Trigger: An Alpha Bad Boy MMA Romance (18 page)

Chapter Forty Eight

Travis

I’d been pretty impressed by the décor of
Los Amigos
– but compared the restaurant outside, the stylish interior of Frank Slater’s office was
off the hook
.

As the bouncer led me into office, I whistled in awe.

Hardwood floors. Wooden beams overhead. A sturdy, mahogany desk, with shelves of leather-lined books across the entire wall.

There was even a bust of some fat guy in the corner – a man I recognized as legendary British prime minister Winston Churchill.

And that’s where I found Uncle Frank – peering into the sightless eyes of the statue, with his back to the door.

The bouncer coughed respectfully.

“Here’s here, boss.”

And that’s when Uncle Frank wheeled around.

He wagged his hand at the bouncer, wordlessly telling him to scram. Then, with a smile, he ushered me forward.

“Travis, my son,” the Londoner grinned. “Good to see you. You having a good time tonight?”

I shrugged non-committedly.

“It’s a nice place you’ve got here,” I responded. “And y’all have been real friendly to me.”

“Good, good,” Frank nodded. He crossed over to a drinks cabinet in the corner, and sloshed two inches of Knob Creek into a tumbler.

“Bourbon?” The old Londoner offered me the glass. “It’s the Single Barrel Reserve. Had it flown in from Kentucky.”

I raised my hand.

“Not for me, sir. Not the night before a fight.”

Frank pursed his lips.

“Suit yourself.”

He sipped the bourbon, and crossed the room to his desk. The old wooden chair creaked as he eased himself into it.

“Take a seat, my boy.”

I stared at the chair opposite him.

“If it’s okay, I’d rather stand.” I jerked my thumb towards the door. “Got my girl and my friends waitin’ for me. Don’t want to be long.”

Frank stared at me through narrowed eyes, but stayed cool.

“Fair enough.” He laid his glass down on the coaster. “I’ll get right to business, then.”

From the top drawer of his desk, he pulled out a check book. Then, with an ornate fountain pen, he scribbled across it.

The paper rasped as he tore the check out.

“Here. This is for you.”

He tossed the check across the desk.

I stared at the paper, as it lay on the leather surface of the desk. In neat handwriting, it read: “£50,000.”

My math wasn’t that great, but at today’s exchange rate, that was nearly seventy thousand bucks.

“I… I don’t understand, Mr. Slater.”

Frank snorted.

“Don’t just stare at it. Pick it up, son. It’s
yours
.”

Those butterflies were back, churning around in my stomach. I should have listened to the cops. Something screwy was going on.

“Sir,” I repeated, “I don’t understand. It’s the MMA League that’s payin’ me – and not a hair’s breadth near
that
much.”

The chair creaked as Uncle Frank sat back in it.

“Exactly, my son,” the old Londoner grinned. “They’re asking a lot of you. Flyin’ you out here on a two days’ notice. Expecting you to go up against my boy in the octagon, and
lose
.”

Frank’s finger pressed down on the check, and he slid it two inches closer to me.

“I figure that’s just a little something – to
treat you right
, like.”

I snorted.

“Well, that’s real kind of you, Mr. Slater – but you don’t owe me a thing. I’m just happy for the opportunity.” And then I narrowed my eyes. “And, for what it’s worth, I ain’t intending to
lose
tomorrow night.”

Frank lifted his finger from the check, and settled back in his creaking chair.

“Is that right, son?”

“Sure is, sir.”

Frank snorted out of his nostrils.

“Look, there’s no shame in it. Losing, I mean. After all, they flew you in here with
no
prep time, and coming off the back of two previous loses…”

He left the rest of that sentence unsaid… But started a new one:

“Not to boast, but my boy Frankie ain’t exactly a pushover. You’ve seen the videos of Junior up in the octagon. He’s a fucking
monster
.”

And that was true enough. Whatever you said about the fight tomorrow night, ‘pushover’ wasn’t it.

“Well, that’s all true,” I replied coolly, “but I’m still gonna do my best. There’s a lot at stake for me tomorrow – and as kind as it is, your ‘gift’ wouldn’t be right.”

Frank stared up at me, and the smile faded from his face.

“Take the fucking check, son.”

“
No
,” I held up my hand. “It wouldn’t be right.”

There was a scrape as Frank pushed his chair back. He clambered from his seat, and reached across the desk to an intercom.

“Send my boy in,” he hissed into the speaker.

