Trigger: An Alpha Bad Boy MMA Romance (17 page)

Chapter Forty Five

Roxy

I hadn’t really known what to expect when Travis and I turned up at ‘Uncle’ Frank’s club that night – but it sure wasn’t this.

Los Amigos
, the sign outside read, hanging above the door of the cozy Soho restaurant. “Spanish Tapas and Bar.”

Travis tipped the driver, and led me into the darkness of the restaurant – where we were greeted by gentle Spanish-style music played by a band up on stage, and the smell of delicious food.

A bouncer was waiting just inside the door, and as we stepped up to him he checked his list, and then ushered us past a sign that read: “Reserved for Private Event.”

On the other side, a banner hung overhead: “London Welcomes the MMA League” – and projectors on the walls played videos of famous fight moments, and swirling montages of the MMA League logo.

“Trigger! Ms. Roxy!”

A sharp bark cut across the room.

There was a crowd at the bar already, and from the midst of it emerged ‘Uncle’ Frank, in a gleaming sharkskin suit, with his white silk shirt open to his midriff.

“So pleased you could make it!” The grinning Londoner swaggered over, and shook Travis’ hand effusively. He then bent and planted wet kisses on both my cheeks – drowning me in the scent of his cologne.

“Thanks for the invite,” Travis peered suspiciously at the old Londoner. “We ain’t stayin’ for long. Got to catch up on my sleep for tomorrow, you dig?”

“Oh, I dig,” Frank nodded. He pounded Travis’ arm. “And you do what you have to, my son. But first, grab a drink. Mr. Blanc and the MMA League boys are over there, by the bar.”

He gestured towards the bar, where we spotted Dan Blanc sipping on a Budweiser, and James MacDonald holding court to an assembled group of fans, fight promoters and executives.

It’d been a long day, and the thought of an ice cold beer was exactly what I needed. Giving Frank a nod, I grabbed Travis’ elbow and tried to maneuver him towards the bar.

“Oi, before you go,” Frank grabbed Travis’ other elbow, and for a moment we were caught in a bizarre game of tug-o-war. “Give me a shout before you leave. I’d like to have a word with you.”

Frank looked back and forth shiftily.

“…in
private
, if you don’t mind.”

Travis stiffened when he heard that – and, truth be told, I didn’t blame him.

This ‘Uncle Frank’ character seemed like he was all smiles – but the two policemen who’d visited us that afternoon had given us reason to be suspicious.

Yet with nothing but a smile, Frank slipped off – schmoozing with other patrons of the club. That left me able to tug on Travis’ arm and lead him towards the bar.

“Travis! Roxy!”

There were more enthusiastic calls as we neared the bar. James MacDonald, clutching a Scotch in one hand, and the waist of Toni Rome in the other, welcomed us into his clutch of acquaintances.

“Now, I thought you promised me you were headin’ to bed with a glass of milk,” Dan Blanc snorted, as he shook Travis hand and made room for him at the bar.

“I’ll be in bed nice and early,” Travis promised, as he accepted a bottle of Diet Coke from the bar. “There’ll be plenty of time for celebrating after I win.”

“That’s the spirit.” Dan pounded him on the shoulder.

“Travis, old man,” James snapped for my lover’s attention. “There’s somebody I’d like you to meet.” And he gestured towards a small, grey-haired man standing next to him, clutching a glass of whiskey even bigger than his own.

“Danny Evans,” the small man offered his hand. His accent was unusual – an almost sing-song dialect halfway between England and Irish. “Although most folks call me Taffy.”

“This little Welsh bastard’s my trainer,” James slapped the smaller man on the shoulder. “One of the best in the business.”

“One of?” Taffy scoffed.

“Anyway,” James ignored him. “I know you don’t have much in the way of a corner team – so I thought I’d offer him to you.”

Travis and I exchanged glances.

“Well, you’re his trainer, right?” The little Welshman gave me a wink. “Who’s gonna carry your stool, and bags of ice tomorrow night?”

