And then he turned to his security guards, and demanded: “Get these pieces of shit outta here.”
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Hannibal
“You’d better be gone before your parents show up.”
They were standing in the waiting room of Saint Francis Hospital, and Kristen had just got off the phone with Cornell and Trudy.
“Fuck,” Hannibal slumped down into one of the seats, and buried his head in his big hands. “Oh, fuck, man. How could I let this happen?”
Kristen didn’t say anything. She just reached down and squeezed one of her stepbrother’s enormous shoulders.
“D-d’ya think he’s gonna be okay?”
As if to answer that question, a doctor came over with a clipboard, and asked: “Mr. Alexander?”
“That’s me.”
“I’m Dr. Ingram. You’re brother’s in stable condition. It looks like he has a fractured collar bone, two broken ribs and we’re monitoring him for signs of a concussion.” The doctor looked up from the clipboard. “We’re going to have to report this to the police, of course.”
Hannibal didn’t say anything. That made sense, of course. If you brought in a kid who’d very clearly been beaten up, somebody was going to start asking questions.
“His mom and dad are going to be here very soon,” Kristen promised the doctor. “Can we see him?”
The doctor nodded.
He led Hannibal and Kristen into one of the hospital rooms, where Jules lay on his side, wrapped in bandages.
As they stepped into the room, Jules looked up, his eyes nearly swollen shut from all the punches he’d taken.
“H-hey, bro,” he gasped, and then grimaced at the pain.
Hannibal opened his mouth, but he didn’t know what to say. Asking ‘are you okay’ seemed pretty fucking redundant, as did ‘how do you feel’?
But Jules did the talking for both of them.
“I-I guess I should have listened to you,” he admitted.
Hannibal felt his shoulders slump when he heard that.
He stepped over to the bed, and dropped to his knees – until he was eye-level with his little brother.
“You’re gonna be okay,” he promised.
“Nah,” Jules shook his head painfully. “Nah, I’m not. Mom and Pops are gonna kill me. I’m gonna get kicked out of college.” He squeezed shut his eyes. “Shit, everything you guys warned me was gonna happen fucking happened…”
He sobbed. Hannibal squeezed his brother’s hand.
“And the worst part?” Jules opened his eyes. “The worst part is that they’re gonna blame you.”
Hannibal felt tears well up in his eyes.
“Don’t you worry about that,” he insisted.
“No,” Jules hissed. “They will. And the dumb thing is, you’re the only one who stood by me in all this.”
“Well, maybe that was my mistake,” Hannibal sighed. “I trained you. I encouraged you.”
“You prepared me,” Jules groaned. “Shit, imagine what would have happened to me if you hadn’t?” He squeezed shut his eyes. “The guy made mincemeat out of me. You told me I wasn’t ready to be a fighter.” The skinny kid sobbed. “Dammit, they say the truth hurts, but I never thought it hurt this fucking much.”
Hannibal stroked his brother’s head.
“That ain’t the truth,” he said soothingly. “That’s the broken ribs.”
Just then, Kristen called over.
“Your parents are here, Hannibal.”
“Okay, I’m outta here,” he leaned over and kissed his brother’s head. “I fucking love you, bro.”
“Love you too, man.”
And then he was gone, ducking out of the hospital room just seconds before Cornell and Trudy hurried in.
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Hannibal
Ten minutes later, Hannibal was shivering behind the wheel of his Bentley.
He didn’t know where to go, or what to do. He just felt numb – as punch drunk as Jules had been at the hands of Sam ‘The Hurt’ Hudson.
Everything had gone to shit. Everything.
And then, to add insult to injury, his cell phone started ringing.
At first, Hannibal ignored it. It was probably his dad, calling up to scream at him down the line.
But then he glanced over, and froze.
The number was unfamiliar – a 404 area code, which came up onscreen as “Atlanta, GA.”
There was only one person Hannibal knew that far south.
Grabbing the phone, he accepted the call and pressed it to his ear.