I wheeled around, just in time to see the door to the office swing open, and Frankie Junior swagger in.

Even in his suit, the kid was a monster. I ain’t exactly the nervous type, but I nearly took a step back when he lurched in.

And behind Frank’s son came two of his bouncers – both stocky and out of shape, but still not the kind of people you’d want to get on the wrong side of.

“Here!” Uncle Frank picked up the check, and crossed to my side of the desk. “Be smart.
Take the fucking check
.”

He held the offensive piece of paper up to me, but I refused to take it.

“Look,
here’s the deal
, son,” Frank growled. “Everybody’s expecting you to lose tomorrow night. The bookies. The pundits. Even your beloved Dan Blanc said so.”

Ouch. That hurt. I mean, I knew I was the underdog – but it stung to think the president of the MMA League flew me all the way to London just to watch me lose.

“
Take the check
,” Frank repeated, “and then at least you can feel
good
about losing.” He waggled the piece of paper in front of me. “That’s fifty grand there, son. That’s not exactly chump change.
Think what you could do with it
.”

And, shit. The worst part? I
was
thinking about it.

Pay off Red. Get my dad out of that shitbox trailer. Even pay off Roxy’s debts, and get X-AMERICA out of trouble.

But at what cost?

“Listen, Uncle Frank,” I was acutely aware of the three lumbering thugs behind me, so I kept it civil. “It ain’t that I don’t
appreciate
the offer. It’s just I want to keep things square. I’m gonna fight tomorrow night, and I’m gonna
win
. And then I’m going back onto the MMA League roster, and getting’ my career back.”

Frank snorted.

For long moments, he just stared at me, incredulous. And then he took the check he was offering, and tore it into little bits.

They fluttered to the floorboards like snowflakes.

“I was worried you’d say that,” Frank growled.

Shaking his head, he walked back to his desk and picked up his half-finished whiskey.

“When Dan Blanc suggested finding an American to replace Andy tomorrow night, I was worried they’d find some earnest little shit like you.” He turned and looked at me with a frown. “Some red, white and blue little dipshit from Bumblefuck, Texas, with ideas above his station.”

My eyes widened when I heard that.

“Look, tomorrow night’s important to you, right?” Frank growled. “Last chance to get your career back, and all that. But look at it from
my
perspective.”

He pointed a gnarled finger towards Frankie Junior.

“Look at my boy there. All he’s
ever
wanted is a shot at the big time. And tomorrow night’s his chance. If he wins that fight, he’s off to Vegas. Into the MMA League proper. Fuck, he might even be up against that posh knob MacDonald in a year’s time.”

I blinked, as I listened to this.

“That’s
all
my boy wanted, and you have
no idea
how
fucking hard
I’ve worked for it.”

Frank drained his bourbon.

“I sponsored the league. I flew you fucking yanks over here, and got the goddamn O2 arena for your event. I basically handed you
the entire British market
for your shitty little sports league and all I ask in return is
one fucking fight
.”

The empty glass plonked down onto the desk. Frank turned, and pointed an accusing finger at me.

“Andy Mackey wouldn’t throw the fight, so I threw him in front of a fucking car.”

Fuck. So the penny dropped. That’s what had happened to the guy originally scheduled to fight Frankie. Just as we’d all suspected, it wasn’t an ‘accident’ that wound him up in hospital.

“And
you
? You washed up cowpoke? I hoped you’d be smart, and take the fucking money. But if I have to do to you what I did to Andy,
so fucking be it
.”

And from behind me, I heard the bouncers crack their knuckles.

My heart raced. I wheeled around, and saw that Frankie and his two little buddies were fanning out – taking positions to make sure I had nowhere to run to.

“So, I’m gonna ask you
one last time
, ‘Trigger’,” Frank growled. “Are you gonna take the fucking money, or
what
?”

For a second, I thought I was done for. What a way to end my career – taken out by crooks in London, after I’d narrowly escaped the same fate back in Freeport.

But then I took a deep breath, and saw my chance.

I looked Frank dead in the eye, and hissed: “I choose the ‘
what
’.”

Frank blinked.

He clearly hadn’t expected that.

“You asked me ‘
or what
’,” I repeated, “and
that’s
my choice. Because like it or not, you’re not gonna lift a damn finger against me.”

Frank blinked again.

“The fight’s
tomorrow night
,” I hissed. “You think you’re gonna find a replacement fighter by then?
Another
one?”

The blood drained from Frank’s face.

