Dirty Fighter: A Bad Boy MMA Romance by Roxy Sinclaire, Natasha Tanner Read Free Book Online Page B

lot still.
    I didn’t want to get caught by cops, so I couldn’t use my ID. That kept me from getting a job most anywhere, and kept me from renting an apartment or even using most hotels. They’re strict on these things, but I didn’t mind it. I could survive outside in California.
    I was quick to realize just how many other people were like me, thrown out by a rough cycle. The concrete hot under our heels. California is that perfect mix of weather that makes it so much easier to live when you have nowhere else to go. It’s a state that likes to have the best in life, but it’s also coated with a homeless problem like no other. In summer it doesn’t burn your skin off so there’s no worry about heat stroke, and in winter—well there really isn’t a winter, it’s California.
    The only tough thing is how obvious the difference of wealth between people was. People would either be so poor that you’d see them picking out of trashcans any time of the day (you learn not to look), or they’d have enough money they probably wiped their ass with Benny Franklin’s face. It was best not to make eye contact with either of these kinds of people.
    I made myself stick to a routine to keep my mind off Brooklyn.
    Food was the worst of it. I had money for it, so that was fine, but I was never able to get more than I could carry or store in my locker. I blew through a lot of money quickly in the beginning just eating. I’d almost completely ruined all of the work I put into my body by living off fast food. There were healthy places to eat also, but they were expensive and usually didn’t have much in the means of protein. Healthy out there meant mostly vegetables and smoothies.
    Eventually I discovered an Asian fusion restaurant that grilled all of their meats and could give me any veg I needed. I know I shouldn’t complain, I was able to eat, but I needed to be able to eat food that would sustain the body I’d worked so hard to cultivate.
    I slept where I could for the first couple weeks, not having any one spot as my home base I jumped all over California. I slept in front of museums, on peoples’ covered porches, and in parks. People wouldn’t be so keen on kicking you off their porch because a lot of people would drop a shit on your porch the second you went back in if you pulled that shit. I never had trouble like that.
    I considered getting a job so I could get a place, but nothing suited me. Not to mention, most places won’t hire you if they find out you’re homeless. Finally, I figured out the best way to live when homeless.
    I found a gym that had enough of a discount with 24/7 hours.
    Endless showers, a locked place to keep what little stuff I had, a place to keep up my regimen of taking care of my body so that I didn’t have to focus on my mind. I didn’t want to know what happened to Brooklyn’s mother, I tried hard not to think about it, but I knew it was my fault. I knocked the asshole out, and then Brooklyn and I fled so her mom would be left with the mess.
    It was sloppy. I’d lost a lot of control in my life, so I controlled my body. I could make sure what I’d get out of it, what I could put into my workouts, it kept me comfortable. Every push-up pushed me toward who I wanted to be, away from who I knew I was.
    I didn’t always sleep in the gym; I actually tried to avoid it if I could so that they wouldn’t try to take away my membership. I’d sleep in shelters (although getting into those was hell), or I’d find a camp of other people like me and crash there. I avoided personal property, wanting to keep my head down and out of the eye of the law. My money stayed at the gym, and I always stayed within five miles of it. Sometimes people from the gym would offer me a place to crash for the night, but I didn’t wait for or ask for these nights.
    I felt like I was redeeming myself for who I was.
    I’d done enough shit in my life that living off nothing wasn’t even going to scratch the surface. I