Diablo's Throne MMA Books 1-3

by HJ Bellus

  Tonight is no exception. We devoured and sexed each other up well and good before the event. I didn’t think I had anything left inside of me once Jag tossed me up into his truck. Boy, was I wrong. I’d never been so thankful for a traffic jam.

  I slump into the thick cushioned seat at the table with Jag’s name. I run my palm over the expensive royal blue satin tablecloth while admiring the delicate centerpieces. Thick chunky glass vases filled with water and floating candles. The sponsors pull off a luxurious feel combined with a masculine touch. I’ve never seen such beauty poured into decorating an event. It’s seriously straight from a magazine. The amount of money it took to put this together is staggering.

  My body is exhausted, and so is my mind after today’s events. I brush back my loose curls, enjoying the seat at the table by myself. I’m close enough to the crowd but far enough away to stay out of the attention. There are cameras everywhere. Jag has spent most of his time in front of a massive photo drop with brands plastered all over.

  He winks at me when he finds me watching him. I smile back, letting him know I’m doing fine. He has a bottle of water clutched in one hand while his other is thrown around the shoulder of an older man in a suit. They both smile wide for the camera.

  The sparkling wine glass in front of me sends a sweet smell my way. I’ve noticed Jag has declined every whiskey or beer offered to him. He hasn’t drunk any alcohol since that night at the bar. He’s a machine focused on his career.

  I sip on the crisp white wine, feeling even more relaxed watching the chaos of the party. It’s very entertaining sitting back and people watching. Between the sex exhaustion and wine, I’m completely relaxed.

  Cruz swings Layla out on the dance floor. They keep up to the music with perfection until Layla steps on Cruz’s giant foot, and they both laugh then continue. Boss hasn’t sat down one time; he’s too busy talking to everyone he can. I overheard a few of the conversations. Boss was promoting and pushing Jag to everyone he spoke to. It wasn’t a hard job since Jag seemed to be the center of the chatter.

  I tip back the glass, finishing off the wine. A server is at my side offering me a new full glass and taking away the empty one.

  “Thank you.” I fiddle with the dainty silver chain around my neck.

  “Yes, ma’am. Anything else I can get you?” the gray-haired gentleman asks.

  “No, thank you.” I smile warmly. “This should be the last glass of wine as well.”

  “I’ve been instructed to take good care of you. Just let me know.”

  I smile again, watching the older man’s retreating form. I glance around and notice not one other server is hovering over Jag or any of the men from Diablo’s Throne. I also see the man who is paying considerable attention to me is the eldest of all the servers, the majority of them being young and attractive men.

  I glance toward Jag to see him looking back at me. I raise an eyebrow and narrow my eyes. He shrugs and smiles wide. I continue to sip on the wine, feeling my eyelids grow heavy and the ache in my chest subside. Wine has always been a weakness of mine, and I rarely indulge in it anymore. The sweet nectar had become my coping mechanism for several months.

  Jag separates himself from the crowd fawning over him. With each step he nears, my belly tightens. The scent of sex and leather strikes me hard when he’s standing in front of me holding out a hand.

  “Fancy a dance, me lady?”

  A giggle escapes my lips. The wine seems to make everything funny. “Didn’t you learn your lesson last time?”

  He shrugs, tugging me to my feet. “Some say I’m hard-headed. Never learn and all that other shit.”

  “I’d agree with them.” Jag whirls me around until I’m pressed up against his chest.

  “Just follow my lead. Always follow my lead and you’ll be just fine.”

  “I know,” I whisper.

  Jag wraps his arms low around my waist. He grazes his fingers along the top of my ass as he sways us to a slow P!NK song. The words and emotion wrapped up in the song talk right to my soul in its native tongue. It’s the outpouring of warmth and love from the man holding me that makes me not give two shits about my dancing abilities.

  As one song fades into the next, Jag makes me feel like the queen of the world. His body moves so easily with the beat of the song, pulling mine along with him for the ride. His muscular chest and arms framing me are a stark contrast to the way he elegantly dances.

  “Are you having a good night?” I ask, with my cheek pressed into the shoulder of his dress shirt.

