Trigger: An Alpha Bad Boy MMA Romance (23 page)

Chapter Sixty One

Roxy

Dan Blanc was
not
impressed.

“Shit,” the president of the MMA League growled, as he paced around the conference room. “I do
not
have time for this.”

We were sitting in a makeshift interrogation room, still in the heart of the O2 Arena – and that was scant consolation to the powerful businessman.

“I’m meant to be out in a press conference
right now
,” he growled, as Inspector Phelps, Constable Decker and a contingent of other policeman assembled in the chairs around him. “We’ve got television interviews after that – and the after party,
man
.”

“Mr. Blanc,” Inspector Phelps held up his hand. “I know this is… inconvenient. But in case you hadn’t noticed, we’ve uncovered some serious accusations of corruption – all going on
right
under your nose.”

And that’s when Dan Blanc turned to us.

I was sitting there with Travis, James, Toni and Taffy. We felt like naughty schoolkids in the principal’s office. In fact, with two black eyes and a busted lip, Travis even looked like he’d just been pulled from a schoolyard bust up.

“Yeah!” Dan pointed an accusing finger at us. “Why don’t we talk about that!” He narrowed his eyes. “You know that Frank Slater was rigging fights and you
didn’t think to fucking tell me
?”

“Boss,” it was James MacDonald, holding up a hand defensively. “We
couldn’t
.”

And Dan seemed to accept that, at least.

“Look, Mr. Blanc,” Phelps explained. “We’ve arrested Frank Slater,
and
his son,
and
numerous acquaintances of his. We’re still collecting evidence, but it looks like these accusations of corruption, racketeering and assault go deep.”

“But if it’s any consolation,” Constable Decker added, “so far there’s no indication of wrongdoing on your part – or on the part of the MMA League.”

“And Mr. Oates and Mr. MacDonald here,” Phelps gestured Travis and James, “have a long acquaintance with your league, and support that assumption.”

“I should fucking hope so!” Dan’s eyebrows hoisted.

“So, look – we know you’re busy,” Phelps was shuffling his papers together, “but we will need you to help us with our enquiries over the course of the next few days.”

“And when the time comes,” Decker added. “We might even need you to testify against Frank Slater.”

Dan Blanc raised himself up to his full height. With his broad shoulders and square jaw, he looked pretty damned intimidating.

“I’ve been with the MMA League since the beginning,” he growled. “I helped build this sport up from a sideshow attraction to one of the biggest combat sports in the world.”

He jabbed an accusing finger at Inspector Phelps.

“If that bastard Frank Slater threatened the sport’s reputation, you better
count
on me nailing his limey ass to the wall.”

And then, realizing how many ‘limeys’ there were in the room, he added: “No offense.”

“None taken,” Phelps pushed his chair back, and the policemen stood up. “We’ll be in touch.”

And then they left – filtering out of the conference room, handing Dan their business cards and contact details as they left.

A few moments later it was just us in there – James, Taffy, Travis and I.

Dan Blanc kicked the door shut, and wheeled around to face us.

“What the
FUCK
!” he yelled.

It was James who stood up and took the hit for us.

“Dan,” he pleaded – on first name terms with the president. “We didn’t have any choice. He kidnapped Toni. He kidnapped Roxy.” The Scotsman held out his hands. “We had to take care of them before anything.”

And that seemed to soften Dan’s features.

“I
guess
,” he conceded grimly. “And I’m pleased you did. But
fuck
, man. Rigging fights? Putting guys in hospital?” He shook his head. “Jack’s going to have my balls for this.”

‘Jack’ referred to Jack Ranger – a former fighter, who now headed up media and relations for the MMA League.

That was where I came in.

“Mr. Blanc,” I offered quietly. “Maybe this isn’t so bad. I mean, what did that old British guy Oscar Wilde say? ‘There’s no such thing as bad publicity?’”

Dan turned to me, and from his expression I didn’t think he was impressed with the comment.

“Just think about it,” I shrugged. “When news of this gets out, the MMA League in London is all they’re going to be talking about for weeks.”

Dan Blanc stood there and stared at me for long, lingering moments. For a second there, I was worried he was about to open his mouth and scream at me…

…but instead, he snorted.

“Ha! Maybe you’ve got a point there.” He shook his head. “Shit, even when old ‘Baller’ Alexander got suspended, our viewing figures actually went up. With any luck, this’ll be like sweeps week.”

And with that, the tension in the room faded somewhat.

Dan put his hands on his hips, and addressed us sternly.

