Diablo's Throne MMA Books 1-3

by HJ Bellus

  Jag holds up a pink box of doughnuts in the front seat. “We got you, girlie.”

  I lie back on Cruz’s chest and sob.

  Chapter 6

  Layla

  We’re at the same corner in the same bar, but this time Jag and Riot join us. When I excuse myself to the bathroom, Cruz follows me there. When I peer into the mirror, I gasp at the dark makeup running down my face. I use cold water and the harsh paper towel to wipe it away, leaving me with a rosy red face.

  My short black dress still has grass and mud stains adorning it. I try my best to wipe away the memory.

  “Hey.” Cruz nods when I open the door to the bathroom.

  “Everything hurts. It hurts to think, breathe, and walk.”

  “Come on.” He holds his hand out.

  I take it without thinking twice. It’s been my crutch. The doughnut box is open on the table, bordered with full shot glasses. I grab one and down it without thinking, then two more. I pluck a sugar-glazed doughnut from the box and stuff my mouth.

  “What’s Dad doing?” I ask, spraying sugar in every direction.

  “This.” Jag points. “Minus the doughnuts with a few punching bags.”

  “Is he alone?”

  Jag looks hurt by my question. “Have more faith in the Diablos, girlie.”

  “You brutes better have his back, or I’ll chop nuts.” More sugar sprays in a glorious fashion.

  “We’ve got both of your backs and don’t forget that,” Jag counters.

  I shrug. “Love you, guys. And I know I’m putting a damper on your pussy palooza.”

  Cruz chokes on a gulp of water and Jag smiles wide.

  “With a cock like this,” Jag grabs his junk, “there ain’t no stopping my game. Natural born motherfucking champion.”

  We all erupt in laughter, and it feels good for the briefest of seconds. Jag’s always good at making intense situations lighter. I love him for that.

  I down a shot, acknowledging his comment and knowing it to be the dead honest truth. He’s a manwhore. I’m trashed when I notice Cruz push away the tray of shots and shove an ice-cold glass of water in front of me. So, what do I do? Chug that shit like it’s whiskey that’s going to keep me numb.

  When my personal anthem begins blaring through the jukebox in the corner, I hop to my feet. In my mind, it’s graceful, but I’m drunk, not dumb, and I know I nearly topple to the ground. It’s the ass in my hand that stops me from eating shit.

  Cruz blushes and nods before he removes it then not so discreetly adjusts his jeans where I can only imagine his monster cock is. I grab a maple bar from the box and begin belting out the words to “Don’t Stop Believin’” by Journey. My hips sway back and forth, and you bet your sweet ass I nail each word. In my head, I’m pretty much a Madonna or Cher, but the looks I’m getting tell a different story.

  My foot taps along with the song while it builds up to a faster beat. I even add in a bit of air guitar with my doughnut. Once I get back to singing, my other hand begins adding actions like I did when I was a little girl on my bed bouncing up and down on it.

  I hop over to a chair nearby, really getting into the song building up to the big chorus. I have the attention of the whole bar cheering me on. I mean, who doesn’t like a drunk fool who thinks she can sing and dance? I feel a hand on my leg then a loud growl. Cruz has shoved a man back and stands guard at my feet. He glides his hand up the length of my calf and it takes everything inside of me to focus on the song and not his touch.

  I swing my hips a little faster along with the rest of my body while singing and letting loose. I laugh like a lunatic when the song ends, and the crowd goes wild. I do my best to give them a nod and bow for my finale. Cruz holds his arms up and I leap into them like any other rock star would crowd surf.

  My arms loop around his neck and legs around his waist. When I pull back and look him in the eye, we are face to face with our lips lined up perfectly. My mouth starves to meet his. The desire is like I’ve never wanted anything in my life. I lick my lips.

  “Kiss me,” I whisper.

  “Layla, you’re drunk.”

  “I’ve wanted you to kiss me for a week now.”

  He bites down on his bottom lip and closes his eyes. I can sense the internal struggle he’s battling right now, so I take my opportunity. Ironic how this man is a beast and a wicked fighter but honorable in the way he treats me. I crash my lips to his, kissing him hard. I move my lips along his then dart out my tongue along the seam of his lips. It takes him a few moments to open up, and when he does, he takes complete control, devouring me. Our heads tilt to the right angle, making it possible to explore each other.

