DARE: A Bad Boy Romance (10 page)

Before she could finish, he slapped her as hard as he could. This time she careered across the room and crashed into the armoire. Her knees wobbled, but she didn’t go down. He had his back to her, but she could see he was balling his right fist, over and over, balling then relaxing, as though he couldn’t decide whether to use his palm or his knuckles to inflict further damage on her. After the initial shock had worn off, Holly staggered out of the bedroom, knocking the suitcases over as she went. She was too weak to grab them but too scared to stay, so she made her way to the nearest room with a lock on the inside: the bathroom. There she bolted herself in and curled into a ball on the floor against the tub, sobbing. There wasn’t a single spot on her body that didn’t smart or throb or ache. Inside, she had nothing left.

The
pat-pat
of water from the basin tap made her think of time: time wasted. She shouldn’t have spent so long packing. She shouldn’t have spent so long at Dare’s. But most important of all, she should never have stayed with Trey Oregon for so long.

The guy she’d dated in high school was now a monster. A monster with revenge on his mind. And God help her, she’d just given him his next target.

Dare had never been great at talking his way out of trouble. His instincts just didn’t run like that. Being stuck in a sterile conference room with a bunch of bureaucrats and a guy he flat-out hated—it was everything he despised about life outside the Corps. This IMMAF tribunal had not been convened to mete out justice or even to get to the truth of what had happened that night. No, it was an underhanded way to sidestep both those things—justice and the truth—and they were using this private, “unofficial” venue to feel Dare out. To figure out what he wanted.

Words. Fucking words. He just wasn’t trained to fight with language the way these people were. They were too subtle, their rules too bendable. By limiting him to this private tribunal and framing the events of that night the way
they
wanted, these IMMAF delegates seated around the generic, beige table had him in a corner. He might as well not say anything. Hell, they’d already decided what
wasn’t
going to happen after this meeting.

But Dare Bowden had never backed down from a fight in his life. He wasn’t about to start now…not with that psychotic loose cannon, Trey Oregon, staring at him down the full length of the table. No way was he going to let that abusive prick get his own way without Dare first speaking his mind. But he had to be careful as well; he did, after all, have a career to protect. The only thing he knew how to do professionally outside the Corps was Mixed Martial Arts.

Okay then. Bring ’em on.

“I’m a bit confused,” he said, playing dumb for the time being. “Why haven’t you invited the others? Boyega and the referee? Why just the two of us.” He hated having to nod at the sick asshole across the table, but it was the only way to play the game—their way.

“Like we said, Mr. Bowden, this is not a formal investigation. We felt it would be best to try to settle this personal dispute between the two of you before we even think about taking it further. It was an unfortunate incident for all involved, not least for the IMMAF, as I’m sure you’ll both understand. But we’d like to hear your reasons for doing what you did, Mr. Bowden, then give Mr. Oregon a chance to respond. If we can get to the bottom of this here today, and hopefully come to some agreement about what happened, and what, if anything, should be done about it, then we’re in business. If not, well, we’ll just have to take it from there. But I sincerely hope we can put all this behind us. The last thing the sport needs is a drawn-out formal investigation into the way bouts are conducted; I’m sure you’ll agree. And don’t worry, we plan to meet with the ring officials and Mr. Boyega separately. You have my word on that.”

Yardley, the tribunal chairman, a tanned, white-haired golfer type in his early sixties, was good in his role—clear spoken, congenial, even charming. But though he pretended to be neutral, it was clear to Dare that he was acting within very specific parameters here. Someone from on high had told him to nip this in the bud before
it went any further,
before
the ring officials came under official scrutiny.

The IMMAF did not want
that
can of worms opened.

Dare nodded his acknowledgment of Yardley’s explanation. “As long as I get to have my say, I’ll buy that.”

“Good for you. And Mr. Oregon?”

After sneering at Dare, Holly’s ex scanned the faces around the table, paying closest attention to the stenographer, a willowy black girl of college age who kept looking away from his stare. Who could blame her? Oregon clearly wasn’t playing with a full deck. His eyes now seemed to droop a little whenever he turned his head. Whatever that meant. Nothing good.

