Diablo's Throne MMA Books 1-3

by HJ Bellus

  “You might be right.”

  “Need to talk?” She squeezes my hand.

  “That shit makes it worse. I’ll take a couple more shots.”

  Sunni cringes but recovers quickly. “The customer is always right.”

  Her words are stifled, letting me know she wants to say so much more but doesn’t. Just like the first time I study her sweet, plump ass as she pours the shots. This time she glides a longneck bottle of beer over the bar with the shots.

  I lean forward in question. Sunni picks up on it.

  “After these two, you are going to sip on a beer.”

  “Really?” I chuckle. “Not in the right frame of mind to sip on anything tonight, baby doll.”

  Chapter 2

  Sunni

  He’s a goddamn mess. It’s taken me all night to process the fact. Jag, the man who is always confident, sure-fire cocky, and has a joke loaded on the tip of his tongue, is a downright sloppy-ass mess. He doesn’t know it, but I’ve looked up to him over the last six months when he frequents my section at the diner. I’ve idolized his confident and robust mannerism. He was bringing me back to life without even realizing it. Not to mention the fact he’s been the star of several of my fantasies.

  “Time to go, Jag.” I tap his shoulder and toss the bleach-scented bar rag on the countertop.

  He rolls his head to the side, his forehead pressed into his arm resting on the bar. “I don’t want to go home. I hate home. He’ll be there taunting me. I can smell him now.”

  Jag opens his mouth once the last word is out and belches a loud resounding noise that vibrates off the walls of the empty bar. Who in the hell is he talking about? And more importantly, what has this vibrant man so destroyed? I’m no stranger to the game and know we all have demons we keep locked away deep in our closets. It seems Jag’s has come out to play.

  “I’m locking up, Jag. You have to go.” I shake his shoulder again when his eyes flutter shut.

  “I can’t go home.”

  Jesus. I stomp my foot, frustrated beyond belief. I can’t leave him here. And I sure in the hell can’t move him. Jag isn’t a super tall guy, but the thing is every inch of him is solid muscle from his arms to his legs. He’s a good six inches taller than me. More than likely I wouldn’t be able to lift his damn arm up in the air.

  I run my finger along the hem of his dark Henley, debating what to do. The side profile of his face rests in peace with all his features slack and relaxed. His olive tan shines brightly under the dim bar lights. Jag is not only a confident and kind man but is the prettiest man I’ve ever had the privilege to see.

  My heart aches, missing the familiar smile he always has plastered on. It’s one of those full megawatt ones that has the power to achieve world peace. It brightened my days at the diner every single time he’d waltz in. I find my fingers brushing back a lock of hair covering his forehead. His sides are shaved with long, messy hair on the top. It’s usually styled or pulled back with a headband. Not tonight. His hair matches his mood.

  “What’s going on, my friend?” I lean down and kiss his cheek.

  It takes me just under five minutes to go outside and pull my car around the front and juggle locking the doors and flicking off the lights.

  “Let’s go, big guy.” I tug on his arm and am shocked when he raises his head and tries to stand.

  His cellphone tumbles to the floor. It lights up when it bounces off the hardwood floor. Notifications run up and down the screen. The sight of them comforts me because they mean Jag has people behind him.

  He sways into me then sways the other way. I tug on his arm with all my might to right him. Jag slams right back into my side, damn near taking me out. His phone in my hand begins singing out “Like a Virgin” by Madonna.

  I hate betraying his privacy. I’m desperate and unable to move this beast of a man. I manage to slide the answer button and get the phone to my ear.

  “Hello,” I pant into the phone while juggling Jag.

  “The hell? Who is this? Where is Jag? Put his ugly ass on the phone now.”

  “Waywa,” Jag chants.

  “Um, this is Sunni. I have Jag, and he’s drunk. Really, really drunk.”

  “Where are you?”

  I give the woman on the other line the bar name and address. She ends the call before saying another word. I’m assuming she’s coming here to get him. I hate to admit it, but my heart squeezes in pain at the thought of him having a girlfriend. I shake the thought away as fast as it assaulted me.