This whole thing had happened so quickly that Travis and I hadn’t even thought if that – we’d just planned to wing it on the night.”

“I cleared it with Dan,” James promised, giving the owner of the MMA League a reverential nod. “He’s square. After all, I’m just commentating tomorrow night – so it’s not like I need Taffy for
that
.”

“And I’ve seen you fight,” Taffy snapped at Travis, gazing up at the towering Texan. “Not bad – for a yank.”

Travis snorted.

“I’m from
Texas
,” he corrected. “Some folks might take offense at being called a ‘Yankee’ down there.”

“Well, none intended,” Taffy patted Travis on the arm. “But my services are available if you want ‘em.”

“Yes, please,” I answered. “Look, this whole thing happened so fast, and…”

…and I didn’t want to admit that I’d never served in the corner of a real, live MMA fight before.

“Well, look,” James grinned, sipping his Scotch. “We’ll hammer out the details at my place, after this debacle.” He looked up, as more guests started pouring past the bouncer. “We’d all better go and schmooze in the meantime. I know Frank Slater’s pulled out all the stops for tonight’s event, and we don’t want to disappoint.”

“Ha!” Taffy snorted, draining his whiskey, and gesturing to the bartender for another. “That old mobster’s expecting a lot more than a few handshakes and photographs.”

But then he saw the suspicious looks Dan Blanc and James were giving him, and shut up.

“Look, Frank’s gonna want me to say a few words in a minute,” Dan Blanc drained his beer. “Why don’t you come up with me, Travis? Get the crowd fired up.”

And he started leading Travis towards the front of the room.

I didn’t know what to do. Should I follow him?

But then somebody I’d hardly spoken to step forward, and curled her arm around mine.

“C’mon, sugar,” purred the familiar American accent of James’ girlfriend, Toni Rome. “Let’s go and get some food – leave the boys to swing their dicks about.”

And with my stomach rumbling, I gratefully let this gorgeous woman lead me off towards the
tapas
buffet.

Chapter Forty Six

Travis

“Ladies and gentlemen,” grinned Dan Blanc, as stepped onto the stage overlooking the nightclub, and accepted the microphone that was handed to him. “Thanks so much for coming tonight – to the launch part of the first, ever international MMA League event.”

There were a good two hundred people gathered in Los Amigos now, and a smattering of applause as they listened to the president of the league speak.

I was stood to the side of the speech, looking up at the league president addressed the crowd.

“Tomorrow night’s going to be a historic occasion,” Dan continued. “It’ll be the first official MMA League event here in London – but definitely
not
the last.”

The applause was a lot more enthusiastic that time.

“I’ll let you go and enjoy the food and drink in a moment,” Dan grinned, “but before I do, I just want to thank ‘Uncle’ Frank Slater for tonight’s event, and helping this whole thing happen.”

There was more applause as Frank swaggered onto the stage, looking every bit the mobster in his gaudy suit.

Dan handed him the microphone, and Frank grinned as he announced: “Thank you, thank you!”

The applause died down.

“Now, those of you that know me,” there was a titter of laughter across the crowd – since some of the less-salubrious patrons clearly
did
know Frank’s sketchy reputation. “…know that I’ve been promoting boxing for nearly thirty years. But the MMA League is something different – not least of which ‘cos
my own son
is going to be competing tomorrow night.”

There was more applause, and from the side of the stage stepped up the looming, dangerous face of Frankie Slater, junior.

The sleek and menacing young man looked just as sketchy as his old man – dressed in an expensive suit, with his shirt open nearly to his waist.

“I’m proud of you, boy,” Frank winked at his son. “I’m looking forward to sendin’ you off to America to continue your career.”

More tepid applause.

“But before that happens, I’d like to thank this young man, here.”

Frank turned to me, and I flushed self-consciously as a room full of eyes turned to stare in my direction.

“Young Travis, here, agreed to take the fight with my boy tomorrow night on
very
short notice, after that unfortunate…” he gulped dryly, “…
accident
took Andy Mackey off the roster.”

