Diablo's Throne MMA Books 1-3

by HJ Bellus

  “He needs to hear it from you.”

  “It’s going to crush him.”

  “Maybe, but he might surprise you. He’s been strong for you for years now.”

  I turn to look at him, staring him directly in the eyes. “You changed my clothes last night.”

  “You stunk.” He smiles again. “You might have thrown up a few more times in the hospital.”

  I cover my face. “Shit. I’m sorry for all this.”

  “Don’t be. It’s what friends are for.”

  “Friends?” I ask.

  “Friends where one might expect a dinner date next week when I get back.” He raises an eyebrow.

  “Where are you going?”

  Panic hits me hard, which is absurd.

  “Have business to take care of.”

  I want to push and ask for more, but I know he’d offer it up if he wanted to and he doesn’t.

  “Leaving after training today.”

  “Okay,” I whisper.

  “No dive bars and doughnuts without me.”

  “Doughnuts? How long will you be gone?”

  “Five days.”

  “You’re killing me, Smalls.”

  Those damn dimples again light up his face. “There’s nothing small about me, Layla.”

  My whole body buzzes with the urge to lean over and kiss him, but the combination of morning breath and puking last night puts the brakes on that idea.

  “I’ll call you.” He stands and kisses the top of my head.

  He reaches the door then turns back to me. “Have I mentioned I’m a tit man?”

  “No.” I crook my head in confusion.

  “I approve, Layla. I definitely approve.”

  When I hear the front door shut, I rise to my feet and want more than anything to jump on his back. He doesn’t even have my number, nor do I have his. I deflate, thinking it was just a nice thing to say to pacify me for the time being. Cruz Felix has been through enough with me and has gone above and beyond friendly duties. Hell, I don’t even know when we became friends, but we did. I know that much is true.

  I draw a tub of water, straight hot water, with the hopes of it burning away yesterday. I hate taking baths and live for showers, but this pink cast won’t abide well with a shower, and it’s going to be a bitch to bathe one-handed. Especially washing my hair that hits low on my back.

  My phone dings on the bathroom counter when I’m wrestling my shorts off one-handed. Those punches better have done damage to Ash’s smug-ass face. I pick up my phone and swipe to the home screen to see a text from The Notorious Rumbler.

  “What the hell?” I whisper to myself.

  Then I see the picture that’s associated with the contact. It’s of Cruz sitting on the edge of the bed with me sleeping in the background. He has his finger posed as if he’s picking my nose while sleeping. My mouth gaping wide open. His face paying attention to the camera with his killer dimples stealing the show. I take a moment to ponder how many panties he’s exploded with those bad boys.

  “Wait,” I whisper again to myself then flip to my camera roll. There’s dozens of pictures of Cruz taking selfies and of me sleeping. I finally get around to reading the text.

  The Notorious Rumbler: Sorry, forgot to ask for your number.

  Me: See that didn’t stop you.

  The Notorious Rumbler: Jacked your phone last night.

  Me: I’m seeing that.

  The Notorious Rumbler: Shitty timing on my part leaving town, but will be looking forward to that dinner date.

  Me: Did you pick my nose?

  The Notorious Rumbler: A fighter never tells.

  Me: You undressed me.

  His response isn’t as fast this time. The three dots dance around for a long time. I shut off the water then sit on the edge of the tub waiting for his response.

  The Notorious Rumbler: You stunk, and it was my pleasure.

  His response makes me smile. I can’t believe I’m able to smile in the darkest of times in my life. I’m lower than low and sitting here like a goddamn idiot smiling. It feels good.

  Me: I’m not one for handouts. I’ll be returning the kind favor.

  The Notorious Rumbler: Training and potential boners don’t mix well. Text you tonight.

  I have the craziest urge to send him a naughty picture. Like one that puts me all out there. I’ve lost my ever-loving mind.

