’m unable to move. Images of the last time I saw her flicker through my mind. She was headed back to campus after having dinner at the house. It was chaos as dinners usually are, and she was smiling. It was rare, but she was smiling. Dad walked her to her car and prayed for her safety as he always did.

  He prayed for her safety.

  I pinch closed my eyes and shake off the fury that wants so badly to be released to the surface. That was the last anyone ever saw of her.

  She never made it back to the dorms. Her roommate assumed she’d stayed at home for the weekend. We’d assumed she was too busy studying to call. It wasn’t until almost forty-eight hours later that we got the phone call.

  Her car had been found.

  Abandoned.

  Along with her body.

  Her body, so warm and full of life when she left, now lies still in a cold room, alone.

  I force my feet to move and they carry me in. I fight the urge to squint against the bright light that bounces off the bleached surroundings. My legs lock up just before my belly hits the table.

  “Svetlana?” My voice shakes; nerves and emotion have me rattled. “It’s me.” My eyes tear up, and my heart lodges in my throat when she doesn’t reply.

  Even though I know she’s gone, I’m so desperate to hear her voice just one more time that I close my eyes and try to conjure it from memory. Yet nothing comes.

  I blink open my eyes and scrutinize her form. I step closer. Her face. Even under the sheet, something’s different. Off somehow. My hand hovers just above her chest, and I flex my fingers, taking in the lack of warmth. She’s really gone.

  Why? A single tear escapes my eye, followed quickly by another. Why would a God so full of love and grace take the only real blood connection I have?

  Other than the three years between us, we were almost identical: same eyes, hair, similar features. We’d always said we were meant to be twins.

  I can’t even glance in the mirror without seeing her, and now I’ll never see her again. This will be the last time before her body is committed to the ground and . . . A sob rips from my throat.

  “We’ve been inseparable. How will I live without you now?” Slowly, I lower my hand to her chest as tears stream down my cheeks to drip off my jaw. “Moya sestra. Moye serdtse.”

  Hovering, I move my hand up to the sheet at the end of the table. My fingers shake as I grip the hem. Pulling it back, my knuckles brush against something soft, and I register immediately it’s her silken hair. The dark blond locks she always wore long used to play gracefully against her light skin.

  Suddenly desperate to see it, itching to touch it again and be remin
ded of how it felt against my cheek when we’d hug, I yank down the sheet.

  The visual hits me in the chest. I stumble back, fall to my bottom, and scramble away, kicking with my feet. My heart races as my mind tries to process.

  That’s not Lana. It can’t be her.

  My breath saws in—out—in—out. Pulse pounding, I peer up at her, but dart my eyes away.

  Oh God, no . . . please . . . what did they do to her?

  Slowly, I crawl onto my knees and push to standing on wobbly legs. Unable to take more than a few seconds at a time, I allow my gaze to fall on the gory resemblance of my sister.

  What used to be thick and beautifully arched eyebrows are replaced with deep gashes that’ve been stitched together. Her once high cheekbones are gaunt and sliced through on both sides, as if there was an attempt to remove her lower jaw completely. Peeling the sheet off her body, I see more of the same. She’s sliced up everywhere. Her chest, arms, belly, leg . . . There isn’t a single space that hasn’t been marked.

  Monster. Whoever did this is evil.

  What did they put her through? How many of these cuts were made before she passed out from the sheer agony of it? Did she scream for help that never came and wondered why, calling out to God for rescue?

  My tears dry. Sadness is replaced by a rage I’ve never felt before—a crazed desire to return this kind of pain, to act out the vile and torturous treatment on the one responsible for inflicting this on her.

  A war wages within my soul, the struggle between what is right, what is holy and honorable, and what is wrong but brings relief.

  Revenge.

  Vindication.

  Whoever did this to her needs to pay a penalty that the law can’t deliver. He deserves to take every slice just as she did. I will ensure that happens.

  For Lana, I will become the monster. Even if it costs me my very soul.

  One

  Present day . . .

  Mason

  It’s like being in the damn Twilight Zone.

  The dance floor is crowded with fighters, who are big enough on their own, and watching them all crammed on the dance floor twirling their women around is a sight I wouldn’t believe if I weren’t sitting here watching it. They spin their girls under their arms, wear big goofy grins, and dip them like they’re Fred-freakin’-Astaire and Ginger Rogers.

  I’m almost embarrassed for them, but there’s something about the expressions they’ve been wearing all night that assures me I’m missing something. I mean here I am at the singles’ tables, throwing back bourbon while they dance to Celine Dion or some shit as if they’re the only couples in existence.

  Weddings are lame. Blake and Layla’s was better than most, only because they both insisted on a live band, and that band being Ataxia, the music fucking rocked. But the party’s winding down and a DJ took over. Judging by the mushy stares the guys are giving their girls, I’m guessing it won’t be long before they all disappear behind their individual closed doors.

  I groan and throw back the last of my drink as the party song to kill all wedding receptions blares through the speakers. I swear on my grandfather’s grave, if my boys start dancing to “YMCA,” I’m out of here.

  Wade drops down into an empty seat next to mine, pulling his giggling date to his lap. “Mase, man . . . you’ve been warming that chair all night.”

  I don’t look at him, but I see him follow my gaze out of the corner of my eye.

  Shit. I’ve been caught staring. Again.

  I drop my chin and force my eyes to the bride and groom, who are locked in a slow dance even while the Village People croon their noxious song.

  Wade drops a quick kiss on his date’s shoulder. “Babe, why don’t you grab your coat?” He gives her a shove off his lap before leaning into my line of sight. “Baywatch, you need to let her go. She’s happy with Cam, and I know you want her to be happy . . . right?” He lifts an eyebrow, daring me to contradict him.

