Broken: An Alpha Bad Boy MMA Romance

by Scarlet MMA, Simone

  Panting, and dripping in sweat, Rob Staavig and Silas slumped down in the rickety metal chairs at one of the tables, and Rob popped open his bottle of Muscle Milk.

  “So, how long have we been at this, bud?”

  Silas slumped back, and thought for a second.

  It had been three weeks since he’d come back to America – three weeks spent living in Lyssa’s cramped, studio apartment and schlepping all the way out west every day in her rusty ’89 Corolla.

  “Too long,” Silas snorted.

  “Listen, I know you’re frustrated,” Rob slurped his drink. “But it ain’t that easy to train somebody like you. You’re a solid fighter, and you’re so damned big.”

  Silas grunted, his lips curling. He was touching 275lbs at the moment, and that meant a good three inches and 50lbs on the smaller, leaner Rob.

  “But you’ve got to stop trying to fight me,” Rob instantly wiped that smile off Silas’ face, “and listen to what I’m trying to teach you, instead.”

  Silas turned and looked objectively at the older instructor.

  While he was pushing forty, Rob Staavig was still in incredible shape. Tanned, with long blonde hair and twinkling blue eyes, he caught quite a lot of attention from the moms who brought their kids to BB Martial Arts and fitness. In fact, there was a largely confirmed rumor that he was banging the school’s secretary – a married woman called Ava – whenever he had the opportunity.

  But despite that, Silas found it awkward being trained by a man he could pretty consistently beat out there on the floor.

  “You know, man,” Silas admitted, cracking open his own bottle of Poland Springs, “when I was a teenager, you were one of the reasons I got into mixed martial arts in the first place.”

  He remembered watching the fights, late at night on his father’s crackling TV.

  “I’ve got nothing but respect for you, amigo.”

  “Yeah?” Rob shrugged. “Well, you’ve got a funny way of showing it. We can’t seem to end a training session without you trying to get me into an arm bar.”

  And that was true enough. Rob was tough and fast, even after nearly a decade outside of the octagon. He gave Silas just enough of a challenge to be dangerous; but the Spanish fighter enjoyed making the Norwegian tap out pretty much every time they fought.

  “But you’ve got to stop fighting me,” Rob repeated, “and listen to what I tell you. Rashaan Jackson’s a different kind of animal – and you pull the shit you try on me with him, and it’ll be all over for you.”

  Just as he said that, there was a parp from the parking lot.

  Silas and Rob looked up, out of the windows at the front of the school.

  In the parking lot, smoke billowing from the exhaust, was a rusty old 1989 Toyota Corolla. Behind the wheel, waving, was Lyssa.

  “My ride’s here,” Silas shrugged. He patted Rob on the shoulder. “Same time tomorrow?”

  “As long as you come with a better attitude,” Rob fired back. “Remember, you’re not just fighting for your reputation now. We’re the school that’s training you.” He jerked his thumb towards the window, where Lyssa was parked. “She had to work hard to talk my partners Vinnie and Ben into letting you train here.” He grinned crookedly. “She wrote more than a few shitty things about this place in the past.”

  Silas narrowed his eyes. He hadn’t heard that story.

  Seeing his reaction, Rob shrugged.

  “It’s old news,” he said dismissively. “But just keep it in the back of your mind. When you go to Vegas to fight Rashaan, the whole world’s going to know that this place trained you.”

  He sniffed bitterly.

  “Don’t let us down.”

  Silas looked across the table at Rob, and some of what he was saying hit home.

  “Okay,” he promised. “I’ll work on it.” And then he reached over and shook Rob’s hand. “And listen, man. Even if I don’t show it, I appreciate the opportunity.”

  Nodding, Rob stood up, and walked Silas to the door.

  “We’ll do groundwork tomorrow,” he promised, patting Silas on the back as he walked out. “Make sure you shower.”

  And, with a wry laugh, Silas walked out to meet his ride.

  Chapter One Hundred and Twelve

  Lyssa

  “So, what’s the deal with that place?”

  Crammed into Lyssa’s tiny car, Silas gripped the door handle as it rattled and rolled over the New Jersey potholes.

  “BB Martial Arts Center?” Lyssa asked. As Silas nodded, she admitted: “I shitballed the guy who owns the place in my column a couple of times.” With a snort, Lyssa admitted: “I had to eat a bunch of crow about it, too, when he beat Travis.”

  “Travis?” Silas narrowed his eyes. “Travis Oates?”

  “Uh, yeah,” Lyssa nodded, suddenly staring over-attentively at the road. It was clear Silas had picked up on the casual familiarity she’d used; referring to the lanky Texan heavyweight by his first name.