  “Ten more steps and you can sit down, Jag.” I squeeze his arm in mine, giving him silent encouragement. “You’ve got this.”

  “I’s got a dick.” He stumbles out of my arms.

  I dart around him and open my passenger side door, so all he has to do is flop down.

  “Look.”

  I turn to see Jag with his pants down, waving his dick at me.

  “Jag,” I hiss. “Pull your pants up.”

  “I love doing this. Makes me chuckle every single damn time.” He grabs the base of his long shaft and begins whirling it. Soon it’s flying in a continuous circling motion while Jag laughs his ass off.

  “Jag!” I race over to him and grab the hem of his workout pants.

  “It’s so big. I like petting it.” Jag rubs his hand up and down his dick. “He likes it. He gets big.”

  “Dammit, Jag!” I slap his chest, getting his attention.

  His head whips up, eyes bright with delight as his full lips part open. “Sunni, you’re beautiful.”

  He reaches out a hand toward my face. I don’t flinch or move, instead pulling up his pants, making sure not to touch his pet dick.

  “I wanna kiss you, Sunni.” He steps closer. “I thought about it all night watching your hot little ass behind the bar.”

  I press my palms into his chest. “You’re drunk, Jag.”

  “I’m dick. I’ve got one.”

  I grab his hand, guiding him away from thoughts of a kiss, and tug him toward the car. “Yeah, you’re a drunk dick,” I mumble.

  Jag flops into the passenger seat with his thick muscular legs hanging out. He grabs me by the hips before I have the chance to back away. His long arms wrap me in a hug; he nestles his cheek on my lower belly, making me wince.

  “Why? Why now?” he mumbles.

  I can’t help it. I find my fingers roaming through the long, messy, inky black hair on top of Jag’s head. The motion soothes him. I continue it until his slurred words die off. Headlights flash into the vacant parking lot. The black Escalade whips right up by us. Both doors fly open, followed by two silhouettes.

  “Jag.” I shake his shoulder. “Your friends are here.”

  He doesn’t move. I try it several more times, and finally the sleeping beast stirs awake.

  “Here, we got him,” a deep voice booms behind me.

  I turn to see a man who is a giant. Way taller than Jag and thicker in muscle. The look on his face has me quaking in my sandals. His presence isn’t to be fucked with.

  “Jag, handing you over to your friends now.” I lean down and kiss the top of his head.

  My own action shocks the shit out of me. I don’t regret it but also couldn’t tell you what in the hell possessed me to do it.

  I turn to his friends, noticing one is a woman. The concerned look on her face scares me. Something in my gut tells me she knows exactly what Jag is fighting, and if the look in her eyes is any clue, I should be scared as well.

  “He had a lot of tequila. I cut him off, but he managed to charm another server into more shots.” I take the tiniest of steps back from Jag. “I’m really sorry about this.”

  “It’s not your fault. Thank you for taking the call.” The woman steps up, shaking her head.

  “Waywa, I showed her my dick. He’s a good friend.” Jag lifts his head up only to have it sway from side to side. “Wunni woves my cock.”

  “Jag!” The man grabs him by the collar, shaking him so violently I fear he might break J
ag’s neck. “Get your shit together.”

  I step back closer to Jag with a hunger to protect him with everything I have. I don’t care how drunk or crude he is because this isn’t the Jag I know. We all have shitty days, or, hell, even months. Lord knows I have. I’m certain the last five years of my life have been my own personal hell.

  “Don’t hurt him.” I place a hand on the man’s forearm.

  Big mistake. Big, big mistake. His eyes flash at me, and I swear he bares his teeth at me. I slowly move my hand. Jag sways side to side.

  “I’m sick,” he announces.

  “No, you’re a dick,” the woman retorts.

  “My dick is the motherfucking cham—” Jag’s announcement is cut short when he gags on the last word. The other man is smart enough to back up. Not me. The next five seconds reel out in slow motion as Jag leans over and wretches every last drop of tequila from his stomach. It splatters on the pavement, my bare feet, and up my legs. I’m coated in human vomit.

  “That’s it.” The man steps back up again, not in the least hesitant about the vomit. “Your ass is going home.”