“Yeah?”
There was a familiar cackle on the other end.
“Well, good evening, hoss,” the grating southern accent of Red Callahan. “Had the bejeesus of a time getting’ your number, son. So glad you picked up.”
Hannibal froze. For a moment, he couldn’t think of anything to say; not until the words: “What do you want?” slithered venomously out of his mouth.
“Well, son, I’m just callin’ to check in,” Red sneered. “Had a visit from the boys in blue a few moments ago. They sent a couple of cruisers out to my little fight night to ask some questions.”
Jules must have told the hospital how he’d come by his injuries, and no doubt Cornell insisted the cops follow it up.
“Now, don’t you worry, son,” Red continued blithely. “I ain’t mad. Shit, this ain’t the first time I rolled somebody into the ER at St. Francis, and had to explain what happened to the cops.”
He laughed.
“I told you, son. I own the police in Hartford. We had a little chat, and they went on their merry.” A dangerous pause. “I ain’t mad at ya – I know you had to tell the cops what happened.”
Hannibal growled: “So, why are you calling me?”
“’Cos after a night like this,” Red warned, “some folks – folks like you – sometimes get damn foolish ideas in their heads. They come looking for their money, or payback, or some such.” He laughed bitterly. “Just last month, I had some kid come after me with his parent’s .38, looking for his purse money back.”
Red snorted.
“Kid’s doin’ five years behind bars for that. I told you, I own the police ‘round these parts.”
Red stopped talking, and there was a menacing pause.
“I wasn’t planning on coming after you, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Hannibal growled.
Red laughed.
“Glad to hear it, son.” He clicked his tongue. “So, I guess that concludes our business… Unless you reconsidered what I suggested earlier.”
Hannibal said nothing, so Red clearly tried to draw him out.
“Strikes me, you might be trying to figure out how to get your little brother’s college money back. I looked you up, Baller. I know you’re broke as all shit… And twenty grand is a lot of dough.”
He paused, for an almost painfully long time.
“The offer I made still stands. Get your ass down to Jersey City tomorrow night, fight Rashaan, and maybe I’ll figure out a way to get your boy his money back.”
Hannibal squeezed shut his eyes.
He hated himself for even considering it.
But, nevertheless, he still hissed: “That’s a lot to ask for a maybe.”
Red chuckled down the phone.
“Sounds like you’re interested.”
“I’m interested in getting my brother’s money back.”
Red chuckled down the phone.
“Listen, I’m headed down to New York tonight – but there’s an IHOP on the Berlin Turnpike an’ I can make a stop if I need to. Meet me there in an hour and we’ll hash out the details.”
Hannibal thought about it for a moment, and then squeezed shut his eyes.
“Sure,” he barked. “I’ll see you there.”
Chapter Seventy
Hannibal
Hannibal’s welcome was hardly very welcoming.
Fifty minutes after hanging up on Red, he screeched hi
s Bentley to a halt in the parking lot of a roadside IHOP, and immediately found himself surrounded by two of Red’s cheap-suited goons.
They escorted him into the 24-hour pancake house – pretty much deserted at this hour – and up to where Red was sitting, in a private cubicle around the corner.
Sitting opposite him – almost as if they were on a date – was Rashaan Jackson. The big man glowered at Hannibal as he was shoved roughly forward.
“Search him,” Red didn’t even look up from his plate of chocolate chip pancakes. “From that slick shaved head of his, all the way down to the holes in his socks.”
And they did.
As Red and Rashaan ate their midnight breakfasts, the two cheaply-suited goons patted Hannibal down like they were TSA agents – groping his crotch, under his arms and inside his thighs.
Finally satisfied that he wasn’t carrying a gun, one of the goons nodded, and they both stepped back respectfully.
Hannibal snarled at them, and adjusted his suit. It had taken all his self-control not to punch either of them during that examination.
