by HJ Bellus
Everyone at Diablo’s has a role they play to perfection. Cruz is the serious one, who treats training like church and loves his two girls with abandon. Jag, on the other hand, is a dick. A lovable dick, yet a dick all the same. He’s the adorable jerk who gets a laugh out of everyone.
It was Boss who confirmed that my decision was the right choice for me after I moved from Idaho to Washington. It was a long shot getting into his gym, but he didn’t hold judgment and opened his doors to me. After that, it was up to me to prove myself. Boss didn’t give anyone a free pass. Not even Jag. He put us through the most grueling of routines, and every single one of us fighters took it without complaint.
I settle in the middle of the stadium-type seating in the college class, heaving off my backpack hosting a thousand dollars’ worth of textbooks. I left the farm. Never had the same dream as my father. I loved fighting. Dad was the boxing champion in high school back when that was a legit high school sport. Even when he was a crippled, washed-up farmer, the small town in Idaho still deemed him a champion. I was obsessed, studying every picture and yellowed newspaper article.
I discovered his dusty punching bag in the barn, and that’s where my fists found the love of beating the shit out of something. I’d exert myself until I had no energy then go buck hay and move hand lines in the hay fields. It fueled me. Drove me until I was left with tunnel vision focused on fighting.
My roots are everything. I love my dad and everything that drove him. Thing is, what he thrived on didn’t fire me up. It was my momma who pushed me out the door. Years later and here I am in a university classroom tackling an accounting degree.
Other students filed in, chatting and dry humping their phones. It all makes me jittery as fuck. I focus on the abandoned lecture stand. I tested out of all the basic English and math classes, setting me at a junior level. Still fucking pissed me off, knowing damn well I don’t even need this shit I’m about to endure. It’s all about the university being money hungry.
I stashed back all the cash from my winnings in the octagon to save up for college. My fists won’t be my retirement. My passion for now, yes. I ain’t no fool; I know damn well I need a fallback plan. Every God-fearing, country-loving man knows this.
“Excuse me.” A squeaky voice serenades me. I turn in time to see raven hair billowing in the air, a hefty backpack sails toward my face, and then a scattering of pens and markers come from out of nowhere. I’m able to dodge the monstrous backpack in the nick of time.
The next thing I know, the woman has face-planted herself on my lap. Her breasts push into the top of my thighs. Her Clark Kent nerd-type glasses skitter across the harsh flooring of the auditorium. A chorus of giggles and judgmental laughter fills the auditorium.
I glance down at the beautiful ass in my lap. I peer over my shoulder, knowing damn well fucking Jag set this shit up. This has his name written all over it. He must’ve followed me this morning and hired a damn hooker to embarrass the hell out of me.
The woman sprawled across me wiggles, trying to right herself. Thank God I hadn’t pulled down the desktop across me or she’d be writhing in pain right now. I’m a damn big man for these tiny-ass seats, making us a tangled mess.
“Here.” I grab her upper arm, careful not to touch certain parts. The same parts press into my thighs and cause my dick to stir. This girl is lush as hell.
“Fucking trash can girl,” I hear someone mutter from behind us. “Can’t even walk without falling, but you thought he was a trash can.”
I begin to turn my head to see what young puke is popping off at the mouth when the woman in my lap stands upright. Her hair is now a mess and her cheeks flushed a bright pink. The asshole behind me doesn’t shut up, causing her lower lip to quiver.
I stand up, towering over her petite frame, then bend down and hand her glasses to her. Shit, she can’t be over five feet and a few inches. I wrap an arm around her shoulder, pulling her to my side as she settles her glasses on her face. Her entire body trembles with fear, enraging me. My vision blurs at the corners, and the intensity I feel when I step in the octagon rages inside of me.
A group of young jocks pales when I make eye contact with them. Their evil wit and name-calling die on their lips.
“The Country Boy Brawler,” they whisper. “Trick.”
There goes my plan to fly under the radar while here. Knew I’d be recognized but figured I’d keep to myself while wearing a ball cap pulled down low and a black hoodie with no Diablo logos on it.
I peer down to the girl I’m holding to my side. She swipes at stray tears on her cheek. Man, one thing my old man taught me was to stick up for those who can’t defend themselves. I clutch the bill of my hat with my free hand and twist it backward, letting the few scars on my face speak for themselves.
“What were you saying about my friend here? I didn’t quite catch it,” I grit out each word.
“Nothing, man,” one of the dicks stutters out. “It was nothing.”
I lean forward, fisting a handful of the shirt of the man who responded, and yank him to me. It’s a damn good thing I have my arm wrapped around a pretty lady right now, because I want nothing more than to lay out this puke.
“Wrong answer, motherfucker,” I hiss in his face. “I highly fucking suggest you never talk to her that way again. Pass the message to your douche friends. If I ever get wind of you calling her names and taunting her, I won’t be so forgiving. And I don’t need my buddies for backup like you do. You get me, motherfucker?”