  He hoists Jag up over his shoulder in a fireman’s hold, still not concerned about the vomit. The man makes it looks like he has a bag of flour on his shoulder instead of a brute of a man.

  “Jesus.” The woman runs her hand through her hair. “I’m so sorry about this. How can I help clean up?”

  I shake my head, struggling to find a shred of decency in this fucked-up scene. I wave her off and shut the passenger door.

  “I’m Layla.” She holds her hand out and points to the man with her other one. “That’s Cruz. He’s my husband.”

  I relax with the knowledge she’s not Jag’s girlfriend.

  “Sunni.” I shake her hand and offer a slight grin.

  “Thank you for taking care of Jag. He’s like a brother to us.”

  “No problem. I really did try to cut him off. He was determined to destroy himself.”

  “Seems to be his game these days. Don’t worry. We’ll get to the bottom of it.”

  “Good.” I tuck my hands into my jean shorts pockets. “I really like Jag. I mean, I only know him from the diner and here tonight. Seems like a really good guy.”

  “He is.”

  Cruz steps up to us, placing his hand on Layla’s shoulder. “Ready?”

  “Yeah.” She nods. “Nice to meet you, Sunni.”

  “You too.” I step to the front of my car as the cute couple begins to walk away. A pang of tempered pain beats along with my heart. I had a love like that once, or at least I thought I did.

  “Hey, wait.” Layla freezes and whispers to Cruz. He nods and then pulls a business card from his wallet. Layla races back up to me again.

  She waves the card in front of me while rambling on a mile a minute. “My dad owns Diablo’s Throne gym. Cruz, Jag, and some other fighters teach a free self-defense lesson for women on Tuesday nights. You should join us. I mean, you are leaving a bar in the middle of the night, you know. It never hurts. Oh, and tomorrow is Tuesday night. Thanks again.”

  Just like that, Layla is gone as soon as she showed up. The black Escalade pulls out of the parking lot with Jag in the backseat. I find myself kicking myself in the ass. A large part of me wanted to take Jag home to watch him sleep and nurse him in the morning when he woke up with one hell of a hangover. And maybe then he’d open up to me and tell me exactly what’s eating him alive. Once the glowing taillights fade into darkness, that hope diminishes.

  Chapter 3

  Jag

  The fuck. I roll over, immediately blinded by the sunlight soaking into the room. I shield my eyes and groan in pain when my skull cracks. I struggle to lick my dry lips and fail. I push myself into a sitting position, but the room spins out of control, so I flop back down.

  I know by the popcorn texture on the ceiling I’m in Cruz’s spare room above the gym. Fucking great. Momma and Daddy Felix will be in here any minute now. I squeeze my eyes shut and try like hell to remember last night.

  The dive bar.

  Sunni.

  Tequila.

  My dick.

  Puking.

  Each action plays out in slow motion behind my closed eyelids. I cringe, remembering helicoptering my dick and then petting it as if it was a long-lost friend. I puked all over Sunni. Jesus, I was a wreck walking into that bar, and it seems I only made things worse.

  “Wag!” Bella’s shrill cry makes me shudder because of the hammering drum beating a steady rhythm in my head.

  I peer up to see Layla in the doorway with a hand perched on her hip. Bella’s dark black unruly hair bobs up and down beside the bed. I manage to reach over and tug her into the bed. She’s all high energy, what I’m used to; hell, it’s the way I was born too. But this morning, not so much.

  “Wag!” Bella slaps my cheeks, straddling my chest. “Wag!”

  “Sweet Bella.” I reach up and brush her chubby cheek.

  Since the day this girl was born, she’s been my favorite person in the world. I’m the number motherfucking one uncle in the world. Bought her all the cheesy onesies with cool sayings about her sexy uncle and even a motorized Barbie jeep when she was three months old. She’s finally old enough to drive it.

  “Fight. Fight.” She raises her balled fists up in the air.

  “Jab. Jab,” I tell her.

  She follows instructions, and we go through every single move. After the last instruction, she tilts her curious face, twisting up her lips.

  “¿Te sientes mal?”

  “Not sick, Bella. Tired.”

