Sam Hawken joins Paul Bishop, Mel Odom and the rest of the Fight Card stable of authors to bring you a hard-hitting novella about heart, determination and mixed martial arts. Writing under the house name, Jack Tunney, Rosie the Ripper may only be the beginning of Hawken’s Fight Card journey.
Sam Hawken delivers yet another hard-hitting story with Rosie the Ripper and it packs a hell of an emotional punch. A prose black belt who transitions from forms and genres with masterful ease. You need this writer in your corner.
— Gerard Brennan
Rosie Bratton is a recovering alcoholic. Divorced, working a dead end job, and with a young daughter she only sees on alternate weekends, her life is going nowhere. Her hopes hang on the outcome of a custody battle to regain primary custody of her daughter, and the vague possibility things might get better together.
When circumstances turn bleak, Rosie nearly retreats into the bottle, but her sponsor has a solution. Felix was once a mixed martial arts contender. Now, he’s turned his talent toward teaching his skills to others. If Rosie becomes his student, he hopes she can learn how to be a stronger, focused, better person.
Some people are born to fight – in the cage and out – and Rosie is one of them. When she’s given the moniker Rosie the Ripper, she becomes something more than she was before – and it may be enough to give her a fighting chance….
Rosie Bratton’s alarm sounded at four o’clock in the morning. Through the parted curtains at the living room window, predawn darkness settled across the city. A single streetlight cut a slash of orange across the floor, touching the corner of the couch where Rosie slept.
The entire apartment was cold because Rosie did not run the heat at night to save the electricity. In sleep shorts and an oversized shirt, she got up and gathered the sheets and blanket off the couch, folding them into squares and putting them on the end where her feet went.
She switched on the television and then went to the thermostat to goose the temperature up to sixty degrees. The flickering glow of the Weather Channel suffused the little living room as the screen reeled off the forecast for the day – freezing in the morning and only forty in the afternoon. Light rain was expected.
On the way to the bathroom, she paused a moment at the door to the apartment’s only bedroom. It was small, like the rest of the place, but it was organized with a girl’s dresser and a double bed made with a pink and white comforter. A One Direction poster took up space on one wall, while another was a collage of photographs and drawings done by a child’s hand. No one slept in that room this morning.
Rosie showered, washed her hair, and stood in front of the sink blowing it out with a dryer. She was brunette, and her summer tan had not quite faded into mid-autumn paleness. When she was done, she stood on the scale and the numbers read 155 pounds. She was soft in the middle. Not fat, but it could go that way if she wasn’t careful. Too many nights eating in front of the television. She had never been much for exercise; work had always been enough.
For more information on Rosie the Ripper, see the blog.