  “Fucking fighters must be in your blood.”

  The sound of his voice sends ice water coursing through my veins. I turn to see Ash standing behind us with Shelby on his arm. This isn’t his type of establishment at all. Did he follow us here?

  “Get the fuck away from here,” Jag growls.

  He steps up closer with anger on his face. It’s clear his arch nemesis walked in, and he’s going to protect his family at all costs. It’s sad everything has gone to shit between Ash and myself, but it’s cold hard truth, and seeing Shelby on his arm is the fucking icing on the shit cake of my life.

  I feel Cruz stiffen while holding me. He growls then sets me down, making sure I’m steady on my feet before he steps in front of me acting as a human shield.

  “You heard him. Leave.” Cruz’s voice sounds so vicious that chills strike through my drunken stupor.

  “The new pretty boy in town. Boss already has you pounding his daughter?” Ash pipes up.

  Cruz lunges forward, pulling his arm back, ready to throttle Ash’s pretty boy face.

  Jag grabs Cruz by the collar. “Not here. Save it for the ring. You know Boss’ rules. No fighting outside the fucking cage. This douche isn’t worth fucking up your career, Cruz.”

  I back up when Jag pushes Cruz’s large frame back. The two men are different weight classes, but Jag’s determination is overpowering him even though Cruz’s size could crush him.

  “My new fiancée and my father’s new fiancée wanted to come here. Didn’t know Diablo’s had such pull to rule local dive bars, but then again, local dive bar is probably right up the local scum’s alley.”

  “Fuck off, Ash,” I blurt out.

  “My dad’s fiancée loved this place when she used to live here. Guess she was feeling nostalgic tonight.”

  “Your old man buy another mail order bride? Only women who will put up with his micro penis.” Jag spits the words out with venom in his voice.

  Ash’s dad takes this moment to step up. He looks like Ash, but with salt and pepper hair and wrinkles at the corner of his eyes. Then it happens. His fiancée steps out from behind him. I stop breathing and feel my knees give out in a flash.

  My mother stands before me. She’s as gorgeous as she was when I was little and a mirror image of the picture on my father’s nightstand. She’s aged well…even more gorgeous than I remember.

  Anger and rage boil up inside me. How dare they? Why in the fuck is she here and why now? My legs grow steady. I sober up in the blink of an eye.

  “You fucking son of a bitch.”

  I raise a fist and swing as hard as I can. It connects with Ash’s smug face. I get a chance to swing it again before I’m pulled back. I feel the bones in my hands crack and don’t give a shit. I keep swinging even though my arms aren’t long enough.

  I begin kicking my legs and connect with Ash’s dick since he’s bent over and already in pain.

  “Letting girls kick your ass, Ash?” Jag says between laughter. “Dude, your vagina is showing.”

  Jag’s right up in Ash’s face, taunting him over and over again.

  “Cruz is going to kill you in Vegas, baby.”

  The last line registers, but I don’t have the time to fully process it. Cruz and Ash projected to fight for the title in Vegas. It’s all too much at the moment.

 
I never make eye contact with my mother but catch Ash spitting blood out of the corner of my eye. My entire body shakes with fury even while encased in Cruz’s arms.

  “Rub a tampon on it, pussy.” Jag flicks his chin toward Ash and his dad, Monty, before heading out of the bar with all of us in tow.

  The night breeze does nothing to calm my inner storm. I’m confused and beyond pissed off. How dare she come back here?

  Jag opens the door and Cruz does his best to set me in the backseat. He climbs into the other backseat, slamming the door. I’m shocked the window doesn’t shatter with the brutal force.

  “Hospital,” he demands before Jag can fire the engine of the Escalade.

  “Liquor store,” I counter.

  “Hospital.” Cruz taps Jag’s shoulder, and it pisses me the fuck off.

  It breaks the final thread that’s keeping me put together. My life has crumbled around my feet with me as the puppet and all the ghosts who haunt my life pulling the strings. I snap.

