Scottish Swag

by Cristina Grenier

  But then again, a woman who could fight like she could...he supposed he wasn’t shocked that she could be assertive when she needed to. She had a mean right hook.

  And he still hadn’t learned who the hell had taught it to her.

  Between being permanently horny and unbelievably overworked, Torran was constantly grumpy. For the first time in a long time, he found himself wishing that Warrick was still around.

  When the older man had first passed away and left his mammoth of a company to Torran, he had hated him for a long while. If Warrick had been so incredibly fond of him, why the hell did he turn his entire life on its head? He had grown up on the streets, come from nothing, and all at once, McKinney handed him everything on a platter.

  It was true, Warrick was probably the only person he had who had ever come close to being true family, and losing him hurt. But Torran hadn’t been ready to inherit a company. Some days, he was still pretty certain he wasn’t ready, despite the fact that it had been years.

  But here he was, doing the best justice to the capitalist’s memory that he could.

  Warrick, like him, had come from humble beginnings. Like him, had lived hand to mouth for most of his life. He had no problem admitting he’d made a slew of bad decisions, but those bad decisions hadn’t stopped him from making something of his life.

  And he didn’t want it to stop Torran either.

  As far as the Irishman was concerned, he was doing the best he could. He was pretty sure Warrick wouldn’t be super enthusiastic to know that he was still being beat up on a monthly basis, but the fighting helped Torran cope with the stresses of running the company, so he was sure his mentor forgave him.

  At least, he forgave a lot quicker than Savannah.

  Torran was beginning to wonder if she would ever come near him again. Maybe he’d pushed her too far, too fast. But then again, the way she’d looked at him...the way she clung to him as if she needed him more than her next breath…

  Fuck. Now he was hard - with his fucking accountant sitting across from him.

  “Mr. Maloney?” Both of them looked up when Amanda poked her head into the room. She was distinctly colder with him than she usually was, and Torran was pretty sure that was because he had stopped fucking her. In fact, he hadn’t gone after anyone since Savannah wormed her way into his life. It was like she was in his blood, and if he couldn’t have her, he didn’t want another meaningless lay.

  “What is it, Amanda?”

  His secretary frowned. “There’s a call for you on line three.”

  He arched a brow in inquiry. As much as he wanted a break from his accountant, it was probably best if he got this all over with in one session. “Who is it?”

  “They wouldn’t say,” She replied, obviously irked that the caller had refused to do so. “Just said that it was urgent.”

  He frowned even more deeply than she was. “Franklin, can you wait outside a tic while I take this?” His accountant sprang from his seat to follow Amanda from the room. The moment the door shut behind them, Torran picked up the phone. “Maloney here. Who is this?”

  “Heya Torran. Nice to hear your voice again after all these years.”

  He froze at the coldly amused voice on the other end of the line.

  What the fuck? How the hell had he gotten this number? Torran’s eyes narrowed in irritation. “What the bloody hell do you want?”

  The caller merely chuckled, as if Torran’s anger meant shit-all to him. “It’s not what I want, Torran my boy, but what you want. And I’m pretty sure you want McKinney’s company to stay afloat.”

  The Irishman felt suddenly sick. Of all the things he missed about Dublin, mistakes from his past certainly weren’t in the mix. He swallowed his rage, a fist curling tightly about the edge of the table. “I’m listening.”

  Chapter 9: Knockout

  One week later

  Despite the fact that she’d been working on publicity for the event for the past month, Savannah still had to pinch herself to make sure this was really happening.

  She was in Madison Square Garden, preparing to watch Torran fight to protect his title as heavyweight MMA champion of the world, and despite her pacifist nature, she was excited as hell. It was the first time she’d been directly involved with a client of this magnitude, or been behind the scenes at an event this huge. The fight wasn’t for another two hours, but the seats were already beginning to fill.

  As Torran’s publicist, she had a primo seat in the VIP section - right next to the fighting cage. She’d taken the liberty of getting a seat for her father as well, glowing with pride that she could finally do something for him after all he’d done for her. He hadn’t arrived yet, and even when he did, Savannah was pretty sure she’d only have a few minutes to talk to him.

  Never, in a thousand years, had she imagined that her job would bring her back to a place like this. Savannah had grown up in fighting arenas - standing at the edge of boxing rings, waiting with bated breath to catch a glimpse of her father. In a way, this all felt very familiar.

  But MMA wasn’t boxing. Not by a long shot. The technical and tactical differences were immense, and beyond that, just because one could box didn’t mean you were an excellent MMA fighter. When she had challenged Torran for the right to manage him, the only reason she beat him was because she’d surprised the hell out of him. Once the man had realized what angle she was coming from her, he’d flattened her. Pinned her on the mat and…

  Dear God. She was hot just thinking about it.

