Trigger: An Alpha Bad Boy MMA Romance (4 page)

Chapter Nine

Travis

I was planning to be back in Texas for three weeks or so. Maybe a lot less, depending on how much of a pain in the ass my old man continued to be.

That meant, on my list of priorities, getting my hands a punching bag was
way
down on the list.

And yet, when Roxy had volunteered to lend me a spare
Wavemaster
, I hadn’t hesitated – and I was kicking myself for it.

But I couldn’t help myself. It was something instinctual. I saw an opportunity to force us together for just a few more moments – and I took it.

And that’s how, ten minutes later, I found myself sitting in the passenger seat of Roxy’s truck, as she headed off across the water back to Freeport.

Damn, it was awkward. I leaned against the passenger door, staring out of the window – leaving as much room across the old bench seat between us as I could.

“Hey, I really appreciate this, Roxy,” I told her, pleased she was staring at the road ahead, and I wouldn’t have the delicious agony of having to make eye contact with her.

“It ain’t no skin off my nose,” Roxy growled back, resolutely staring ahead. “I mean, maybe if you’ve got a punching bag to keep you busy, you won’t run out on your old man, like you did the rest of us.”

Ouch, that hurt.

She couldn’t let it go, could she? She couldn’t hold off making a dig about what had happened all those years ago.

Fortunately, I didn’t have to respond. We were already pulling into the parking lot of X-AMERICA and as soon as I saw the old place, I lost any interest in carrying on the conversation.

The brakes squealed as Roxy pulled the truck to a halt. I wrenched open the creaking door, and my boots hit the asphalt.

“Damn,” I murmured, hands on my hips. “This place hasn’t changed one bit.”

I’d spent more time at X-AMERICA Martial Arts during my teenage years than at home; and I felt like I had every brick of that place memorized.

It still looked the same – a long, low building faded by the Texas sun, with wide windows at the front and the faded sign above the door.

Seeing the place again sent chills down my spine.

“C’mon,” Roxy clearly wasn’t so sentimental. “Kid’s classes start up at 4pm, and I don’t want you to make me late.”

She crossed the parking lot and swung open the door. I followed her inside, kicking the dust off my boots before I stepped across the threshold.

Immediately I was hit by the wall of air-conditioned air from inside – the achingly familiar scent of sweat, and vinyl, and leather. There was no other smell like it; and it made me feel at home.

The place was deserted, and the lights were off. Not that it was an issue – there was plenty of sunlight flooding through the windows at the front of the studio. In fact, the mats at the front of the room were faded and bleached – while the others were still dark blue and red.

God, it was weird being back.

“You can take one of the punching stands from over there,” Roxy indicated the row of
Wavemasters
standing lined up along the wall. “Leave the one at the end – it’s broken.”

The mats creaked beneath my feet as I crossed the studio space and grabbed the punching stand. The base was full of sand, and it was too heavy to carry. Instead, I just started rolling it across the floor – looking up at Roxy as I did so.

Damn, she looked good – standing by the reception desk with her hips cocked, and her big blue eyes staring at me.

In a tank top and workout pants, every curve of her toned body was emphasized; and I felt my cock throb at the memory of what lay beneath those layers of cotton.

“Quit lookin’ at me like that,” Roxy snorted – and I couldn’t tell if she was joking or not. I turned my eyes away, and focused on hefting the punching stand across the room.

“Sorry,” I let the corner of my mouth curl as I said it. “It’s just a treat seein’ you again.”

Roxy snorted dryly.

“You could have seen me every damn day, if you hadn’t left.”

I paused rolling the heavy stand, and looked up at her for a second. Damn, if she didn’t look beautiful when she was angry.

“I didn’t
want
to go, Roxy,” I told her. “I
had
to.”

I shook my head, and added, “What was I supposed to do? Hang around here forever?” I sniffed. “You know Freeport was never big enough for me, Roxy.”

She narrowed her beautiful blues, and sneered, “But it was plenty big enough for me, right? And for your dad?” Shaking her head, Roxy continued, “Bein’ in a big city doesn’t make you a big person. Don’t stand there and act like you’re better than me for leaving.”

“That’s not what I said,” I stammered.

“Well, it sure sounded like it,” Roxy spat out. “You say shit like that and it just makes me feel like a loser. A loser for hanging back here. A loser for taking over Daddy’s goddamn gym.”

I paused, and looked at her longingly.

“You’re not a loser, Roxy,” I told her. “I’m just sayin’ I had bigger plans than running a small town karate school for the rest of my life.”

“And I
didn’t
?” Roxy put her hands on her hips.

