Caged Love: MMA Contemporary Suspense (Book Three)

by Thunderbolt, Liberty

  Ty Johnson next interviewed the girl. She thanked Bretten, Rodrigo, and Brooke over and over and said they were true heroes. The report ended and flashed back to the news channel’s studio. The anchor picked up where Johnson left off. “Truly an amazing story, and we have learned it was less than a week ago when Bretten Maris won the SRV Fights title in Dallas, Texas. We have a clip of his victory where he used what is commonly referred to in Mixed Martial Arts as the Darnell-Plex. Apparently, one of Maris’ training partners, Darnell Woods, was the first to deliver the crushing slam and he is now synonymous with the move. We warn those who are squeamish, you may want to look away.”

  The screen showed the end of the fight, the beautiful Darnell-Plex, and then returned to the anchor. He shook his head. “Ouch, the criminals are lucky they weren’t the recipients of the Darnell-Plex.”

  Newcomb blinked his eyes a couple times and pulled himself away from the TV. He started to say something, but Woods beat him to it. “Damn Newcomb you hear that, I’m a famous son of a bitch!”

  Again before Newcomb spoke Woods bounded up the stairs taking them three at a time. He needed to get Millsap to help him right away. He figured Bretten, Rodrigo, and Brooke would be back in a few hours and he wanted this report set up on the flat screen along with the clip from the fight.

  As Woods banged on Millsap’s door, Bear Haynes was laughing to himself and punching in numbers on his cell phone. He’d just seen the same report at the Kansas City airport while waiting for his flight. The call was to Reggie Perkins of Slam Energy Drinks, suddenly a sponsorship for only thirty five hundred per fight seemed woefully inadequate.

  Bear waited for Mr. Perkins to answer, and approximately forty miles away at his late father’s gym, Tristan Holmes shook his head in disgust. He’d just walked in and found three guys looking up at the TV mounted on the wall. They were watching the very same report and Tristan could not believe his eyes or ears.

  He never really liked Maris or Cortez, and was frustrated with Brooke for falling for Maris. Now he knew he couldn’t stand them. Here they were playing heroes, profiting because of his dad’s funeral. His dad should be the one in the news. He was a great coach and did so much for the sport. And what did Maris say, “A friend’s dad’s funeral?” No names. Just passed over it like nothing so he could keep all the glory.

  Tristan turned, planted a violent roundhouse into the nearest heavy bag and stormed out of the room.

  Chapter Seven

  Detective Mitch Westingham believed entrances were always important. They set the tone, showed competence or doubt. So he held his chin high and thrust his shoulders back as he entered the offices of Cranston, Jones, & Associates. As he walked toward Dana Murphy, the lady who’d sat in his office the previous week and told him her boss was dead in the desert, he thought of her.

  He’d been thinking of her off and on for the last week and decided that they were in some odd way cut from the same cloth. He finally had time to follow up and visit Harold Winstatt’s office to see what he could find. He still thought Harold had probably just bolted, but the faces of Nick Maris and Raydell Richardson kept popping into his head right alongside those two sketches.

  He nodded and smiled as he approached Ms. Murphy’s neat desk. “Good afternoon.” He stuck his hand out.

  “Good afternoon to you, Detective Westingham.” Dana reached her hand toward his.

  He felt a shot of excitement as their hands met. “The guy from the lab will be here in about twenty minutes. He’ll process Harold’s office, check for anything that might help us track down the two guys you saw with Mr. Winstatt.”

  “That’s good, thank you,” Dana said. “Would you like some coffee while you wait?”

  “I’d actually like to go ahead and look through the office, see if I can find anything.” As he talked he made a show of plucking some blue latex gloves from his pocket and placing them on his hands.

  Dana showed Westingham into the office. “You know, I should have looked to see what car they drove. I looked out the window and saw them leave the building, but they were parked out of view. I should have just followed those nasty men. Maybe then I could be of more help.”

  “You’ve been very helpful. Don’t beat yourself up,” Westingham said as he walked over to the window and glanced down at the parking lot.

  “Well, I’ll leave you to it,” Dana said, and backed out of the office.