“Ain’t nothin’ personal, son,” Red wiped melted chocolate from his lips with a napkin, and looked up. “For all I knew, you just wanted to meet me to unload a gun in my face.” The southerner’s eyes narrowed. “Didn’t think that’d be your style, but it always pays to be careful.”
Hannibal growled.
“You know why I’m here.”
Red grinned wolfishly.
“Sure do, son. Why don’t you take a pew, there.”
He indicated the vinyl bench next to Rashaan. The big fighter shuffled over, and Hannibal slid his bulk behind the table.
“You want anything, hoss?” Red tipped another container of maple syrup over his remaining pancakes. “A cup of coffee, or some such?”
“I want my money,” Hannibal snapped back.
Red smiled, and looked up. Silently, he licked syrup off his fingers, and then wiped them clean with a napkin.
“I bet you do,” the fight promoter purred.
Leaning back in the booth, Red hissed: “I’ve got an opportunity for you, if you’ve got the balls. As I told you yesterday, there’s another fight night lined up in Jersey City tomorrow, and if you’re willing to go toe-to-toe with ‘Hungry’ Jackson here, I’m pretty sure I can swing you your little brother’s college money back.”
Hannibal turned.
He was sitting right up close to Rashaan – practically eye-to-eye – and the big, bearded fighter snarled as they locked eyes.
“Me and him?” Hannibal felt a nervous thrill. He wasn’t exactly an anxious guy, but his palms were sweaty as he stared into Jackson’s glowering brown eyes. He knew one wrong move would set the big guy off – and he was as dangerous as a caged gorilla.
But Hannibal wasn’t exactly harmless himself.
“That could work,” he told Red.
He knew it was a stupid decision. He had no business getting mixed up with an illegal fight circuit – especially not when he was suspended. And for twenty grand? He used to pull in that kind of money in purse fees, not even counting what he’d make if he won.
But desperate times called for desperate measures; and Hannibal knew he’d never be able to look his parents in the eye again unless he made up for what they’d lost.
“Well, hoss,” Red pushed his plate away. “I’ll text you the address. Be there at eight. Fight starts at ten.” He grinned devilishly. “The moment you lose to Rashaan, here, I’ll start countin’ out your money.”
Hannibal paused.
Snapping his head around, he growled at Red: “What do you mean, lose?” He jerked his thumb at Rashaan. “This guy doesn’t look so tough to me.”
Rashaan growled dangerously.
Red laughed at the two of them.
“Aww, shit. I’d pay good money to see you throw down for real – but not with less than a day’s notice.” He shrugged, almost apologetically. “I’ve got to think of my bottom line, hoss, and it ain’t gonna be ticket sales this late in the game.”
“What the fuck do you mean?” Hannibal snapped.
The smile faded a little.
“Headliner like you? Damn, boy. Getting you on the tick will make me a legend ‘round these parts. But the fight itself? At this late stage, the only way I’m gonna make my money back is with the bookies, and you know how that works, right?”
Hannibal said nothing, so Red explained:
“Fight between you two? Odds are gonna be fifty fifty, if that.” He snorted derisively. “So I ain’t gonna wet my beak unless I know ahead of time who’s gonna win.”
Hannibal’s eyes narrowed.
“So you’re asking me to throw the fight?”
“I ain’t askin’,” Red snapped. “I’m tellin’. The third round, your ass goes down and it doesn’t get up again.” He jerked his thumb at Rashaan. “I’ve gotta keep his ‘undefeated’ streak going.”
Hannibal’s hands tightened into fists.
“Are you fucking serious? You want me to throw a fight?”
“I want you to earn your money back,” Red said coolly. “And this is the way you’re gonna do it. You in, or not?”
Hannibal stared across the table at him.
Right then and there, it took every ounce of self-restraint in Hannibal’s body not to lurch across the table and wrap his big, black hands around the bearded bastard’s neck.
Shit, he could almost see it now – the way Red’s eyes would bulge, and his face would turn red, as Hannibal crushed his windpipe beneath his strong fingers.
