Broken: An Alpha Bad Boy MMA Romance

by Scarlet MMA, Simone

  And then his eyes narrowed.

  He stroked the armrests of his wheelchair.

  “And, instead, I get a fate even worse than that.”

  Lyssa didn’t know how to respond to that.

  Fortunately, she didn’t have to.

  Silas looked up, and demanded: “So, senorita Meadows. Enough of why I went to America. Why don’t you tell me why you came to Spain?”

  Lyssa blinked at him.

  “Y-you invited me.”

  “I know I did,” Silas murmured. “But why did you come?”

  It was a good question. Lyssa hardly knew this handsome Spanish fighter. Aside from that one night they’d spent in hospital together, they’d barely shared more than an email or a text message. And yet, when he’d invited her to stay at Bodegas Batras, she’d accepted the offer instantly.

  “I’ve been a reporter with the Herald Tribune for years now,” Lyssa replied. “I’ve never taken a vacation day before. And I had the Airmiles saved up from covering all those fights in Vegas.” She laughed dryly. “I guess I just figured: Why not?”

  Silas raised his glass.

  “Well, for what it’s worth, I’m happy you’re here.” He reached out and touched her hand. “It was a pretty shitty way for me to leave America – but if it had one saving grace, it was meeting you.”

  Lyssa looked down at Silas’ sad, brown eyes and her lips curled.

  She lifted her own glass, and chinked it with him.

  “Cheers!”

  “Salud!” Silas responded.

  And, looking deep into each other’s eyes, they sipped the crisp, delicious wine together.

  Chapter Twenty Six

  Lyssa

  It had started to grow dark by the time Alberte served dinner, and there was a chill to the cool, crisp night.

  The six of them gathered around the table in the old yard, and Celestina served up the smoky lamb chops, four to a plate.

  Alberte busied himself opening a bottle of wine.

  “Gran Reserva,” he announced, as the cork popped from the dusty old bottle. “Something special for our friend from America.”

  And then he sloshed the wine into the glasses on the table – including healthy measures for the two little boys.

  Lyssa’s eyes widened as she watched. Europeans sure did things differently.

  Alberte raised his glass in a toast.

  “To Señorita Meadows. I’m not sure why you’re here, but you’re every welcome.” And he nodded his head towards Lyssa, and lifted the glass to his lips.

  “Salud,” Celestina, Silas and the boys echoed.

  Self-consciously, Lyssa raised her own glass and toasted them, and then sipped the wine herself.

  It was delicious – rich, and dark, and earthy. She’d always been more of a vodka girl herself, but tonight nothing else but this home-produced wine would have suited the atmosphere, or the company.

  With that, the table tucked into their food.

  Lyssa’s stomach rumbled as she eagerly reached for the lamb chops. “Oh, my goodness,” she moaned, as she took a bite of the slightly-burnt flesh, tearing it with her teeth. “These are amazing.”

  “It’s the vine wood,” still chewing, Alberte explained. “It gives them so much flavor.”

  You can always tell how good a meal is by how much conversation takes place during it. On this occasion, all that was heard for twenty minutes was the chewing of meat and the slurping of wine.

  Eventually, as Lyssa nibbled the last scraps of flesh from the bone, Celestina got up and started collecting the plates.

  “We have some nice Manchego to enjoy now,” she announced, as she headed to the kitchen.

  “And I’ll get the brandy,” Alberte announced.

  Even César and Chucho got up to help tidy up – which left just Lyssa and Silas sitting at the big table, looking out over the darkness beyond the yard.

  “So,” Silas reached for his wine, his wheelchair creaking as he moved. “Now what? You’re here for two weeks… How can we entertain you?”

  Lyssa noted a certain snootiness to his tone.

  “You don’t need to entertain me,” she growled. “I’m a big girl. I can entertain myself.” She looked across the table, and the handsome, but sad-eyed fighter. “But I suppose my editor would love an interview.”

