Trigger: An Alpha Bad Boy MMA Romance (2 page)

Chapter Four

Roxy

I could have found my way back to Walt’s old doublewide with my eyes closed.

In fact there were some nights, back when Travis and I had been dating, that I practically had.

But that afternoon, the sun was bright and the road was clear as I eased my dad’s old truck to a halt outside the long, low mobile home overlooking the gulf flats.

I cut the engine. The truck backfired loudly.

Turning in my seat, I looked across at Walt and his son, and growled, “You’re home. You want me to open the door for you, and take your bags?”

Walt grinned at that one, but Travis didn’t share his humor. The rangy young man hefted open the creaking door of my truck, and a moment later I heard his cowboy boots hit the asphalt.

“C’mon, dad,” he ordered, hoisting the door open wide. “Scooch on over here and I’ll help you down.”

“I don’t need your damn help, son,” Walt snapped, sliding over the torn and faded vinyl bench, and dropping down onto the asphalt. “I broke my hands – I’m not an invalid.”

But the way he winced as he slammed shut the truck door with one of his bandaged hands made me doubt that.

I shoved open the driver’s door, and slipped down onto the road myself. It was getting late, and the cicadas had started their chorus in the wide, open swampland on the opposite side of Walt’s trailer.

As Travis helped his dad around the front of the truck, I dug into the back pocket of my tight jeans, and pulled out a stick of Big Red. A moment later I was chewing – watching Travis help his dad down the path towards his trailer.

There was something kind of sweet about it – this towering, 6’ 4” MMA fighter, helping his old man down the path gently, but firmly. If I hadn’t been so goddamn mad at him, I might have even found it touching.

But the truth was, I couldn’t look at Travis without feeling something hot and angry bubbling up inside my belly.

Funny. If you’d asked me four years ago if I could have
ever
felt that way about Travis Oates, I’d have told you to fuck off.

This was
my
Travis we were talking about. My high school boyfriend. My first love. My first
something else
, if you catch my drift (and right in the bed of my dad’s old truck, if you can believe it.)

I could never be
mad
at him. Could I?

Well, clearly I could – because that had been
before
.

Before he and Dad had argued.

Before Travis had kicked me aside and walked out of my life like I was nothing.

I snarled, and spat my half-chewed gum into the grass.

That was
before
.

Travis opened the door for his father, and helped him inside. I stood there, and watched. I’m not sure why I didn’t just get back into the truck and drive off – but somehow, something inside me told me not to.

I almost regretted listening to that voice when the trailer door opened again, and Travis ducked back out through the doorway.

He was alone this time – striding down the pathway with that racehorse gait of his.

“Thank you.”

The words sounded uncertain, but sincere as he said them.

Travis stepped up to me – towering above me, as he always had. He looked down, and smiled that crooked smile that use to give me butterflies in my stomach.

“Thanks,” he repeated. “For comin’ to pick up Pops. For lookin’ out for him while I was gone.”

I narrowed my eyes.

“Well,
somebody
had to,” I growled back.

I wrapped my arms around my chest, and shivered despite the heat.

“So you
really
back home for two weeks now?” I asked. “Or is this just gonna wind up being another flyin’ visit? Just long enough so you don’t feel guilty about leavin’ your dad again?”

Travis physically recoiled as I said that.

“It ain’t like that,” he promised. “I just…” He blinked. “I just…”

But the words never came.

He just stood there, trying to find a justification for why he’d been gone so long. But we both knew he couldn’t.

I snorted.

“Well, I’m pleased
somebody’s
here to take care of Walt,” I growled, hefting the driver’s door open, and clambering behind the wheel of my dad’s old truck. “I’d tell you to take care of yourself while you’re at it, Travis.”

I shook my head.

“But why bother? That’s what you’re best at.”

Travis opened his mouth to speak, and I heard the words: “Wait, it’s not like that….”

But I cranked the old 305 V8, and the grumble of the big, twin exhausts drowned his excuses out.

I gave Travis one long, last look, and then knocked the truck into gear.

The last thing I saw of my ex-boyfriend was his face, shrinking in the rear view mirror.

Chapter Five

Travis

Damn.

Watching Roxy drive off was like a kick in the guts – and after years spent fighting in the MMA circuit, I sure knew what one of those feels like.

I thought I’d planned for every eventuality today. Missing my flight. Forgetting my passport. Not having enough cash for a taxi back from the hospital.

But one thing I hadn’t planned on was seeing
her
again.

And even if I had, I damn sure wouldn’t have planned on feeling
this
way about it.