There was no applause this time – almost as if the rest of crowd knew that there was nothing ‘accidental’ about what had happened.

Frank continued regardless.

“…so, on behalf of my boy and me, I’d like to thank Travis for bein’ a good sport.” He clapped his hands in applause, and gestured towards me. “Sorry you had to come this far to
lose
tomorrow.”

The crowd turned to face me, looking for my reaction – but I wasn’t about give ‘Uncle’ Frank any satisfaction.

Forcing my widest, charming grin, I called out in retort:

“No offense to you or your boy, Mr. Slater – but I ain’t intendin’ to lose tomorrow night.”

And there were gasps, and whispers from the crowd – and then they all burst out into the most enthusiastic applause of the night.

Up on stage, Uncle Frank almost reeled when he heard to response to what I’d said. The old man blinked, and clutched the mic stand like it was supporting him.

Then – only after taking a moment to compose himself – did he utter a forced laugh into the mic, and announced: “We’ll see, Travis. We’ll see.”

And then he let go of the mic, and climbed off the stage – his swagger very much diminished by what had happened.

I stood there and watched him go, with an uncertain sensation in my stomach. It was very clear from Uncle Frank’s reaction that he hadn’t expected me to say what I did.

But what did the old Limey bastard expect? I came here to England to
fight
and
win
. And for the first time, it wasn’t just my pride on the line.

My dad. My career. Shit, even Roxy’s gym was on the table; and I risked losing them all if I didn’t win tomorrow night.

And it’d take a lot more than Uncle Frank’s warm welcome to make me jeopardize all that.

Even as I stood there, pondering all that, there was a cough from behind me.

I turned around, and found myself looking down at one of Frank’s bouncers – a tubby little guy in a tight, black suit.

“Mr. Oates,” he growled, in a thick London accent. “Uncle Frank would like a word with you…”

“Well, I’m right here…” I countered.

“…in
private
. In his office.”

And, with that, the bouncer jerked his head towards a wooden door on the other side of the room, marked
Private
.

I glanced over to the bar, where James MacDonald was back talking to Taffy and Dan Blanc.

And then, looking over at the buffet line, I spotted Roxy conversation with James’ sexy girlfriend, Toni.

None of them were even looking in my direction. I was alone.

“Mr. Oates?” The bouncer’s voice was a little more insistent – stressing that this was a summons, not an invitation.

For the first time since I’d come to London, something seemed weird. I felt butterflies in my stomach.

“Sure.” Turning to the bouncer, I forced myself to grin. “Let’s go and see what the old bastard wants.”

And, feigning confidence, I followed him towards Uncle Frank’s office.

Chapter Forty Seven

Roxy

Of course, I’d known who Toni Rome was before I’d met her. Pretty much everybody in America did.

She was an award-winning musical artist – one of Los Angeles’ biggest stars, and the high-profile girlfriend of James MacDonald.

He’d stolen her from his own rival, Hannibal ‘Baller’ Alexander, and that made this interracial couple a constant fixture in headlines and news stories across the country.

So, shit, yes, I knew who Toni Rome was. I’d just never expected to actually meet her.

And yet here she was, leading me arm-in-arm to the buffet line.

And, up close?

Damn
.

America’s ‘hip hop honey’ was a pint-sized and curvaceous little doll, with chocolate brown skin and huge, sexy eyes.

Dressed in an elegant Donna Karen wrap dress, she looked just as good as she did on those platinum album covers, or in the sexy music videos I saw on YouTube.

And here she was, talking with
me
– just some regular girl from Nowheresville, Texas.

“So, sugar,” Toni winked, as we reached the food. My stomach rumbled, and I started loading up a plate with tapas. “I’m kinda liking the angle you’ve got playing with this whole thing?”

Angle?

I paused, a shrimp sticking out of my mouth, and repeated exactly that.

“My angle?”

Although it came out more like: “Mpugh Mhugngle?”

