Baller: An Interracial MMA Stepbrother Romance (20 page)

Chapter Sixty-Three

Hannibal

The lights and music were obvious from almost a mile away, and by the time Hannibal finally powered the Bentley up to the gates of the old warehouse, it was clear tonight’s illegal fight was going to be an even bigger, bolder affair than the one two weeks ago.

Hannibal had at first been nervous that they weren’t going to be let in – but as he rolled the Bentley up to the gate, the two sketchy dudes in suits clearly recognized him.

“Park it right there, bro,” one of them indicated a space right inside the gate – the sort of place you’d normally expect a VIP to leave their car.

But it was clear there were more sinister reasons for the special treatment.

As Hannibal cut the engine, one of the security dudes swaggered over to the Bentley, and waited for the two of them to climb out.

A round-faced thug in a cheap suit, he looked Hannibal and Kristen up and down suspiciously, and then barked: “Mr. Callahan’s expecting you. Follow me, please.”

He started to move towards the warehouse.

“Yo, yo,” Hannibal interrupted him. “I’m here to see my little brother first. Julius Alexander? His ass get here yet?”

The security guard wheeled around.

“Mr. Callahan told me to take you straight to him.” And then he pulled back the corner of his cheap, black jacket – exposing the butt of a semi-automatic.

Kristen clung to Hannibal when she saw it.

“Follow me,” the guard repeated – and this time it was an order, not a request.

Hannibal and Kristen did as they were told, and followed the security guard into the crowd, and up towards the old trailer that served as Red’s makeshift VIP enclosure.

The bearded fight promoter was there, of course. Dressed in a Miller Lite t-shirt, with a gaudy black cowboy hat, the southerner whooped when he saw Hannibal and Kristen, and enthusiastically offered his hand as the two of them clambered up into the trailer.

“Dang it all, I knew I’d be seein’ your ass here tonight, Baller,” Red purred, waiting for Hannibal to shake his hand. When the big, black fighter didn’t, Red shrugged, and offered him a seat instead. “An’ you brought the lovely lady back again, too.”

Snatching her hand, Red kissed the back of it creepily.

Kristen grimaced.

“Now, I hope you don’t mind my boys rushing you up here, like,” Red purred, as Hannibal glowered at him. “I figured you might try and find your little brother first, and do something dang stupid, like try and talk him outta fightin’.” Red shook his head. “That’d ruin my whole evening agenda, and you know I couldn’t let that happen.”

“Where is Jules?” Hannibal broke the silence. “Is he here yet?”

“Oh, he’s here,” Red grinned. “He’s here, and he’s paid up, and he’s in his changing room getting ready.”

From the pocket of his jeans, Red pulled a bank envelope out. He opened it, and Hannibal saw it was stuffed with hundred dollar bills.

“Twenty grand,” Red winked. “All crisp, new notes.” He sniffed. “It was originally going to be fifteen, but when you stuck your dang nose in, I jacked up the buy-in.” Laughing, Callahan admitted: “Your little brother was all too eager to pay it.”

Hannibal’s eyes narrowed.

“Just give me the money, show me to my brother and we’ll leave. We won’t make a scene.”

Red laughed uproariously.

“More’s the pity. You see these people?” He gestured to the crowd gathered around them. “They’ve all come here tonight specially to
see
a scene.” He looked Hannibal in the eye. “I know you’re good, Baller. But I’ve got ten guys working security tonight, and are you
that
good?”

There was no mistaking the unspoken challenge.

“Last chance,” Hannibal warned. “Give me the money, give me my brother, and let us go.”

Red’s eyes narrowed. His smile faded.

“No, you black bastard,” the southerner growled. “It’s
your
last chance. Sit down, drink a beer and act like civilized company, or all three of you are going to get
carried
out of here.”

And, as if to reinforce that, Red lifted the bottom of his t-shirt and revealed that he, too, had a gun stuffed into the front of his jeans.