  Anxious to change the subject, Lyssa quickly barked:

  “You’ve got the press conference tonight, in the city. You ready?”

  “Ready?” Silas shrugged his massive shoulders. “Ready for what? They ask me a bunch of questions. I take some pictures.” He scoffed: “I just hope there’s free food.”

  The event, at the Hotel W, in Midtown, was an unusual one for the MMA League. With their headquarters in Vegas, they didn’t normally waste much time on east coast promotion.

  But this was different. Silas’s match up with Rashaan was a new direction for the sport – and with lawmakers mulling overturning the ban on MMA in New York state, there was a benefit to having a presence there.

  “Let’s go home and rest,” Silas suggested, as Lyssa floored the rattling old Corolla down the Jersey Turnpike. “I’m interested to finally meet this Rashaan character face-to-face.”

  But, as Lyssa gunned the throttle, she suspected neither of them would really be getting much rest before the conference.

  * * *

  As it turned out, Lyssa’s suspicions were correct.

  Not even an hour later, Lyssa found herself wearing nothing but her tank top, and gripping the metal frame of her rickety bed as she writhed and moaned in ecstasy.

  Under the covers, between her legs, Silas was kissing, and licking her deliciously.

  “Oh, fuck,” Lyssa groaned, squirming and writhing in the creaking old bed. “Oh, God, Silas… we were meant to be having a nap… Resting up for…”

  Her eyes shot open.

  “Oh, fuck,” Lyssa moaned, suddenly forgetting what she’d been saying just moments before. “If you keep that up, I’m going to… I’m going to…”

  And she did.

  Lyssa climaxed – shuddering and moaning as Silas used his agile tongue to tip her over the edge, into a toe-curling orgasm.

  And that wasn’t the end of it. Silas kept sucking and swirling his tongue around her clitoris until a second orgasm washed over Lyssa – and, by then, she was practically begging for mercy.

  “E-enough,” Lyssa cried, reaching under the covers to push Silas’ head away. “Oh, God, you’re killing me…”

  Silas’ head reared from beneath the covers; his lips and chin glistening with her wetness.

  “It’s so hot to hear you beg for mercy,” the Spaniard groaned, as he positioned himself between her splayed thighs, and his hot hardness nudged at the lips of her glistening pussy. “I’m addicted to it.”

  And then he thrust inside her, and Lyssa cried out again – eyes rolling upwards as she felt herself stretched, and filled by his thick, delicious cock.

  Soon, Silas was thrusting inside her like a relentless stallion; and the bed was creaking and rocking in protest.

  It was probably the fiftieth time they’d fucked in that rickety old bed – and IKEA’s finest might be good for the budget, but it wasn’t designed for that sort of strenuous activity.

  Which meant, as Silas starting thrusting faster, and Lyssa felt his cock swell
and throb inside of her, the bed itself started rattling like crazy.

  “Oh, God,” Silas groaned, pressing his mouth hotly against Lyssa’s. She tasted her own pussy on his lips. “Oh, fuck, cariño… I can’t hold out…”

  And then he thrust himself as deeply inside her as he could, and Lyssa cried out as she felt him explode inside of her.

  Crash!

  The rickety bedframe finally collapsed, and Lyssa screamed again as it landed on the floorboards with the wrenching squeak of twisted metal.

  It took them both a few seconds to gather their wits.

  Still buried inside of her, Silas looked around – realizing that the bed was now two feet lower than it had been a few moments earlier.

  “Dios Santo!” He exclaimed. “Did we… did we break the bed?”

  Lyssa laughed, and wrapped her arms around Silas’ massive shoulders.

  “The Earth moved, lover,” she purred, kissing his ear. “Now hurry up and do me again. I’m anticipating some aftershocks.”

  * * *

  There were indeed aftershocks – and two more orgasms for Lyssa before the two of them finally surrendered to exhaustion.

  Lying naked and sweaty in the broken bed, Lyssa squeezed Silas’ hand and stared up at the cracks and stains in her discolored ceiling.

  “I’m sorry this place isn’t fancy,” she said, with a cringe. “It’s not the apartment the Hedbergs put you up in.”

  Silas lay panting beside her, and laughed: “That place wasn’t all that fancy either. There were cockroaches the size of mice in it.”

  Lyssa laughed bitterly.

  “Even the cockroaches don’t want to live here,” she admitted. And then, throwing back the covers, she clambered stiffly out of the collapsed bed and growled: “We should probably think about getting ready. It’ll take us an hour to get into the city.”

