You are seeing it here first. 

Because we are loved on this Valentine’s  Day.

First chapter exclusive of the highly anticipated Unstoppable by Scott Hildreth. 

If you’ve read Undefeated, you’ve met Ripp. 

This.  This is Ripp’s story…






RIPP. “Michael, eat your potatoes, you’re pickin’,” my mother sighed as she pointed to my plate.

I haven’t taken shit from anyone since my first playground fight when I was twelve years old. From that day until today, no one has ever picked a fight with me. Ever. If someone has fought me it was because they were either getting paid or they were trying to see if they could take a shot at my undefeated record.

Taking shit from my mother is another thing all together.

“Mom, I’m eating them,” I said as I began take another bite of the grilled chicken she had served.

Mothers in general can be funny creatures – but mothers born and raised in Texas always look at their children as just that, their children. I am my mother’s child, but I am not childlike in my actions. By watching my mother, you’d think I was ten years old.

“Michael, you’re not eatin’ ‘em. Is there something wrong with ‘em?” she set her fork down beside her plate and poked her finger into the pile of potatoes that sat on the edge of my plate.

“Mom, what the fuck are you doing fingerin’ my food?” I widened my eyes, dropped my chicken bone onto the plate and shook my head.

“Talk like that to your mother again, and I’ll slap your ass out of that damned chair, Mike. Eat your taters,” my father growled from across the table.

“I’m gonna eat ‘em. I didn’t know we had fuckin’ time limit or a particular order we had to eat shit in. Damn, Pop,” as I turned to face my father, he raised his hand in a gesture as if he was going to slap me.

Truth be known, my father has never so much as spanked my butt as a kid. Growing up in this house was like something out of a feel-good movie. A perfect house, perfect parents, and growing up with the feeling only a true loving, caring family could provide. Both my parents were like comedic actors. Always being funny, making jokes, and never expressing anything but true love – in their own silly way. Coming here for Sunday dinner was like going to the damned circus.

“You put ‘em on your plate, you better damned well eat ‘em,” my father hissed as he pointed at my plate with his fork.

“Son of a bitch, Pop. I’m gonna eat some of ‘em. I ain’t looking to eat ‘em all. I’m trying to save a little room. I gotta exercise in a bit, and I don’t want to end up fat from eating a bunch of god damned potatoes,” I explained as I forked some of the sliced cucumbers on my plate.

“Shane’s gonna be fightin’ for the championship, and he ain’t worried about a few taters,” my father said as he nodded toward Shane’s plate.

“God damn it Pop, I ain’t Shane and I’ll eat my food as I please. Can everyone just quit fingering and poking around on my god damned plate and let me eat some meat?” I looked up from my fork full of cucumbers and turned toward Shane.

His plate was empty.

Fucking kiss ass.

Shane shrugged his shoulders and smiled. Ever since he got an opportunity at the Heavyweight Championship, my parents invited him every Sunday for dinner. My father always wanted me to go the distance and fight for a title fight, but I’ve never been that type of fighter. Under no circumstances did my father understand.  To me, it has never been about a title, a place in a book, or being on the news.

It’s about beating another man’s ass, and knowing you did so. I never needed a referee to tell me that I had won a fight. From just looking toward the other side of the ring – and seeing my opponent – everyone who witnessed my fights knew who won.

Long before it was ever announced.

“Dekk and I got shit we gotta do tonight, and I damned sure don’t need to be all bloated from eating potatoes. Mom, the food’s good as always, including the potatoes,” I nodded my head in my mother’s direction.

“The food was wonderful, Mrs. Ripton,” Shane said as he stood up from the table and carried his plate to the sink.

“Get your nose out of my mom’s ass, Dekk,” I laughed as I picked up another chicken breast from my plate.

“Michael!” my mother screeched.

“Damn it son,” my father complained.

“Well, he’s always kissing your asses. Great food, Mrs. Ripton, I like your truck, Mr. Ripton, Your hair looks great, Heather. I like your dress, Manda. It gets a little tough to listen to,” I laughed as I dropped the breast bone onto my plate and  licked my fingers.

“Where’s that girl you’re seein’ Shane?” my father asked as Shane rinsed his plate.

“She’s at home, sir. Ripp. I mean Mike and I have to go…” Shane looked over his shoulder and paused.

God damn it, Dekkar.