  Detective Westingham tried to think of a reason for her to stay, but nothing came to mind. He held his hands out, palms down, and turned a slow circle. He decided to sit in Harold’s chair. He pictured the two men on the sketches from Dana. He imagined them coming through the door. Imagined what ran through Harold’s head.

  A stack of folders nearly six inches high rested on one corner of the desk. A phone was on the opposite corner, and a desktop calendar sat between them. The upper left corner had a few framed pictures. One of Harold’s wife and daughter, Sherry and Amanda. Another of Harold and Sherry on a boat. And the third a shot of the three of them with Amanda in a soccer uniform. The other corner housed a closed laptop.

  Westingham looked through the calendar and found nothing. He went through each of the desk drawers without much luck. The only thing that seemed out of place was an address to what Westingham thought was a strip of offices in North Las Vegas. It didn’t list a specific business. He made a note to check it out.

  The kid from the lab showed up five minutes early, so Westingham let him have the office. He stepped out and reported to Dana that he didn’t find anything he thought would be too helpful. He asked her about the address. She knew nothing about it.

  “Thank you for pursuing this Detective Westingham. I just want to know where Harold is for sure, and see those two men behind bars.”

  “I understand Ms. Murphy, but remember, they might not have actually done anything to Harold.”

  “I’ll remember that, but deep down I know they hurt him. They just looked mean, and you know they didn’t even have an appointment either time they came.”

  As Westingham walked away from Dana Murphy he thought he’d like to follow up with her as soon as he could. He’d get the results from forensics in a week or so and they’d be a great excuse to see her again.

  Chapter Eight

  Bretten sat naked on a smooth wooden bench in the small, tidy locker room. He was situated just off an eastern corridor at the Coca-Cola Bricktown events center in Oklahoma City. The water still dripped from the shower head of which he’d just come out from under. He listened to each drip as it met the tile and echoed off the shower walls.

  He wiped his hands over his tired face, slipped them down to the towel and wiped them dry. It clung to his legs, the opening cut almost all the way to his left butt cheek. He wiped and winced at the pain in his ribs, then looked around the empty room. It was one of the few times he’d been alone in the last week. He leaned back, his head thumping gently against an empty locker, and just sat. The silence was nice, most definitely needed, and he knew it wouldn’t last.

  It all started not long after they stopped the robbery attempt. In a matter of hours he went from just another fighter to something of a celebrity. He tried to prepare for the fight he’d just finished, but the calls were overwhelming. Reporters, even more than usual, crowded into Whit’s gym and all wanted a piece of him. Rodrigo and Brooke felt the pinch of fame as well, but for some reason not quite to the same extent. Jimmy Fallon had even mentioned him during his show!

  There was some good out of it. He now had a deal with Slam energy drinks for five thousand a fight and was getting another twenty five hundred a month whether he fought or not. All he had to do was drink a few of the sweet tasting concoctions and wear Slam shirts.

  Bear buzzed around the last couple days and sported new attire. His suits were suddenly nicer and a little more flamboyant. This amused both Bretten and Rodrigo, but it worried Brooke. “The last thing you want is an agent who decided he’s made it, especially before he has,” sh
e’d said.

  Bretten shook off his shower slippers and crossed his right foot over his left leg, grasped his big toe, squeezed and wiggled it back and forth. It was swollen and painful but after four or five times it made a loud popping sound and felt better.

  He continued to think about the hectic week and his thoughts drifted back to the Thursday morning group. It had veered into a different direction than usual, but as he’d learned it always applied. He suspected that was just part of the brilliance of Doc. They’d been talking about personal finance, the positives and pitfalls of newfound wealth. From there the conversation turned to organization and how sometimes a too organized life can become constrictive. Bretten smiled to himself when he thought of Millsap vehemently disagreeing with this idea. And then Doc’s story shimmered into his memory.

  Doc said organization was paramount in most situations, and finances were absolutely one of them. Then he went into another one of his stories. This one about being a jack man, of all things, for NASCAR driver Ted Lawson in the early 70s. He talked about how great of a driver Lawson was and how he’d always made sure everything was in order. Not many black men were involved in NASCAR in the 70s, hell not many are today, but as Doc explained, “Ted didn’t care that I had a little darker skin tone. He cared about people wanting to get the job done.”