  “Pop-Tart? Mmmmm.” She rubs her protruding belly. “Madré has them.”

  With all the energy I have left in my abused body, I toss Bella up in the air and then catch her. “Let’s go raid Mommy’s Pop Tart stash, little one.”

  She squeals then scrambles off me. The sound of her tiny feet pounding the hardwood floor makes me smile. Doesn’t matter how shitty I feel or how many broken bones I have, Bella always lights up my day.

  Layla puts a hand on my chest before I have a chance to waltz past her. She never lets shit go. Ever.

  “Are you fucking serious, Jag?” she hisses.

  I shrug, knowing there’s nothing I can do right to get her off my ass.

  “What is wrong with you? Dad said you’ve slacked off not training. You were right there with Cruz for your own title, but you threw it all away. What the hell gives?”

  I run my hand over my head, slicking back my messy locks, and huff. “Just working on some shit, Layla.”

  “I get that. We are your family, and you need to lean on us instead of pulling stunts like last night.” Layla takes a step back. “I mean, I know you’re a manwhore, but the parade of broads on continuous loop going in and out of your place is ridiculous, and now mixing alcohol into it. Not to even mention the poor woman you puked all over last night.”

  “Yeah.” I tap her chin. “At least I don’t have a neon hot pink cast yet.”

  She shakes her head. “We are just worried about you.”

  “I know.”

  She wraps her arms around my waist and presses her cheek to my chest. I’ll never let Layla know how worried I am about myself. I’m in self-destruction mode and can’t seem to claw my way out of it.

  “Wag!” Bella races up the hallway. I don’t have time to react before she throws her arms up in the air. Each one of her tiny hands holds silver packages of Pop-Tarts and nails me right in the nuts.

  “Son of a…” I catch the last word on the tip of my tongue. Bella is a damn parrot.

  “Bitch!” she squeals.

  Point proven. Layla whacks the back of my head, reminding me of the massive headache taking place there. I can’t catch a damn break. A low, evil chuckle floats in from the end of the hallway. I peer up to see Cruz with his hands on his hips, enjoying this situation way too much.

  “Good thing my girls kicked your ass, because I was heading there to do it myself.”

 
“Papí!” Bella turns and streaks for her dad.

  He’s more conditioned than me, crouching back, anticipating the nut shot. I follow Layla into the kitchen, toss the Pop-Tart on the counter, and help myself to a large mug of black coffee. The thought of it makes my stomach churn and protest, but my dehydrated body will appreciate it.

  I lean back on the counter, crossing my feet at the ankles, and watch the happy family interact. My chest constricts at the sight. I love these people more than anyone or anything. I want what they have, but I know it will never happen, especially with the threat that has reentered my life. It’s been nine months of constant hell. At first, I blocked it out and avoided thinking about it at all costs.

  It fucked up my fight season. I stood by watching my teammate win his championship, and I should’ve been doing the same in my weight division. Didn’t happen.

  “You ready to roll?” Cruz eyes me.

  “Fuck,” I groan under my breath then reach for a bottle of aspirin. I down four of them with my coffee and hope like hell they dull the pain just a tick.

  “Boss is going to kick your ass today.” Cruz ends his sentence with a hearty chuckle.

  “Why?” I push off the counter. “He has no idea I got trashed last night.”

  Cruz shakes his head, kisses his girls goodbye, and opens the door for us. I swoop in, giving Bella a quick kiss before following her dad out the door.

  “Man, you tried showing him your dick trick last night when I was trying to haul your ass up here.”

  “Shit.” I cover my face. “My ass is grass.”

  “Fair warning. He was not impressed at all over the fact you came home drunker than shit then insisted on flashing your peen to him.”

  My joints already ache imagining the hell Boss is going to put me through today. I thought about this exact moment when I walked into the bar. Knew it was wrong and I’d let him down, but after that first shot of tequila went down, I couldn’t stop. Feeling numb exhilarated me and gave my mind a chance to slow down and relax. It worked for the time being. Now it’s time to pay the price.

  “Jag.” My name booms out in the gym, echoing off the walls as soon as I take my first step. “Your ass is mine!”