Baller: An Interracial MMA Stepbrother Romance (7 page)

Chapter Twenty

Kristen

Somehow, they ended up at
Chili’s
.

Kristen didn’t know how. She hated going for drinks at the same place she worked, and she always felt awkward having orders taken by her friends and colleagues.

But it was late, and
Chili’s
was the nearest place still open.

Hannibal didn’t seem to give a shit. He pulled his Bentley to a halt in the parking lot, amidst the Camrys and Accords, and swung open the door with one shove of his powerful arm.

And then, walking silently around the front of the car, he yanked open Kristen’s door and held down his hand for her.

She gulped, looking up at the towering figure of her stepbrother. It had been kind of a whirlwind night for her as it was – what with those brutal fights, and the uncomfortable and dangerous atmosphere of the warehouse. It made Hannibal’s towering presence even more intimidating and… dare she say it…
exciting
.

Heart racing, she placed her slender white hand in his big, brown paw, and let him pull her from the low-slung seat.

A moment later, they were walking towards the front door, and Hannibal held it open for her.

The stink of fried food and the loud crowds assailed Kristen’s senses the moment she walked in – but after the dangerous atmosphere of the warehouse fights, this familiar chaos was almost welcome.

Her buddy Annie was hostess tonight, and offered her menus as they walked in – but Hannibal brusquely waved his hand at her. “We’ll sit at the bar.”

Kristen silently voiced an apology, and followed her towering brother in law as he stepped up and took a stool.

A moment later she was sitting next to him.

“Good evening, folks,” it was Dan, another familiar face. “What can I get you?”

And that was the first time that night Kristen had seen Hannibal truly silenced.

The big man blinked, and then turned and looked down at Kristen.

This entire night, he’d been dismissive of her – basically treating her like you might treat a dog following you about. That was one of the things she hated about her big, growling brother in law.

But for a moment, he looked almost human.

His brown, flat face opened into a smile, and he admitted: “I don’t fucking know.” He shrugged at Kristen. “Damn, I haven’t drunk anything that wasn’t handed to me in a club for as long as I can remember. What is it you kids drink these day?”

Kristen felt her lips curl.

“Get us two of those house margaritas,” she told Dan. “The ones with the Corona bottle sticking out of the top.”

“You got it, hun,” Dan winked at her, and headed off to make the drinks.

Kristen looked up at her brother in law and smirked: “So, Baller doesn’t drink, eh?”

“Oh, shit, I drink,” Hannibal shrugged. “You just watched me down one of those shitty beers at the fight. But I’m always training, watching my macros - so I haven’t had more than a glass of champagne or a vodka soda in as long as I can remember.”

Kristen had a flashback to Jules swigging his beer, earlier that day.

“You might want to tell your brother about that one.”

Hannibal’s brow wrinkled.

“Yeah,” he growled. “Yeah, but there’s a lot I need to tell my little brother about.”

Thankfully the drinks arrived, and Kristen raised her fishbowl-sized margarita to chink with Hannibal.

“Well, here’s to Jules winning tonight,” she toasted.

“Shit,” Hannibal’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not drinking to that.”

Kristen blinked.

“Okay. How about…” She thought desperately. “How about toasting your homecoming. Welcome back to Hartford, Hannibal.”

Hannibal’s eyes narrowed even more, and Kristen knew he was having similar feelings about his homecoming – probably hurt at the behavior of his, angry bitter mom - or the scathing messages from a father who hadn’t even bothered making time to see him yet.

“T-to your career?” Kristen offered a third toast, and then winced almost immediately as she remembered that Hannibal had only come home because he was suspended from the MMA league.

“Wow, I’m shitty at making toasts, aren’t I?

Hannibal snorted. Fortunately, he rescued her from her embarrassment.

“Tell you what,” he smiled bitterly, and chinked glasses. “How about we just toast to
needing a fucking drink
.”

Kristen allowed herself to smile.

“I’ll drink to
that
.” And they chinked glasses.

Chapter Twenty-One

Kristen

One margarita turned to two. And then a third. And by that stage, Hannibal started talking.

“Wow,” Kristen snorted, as she listened to her brother in law slur his words. “For a big, tough guy, you can’t hold your liquor.”

Hannibal snorted, and slurped his drink.

“I never normally drink this much,” he admitted – pronouncing that last word ‘mush’. “But shit, Kristen. I needed it tonight.”

Kristen sipped her drink.

Hannibal had been growling and intimidating from the moment he’d come back – the same confident, swaggering asshole she’d come to know and loathe, but now with a new and unpleasant bitter streak to his personality.

But after those drinks, he was easing up, and it was easy to remember the Hannibal she used to know – all those years ago, before the crazy shit between her mom and his dad had torn their lives apart.

