BEAST (MMA Bad Boys Book 1)

by L. Grubb

  Text copyright © 2015

  L. Grubb

  All rights reserved

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events are the products of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced or distributed in any form or by any other means without permission from the Author.

  Cover copyright © 2015

  The cover of this book is primarily the author’s, any illegal distribution will have legal action taken against them in a court of law.

  Books by L. Grubb

  Acknowledgements

  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

  Epilogue

  Excerpt of An Honest Mistake

  About the Author

  Crusaders MC Series

  An Honest Mistake – Available now

  The Last Betrayal – Available now

  Champ & Lauren – Available now

  Cobra & Alexis – Available now

  Holding onto Hope – Coming 2016

  MMA series

  BEAST

  ROOFIE – Coming 2017

  Firstly, I want to thank my amazing cover designer, Clarissa Wild - www.boomingcovers.blogspot.com - for designing my AMAZING cover. I love it. And because perfection is her middle name, she’s made it that way. Amazing talent and an amazing friend.

  I want to thank Leigh Stone for formatting for me again, I really appreciate it.

  https://www.facebook.com/FormattingByLeigh/

  I want to thank my amazing friend, Sheila Kell. She’s been absolutely fantastic and has helped me so much. She’s a valued friend and much like family to me. Thank you! (FANTASTIC AUTHOR too!)

  Kelly Hamley, you’ve supported me since I first started writing and without the encouragement you sent my way, I would never have even got passed the first book! (AMAZING AUTHOR too!)

  My STREET TEAM, Bonnie Mancuso, Mary M. Sembera, Lisa Morgan, Emma Parrott, Brandi, Louise Bailey, Amber, Marie Yule, Becky and everyone else, thank you so so much for all your support, even before reading my work you showed untimely support and I will be forever grateful.

  Keren Hughes, by far my #1 fan! You’ve been nothing short of fantastic to me, making me swag, designing my bookmarks and telling me how much you love my book. Both of them seeing as you read this one as I wrote! I love ya to pieces,

  remember you’re like a sister to me. Xx

  To Bella Williams; girl you are amazing, and I can’t thank you enough for everything you’ve done from me. I love you chick! <3 xxx

  My mum, Jacs Dugdale, for supporting me in my adventure into writing, who is reading this book now to give me criticism that only she can.

  My auntie Liane, you’ve inspired me so much! When you wrote your first book, I knew I wanted to follow in your footsteps, and here I am! Thank you for always believing in me.

  I NEED to thank Bailey Lee, because he’s been like the brother I never had and has been there for me from the day I started writing my first book in 2015. I couldn’t be where I am without you.

  Thank you to Eric Battershell for all your support, even though this image isn’t one of yours, you inspire me daily with your wonderful photography.

  My little princess. Sofia. I love you so much baby girl, you inspire me every day to be a better person, to not slip off the deep end. I love you unconditionally and I love watching you grow into your own little person. You battle your severe eczema with so much pride, that I envy you for your not letting other kids pick on you because of you face, and how brave you through your asthma episodes. I love you so much, princess. <3 Here’s to our future! *raises can of coke*.

  To all the bloggers that have shared the shit out of my work, I can’t honestly thank you enough.

  Lastly, to you, the readers, for reading my ramblings and reviewing like crazy. Without you I’m a nobody. Thank you!

  From the age of fourteen, I built myself, my body, and trained hard to become an MMA champion. I spent years perfecting my image, hardening my inner-self as well as physically. I’m my father’s legacy and he’s pushed me hard to be where I am today. He may have been the shittiest father anyone could ask for, but he taught me stuff that could make me into someone. I never wanted to be a champion fighter, I wanted to become a doctor but my path was already set in stone when my parents found out I was a boy; I didn’t stand a fucking chance. I’m eighteen now and at the top of my fucking game, I’m an international superstar with more money than I know what to do with. Women flock me and I can have any one of those fake bitches if I want to…and I do; daily. I’m an aggressive fucker with particular tastes when it comes to sex and these bimbos let me do whatever the fuck I want. They’re trying for air time, but they get jack shit. The paparazzi won’t print them because they’re just inadequate nobodies. Unworthy. Money grabbing whores.

  My late father, MMA champion for twenty-five years, Ricardo Mendez, died having a heart attack while he was mid-attacking me. I laughed and said to him as he was dying on the linoleum floor of our kitchen, “Karma’s a bitch, mother fucker.” I stepped back and watched as his hands clung to his chest, fighting desperately for breath. The last things he saw before handing himself over to the grim reaper was my big ass smirk and my middle finger before I turned and walked from the room, calmly shutting the door behind me and chuckling the whole way to my Conquest Knight XV. People can hear me coming from miles away when I drive this beast. Its sleek, black colour complements the chrome lining around the wheels and the tinted windows give me enough privacy to do the dirty shit I make bitches do when I’m driving us back to the penthouse.

  I strapped myself in, turned over the engine and take a minute to relish in the growling sound of the engine before I hightail it out of there, leaving plumes of black smoke to pollute the London air. The squeal of my tires is unmistakeable and I knew then that it wouldn’t be long for the police to track me down for questioning. And I wasn’t disappointed.