  “It’s not as bad as I thought it would be. The executives are eager to sponsor me on my way to Vegas.”

  “All I know is you’re the sexiest man in the room.” I lean up and kiss his exposed neck.

  “That’s always a fucking given.” He looks down at me and winks.

  Damn smartass. We are broken apart when he’s pulled away by someone in a suit. I kiss him and tell him to go, because honestly, my spot at the table is perfect for me. It’s the ideal perch to observe the action in the room. And watching Jag in his prime is a significant perk.

  There’s another glass of wine sitting by my half empty one. I settle into the table, fidgeting with the smooth hem of the tablecloth. The room is still abuzz with action happening in every direction.

  A big screen plastered on the wall shows highlights from several of Jag’s fights over his career. I find myself smiling when younger pictures of Jag appear. He hasn’t changed much. He still has the same cocky, contagious grin and good looks. The only thing different is his size. I cringe when several pictures flow across the screen with Jag flanked by nearly naked women holding up banners and trophies. I’m forced to look away.

  The carefree celebratory vibe of the room dissipates when a deep, haunting laugh echoes off the walls. My spine stiffens as I pivot in my chair. A man in a dark tailored suit is followed by several other men who are built like fighters. They each have their hair shaved tight to their head.

  The man in the suit looks so familiar. It bothers me. My gut screams out a warning, but I can’t figure out why. The angle of his chin and the color of his eyes are ones I’ve seen before. There’s a hushed roar in the room while feet shuffle, but I can’t take my stare from the man. His power pulls me to him and warns me away.

  A hand comes down on my shoulder. I startle, leaping out of my chair and squeaking out a cry. My heart thunders in my chest, rattling my rib cage.

  “Baby girl.”

  I glance up at Jag. Without thinking, I stand and throw my arms around him. His body is tense, warning me he’s getting the same vibe from the new company at the party.

  “Who is that?” I stutter out.

  “Landon Chandler,” Jag grits out, tucking me to his chest.

  The last name rings a bell. The picture comes clear when I recall the horrible story Jag told me late at night. But Landon wasn’t in the mix. He must sense my confusion when he dips his face to mine and whispers.

  “Monty Chandler’s brother, Ash’s uncle, who has reopened Titan’s Tribe gym. He was not invited.”

  “Oh.” The word falls from my lips.

  “He’s nothing but trouble. I’m not leaving your side until his fucking ass is kicked out,” he hisses.

  I want to scream that I know him from somewhere. I wipe my brow, fighting to erase the confusion. It has to be the wine. Has to be, because there’s no way I’d know anyone from the Chandler family here in Washington. It’s a long way from Iowa.

  Boss appears out of nowhere. He keeps his shoulders squared as he faces Landon straight on. We are too far away to hear the conversation, and soon bodies swarm the two men. The intensity of the atmosphere multiplies. Bile swirls low in my belly, and the sickening feeling I used to thrive on takes over. Memories flood in. The man’s smile and presence blur in memory, but none of them stick.

  The hairs on the back of my neck rise to attention. The familiar fear coats my skin, creeping and crawling into my soul. Jaco. It’s him. But not him
. I feel it everywhere but can’t connect the dots.

  “Baby, you okay?” Jag squeezes me tight. “You’re trembling.”

  I manage a barely there nod then bury my face in his crisp white shirt. The men’s conversation grows louder with each word clear as day. My body doesn’t stop its current panic mode.

  “You weren’t invited here,” Boss roars.

  “Didn’t ask if I was.”

  “Leave.”

  “I’m certain Outlaw Energy Drink would be interested in supporting one of my fighters. Just need a moment with them.”

  “Titan’s Tribe is trash and will be taken out like that. Asking you one more time to leave,” Boss yells.

  The rustle ensues. I don’t look up.

  “I have a fighter for Jag. I’m certain Outlaw Energy Drink will sponsor it at your gym tomorrow.”

  “Bullshit!”

  A new voice cuts in.

  “Jesus, the executives are playing into this shit show,” Jag mumbles. “Something isn’t right.”