Hannibal froze when he saw it – the butt of a big, Smith & Wesson revolver.

“You won’t shoot me,” he growled. “Not in front of all these people.”

Red snorted.

“Hell yes I will,” the southerner replied. “Shit, I’ll shoot you, call the cops, and have them clean up the mess.” The dangerous smile returned. “Shit, hoss. Haven’t you got it yet? This is
my
show round here.”

“You can’t just
shoot
us,” Kristen snapped.

Red laughed bitterly.

“Aww, shit, honey. Don’t be so dense. Don’t you ever watch the news?”

He pointed at Hannibal. “You’ve got NFL players firing handguns in nightclubs, and basketball players getting pulled over with pounds of coke in their trunk. Your boy Baller there is just another one of them – some rich black jackass playin’ the bad boy. If the cops come, they’ll assume he started whatever trouble he’s in.”

Hannibal’s shoulders slumped.

Red was right.

Sports stars who resembled him got into fights, and shootouts, and busts all the time. And nobody gave them the benefit of the doubt. Whether they were a linebacker or a rebounder, the Tabloids painted them as cocky young black guys who deserved everything they had coming to them.

“Now, I’m playin’ nice,” Red warned, dropping his t-shirt back over his gun. “I’ll let you sit up here at the grown up’s table, and I’ll share my Miller Lite and moonshine with you. But you two better behave – or so help me, I’ll make you both regret it.”

Defeated, Hannibal slumped into one of the lawn chairs. He snatched one of the beers sitting at the table.

“Good,” with a nod, Red sat down opposite him, and raised his own can of Miller Lite. “Now let’s sit back, and enjoy the fights.”

Chapter Sixty-Four

Hannibal

The truth be told, Hannibal couldn’t focus on much that evening. All he kept thinking about was his brother – and the upcoming showdown with ‘Sam Hudson.’

But that evening’s entertainment seemed to roll out like the previous week’s had.

There were two distinct types of fights. First there were the tepid confrontations between out-of-shape white kids and bored-looking opponents. These, Hannibal were sure, were the scams.

“So what’s the deal, Red?” Baller even asked, as the first of the fights ended with a bored-sounding round of cheers and hollers. “Is this like a pool hall hustle, except with sparring gloves?”

Red sipped his beer, and shrugged.

“I guess it don’t hurt to tell you,” he admitted. “You’re a smart guy. You’ve probably got it figured out already.”

He offered Hannibal a sip from his Mason jar of ‘shine.

“So I find a kid with dreams of MMA stardom, and I let him buy into a fight,” Red explained. “We let him win the first couple of times – get his hopes up…”

“And the buy-in price up,” Hannibal injected.

“Oh, that too,” Red grinned. “When it’s high enough for me to make a profit, I’ll line ‘em up against a
real
fighter, and they find out just what mixed martial arts is all about.”

“So you send ‘em home with broken dreams and an empty wallet.”

“Sometimes,” Red winked, “their dreams ain’t the only thing that gets broken.”

Hannibal felt sick when he heard that.

“Now, don’t you go judging me, ya big, black bastard,” Red warned. “When I started this gig, I was doin’ somebody a favor. Their kid was ranting about wanting to be an MMA fighter, so his parents
paid me
to teach him some humility.”

He grinned: “The kid spent his summer money buyin’ into a fight, and my guy sent him back home with a broken rib and a black eye. I kept the money, and the kid learned the hard way that he wasn’t cut out for professional fighting.”

He snorted.

“I look at it as doing these kids a favor.”

“An
expensive
favor,” Hannibal warned.

“Guy’s gotta make a livin’,” Red threw back.

And that raised the subject of the
other
types of fight. The no-holds-barred, brutal sparring that would have been immediately banned in a legitimate MMA league.

“Nobody would pay money to see the fixed fights,” Red admitted, “so I’ve got to mix it up. I’ll hire the toughest bastards I can find, and have them tear each other to shreds.”

