by JD Hawkins
All In
J.D. Hawkins
Copyright © 2016 by JD Hawkins
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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This book is dedicated to my readers. I love you long time.
"I only want to be known as the best ever. Is that too much to ask?"
BJ Penn, former UFC Lightweight and Welterweight Champion
* * *
"You can make a mistake and get caught in a submission, but Chuck made a mistake and he got caught in an ass whoopin'."
Quinton "Rampage" Jackson, former UFC Light-Heavyweight Champion
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Epilogue
Also by J.D. Hawkins
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Prologue
“Remember Connor,” Butch says, grabbing my arm as I open the door to exit the car, “pride comes before the fall.”
“Good thing I don’t stay down then,” I grin, stepping out into the huddle of mics and cameras held out to me.
They fire questions at me like a flurry of punches, some meant to provoke a reaction, some meant to draw my eye, a couple meant to throw me off guard, but I ignore all of them as I walk the twenty paces up to the KFYT radio building. The good thing about being two-hundred and thirty pounds of rock-hard muscle is that people tend to move out of your way pretty quickly.
Still, there’s a buzz around me, an energy. They feel it, and so do I. I’ve always had it, always had an effect on the people around me. When I was younger it was because I was tall enough to stand out; when I became a fighter it was because I moved with the grace and poise of one. Now, it’s because I’m right on the verge of taking my spot at the top.
I glance back for Butch, my coach, and then sweep a couple of reporters away with the ease of brushing crumbs off a table to let the short, bald, old Irish guy through. He’s not the kind of guy most people would choose to accompany them to a radio interview; everything he says sounds like a proverb and he spends every second of the day reading about fighting, thinking about fighting, or talking about fighting. Nonetheless, he’s the only guy I’d want by my side.
“Mr. Anderson?” a sweet, slightly accented voice calls out, before a lithe blonde steps out from somewhere and paces toward us.
“They’ve started already,” she apologizes. “Uh…where are your people?”
“My people?” I say through a smile that lets her know I’m appreciating more than her politeness.
“Yes. Your…you know—”
“I’m his people,” Butch interrupts, stepping forward and offering his hand with an old-worldly bow of the head. “I’m his trainer, his manager, his security, and his priest.”
The lovely blonde allows him to take her hand as carefully as delicate fabric, smiling in the bashful way most women do when presented with Butch’s pre-war charm.
“But you’re welcome to join us and fulfill the roles he can’t,” I wink at her, causing Butch to glare at me with Catholic judgment.
Her smile turns into a nervous laugh. “This way please,” she says, indicating with her palm the way to go.
“Ladies first,” I urge, prompting her to spin on those heels and walk off while I study the sway of her skirt with the intent and admiration of an art critic. “That’s an ass that’ll make any man chivalrous,” I say quietly, leaning toward Butch. He growls despairingly before heading after her.
One short, sexually-charged elevator ride later—with only Butch’s constant, disapproving glare holding me back from any further flirtation with the blonde—and we step out into the corridor of the station, heading right for the door with the big red light over it.
The woman puts her finger on her lips as we reach the door. Then she pushes it open and gently guides me in with a hand tightly gripping my bicep, a hand that seems to want to linger there. I shrug her off with an apologetic grin and head toward the show host.
“You’re listening to ninety-seven-point-three KFYT, I’m Tommy Smart and we’re finally joined by the man of the hour: Connor ‘Alpha Male’ Anderson!” wails the big bearded guy in the Hawaiian shirt on the other side of a sea of equipment.
The studio’s so dark I can’t even tell where the eruption of applause from the small live audience comes from. A wiry, long-haired guy pulls me in front of a mic and adjusts it quickly before handing me a pair of headphones and then doing the same with Butch, planting him in the corner behind me like a potted plant.
“Hello California,” I say into the mic through a wide smile.
“You’re looking good, Connor,” says Sheena, Tommy’s chocolatey-voiced co-host, giving me a long, slow, very obvious once-over.
“Thank you, Sheena. You look much better than on the radio too.”
She laughs and Tommy leaps in quickly, getting down to business before his co-host’s attention gets out of hand.
“Now correct me if I’m wrong, Connor, but this is the first interview you’ve done since the announcement that you’re joining the UFC, right?”
“Right,” I say, leaning toward the mic, “everybody wanted a word with me, but I said Tommy gets the first pop.”
“Really?” Sheena says.
“No,” I smile. “It’s just close to my gym.”
Tommy just laughs, shaking his head. “See, this is what fascinates me about you, Connor; you say something insulting like that and somehow I feel like I’m being charmed. Don’t you feel that, Sheena?”
Sheena flashes me a look that tells me she’d be more than happy to eat me alive if I give her the word. “It’s his voice.”
“His voice?”
“Yeah. And all that swagger doesn’t hurt, either.”