“Have to go where? For what?” my father turned to face me.

He looked toward Shane, and turned to face me again. As he scrunched his brow he attempted to gaze into my eyes. I looked toward Shane in disbelief and rolled my eyes.

“What? Have to what? What are you two heathens doing? Mike, are you going over to Rundberg again? Or over to the east side? Damnit it Mike, I’ve told you about that,” my father shook his head as he stood from the table.

I stood from my seat.

“Pop…” before I got started talking he interrupted me.

“Don’t Pop me, Mike. You’re going to get your ass handed to you one of these nights from some twenty year old kid wacked out on crack,” my father complained as he walked to the sink.

My mother looked back and forth at each of us as we stood; unaware of what was going on for certain. I suspect most mothers are, but my mother was exceptionally naïve to everything around her.

“Pop. You and I both know I don’t make any money to speak of by boxing. I do it because I am good at it. I can paint cars, but I fucking hate painting cars. Or. Well. You know what else I can do,” I explained as I followed him to the sink.

“And people don’t smoke crack anymore, do they Dekk?” I laughed.

“You know what I mean, Mike. You’re not twenty years old any longer,” my father dropped his plate into the sink and reached for my shoulder.

Immediately, and in an exaggerated fashion, I leaned back, grabbed my father’s wrist, and twisted his arm behind his back.

“Damn it, Mike. Turn me loose,” he demanded as I pressed his stomach into the counter top.

“Still lightning fast, old man,” I growled into his ear as I pushed my chest into his back.

“Let your father go, Mike,” my mother exhaled a half-whisper without looking up from her plate of food.

I laughed as I let go of my father’s arm.

“Pop, I’m thirty-one. You’re right. I ain’t twenty. But if my twenty year old self was here right now, I’d beat his ass. I’m bigger, meaner, and quicker than I ever been. I’ll be fine,” I raised both my clenched fists to my mouth and kissed them independently.

As I held my hands up at eye level, I flexed my biceps.

My father shook his head, trying to change the subject, “And where’s that girl you’re seein’, Mike?”

“Liv? I ain’t seein’ her, Pop. I’m screwing her,” I laughed as I patted Dekk on the shoulder.

“Michael…” my mother said softly as soon as I said screwing.

It has always amazed me that my mother can’t hear, as hard as I try to get her to. As soon as I talk about doing something with a girl, she can hear a mouse fart. Supersonic hearing when it comes to my sex life. Both my parents have maintained a level of concern about my lack of commitment regarding a relationship.

I do relationships.

Just not for very long.

“Mom, Pop, we got to get. Come on Dekk,” I slapped Dekk’s shoulder again and turned toward the garage.

“Mr. and Mrs. Ripton,” Shane nodded toward my father and leaned to kiss my mother’s cheek.

“Come on, Dekk. Damn,” I exhaled and shoved my hands into the pockets of my shorts.

“Mom, Pop. Thanks. We gotta get,” I patted my mother’s shoulder as I walked around the table.

“You ain’t driving that car to Rundberg are you?” my father asked.

“Pop. Just leave it alone. Dekk and I and that damned car will all be fine, huh Dekk?” I chuckled.

“Mr. Ripton,” Dekk nodded as he walked through the kitchen.

“Don’t fuck that car up,” my father squealed.

“It ain’t yours anymore, Pop. It’ll be fine,” I shook my head and walked toward the garage as Dekk following close behind me.

As we stepped into the garage, Shane walked around me toward the rear of the garage.

Watching Shane walk was something that took me time to get used to. I remember when we met, after our first fight. I had challenged him about his way of walking.

“That walk of yours is either going to get you into a hell of a lot of trouble or keep you out of it, I can’t decide which,” I had laughed.

“I call it the Compton swagger,” Shane chucked in reply.

“Living in Compton, you need to know how to fight or you need to act like you know how. I know I can fight, but I needed to try to keep people from challenging me. So, I developed this walk. A walk with an attitude. It’s habit now,” he explained.

“Well, it works,” I agreed.

And we’ve been best friends since.

“Son of a bitch Dekk. You know he hates me going to Rundberg, and you know he always worries about his old car. Jesus,” I complained jokingly.

“And you know I hate you fighting these fights,” Dekk said as he walked around the car.

“It’s all I know. I ain’t painting cars anymore for money, it kills my lungs,” I said over the top of the car as I opened the door.