  Chapter 8

  Layla

  I hate pink. Actually, it’s more than hate; it borders on disgust, and now with this obnoxious neon pink reminder of Ash Chandler, my hate has gone beyond hate. Jag was quick to offer he picked out the color just for me. Jag and I grew up together. Dad took him in off the streets and trained him into the fighter he is today.

  We were in seventh grade the first time Jag was sent off to juvenile detention, and when he returned he walked the line for Dad. The rest is history as far as their fairytale.

  It turns out that I did not have to tell my dad about my mom being back in town. Jag took it upon himself to give Dad the news. And as much as I hate him for picking out the color pink, I love him just as much. Jag is loyal to my dad to a fault. I knew deep down he would be the one to tell him. He also gave my dad the play-by-play story of the dreadful night in the bar. They both have been relentless teasing me about the situation. They taught me better and all of that blah blah blah.

  Jag also let me know on the side that he put in a good word for Cruz, letting my dad know there’s been no funny business. I didn’t miss the shoulder tap and wink he sent my way when he said “yet.” Jag, acting like the older brother, also warned me about The Notorious Rumbler and the fact he’s dealing with his own demons. Jag loves to talk, so it was easy pulling information from him. I learned that Cruz had remained closed off since arriving at the gym and he’d spent more time with me than anyone else here. I won’t lie; it made my heart thump a little harder in my chest.

  I know Jag and Dad are hurting as bad as I am with the passing of my abuela, but I’ve been selfish and holed up by myself. I don’t leave the house unless it’s to get groceries or down to the gym for a quick visit with Dad. I’m typically dropping off meals for him then getting the hell out of there.

  I’ve also avoided contact with all of my coworkers, even Tyler. I know it’s not healthy to stay in my room for the majority of the day, but right now it’s what’s getting me through.

  Cruz texted and called every day like he said he would. He’s coming home tonight and told me he would stop by. He has still never given any details on where he is, what he’s doing, or who he’s doing for that matter. As each day creeps by, I grow more and more curious about it. But I always come back to remind myself he’s dealing with family matters. That’s what it has to be.

  I mean, it’s only fair since he’s been there for me through my ups and downs, well mainly down and even further downer moments of life. My curiosity grows, wanting to know what was so crucial for him to fly away for five days and miss training.

  I overheard Dad talking to him on the phone about training in hotel gyms, but we all know that’s not even close to what the men go through at Diablo’s Throne. Something has to be majorly important in his life for him to give up training and leave his team. The men in the gym are a band of brothers. They rely on each other every single day to push their bodies into fighting mode.

  I hate fighting; it’s no secret. As I’ve grown older my hate has diminished, but the stubborn part of me keeps me from admitting it.

  As a little girl looking up to my dad as my hero, my king in shining armor, the knight on his throne, or however the hell it goes—it hurt me, sliced through my soul whenever he came home from a fight battered and bruised. Even though he won the majority of his fights, he still came home with battle scars. I remember his eyes swollen shut, him still smiling like a fool because he won. But it all took a toll on his body.

  I love that he is running his own gym off past earnings and still gets enough out of it to satisfy his hunger fo
r the sport. I don’t think anyone will ever realize how big an influence he has on all the young fighters. Seeing Ash and his father the other night in the bar reminded me how much evil is still out there in the sport.

  I guess it’s good I blacked out in the Escalade, because I don’t think those two men—as badass fighters as they are—could’ve got me into the hospital. Too many bad memories. So, for now, I’m living on my bank account, Top Ramen noodles, and lots of free smut off Amazon.

  When I walk into the gym it’s busy like usual with the typical humming sound of fighters punching bags, the treadmill whirling, and my father’s gruff voice ripping into some fighters’ asses. It’s all the sounds of home. My home. And I will protect it with everything and anything I have.

  I sit back behind the counter in my dad’s office chair and kick my feet up, taking in my surroundings. I’ve always been at odds with how these men can push their bodies to the brink. I know the human body and what it’s capable of; however, these men push their bodies so hard and so extraneous to the point of breaking down. The end results are champions, fighting champions that crown the walls of Diablo’s Throne.