  “An interview? With me?” Silas snorted. “A washed-up, broken fighter?”

  “You’re not broken,” Lyssa breathed.

  With his big hands, Silas gripped the wheels of his chair and steered it around to face her.

  “Look at me,” he hissed. “I’m useless. I can’t even help my brother out.” He snorted. “I went to America to stop being dependent on Alberte. And now look at me.”

  Lyssa saw his lip tremble as he said it.

  “So what would the interview even be about?” Silas continued. “The end of a man’s life?”

  “There’s a debate up in Albany, about letting the MMA league into New York.” For some strange reason, New York was the only state in which mixed martial arts events, like the ones the MMA league held, were banned. “He wants both sides of the argument – and you’re an example of how dangerous the sport can be.”

  “Sapristi, crossing the road in New York is dangerous,” Silas snapped. “And I don’t want to be the poster-child for the evils of combat sports.” He snorted. “I might be crippled, but I still love mixed martial arts. I don’t want what happened to me stand in the way of anybody else.”

  “Well, maybe that should be your angle,” Lyssa suggested. “It’s a good perspective.”

  The big Spaniard’s eyes narrowed.

  “Look at it this way,” Lyssa prompted. “They’re going to use what happened to you as an argument against the MMA league anyway. If you explain how you really feel about it, maybe that could make a difference.”

  And Silas nodded.

  “I never made it big in my fight career,” he sighed sadly. “But perhaps I can make some difference with this.”

  He nodded at Lyssa, and she started thinking about how to word her story.

  She was still thinking when Alberte and Celestrina reappeared, with a plate of delicious sheep’s milk cheese and a dusty bottle of Brandy de Jerez.

  “Here,” Alberte popped the cork off. “Take a sip. It’ll put fire in your belly.”

  She gratefully accepted the glass he passed her, and smiled as Celestina cut her some cheese.

  She might not win a Pulitzer for what she wrote while at Bodegas Batras. But she certainly wouldn’t go hungry or thirsty while she was writing it.

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  Lyssa

  The next morning was cool and crisp, and Lyssa drank in the air as she stepped outside for the first time.

  Her first night in the big, old house had been wonderful.

  Celestina had made up a big, old wooden bed in a gorgeous guest bedroom, and she’d thrown the window open to fall asleep to the sound of crickets and bats.

  And now, this morning, the air was deliciously crisp and the sky overhead was tempestuous with clouds.

  Celestina was taking the kids to school, and Silas had insisted on grumpily being alone, as she got the impression he often did. That gave Lyssa the freedom to explore the magnificent old bodegas.

  Although it wasn’t quite that magnificent any more.

  The house the family lived in was a towering, red-brick mansion that made up one full side of the courtyard. Barns and warehouses made up the rest; all built from the same red brick.

  On the side nearest the old road was an archway with faded belle epoque lettering above it, and a run-down little office that looked somewhat like an old shop.

  As she crossed the cobblestones to investigate, she saw that her suspicion had been correct.

  The storefront was dusty and abandoned now – an old mechanical cash register and faded posters all that remained of the place where visitors to the winery had once come to purchase bottles and cases of fine wine.

>   “Exploring, are we?”

  Lyssa screamed, as the voice interrupted her exploration.

  Spinning around, she found Alberte staring at her from the doorway, and amused look on his weather-beaten, suntanned face.

  “I-I’m sorry,” Lyssa placed her hand on her thumping heart. “I was just having a look around.”

  “Be my guest,” Alberte shrugged. “We have no secrets here.” He looked over her shoulder, at the abandoned store. “Many years ago – when my father was a young man – this was a busy shop. People would drive for an hour for good bottle of Bodegas Batras.”

  But it looked like the store had been abandoned for decades.

  “What happened?” Lyssa asked.

  “Times change,” Alberte shrugged. “Business was tough for a few years. Then when our father died, Silas decided to run off to America, instead of help me with this place.” He sniffed bitterly. “We still make the best wine for miles – but now we barely sell enough to pay the bills.”