I winced when I heard the tone in her voice. I knew coming back here was a mistake. I should never have taken her up on the offer to borrow the damn Wavemaster.

“Look, I know your dad was pissed when I left,” I told her. “But I had to go. And I hoped one day he’d understand that.”

Roxy snorted dryly.

“Come here,” she ordered, and turned towards the door to the old office.

I let the punching stand thump to the floor, and I followed.

The office was just to the left of the reception desk – it was where Roxy’s dad used to do the books, and it was dark, dank and windowless.

As I ducked my head under the door, Roxy flicked on the lights – and the single bulb shone across the opposite wall.

It was covered with newspaper clippings.

Dozens of them. Maybe hundreds.

I narrowed my eyes as I read them.

FREEPORT PHENOM MAKES THE LEAGUE

TRAVIS OATES WINS BY K.O.

‘TRIGGER’ TAKES OUT OPPONENT IN VEGAS

They were all cutouts from the sports section of the paper – and they were all about me.

Every fight. Every interview. Right from when I’d first moved to New York, with less than fifty dollars in my pocket, to the height of my career - when I’d headlined in Vegas a few weeks before Roxy’s dad had died.

Roxy crossed her arms.

“He kept ‘em all, Travis. Every column. Every article. He was too damn stubborn to ever reach out to you, but he never forgot you.” She snorted. “It used to drive me wild, when he’d drag me to the sports bar to watch your fights, or get up at the butt-crack of dawn to grab the early edition sports pages.”

I stared at the newspaper cuttings and felt a chill down my spine.

I’d had no idea – and it made what happened between Roxy’s dad and me hurt even worse than it had before.

Chapter Ten

Roxy

Dad had loved him like a son, of course.

That was why I was so pissed at him.

As I stood there in the office, and stared at Travis through narrowed eyes, I couldn’t help by think of all the days and evenings my dad had spent in this same room with him – showing him the ropes of the business, giving Travis advice.

‘Trigger’ was always a wild one, and God knew Walt wasn’t much of a father to him. More like a badly behaved big brother. So Travis and my dad had grown to be close.

So close, that Dad wanted him to take over the business when he retired. Send me off to college, or some such. Give us all some security. A purpose. A reason to stick together.

And then Travis had just thrown it back in Dad’s face. Telling him he was going to up sticks and move to New York – to try and make it in the fighting circuit.

Dad had tried to talk him out of it, but it was no good. When Travis puts his mind to something, he’s as stubborn as a longhorn. And part of me thought Dad never really wanted to talk him out of it.

That’s why he followed Travis’ career long after he’d left. Why he kept these newspaper cuttings on the wall.

He believed in Travis, even if Travis hadn’t believed in this place.

And maybe I should have been alright with that – but I wasn’t.

Because Travis leaving for New York saddled me with this school. With my dad, when he got sick. It condemned me to a life sentence in his dead end town; and turned me against the only person who’d made living here worthwhile.

I stared up at Travis, as he read the newspaper cuttings on the wall, and my heart felt like a lump of ice.

I hated him. And, even more, I hated the fact that I still felt so strongly about him either way.

“C’mon,” I snapped, jerking my head towards the doorway. “Let’s get you home. I don’t want to be late for classes.”

*              *              *

A few minutes later we were back in the truck – the
Wavemaster
sliding around in the bed, and Travis staring pointedly out of the window.

Maybe I should have just kept my mouth shut – but I’ve never been very good at that. Ever since I was a kid, I’ve hated awkward silences.

“So,” I asked, almost dreading to hear the answer. “You got anybody special up in New York? Some Long Island Lolita or a Kale-munching hipster?”

Travis barked in laughter. I’m not going to lie, it made my lips curl. I’d missed his laugh.

“Hell, girl,” he purred. “You know I’m not one for rabbit food.” He took a deep, sad breath, and then admitted: “Nah. Nobody special. Not right now.”

There was another one of those awkward silences, but he filled it this time.

“I was datin’ this one chick for a while. Well, me and my buddy Nico were.”  I glanced over and smirked, watching his cheeks burn red. “It was complicated,” he explained. “One of those New York things.”

“Lucky girl,” I snorted.

“So, what about you?” Travis asked – and from the way his voice faltered, I wondered if he was dreading the answer too. “You got anybody? Plenty of men down here, what with the oil business boomin’, and all.”

“I date,” I admitted, wanting to make him feel jealous, but also feeling self-conscious about it at the same time. “Nothin’ serious. I mean, there was this one guy for a few months – I thought it might go somewhere. But then he got transferred up to Athabasca and I sure as hell wasn’t going to go with him.”

I finished my story, and Travis was silent, pursing his lips in thought. I wondered what was going through his brain just then – was he jealous? Mad?

But then he snorted, and his beautiful mouth curled into a handsome smile.

“Well,
shit
,” he laughed. “Look at us both. All them fish in the sea, and neither of us have a hook.”

I laughed too, and was about to open my mouth to speak – but then I saw it.

I’d just rounded the corner to Walt’s old doublewide – and as we approached I saw an unfamiliar car parked outside his trailer.

A long, low, gleaming Cadillac.

But that wasn’t what worried me.

There were three men standing in Walt’s front garden, wearing suits and hats.

And even from a quarter of a mile away, I could make out what was happening:

They were beating the shit out of him.

Chapter Eleven

Travis

My hands balled into fists immediately.

I was looking at what Roxy was staring at – quarter of a mile ahead, and closing fast.

Some jerks in a big, black car – an old 80s Cadillac – were in my Pop’s front garden – and they were tossing him back and forth between them.

“What the
fuck
?” Roxy hissed.

Her boot lowered onto the gas, and a moment later we were on them – her old truck skewing to a halt, and me throwing open the door before we’d even stopped moving.

My boots hit the asphalt, and I broke into a run towards them.

“
Hey
!”

My voice echoed across the trailer park like a lion’s roar, and the three men stopped, and turned to face me.

Dad was in the middle of them, bandaged hands raised to protect his face. These three strangers had been shoving him back and forth between them – like bullies in a schoolyard.

I was into the front yard within seconds, and the three strangers backed off my dad and turned to face me.

“Hey!” The one in front – a big bastard in a cheap black suit – held up his hand and warned, “This ain’t none of your business, cowboy.”

Presumably, he expected me to stop. He looked like the kind of guy who was used to people listening to him – maybe he was a bouncer in a club, or something; and thought people would be intimidated by his dark suit and broad shoulders.

But I’m not ‘people’.

Even as he held up his hand, ordering me to stop, I stepped up to him, grabbed the lapels of his jacket, and head-butted him squarely in the nose.

There was the crunch of splintered cartilage, and the big bastard went limp in my arms. I was already shoving him aside, and stepping over his limp body, before he hit the floor.

“Whoa!”

That changed the dynamic pretty damn quickly. The two other strangers backed off my pops immediately. The one on the left held up his hands, trying to play the peacemaker.

The one on the right took a swing at me, instead.

That was a dumb move. Twenty years of martial arts training ensured my body moved even before my brain ordered it to.

I ducked out of the way of the swing, hooked my arms under the guy’s armpits, and threw him to the ground.

A moment later my knee landed in the center of his chest, and my fist landed in the center of his face – three times.

Thump! Thump! Thump!

By the time I straightened up, the asshole on the ground wasn’t making any effort to get up.

“Whoa,” the third stranger raised his hands, and took a nervous step back. He was dressed in a shitty black suit like the other two, but looked smaller, and smarter. “Back the fuck off, buddy. This ain’t none of your business.”

I paused, and pointed an accusing finger at the asshole.

“That’s my
dad
,” I growled. “You touch him, and I’m
makin’
it my business.”

The third stranger took another stumbling step back.

“Hey, the asshole owes us money,
capiche
?” One of his hands was still raised in the air. The other was reaching for his hip. “We’re just here to collect, cowboy. So back the fuck off.”

I had no intention of ‘backing the fuck off.’ In fact, my plan was the back the fuck
on
. I took a menacing step towards the scrawny bastard.

And that’s when he went for the gun.

I should have moved faster. He’d practically telegraphed his move – dropping that hand towards his hip. I’d have had enough time to close the distance between us if I’d acted on it.

But I hadn’t – and from a hip holster, this black-suited bastard pulled a snub-nosed automatic and leveled it at me.

“Back the fuck off,” he hissed again – and this time I had no choice but to listen.

Or did I?

Because the moment the scrawny man spoke, there was a loud and ominous ‘click’ from across the yard.

Both of us turned to the fence, where Roxy had been standing.

She was still standing there – but this time her legs were apart, her arms were raised, and she was clutching a .44 Ruger Redhawk in both hands.

Thank
fuck
we were back in Texas – where even nice girls like Roxy Rockatansky kept a gun in their glove compartment.

“You put that fucking gun
down
, mister,” Roxy growled, knuckles turning white on the trigger, “or so help me, I’ll paint Walt’s trailer with your brains.”

The scrawny bastard looked pale enough, but even I could see the blood rush from his face.

He lowered the gun, lifting his hands passively again.