  I get bored in a matter of seconds, which doesn’t surprise me, so I open a drawer to see if Dad has any snacks. The top drawer is littered with sticky notes, old bills, receipts, and other shit. Funny how his desk is the only area of his life that’s not organized. I’ve never understood it.

  It was my abuela who kept us in line and on track and organized, bellies well fed and our hearts loved. I shake my head, stuffing the disaster back into the drawer and slamming it shut. Then I go for the second one. It’s bare, besides a lone picture of my mother and him, which doesn’t surprise me either; there’s no rhyme or reason to my father’s mess.

  It’s when I open the last drawer I see red. Yeah, I hit the jackpot. But my blood boils. The drawer is chock full of junk food. Twinkies, chocolate cupcakes, candy bars, greasy chips, and two or three large bottles of whiskey line the drawer.

  I see red because Abuela died of heart disease. Her son, my papi, should know this is genetic. My thoughts are irrational, and my actions are even more irrational, but I go from seeing red to becoming dizzy, then on the verge of blacking out from anger.

  He’s the one person I have left on this earth. He’s my last family member; I will not stand by and watch him do this to his body. I yank the drawer from the desk so hard the metal crashing silences the gym, then I slam the heavy metal box up on the desk. I don’t even look up to see everybody’s attention is on me because I’m pissed off beyond belief. I begin rattling on in Spanish because that’s what I do when I get this mad. I let the cuss words fly in Spanish while ripping my dad a new asshole.

  “Enough, Layla.” My dad walks up to me.

  “No.” I throw my hands on my hips.

  “What in the hell got into you?”

  I hear the bell above the door ring but don’t look to see who it is.

  “You trying to die? You want to leave me here all alone?”

  “Jesus, no.”

  I pick up a handful of the junk food and throw it at him. I can hear an audible gasp across the gym from his fighters. “What is this then?”

  “It’s food.”

  “Don’t be a smartass.” I grab the picture from the second drawer and hold it up in his face. “And why, Dad? She fucking left us. Left us and now…”

  The words catch in my throat and frustration builds inside me. I don’t know how to get it all out. I rip the picture into tiny pieces and throw it in the air. My dad steps closer, wrapping me in a hug. I beat on his chest.

  “Layla, baby, it’s going to be okay.”

  “I can’t lose you,” I whisper.

  “You’re not going to.”

  I let my dad hug me. I fall into his broad chest like I did so many times as a young girl. He whispers over and over that everything will be okay until I start to believe it. After several long moments of silence, he hollers over my head.

  “Get your asses back at it. You’re not training to be Miss America.”

  I hear the men scatter and the sound of the gym coming back to life in an instant.

  “Damn, girlie, we need to enter you up.” I hear Jag crack a joke.

  Dad steps back and Jag wraps me up into a tight hug before he goes back to training.

  “You do need to control your temper, Layla,” Dad scolds me.

  “Real rich coming from you since I got it from you.”

  “I control it. Big difference.” He ruffles my hair. “You break your bones.”

  I send him the middle finger quick and playful before he has the chance to break it off.

  “My only dream for you was that you grew up to be a self-confident and a brave woman. I think it backfired.” He pulls me in for one more long hug. “Gotta get back to the grind, kid.”

  “Love you,” I whisper.

  He walks back to the ring where two young fighters are waiting on him. I turn to see whoever walked in during meltdown one hundred thirty-two of mine since returning here.

  Cruz stands dumbstruck with his duffle bag hoisted over his shoulder, his navy blue Henley hugging his chest, and those damn gym pants riding dangerously low on his hips.

  I lick my lips then bite down on the bottom one.

  “Welcome home, Cruz.”

  Chapter 9

  Cruz

  Five days and I was sure she’d be out of my system, but she’s not. Her large brown eyes, gorgeous olive skin, and feisty attitude magnetize me even more than before. I’d had it chalked up to her being a beautiful woman and my dick being hungry. I was wrong. It’s getting harder and harder to fight the urge.