And he wasn’t kidding. Just like the previous night, there were a number of real bouts that ended with knocked-out teeth, and chunks of hair and skin left on the canvas.

“Now this is
real
fighting,” Red grinned, as they watched. “More raw and dangerous than anything you’ll see in your pussy-ass ‘official’ league.” He sipped his beer. “The audience will let me run my little fight fixin’ scheme, as long as I throw them some
real
action in between.”

And as far as Hannibal could figure it, that meant Red was cashing in on both angles. He conned gullible kids like Jules out of thousands of dollars, and then pocketed admission money, concessions and gambling cash from the rest of the audience.

“You’re a sick bastard,” Hannibal grudgingly admitted. “But you’re clever. You probably pocket more per night than at a real MMA event.”

Red raised his can of Miller Lite.

“And that’s why I keep doing it.” He winked. “Never make the mistake of going legit, Baller. They’ll hang you for it when you do.”

And Hannibal thought of his suspension, and the negative news stories about him.

Maybe Red had a point.

But that thought instantly evaporated as the next fight was announced.

“Oh, oh,” Red slapped Hannibal’s arm. “It’s your boy, Baller. It’s little Jules.”

His eyes flashed dangerously.

“Let’s see how he holds up.”

Chapter Sixty-Five

Hannibal

Hannibal and Kristen watched as Jules swaggered into the octagon.

He was still skinny, and scrawny – but walked with more confidence and grace than the last time.

As Hannibal’s little brother lifted his arms into the air, and earned roars and hollers from the crowd, it was clear he thought he’d ‘got this.’

Baller hoped that two weeks of intense training would back that confidence up.

The moment his opponent came on stage, though, that hope died pretty fast.

“…and in the blue corner,” roared the announcer, “weighing in a 205lbs, the 25-year MMA veteran Sam ‘The Hurt’ Hudson…”

The crowd roared in approval as a wild-haired beast of a man swaggered into the octagon, with his lank, greasy hair whipping too and fro behind him.

“Holy shit,” Hannibal’s eyes widened.

Sam Hudson must have been nearly sixty years old, but he was
ripped
. His body was a scarred and pock-marked quiltwork of muscle and sinew, criss-crossed with throbbing veins that suggested he’d injected most of his gains.

With a dirty beard and ragged, shoulder-length hair, he looked like a cross between Mickey Rourke from
The Wrestler
and the serial killer Otis Firefly from
The Devil’s Rejects
.

He was bad news.

“Oh, this is gonna be good,” Red rubbed his hands together. “Hope your boy brought a change of underwear.”

And looking down into the octagon, Hannibal saw that Jules was very clearly intimidated by his opponent. Baller couldn’t blame him. The fight looked about as appealing as being locked into a cage with Charles Manson.

But as the airhorn signaled the start of the first round, Jules held his own.

Sam Hudson came in swinging, and Jules dodged, and blocked, and kept out of harm’s way. He even launched a solid kick of his own, and Hudson’s eyes flashed as he felt the blow connect and make his leg go numb.

“Dang,” Red raised his Mason jar. “Your boy’s doin’ alright down there.”

And he was – but while Jules could clearly defend himself, he wasn’t able to go on the offensive. Hudson was just too quick and dangerous.

The first round ended without either of them getting any solid hits in, and by that stage the novelty had clearly worn off for Red.

He snapped his fingers, and got one of the security guards to come scurrying over.

“You go down there and tell Hudson to stop fucking about,” he hissed, loud enough for Hannibal to hear. “I didn’t drag his sorry ass all the way up from Tulsa to watch him play slapsies.”

“Yessir,” the guard nodded.

Somehow, the message made it back to Hudson’s corner, and when the second round was announced, the mean-looking fighter reared up with a snarl, and everybody in the audience could see the fight was
really
on.

“Oh boy,” Red cracked open another beer, and turned to Hannibal with a smirk. “I’ve been rigging fights for fifteen years now. This is the first one I’ve ever been genuinely worried about.”