I had purchased my car from my father – a red 1969 Chevelle SS he had driven when he was in high school. After he graduated, he restored the car to near perfect condition. I bought it from him when I was twenty years old. Eleven years later, the car was in perfect condition, red, and race-ready. I had removed the 396 cubic inch motor, and installed a Chevy 502 cubic inch motor. The four speed transmission kept the entertainment value up, and made it damned intimidating in a street race.

As I fired up the motor, Shane started to speak. I raised my hands and shook my head.

“You know I can’t hear you in this loud motherfucker while we’re in the garage,” I screamed as I pushed in the clutch and shifted the car into reverse.

I looked over my right shoulder and through the back glass. As I let out the clutch the car started to surge backward. The whumpity-whump of the cam in this motor made it impossible to drive at low rpm or speed. I pressed on the gas to keep the engine from dying, backing the car out of the garage and into the street.

I pressed the brakes, stopped the car, and made eye contact with Dekk as I rotated my head to look straight ahead.

I raised my eyebrows and smiled an evil grin.

I came to my parent’s house once a week at minimum. Sunday dinner at home was a tradition. Although I drove my truck during the week at times, I always drove the Chevelle to my parent’s house. Fifty percent of the time that I left, I left like I was in a drag race.

The two dozen sets of black marks in front of the house were a constant reminder to my father of the differences in how he drove this car, and how I drove it. I did it to torture him and remind him of the fact that this wasn’t his car anymore.

As I shifted it into first, Shane began to yell.

“Dude, not again. Your father is going to kill you. He’s already pissed about you fighting bare knuckles in Rundberg,” Shane half yelled as he shook his head comically from side-to-side.

As I pressed the gas pedal half way to the floor the sound from the exhaust was deafening. I pressed a little further, and Dekk’s hands came up to cover his ears. I pressed a little further. As the motor reached that sweet spot – the one that I used to launch this car from a dead stop – my cock started to get stiff.

I turned toward Dekk and smiled.

“I love this fucking car, Dekk,” I screamed.

“Don’t,” he yelled.

“Can I get a fuck yes?” I tilted my head back and looked up at the headliner as I screamed.

I rotated my head to the left and looked toward my parent’s house. As the exhaust bellowed from the back of the car, my father stared out the window of the living room into the street, his hands pressed into his hips.

This ain’t your car anymore, old man.

I slid my foot off of the clutch, mashed the gas pedal to the floor, launching the car from a dead stop like it had been hit from behind by a semi-truck. I glanced right. Dekk, pinned to his seat, tried to reach for the dash to stabilize himself.

The car slid sideways as I grabbed second gear. Half way through second the tires started to grip, pressing Shane further into his seat. A quick glance in the rearview mirror confirmed the entire block was filled with the smoke from my tires. Two one hundred foot long black marks in front of my parent’s house would remind my father for the next month that I’m a little wilder than he is.

Just a little.

I shifted into third gear and let off the gas. Shane lowered his hands into his lap and exhaled.

As I came to a stop at the intersection, I rotated my wrist and glanced at my G-Shock. Thirty minutes to make it to Rundberg. Ten minutes to spare if traffic is decent. I lifted my hands from the steering wheel and looked at the scars that littered my knuckles and smiled. One more wouldn’t even be noticed.

The $2500 I’d win from knocking this punk out would last me over a month, and knocking motherfuckers out is what I do.

“You alright bro?” Shane asked as he rubbed his hands together and looked down at his lap.

I thought of another bare knuckled match in Rundberg. The smell of the adrenaline, the sweat, my muscles becoming pumped, the blood, the screaming of the people betting on the match, and taking that $2500 when it was over.

Am I ready?

I gripped the steering wheel and nodded my head once.

Fuck yes.


Thank you Scott.  From the bottom of our little black hearts.

Go by and tell Scott how much you loved this chapter.

It’s sure to be as much as we did.

Be on the lookout for the Undefeated Blog Tour stops this week from February 15-23

And don’t miss Scott’s takeover at Snarky Bloggers from 4-6pm CST!


1 Comment (+add yours?)

  1. ReadingWritingandReviews
    Apr 18, 2014 @ 04:17:49

    @font-face{font-family:Calibri;panose-1:2 15 5 2 2 2 4 3 2 4;}What’s the word


We LOVE to hear from you! :-)

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: