Trigger: An Alpha Bad Boy MMA Romance (3 page)

Chapter Seven

Travis

The chirping of the birds outside woke me up.

I groaned, and shifted my weight on the narrow couch – feeling every tendon in my neck and shoulders crack like guitar strings.

As I struggled to sit up, I realized out of all the things I hadn’t missed about this old place, the couch was definitely top of the list.

This little doublewide in
Handy Villas Trailer Park
was the only home I’d known growing up, and this couch in the living room had been my bed for the first twenty years of my life.

That hadn’t been ideal, since I’d topped six feet before my sixteenth birthday, and the damned couch just seemed to get smaller and smaller every day that followed.

I yawned, running my hands through my hair. My mouth was dry, and still tasted of last night’s whiskey. I’d stayed up with pop until late in the night, sipping the old Johnny Walker and talking about nothing until the moon was high in the sky; and I think both of us were going to be feeling the effects of that this morning.

I glanced at the old clock on the wall, and saw that it was a little past six in the morning. I was still on New York time, so that made sense. This was when I’d normally be dragging my ass out of bed to head to the gym in Brighton Beach – pounding on my buddy Nikolai’s door as I stumbled down the hallway.

Of course, there wasn’t any gym down here in Freeport. Not one that I was welcome at any more, anyway. But I knew I needed to get the blood pumping, just to get rid of the taste of whiskey from my mouth, so I hauled my ass off the couch and reached for my suitcase.

Sneakers. Shorts. My old Exporters t-shirt – with the B-port high school logo on the front. I pulled those on and staggered out of the trailer, and a moment later I was loping down the road like a racehorse trying to find its stride.

Don’t get me wrong –
Handy Villas Trailer Park
is never going to find its way into
Homes & Garden
magazine. But as I started jogging that morning, I couldn’t help but admire the rugged beauty of the place.

This old trailer park was located a half mile from Bryan Beach Park, and all that separated it from the churning Gulf of Mexico was a stretch of reeds and swampland.

As early as it was, the birds were out in deafening chorus that morning, and the cicadas had already started strumming. The sun was bright in the sky, but it was still too early for that oppressive Texas heat and humidity to come rolling in yet.

It was perfect weather to run in – and I got up to a good pace as I jogged a lazy mile around the trailer park, and then hit Country Road 750 for a spell.

By the time I came loping back to dad’s doublewide, my heart was thumping, my skin was clammy with sweat and the taste of Johnny Walker in my mouth was nothing but a memory.

The old trailer rocked as I hauled myself inside, and I peeled my t-shirt and shorts off for a quick shower. Then I pulled on my Levis, and wrenched open the fridge door to find some breakfast.

No luck.

All my dad had in there was a six pack of
Schlitz
, a stick of butter and a single, limp stalk of celery.

No wonder he was still a rangy son of a bitch.

I slammed shut the fridge door and scanned the kitchen. Hanging up by the door was what I was looking for – the keys to dad’s truck. There was a grocery store up on Pine Street, and I still had enough cash in my wallet to fill up a brown paper bag or too.

A moment later I’d pulled on my cowboy boots and a fresh t-shirt, and I was back out in the sun again – walking around to the side of the trailer, where dad’s old truck was parked.

His 1984 Chevy S-10 was just where he always left it – the paint fading and the chrome peeling, but still a good looking truck after all these years. I climbed behind the wheel, gunned the old V6, and a moment later I was rumbling down the highway feeling like a teenager again.

Freeport Grocery was a mile or so away – a tiny convenience store no bigger than a Brooklyn bodega. It had what I needed, though – coffee, milk, eggs and bacon. I picked up a newspaper too, and a pack of Big Red chewing gum as I was standing at the register.

That last one had been an instinctual purchase. Back when I was a kid, I’d always pick up a pack when I was at the store, because I knew Roxy loved the stuff. The rubbery smell of cinnamon was enough to make me think of her instantly, and I kind of felt naked being back in Freeport without a pack in my pocket.

Ten minutes later, I was back at
Handy Villas
, and lighting up the stove. Coffee was bubbling, and the smell of sizzling bacon filled the trailer.

That was enough to wake dad.

The door the bedroom rattled, and my old man staggered out, rubbing his eyes with his bandaged hands.

“Good Lord, son,” he growled, looking at me standing at the stove with a frying pan. “Where’d you get all that?”

I spooned scrambled eggs and bacon onto a plate, and put it on the table at the breakfast nook.

“I went out shoppin’,” I explained. “You didn’t have a damn thing in the fridge.”

“Yeah, well, I need to get to the grocery store,” Dad grumbled, as he slid onto the bench and stared hungrily at the plate of food sitting in front of him. “Now, you gonna help me eat this, or what?”

It felt weird, sliding into the booth opposite my father, and cutting up his food with a knife and fork. Like we’d switched roles, or something. As I stabbed a lump of eggs and a swathe of bacon, and lifted them to his mouth, I felt like I was feeding a baby or something.

Foulest-mouthed, worst-smelling baby I’d ever met, but
still
.

“Son, you didn’t need to do that,” Dad nodded at the grocery bags on the counter, as he chewed. “I’d have gone shopping eventually.” He snorted. “I just hadn’t been expecting company, is all.”

I rolled my eyes.

“What’s your typical breakfast, then? A
Schlitz
smoothie and a stick of celery?”

He snorted.

“Don’t forget the stick of gum as I’m driving to work,” he joked. “Even after all these years, I’m still finding packets of Big Red secreted ‘round this place like a damned scavenger hunt.”

I shut dad up by shoving another fork full of bacon and eggs into his mouth.

“Listen,” I told him, as he chewed. “You told me you busted your hands when the hood of your truck fell on ‘em.”

Dad paused chewing as I said that, and narrowed his eyes.

“Well, I took the truck for a drive this morning,” I continued, “and the hood’s just fine. Shit, it’s about the only thing on that old beater that still works.”

Swallowing his mouthful, Dad growled: “Did I say
my
truck? I meant one of the trucks at work.” He shrugged. “It’s not important now, is it?”

I offered him another forkful of food, and watched him silently as he ate it.

My dad knew I wasn’t a damned fool. We both knew full well that there was more to his ‘accident’ than he was telling me. But Walter J. Oates is a stubborn son of a bitch if he’s anything, and I had no doubt he wasn’t going to tell me anything even
near
the truth until he was good and ready.

“So what are you gonna do?” I asked, as I served him the last fork full of food. “You called work? They know you’re out?”

He lifted his bandaged hands.

“They classified us all as ‘contractors’ last year,” he growled. “That means no workers comp or disability.” He shrugged. “Guess I’m just going to have to keep my expenses lean for a couple of weeks, until I’m ready to go back.”

Dad worked at an oil refinery, a couple of miles down the coast. It had hard, heavy work each and every day – and while the doctors had said he’d have that cast and those bandages off in two or three weeks, I could hardly imagine him getting back to work that quickly.

Dad narrowed his eyes. Sometimes it was like he could read my damned mind.

“I’ll be
fine
,” he growled, answering my unasked question. “You don’t need to worry about me, son. I’ve been through worse.”

And that much was true. In fact, if
anything
was true of Walter J. Oates, it was that life had thrown him more than his fair share of curveballs.

A discharge from the navy at 25. His wife – my mom – dying of cancer when I was just eight. Then fifteen years raising a kid all by himself, while struggling to make a living in the oil business.

Those wrinkles around my dad’s eyes? Those grey hairs, outnumbering the black? He’d earned every damned one of them.

“So, right back at you, son,” dad fired back, as I was lost in thought. “What are
you
gonna do, now you’re back?” He snorted. “Don’t you have a big fight to train for, or something?”

I practically winced when he said that.

“Actually, I’m between fights right now,” I told him, pushing a lump of egg around my plate with my fork. “Nothing’s lined up for the moment – but I’m sure it’ll happen.”

Actually, I wasn’t so sure. That was the whole reason I was back in Freeport. I’d just taken two hard losses in the MMA League – first, against my best friend and training partner, Nikolai Bukov, and then against newcomer ‘Bruiser’ Broderick.

Those two loses at put me right at the bottom of the league – and, as MMA League CEO Dan Blanc had warned me last time we’d spoken, “I don’t know how long we can keep you even there.”

There weren’t any new challengers on the horizon. I was too lean and rangy to drop a weight class. As far as my fight career went, there was a very real possibility that I was washed up at 27 – nowhere left to go but join the ranks of the could-have-made-its.

“Something’ll turn up,” my dad offered a rare moment of solidarity. “You’re an Oates, Travis – and if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that there’s never any shortage of men trying to kick our asses out there.”

I snorted. If only.

“Well, listen,” Dad pushed his empty plate away. “While you’re here, you might as well make yourself useful. I’ve got all your old weights and shit, under a tarp out back. Set ‘em up and keep yourself busy.” He snorted dryly. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s to always keep yourself in fightin’ shape – ‘cos you never know when you’re gonna have to go toe-to-toe with some motherfucker.”

It was good advice – and, as I slid out from the breakfast nook, and scooped up the dirty plates, I realized that hefting some iron and working out might be the perfect way to keep myself sane around here.

Chapter Eight

Roxy

My dad had always told me, “Roxy. If something’s trouble, you’re better off just leavin’ it the hell alone.”

That went for hornet’s nests, stray dogs and the Middle East – that last one especially, as it where he’d lost his big toe - serving his last deployment in the Navy, during Desert Storm.

I’d never had anything like that to deal with; but the advice was still good – which is why I was kicking myself, as I powered the old truck across the water to Quintara, and the
Handy Villas Trailer Park
.

Travis Oates was trouble – the kind you definitely should just leave the hell alone.

But I couldn’t.

Which was why, on the passenger side of the big, bench seat of my truck, were three foil-wrapped cheeseburgers and fries.