  Lyssa looked around at the magnificent courtyard and buildings.

  They were fading in their glory. She imagined that when the place was built, it would have looked amazing. Now the facades were faded, the bricks were crumbling and the whole place looked deserted.

  “Come,” Alberte beckoned her. “I’ll give you the tour.”

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  Lyssa

  “My great grandfather built this place at the turn of the century,” Alberte explained, as he led Lyssa across the cobblestone courtyard. “There was a blight that practically wiped out the French wine industry, and the great winemakers flocked to La Rioja to make an alternative. Our family went from small-scale grape farmers to wealthy winemakers in a single generation.”

  They were standing outside old wooden doors, leading into a looming warehouse. With a rattle, Alberte pulled it open.

  Cool air washed out, and Lyssa’s nostrils flared as she smelt the tart scent of fermentation.

  “In La Rioja, we’re best known for Bordeaux-style wine, made with Spanish grapes.” He led her into the dark warehouse. “At Bodegas Batras we grow hundreds of acres of Tempranillo and Garnacha grapes; and then we make wine out them here.”

  And he introduced her to two looming wooden vats, that reached almost to the top of the towering building.

  “We crush the grapes and put them in here to ferment,” he explained. “These vats were built by my grandfather from French oak. They’re as much a part of the family as we are.”

  Through another doorway, they entered a cooler, darker chamber – lined on all sides by mildrew-stained barrels.

  “After the wine is made, it’s oaked here,” Alberte explained. “These are American oak barrels.” He rapped on one with his fist. “Back in the day, we’d built them ourselves – but money is tight. Now we just buy used ones from bigger bodegas in the area.”

  Lyssa ran her finger over one of the barrels, feeling the roughness of the wood beneath her fingertips.

  “There are four grades to wine from La Rioja,” Alberte explained. “If you don’t put it in a barrel, it has a green label – ‘Rioja.’ Age it for a year in Oak and it becomes Crianza.”

  “Why do you put the wine in a barrel?” Lyssa asked.

  Alberte sniffed. “The wood softens the bite, and gives it more character. This American oak?” He tapped the barrel again. “It adds notes of vanilla.”

  Leading her into the darker, cooler section of this chamber, he pointed out barrels covered in even more mildew.

  “This will become Reserva, and Gran Reserva,” he explained. “Gran Reserva is aged for two years in oak, and three years in the bottle. From Bodegas Batras, our Gran Reserva is the equal of any fine Bordeaux.”

  “And they just sit in here? And wait?”

  Alberte snorted.

  “All great winemaking is about patience.”

  And then Lyssa walked further into the darkness of the barrel room, and gasped as she rounded the corner.

  In an empty section of the warehouse, lit by a bare bulb hanging overhead, was a makeshift little gym.

  A heavy punching bag hung from a rafter. Weights and barbells rusted in the corner. A mildew-stained towel hung over the back of a rickety-looking chair.

  “Ah,” Alberte sniffed. “I see you’ve found Silas’ great addition to Bodegas Batras. His gym.”

  Chapter Twenty Nine

  Lyssa

  “He was always a stubborn kid, that Silas,” Alberte sighed, as he watched Lyssa step up to the punching bag. “When my father and I were working outside, he used to sneak in here and spend hours training.”

  Alberte shook his head.

  “I used to get so mad at him. There are so many chores to get done, and he’d waste his time punching that bag.”

  He sniffed bitterly.

  “And then he upped, and left for America when our father died. Left me and Celestina to run this place. He walked out on his birthright like it was a dinner check.”

  Lyssa looked across at Albert, and saw his eyes were glassy as he remembered the past.

  “I thought that was the worst thing he could do,” Silas’ brother sneered. “Sales plummeted. The business went to shit.” He snorted. “I worked my fingers to the bone to keep this place running, while he was gone.”

  And then a long, angry pause.

