Their macaroni catching efforts proving fruitless, Woods said, “Let’s put in another Bruce Lee movie. How bout Fists of Fury?”
The idea sounded good to Rodrigo, but Bretten caught his eye. “I got a better idea. Let’s watch the highlight reel video you made of Bretten. Get him fired up to bust out another Darnell-Plex this weekend.”
Newcomb, with his right eye squeezed shut objected. “Not this again, I’m going to do something spectacular in my next fight so you idiots will start watching it instead of the Darnell-Plex.” The last part was in a whiny voice that didn’t match his stature.
Millsap ignored the big man. “I’ll get it set up real quick.” Even though he seemed the resident recluse he liked being in on something exciting.
Newcomb relented. “Fine, I’ll watch it again.”
Bretten wiped his hands together and then on the couch, his right foot bobbed up and down and he couldn’t seem to get it under control. He’d seen the clip a hundred times, but this time made his palms sweaty, his throat dry.
Everyone sat, Millsap and Marita on the floor against the far wall, Newcomb in the recliner, Rodrigo and Woods in chairs from the kitchen, Bretten and Brooke on the couch. The clip started with Bretten landing the flying knee on Adrian Davis. An instant later he delivered the Darnell-Plex, and then it flashed to clips from the interview after the robbery. The whole thing lasted only thirty seconds or so, but then the screen flickered to something new.
“What the hell is this?” Woods asked. “Somebody’s been messing with the clip.”
The screen showed the living room in which they currently sat. It was vacant until Bretten walked into the camera shot. Everybody remained silent, curious. Brooke, her shoulder resting against Bretten’s, gave him a sideways glance. He quickly nodded toward the TV.
On the screen he wore slacks, a button up shirt, and shiny black dress shoes. His movements were odd, jerky, something found in a seventh grade school play. He dropped to one knee...“Brooke,” he cleared his throat, “I’ve given this a lot of thought. I know it is fast, but it seems right. I spoke with Rodrigo about it, and go figure he gave me a Bruce Lee quote that in essence says that love is a friendship on fire, hot and fierce in the beginning. When love grows our hearts mature and that flame becomes deep-burning coals. I believe that even though we’re just starting out, our love has become deep-burning, unquenchable. So I ask you Brooke Simms, will you marry me?”
Tears welled up in the corner of her eyes, and one after another traced the lines of her face. She turned to look at Bretten and found him on one knee, his arm extended with a beautiful ring in his hand. Her hands shook. Could she really be doing this? There was no way she was ready for a step this huge, but she reached for it, nodded first, and then said, “Yes, I’ll marry you Bretten Maris!”
They embraced, and the room went nuts.
Rodrigo glanced at Newcomb. “You crying bro?”
Newcomb shook it off.“Naw man. It’s the damn chop stick injury,” then he sniffed really hard.
Chapter 18
Six Weeks Before UCC 132
Tristan needed to lose. Bretten needed to win. If it went the other way Bear feared he might end up dead. He paced back and forth in the hallway. Tristan was about to go out, and Bear had been in the locker room doing his best to plant seeds of doubt. He hated doing it to his own client, but Mr. Smith put down seventy five thousand on Tre Moore, Tristan’s opponent.
Only moments ago he told Tristan he was moving slow, looked weak, and had better pace himself. Tristan responded by saying, “I’m sick of your negative attitude. Get the fuck out of here.”
Bear tried to apologize, reason with him, but Tristan was having none of it so he made his way down the hall and slipped into Bretten’s locker room. Bretten was on his back on the floor, his right leg twisted over his left and Rodrigo pushing down on it. Whit stood, hands on his hips, and reviewed the game plan. With the change in scenery Bear changed his attitude. “Looking good champ. You ready to knock this bum Griffin out?”
“I’m ready to do whatever it takes.”
“That’s what I like to hear.”
Bear was nervous though. Earlier Bretten complained of a head cold and he came in a pound over at the first weigh in. He had to bundle up and run three miles to drop the weight. Not usually a big deal, but in Bear’s current state everything was magnified, every little perceived problem slapped him in the face.