  Do I want Eve to be happy? Of course. Would I rather she be happy with me? Fuck yeah.

  I shrug, and feeling suddenly suffocated, I pull at the neck of my dress shirt and tie only to realize they’re hanging open and loose. My throat is dry, and I force myself to swallow. “I’m happy for them, really. No hard feelings.”

  Such a line of bullshit, but it’s the one I’ve been feeding everyone since Eve chose Cameron over me. Every time I think I’ve moved on, that I’m over it, I end up being forced into the same room with them and realize I’m not.

  After Eve took over for Layla while she’s on maternity leave, I see her at the Training Center every damn day—her and Cam with their hands all over each other—and the anger of rejection burns like a bitch.

  I seek them out accidently, as if the thought of them naturally brought my eyes around, only to find them whispering against each other’s lips on the dance floor and looking all the cheesy romantic couple that they are.

  When did I become such a cynic? I was the guy who loved love, wanted to share my time with just one girl, unlike every other guy I know. I was looking for the one, and I’d thought I found her at fifteen. I was wrong.

  What going away to college introduced me to, life as a UFL fighter in Vegas slammed home: Women don’t like nice guys. When given a choice, they’ll always choose dudes that treat them like shit and give them something to fix.

  My stomach plummets as Eve brings her hand up to Cam’s jaw and leans forward to brush her lips against his. He grips her ass and pulls her close, and the jealous rage that’s always hovering close to the surface flares.

  The asshole and the ice queen. They deserve each other, and if I didn’t still care so much for Eve, I’d congratulate them on their relationship with a big-ass grin and move the hell on. But I can’t control the pull I have toward the woman, can’t just turn off my feelings.

  That should be me with her. My hands on her ass. My tongue in her mouth. My heart in her hands. I growl at my own pussy-ass thoughts.

  Fuck ’em. Fuck ’em both.

  God, I can’t help myself from being such a dick. I suppose I owe Cam and Eve a hearty thank you. They’ve turned me into an asshole, every girl’s wet dream.

  “I’m out.” I push up from my chair and grab my suit coat, and I’m ready to burn off some of this shit cartwheeling through my head.

  Wade studies me in a way that makes my skin crawl. He’s well aware that I’m full of shit, and he’s calling my bluff. “You takin’ off?” He stands and crosses his arms over his chest, his head tilts slightly, and I can’t help feeling like he’s reading my mind.

  “Yeah, my brother’s in town with some friends.” Why they’re in town I have no idea, but something tells me it’s not vacation. A sour taste floods my mouth at the thought of facing The Brotherhood; although, avoiding them isn’t an option either.

  “You’re not driving, are you?”

  I almost roll my eyes at Wade, who’s apparently been nominated to play Baywatch’s babysitter tonight, not that I’m surprised. All the guys have been keeping a close eye on me lately, covering for me when I fuck up, making sure I don’t end up shit-canned by the UFL or arrested for acting like a jackass.

  “Nah, I’ll grab a cab.” I pull on my jacket, patting all my pockets in a quick check for my phone and wallet. “It’s just down the strip.”

  He opens his mouth to say something but slams it shut just as his date struts up and tucks into his side with her coat and purse. “Don’t forget about tomorrow. You’re up on rotation. Cameron will have your ass if you don’t show.”

  “What’re you? My secretary?” I inwardly groan because I had actually forgotten about tomorrow.

  Wade reads me and nods. “You have to be there by nine a.m.”

  For the past few months, Cameron has been having fighters donate a few hours every Sunday to The Community Youth Center for Sports and Rec. Jonah found fighting through a similar program and claims it saved his life, Cameron thinks it’ll do us some good to play Good Samaritan, and after all
the mud the UFL has had to scrape off, a little positive publicity doesn’t hurt.

  “Got it.” I fish my phone out from my pocket to quickly set an alarm reminder. Last thing I need is to get into more trouble with our fearless leader. “Tell Blake and Layla good-bye for me, will ya? I don’t want to interrupt.”

  “Sure thing.”

  Tossing Wade a chin lift, I move through the crowded ballroom with my head down, reading text messages to avoid having to draw out my departure with a ton of good-byes.

  I shove out into the large corridor of The Four Seasons and, as the door shuts behind me, take my first full breath. The muffled music and murmured voices fade away as I make haste to the lobby.

  I click open a text from Birdman.

  Caesars. Nobu Sake Suite. Don’t be a bitch. Come hang with your bros.

  One more came in three hours after the first.

  Drake’s asking for you. Hurry up.

  Another came in ten minutes ago, this one from my brother Drake.

  I’m hiiigh as hell. Get your ass over here.

  Shit, that’s exactly what I was afraid of.

  Fifteen minutes later I’m tossing some cash to the cab driver outside Caesars Palace. I move from the taxi and through the glass doors into the casino where I’m hit with the sensory overload that comes along with Vegas casinos: the pinging and trilling music of the slot machines, the occasional cloud of pungent cigarette smoke, and then the subdued high-rollers section, tense with concentration, sanctioned off to the side.

  I follow the signs that point me to the Nobu Hotel inside Caesars until I find the check-in and elevators. My damn dress shoes echo against the marble flooring, and I regret not dropping by my pad for a change of clothes before coming. I pull out my phone to text Birdman and ask for a floor and room number.

  I notice a sign indicating the restrooms and figure while I’m waiting for the return text I’ll take a leak. As I move around the elevator bank, my phone pings in my hand.

  Tenth floor #1098

  Something slams into my shoulder.