  Everyone sat and listened, and a new person joined the group. Tristan slipped in through the back door and nodded greetings. Doc plunged on. “You know in ’73 Ted was doing well in the standings. I was just learning the ropes but did my best to soak it all in. I was so impressed with the way his team worked. Completely organized, we all had our jobs, we did them to the best of our abilities and the sum of our efforts resulted in an excellent team.

  “We didn’t win much, matter fact only one race, but because Ted and the crew chief Carter were always ready for anything, the year was special. Ted ended up winning the Winston Cup because he was consistent.

  During the twenty-eighth race right in his backyard at North Carolina speedway his car got beat up in an early wreck. It looked like there was no way in hell he’d be able to continue, and Petty would win the cup. But everybody went to work, even other teams pitched in to help and Ted made it back out on the track long enough to finish enough laps to beat out Petty. The winning was because of two things, determination and organization.”

  Bretten pulled on his jeans, buttoned up his shirt, and considered his life at the moment. It was about as good as it could be, but he felt decidedly unorganized. Everything was coming at him so fast. It was exciting, but chaotic. He’d thought of his brother a lot during the week. Nick would have loved to have been a part of everything. There was no word on who killed him, and even though Bretten had a lot going on, he thought of his brother every day.

  Part of the chaos revolved around Tristan. He’d been off in his own world. Bretten didn’t even understand why he’d returned, but he did. He’d trained hard Thursday afternoon and drank harder that night. He made his way to yesterday’s weigh in and did his best to grab as much attention as possible. He hadn’t done anything to Bretten, Rodrigo, or Brooke, but he just carried himself differently around them and kept calling them heroes and celebrities.

  Tristan was quite the spectacle at the fights too. He romped around the cage signing autographs and obliging the fans with pictures and conversation. They surely saw him as a great, down to earth guy, but Bretten knew it wasn’t genuine. It was forced, an act. He felt for Tristan, he’d been through a lot, but he also felt like the man was about to explode.

  Bretten tied his shoes and grabbed his bag. He’d held on to the peace and quiet as long as possible. Now it was time to return to the chaos. He guessed Bear was itching for him to get out there and woo the press with his fight recap.

  The fight was tougher than expected. Rodrigo absolutely destroyed his opponent with a beautiful combination of wrestling and ground and pound. Much like he did in Korea. Bretten felt confident he’d be in a league above his opponent, Dean Hadley, who had a 12-13 record and fought in small shows throughout Oklahoma and Texas. When Bretten saw him he was reminded of Bobby “Bone Crusher” Baker. His first opponent was nothing but a bruiser and he suspected Hadley the same.

  His suspicions proved incorrect. Hadley came out like a rocket, demonstrating extremely proficient wrestling skills. Seconds into the fight, Bretten was on his back and struggling to maintain guard. He lost it at one point and got blasted by a knee to the ribs. Bretten saw it all come crashing down. He thought of Bear telling him to not screw it up, and feared he was doing just that. The thoughts spurred him to action though, and he scrambled to his feet. This time when Hadley shot in for a takedown Bretten was prepared. He sprawled and locked in a guillotine choke that the man could not escape. He didn’t tap though. He struggled until the blood supply to his brain ceased to exist, and he went completely limp.

  Hadley’s actions troubled Bretten. Here he was with a mediocre record, knowing full well he’d never rise to prominence in the sport, and yet he let himself be choked until he passed out. If he was willing to do that, what would the fighters be willing to do when the stakes were so much higher?

  Bretten pulled open the locker room door. The cooler hallway air enveloped him, forcing a chill throughout his entire frame. He shook it off, turned to the right and saw Tristan and Brooke close together, talking. Her arms were folded across her sequined green halter top and her weight shifted to her right leg. Her tight Levi jeans did their best to hide the curves of her legs, but Bretten could see them perfectly. Tristan’s face was sharp with a scowl. His hands were planted firmly on his hips, just above his tight khaki pants. He leaned in towards Brooke. His jaw was tight.