  “Fucking liquor store or I’m jumping out.” I open the door.

  Cruz clutches the back of his neck. His eyes are on fire. I watch as his fists clench and unclench. He’s debating whether to grab me, forcing me in his lap or giving up.

  “Calm your shit, Hulk. Tuck that raging green dick back in your pants.” Jag backs out of the parking lot. “I’m calling your dad.”

  “No.”

  “Quit being a bitch. I’m not fucking arguing with you.” He glances back in the rearview mirror, staring at my hand.

  I take time to glance down at it. That’s when the pain strikes. It’s already swollen and throbbing with a vibrant heated ache.

  “Motherfucker.” I raise my hurt hand and send it right into the back of the seat.

  “For fuck’s sakes.” Cruz grabs my arm. “Layla, what the fuck?”

  Jag pulls into a liquor store and hops out without even asking what I want. It doesn’t fucking matter as long as my screaming heart and soul shut the fuck up for a few moments. I remain silent in the back seat with Cruz still holding my arm like a wounded baby animal. Her face flickers back into my memory. This whole day has to be the worst nightmare in the history of all bad dreams.

  Jag jumps back in the driver’s seat and in one swift motion passes back a bottle of whiskey. It’s dark in the backseat, so I don’t even bother to read the label. I place the bottle between my legs and twist the cap off with my good hand. The liquid burns when I tip back the bottle and let it roll down. I take three long gulps before putting it back down.

  “Boss isn’t in any better shape,” Jag whispers back to Cruz.

  “Why would he be? Do you assholes not realize our world has crumbled around our fucking feet?” I yell.

  I don’t wait for an answer before taking three more long pulls from the bottle. It’s ripped from my hands before I can even put it back between my legs.

  “Enough.” Cruz shoves the open bottle up to Jag. “You’re not going to do this, Layla. Enough.”

  “Fuck you, Cruz.” My words slur together.

  My head spins, and my stomach churns whiskey and doughnuts.

  “Fucking Latinas are always mean ass drunks,” Jag says from the front seat as he zooms down the road.

  “Real wipe…” Fuck, my tongue is too thick to talk. I try again. “Weal ripe coming from you, you damn Mexican.”

  Then in a real mature fashion, I stick my tongue out at him. Cruz growls next to me. When I look over at him, he’s fuming like I could poke his shoulder and he’d go into fighter mode. It’s tempting, like poking an angry, sexy, brooding bear with a stick because you’re curious. There’s a rollercoaster in my belly. The twirly, dippy kind, and…

  “I’m going to puke.”

  I barely get it out before Jag pulls over and my head is out the window. I’m pretty sure by the time my stomach empties that the side of the Escalade sports the nasty combination of sugar and liquor from my stomach.

  “Hospital,” Cruz growls.

  I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand then turn to Cruz. “If I had a stick, I’d poke you to just piss on you.”

  “You can use my stick to piss on him.” Jag roars in laughter.

  Cruz trembles in anger.

  “I said to piss him off, not to piss on him.”

  “No, you didn’t,” Jag counters.

  I open my mouth to argue like a two-year-old.

  “Enough,” Cruz roars, vibrating the entire cab of the Escalade.

  I begin sobbing, not recognizing the person I am right now, then my body convulses.

  “Is she going to upchuck again?” Jag asks.

  I try to shake my head no, but it’s too heavy.

  “My mother was with Ash’s dad.” The barely recognizable words crack between my sobs. They slice through the rest of me as they fall off my tongue. The pain in my hand is nothing compared to what my heart feels.

  “Layla,” Cruz whispers.

  He tugs me into his lap, tucking my head under his chin with his broad palm running circles up and down my back.

  “You’re fucking kidding me?” Jag punches the steering wheel. “That was your mom? I didn’t even recognize the bitch.”

  All the fighters know about my dad’s history because it fuels his passion and career, along with his rigorous training methods.

  “I hate her.” My words come out through broken sobs.

  “Baby, it’s okay. It’s going to be okay. You have a new family.” Cruz never stops soothing me while holding me in his arms.

