IRISH: a Bad Boy Fighter Romance

by Olivia Hawthorne

  “No, that’s my room mate,” I replied as my heart sunk.

  But seriously, who would be sending me flowers? I had nobody in my life and hadn’t had anybody serious enough to drop cash on pretty things in a long time…if ever.

  “Sign here then,” he said and handed me a clipboard. I signed my name and closed the door behind me, carrying the mass of blooms.

  I peeked at the card; they were from Brody, her latest conquest and also her married boss at the law firm.

  She was walking a narrow path, playing with fire, all that shit, but she was happy. She loved the drama and excitement that a dangerous relationship brought.

  Not me, in fact I couldn’t remember the last time I’d even had anything that could be considered a relationship so I wasn’t exactly an expert in the arena of love.

  I set the flowers on the kitchen table where she would see them and padded back to bed.

  I didn’t know why I’d reacted like that, hoping they were for me. I was getting hormonal maybe, after behaving like a dick hungry slag for that Irish fighter last night, and now this. I must have been getting my period. There was no other explanation.

  I slid under the covers and tried to sleep a little longer but just couldn’t relax enough to get there.

  Curiosity got the best of me and I grabbed my phone. I put “Knox Fighter” in the search site and was assailed with millions of websites.

  Apparently his name was Knox O’Conner, and he was fighting fucking royalty.

  I felt even dumber for stumbling around him, for stuttering and letting my body get the best of me. He must be used to it, all women from all walks of life throwing themselves at him.

  I scrolled through a few celebrity websites and felt my face grow hot seeing him out on the town with A list actresses and pop star princesses.

  I must have been insane to even fantasize that the strange connection I’d felt could have been mutual. He was used to banging super models and the hottest women in the world, why would a frazzled bartender even register on his radar?

  I opened one last gossip site and read a detailed account by some ex girlfriend of his warning the women of the world to stay away. He apparently couldn’t keep it in his pants, shagged anything with two legs and tits, and was a thousand percent unfaithful.

  “Dodged a bullet there,” I muttered and closed my phone. “And probably a few nasty infections.”

  I closed my eyes and finally drifted back to sleep with a deep Irish voice on my mind and my hormones raging out of control.

  It seemed nothing I read or told myself would quench the fire I’d felt around Knox.

  The only way to avoid being one more notch on the belt of that cocky Irishman would be to avoid him all together.

  Chapter Four

  Knox

  “You want the good news or bad news first?” Jake asked me first thing in the morning a few days after my hang over training session.

  He was a big, sincere black American guy who’d taken a liking to me back in my early fighting days in Belfast.

  He’d been there training some other brash young fucker and liked the way I didn’t stop pushing until I had perfected what I’d set out to try.

  And the moment I’d reach perfection, I’d find something wrong with it and keep pushing past.

  He shared the same single-minded obsession that I did, but that’s where the similarities stopped.

  He was a family guy; he’d gotten married a couple years back and never understood my love of drinking and fucking. At times it had caused conflict between us but we mostly got along.

  “The bad,” I said immediately. I liked to take it on the chin so I could brace myself for the rest.

  “I’ll start with the good,” Jake said with a chuckle. “They liked you. Nike, Gatorade and the Sports Network. They want you for the next three years. A full contract that’s worth several million a year plus endorsements, paid advertising, paid speaking gigs, free product, housing, travel…basically you name it and they’ll give it to you.”

  “Okay,” I replied slowly as if in disbelief. I still had to shake my head sometimes, how I’d managed to scrape myself up from being a scrappy little street kid back in Ireland to becoming the UFC’s Heavyweight champion of the world. “So tell me the bad,” I continued, waiting for the other foot to come down.

  “Well the bad is that they don’t like your public image,” Jake said, his eyebrows furrowed together.

  He was standing by the practice ring where I’d been running on the spot, getting my heart rate up before sparring the new guy we were working with.

