FORCE: Alpha Badboy MMA Romance

by Wyatt, Dani

  Deep down, though, she knew. Cameron was a younger version of his father, his magnetism far beyond the explanations of this world. Victoria watched from a front row seat from the time she could remember — girls — and later women — stuttered and swooned near Cameron before he ever grew a hair on his chin.

  His arrogance and indifference only seemed to fuel their pathetic need for his attention.

  If Larry possessed even a fraction of Cameron’s magical pull, there was a part of Victoria that understood her mother tearing apart her marriage and succumbing to that force of nature.

  The most bizarre part of the story is how the two men had managed to stay business partners. Sure, fighting was their life, the family came a distant second, well, more like third or fourth after booze and betting.

  Still, your business partner beds your wife, she divorces you and marries him? Maybe if Victoria was given the chance, she could have asked her mother what really happened. Gotten to know her on a level that would answer some of the questions about how and why.

  All the while, three kids were watching and spinning in circles between the two camps. Finally, when the dust settled, Victoria found herself family to the two young brothers of her father’s business partner.

  One of whom already displayed an almost psychotic need to hover over her. To ensure her safety like someone cast a dark spell upon her that at any moment would have the damn boogie man jumping out and slicing her from ear to ear.

  It did nothing to quell his thirst when they shared a hallway (less every other Wednesday evening and weekend). It never mattered much, they all ended up at the gym working almost every spare moment, regardless.

  While other kids were out learning to ride bikes and built forts, the three of them were mopping floors, folding towels and learning words that sent them to the principle’s office more than once.

  “What?” A loud voice smacked her back into the moment.

  “You better not be working behind my back. You and your father, he’s taking from the till, I know it.”

  “He’s not. You’re both losing money every month on bad bets. You haven’t brought in a new fighter in months. You need the training dollars, and you aren’t getting them. You need a winner. 10% of nothing is nothing. You can’t survive on monthly dues alone. Bring in a new trainer, or a new fighter, someone with a name, you need to breathe some life back into this place. Don’t you think I see who comes around here, sneaking in the back door while you two scurry around like rats? Stop betting, you’re going to lose this place.”

  What she didn’t know, what both men barely acknowledged even themselves, was that they were not far from the knife’s edge already.

  Topher MacGuire ran the books for 80% of the bets in the city. Roger and Larry were both into him for close to six figures, and the piper was not accustomed to waiting to be paid.

  “Where’s your father?” Larry’s gravelly voice smacked of avoidance.

  He turned and stomped out of the office, throwing the crumpled, yellow sheet of truth into the round, wire trash bin next to her desk.

  “Okay then. Well, nice talking to you.” With a shake of her head, Victoria let out a deep sigh.

  Topher wouldn’t wait much longer.

  Only, even she knew you couldn’t get blood from a rock, and Victoria had gotten wind of an alternative settlement offer that the menacing Mr. MacGuire had given the two fathers in her life.

  Bile tickled at the back of her throat imagining that she had become the potential sacrifice and savior of their losses.

  Everything about this place, this life made her want to be anywhere else.

  Victoria knew if she left, the place would surely crumble. Even worse, if they couldn’t manage to pay back Topher, the black fingers of his debt collection would come calling. From what she heard, his ways of extracting his pound of flesh could be very creative.

  Neither of them were capable of running the day to day business of the club. Sure, they still commanded some respect. They were icons, training winners both in boxing, wrestling and now in the cage.

  It may have been a while since they had a winner, a big winner, but people remembered, and their names held sway in the close knit fighting community.

  It shocked her how two aging, bitter drunks adapted to the changing landscape of the fighting world. They were old school, but with an inherent, instinctual ability to train a man to win at all costs.

  What they both lacked in parenting skill, they made up for in an almost criminal ability to see a man’s strengths and weaknesses in a fight, and train accordingly.

  Even when it was a child.

  Victoria looked at the blinking clock above the wooden door. 10:30. She had two hours to finish the books and sneak out of here, change her clothes and get uptown to the Regis Gallery where she had a portfolio viewing.

  She was already through the gallery owner’s assistant, and he bumped her up to show her work to the owner. If all went well, she would have her first real show.

  Raw. Primal. Gritty. Those were the words the assistant used to describe her photos.

  If Roger ever found out, she knew the misery he would inflict on her.

  Never one to encourage anything other than quiet obedience, somewhere deep down, he knew that without her, their precarious world would surely come down in a heap of rubble, and he would hold back nothing to prevent that from happening.

  Her fingers clicked on the keys, then thumbed through the daily deposits and recorded the pitiful bottom line. There was barely enough in First National Bank to cover payroll, including hers.

  The numbers danced in her head and in-front of her eyes, the skin on her back drew tight, even with the oppressive heat in the small room — goosebumps covered her arms. To spite her chill, a trickle of sweat traversed down the indent of her spine and into the elastic band of her panties.

  What is wrong with me? Don’t. It would never work, you know that. Forget it.

  She could still feel his eyes on her, feel the unexplained vibration that connected them whenever he was close.