  Bretten could tell by his glare and the lines in Brooke’s face that neither of them was enjoying the conversation. His presence broke the confrontation, and they turned simultaneously. Bretten took a few steps toward them. Brooke met him halfway. They embraced. “Great fight,” she said. “You had me worried early though.”

  Before he could respond, Tristan lifted his wiry, tattoo-covered arm and offered his hand. “You looked a little sluggish.”

  Bretten shook it. The man squeezed harder than necessary. “Yeah, it’s been a hell of a week. It took me a few minutes to get going.”

  “I bet.”

  Whit appeared with a lumbering Bear in tow. “We got some work to do pup. You letting all this publicity go to your head?”

  Tristan butted in. “Looks to me like he is, better get him together before he fights some real competition and gets his famous ass kicked.” The group looked at Tristan and he continued. “I’m heading to the club,” then he turned and left.

  Brooke shook her head. “Asshole,” she said.

  “The press is waiting,” Bear said. “Let’s go sell some Slam energy drinks!”

  Whit rolled his eyes, and they walked down the corridor. Bretten leaned in toward Brooke. “What the hell was that conversation about?”

  “He’s being a bastard again and blames us for half his problems.”

  Bretten started to respond, but the group rounded a corner and was face to face with reporters and cameras.

  Chapter Nine

  Bear set it all up. Bretten really wished they’d just driven back home. They would’ve arrived in Enid not long after midnight, but Bear insisted. He said they needed to gather as many fans as possible. It was part of being a star. So after the last of the reporters they’d trudged back around the eastern side of the Bricktown Ballpark, cut in front of the Bass Pro Shop, and entered a side door of The Residence Inn by Marriot.

  After a few minutes of relaxing and freshening up, they all headed out. This time their path carried them along the canal to the south and west of the ball park. The canal turned to the left but they followed the road, then crossed a busy intersection and found their names plastered on a sign welcoming them to City Walk.

  9-0 Tristan Holmes

  14-3 Rodrigo Cortez

  7-1 SRV Fights cham
p Bretten Maris

  5-0 UCC fighter Brooke Simms

  One of the big clubs in Bricktown, City Walk, is actually nine clubs under one roof. Bear talked to the club’s owner about having the after party there. The agreement called for free drinks for all of them and a hundred dollar appearance fee for Bretten, Rodrigo, Tristan, and Brooke.

  Whit was more popular than all of them combined, but he’d said he couldn’t give a shit less about that crap. He’d be more than happy to hang out and drink a few beers, but didn’t need to get paid for it. For sure, he was better off financially than all four of them, as well.

  They sat at a table underneath a giant Corona Extra umbrella in the relative calm of Tequila Park. The mood was mellow, the music low, the atmosphere relaxed. Tequila bottles draped the walls on square attachments that made perfect nooks for the bottles of clear liquid to rest.

  Later they planned on heading down the hall to City Walk. It was the biggest of the nine clubs and pumped out high energy hits along with upbeat mixes of country music. They were in Oklahoma after all.

  After ten minutes of signing autographs, talking, and taking pictures with fans, Bretten looked up to see the line twisting into the hallway. He leaned over to Brooke. “I can’t believe all these people are here to see us.”

  She chuckled. “It’s because of your Darnell-Plex, champ.”

  She then reached over and pinched his leg under the table. She was a big draw too, especially since her fight at UCC 130 was only weeks away.

  “Thanks smart ass,” he said.

  The reply brought Tristan back into his thoughts and he gave the man a glance. He sat at the other end of the table, fairly subdued. The first round of beers at the fights had worn off, now he was back at it with a Tequila drink.

  Bear felt the tension and parked himself right in the middle of Bretten and Tristan, either that or he wanted to be the center of attention. Rodrigo was at the far end of the table wowing two gorgeous girls who sported tight low-cut dresses and big breasts. Every now and then he stood up and delivered a fist or elbow to an imaginary opponent, and two or three times Bretten heard him mention Bruce Lee.