  Between the fear and anxiety coursing through me and Jag’s words cutting in, I realize I don’t belong here. He doesn’t need to be worrying about me. No, he needs all of his concentration on his profession. The man deserves it.

  “Jag.” I peer up to him. “I don’t feel well. I think it’s the stomach bug or something. I’m going to catch a taxi home.”

  “No.” His jaw clenches, and his arms tighten around me.

  I place my hands on his chest and look into his loving eyes. “I don’t feel good. You need to be here. I’ll text you as soon as I crawl into your bed.”

  “Sunni.”

  “Please,” I beg. “I’m sick.”

  It’s a lie and the truth all at the same time. I’m ill. It’s not the typical virus, but a festering infection in my soul that’s followed me all my days. I take a step back before he can respond. The roar of the impromptu business meeting escalates.

  Jag runs his hands through his hair, clenching his fists from everything going on. I should sit down and be quiet and let Jag take care of what he needs to. I should.

  Landon Chandler turns his gaze on us. The gleam of evil in his eyes haunts me. Jag slips out his debit card and slides it in my palm. I’m certain I don’t belong here. Without a second thought, I run for the exit. I look over my shoulder to see Jag chasing me then being yanked back by a group of his fellow fighters.

  One of my heels slips, sending me forward. The pad of my bare foot slaps on the marble floor. I catch myself in time but don’t stop running from my past. If I’ve learned anything, it’s my prior mistakes will never quit chasing me.

  Chapter 17

  Jag

  “Sunni!” I advance after her only to be yanked back by Trick.

  I throw an elbow back, knocking him off kilter. Cruz yanks me right into the circle of death. I peer up one more time to see that Sunni’s vanished. I have no doubt she’s sick, but not with the flu or a cold. It’s something much more profound way beyond her skin. I’d do anything for her. As the days pass, it’s hit me her secrets are darker than I could’ve ever expected.

  “Chandler scum isn’t welcome in my gym.” Boss is jerked by Trick and another fighter.

  He’s three seconds from being unhinged. I’ve only seen the man lose his shit a handful of times, and it wasn’t a pretty sight. Landon continues spitting his trash talk, egging on Boss. He’s a fucking Chandler through and through. It may not be Ash or Monty standing in front of us, but it’s all the same.

  An executive from the Outlaw Energy Drink sponsor has a smile plastered on his face, enjoying the shit show. All he’s seeing is dollar signs and hype. Nobody is going to step in, and soon there will be a bloodbath.

  “You and your fighters, and in fact, anyone associated with the last name Chandler, are not welcomed in my gym.” The veins in Boss’ neck jump and pulse with each gritted-out syllable.

  “Pussy. That’s all you Diablo’s Thrones are. Safe fighters who only take on a match they know they can win. A bunch of certified pussies.” Landon crosses his arms over his chest, showing no signs of stopping his protest.

  “Enough.” I shove past Boss. “What the fuck is going on?”

  “You and my best fighter in your weight class tomorrow at your gym,” Landon answers without hesitation.

  “Not a chance.” I take a step forward.

  Landon looks back to the gang of fighters behind him. “Told you they’re chicken shits. Fucking bullshit.”

  The neurons in my brain fire. The synapses connect, thinking and acting on their own. My fist flies out, wraps around the smug bastard’s gold tie, and yanks him to me. Our faces halt inches apart. The men surrounding us all crush in, shouting and elbowing to tear me off this asshole.

  “I will fight your best and sign my signature in his blood. It won’t happen tomorrow. I’m not a fucking fool. Weigh-in tomorrow, then the fight the next day in a location where neither gym has an influence. And then I’ll show you how big my fucking pussy is.” I push him back, sending him tumbling into the arms of his fighters. “I’ll let you even lick it.”

  I turn to see Boss boiling with anger. He’s not impressed. Neither am I. Landon Chandler is persistent. I’ll give him what he wants and take pleasure in doing so.

  “Let’s go.” I jerk my chin.

  “Jag,” he warns.

  I square my shoulders while staring him in the eye, not backing down. “They aren’t leaving and need a boot shoved up their ass to stop their trash talking. I’ll fight and rep Diablo’s Throne. It’s time for justice. Our justice.”