“You said tomorrow’s fight is Junior’s chance to get to America. Well, he won’t get that chance if he doesn’t fight.”

I allowed the corner of my lips to curl.

“…and if you hurt me, he won’t
get
to fight.”

There was silence in the office.

I watched Frank’s wizened face as the reality of the situation dawned on him.

I was right, of course. Frankie Junior needed to win tomorrow’s fight – but there wouldn’t even
be
a fight without me.”

Finally, after long moments of silence, I watched Uncle Frank’s shoulders slump in defeat.

“Fine,” he growled. “Fucking
fine
.” Shaking his head, he headed over to the drinks cabinet, and sloshed another two inches of bourbon into his empty glass. “You want it to be like that?
So be it
.”

And then, back to his dangerous self, Frank wheeled around.

“Tomorrow night, I guess my boy’s gonna have to beat you the
old-fashioned way
.” And I heard Frankie Junior crack his knuckles behind me. “And believe me, ‘Trigger’ Oates. I’m gonna
enjoy watching that
.”

I blinked, stunned, as I heard his words.

“Now,
get the fuck out of my office
,” Frank sneered. “And if you breathe a word of this to
anybody
, so help me – they’ll be sending you back to America in a fucking
shoebox
.”

Chapter Forty Nine

Roxy

“Jesus, Travis – where the hell have you been?”

I found my lover wandering across the crowded restaurant like a zombie, almost oblivious to the raucous crowd surrounding him.

I don’t know where he’d disappeared for half an hour – but in that time drinks had flowed, shots had been downed – and the formal MMA launch event had turned into a real party.

Travis paused as I grabbed his elbow, and turned to look down at me.

Shit, he was as pale as a ghost.

“What the fucked happened, Travis? Where did you disappear off to?”

Travis shook his head.

“I don’t think you’d believe me if I told you.” And then he looked around nervously. “And I couldn’t tell you
here
, anyway.”

“Well, that ain’t a problem,” I started leading him towards the door. “James MacDonald’s got a car waiting for us. We’re all going to his place.”

If Travis had opinion about that plan, he didn’t show it. Instead, he just allowed me to lead him to the door – through the crowd of partiers and fight fans.

Dan Blanc reared out of the crowd before we got to the door – clearly a few beers sloshing around inside of him.

“Yo, Travis,” the league president grinned. “You duckin’ out?” He gave me a grin. “In bed early, with a glass of milk. That was the deal, right?”

I glanced at the clock above the door. It was already too late to make the ‘in bed early’ part of that promise.

“Don’t you worry,” Travis found his voice, shaking himself out of his stunned stupor. “I’ll be
ready
for tomorrow night.”

And then he turned, and peered across the room to where Uncle Frank, Junior and the rest of his cohorts were laughing and slapping each other on the back.

“I’m gonna be ready, Mr. Blanc,” Travis growled. “And I’m gonna
win
.”

*              *              *

Moments later, we were emerging from
Los Amigos
into the cool London evening.

“Oi! Over here!”

Taffy was standing by a black London cab, holding the door open. He ushered us in. “C’mon, boyo! The meter’s running.”

I dragged Travis along behind me, and he ducked his head as he clambered into the back of the taxi.

“Evening!”

Inside, crammed into the row of seats, were James MacDonald and Toni Rome. Toni had to practically sit on James to give us room to squeeze in – but from the way she was squirming in his lap, neither of them minded at all.

“Driver,” James barked, as Travis and I clambered into the seats next to them, “take us to Cheyne Walk, Chelsea.”

The driver nodded: “Yes, guv’” and the taxi was rolling off even before Taffy had slammed shut the door behind him.

“So what’s the story?” I looked up at Travis, who was still looking pale and stunned. “What happened back at the restaurant?”

“Yeah,” James leaned in closer. “Are you okay, old man? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Travis gulped, and turned to the assembled group.

“Frank Slater dragged me into his office,” he explained, his voice flat and emotionless. “And then he offered me money to
throw the fight
.”

*              *              *

It didn’t take long for the taxi to deposit us on a ritzy street in a part of London called Chelsea.

Just like how New York and London both shared a bohemian district, Soho, there were similarities between the gorgeous redbrick houses in his historic district, and the high-rent brownstones and apartments of New York.

We clambered out of the cab, and James handed over cash to the cabbie. Then we all staggered down the path into the old, terraced house, and James threw open the door.