He glanced at the TV. Tristan was on his way to the cage. He considered his options, watch from here or head cage side. He looked around and realized he’d be in a room full of happy people if Tre Moore won, but still he preferred to see the fight close up and live. He told Bretten he had confidence in him, and headed for the door.
An idiot security guard made him fish out his pass, and it took a minute to find it. He arrived at his seat a few seconds after the fight started. Tristan looked much better than Bear thought he would. He shot in for a single leg and drove through it, Moore tried to fight it off, tried to sprawl then twisted in an effort to bust free, but Tristan sucked in the leg and Moore thudded to the canvas right up against the cage.
Tristan worked into side control. He was on top, both legs free with his body sideways across Moore, a dominant position. Without thinking Bear clasped his hands, raised them to his chin, thumbs underneath, and proceeded to chew on his knuckles. His arm pits pooled with sweat as he stared on. Seventy five thousand dollars only feet away from him.
Tristan shook his head and rolled his tongue around his lips. Blood poured from his mouth in a steady stream. He swallowed hard and kept fighting. Bear’s heart leapt. He didn’t know why Tristan was bleeding. Tre Moore had done nothing to him, but it offered some hope.
From side control Tristan raised his right leg high behind him, left knee on the ground next to Moore’s stomach and then with thunderous speed brought his knee down hard into Moore’s side. Bear actually heard the man groan as air left his lungs, the sound revolting. Tristan swallowed hard again, his mouth closed tight. He should never have doubted his client. The man was a damn good fighter, and with a fight with Bretten on the horizon he was hungry.
It all played out in slow motion. Another vicious knee, this time when Tristan landed it he exhaled and blood sprayed all over the cage and Moore, who rolled a little to avoid another knee, exposing his back in the process. The referee looked hard at Tristan. His mouth looked like a vampire’s. Blood leaked from the corners and dripped from his chin. He wasted no time as he worked toward the man’s back and punched him in the side of the head. In a matter of seconds he had both feet locked around his waist. He delivered a few more blows and snaked his arm underneath Moore’s chin.
Bear glanced at the big screen, still almost a minute left in the round. The choke was tight, no way would Moore survive. He tried to keep his chin tucked, pulled at the arm, tried to squirm, and then tapped out.
Bear clapped. After all, Tristan was his client. He was supposed to want him to win. But ten percent of a ten thousand dollar purse wasn’t exactly what Bear needed. He turned and headed out of the arena, up the stairs to the main concourse. He had to get away from it all. He ordered two five dollar beers, and while waiting glanced at the TV screen. It appeared that during the takedown Tristan somehow lost his mouthpiece and bit through part of his tongue. Bear worked his way through the crowd to an empty niche and gulped the soothing liquid, one after the other. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and said, “Dear God please let Bretten win.”
The crowd was buzzing, the main event had arrived. Bear shuffled back through the spectators, showed his pass to the same dumb security guard, and got to his seat in time to see Bretten arrive cage side. He watched as he hugged Whit, Brooke, and Rodrigo and then received his Vaseline. He watched as he threw his arms in the air to thunderous applause.
Mr. Smith slapped down closer to a hundred thousand on Bretten. With a win the man would almost break even. Bear prayed that would be enough, but he feared it wo
uldn’t.
The fight started surprisingly. The stud wrestler Griffin decided to stand and trade punches with Bretten. Bear felt his pulse throb in his temple. It was a good throb though. Bretten had superior hands. He wanted to stay on his feet.
Bretten delivered a snapping jab, then another. Griffin seemed frustrated and offered a looping left. Bretten slipped to the side and drilled him with a straight right. The man staggered and was blasted with a round house kick to the side. He stumbled again, gathered himself and shot in for a double leg.
Bretten sprawled but Griffin kept driving forward. They tumbled across the cage and then crashed to the ground, Griffin on top, Bretten with his legs wrapped around him in full guard.