But he knew Rashaan would be on him in a second, and the two badly-suited goons were packing guns.
That’d be the end of it. Shot to death, or worse, in an IHOP on the turnpike.
That’s not how Hannibal ‘Baller’ Alexander intended to go.
“So I’ll ask you again,” Red purred venomously. “You in, or you out?”
And Hannibal looked him dead in the eye, and murmured: “I’m in.” And as he said it, he almost wished for the sweet agony of a gunshot wound. Because something inside him had just died instead.
Chapter Seventy-One
Hannibal
Rashaan escorted Hannibal out of the IHOP.
Hannibal didn’t know why he did it, but it was hardly reassuring, having the lumbering black fighter poised by his shoulder.
And the way he spoke to Baller put him even less at ease.
“So, big guy,” Rashaan growled, half-way across the parking lot. “How does it feel to be a sell-out?”
Hannibal stopped walking – so abruptly that Rashaan almost walked into the back of him.
Spinning around, he growled: “What did you just say?”
Rashaan’s teeth flashed.
“I asked how it felt to sell out,” the hulking fighter growled.
Hannibal glowered at him.
Rashaan was bigger than him – looming down over the tall and imposing Baller like a gorilla. And the smile on his face, and those flashing brown eyes, seemed to suggest he liked being the dominant one.
But Baller wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction.
“If I wanted to know about selling out,” he snarled, “I’d talk to you.”
Rashaan’s smile faded pretty fucking fast.
His huge hands balled up into fists.
“I’m not the one throwing a fucking fight,” he hissed.
“No,” Hannibal purred back dangerously. “You’re just the one who’d gone into a ring every night, knowing he can’t lose.”
Even though Rashaan was towering over him, Hannibal could almost feel him deflate.
“Compared to you, throwing a fight takes guts,” Hannibal continued, digging the knife in. “It’s gonna take balls, for me to stand up there and pretend to be a loser, knowing that I could have won.”
He narrowed his eyes, looking mercilessly at Rashaan.
“Sure is a lot braver than pretending to be a champion every fight, knowing your opponent never sto
od a chance.”
“Why you…” Rashaan took a menacing step forward, but Hannibal didn’t even flinch.
“You know you ain’t gonna hurt me,” he growled, lips curling dangerously. “Not while Red’s got hold of your leash.”
Rashaan’s eyes were narrow slits now.
“Pity, too. I’d have liked to know first-hand how easy it would be to kick your ass.”
And that was almost a step too far.
Rashaan took another step forward, and grabbed the lapels of Hannibal’s jacket.
“I could take you any time, any place motherfucker.”
“Yeah?” Cool as a cucumber, Hannibal raised one eyebrow. “If that’s the case, why is your boss making me throw the fight in the third round?”
The fist around Hannibal’s collar tightened.
“I could take you fair and square,” Rashaan hissed.
Hannibal felt his breath, hot and rancid. He ignored it though, and purred: “If you really believe that… Prove it.”
Rashaan blinked: “What?”
“You heard me,” Hannibal purred. He looked over Rashaan’s massive shoulder, towards the IHOP that Red was still sitting in. “If you’re as good as you say you are, he wouldn’t even need to know.”
The grip on Hannibal’s collar loosened a little.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean,” Hannibal locked eyes with his towering opponent, “that if you really could beat me, Red wouldn’t know the difference.” He smirked teasingly. “As long as my ass goes down, he doesn’t care.”
And then he hit Rashaan with the kicker.
“But the reason he’s asking me to throw the fight? Because he doesn’t think you can win.”
That did the trick. Rashaan balled up Hannibal’s collar again, and wrenched the smaller man onto his tiptoes.
“Any time,” Rashaan growled. “Any place.”
“Tomorrow, then,” Hannibal purred. “Fuck what Red’s payin’ us to do. Let’s just throw down, you and me, and finally decide who’s better. Let’s fight for real.”
Baller: An Interracial MMA Stepbrother Romance Page 18