“Mr. Oregon?”

“Huh? Oh yeah. Cool. I’m ready. Let’s hear this prick lie through his teeth.”

“You got that?” Dare addressed the stenographer, who didn’t stop typing but looked to Yardley for help.

The chairman gave her the greenlight, then turned to Oregon. “Let’s try to keep personal remarks out of this. We want to know what happened and why it happened. Nothing more. So who wants to start us off…?” Yardley glanced at his colleagues: three men and a redheaded woman, all in their forties or fifties.

The small, dour-looking woman with a nasal voice spoke first, saying, “I’d like to ask what prompted you to intervene at such a crucial moment in the match, Mr. Bowden? I mean, you’ve already told us you considered Mr. Oregon to be suffering psychologically. But we have ring officials to make those sorts of calls, don’t we? What made you want to overrule the judgment of trained professional ring staff? That’s what I’d like to know.”

And there it is! They want all my cards on the table. They want to know what I really think of professional referees in this sport. If they don’t know all about the corruption themselves, they’ve definitely heard the rumors, and they don’t want it splashed all over the media in a high-profile case. Maybe I have some clout here. But if I’m not careful, I could bury my career as well.

“It was a gut reaction, ma’am,” Dare replied. “Just like I’d have had in the Marine Corps if one of our men had been behaving erratically. In combat, it takes a soldier to tell if another soldier is struggling, if he’s a step or two behind. It’s no different in the ring. Only this time Trey Oregon was out on his feet. His legs had gone. He couldn’t defend himself properly. And he’d been acting strangely since early in the second round.”

“Lies. Fucking lies!” snapped Oregon. “Did you hear that shit? ‘Acting strangely,’ he says, when even the ref didn’t see a goddamn thing, and he was right there, two feet away.”

“Mr. Oregon. Thank you.” Yardley turned back to Dare. “In what way was he acting strangely?”

“I tell you what…run the video playback. Compare his behavior in the second and third rounds of that
fight with any of his previous fights. Tell me his brain wasn’t freewheeling—all that showboating, missing his punches by a mile, making basic mistakes, no coordination. Either he took a hard knock to the head sometime in the late first or early second, or he just came unglued. Either way, if you don’t see that as erratic behavior, you’ve no business officiating a sport like this. And when his legs went, there was no reason to let the fight go on. None.”

“So that’s why you intervened?” asked Yardley. “Because you thought the officials hadn’t spotted that he was in serious trouble?”

A leading question. The answer could bury me. And they’re steering the issue onto the officials, away from Oregon’s state of mind.

“Obviously they hadn’t spotted it, or they’d have stopped the fight. But when Boyega slapped that sleeper on him, it was obvious he wasn’t going to tap out. There was nobody home. He couldn’t defend himself. It went on and on, the crowd cheering, the ref just watching. Oregon was blank.” He ignored the hateful scoff and the muttered diatribe from across the table. “Where I come from, when you can see someone’s life is at risk like that, you don’t sit back and watch…you get in there and do something.”

“Again though, it is
a dangerous sport, Mr. Bowden—as you know,” said the redhead, stating the obvious. “Why break ring protocol to intervene when there was a paid official right there, inches from Mr. Oregon, ready to make that call if required? I think that’s the crucial point here. What made you so
certain
Mr. Oregon’s life was in jeopardy?”

The key phrase there is ‘paid official.’ They’re baiting me again, wanting me to cry corruption. Well, there’ll be a time for that. But it’s more important we get Oregon under the microscope here. Make them realize he’s a dangerous piece of shit.

“Certain?” Dare glimpsed his enemy across the table. Oregon was watching intently, hanging on every word, as he palmed a few drips of sweat from his temples. The guy was struggling to keep his fury under wraps, but apart from a couple of outbursts, he’d more or less succeeded so far. Maybe it was time to draw him out a little, let the IMMAF see how unbalanced he really was. “I think ‘certain’ is a dangerous word to use in a sport like this, ma’am. All we can do is use our eyes and our intuition, right? I mean, to me it looked like he wasn’t in his right mind, that he’d lost control of his faculties. His coordination had gone. But short of giving the guy a CAT scan in the middle of the ring, no one could be
certain
.”