  His death was ruled a heart attack brought on by stress. As I predicted, that night when I left my old family home, the police came knocking and I was brought in for questioning. I was questioned relentlessly for hours and hours, sticking to the same shit and listening to them droning on and on with the same pathetic questions. It was like a never ending cycle, but I was trained to have a high level of patience, and I used it that day in the cop shop. They gave up and released me when they had the coroner’s report back but I suspect they never really stopped playing the blame game. That’s fine, they have no proof I was even there except one statement from a neighbour ‘claiming’ to have heard my car flying down the street but not visually seeing it.

  To this day, I believe the police think I had some hand in helping my father’s heart attack, but I never told them what truly happened. What was the point? The fucker was dead now. Justice for me is now too damn late. But I don’t fucking care, he’s gone. End of story.

  “Ladies and Gentleman, may I present to you, the one man who is yet to be beaten, a man who’s known around the world as the person who lives his life through his fists…It’s BEAST!” The audience go wild, loud whistles and clapping along with stamping their feet on the warehouse’s stone floor, reverberates around the vast space.

  I breathe deep through my nose and blow out through my mouth as I jump on the spot behind the locker room doors. My hands are wrapped and
ready to fly, my blue and gold robe flutters around me as my body bounces on my feet. I shake my hands, uncoiling them and refisting to get into my zone. My eyes are shut as I roll my neck, clicking the bones beneath.

  My eyes fly open when the doors are swung outward, revealing the flashing lights that effectively blind me, keeping me in place. The noise is loud, louder than it ever has been. As I take my first steps out into the limelight, the cameras of the MMA paparazzi go off, documenting my every step as I make my way slowly to the ring where my opponent is waiting and watching me with narrowed eyes. The guy isn’t anything big, but he’s been in the game for a few years and has been itching to get a fight with me…just like every other fucker that comes into this profession, if you can call it that.

  I keep my face expressionless as I climb the steps to enter the ring. First rule of the trade: don’t let your opponent read you like an open book, that there would be an epic fail and could get you killed easily; even rules can’t stop a man’s strength from punching you in the wrong place. The ropes are pulled down to let me climb in easier.

  Going to the blue corner, I meet my coach there who hands me the mouth guard and double checks the wraps around my hands. After his usually pointless pep talk, I’m ushered to the centre of the ring to meet the opponent who has relentlessly stalked me, desperate to want to be the one to take down the one person no other fighter previously has been able to do.

  “Bump fists, lads,” the grey headed ref says, eyeing us both. “Now.”

  I bump my fists against his a little too hard, making him stumble a step backwards. Seeing his nostrils flare in anger, I allow him to see the small smirk I’ve been trying desperately to keep in. He has too much anger, that will be his downfall… but I’ll make him sweat, make him believe he has a chance before I take his sorry arse down.

  At seeing the tension between us, the crowd go wild but I tune them out, focusing entirely on my breathing, and discreetly checking him out for weaknesses as he walks over to his coach for his mouth guard. I spot a weakness pretty quickly but school my features, making myself look like I was really gearing up for the fight. This fucker is going to hurt for weeks after I’m done with him.

  Ten minutes later

  Slamming my foot into the side of his thigh, I jump back in time for him to crash to the floor in front of me, his head bouncing off the floor. Sweat is dripping off me and pooling in the crack of my arse but I stand there with my arms crossed against my chest as the ref goes to his knees to check him out.

  “He’s out cold.” Standing to his feet he grabs my hand and raises it in the air like I’m some prized fucking possession. “Beast has won by means of a K.O.!” The crowd have gone from super quiet to absolute hysteria and madness, the stamping of feet shakes the room and I swiftly make my exit out of the ring. As I head toward the locker room, I grab a bitch to take with me.

  “Coach, wait out here, mate,” I say over my shoulder as I barrel my way through the locker room doors.

  Once I have the doors securely locked, I slam the broad against the closest wall and begin ripping her clothes from her cosmetically enhanced body. “Don’t say a fucking word or I’ll fucking hurt you. Capiche?” She nods her head rapidly, her laboured breathing being the only thing that can be heard in the quiet stillness of the room.

  Sheathing my cock in latex, I put my hand against her throat, holding her in place as my mouth attacks hers in a hungry, punishing kiss. I thrust inside without foreplay and I muffle her scream with another kiss. Bitches that scream and moan like a cat fuck me off and it seems this one is no different. After each hard thrust, I swivel my hips to hit the spot that will make her come the quickest. Yeah, I’m not a complete cunt…I do let these bitches get off too, and it doesn’t take long for her pussy to clench around me, milking me of everything I have.

  Not taking the time to catch our breathes, I pull out, none to gently, and rip off the condom and tying the end. Catching her still standing there in her ripped open tank top, I raise an eyebrow and say, “You can fuck of now, ya know. You’ve passed your used by date.”