Same old Roxy. Those big, blue eyes. Those thick, red lips. That way she had of looking right through you – cuttin’ through the bullshit like a laser.

In the years I’d been fighting in the MMA League, I’d shared my bed (or my trailer, or the couch) with more than my fair share of female fans, groupies and girlfriends.

But none of them made me feel like Roxy could.

And I wasn’t sure whether I loved her, or hated her for that.

I stood there and watched her old F-150 rumble off down the street, and I figured out what hurt so much.

It wasn’t seeing Roxy again. Hell, that part was good. Just looking at her felt as refreshing as an ice cold beer after a hard day outside.

No, it was the look of disappointment in her eyes.

The way she looked at me like I was
nothing
.

That fucking hurt. That hurt more than every hit I’d weathered during my whole fighting career – even the one that had KO’d me in my last fight.

To have a girl who was once your
everything
look at you like you’re
nothing
.

Damn, son. That stings.

“Yo, Travis!”

I didn’t have time to think about it. Pops was calling me from the trailer. I shook my head, and swallowed down thoughts of Roxy, and headed back down the path to the sound of the angry yelling.

*              *              *

“Son, I know this is about to get weird,” Walt shrugged, as I ducked my head and stepped into the old, familiar doublewide. “But I need to take a piss…”

He sat there at the kitchen alcove, and raised his bandaged hands.

“…and I’m gonna need your help.”

I stared at my old man for a second, and wondered if coming home from Brooklyn had been such a smart idea. Helping my old man take a leak was
not
what I’d envisioned when I’d climbed on board that Delta flight this morning.

But I did what I had to do – not an easy job, in a trailer bathroom – and a moment later my dad was groaning a sigh of relief as he filled the toilet bowl with a steaming stream.

“Jesus,” I washed my hands furiously in the little sink, “maybe I shoulda let Roxy stick around and look after you, instead.”

Walt snorted, as he stomped back into the kitchen and slumped into the breakfast nook again.

“Yeah, well if you’d done that, my stream might have gone in a different direction,
if you know what I mean
.”

I stared at my dad in disbelief.

“Christ, Pops. That’s my ex-girlfriend you’re talking about there.”

“Yeah,
ex
,” Walt nodded. He’d required me to help him take a piss, but was somehow managing to unscrew the top of the bottle of Johnny Walker on the table. “I hope all that ass you were gettin’ in New York was worth it, ‘cos you were a dumbass, lettin’ a girl like Roxy slip through your fingers.”

I snorted, slipping into the breakfast nook opposite my father.

“Yeah,” I admitted, as I reached over the grabbed the bottle of whiskey he was struggling with. “Maybe you’re right about that.”

I took a deep breath.

“But what she and I had was a long time ago – and unlike your damn hands, there are some things that can’t be mended.”

As I said that, I popped the top off the Johnny Walker, and reached for the two chipped glasses at the end of the table. I splashed a good two inches of Scotch in each, and pushed one across the Formica table towards my pop.

Sure enough, the man who didn’t have enough manual dexterity to unzip his pants, somehow managed to scoop up that glass of whiskey in both his bandaged hands.

“Cheers, son,” he nodded, lifting the glass to his lips. “Whatever the circumstances, it’s good to see you.”

And I gulped down a mouthful of searing alcohol, and wished I could believe that.

Chapter Six

Roxy

Dammit, why the fuck was I
crying
?

As I powered dad’s old truck down the Nolan Ryan Expressway, I found
tears
welling up in my goddamn eyes. Tears like I hadn’t cried for four goddamn years – not since dad died.

Fucking
Travis
.

I’d
never
expected seeing him to have this effect on me. It was like a slap to the face – all those memories, happy and sad, rushing back over me like a tidal wave.

I’d spent four years trying to swallow them the fuck down, and now I felt like I was choking.

I managed to keep my shit together long enough to reach my destination – and pulled in gratefully to the parking lot of a long, low building with ‘KARATE’ and ‘MARTIAL ARTS’ emblazoned on the side.

X-AMERICA Martial Arts
.

I coasted into a spot outside, cut the engine of the old truck, and sunk my head into my hands.

Fuck
.

It took three long, trembling breaths before I had my shit together again. Then I had to wipe my eyes, and check my reflection in the mirror, and convince myself that the moment I stepped out of this truck, it wouldn’t look like I’d been crying.

And I lied.

But I shoved open the creaking door of the old Ford anyway, and slipped onto the asphalt. A moment later I was shoving open the glass door of the old karate center, and breathing in a lungful of sweat, vinyl and stale air conditioning.

It smelled like home.