Toni laughed, and it was musical. With her huge eyes gleaming, she flashed her teeth and asked: “This whole ‘trainer’ thing.” She jerked her head towards where Travis had been standing a few moments earlier. “Are you trying to tell me you’re really his
trainer
?”

I finished chewing my shrimp.

“Well,
sure
,” I fired back. “Shit, Travis has been going to my dad’s martial arts school,” I still couldn’t bear to refer to it as ‘my’ school, “for nearly twenty years.”

Toni looked up at me dubiously.

“Are you for real?” Plucking up a shrimp, she seductively sucked the melted butter off it. “
You
taught homeboy all that funky shit he does in the octagon?”

I felt my cheeks burn.

“Well, we trained together for years,” I stammered – and yet, even as I said that, I felt indignation burning inside of me. “And, for what it’s worth, I
kicked his butt
on the mats the night before we left.”

Toni’s sexy lips curled.

“I bet you did, sugar,” she purred. “And I wasn’t trying to call you out. I was just surprised when his trainer turned out to be,” she paused, “well, a
girl
.” Biting the head off the shrimp, Toni admitted: “There isn’t much room for girls in this MMA business. Not unless they’re there to stand around and look pretty.”

I shook my head.

“Well, I guess that’s true enough. But, I mean, there are female fighters.” I thought of the top female fighter in the league, Canadian sensation Billie George. “They’re pretty legit.”

“Yeah, but sugar,” Toni leaned in close, “even the female fighters have
male
trainers.”

She looked me up and down, and my cheeks burned again. Here was internationally-acclaimed musician and sometimes model Toni Rome peering at me, as I stood there in the only jeans and t-shirt I’d had time to pack.

“I just wanted to know if you were the real deal,” she explained, nodding in satisfaction as she looked me up and down, “or just doing this to show off. Some kind of ‘girls-can-do-it-just-as-well-as-boys-can’ bullshit for the papers.”

I was getting tired of the questioning.

“Well, you’ll have to ask Travis about that,” I told her. “I mean, maybe he brought me with him because I’m a chick. Maybe he did it because there wasn’t anybody else available,” that one was probably closest to the truth, to be honest, “but when he wins that fight tomorrow night, nobody’s going to be talking about
why
he chose to call me his trainer. Only that he
did
.”

Toni looked up at me, and her sexy brown eyes widened.

“Damn, girl,” she purred, lips curling. “That’s the kind of spunk we need.” And then she reached over, and squeezed my arm.

There was nothing flirtatious about it, but it was curiously gentle and sensuous, compared to all the macho handshakes and back-slapping I’d had to endure so far.

“Let’s just hope your boy wins tomorrow night,” Toni purred. “For
all
our sakes.”

I opened my mouth to respond to that, but I didn’t get a chance.

Suddenly, a shadow loomed over Toni’s shoulder, and two broad arms enveloped her tiny waist.

It was James MacDonald, wrapping his burly arms around her, and then nuzzling his head into her neck.

Toni giggled, as she was assaulted with kisses.

“Shit, Jimmy,” she squirmed, as he planted nibbles along her shoulders. “Not in public, man. You’re
embarrassing
me.”

So, reluctantly, James lifted his head – and with his arms still wrapped around his girlfriend, asked me: “You want to get out of here?”

Get out of here? Where were we going to go?

“My flat’s not far from here,” James answered my unspoken questions, “and I figured we could chat.” He raised himself up, and glanced suspiciously around
Los Amigos
.

“Not that Uncle Frank’s been anything other than a gentleman to us,” the Scotsman purred, “but for some reason, I’d feel more confident chatting…
alone
.”

Alone?

From the way he said it, I started to wonder just what James ‘Bulldog’ MacDonald could
possibly
be so interested in chatting about.

“I’ll ask Travis.” But even as I turned around to find him, I realized that I hadn’t seen my lover in quite some time.

Los Amigos wasn’t that big, and there can’t have been more than two hundred people in the joint.

Just where in the hell had Trigger
gone
?