  Being a fighter, I’ve never had a serious relationship. It doesn’t allow the time most women need. She’s different. I want to give it to her. I’m no goddamn virgin. Tap them and leave has been my go to in the past. It’s not like I’m a dick or a bastard to them; it’s what they want. After fights, when the adrenaline is high and the pussy is floating around, I’ve been one to indulge but never commit to anything else.

  I hated leaving Layla, but I had to. The bombshell I found when my dad died was something I couldn’t leave untouched. The more research I’ve done, the more my gut twists. Part of me is angry beyond belief with my dad for holding this from me, then I feel like a complete asshole for hating my dead father who gave me the world.

  It’s Layla who lightens all of it. When I see her, she makes it all disappear. It’s sick and wrong, but it’s working for me. When she steps out from behind the counter, I swallow her in. She’s in skin-tight yoga pants with an even tighter long sleeve shirt. It molds to her tits perfectly, making it hard to think.

  “Hey, Bruiser.”

  She tilts her head, nearing me. “Bruiser?”

  “Yeah, seems you’re quite the fighter.”

  She rolls her eyes. “I’m out of control.”

  It’s a mistake, a big clusterfuck mistake, I repeat to myself over and over again in my head, but end up ignoring it. I grab her by the waist and pull her to me until we’re chest to chest. I tower over her small frame, but somehow we fit perfectly together.

  “Missed you, Bruiser.”

  She shrugs like it’s no big deal. “Didn’t miss you much.”

  I pinch her side causing her to squeal and jump closer to my chest.

  She gently pats my chest with her good hand. “Okay, okay! I missed you, Notorious.”

  I don’t miss her licking her top and bottom lips. It takes everything in me to not bend down and taste her. I want her so bad.

  “Gotta train, and thinking Boss won’t like this in his gym.”

  “Dinner tonight?”

  I nod and wink at her. “My place.”

  “Okay.” She blushes a bit.

  “Bring an overnight bag.”

  I want to finish my thought with what’s rolling over in my head. I want to strip her down the rest of the way while she’s awake this time. Run my hands all over her body, tasting
her, then taking her all night long. My cock twitches at the thought of it. I’m forced to take a step back. I try like hell to adjust my raging hard-on. Layla smiles at the gesture.

  I’m never going to survive this woman. Boss is going to kill me.

  She reaches up and pecks me on the cheek. “See you tonight at seven.”

  She whirls on her feet and dashes for the door. I study her perfect ass as she bounces away then adjust my hardening junk in my gym pants. I throw my gym bag back over my shoulder and head for the locker room, wanting nothing more than to reach down and stroke my angry dick.

  When I walk back out into the gym, I’m not surprised to come chest to chest with Boss. He’s pissed. I don’t back down from anyone, but he’s my coach and an idol, so it makes me sick to think I’ve disappointed him.

  “What’s going on?” he growls, hands on hips.

  I bite the inside of my cheek, knowing I need to handle this with care. “I like her.”

  “She’s my daughter.”

  “I know, sir.”

  “She’s been through hell in the man department. You hurt her, and I’ll fucking kill you. Should’ve promised the same to Ash Chandler.”

  The mere mention of that fucking puke makes me rage. We’ll be meeting in the octagon soon if I’m lucky enough, but my anger has only been fueled after learning more about the history between him and this family. I knew there was some rival shit between the two gyms, but the extent of the damage is dangerous.

  “I understand that, Boss. I promise I won’t hurt her. I-uh, I…”

  He slaps my shoulder. “Good answer. Take care of her.”

  He spins on his heel and walks away from me. I was fully expecting for my family jewels to be ripped off and hung on the gym wall. I remain still, processing his words. I relax and become thankful knowing the one person who soothes my world is now free to date, devour, and fuck. She’s healing me and doesn’t even know it.