“So here’s the plan – and if any of you deviate from it as much as an inch, I’ll shit-can the whole fucking lot of you…”

We all sat in stunned silence for a moment – not doubting for a second that this powerful man could or would do exactly that.

“…firstly, none of you say a fucking thing to the press unless it goes through me, or Jack Ranger, first. Understood?”

We all nodded obediently.

“Secondly – James, you’re stuck with me in London until this thing gets sorted out.” He growled at MacDonald: “You’re the closest thing I have to a native here, so you’re my eyes and ears until this thing’s just a memory; dig?”

James MacDonald nodded, indicating that he did, indeed, ‘dig’ that order.

“And finally,
you two
…”

Dan Blanc turned to me and Travis.

“First off,
Travis
.” He narrowed his eyes. “You’re back in the league, brother. Talk to Charlie – I want you back in that octagon as quick as I can, to keep the momentum going.”

Travis’ eyes widened as he heard this.

‘Charlie’ referred to Charlie Lubbock, a retired fighter and the third of the senior executives of the MMA League. He was responsible for scheduling the grueling fight roster.

Dan had said it matter-of-factly – but this was a huge deal. Before London, Travis had been washed up. He’d been coming off the back of two straight losses, and nobody in the MMA League was returning his phone calls.

Now, they were clamoring to get him back in the octagon.

“…and that leads me to
you
, Roxy Rocktansky.”

I froze in my seat, as the head of the MMA League turned to address me.

“Now, I don’t know what the deal was, you flying here as Travis’ ‘trainer.’” He used the word ‘trainer’ as if it was a cuss. “I don’t know if you were making a statement, or making a joke, or poor old Travis just couldn’t get anybody else on short notice…”

Fuck! Talk about a slap to the ego. I felt rage building in my stomach as I listened to Dan Blanc disparage what I did.

“…but the press fucking
love
it.”

I blinked.
What
?

“Combat sports has a big, macho image,” Dan continued. “So the press love the angle of a
female
trainer for a
male
fighter.” He grinned: “Blowing apart gender stereotypes is what Jezebel called it, online.” Shaking his head, he admitted: “Not a bad endorsement, considering we still have girls in bikinis announcing what round it is.”

I laughed nervously.

“So, you’re
in
,” he jabbed his finger at me. “After Travis won like that, I don’t care if you’re a chick
or
a dude; you’re
one hell of a trainer
. So
keep that shit up
.”

My cheeks hurt from smiling.

“Only, we might split you up,” Dan admitted. “Look, as good as you two are together – we can’t have a fighter bangin’ his trainer. That’s just weird.”

Travis and I sat there, our eyes widening.

“Oh, c’mon. Don’t make like we didn’t notice.”

I squirmed in my seat as he said that – or, at least, I did until Travis reached over, and grabbed my hand, and squeezed it very clearly, openly, and tightly.

Dan saw the gesture of affection, and grinned.

“Hey – you two make a cute couple. But I’ll find another fighter for Roxy to train, okay? Let’s not make things weird.”

And I laughed when I heard that.

After all this craziness – kidnapping, extortion, and high-stakes fights – the fact that Travis and I were
openly
a couple was perhaps the least weird thing of all.

Chapter Sixty Two

Travis

It took three extra days to get home to Texas – and we’d had to pull some major strings for even that.

Inspector Phelps and Scotland Yard had kept us in locked interrogation rooms for days. I was mad as hell, to be honest – I’d end up spending a week in London, and I hadn’t seen the Tower of London, St. Paul’s Cathedral or had fish & chips
once
.

But as the days dragged on, so did my deadline back in the states – the day I’d promised to pay Red back.

So I called up Dan Blanc, and he
promised
the British cops I’d cooperate – and then finally we were okayed for a last minute, coach class flight back to Houston.

Man, I can’t tell you how could it felt to touch down back in Texas. As the British Airways flight finally approached the runway, I peered out of the window at those wide expanses of green and yellow, and knew that no place would ever feel like home the way the Lone Star State did.

A stamp on our passports and a ‘welcome home’ from passport control and we were
back
– stumbling out into Arrivals like we’d been gone ten years, not just a few wild, crazy days.

And that’s when the first of the surprises hit us.

We dragged our suitcases out into the Arrivals bay expecting to find ourselves a bus back to Freeport. Instead, there was an entourage waiting for us – four burly dudes in black suits, and a man in a cowboy hat holding up a sign that read ‘Trigger.’

Red Callahan.