With all the force in my right hand, I shove the quaking puke backward. He stumbles, slamming into the row of chairs, and crumbles like the little bitch he is. The chatter in the classroom has died. Everyone’s attention is focused on the shit show. I peer around, making eye contact with as many people as possible, wanting nothing more than to intimidate the shit bags who chuckled and stood idle while men were harassing an innocent woman. It takes every ounce of self-control not to rage right now and teach them a goddamn good lesson with my fists.
“Good morning.” The sound of a door slamming snaps everyone out of their trance. A short, balding man with a hefty beer belly walks up to the front of his room. He slings a worn brown leather briefcase on his lecture desk and straightens out his black and white polka dot bow tie. “Everyone, take your seats.”
I don’t let my new friend have the chance to escape. Instead, I nudge her down into the seat next to me then bend over and pick up all the items she lost during her fall. She doesn’t make eye contact as I pull down her desktop and place them on it.
I notice the laces on her left shoe are untied and most likely the culprit of the whole shit show. I bend back down without thinking and tie her shoe. It’s not lost on me they’re worn and well loved. Without thinking, I run my palm up the length of her tanned, muscular calf as I sit back up.
She keeps her head ducked down as the professor begins introducing himself and going over the class syllabus.
I lean over and whisper in her ear.
“I’m sorry if I scared you.”
This gets her attention. She shows me her face. It’s the first time I have the chance to take in her features. I already know she has a banging body. Her emerald-green eyes cut right through me. Her deep olive skin compliments her features; the color of it is so complex and intriguing. She’s not caked in makeup. No, everything is an understated and natural beauty.
She looks away, grabs a pencil, and scribbles a few words on a piece of paper.
You didn’t scare me.
I grab the pencil from her, jotting out a question.
What’s your name?
She nibbles on her lip as I hand her back the pencil. It takes her time before she puts the pencil to the paper.
Mack.
Nice to meet you, Mack.
She grabs the pencil from me and writes one final message, not offering her pencil back to me.
Thank you. You don’t have to pity me. I'm used to it.
The actual fuck? I t
urn to her with my brows scrunched in confusion. As bitchy as her message was, I don’t think it was intended to come across that way. It’s a shield of protection.
“Trenton Jameson.”
My shoulders stiffen as I hear my name. I raise my hand and jerk my chin.
“Here.” I clear my throat. “I go by Trick.”
“Interesting,” Professor Rhoades mumbles as he jots down some notes.
A hushed murmur of interest spreads across the room. Jesus, what was I thinking? I’d put a lot of thought into online classes but know damn well classwork would get pushed to the side because of training. Attending class forces me to leave the gym.
The rest of the class flies by. I end up partnered with Mack for a long-term project. I felt her shudder when Professor Rhoades put us together. I shrugged it off.
“Mr. Trick,” Professor Rhoades hollers. “Can you come see me real quick?”
The rest of the students rush to the door while deep in conversation, of which I’m sure my name is the topic.
I toss my backpack over my shoulder and jog down the steps. Professor Rhoades peers over the rim of his glasses.
“It’s just Trick, sir.” I plant my hand on the cool marble of the lecture stand.
“And it’s just Professor Rhoades,” he banters back then cracks a wide smile. He pulls down his glasses, studying me. “I want to talk to you about Mackenzie Graham.”
“Mackenzie?” I raise an eyebrow.
“I’ve had her in a few classes, and my wife is her student advisor. I can’t share much, but I know Mackenzie doesn’t do well with working with partners. I think since you’re new here she’ll have a better chance successfully working with you. You won’t have preconceived judgments toward the poor girl.”
“Mack?” I ask, tilting my head.
“Is Mackenzie,” he answers.
“Okay.” I back away from the desk.
“Nice to have you here at the university, Trick.”
I walk out of the auditorium confused as fuck. What was supposed to be a new beginning and a somewhat relaxing break from college life has been flipped on its head.
Chapter 2
Trick
I finally had to let Boss know why I’ve been rushing from the gym and not staying until the last person leaves. To say he was proud would be an understatement. His reaction was the one I craved from my own dad. Shit, even a simple nod of his head would have been enough. Instead, the old man turned his back on me and walked away. We never discussed it again. He cut me right out of his life. His only child was dead to him all because farming and ranching weren’t what I wanted to do.
After fights, when I walk out of the cage, I glance around the crowd knowing I’ll never see my parents but wishing like hell one day they’ll be there on their feet cheering for me.
I rush into the auditorium right on time for Professor Rhoades’ accounting class. I managed to squirt on some cologne on the drive over, but besides that, I smell like a fucking old gym sock. Juggling training and university work is harder than I could’ve ever managed.
I’ve been arriving to class right on time to sit next to Mack. Today was the first day I’ve busted in sweaty. The second day of Accounting 220 she’d sat on the opposite side of the classroom than the first day. It was a clear message she didn’t want anything to do with me. I studied her the entire time. She kept her head ducked, frantically taking notes. Once class was over, she still kept her head down and raced out of the room. The dickheads didn’t once dare glance her way.