  It was tough to find people who could take a beating from me; I was almost six and a half feet tall and over two hundred pounds of lean, solid muscle.

  Most sparring partners took one of my fists to the face and dropped like a sack of shit. I wanted to keep this new guy around. Being angry wasn’t going to cut it.

  I took a deep breath, relaxed and said, “Public image? I wasn’t aware I was projecting a fucking public image. If they don’t like it, tell ‘em not te fekking look.”

  “They mean your values,” he said, as if that made it any better.

  “Me values? Me fekking values?” I exclaimed. When I got pissed off, my accent got thicker and I started talking like my dad in his old fashioned northern rural voice. “How many times have those valueless shit bags gone te church in te past six months?”

  “I’m on your side,” Jake said calmly. I could feel him working his magic on me, that soothing voice he used to calm my shit when I went off the rails. “But they do have a certain point. This ain’t about a pissing contest between you and them. You’re the one in the public eye, and the public don’t celebrate douche bags like they used to.”

  “What do they want me to do then?” I asked, twitching to start punching something as the irritation grew to anger.

  “They want you to clean up your act. Get a steady girlfriend, a wife even,” Jake said.

  “A wife?” I exclaimed. “Shit, that ain’t never gonna happen. Are they daft? I’m only twenty seven, I’ve got years before I settle down with only one girl.”

  “Well the other part of the bad news is that a wife would help. An American wife. Otherwise they can’t sign the contract with you,” Jake said.

  “American? I need a green card?” I shouted. “Shit, Jake, I’m gonna go back to Ireland, buddy. This is all bullshit. I just wanna fuckin fight.”

  “It’s bullshit and it’s annoying and it’s against your high and mighty morals,” Jake told me, putting his hand on my shoulder and looking me right in the eyes. “But this is not just millions, this deal is worth billions. You gotta suck it up and take one for the team here, buddy. Melody’s pregnant. I need this.”

  “Oh damn, you’re gonna be a dad?” I asked, laughing. “Shit, you’re trapped now, my friend.”

  “Love is not a trap,” he said with a frown. “That’s your problem right there, Knox. Love is freeing when you’re with the right person.”

  “Nah, my problem is there are too many hot bitches in the world that I can’t possibly settle for just one,” I chuckled. “Now are we gonna fight or chit chat today? Cause I wanna fight!”

  “We’ll fight. But I need you to think about their offer and what it means for both of us. Let me know by tomorrow.”

  “Will do,” I said and jumped back, swung at him and laughed when he dodged my blow.

  Jake was a good friend, manager, trainer and a pretty decent fighter to boot. Not as good as me, of course, or he’d be the one fielding the sponsorship offers and dodging the pussy being tossed at him on a daily basis.

  But I was the king of the ring, and the lucky bastard with the fists of steel.

  And the one who had to figure out if settling down for a couple years for that kind of cash was gonna be worth it.

  Chapter Five

  Lennon

  I had a couple days off but Tuesday night I was back to the grindstone, George’s.

  It was my reg
ular shift and generally very quiet. A nice mid week chill night in stark contrast to the craziness of the weekends.

  I wiped the countertops with the old towel behind the counter, refilled the peanut bowls, and dragged a couple kegs out of storage in anticipation of the current ones running out any time.

  George was lucky to have me.

  And speak of the devil, George came out of the back office and waved at me to join him.

  I looked at the waitress, Charlotte, and said, “Can you cover for a minute? Big Boss wants to see me.”

  “Oh no,” she grinned, “I hope this isn’t about that peanut I saw you eating earlier. He might want to take it out of your wages.”

  “Ha! I dare him,” I winked and walked to George’s office.

  “Have a seat,” he told me and pointed at the wooden chair across from him.

  “I hope this is good news,” I said and sat down. I’d asked him last week for a raise, our rent was going up and everything was costing so much more lately I was barely making it.

  I didn’t have rich parents to fall back on either, mom had died when I was little and dad hadn’t been around since before that. I’d been in foster care until I’d turned eighteen and was able to start my own life.

