I'd like to think that in some way I've been helping Jude get his fighting career to where mine is today, or more like where it was a week ago. But for the first few years when he started training with me, that thought never crossed my mind while I was repeatedly beating the shit out of my younger brother. I'm not sure which is worse; being angry at him or feeling guilty for taking my jealousy out on him.
I can't say I'm real happy about the loss of income while this shit drags out, or the dent I just made in my bank account either. A huge chunk of my hard earned money flushed down the toilet all because some cage cunt decided it'd be fun to ruin my life.
Before my dad posted my bond and my feet even hit the ground, Mack Miller, the President of the IFC, the International Fighting Championship, had left me a voicemail saying that my contract with him at the largest and best MMA promotion company has been put on hold until the disposition of the case. When I talked to Coach Briggs on the way here, he told me that just like the IFC, all of my sponsors have dropped me until this nightmare ends.
I'm not worried about making ends meet, just pissed I'm throwing money away. As the reigning middleweight champion of the world for the past five years, between promotion purses and advertisers, my bank account sits comfortably with seven figures, even after this unexpected hit. I'm worried that I might not ever be able to get in the cage again, and I have to admit that the idea of ending up behind bars for the long haul is scary as fuck.
"Jackson, did Page get your statement?" the arrogant, white-haired attorney asks. I'm pretty sure the old man's scared of me. I'm an expert at reading people's fear in and out of the cage. He avoided eye contact with me, and ran out of the conference room like his ass was on fire. His daughter's got more balls than him. Even though she was practically shaking with nervousness being alone with me, she held her ground and didn't run scared.
I stand up when they approach and nod in response before taking a few steps toward the old man to test my theory. "Yeah, pretty much."
Retreating a step, Davenport says, "Don't worry about her inexperience or timidity. Ryan Warburton may technically be second chair in the courtroom, but he'll be running the show behind the scenes. He's got over a hundred trials under his belt. Page will just add a nice, feminine touch for media purposes."
Wow, so this pussy doesn't think his own daughter is capable of handling my case. He sounds like he just wants her to basically be arm candy for photo-ops. What a sexist prick. I might fuck more women than I can count, but I do know that just because someone has nice tits and a fine ass doesn't mean they can't do any job just as well as any man, maybe even better.
"Page already has some great ideas on how to go forward, and gave me a list of receipts and things to get her. She seems to really know her shit," I tell him. Why I feel defensive on her behalf, I have no fucking idea. Especially when my first thought seeing her was that she's just a snotty, spoiled, dumb blonde getting by on her daddy's coattails. I can occasionally admit when I'm wrong.
"Right. Well, I'm sure you need to get some rest after the hellish weekend you've had. Here's my card and Ryan's. Call either of us if you need anything." Davenport hands over two business cards, not bothering to offer me his daughter's, and then after a polite handshake, he's gone.
"So how do you feel about them?" my dad asks when we sit down in his Explorer in the parking garage.
"Davenport is an arrogant asshole who’s terrified of me, and his daughter thinks I'm a piece of shit rapist. But she seems like she's going to actually put in the effort."
"Don't worry about her. Miles assured me that Warburton is a top-notch defense attorney. As soon as he gets out of his murder trial in a few weeks he'll take over your case."
So Davenport had also convinced my dad that his daughter isn't capable of handling me. No wonder the girl comes across as such a frigid bitch if she has to deal with her own father's shit every day.
...
Page
I'm surprised the day after our first meeting when Jamie buzzes me around eleven a.m. to say Jackson Malone's up front and wants to see me. I tidy up my office so I can bring him in here and leave the door open instead of having to close us in a conference room together, then go to the lobby to get him.
"Mr. Malone?" I ask when I get to the waiting area. He rises from the chair with a bizarre masculine fluidity I've never witnessed before. Today he's dressed even more casually, in a pair of black nylon workout pants and a white tee stretched tight over his broad chest that say's Havoc in large bold letters, with Fight Club underneath. The "V" of the word Havoc is actually a detailed bird or griffin of some sort, and it looks like his wings are spread out and flexing like a man would flex his biceps. How cute.