  Every night she prayed he would come back. Now, he was here, and her body betrayed the thoughts that her mind would not acknowledge.

  11

  Focus. Maintain.

  His wrists ached as he tugged into the tight turn toward Reggie’s gym. The fifteen minute drive seemed like a drift through time. Cameron barely remembered the road, street signs, or stop lights.

  His mind felt hunted, and the predator lived inside him, a battle that he could never escape.

  His only refuge was to release the beast the only way he knew how.

  Tyson’s was a league apart from the musty aged scent of his second home at Southside. Bright lights hung from a black painted industrial ceiling. Chest thumping deep bass bounced off the glossy red and black painted walls.

  The heavy bags hung shiny and new in a long row of ten in front of a wall of floor to ceiling windows that overlooked the Detroit River.

  “Hey—” Reggie Reynolds shouted from the corner of a roped square sparing ring.

  His eyes darted back and forth between the two sweaty tense bodies that held their hands up in defense, dancing around each other. The head gear of one of the men took the brunt of the hits from the obviously better fighter.

  Cameron felt like cage bars were pressing against him; he needed to hit. To kick and punch and choke out the image of her face that tattooed itself inside his brain. He didn’t know any other way to wipe his thoughts clean. The only way he knew to feel some relief was to get inside the ring and waste the unfortunate soul that opposed him.

  “What’s up man??? So good to see you.” Reggie gave Cameron a handshake and a back slap.

  “Not much. Thanks for letting me train with you. Really, I appreciate it.”

  “Shit. Of course. I’ve been chasing you around since high school. Never thought I’d get you away a hundred percent from the family dynasty over there.” Reggie smiled and put his hand on Cameron’s shoulde
r.

  Reggie stood barely to Cameron’s chin. What he lacked in size, he made up for in insight and an almost magical ability to size up a fighter’s style, strengths, and weaknesses and then mold them into the best they could be.

  He was right, he’d chased Cameron since high school, badgering him to come into his fold. Back then, he was just a hole in the wall down on Leonard Street with a few ripped up heavy bags and some old gym mats on the floor for a ring.

  During those years, Reggie became a mentor, even a friend to the embattled young man.

  His talent gained him a following and a reputation of crafting winners. Looking around the gym, Cameron understood just how far he had come. He’d managed to turn his talent into a measure of success that had eluded Roger and Larry their entire lives.

  “Yeah. I needed a change. Colorado was alright. But I needed to come home.”

  “Oh yeah? Don’t bullshit me. I got ears. I hear whispers.” Reggie met Cameron’s eyes.

  Cameron’s distant, dark brooding put off most, but not Reggie. Over 12 years his senior, he was the closest thing to a real friend Cameron had.

  Their contact over the years had turned to a source of comfort for a kid growing up without any version of positive male influence in his life.

  “Yeah.” Cameron tipped his head the side. “I just couldn’t hang with the program out there. It was too much. I just want to fight.”

  “Dude, you and I know, it’s not just about the fight. They have a unique program; I get that. Not for everyone. But you, man — you gotta quit fighting everything. You gotta learn to save the fight for the fight, man. Channel that beast. Focus. You’ve got the talent. Shit, you’ve got more talent in that crooked ass nose of yours than most of these guys will ever have. But, you’re a loose cannon man. A wild card. You could be the best of the best.”

  Through his life, Larry had never once told him anything about his talent or his potential. His father’s version of encouragement was a slap to the head, or a slurred voice that shook him awake at 3 am telling him what a disappointment he was.

  “So, I’m ready. You ready?” Reggie’s eyes narrowed as he held out his hand.

  “Yeah. I’m ready.” Both men cracked a smile as they shook. Cameron still felt that gnawing fire in his gut, but the flicker of optimism in Reggie’s eyes settled him back a notch or two.

  “You gotta listen to me, got it? No shit man. We’re friends, but here—” The dark haired stump of a man waved his hands to the ceiling. “— no friends. Coach.” He pounded his chest with his flat palm, then fingered Cameron in the chest. “Fighter. Yes?”

  Cameron felt his muscles tighten when he pushed his finger into the rock of his pec. Unless it was a punch or a kick, being touched felt foreign and his instinct immediately turned on his defenses.

  He steadied his breath and gave Reggie the best half grin he could manage as commitment.

  “Good. We’re square. Listen, come back tonight. I’ve got a shit day, but I can work with you after like 9. More like 10. Can you come back then?”

  “Ahhh, well. I was really hoping to get in the ring.”

  “Now? Naw, man, I gotta set you up with someone. You can’t get in the ring with just anyone. I don’t need that kind of blood on my hands the first day.” He gave Cameron a smile. “Come back tonight, we’ll do a light workout, then you can spar. I’ll set you up with someone that is worth your time. Okay?”

  “Sure.” The tightness in his chest would just have to wait for its release. “I’ll be back.”

  “Hit the bag if you want for a while. Look around. Lockers are back there. Free weights are through that doorway by the windows. Hang out, get comfortable. I’ll see you tonight?” Reggie made his way back toward the two men than hung on the ropes; mouth guards chewed between their teeth as they waited patiently for their guru to return and give them their critique.