“Okay,” the Scotsman announced, as he led everybody into a beautifully appointed living room. “Who’s for some Scotch?” And then, wheeling around to address Travis, he asked: “Can I pour you one?”

Travis stood there, towering over everybody, and murmured: “Yeah. Actually, yeah.” There was a sofa nearby, and he flumped into it gratefully. “I know it’s the night before a fight, and all… but I kinda think I need it.”

MacDonald nodded, and wordlessly poured Travis two inches of amber liquid from an ornate decanter.

As he passed the Texan the glass, little Taffy Evans spoke up:

“So, are you serious, boyo? That bastard Slater asked you to
throw the fight
?”

Travis slurped down half the glass, and let the alcohol sear its way down his throat, before replying: “Yeah. Yeah, he
did
.”

I crossed the room and sat down next to Travis, squeezing his hand as he sipped his Scotch.

“And… what did you tell him?”

Travis turned to me, his eyes wide.

“Jesus, Roxy. I told him
no
. No fucking way.” Draining his Scotch, Travis growled: “I didn’t come all this way to
lose
.”

“Well, Frankie Junior’s a mean little bastard,” Taffy warned, as he accepted his own glass of Scotch. “So that might not be up to you.”

“Well, in that case I’ll lose of my
own free will
,” Travis growled, offering up his glass for a refill. “I ain’t takin’ a dive for
nobody
.”

“Just out of curiosity,” James perched on the edge of the sofa, looking tall, and lean, and handsome, “how much did ‘Uncle’ Frank offer you to throw the fight?”

Travis snorted: “Fifty grand.”

“American dollars, or British quid?” Taffy asked – and when the room turned to him accusingly, he snapped defensively: “Hey, the exchange rate makes a big difference!”

“But it doesn’t,” Travis growled. “I wouldn’t throw the fight for a
million
bucks.” He took a shuddering breath. “This is my last chance to get my career back. To do right by my dad.”

And then he turned to me, and squeezed my hand.

“…and by you, Roxy.”

I smiled, and squeezed his hand back.

“But, I don’t get it,” Toni purred, lounging back on an armchair like a sleek and sexy kitten. “What’s the point? I mean, fifty grand’s a lot of money. I don’t care how many bookies he’s got working for him; he’ll never make that back.”

“It’s not about the money,” James straightened up, and crossed the room towards his girlfriend. “Frank Slater’s rolling in it. Fifty grand to him is loose change.”

“So? Why does he want Travis to throw the fight?”

“Because he wants his boy to win,” Travis answered that one. “He wants that deadbeat son of his to go and fight in America. He’s just being a doting dad – giving his spoiled little brat anything he wants.”

“And he doesn’t care whose career he kills in the process,” Roxy sighed.

“Well, look,” James said sternly, “it’s clear what we’ve got to do. We go to Dan Blanc tomorrow. Tell him everything. Frank Slater might have given the MMA League it’s foothold here in Britain – but if the fight circuit’s going to be linked to that kind of corruption, it’s not a foothold worth having.”

“Wait.” Travis held up his hand. “Not tomorrow. Not until
after
the fight.”

When we all stared incredulously at Travis, he explained.

“This is my
one shot
, guys. I win this fight, I’m back in the league. If I don’t…”

He left the rest of the sentence unsaid.

For a moment, there was silence in the room. Then, softly, James MacDonald started laughing.

Travis narrowed his eyes, and barked: “What’s so fucking funny?”

But James didn’t stop laughing.

“I’ll tell you what’s funny,” the Scotsman purred, sipping his drink. “Since you arrived in London, everybody’s been telling you you’re going to lose. Dan Blanc. Frank Slater. Bloody hell, even Taffy told you it might happen a couple of minutes ago.”

“Yeah,” Travis growled, clearly unimpressed by this statement. “So what. I’m the underdog. But I
know
I can come out on top.”

“Well, that’s just
it
, mate,” James leaned forward. “You’ve got all these people telling you you’re going to lose. But if that was
really
the case, then Uncle Frank wouldn’t be offering you fifty thousand quid to
make sure of it
.”

Travis’ eyes widened, as the truth of what James MacDonald was saying sunk home.

“All the people who matter aren’t worried you’re going to lose, Travis. They’re worried you
won’t
. And for better or worse, that means you’re in with a
chance
.”

Travis drained his second glass of whiskey, and clambered to his feet.

“A chance is
all I need
,” he promised. “And tomorrow night, I’ll
fucking prove it
.”