  “Is Maloney ready for the press conference?” When she turned to talk to one of the commentators, she hoped she didn’t look anywhere near as embarrassed as she felt.

  “Give me a minute, I’ll go check.” Any excuse to bolt away - even if it meant facing Torran in the dressing rooms.

  The very prospect was enough to tie her stomach into knots. Savannah was pretty sure that he knew she’d been avoiding seeing him directly since their little interlude in the dressing room, but, recently, he’d gone from trying to force her into his office to almost...apathetic.

  It was almost like someone had thrown a switch. Torran, who Savannah could have sworn didn’t know the meaning of professionalism when it came to the two of them, had suddenly become almost distant.

  It was a little jarring, to say the least.

  Though it was hard for her to admit, there was a part of her that had liked being on pins and needles every time she was around him. That he remembered their heated kisses and longed for much, much more…

  She took a deep breath, steeling herself before she headed into the locker room. They still had a good hour or so to go until the fight, but the backstage area was teaming with activity. She squeezed past a few people who were hoisting huge massage tables out of the way before peeking in to make sure she wasn’t catching him in the middle of changing.

  As if she could get so lucky.

  But Torran was decent. The suit he’d worn to the stadium was hung up fastidiously from one of the lockers, and he’d already donned the shorts he wore for his matches. They were black and tight, clinging to the firm lines of his well-muscled behind and huge thighs. Savannah swallowed thickly as she watched the muscles in his back work while he rolled his neck. God, how could she ever forget how massive the man was - one of the biggest in the league.

  She cleared her throat as she stepped into the locker room, alerting him and anyone else who might be present that they had a visitor - hopefully no one would get naked.

  But Torran didn’t even look at her, and the locker room seemed to be otherwise deserted. “Torran?” Savannah shut the door quietly behind her, frowning slightly. “They’re ready for you for the press conference.”

  The Irishman only grunted, and Savannah wasn’t sure if that meant he was coming or not. Setting her jaw, she thrust aside her wariness of the man to march over to his side. Right now, there was no room for her to be intimidated by him. She had to make sure this engagement went smoothly, or it was both of their h
eads.

  “Torran, are you alright?” Savannah had asked him the question numerous times since he’d started behaving strangely, and each time he told her that he was fine.

  She only wished she believed him. “Great.” He muttered, barely loud enough for her to hear. “Just trying to concentrate on the fight.”

  Taking a chance, Savannah slid onto the edge of the bench just behind where he stood, touching his arm lightly. At the contact, he flinched, obviously surprised, before turning his gaze on her. In that moment, Savannah realized just how close to him she’d gotten. She could feel the warmth of his body - smell the spicy, masculine scent of him - and it was enough to make her light-headed. “Torran, you know if something’s bothering you...you can tell me, right? If you want to skip the press conference-”

  “I don’t want to skip it.” His reply was almost sharp, shocking her into silence. “If I don’t come that fucking pansy Martell will have something to say, and I don’t feel like hearing his mouth.” He rolled his shoulders in an attempt to loosen the muscles and Savannah exhaled a long breath.

  It was harder to deal with him when he was like this than when he was actively trying to resist her. Now, it was almost like he’d shut himself away. The young woman hoped, for the life of her, that it wasn’t because she’d rejected him. She couldn’t imagine that the approval of someone like her was so important to him. Torran Maloney had dated supermodels and actresses, after all. Who was she after all that?

  But all her attempts to reassure herself didn’t stop her stomach from churning. If Torran was this listless now, who knew what could happen during the fight? If he was anything like her father, he’d want to clear his mind and be in the best mood. Could he do that if he was pissed at her?

  Savannah liked to think that her pride always came first, but if clearing the air with Torran would make things better before the fight, maybe she would just have to swallow it. Clearing her throat, she gazed up at him as stolidly as she could. “Torran, I want to apologize.”

  He had gone back to stretching, and didn’t even look at her. “For what?” He grunted, several bones in his spine cracking.

  “I...when we...when we were in the dressing room, I don’t want you to think that...well, I’m your publicist, and I just want to make sure we don’t mess anything up between us.”

  Torran stopped halfway through a stretch, looking over his shoulder at her incredulously. “You think I’m mad at you.” It was a statement, rather than a question, and she flushed darkly. Should she even bother to deny it? “Because I shoved my tongue down your throat in a dressing room and made you come? “

  Well, when he put it that way….Savannah fought a shiver at the mere memory. She was surprised, however, when the glowering Torran’s mouth turned up into a small, amused smile. “That was a fucking shitty thing to do, weren’t it? Why the hell are you apologizing to me? I’m the one should be sorry...though you won’t get me to tell you I didn’t like those little sounds you made…” If anything, Savannah only went redder, leaping up from her seat.

  “Ok, well, if you’re not mad at me, you’re ready for the press conference, right? Ready for this fight?” She asked the latter question firmly, pushing aside her embarrassment in favor of authority.