  This grand adventure, I thought with dark sarcasm. Here I was at twenty-two living the dream begging George for a dollar more an hour just to survive.

  “It’s not,” George said, cutting to the chase. “The business ain’t what it used to be and with my girl in school I’ve got nothing. In fact, I might have to cut your hours starting next month if things don’t pick up for me.”

  I thanked him and told him I understood but that was like telling somebody it was okay to punch you in the gut.

  That’s what it felt like.

  I wasn’t educated, I had zero experience beyond slinging drinks, and with the economy in the shitter, my options were pretty much zilch.

  I tried to paste a smile on my face and told Charlotte he’d wanted to see me about a beer order and went on with my night.

  Around ten I was already wanting to go home when I heard the bell ring and a large group came in. They were rowdy assholes, just the thing I didn’t need.

  “Hey sugar tits,” the apparent frat boy leader called to me across the bar. “Get us a round of tequila shooters and a couple pitchers of beer. Not the cheap swill on tap, something decent.”

  “Sure thing,” I said and started getting their drinks ready.

  They gathered around a table in the corner near the pool table and got progressively louder and louder as I handed the tray to Charlotte.

  “No, we want sugar tits to bring it,” the frat D-bag leader yelled as Charlotte made her way from behind the bar.

  Charlotte glanced back at me desperately, not knowing what to do. Had it been busy, I would have told them to shove it, but it wasn’t busy and I apparently needed the tip money.

  “I’ll get it,” I said and got the drinks arranged on the tray after I took it from her. I fixed a big plastic smile on my face and prepared to fake my ass to a giant drunk D-bag tip.

  As I left the bar area, the doorbell rang again and I looked up, expecting more frat boy fuckers joining their crew.

  It wasn’t.

  It was Knox O’Connor with another man, a fellow fighter by the way he walked behind Knox to a table in the corner. Charlotte glided over to help them.

  My heart started to pound in my chest and my throat tightened up and went completely dry. The glasses on the tray rattled as I fought to keep it from shaking in my trembling hand.

  I set the drinks out on the table one by one, watched the herd of D-bags down the shots and picked them up as they finished. I turned to walk away, barely able to glance at Knox’s table without freaking out and headed back to the bar.

  “Hey sugar tits,” the D-bag leader said as I was leaving.

  “What?” I spat and turned around.

  “You wanna give me a lap dance?” he laughed and held up a crisp hundred dollar bill.

  That would have come in handy, but I wasn’t a whore. I shot him a withering look and stomped back to the bar.

  A few moments later Charlotte returned, pouted and said, “You’re popular tonight, they want you over there too.”

  “I’ll share tips,” I told her, feeling bad for some reason that she wasn’t getting any tables tonight.

  I sauntered to Knox’s table as nonchalantly as possible with my body betraying me in every possible way.

  “What can I get you guys?” I asked, deliberately not making eye contact with him. I didn’t think I could handle those brilliantly green eyes locked on mine just then.

  “Your best whiskey,” Knox said with his gorgeous deep Irish voice. “On the rocks. In fact, bring us a bottle.”

  “Coming right up,” I said and smiled at his friend.

  I could feel him watching me leave and suddenly regretted wearing an old pair of jeans that probably hugged my curves a little too closely for my comfort. I’m sure he enjoyed the view though.

  As I was passing the table of frat boys, the D-bag leader’s hand snaked out and grabbed my wrist.

  “How about that lap dance?” he asked and tried to shove the hundred dollar bill in the waist of my jeans.

  “How about you keep your fucking hands off me?” I snarled and pushed myself off of him.

  He was holding me too close though, and it simply made me settle harder on his lap, his cock pressing into me and his hot breath on my neck.

  “Come on, don’t be such an ice princess,” he sneered and squeezed my breast hard with his free hand. “You work in a god damned bar, you must need the money.”