“Ok, let’s back up a little here,” Tommy says, pulling the mic closer and leaning forward onto his messy studio desk. “You’ve been fighting small-organization fights for the past couple of years.”
“Correct,” I say.
“Everybody’s starting to talk about you, starting to notice you. People want you in the UFC, they want to see what you can do. You get the call, and find out not only are you gonna fight there, you’re getting a shot at the light-heavyweight title. If you win your first bout against Gregg Hendrix, you’re gonna fight Pete ‘the Crippler’ Foreman. You must be feeling incredibly overwhelmed right now.”
“Nope,” I say, matter-of-fact. “Not a bit.”
“You don’t feel like this is all happening too quickly?”
“No,” I repeat. “It was too easy for me, dominating in the other organization. It felt wrong being so much better than every other fighter, wrong ending fights in the first round—ending fights before I even stepped in the ring.”
Tommy nods, motioning me to go on.
“It feels wrong hearing that Pete is the best light-heavyweight there’s ever been, hearing people say nobody’s gonna take the belt off him for a long time. So getting this s
hot—it doesn’t feel wrong at all. I feel like I’m finally where I belong. Not yet, but I will be. I’m ready.”
Sheena’s eating this up, but Tommy shoots me a skeptical look across the room. “Come on. Pete’s an animal. He’s one of the toughest—”
“Pete’s an animal and one of the toughest to every other fighter,” I interrupt. “Every other fighter should be afraid of Pete. But I’m something different. Pete’s time is up. It was up the moment they told me I’d be getting a chance to fight him. And I will fight him. My first fight with Hendrix won’t be a problem.”
“See, people like this about you,” Tommy says, roaring with another of his trademark laughs. “They like this cockiness, right? The arrogance. They wanna see more of it. You’re out there, you’re confident—”
“Good-looking,” Sheena says, her laugh as dirty as food sex.
“I think Sheena has more chance of ending me than Pete does,” I joke into the mic.
“Ladies love you too,” Tommy adds. “But there are some other fighters that aren’t too happy with you now, right? You’re some guy coming in from another organization, showing up untested, getting a title shot straight out of the gate. And you’re not fighting at your natural weight, right? You’re a heavyweight, what are you, two…?”
“Two hundred and thirty pounds of invincible. I’m cutting twenty-five to fight, and that twenty-five pounds could probably win the flyweight division itself. But honestly: I’m the money fight. I’m the only guy who can take the belt off Pete—simple as that. The UFC knows it, the people listening know it, you know it. Pete knows it most of all—trust me. He’s gone through six or seven fighters now. But yeah, people are pissed because if they couldn’t take the belt off Pete they definitely won’t get it from me.”
“Sure. And all you’ve got to do is fight Gregg Hendrix before that, and win, to get that title shot.”
“Yeah, a catch-weight match,” I nod. “Like I said, Hendrix won’t be a problem.”
Tommy lifts a brow. “Gregg’s got a great record, yet you seem pretty confident that your win’s already in the bag. What do you know that we don’t?”
I shrug. “I like Gregg a lot. I’ve known him for a long time. We trained a bit together way back when I was in Stockton. He’s a great fighter, great guy. Against anyone else I’m gonna root for Gregg. But I’m a man on a mission right now, and I’m not gonna promise a great fight—not unless you like one-sided ones.”
“Some might say you’re ready to be taken down a peg, Connor,” Tommy says.
Now I laugh. “Some might, yeah. They’re gonna be disappointed.”
Tommy adjusts the mic again in a motion that I’m beginning to realize he does whenever he wants to shift the topic.
“So you’re cutting weight now?”
“Yeah, I’ve been working hard with my trainer Butch,” I say, moving aside to point over my shoulder at him.
“Hi Butch,” Sheena adds.
“He’s having me drink all kinds of witch potions and organic pebbles and all that. Eye of toad, fairy farts, all the good stuff.”
“Gotta be tough for a guy like you,” Tommy says.
I nod. “It’s a big change for me. I mean, I like big steaks, big asses, and big occasions. But you got to put a little discipline in there every once in a while.”
Sheena laughs as soon as I mention asses and jumps in when I’m finished.
“This is interesting, ‘cause when we said we were having you on the show yesterday, we got more phone calls and e-mail feedback from female listeners than with any other fighter we’ve had in the studio.”
“Ladies love you,” Tommy says again, and I’m starting to wonder if he’s got a complex about it. I just grin and shrug, since I can’t deny that it’s true.
“They do,” Sheena continues, with gleeful laughter. “They really do. I mean, we got so many emails.”
“Were there photographs?” I wink at her.
“Well, there were some pretty long, descriptive, um…let’s say ‘visual’ emails.”
“What do you think, Sheena?” says Tommy. “Is he attractive? Does the magic hold up in real life?”