“Surprise, motherfucker!” The bearded crook yelled, as he spotted us. It was embarrassing – a couple of moms had to cover their kid’s ears, and everybody glanced to see who this foul-mouthed cowboy was waiting for.

But as we nervously approached, Red was nothing but smiles.

He swaggered on over to us, hand outstretched.

“Well, as I live and breathe,” Red grinned, mirroring the very first words he’d ever said to me. “It’s Travis ‘Trigger’ Oates.”

I straightened up and ignored the hand he offered me – narrowing my eyes suspiciously.

If Red was offended, he didn’t seem to show it.

“Hey, I’m here as a friend,
mi amigo
,” the redhead purred. “Word on the grapevine was that you were flyin’ in, and I reckon a champion like you needed a more…
salubrious
transportation home than a Greyhound bus.”

Well, that was true enough.

“So pass my boys your bags, and follow me. We’ve got a
lot
to talk about.”

And while I wasn’t sure a two-hour car ride with Red Callahan sounded exactly appealing, one thing was for sure.

It
did
beat the Greyhound bus.

So I reached down and grabbed Roxy’s hand – and together, we followed Red and his bouncers out into the warm, arid, Texas sunshine.

*              *              *

Well, one thing was certain – this sure did beat a Greyhound.

Red Callahan had hooked up not one, but two Cadillac Escalades to drive us back home. Our luggage sat with the bouncers in the second one, and up front Roxy and I sat with Red, his driver, and a cooler full of liquor.

“Here,” Red hoisted a dripping bottle of wine from the cooler. “It’s MacPherson sparkling wine.” He popped the top, and poured the fizzing liquid into a trio of plastic cups. “It’s like that fancy French stuff – only made right here in Texas.”

Truth be told? I’d probably have preferred an ice-cold Corona – but I accepted the overflowing glass, and swigged down a mouthful gratefully.

And I’ve never been much of a wine guy – but this stuff was good enough.

“So,” Roxy demanded, “why the warm welcome? We were expecting you to be waitin’ for us to turn up with an envelope full of cash.”

Red leaned back in his seat and snorted.

“Actually, it’s the other way around.”

And from his pants, he pulled a grubby bank envelope brimming with hundreds.

I accepted it suspiciously, and counted out the money.

Nearly two thousand dollars, in assorted notes.

“What the hell?”

Red saw my confused expression.

“That’s your winnings,” he told me, grinning wildly. “Minus what you owed me, of course.
And
what your dad owed me.” He shrugged. “So it ain’t all it could be – but, still. Two grand ain’t nothin’ to sneeze at, right?”

And that’s when Roxy reached over and snatched the envelope right from my hand.

“No,” she grinned, “it certainly isn’t. In fact, this’ll do
nicely
as my fee for training you.”

And as I watched her stuff the cash into her handbag, I didn’t know whether I should be angry, or upset about it.

But, as it turned out, I was neither.

I was impressed.

*              *              *

Two hours later – spent awkwardly shooting the shit with the loud-mouthed, boasting Red – we rolled into the parking lot of X-AMERICA.

As Roxy pressed her nose against the glass of the Cadillac Escalade, I saw her face fall as she spotted the school she’d called home since before she could walk.

“Jesus,” she breathed. “I… I…”

But she left the rest of that sentence unsaid.

I looked at her, worried – but for the moment, something else demanded my attention.

“So, Trigger,” Red barked, as the driver pulled the car to a halt. “You like that two grand? You want more?” He snorted dryly. “I heard about them picking you up for the MMA League again. If you ever fancied making an…
agreement
… Well, I’m sure we could make it a very
profitable
one.”

I stared across the car at Red, and for a moment imagined curling my fingers around that thick neck of his.

But I shook my head.

Unlike earlier – when the threat of my dad’s safety hung over my head – he wasn’t
demanding
anything. He was just
asking
.

And I felt no shame in giving him my honest reply.

“
No fucking way
.”

Red snorted.

“Well, son. I’m disappointed. But not
too
disappointed.”

He offered his hand, and this time I was less reluctant about shaking it.

“Truth be told, if you’re too stuck up to let me buy you off… Then I can’t imagine anybody else will either.” He grinned crookedly. “Look at me – I’ve found the only honest man in sports.”

I shook my head, laughing softly.

“It’s been real, Red,” I admitted. “Now goodbye – and, no offense – I don’t hope to see you again.”

If Red was offended by that, he didn’t show it.

He just waved me off, as Roxy and I were left in the parking lot of X-AMERICA.