  “Let me go,” I said and pushed him again. We didn’t have a bouncer on weeknights, the crowd was usually manageable. I looked around for Charlotte but she must have gone on a smoke break. I felt tears stinging the back of my eyes as panic began to rise in my chest.

  “Come on, an easy hundred. The strip club is closed and I am just dying for a sweet thing like you to grind her ass on my cock,” he snickered.

  “She said let her go, so kindly fekking let her go,” Knox’s voice broke in. It was low and threatening but still so unbelievably smooth and delicious.

  “Haha is she one of your lucky charms?” the D-bag laughed. “This is America, dude, so fuck off and let me grope the bar slut.”

  “I believe I told ye te let her go,” Knox replied evenly and carefully. A twitch under his eye indicated that he was anything but. He was tightly coiled and ready to strike.

  “Dude, that’s Knox O’Connor,” one of the frat boys at the table whispered in a harsh tone.

  “Who?” the D-bag leader asked, loosening his grip on my waist. I took the chance to leap up and escape just as Knox’s fist came flying past me and landed with a deep sounding smack in the middle of the D-bag’s face.

  He went sailing back, flipped the chair and landed on the floor with his legs and arms flailing like a turtle.

  I ran for the bathroom, feeling sick and embarrassed, but not before I noticed a bright smear of blood on the D-bag’s face.

  I splashed some water on my face and calmed myself down, feeling humiliated that Knox had seen that. Did he think of me as some bar slut now?

  I hated that part of the job, the guys who saw me as a piece of meat, but I obviously needed the money.

  I hoped George wouldn’t find out I’d caused a fight in the bar. He hated shit like that. God, how had such a stupid thing gotten so out of control?

  A couple moments passed and I regained my composure and opened the door.

  Knox was waiting for me in the narrow hallway.

  “Are ye all right, kitten?” he asked and put his hands firmly on my shoulders.

  “I’m fine,” I replied, avoiding eye contact again. “Are you okay?”

  “Ha,” he barked, “I’m fine, don’t ye worry about me. The other guy though, he might be a little sore in the morning.”

  “Are they gone?” I asked, peerin
g out around him to see an empty pub.

  “They are,” he replied and dodged in front of me as if to make me look at him.

  “Shit, they didn’t pay,” I said with a sinking feeling. It would have to come out of my check.

  “I’ll cover it, kitten,” he said and hooked his finger under my chin, forcing my face up. “Look at me, why won’t ye look at me?”

  “I just…” I stammered. “I’m shy I guess.” The truth was that I felt just looking at Knox would mean I was helpless. I would fall into the deep, dangerous pool of his bright green eyes and lose myself to the handsome Irish fighter.

  “Yer not shy,” he chuckled, “I’ve seen you with others. Just look at me.”

  I slid my eyes across his broad chest to the V of his flesh showing at the top of his buttoned up shirt. A sprinkle of fine chest hair showed over the multiple intricate tattoos there.

  My gaze traveled higher, to his full, sensual lips curved into a slight smile, to his high cheek bones, to the little scar under his eye…and finally to those eyes. Those brilliant, shining eyes that held me stuck there like a deer in headlights.

  “That’s not so hard, is it kitten?” he said softly.

  I shook my head and stared at him as if waiting for something.

  He bent and kissed me, his lips covering my mouth, soft at first and then more demanding.

  His stubble grazed my flesh and sent fiery sparks coursing through my body.

  His scent filled my nostrils made me melt with desire, my panties were soaked. He smelled masculine, strong and purposeful.

  It only lasted a moment; he pulled back and looked at me again with a furrow between his brows.

  “I know I just met you and this is gonna sound as crazy as fuck,” he said, his huge, rough hand cupping my face. “But will ye marry me?”

  I barked a bitter laugh and said, “Nice try. Who put you up to this? Was it Charlotte? George?”

  “Naw,” he said softly, sincerely,” I want ye to be my wife, kitten.”

  I gulped and had no fucking idea how to respond.

  Chapter Six

  Lennon