The wrestler was wild. He threw punch after punch in an effort to finish the fight. His ground and pound was ineffective, out of control, and Bretten took advantage. He caught the man’s arm, shifted his weight and slid his legs up to Griffin’s head. Next he wrapped his right leg around the back of the head and locked it in place behind the crook of his left knee. He had Griffin in a perfect triangle choke. He grabbed the head, pulled and squeezed with everything he had. Whit yelled. “Ten seconds, finish it now!”
Bretten squeezed harder, the arena lights seemed to be flashing. They blinked, came back brighter, then blinked again. And suddenly the referee was diving in. Bretten didn’t know what happened. His ears felt full with fluid. He was dizzy. He didn’t feel Griffin tap. Did he win? Did the round end?
He rolled to his side and saw Griffin out cold on the canvas. The doctors were rushing into the cage to tend to him. He did win, but was too dizzy to celebrate.
Bear didn’t celebrate either. He was overcome with relief, but didn’t feel like celebrating.
Chapter 19
Only an hour after the fights everyone found themselves at Baylor University Medical Center. The hospital was just a ten-minute drive, and due to Bretten’s difficult weight cut and dizziness the doctors at the fight required he get a full medical exam before being released.
His CT scan and neurological exams prior to the fight showed no anomalies and he didn’t get struck in the head much, so he wasn’t worried. The doctor did a thorough check and found no problems, attributing the episode to dehydration and the head cold, and set him up with an IV. An hour of fluids and they’d release him.
Tristan was at the hospital, too. The laceration to his tongue was so severe that it required stitches. The doctor told him it would heal quickly, the blood vessels in the tongue speed the process.
Bretten sat on the bed, IV pumping fluids into his arm. He felt fine, wanted to go home, but the nurse said twenty more minutes. Brooke sat beside him reading a copy of Fighters Only Magazine. She picked it up along with a magazine with wedding dresses in it before they drove down yesterday.
She looked up. “I’m hungry.”
Bretten nodded to the door. “Go ahead and get something to eat, I’m fine. You could probably catch up with Whit and Rodrigo. They went to the place around the corner.”
“Nah, I’m just going to grab a snack from the vending machine. You want anything?”
“No thanks, I’m good.”
Bretten watched her go. She looked great in her jeans and t-shirt and seemed so excited when talking about their future. She was so closed off for the first couple months, but after the walk to get the videos when she told him about her past she’d changed completely. And it made Bretten happy. He leaned his head back against a pillow and stared at the ceiling. After a few minutes he heard her voice. She was talking to somebody. Then he recognized who, Tristan. It was hard to understand him. He spoke as if his mouth was full of gum.
“Are you freaking kidding me? You two are getting married?” Bretten heard him say.
“Yeah, and why do you care?”
Bretten could tell by the tone of their voices the conversation wasn’t cordial, and he didn’t expect it to be. Tristan and Brooke’s relationship fell apart once he came into the picture. He eased off the bed and made his way for the door, forgetting about the IV. The needle pulled at his skin. “Shit.” He grunted.
He heard Tristan again. “Don’t you know what that asshole is really like?”
Brooke’s response was too low.
Bretten gripped the needle and slid it out of his arm. Blood leaked from the hole and coursed through the fine hairs. He grabbed a tissue, pressed it to the wound and again headed for the door.
Tristan glared. He couldn’t understand her betrayal. He knew he’d never be with her again. But his dad saved her life! Now she was going to marry this prick. “You owe me, my family, don’t you see that you bitch!”
Bretten stepped into the hallway. He saw Brooke with her fists clenched. “I’m sick of your shit, Tristan.” he yelled.
Tristan turned toward him. “Fuck the cage. Let’s do it now.”
Bretten still had his hand on the tissue. He raised it just in time. The punch glanced off his arm and caught him in the ear. A nurse screamed for help. Brooke yelled for them to stop. The two clinched. Tristan punched Bretten in the stomach. Bretten let out a rasping growl and pulled Tristan’s head down. At the same time he lifted his right knee catching him in the chin. Tristan wobbled and then lunged. The two banged into the wall, slammed into an empty bed and rolled to the floor.