“But isn’t that the point—”

“The point is,” he interrupted her, “that in a situation like that, when a man’s life is on the line, you err on the side of caution. And the officials weren’t doing that. Even now, you’re
still
not doing that.”

“Explain that, sir,” one of the other men said. He was curious, not angry.

“I mean that you’ve got a genuine head case sitting at this table and you’re droning on about technicalities.” No reaction from Oregon, not even a raised eyebrow, so Dare went on. “The question you should be asking is, why would a professional fighter with more ring experience than everyone at this table risk his career to protect someone he doesn’t even like? What did I have to gain by jumping into the ring like that? Anyone?”

No one responded.

“Just like I thought,” he continued. “The ref didn’t make the call, so I made it for him. You people want to fuck around when there’s a psych job snapping right in front of you, be my guest. But don’t try to burn
me
for doing something about it.”

Well, well. Not even that provoked a reaction from said nut job. Interesting. He knows how to cork it when he has to, but he is a time bomb. They have to know that.

“Like I keep saying: replay the fight, compare it to his other fights. And if you still can’t see what I saw, give Oregon a full psych evaluation. It’s the only way to be certain.” Dare thought about mentioning Holly in a roundabout way. Not her name, but the fact that there was a witness who could testify as to Oregon’s mental instability, a witness whose details he could give them in private. Not a good idea. Oregon would
know
who that witness was, and he’d likely try to finish the job he’d started the other morning. The evil prick. Bad enough he’d hit her like that, but—and not for the first time—he’d also frightened her so much that she refused to file charges against him, for fear of what he’d do. Which made it unlikely she would testify in this case.

Yardley cleared his throat. “Mr. Oregon?”

“Hmm?”

“
Were
you okay during the fight? Obviously you took some hard blows toward the end, but would you describe your performance as ‘erratic’, like Mr. Bowden suggests?”

“Oh, come on!” said Dare. “What’s he bound to say?”

“I think he deserves a chance to respond,” replied Yardley. “Observations and intuitions are one thing, but I’d like to hear from Mr. Oregon’s own point of view.”

The others nodded in agreement.

All Dare could think about was Holly’s sweet, beautiful face, now bruised and probably bloodied. She’d refused to see him since it had happened, but they’d texted each other and talked briefly on the phone. From what he could gather, Oregon had done a serious number on her. Not life-threatening injuries, at least not
this
time. However, what would happen when he finally did snap? The way he’d attacked Dare that day outside the gym showed that this was a mad dog they were dealing with, and it wouldn’t take much for jealous rage to turn homicidal.

A guy cracking like that could do one of two things: implode or explode. Either way, he could easily take somebody else with him. And these assholes were waiting for him to
admit
he was cracking up? Hell, that was like waiting for dynamite to tell you it was getting toasty…

Toasty.

Dare recalled the last time he’d heard that word. It took him back to one of the hottest days he’d ever experienced, in the Helmand Valley, Afghanistan. His unit was out on patrol, tasked with ensuring no enemy militia broke through one of the more accessible passes in the region. A sandstorm the previous day had completely changed the landscape. It had driven sand into soft, deep drifts as high as small dunes in some places; elsewhere, it had raked the top layer of dust and dirt from the flat ground, exposing bedrock and, here and there, the tell-tale signs of land mines close to being unearthed.

The relentless humidity and the noonday sun were oppressive. The bomb disposal unit had passed through several hours before and had marked a safe route through this area; they’d removed many of the landmines and would return to finish the job when they’d completed a pressing mission near a friendly outpost to the north. Dare and his longtime buddy in the Corps, Finn McCorkindale, had just finished their turn on point duty, a nerve-shredding job in a place like this, and damn it, they needed another drink. A quart of ice-cold Danish beer would be best, but tepid water from their canteens would have to suffice.