They were fresh from the Jetty Shack, and smelling up the whole cab. My stomach rumbled as I smelled the fresh-grilled beef and the scent of hickory smoked bacon. They were just the way I remembered Walt and Travis liking them, and as good an excuse as any to see them both again.

The truck rumbled over the cattle grate of the old trailer park, and I powered down to Walt’s doublewide. As I pulled to a halt in front, I saw both Oates boys out in the back yard, rooting through piles of junk buried under an old tarp.

I honked the horn, and wrenched open the creaking door. Travis and Walt looked up at the noise, and I saw Walt’s face break into a grin as he recognized me.

“Well, hello, girl,” the old man swaggered out from the back of the trailer, and waved a bandaged hand. “Why brings you out here?” He snorted, and jerked his thumb towards Travis. “Not that I ain’t happy to see you, but I’ve got this jackass lookin’ after me now.”

I reached into the truck and pulled out the foil-wrapped burgers. I could see Walt’s eyes light up as the saw them.

“I figured you boys might be hungry,” I purposefully ignored Travis as I strode down the path. “And I figured it’d been a while since you’d had anything from the Jetty Shack.”

Walt licked his lips as I laid the foil packages out on the picnic table, and started to unwrap them.

That’s finally when I turned and looked at Travis – as the tall, handsome fighter came striding around from the back of the trailer.

Fuck.

I couldn’t help it. Just the sight of him hit me like a punch to the solar plexus. He was so tall, and tanned, with his long, muscled arms bulging out the sleeves of his too-tight t-shirt.

But Travis looked right through me as I stood there. I guess seeing each other again didn’t hit him the same way it nailed me – and that hurt.

Shit, the only time his eyes
did
light up was when he recognized the shape of those foil packages on the picnic table – and I realized how ridiculous it was when I felt a surge of jealousy; wishing he’d look at me the same way he looked at those goddamned burgers.

“Are those what I think they are?” Travis licked his lips.

“Jetty Deluxe, bloody as hell, with extra bacon,” I handed him one of the foil packages. “Got extra fries, too. I figured you boys would be hungry.”

And the way Travis snatched the burger out of my hands, and tore off a third of it with his teeth, demonstrated that he was.

As Travis chewed, I helped unwrap Walt’s burger, and held it out for him to take a grateful chomp.

“Hot damn,” Walt groaned, as he chewed. “That’s a little chunk of heaven right there.” He turned to Travis, and thumped his son in the ribs with his elbow. “You got any fancy burger places up in New York that measure up?”

Travis wiped a spot of ketchup from the side of his mouth, and grinned.

“We’ve got our share,” he shot back. “There’s a place called Tea & Burger I go to with my buddy Nico. You should see the size of the damn burgers there!”

But then he tore off another chunk of Jetty Deluxe, and closed his eyes with a moan.

“’Though, I ain’t gonna lie. I’ve missed this.”

The orgasmic look on Travis’ handsome face made me smile, and I felt almost proud watching him devour the rest of the burger. With the way things were going at the karate school, I couldn’t really afford to be buying people lunch – but it felt good seeing how much Walt and Travis were appreciating it.

“So what are you boys up to?” I asked, as I unwrapped my own burger and took a chomp. “You lookin’ for possums back there?”

I pointed to the old tarp, covering up a load of old junk amidst the overgrown grass and reeds.

“Rocky here was tryin’ to dig out his old exercise equipment,” Walt snorted. “Though most of it’s rusted to shit by now.”

Travis picked up a rusted dumbbell, and performed a curl. I’m not going to lie – I felt a throb between my legs as I watched his tanned bicep bulge beneath the sleeve of his t-shirt.

“Rusted or not, it still weighs the same,” Travis snorted. “This’ll be good enough ‘til I get home to Brooklyn.”

Then he pointed to a chewed up punching bag, lying half under the tarp.

“Pity I can’t say the same about
that
.”

Something had gnawed the leather open, and rags and shreds were tumbling out of it like entrails. I’d joked about possums earlier – but it was pretty clear some of the little critters had got to the old
Everlast
bag – and I wouldn’t have been surprised if they’d had babies in it, or something.

“I need a rabies shot just lookin’ at that thing,” Walt joked, as I held up his burger and he took another bite. “You can throw that in the damn trash.”

Travis didn’t say anything, but he nodded… and that made me open my damn mouth.

“I’ve got an old
Wavemaster
punching stand you can borrow,” I fired out, before I’d even thought about it. “I mean, enrollment’s down. Classes are small. It’s not like I’d miss it for a week or two.”

Shit. What did I just say?

It was true enough I had a dozen
Wavemaster
punching stands lined up against the wall of X-AMERICA, but why the hell was I volunteering to let
Travis
borrow one?

“You sure?”

And, worst of all, he looked at me seriously – like he was going to take me up on the offer.

“Uh, sure,” I gulped. “I guess.”

Walt reached over and nudged me in the arm with his bandaged hand.

“Thanks, kid,” he grinned. “I promise we won’t let the possums get to it.”

I rolled my eyes at that, and grabbed a fistful of fries.