  Her eyes widen and she hurriedly gathers her clothes before fleeing the room via the back door. I’ll never understand the mentality of the girls that hang around for a quick fuck with a fighter…we all fight for a reason, whether we’re running from the shit in our past or because we we’re thrown head first into the ring with no skills, no nothing.

  These fights are sponsored by Mob bosses; men you can’t ever say no to, men who’ll shoot first and think later. The MMA circuit is ruled by ruthless Italians. And yeah, my late father was one of them.

  Heading for the showers to clean off the sweat I accumulated from the fight and fucking the plastic Barbie, I hear the locker room doors open and the bass beat of AC/DC’s ‘Highway to Hell’ floats through.

  “Do you think he’ll last much longer in the game, Carlos? Really?” The shrill tone of a woman well known for her hustling and rich fur coats sings out in the empty room, creating an unwelcome echo. “Come on, he never wanted to be here.”

  I stand just out of sight in the shower room, eavesdropping on the conversation between a high ranking Mob boss and this Mob wife. Is there a name for those types of women? Like, footballers have wags, right? Fuck knows, but they should. They may be dangerous women, but, fuck me, they’re the cattiest bitches I know. I wouldn’t dare say shit to their faces mind you. I may be six foot five of hard, solid muscle, but those women are trained with guns, knives, machetes and fuck knows what else. I ain’t down with that shit.

  Keeping my breathing quiet, I continue to listen, curious as to who they’re talking about.

  “Beast is just eighteen, Carmella, he has a long, long career left in front of him. What the fuck is it to you anyway?” Carlos’ voice grows stronger, more dangerous at the end of his sentence. “You need to keep your fucking nose on your face instead of in other people’s business, sweetheart.” The coldness of his voice makes me shiver and I can’t imagine how that woman is feeling right now when he’s right up in her grill. “He can never leave this life and you know it. Now fuck off out of my sight.” I hear the squeal come from her as, I can only envision, Carlos manhandles her out of the room.

  I let out a breath that I didn’t know I was holding and continue on my way to a dirty shower stall. Their conversation swirls around in my head and I wash off the grime and sweat that’s stuck to my body. Why would she say that I haven’t got long in the circuit? I’m at my prime and still have many years ahead of me. No, I never wanted to fight for a living, but now that I’ve been doing this shit for years, I really don’t want to leave all I know, and the money, behind.

  Pulling the white, cotton towel off the hook just outside the stall, I wrap it around my waist and exit before heading back to my locker to get dressed and haul ass out of here so I can get fucking wasted.

  I get dressed in record time and grab my duffel bag. I blow out a long breath before I exit the locker room, ready to be stopped at every turn. I swear to fucking God, it takes about an hour to get from one end of the room to the other, especially when you’re as well-known as me. Yeah, I’m an arrogant prick and I don’t give a fuck.

  After being accosted for the hundredth time, I practically push people out of the way and ignoring the other socialites trying to stop me, just to have a picture taken with ‘BEAST’, MMA Champion for three years running. That’s me. Just a pretty face, paid to knock the shit out of amateurs.

  Finally exiting the building, I take in lungfuls of the polluted air of London, raising my head up and basking in the rain drops that land on my face. The cool night air washes over me, drying the sweat that’s building along my brow line.

  Making my way to my car that’s built like a shit brick house, that matched me perfectly, I hear my name called from back at the warehouse. I growl low in my throat and turn slowly. “What? Can’t a fucking guy leave this place or something?”

  “Sorry, I just wanted to tell you it was an amazing figh
t. I’ve never seen anything like it.” When my eyes land on hers, I see a slight hint of fear, probably because I have a nasty ass scowl on my face right now. My eyes view the length of her. Curvy in all the right places, this chick has a body to die for. Her brown, shoulder length hair falls down in soft waves and her lips are bow shaped, full and, most importantly, not fake. I notice her hands are wrapped and her clothing resembles that of the female fighter population. She takes one last drag of her cigarette before stamping it out under her trainers. “Anyway, I’ll let you take off. Catch you around, Beast.”

  Not saying a word, I watch as she turns and disappears behind the steel door of the warehouse where fights are hosted. Blinking a few times, I wonder where the fuck she came from. I’ve never seen her around here before and I’m practically here every fucking day. New girl? New city? Fuck knows. Shrugging to myself, I turn and finally climb up to the leather seat behind the wheel.

  Sitting there for a few minutes, lost in my head, my thoughts stick on the girl that just confronted me. Usually, bitches just want one thing from me but she was different. She didn’t look at me with ‘come fuck me’ eyes, she didn’t give me one of the God awful sultry looks that girls think are attractive. She smiled at me like she respected me. No one has looked at me like that before, at least, not for a very fucking long time.

  Pressing the button to start the car, I put it into drive and peel out of the car park, eager to get my ass to the pub for a pint…or six. Everyone heads there after a fight and I’m hoping the lads are there already so I don’t look like a moron, sitting there on my own.

  Swinging the doors to the pub open, my eyes survey the room. Bitches are everywhere in their tiny dresses and too much make-up. Makes me cringe thinking what their daddy’s think of them leaving the house like that. They think they look good when really they’re just asking for trouble.