Sheena leans back and studies me. I flex an arm and flash my abs, striking a pose, and she laughs before answering.
“Yeah. Yeah, it does. I see it. There are a lot of attractive fighters out there, but I think maybe Connor’s got the edge. He has that extra ‘something.’”
Our eyes lock and I give her my best wolfish grin. “You’re gonna have to stop looking at me like that, Sheena, or I’ll end up breaking my diet.”
“I wanna ask you something,” Tommy says over Sheena’s husky chuckle. “We were talking before you arrived about what exactly an ‘alpha male’ is. Everyone kinda knows what it is, but nobody can really describe it exactly, right? Is it confidence, is it good looks, is it the power to dominate? So I wanna ask you—‘cause nobody would deny you are one: what’s the secret to being ‘alpha’?”
“I never reveal my secrets,” I say.
“Boo!” Sheena hums.
“Come on,” Tommy smiles.
“No,” I say, smiling right back. “That’s part of being an alpha male. Knowing something nobody else does.”
The studio audience breaks into light applause and a few whistles, and with that I know I’ve got everyone completely hooked.
“Let’s open up the lines to some questions from our listeners, then,” Tommy says.
“I can’t wait,” I growl.
* * *
Butch isn’t there when I shake hands and say my goodbyes to the studio staff. When I step outside into the hall I see him up the other end of the corridor, beside the elevator. He sees me and immediately turns around to hammer the button like he’s trying to finger-fuck it.
“That was over the fucking top, Connor,” he grunts as I come up behind him, his focus still on the button.
“It was an interview, it’s good for the fight.”
“‘Two hundred and thirty pounds of invincible,’ Jesus bloody Christ. I’ve half a mind to take the first plane back to Ireland, where you’d get glassed in the face for saying something so ridiculous. And I’d be the first in line to do it.”
The elevator doors open and he steps inside, immediately hammering the button like he hopes it’ll close before I get in myself.
“It’s psychology! It’s how these big fights work! What am I supposed to say? ‘Pete’s a great fighter, it’ll be tough, but I think I can do it if I work hard enough’?”
“Yes!” Butch says, looking at me with complete confusion on his face. “What ever happened to respect and honesty?”
“All the guys who had it got overtaken by the guys who didn’t! Look, if a few cocky words here and there can get inside Pete’s head then it’ll give me an edge. Most of the guys he destroyed lost the fights before they even started. They acted like losers and became them.” I shake my head at how out-of-touch Butch can be sometimes.
“Some dogs break when you beat them, and some dogs bite,” he warns.
I shoot Butch a quizzical look. “Wait, am I the dog or is Pete?”
He sighs and scowls at me for a full ten seconds until he’s interrupted by the elevator reaching the ground floor with a ding and the doors opening.
“Keep your thoughts to yourself, Connor, because you become a slave to them once they’re out.”
Butch takes a couple of angry quick steps towards the lobby’s big glass doors.
“Hey, hold up,” I call out, “I need to use the bathroom.”
“Get your own ride back,” Butch says without looking back at me. “There’s not enough room for both of us in the car with that big head of yours.”
I watch his hunched figure push through the doors and let out a sigh.
“Is there a problem?” that beautiful, accented voice says, once again appearing from nowhere.
I turn to face the blonde.
“Not at all,” I say, nodding at the quickly-pacing figure. “Tha
t’s him when he’s happy.”
She laughs gently and reveals her ear with a sweep of her hand. “Should I call you a cab? Would you like something to drink?”
I flash her a smile. “I was about to ask you the same thing. Not in that order though.”
She bites her lip and glances quickly down, chuckling softly.
Moments like this, in the presence of a beautiful woman who knows she’s being chased, are where I like to be. On the verge of the chase, edging closer to something unpredictable, spontaneous, but always pleasurable. Whether it’s the start of a fight, the first sign you get from a woman, or the roll of the dice—I can’t get enough of the thrill of a challenge, the excitement of a risk. Every guy knows that feeling, but few of them can handle too much of it. Me? I can’t handle living without it.
Which is why I feel like someone just knifed me in the back when I hear that familiar, husky voice come from the other side of the lobby.
“I’ll drive him.”
I reluctantly peel my eyes from the blonde to look at the rapidly pacing figure approaching us with the menace of a cruise torpedo, cat-green eyes directed at the blonde like a pair of ‘danger ahead’ signs.
“Tara,” I grind out. A name I can only say in the same tone most people reserve for the words ‘fuck’ ‘shit’ and ‘not again.’
If there was ever a woman to teach you that thinking with your dick is bad, it’s Tara. She’s hot as hell, and about twice as unpleasant. Jeans so ripped you can see the ball-aching tightness of her thighs, black tank top so low-cut you can see the start of the tattoo on her left breast. Every step she takes towards me is calculated, measured, composed, like she’s waiting for somebody to take a picture of her at any second.