Bouyed perhaps by her drink, she leaned into one of Hannibal’s big, burly arms and admitted: “I missed you, Baller.”

For a moment, Hannibal let his defenses down. He reached his arm around his stepsister and squeezed. It was like old times. She closed her eyes and drank in the heavy, comforting bulk around her shoulders.

And then she ruined it.

“Why did you have to leave us?”

The arm was pulled back quicker than a striking rattlesnake.

“Dammit, Krissie. Don’t say it like that. I didn’t leave you.” The ice cubes rattled in his drink. “I had my own shit to do, that was all.”

Kristen said nothing, and that was worse than saying anything at all.

“You were
twenty
,” Hannibal continued defensively. “You didn’t need my stupid ass around anymore.” He slurped his drink. “You and Jules were old enough to look after yourselves.”

“Yeah,” Kristen sniffed. “And just look what a great job we’re doing of that. Your brother lives in a fucking crack den, and I’m serving mozzarella sticks for two dollars an hour, plus tips.”

Hannibal snorted.

“Don’t lay that shit on me. Don’t make it like it was my fault. I’m not your goddamn daddy.” He ran a big hand over his shaved head. “Fuck, the problem in our lives isn’t the
lack
of parental involvement. Quite the fucking opposite. If our parents acted like grown-ups, maybe we wouldn’t be in this shit.”

Again, Kristen said nothing, and that led Hannibal to keep talking.

Turning to his stepsister, he glowered down at her with his intense, brown eyes, and hissed: “And you think shit’s so rosy with me, anyway? Fuck – you expect me to look after you and Jules, but it should be plain and fucking obvious I can’t even look after my own sorry ass.”

That was when Kristen snapped.

“It looks like you’re doing just fine, Baller,” she hissed. “With your two hundred grand Bentley sitting outside in the parking lot. I’ve seen the clips on TMZ. You blowing fat wads of cash in strip clubs and casinos. Did you ever even stop to think of us?”

Hannibal had taken hundreds of punches over the years, but her words hit him harder than any of them.

It took a moment for the big man to sum up the breath to speak, but when he did his voice was low, soft and even.

“If my life’s so fucking rosy, Kristen, what the fuck am I doing back here?”

Kristen didn’t have an answer for that.

“I’m one of the best fighters in the league. If it wasn’t for that stupid brawl in the hotel, I’d be one fight away from the fucking championship by now. Instead I’m here, suspended, reading about other fighters trying to muscle me out of my own fucking league.”

Then, with a growl, Baller jerked his thumb over his shoulder towards the door of
Chili’s
.

“And that car out there? It’s practically all I fucking own, Kristen. When I got suspended, the sponsorship money stopped rolling in, I lost all the purse money I was going to collect.” He waved the hundred dollar bill that Jules had casually thrown at him. “The honest truth? I have less than this in my bank account right now.”

Kristen blinked.

“But… But you were making
tons
of money.”

“Yeah,” Hannibal snorted bitterly, “and I was spending it, too. I was living in a fucking hotel suite, Kristen. I was blowing five figures every night at the club. Shit, I pulled in seven hundred grand last year and that was barely enough to cover what I was spending.”

And then the big man leaned in close, until Kristen could smell the margarita on his breath.

“And that’s the fucking problem, Kristen,” he admitted drunkenly. “That’s why I’m so fucking pissed at Jules. Because I see his stupid, arrogant ass and it’s like
looking in a fucking mirror
.”

Kristen was absolutely floored.

“I-I don’t understand.”

“Aww, shit,” Hannibal shook his head. “I looked the part, Krissie. I had the suits and the girls and the big shiny car. But peel that away and Jules and I are no different. He’s sitting in his ghetto-ass apartment thinking he’s about to ride a gravy-train to riches – but I’d already bought a ticket when it got fucking de-railed.”

He rubbed his big hand drunkenly over his face.

“He’s making all the same stupid-ass mistakes I did, and it’s fucking killing me.”

“W-well, maybe you need to go and talk to him.”

Hannibal snorted raucously.

“Oh, yeah. You saw how that went. Shit, it wasn’t too long ago I was
exactly
where he is right now, mentally at least.”

He sighed.

“I know Jules won’t listen to a damn word I say. All he wants to hear is that guy Red, telling him how he’s gonna be a champ, and shoving hundred dollar bills into his hands.”

And then Hannibal reached over and squeezed Kristen’s small hand with his thick fingers.

“And that’s what scares me, Krissie. ‘Cos I might have got myself involved in a lot of screwed up stuff over in Vegas, but
never
anything like that fighting league. It’s some kind of scam, or con… And I’m worried when it all blows up, Jules is gonna get into some
real
trouble.”

Kristen reached over and rubbed her stepbrother’s arm.