  Chapter 7

  Layla

  I’m never fucking drinking again. I’ve said it before, but this time it’s for real. I’d swear on a Holy Bible if only I could open my damn eyes. My limbs hurt and ache while my stomach rolls. I’m going to puke, but I can’t get up.

  I pull my arms up to cover my forehead to dull the throbbing.

  “Fuck,” I growl when something hard nails me in the forehead.

  “What?”

  Then I scream, so loud my eyeballs threaten to pop from their sockets. I look over to Cruz who bounces up from the floor.

  “Jesus, I shit myself.” I cover my chest. “You scared me.”

  “Sorry.” He offers me a weak smile. “Did you really?”

  “Jesus, no, but it was a close call. Whiskey shits and all.”

  I look down to both of my hands now in my lap. A neon pink cast is wrapped around my right hand. It’s the culprit that nearly knocked out my hungover ass.

  “Fuck,” I whisper.

  “Language,” Dad growls from the doorway.

  I look up to him. He looks as bad off as me. His hair is standing on end, eyes are swollen, and his body is hunched over. His vision drifts over to Cruz sitting upright on the floor next to my bed.

  “What in the fuck is going on here?” he growls, slamming his palm against the open door jam.

  Cruz bounces to his feet in the same clothes from last night, his rumpled white dress shirt and pants. He raises both hands up above his head.

  “I helped her home last night, Boss. You were passed out in the gym and I didn’t think she should be alone.”

  He gives Cruz a slight nod, still not impressed one of his fighters spent the night in my room. Dad’s vision then darts to my cast.

  “And that?” He points.

  I slap my forehead with my good hand, remembering last night. What a clusterfuck!

  “I punched Ash.”

  “Twice,” Cruz adds. “Two wicked right hooks and a kick to the nuts.”

  “Why was that bastard around?” Dad growls.

  “Jesus, enough with all this caveman shit.” I throw the blankets off and stand up. Unlike Cruz, I’m not in the same clothes. I’m wearing spandex shorts and a tight tank showcasing my high beams. I cover them in a defensive stance and carry on.

  “We went to a bar to drink my sorrows away. Ash and his dad showed up. Oh, and fucking Shelby.”

  Dad growls at me, but I’m an adult and can use fuck like a verb, nou
n, or whatever part of speech I want to. Plus, he has the mouth of a sailor with no leg to stand on in this argument. He’s the one who gifted me with a colorful vocabulary. Difference is he never directly aims them at me, just uses them as modifiers.

  “I got pissed and punched the dickhead. When Cruz pulled me off him, I kicked him in the nuts. Then I drank way too much whiskey and puked all over the Escalade.”

  “So, how exactly did you break your hand?” he asks, scratching his head.

  “Punching, duh.”

  “Jesus, Layla, have I not taught you anything?”

  “I was pissed.” I shrug.

  “I’ll be in the gym most of the morning.” He turns to leave. “See you there in fifteen, Cruz. No days off.”

  When I hear the front door slam shut, I let out my frustration in a huff that causes me to dry heave.

  “The man never takes a fucking break.” I turn to Cruz. “His mother was just buried six feet under, and he’s going right back to the damn gym.”

  “His way of coping.” Cruz shrugs. “We all do it in our own way.”

  I flop back down on the bed as he continues.

  “You punch your exes and get bloody drunk.”

  “Are you judging me?”

  “No.” He shakes his head, rounds the bed, and sits next to me. “I did the same thing. I tore my dad’s gym up and stayed drunk for a month.”

  “I’m sorry about last night.”

  “Don’t be. It was damn hot.”

  “Hot?” I ask, looking over to him.

  “You punching Ash was the hottest thing I ever saw. You landed a good one.”

  “What about me puking down the side of the car?”

  “What?” He looks shocked. “I don’t remember that.” He winks at me and fires up both of his dimples in a gorgeous smile. Those dimples are potent. “That part must have been a bad dream.”

  “For sure.”

  He grabs my hand, linking his fingers with mine, causing the mood in the room to grow intense.

  “You need to tell him about your mom.”

  “She’s not my mom,” I reply defiantly then try to relax. “I know,” I respond, studying the chipping polish on my toes.