So I’ve been showing up right on time on purpose to settle right next to this intriguing woman. Training and focusing on matches have left no time at all to indulge in a relationship. Doesn’t mean pussy has been absent in my life. It’s only been meaningless sex since breaking up with Libby. I shattered her heart the day I left Idaho. I loved her, but she wasn’t part of my plan. She loved the small-town life and had dreams of her own, which included marrying a big rancher and raising babies. I’ve felt guilty ever since breaking so many people I loved when I left.
“Hey.” I jerk my chin, settling into my seat next to Mack.
She looks up, caught off guard. Her nose wrinkles, and she shakes her head. Oh yeah, she smells me and this beastly aroma. How in the hell couldn’t she? If I focused on it, I’d gag myself.
I lean in closer. “So, you do realize we’ve got to talk at some point. We should be working on our project already since it’s our semester final. I’ve given you time. I’m not here because it’s the next step in life. I want to be here. I’m not some trust fund baby wasting fucking time and money while partying.”
I internally cringe at the use of foul language. Way to go, idiot. Scare her right back into her protective shell.
“Okay,” she squeaks out.
“Okay?” I raise an eyebrow.
“I have an hour after this class.”
“Me too,” I say.
“We can meet in the student lounge.”
I nod but am cut off when Professor Rhoades walks in. I’ve learned to like the kooky son of a bitch. He’s not your typical professor. Hell, he stands on the lecture desk most of the days shouting out the lecture as if numbers were his superhero. He always ends each class with a personal story. Today is no different.
“You know I was a badass at one time in my life. A high school economics teacher and a coach in a small town equated to one cool dude. I was the local hero. The first year was amazing. Man, I was the king of the world. We won State that year. The next year we got our ass kicked, and the town turned on me. It was brutal. Life wasn’t good. Our house was egged and vandalized. It was the lowest of lows in my life until my wife was diagnosed with stage three breast cancer.
“That’s the day I realized my life was damn good until that news. Everything shattered around me. What others thought didn’t matter. I had to watch my wife fight for her life while her flesh was being eaten away from the treatment. Lesson to all of you—no matter how bad you think your life is, trust me, it can get worse. Way, way worse.” He hops from the lecture stand and strides away.
As always, Rhoades has left us all speechless. The man is a mystery, yet I find myself waiting on pins and needles for his message. The one today hit a bit too close to home.
Mack hops up from her seat in one swift movement. She stumbles on her own feet, righting herself. I’ve learned the girl is clumsy as fuck. Like she trips over her own shoes. It’s insane her face doesn’t have permanent scars on it.
“Wait up. I’ll walk with you.” I grab her upper arm, and she recoils back. I let it go right away and hustle to keep up with her.
“You from around here?” I ask, keeping up with her pace.
Fucking insane how short her legs are and how fast she walks. It’s a goddamn struggle to keep up with her. It’s obvious she’s been running away from her own life for years now. What in the hell is a girl like her doing at college?
“Born and raised,” is her simple answer. She keeps her vision focused on her tattered sneakers.
“Mack, you gotta fucking give a bit here.” I clench my fists into balled frustrations, regretting my foul language. Nothing like frightening an already timid baby bird.
She stops and turns her face up to me. Her long, thick bangs conceal her endless pools of rich green. It takes her long moments to brush them away. Tears brim, threatening to fall over.
“I-uh…” Her chin begins to quiver. “I can’t do this, Trick. It’s not you. I’m just, uh—”
As each word falls from her mouth, the tears grow in ferocity. It’s the most painful thing I’ve ever seen, and I’ve viewed a lot of screwed-up shit in my lifetime.
I hold up a hand and step back not to intimidate her. “Okay, I won’t push, Mack, but we have to get going on our project. I’m at a loss here on how to move forward.”
She shrugs, recoiling back into herself. This girl is a damn mystery.
“Haven’t you worked with others before?”
“Not re
ally,” she answers.
“How?” I scratch my head with my lips twisted up in confusion.
“I’ve darted around it or was paired with a slacker where I did all the work.”
“I’m not a bad guy.” My voice is tight with tension and frustration. This is getting downright fucking ridiculous. “I guess I’ll talk to the professor tomorrow. Have a nice day.”
I walk off, gripping the strap of my backpack to a near-painful point. I need the punching bags and the gym. Screw the fact I just finished a grueling workout. I crave nothing more than to release this frustration. Every other class has been smooth. This one should be no different. Fuck, in theory, it’s the easiest one. I have no problem doing the damn work all by myself. However, the way Professor Rhoades has set it up, it’s impossible.
“Trick.”
I barely hear the squeak of my name through the carefree chatter of the other college students. I grunt then stop and turn around to see Mack walking up to me with her head bent low and a piece of paper in her hand.
“Give me your email, and we can work in Google Drive on our project.” She says each word while studying her battered, pale yellow Converse.
I bite my tongue, wanting to tell her off, but take it from her hand and pull a pen from the side pocket of my backpack, jotting down my university email. I hand it back to her without a word and stride off with all my patience used up and drained for a damn long time.
It could be my imagination, but I swear I hear a simple “sorry” ghost in the light breeze. The drive back to the gym flies by in a blur. The front glass door whips open, and I stomp in. The few remaining fighters standing around shooting the shit all focus in on me.