“H-hey,” the bastard whimpered, “I don’t want no trouble. We were just here to collect what this asshole owes us.” He jerked his head towards my dad. “Five grand – and he’s already a week late payin’ up.”

Walt had said nothing during this whole encounter. Bandaged hands raised, he’d just stumbled out of the way the moment I’d come in with my fists swinging.

But now he was out of danger, my dad growled, “You tell Red to
kiss my ass
.” He lifted his bandaged hands. “If he’d wanted that money so bad, he wouldn’t have done
this
.”

Gun still clutched in his hand, the scrawny stranger span around and hissed, “You’ll get worse unless you pay up,
capiche
?”

Just then, the two other men I’d knocked down started stirring. The guy with the broken nose clambered up off the ground, wiping the blood that was gushing down his chin.

The other asshole struggled to sit up, looking punch drunk and woozy.

The asshole with the gun looked back and forth – between me, my dad, and Roxy.

Seeing that the situation wasn’t good, he started backing off towards the old Cadillac.

“This ain’t over,” the black-suited asshole yelled at my dad. “You’d better pay up,
or else
.”

And then he turned to me.

“And if we meet again, you better not pull any shit like this. Or I’ll fucking end you,
capiche
?”

Right then and there, I was tempted to end
him
. If he hadn’t still been clutching that gun, I might have taken three strides over to him, and given his face a makeover with my fists.

But, instead, I just stood there and watched him back off towards the Cadillac.

“C’mon, assholes,” he sneered at his two companions, as they stumbled to their unsteady feet. “Let’s bounce.”

And then the three of them scurried off to the old Caddy – like frightened dogs with their tails between their legs.

The old luxury car grumbled into life, and a moment later it was tearing off down the street with the squeal of spinning tires.

Only when it was around the corner, and out of sight, did Roxy lower her Ruger.

I turned to my dad, standing there with his bandaged hands by his sides.

“Get the fuck inside, Dad,” I warned. “We need to
talk
.”

Chapter Twelve

Roxy

“What the
fuck
, dad?”

The walls of the doublewide rattled, as Travis laid into his father.

“Who the
fuck
were those assholes? And what do they mean you
owe them money
?”

I crossed my arms in front of my chest, and shivered as I listened to Travis berate his father.

To Walt’s credit, he didn’t make any excuses.

“They work for Red Callahan,” Walt shrugged, sitting in the breakfast booth, hands resting on the table. “He’s a bookie – runs a bar over on Gulf Drive.”

Travis blinked – clearly not expecting such blunt honesty.

“A-and what did they mean: You owe them money?”

Walt snorted.

He reached for the nearly-empty bottle of Johnny Walker on the table, and picked it up with his bandaged hands. He pulled the cork out with his teeth.

“I owe that crooked bastard five thousand dollars,” Walt admitted, as he sloshed whiskey into a mug. “I made a couple of bets, and they went south.” He shrugged. “Ain’t much more to it than that.”

Travis just blinked, so I stepped up and interrupted.

“Walt. Were you serious? About them doing
that
?” I pointed to his bandaged hands. “I thought you said you slammed them under the hood of your truck.”

Walt snorted, and struggled to lift the whiskey to his mouth.

“What did you want me to say, sugar? That stupid ol’ Walter Oates got himself in the hole with the local bookie? And they busted up his hands for not payin’?”

He snorted.

“I was
embarrassed
, okay?”

Travis slumped into the booth, opposite his father.

“Holy
shit
, dad,” he murmured, head sinking into his hands. “You owe this asshole
five grand
?” He looked up at his dad’s grizzled old face. “And he
broke your fucking hands
?”

“I think those three boys were here to break my legs, next,” Walt admitted, without breaking his stride. He shrugged. “If you thought your credit card was bad, you should get a load of Red Callahan’s repayment terms.”

“Jesus, Pops,” Travis groaned, “how can you be so goddamn flippant? They
broke your fucking hands
.” He looked up at me, blue eyes wide and angry. “Who
is
this Red Callahan asshole? Strikes me he and I need to have
words
.”

“No, no,” Walt reached across and touched Travis’ arm with one of his bandaged hands. “You don’t want to make things worse. You’re a tough kid, Travis – but Red and his boys will
fuck you up
.”

Travis shrugged off his dad’s hand.

“So what d’ya want me to do, pop? Just sit back and let this asshole beat up on my dad?” His shoulders slumped. “Holy
shit
, Dad. How did you even get
into
this mess? What the
fuck
were you bettin’ on?”

And that’s when Walt looked his son square in the eye.

He admitted, “It was
you
, son. I was making bets on
you
.”