“Well, maybe that’s why fate brought you home. Maybe this is your chance to make things right – by helping him.”

Hannibal snorted.

“How can I help Jules, Krissie? I can’t even help myself.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

Kristen

By kicking-out time, Hannibal was staggering.

Anxious to avoid a scene in front of her friends and co-workers, Kristen led her towering stepbrother out into the parking lot, and towards the gleaming gunmetal Bentley.

It was like dragging a staggering gorilla across the parking lot.

“Shit, Hannibal,” Kristen looked up at her handsome stepbrother. “Are you okay to drive?”

Hannibal hiccupped, and fumbled with his keys.

“D-damn,” he burped. “Those margaritas are stronger than they look.”

The truth be told, Kristen had always suspected Dan watered them down – but they’d seemed to have done the trick on Hannibal.

Perhaps it was because he rarely drank, or maybe it was because the fitter and more athletic you are, the faster alcohol hits you. In either case, the result was the same – Hannibal was too plastered to drive.

“Give the keys to me,” Krissie was still sober. “I’ll drive you home.”

Hannibal laughed uproariously.

“Aww,
hell no
. You think Momma’s gonna let me in the front door when she sees me in this state? She won’t care that I’m a championship-contender MMA heavyweight. She’ll still pull out the wooden spoon and paint my ass red!”

Kristen laughed, leading him to the passenger seat.

“Okay, okay. I’ll text your mom. I’ll let her know you’re staying over at our place.” But secretly, she knew Hannibal staying with his dad would be almost as painful to Trudy as seeing Hannibal in this state. It seemed the big, powerful man was still reduced to a helpless pawn when it came to the pissing match between his squabbling parents.

Once Hannibal had been deposited in the creaking leather of the passenger seat, Kristen climbed behind the wheel of the beautiful Bentley.

She had to adjust the seat almost to its limit, so she could peek over the steering wheel and still reach the pedals. It was a big car, designed for big men like Hannibal, and she tiny as she clutched the big, leather wheel.

“Y-you sure you can handle this thing?”

“Pppft,” Kristen stuck out her tongue. “You just buckle up. I’ll do fine.”

And, to her credit, she did. The British-engineered car drove beautifully, and she kept the speed down and paid attention to the road and managed to guide them back to their parent’s place without incident.

By the time they got there, Hannibal had sobered up – enough to even suggest: “Why don’t I drop you off? I can get my ass back to Mom’s from here.”

But Kristen switched off the burbling engine, turned in the creaking leather seat, and looked her handsome stepbrother in the eye.

“You said something to me earlier about how you’re just as bad as Jules when it comes to making bad decision.” She reached over and squeezed his hand. “So don’t make one now. You don’t want an arrest for drunken driving to overshadow your suspension from the MMA league.”

For a second, Kristen saw a flash of anger in Hannibal’s eyes. But then he snorted derisively, and his thick lips curled.

“Yeah,” he admitted. “Yeah, that would be just my stupid ass luck. I’d probably get a Rodney King-style police beat down too. There can’t be many black guys driving Bentley’s up in Hartford, unless the trunk’s full of crack.”

Kristen smiled and squeezed his hand.

“Come on inside. And be
quiet
. We’ll have to explain what you’re doing here to your dad eventually, but I’d prefer it to be in the morning.” She locked gazes with Hannibal and narrowed her eyes. “You dig?”

Hannibal chuckled, and squeezed her hand.

“I dig.”

With that, they clambered out of the low-slung grand tourer and Kristen led them across the garden, and as she fumbled with the keys it looked like – for a moment, at least – that the two of them would get away with sneaking into their parent’s house.

But Kristen hadn’t figured on Buttons and Popcorn.

The moment they smelt Hannibal from under the door, the two Bichon Frisé pups started yapping and barking furiously – and no amount of ‘shut ups’ and ‘sssshhh!’ hissed through the letterbox deterred them.

The lights from the bedroom above their head flicked on. A moment later, they both heard the creak of the stairs through the front door.

The locks rattled and the front door swung open.

Looming and grizzled, the imposing frame of Cornell Alexander stood in the doorway of his home – peering out disappointedly at Kristen and Hannibal, as they both stood there sheepishly.

Cornell’s big nostrils flared as he drank in the scent of smoke and alcohol.

“Well, well, well,” the grizzled old professor murmured. “I thought the days of my kids trying to sneak home late at night were behind me.”

He looked up at his son – a foot taller than his dad, but suddenly feeling very, very small indeed.

“So this is how you finally greet your old man, is it, Hannibal?” Cornell growled. “Drunk off your ass, at 2am in the morning?” He held open the door, holding Popcorn and Buttons at bay with one bare foot. “You better get your sorry ass inside, Hannibal. You’ve got some explaining to do.”