  Cameron nodded. He turned, threw his gym bag down on the bench in the locker room, stripped off his t-shirt and jeans, and threw on a pair of athletic shorts. Banging on the heavy bag was better than nothing. After all, he needed to go back and see Asher fight in a bit, so burning off some of what she’d started boiling in his veins was probably a good idea.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  That crazy wind was still whipping up outside when Cameron threw the Camaro back into gear and headed toward Rosemont Street. The workout had numbed him just enough that he felt barely more than a buzzing in his head with her name on it.

  He knew it wouldn’t last. He’d pounded the bag until pain rocked up his arms and down his back. His knuckles had turned a deep crimson and rivers of salty sweat ran from his face.

  It was a temporary fix, but it was something. At least whenever her name crossed his mind, he didn’t feel like he wanted to wrap his fingers around the closest human’s throat and dim the light in their eyes.

  Now, it was a mere thud in his head and a clutch in his groin. Her face was still right there, the curve of her cheek and the plump of her cherry pink lips. They were never more than a split second from his thoughts, but at least now, he could take a full deep breath without wanting to drive off the road.

  Why wouldn’t she see it? Why wasn’t it as clear to her as it was to him? The final blow was a flash of realization that she may never find her way to where he knew she belonged – curled against him as his arms encapsulated her in his power and protection. His body was meant to be her blanket from which he served to protect her from any more tears.

  She’d shed more than her share, and he felt a singular purpose to be the one to prevent anyone or anything from bringing her more pain.

  It wasn’t lost on him how faces and voices went still as he walked by.

  He was a man without a sense of remorse, a force that pushed smart men back from him, an echo of some vengeful spirit that radiated outward even as he moved silently through the doors of Southside and toward the roaring voices of the two men that crowded over the front desk. Neither of them gave him more than a cursory nod as he walked toward the back ring where Asher’s fists were already wrapped and his game face on.

  “Hey.” Asher spit his mouth guard into his hand. “Glad you could make it.” That smile again.

  “Shit head. Of course. Who you matched with?”

  “Gary.” Asher rolled his eyes and tipped his head.

  “Shit, really? You ready for that?” Cameron’s voice lowered as he looked toward the front desk.

  Larry and Roger settled their momentary dispute and moved toward the ring.

  “Come on. Let’s work on your cross and kick. We’ve got half hour. You’ve got to focus, Asher. Gary hits quick and hard out of the corner. You’re not going to wear him out, he’s going to come for you, and you have to be ready.” Larry sounded intent and focused, yet tense.

  Cameron’s eyes couldn’t help but dart along the edges of the gym. He could feel her, she was here somewhere.

  “Hey, I’ll be back.” Cameron gave Larry a look, then threw his hand up for Asher to connect.

  “You better be. Dude, I’ll skip Gary and pummel you if you’re not back here in like 20 minutes.”

  “I’ll be back.”

  Larry met Cameron’s unwavering narrow gaze. Both men squared off for a fight from which neither could ever win.

  “Heard that before.” Larry threw in his last jab as Cameron blew out a deep breath and headed toward the back hall.

  12

  There was only one person that would be as happy for her as she was for herself. Unfortunately, he was the one person she did not want to see right now.

  Across the wall, she could see her image reflected back in the glass of a photo showing Cameron’s wretched face. His right arm at shoulder height arching toward what would be a blow that landed his opponent unconscious before he hit the floor. Those haunting ice blue eyes were flat, focused, indifferent, and yet as wild as any African predator fixed on its next meal.

  Her hair hung in long waves over her chest. She nearly always
turned away from her reflection, her body fully double the size of any worthy cover model. But, now, she saw the curve of her full chest, the way it balanced high above the indent of her waist and thought for a moment she might be desirable.

  Her fingers danced lightly at the gold script “V” pendant she had worn for going on six years. A gift from him for her birthday, the week after he had won his first real prize money. Something like $3,000.

  It was that fight in the photo, that punch, which elevated him above the amateur parking lot fights outside of bars and strip clubs where he pounded out drunken wanna-bes for $500 a pop.

  She felt the softness of her skin under her fingers as they lowered, both hands tracing over the lush and ample curves of her breasts. She felt the way her body turned inward at her waist, then, without her usual condescending inner voice ripe with judgment, her hands followed the line of her hips outward as they filled into her round ass.

  There was something in that photo, the way Cameron’s eyes seemed to follow her as she turned and regarded her reflection. A gnawing hunger clutched deep in her center as her hands pressed forward into her belly, instinctively pushing down and trying to drive away the desire that lurked just under the surface.

  She let out an audible gasp as the door swung open — banging loudly on the tall metal cabinet on the wall behind.

  “Jesus!” Victoria felt her heart jump in her chest.

  She’d let her usual guarded, defensive position down for a moment and when she saw Cameron’s severe protruding brow and carved, intense face come through the door, she was relieved.

  Topher MacGuire had left another message on her voicemail.

  This time, the sarcastic humor in his voice was missing. It was more than a month since they’d paid him anything toward the outstanding debt, and he was quickly losing his less than abundant patience.