“Hey, Roxy! You’re back.”

Mopping the vinyl mats in the big, open studio of the gym was Joe Santos, the janitor.

Joe was a kindly old Native American man – in his seventies, at least, but still able to handle a bo staff as effectively as a mop. He’d been here as long as I had – a fixture of X-AMERICA as much as the peeling grey paint and the old Navy pictures hanging on the walls.

I sniffed, and wiped my eyes again – hoping Joe didn’t notice how red and puffy they were.

“You should get your ass home, Joe,” I snapped, as I headed to the reception desk. “You know we don’t have classes tonight.”

Joe leaned on the mop, his greying braids hanging down around his shoulders.

“Just because the place is empty doesn’t mean it should be
dirty
,” he chastised me. “Anyway. I wanted to hear how Walt was.”

Travis’ dad was well known in X-AMERICA. He and my dad had been old Navy buddies, serving on the U.S.S. America together during the 1980s.

There weren’t much of the old crew left – the guys my dad used to train in Brazilian Jiujitsu and Taekwondo back when he was still alive – but people still remembered old Walt.

“He busted up his hands pretty good,” I explained, as I slumped into the creaking chair behind the reception desk, and fired up the old computer. “But Travis is back to look after him.” I sniffed. “Walt’s not
my
problem anymore.”

I’d tried to sound nonchalant about dropping Travis’ name into the conversation, but Joe’s ears pricked up the moment I mentioned him.

“
Travis
is back in town?”

The old Indian limped up to the reception desk and thumped his elbows down on it.

“Did you see him?” Joe demanded.

I looked up at Joe’s wrinkled, kindly face.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” I told him – and I’d known Joe long enough for him to know I meant exactly what I’d just said. I
didn’t
want to talk about it.

But still he insisted.

“How is he? Did he miss you?”

“I said I don’t want to talk about it,” I growled, and slapped the side of the computer, willing it to boot up faster. “Now grab your shit and go, Joe. Peggy will be wondering where you are.”

Peggy was Joe’s long suffering wife – and even she was getting tired of him spending more time at the karate center than their bungalow on the north side of town.

“Fine, fine,” Joe reluctantly leaned the mop up against the wall, and pushed the bucket to the side. “But don’t stay too late,
Ohpitsa
. You’re too young and pretty to need beauty sleep.
Yet
. But you should still stock up on it while you can.”

I snorted at that, and grinned at the old man as he pulled on his leather jacket and headed to the door.

Joe gave me a wink as he left – and a moment later I heard his truck grumble into life, and I was finally left alone.

The computer had booted up by then, too – and it allowed me to check what I’d wanted to look at.

The books.

And I didn’t like what I saw.

Doing the books is something I’d been putting off for weeks now. It’s like that old saying – “when you’re too scared to look at your bank balance, you know it’s time to look at your bank balance.”

The books at X-AMERICA where kind of like that.

Membership was down. Classes were cancelled. Rent was due.

I looked at the number in red at the bottom of the ledger sheet and my stomach did a flip. A few more months like this, and my dad’s old karate school would be out of business.

I couldn’t believe it.

The chair creaked as I leaned back in it, and I turned to look around the old place.

The faded vinyl mats. The battleship grey walls. The punching bags and kicking stands, all lined up opposite the windows.

This place had been home to me as long as I could remember – more so even than the little house I’d grown up in, up north of town.

I’d come in the morning, with dad, and waited for the school bus here. I’d sat at this very desk to do my homework every night, as dad taught a kickboxing class, or self-defense. In fact, if you added up all the time I’d spent in this place growing up, it’d easily be more than I’d spent back at home.

And that was before dad had died, and this place
had
become my home. 

I’d been struggling to keep the school running for the last four years, all on my own. It was all I had left of dad. All I had going for me in life.

And now it looked like I was two months away from losing even that.

I sighed, and switched off the computer. Staring at the little red numbers on the screen wasn’t going to change them. All I could do was stick at it – and pray that I could figure something out to change the inevitable.

I thought for a minute about Travis – who was as much a memory of this place as even the time I’d spent here with dad.

Maybe he hadn’t been so dumb, bailing on this place. Walking out on me and pops, all those years ago. Maybe he’d seen the writing on the wall all the way back then.

I shook my head.

Maybe
. But that still didn’t make what he’d done easier to swallow.

Pushing up from the chair, I grabbed my bag from the edge of the desk and headed for the door. I’d have to be back here at 6am tomorrow – but I might as well head back home and catch some sleep while I still could.

I headed for the door – feeling empty as I turned the key in the lock, and left the place alone, and in darkness.