  My plan is to leave this shit show. A night that was nearing the top of my list has swiftly turned into hell. I wanted to spend the rest of the night dancing with Sunni, downing the steak dinner, and then racing home to fuck her six ways to Sunday. It all flew out the window.

  The executives have other ideas. Music blares as the head dickhead takes the microphone on the main stage. He adjusts his designer tie and waits for the room to die down.

  “It’s just been scheduled. You are not going to believe what we have lined up and will be sponsoring.” He pauses. “Jag of Diablo’s Throne and Tank of Titan’s Tribe will be in a sanctioned, sponsored fight the day after tomorrow at the Holt arena.”

  The room implodes. Fans, other sponsors, and the officials from the league all fuel the fire. It’s part of the tango I’ve never wanted to be involved in. I’m only here to fight. He rattles on about the details and the website to purchase tickets. They fucking go as far as plastering a Tweet and hashtag on the big screen. Phones buzz around the room.

  I turn to Boss. “How in the hell did they make it all happen that fast?”

  “Dollar signs, boy.” He slaps my shoulder.

  He’s right. It’s all about money and exposure. Doesn’t settle right we are about to tango with Titan’s Tribe again. It’s inevitable. Evil will always exist; it’s a lesson I’ve learned over and over. The question is how I’ll face it. The thought fires me up. I clench my fists as the addictive adrenaline takes over.

  I’m swarmed in a sea of people and dragged up to the stage. Two ring girls in bikinis crowd me, hanging off my arms. I don’t focus on that shit, rather on the coward standing next to me. He doesn’t back down. I can see it in his eyes. He’s thirsty to knock my ass out. I respect him for that. Maybe, just maybe, Landon Chandler is trying to right the wrongs of Titan’s Tribe. He has a huge fucking hole to dig himself out of.

  I can give anyone the benefit of the doubt. Believing in them is a fatal mistake and one I won’t be making.

  “Jag.” My name is hollered out.

  I look to my left to see a reporter armed with an enormous Nikon camera.

  “Give me a good one,” he hollers out.

  I indulge him, flexing my arms up in a pose. The women at my side readjust themselves, dangling off my wrists, then I feel their lips on each of my cheeks.

  Chapter 18

  Jag

  “Want your ass kicked by
me now or later?” Boss holds the door open for me.

  “Probably too late for a senior citizen to be kicking anyone’s ass.” I step through the door.

  Boss’ hand connects with the back of my head as he growls.

  “What in the hell were you thinking?” We walk side by side down the sidewalk toward our car.

  Boss, much like me, drove his rig tonight, bypassing the fancy limo.

  “Our backs were against the wall. A wise old man once taught me to battle back. That’s what I did.”

  “You’re playing with fire, boy.” He doesn’t look at me as we eat up the sidewalk.

  “I know.” I stop walking and look over to Boss. He does the same. “Here’s the gig. They weren’t going to stop pushing us. The trash talking would eat me alive, and you know that. It’s a sanctioned fight. How they did that, I have no idea, and it’s in a gym that’s on common ground.”

  Boss opens his mouth for a rebuttal, but I’m not finished.

  “And once I kick his mouthy ass, Titan’s Tribe will have nothing to hold over our heads in Vegas. That’s it.”

  Boss grips the back of his neck and shakes his head. The stress of the past few years has taken a toll on the man who holds all of us together. You’d never know it by his actions. It would take someone who’s close to him to recognize it.

  “We’ve got this. Those bricks won’t hurt us. We have what they don’t.” I slap his shoulder. “Heart, fire, and desire, and also one sexy ass beast of a coach.”

  He smirks, struggling to hold on to his laughter. It doesn’t last long before he bursts out, then smacks the back of my head, all the time muttering how big of a dumbass I am. It’s at this moment I know everything will be okay.

  Metallica blares on the way home. The streetlights glare past, and all I have on my mind is one hot little bundle of sunshine. The apartment is quiet when I enter. It takes everything inside of me to keep my mouth snapped shut and creep my way to the bedroom.