Werewolf Love Story Part One (Entwined Book 1)

By: H.T. Night

Entwined Series #1

Chapter One

Practice was a bitch. Mo, my trainer, kicked my ass. These five-hour practices would have to stop once I was champion. That was a long way off, considering that I only had one professional fight behind me. I knocked out the poor guy in less than a minute; I had a long road ahead of me until I got to the top.

I’m a mixed martial arts fighter in the state of California. I was a collegiate wrestling champion for Arizona State, and after college, there wasn’t much I could do when my only skill was wrestling other guys on a cold, hard mat. So, I went into mixed martial arts training and got quickly addicted to the sport. So much so that I decided to make it my career.

Practice was rough tonight because I was still nursing a pretty serious hangover from the New Year’s Eve party, the night before. I hardly ever drink, but there are certain events in the year that qualify as drinking nights, and New Year’s Eve is one of them.

The year was 2006, and I had just turned 22 years old. College was a breeze for me; I zipped through my four years and got a degree in Theater Arts. Yes, that’s right, I said it; I’m a mixed martial arts fighter who also has a Theater Arts degree. I took every kind of class when I was at Arizona State and I found that my acting classes were the most fun. And, I’m all about fun.

But tonight wasn’t about mixed martial arts or theater. Tonight was about unwinding at my favorite dive bar. I wasn’t sure if I was going to drink, considering I drank half the tequila in Mexico last night, but I still had some party left in me and I needed to feed the beast.

My muscles hardly got sore anymore unless I took a pounding in the gym. Tonight, I took such a pounding. I had recently installed a huge Jacuzzi-style bathtub in my apartment. So, I figured I’d check out the ambiance of the bar and maybe have a tiny, little drink. Then I go home and soak my overworked muscles and joints against the bubbling jets of my Jacuzzi.

I was so hung over and exhausted that I wanted to go to a bar where I knew I would have zero chance of getting into a fight. I have to admit, I love to fight and my specialty is putting douchebags in their place: on the ground, face down. I’m not talking about the clueless guy who is socially inept and tends to stick his foot in his mouth repeatedly at a bar when it comes to talking to women. I’m talking about the meathead, the abrupt bully who is always trying to physically cut you down to build himself up. I didn’t pummel douchebags for talking crap, I pummeled them in physical self-defense. I’m a walking target for douchebags, because I look like a challenge, I’m about six feet, two inches tall, and have a thick physique. I have an exceptionally small waist in comparison to my shoulders, which gives me a nice ‘V shape’ as the ladies often mentioned. My looks have been compared to a younger Hugh Jackman with more of a rugged edge. I have to admit, I love the ladies, and they seem to love themselves some Tommy. Guys, on the other hand, especially guys in packs, seem not to be so Tommy-friendly. I usually kept to myself because frankly, I could fight every night of the week, if necessary. It was as natural to me as breathing.

So, my dive bar of choice is a place called Shiners, because everyone knows my name and respects my contribution to society. I did see the irony in the name of the dive bar and it was like an “in” joke, every time I walked in past the sign and patted it, for luck. My goal for my contribution to society, in Shiners and elsewhere, was to make sure that all of my women knew that they were delicate, beautiful creatures—I did all I could to make sure each one was satisfied. Line them up! I liked all women, big and small, black or white. They are all God’s creatures and if the night is right, the lucky chosen one would make a run to my hot tub with me, and walk out with her knees quivering and a smile on her face. But don’t misunderstand my intentions, I’m not sexist or a pig. I love and adore women and I’m a gentleman to the utmost degree. But, I am usually on the prowl, and the cuter, my prey, the more I raise my game. My game is simple. I’m the bad boy. Sometimes quiet, sometimes outgoing, but never the braggart. I usually just give tidbits about myself and allow their imaginations to infer the rest. My technique seemed to be working for me. I rarely lacked for female company, but had no steady girlfriend. I had never felt like I needed or wanted one.

I pulled my black Mustang into the Shiners parking lot. The bar is about two miles from my gym. I worked out in Anaheim Hills at a gym that specializes in mixed martial arts training. The parking lot was unusually empty for a Thursday night, but then again, it was New Year’s Day; most people were already in bed after a long day of watching football and pigging out on Christmas leftovers and beer. I didn’t have the luxury of eating like a pig since I had to keep my weight around 175 pounds. And beer was pretty much forbidden for fighters. It was said that beer put on weight faster than any food.

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