They scrambled and fought. Now three nurses screamed. Brooke worked to break them up, an old security guard stood by helplessly. Almost simultaneously one of Tristan’s new training partners and Whit and Rodrigo arrived. They all dove in, pulling the men apart. The fight ended as quickly as it started. A minute of furious mayhem, and then there was calm. They didn’t want to fight anymore. At least not right now.
The police arrived, and a TV news crew wasn’t far behind. Neither man chose to press charges on the other. Statements were taken, and they settled on payment for the hospital.
“Your dumbass feud is going to hurt the sport. You’re turning mixed martial arts into professional wrestling. Keep the bullshit in the cage,” Whit had said. “One day you’ll get to fight each other for real, but you need to remain composed until that time.”
First Bretten, then Tristan agreed. They didn’t go as far to shake hands, but said they’d leave each other alone. Bretten thought of the day he’d climb in the cage with Tristan, and he longed for it to arrive. Tristan thought the exact same thing.
Everyone left the hospital under the watchful eye of a few of Dallas’ finest. Both men won in the cage, but felt beat. By the time they climbed into their cars, news of the fight had broken on MMA radio and the internet forums.
Chapter 20
Detective Westingham parked his car behind a police cruiser. A forensics van was there as well. Before getting out he looked in the rear view mirror and winked to himself. It seemed disrespectful to be happy at a murder scene, but Westingham felt it in his blood that this one would help bring everything together regarding Nick Maris, Raydell Richardson, and Harold Winstatt. Hell, for all he knew it could be Harold Winstatt lying forty feet away, and just a few miles from where Raydell Richardson was found.
Westingham climbed out of his car and flapped the lapels of his coat a few times. He took in the scene and slowly walked toward the body, arms out slightly like he was on a balance beam. He looked for anything that might help put things together. Finally, he arrived at the body.
The man was probably in his late twenties and he’d been shot in the chest three times by a small caliber weapon. The police officer gave Westingham a brief report. “Guy’s name is Tim McCloud. Found an expired license in his pocket, no money. He’s a small time drug dealer, been in county a few times. Looks like a basic dump. Found tire tracks over there,” the man pointed, “looks like a truck, and they barely slowed when they tossed old Tim out the back.”
Westingham placed his hands on his hips and nodded.
“You sure about all that? Sure the ID is real?” The questions came out more like accusations.
The officer looked at him sidewa
ys. “Don’t know why not, seems pretty straightforward to me. Just have to track down the idiots that did the deed.”
Westingham turned and kicked a bush.
“What the hell’s wrong with you, Mitch?” the officer asked.
“Hoped this scene would tell a different story.”
Minutes later he was back in his car. He looked in the rear view mirror and didn’t feel like winking at all. Now he’d have more work and wasn’t any closer to solving two murders and a possible third. That is if Harold Winstatt’s body was ever found.
The cell phone number had led nowhere. The office search was a dead end, too. No witnesses, no connections, no photos of these guys Dana called Eck and Dean, no luck tracking down the two guys on the club’s surveillance video, no description of a car, and no solid motive. It seemed like there should be plenty of evidence, yet nothing was coming together. Westingham threw the car in reverse. “How the hell did you always make it look easy, Spade?” He asked.
Chapter 21
Three days after the SRV Fights, and Bear couldn’t believe the reaction. He was sitting at Marshall’s sipping a beer while telling his friend the whole story. “Stein Berglund, UCC VP, called the day after the fight. He wanted to sign Tristan to a three fight deal as well. I was afraid he might consider dropping Bretten after the hospital. Instead, because of it I got Holmes signed with the UCC.”
“You can never predict how things will turn out, can you, Bear?” Marshall said.
“Nope, you sure can’t. Berglund did stipulate that he wanted a public apology from both men when they announced their upcoming fights. He also wanted Tristan on the card at UCC 132 right alongside Bretten. He said he wants to give the fans a glimpse of both of them side by side. If they both win he’ll let them fight, then the winner gets a title shot.”
“Amazing. So now you’re almost guaranteed to get one of your clients into a title fight.”
Caged Love: MMA Contemporary Suspense (Book Three) Page 7