  “But no. It got worse.” He looked up at Lyssa. “He got hurt, in America, because of those stupid fights. And, just like that, our savings are gone – paying to fly him home, and settle his bills.”

  Alberte rolled his eyes.

  “And now what?”

  He turned and looked towards the doorway – in the direction of the house.

  “My hermano is just sitting up in his room, broken. He can’t help me out. He can’t do anything.”

  Alberte sniffed. “I love my brother, but if he was a dog they’d have taken him outside and shot him.”

  Lyssa listened to all this silently.

  “I’m sorry,” realizing how quiet she was, Alberte turned and raised his hand. “I don’t mean that. I love Silas. My heart bleeds for him.” But then he snorted. “But my fingers bleed for this place, too. And as much as I love him, I don’t think I can ever forgive him for abandoning us.”

  The big Spaniard looked up.

  “You must think I’m horrible.”

  “N-no,” Lyssa stammered. “I just think it’s sad.”

  “That’s why we were happy for you to come, when we heard about it. A pretty girl. Part of his American adventure. Maybe you being here will snap Silas out of his depression. Given him a purpose again.”

  But Alberte shook his head sadly.

  “But I fear not. I think my brother thinks his life is over – and, by thinking that, he’s making it come true.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Silas

  Silas sat in his wheelchair in the darkness.

  The wooden shutters of his father’s study were closed, and the only light was that which filtered through the slats. It was enough to see reasonably clearly, though – and all he needed for Silas to find what he was looking for.

  With his big hands, he powered the wheels of his chair across the floorboards, to the big, ornate desk that had belonged to his great grandfather.

  Alberte and his family lived in the house now; but even they barely entered their father’s old study; or touched anything in this old, wooden desk.

  Silas reached for a key, hidden in the pen rack. Then he unlocked the brass lock on the top drawer, and it slid open with a creak.

  There, gleaming dully, was a pistol.

  Hand trembling slightly, Silas reached inside, and pulled it out of the drawer.

  It was a .380 caliber Llama III-A semi-automatic. It had belonged to his father during his conscripted service with the Ejército de Tierra, in the 1970s. It was cold and heavy in his hand.

  With a click, Silas popped out the magazine and examined it. Seven brass shells were clipped inside it; ready to
fire.

  Click! He slapped the magazine back in place. Then, Silas pulled back the hammer, and lifted the gun to his temple.

  The cold barrel was like ice against the side of his head.

  Closing his eyes, Silas took a deep breath, and placed his finger on the trigger.

  His knuckle whitened.

  For a moment, he was ready to do it – to end it all. He felt peace inside him for the first time in weeks, and the infinite hope of oblivion.

  But then, with a sigh, he opened his eyes again.

  He lowered the gun into his lap, and carefully clicked the hammer back into its safe position.

  He couldn’t do it.

  It’s not that he didn’t want to. But all he could think about was what he’d leave behind.

  He imagined Celestina, or the kids, stumbling into the study and finding him there, with his brains and blood splattered across the wall.

  He thought of how Alberte and Lyssa would feel about it.

  Lyssa, especially. She’d come all this way to see him. She deserved more than for him to blow his own brains out the second day of her visit.

  So with a ragged sigh, Silas lifted the gun, and placed it back in the desk drawer. He slid the door shut, and locked it firmly – he didn’t want the kids to find his father’s gun.

  Then, hiding the key back in the pen rack, Silas wheeled himself around in a circle, and looked across the room towards the door.

  Wheeling himself out there meant facing his family, and Lyssa.

  Doing that would take almost as much bravery as pulling the trigger would have done.

  But Silas was nothing if not brave. So he took a deep breath, and wheeled himself forward, and prepared for another day of their misery, resentment and pity.

  Chapter Thirty One

  Silas

  “Oh, there you are, Silas!”

  As Silas wheeled himself into the kitchen, he found Celestina, Alberte and Lyssa sitting at the table drinking tea.