  Torran’s expression sobered slightly, but he nodded. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

  And she had to trust that he would.

  Quickly, discreetly, she slipped from the dressing room. The last thing she needed at this juncture was more rumors about her and Torran sleeping together. That news had almost died down! Luckily, there was no one to watch her sneaking around, and within minutes, she made it to the crowded room where the press conference was being held.

  She could only hope that Torran was on his way.

  **

  He didn’t know if he could do this.

  The press conference went by in a blur for Torran. Even though Savannah had coached him on what to say, he didn’t really remember his answers to any of the questions. He was far too occupied with what he was supposed to do in the ring.

  Or rather, what he wasn’t supposed to do.

  By the time the conference finished up, people were clapping, so he can’t have done too badly. He was sure his opponent was talking shit to the nth degree, so it was probably good that he was tuning it out.

  “Torran, you’ve got twenty minutes.” His coach was attempting to give him a pep talk and he only listened with half an ear. “Do whatever you need to do. That bastard will be talking through a breathing hole by the time you’re through with him. Don’t listen to him.”

  And for once, he wasn’t. As Ben guided him back to the locker room, Torran met Savannah’s gaze for the briefest of moments. Her expression was anxious, and it was obvious she could tell something was wrong, no matter how much he reassured her.

  Maybe the worst thing about what he was supposed to do wasn’t the affect it would have on him, but what it would do to her.

  And that pissed him off to no end.

  He went through the motions, stretching and trying to find his zen, but the entire twenty minutes before the fight, Torran was unsettled. Part of him hoped that this was some sort of terrible dream from which he’d soon awaken, but he didn’t get so lucky. All too soon, he was being ushered up towards the cage, and his opponent was being introduced.

  Under any other circumstances, this fight would be a joke. Torran was better and he knew it. He’d trained harder, and he’d be damned if he let some pup ten years younger than him take his title.

  But this match wasn’t going to go the way he wanted - and there was nothing he could do about that.

  “In this corner, at six and a half feet tall and weighing two hundred eighty seven pounds, Torran “The Irish” Maloney!” As he stepped into the cage, the crowd went wild. “Defending his title from rising sensation Allen “Roundhouse” Kelton!”

  The kid was smug as a motherfucker. One look at him and Torran knew what he thought: he was younger, he was stronger, and he was a shoe-in to win. The two came close to face one another as the ref warned them to fight clean -if there was such a thing in this sport. Around the cage, at least a hundred cameras flashed frantically, covering every second before the match. Somehow, through all that ambient light, Torran managed to catch a glimpse of Savannah. Though she had always insisted she was a pacifist, she sat in the front row, eyes shining, as she gazed up at him with her fists clenched.

  She wanted him to win. She knew he would win.

  It was killing him to disappoint her.

  The first five minutes of the fight went as well as to be expected. Kelton was cautious - he didn’t come at him with everything he had, which he could appreciate. True to his name, his opponent tried to land quite a few roundhouse kicks to little effect, and Torran had his nose broken and bleeding before the first round was called over.

  He was getting over zealous. His best option would be to end this quickly - as painlessly as he could. The only problem was that he wasn’t very used to losing. Not anymore. When the next round began, Torran dropped his guard. Almost immediately, Kelton laid into him, raining a series of blows over his head and shoulders before knocking the wind out of him. When Torran reached for him, he ducked under his arms and flipped him so he landed flat on his back on the mat.

  He was pretty impressive, considering Torran had a few inches and at least thirty pounds on him. And he happened to know for a fact that Kelton had won most of his fights by knockout. Before he could pin him, however, Torran slid out from under the smaller man, elbowing him in the face and blacking one of his eyes.

  His pride wouldn’t let him go out that quickly - and damn what he had promised.

  But Kelton didn’t back off easily. His next kick connected, and Torran stumbled back to the mat, dazed. The crowd was screaming at him now, demanding that he get back up and fight. He rose to one knee, and Kelton pummeled him, hitting him so hard his ears rang. Blood gushed from his nose and his vision blurred.

&nb
sp; He could get up. He should get up.

  But he didn’t. He let Kelton’s next blow knock him to the mat. When the smaller man put him in a chokehold so intense he could barely breathe, he let him. Torran would almost prefer passing out to what he knew was coming next.

  He wasn’t fighting like he usually did, and the judges would see that...but Torran would be damned if he let an inferior fighter beat him by knockout.

  The world swirled before his vision and, a moment before he lost consciousness, Torran lunged upward, head butting his opponent with enough force to knock him back against the wall of the cage.

  Ending the second round.

  By the time the third round sounded, the crowd was all Torran could hear. Everything else faded away. He could barely feel it as Kelton hit him again and again. He knew his face was a mess - that he would probably need stitches - and the kid zealously went in on his midsection, bruising two ribs, but finally, the judges called it.