  The bed clattered as Silas hauled his bulk out of it. He grabbed a towel off the back of the radiator, and laughed: “Race you to the shower.”

  And with his hot cum dribbling running down her thighs, Lyssa pushed Silas out of the way, and ran to the bathroom herself.

  Chapter One Hundred and Thirteen

  Lyssa

  Four hours later – showered, if not rested – Lyssa was ushered into the ballroom of the hip and modern Hotel W.

  Silas had been led off by the staff of the MMA League, to get ready for video-taped interviews, meetings with journalists and the eventually press-conference on stage.

  Lyssa – as a fairly unknown journalist for a small-time paper – didn’t get such special treatment. She was shown into the ballroom to wait; where she discovered colored lights, chilled lounge music and – thank fuck – some complimentary cocktails.

  Soon buoyed by a complimentary margarita, Lyssa entered the crowd of familiar faces – bloggers and writers from top magazines from across the country.

  “Yo!”

  The voice cut through the crowd.

  “Yo, Lyssa!”

  Turning around, Lyssa was shocked to see the face of Travis Oates, weaving his way through the crowd.

  Following along behind, looking a little sheepish, was the handsome mug of Nikolai Bukov.

  “Oh, fuck,” Lyssa growled under her breath, before slurping down a mouthful of margarita.

  The truth be told, she hadn’t expected to see either of her former lovers at this press conference. After all, it was to promote the upcoming Jackson vs. Batras match-up; and neither Nikolai or Travis was on the card that night.

  But yet, here they both were – her two former boyfriends, making a bee-line right for her.

  “Lyssa, sugar,” It was Travis, leading the way. He finally made it through the crowd to her, and Lyssa ducked away from the hand he tried to squeeze her arm with.

  “Don’t ‘sugar’ me,” she snapped, stepping back as both Travis and Nikolai stood looming over her. “What the hell are you two doing here?”

  “We always get invites to this kind of shit,” Travis purred, snatching a margarita from a passing waitress. “Schmooze with the journalists, pose for some photos.”

  “Da,” Nikoloi added. “And we knew you would be here, today.”

  Lyssa raised a cynical eyebrow.

  “Oh, did you, now?” She sniffed haughtily. “And why are you two suddenly so keen to see me?”

  The two boys winced at her venom, but Lyssa didn’t stop talking:

  “I haven’t heard a peep from either of you in a month,” she hissed. “Except to hear that you’d black-balled me with Bright Iron gym.”

  “Honey, that weren’t nothing personal,” Travis held up his hands in feigned innocence. “We just didn’t want y’all causing a scene if we ran into each other there.”

  “Me causing a scene?” Lyssa growled. “I wasn’t the one who was drunk off my ass in Vegas, dancing with that… that floozy on stage.” Lyssa narrowed her eyes, and glared at Nikolai. “Real classy way for me to find out about your side chick, by the way.”

  “Hey, hey,” Nikolai snapped. “It wasn’t like that!”

  “Oh, no?” Lyssa scoffed. “Then how was it?” She drained her drink, and clicked her fingers at a nearby waiter, so she could grab another. “When were you thinking of telling me that you were engaged, Nikolai? Or were you just going to keep fucking me on the side, up until the wedding night?”

  The Russian’s cheeks burned red.

  “Well, yeah, hun,” Travis injected defensively. “That’s why we’re here.”

  “To say ‘sorry’,” Nikolai grunted, in a tone of voice that suggested he wasn’t very sorry at all.

  “We both feel real bad about how that all went down,” Travis continued, reaching out to squeeze Lyssa’s arm. She shrugged him off. “Nikolai should’ve told you. It wasn’t fair to you, or to Harmony.”

  Harmony. Lyssa still couldn’t believe Nikolai had put a ring on the finger of a girl whose name sounded like it should belong to a porn star.

  “Da,” Nikolai nodded. “I’m…. I’m sorry.”

  And that time, he actually did sound like he meant it.

  Tears sprang to Lyssa’s eyes, as her anger was replaced, infuriatingly, by sympathy.

  “Oh, fuck,” she sniffed, wiping her eye. “I guess I can’t be mad at you. I mean, who the fuck was I kidding?” She shook her head, swallowing back a sob. “You’d never given me any reason to think we were doing anything other than just fucking around. I guess I just…”

  …just thought it meant something more than that, Lyssa wanted to say. But she didn’t.

  Travis must have understood, though – because he reached over and laid a hand on her shoulder, and this time Lyssa didn’t shrug it off.

  “I know,” he told her. “And I’m sorry, hun. I really am.”

  Lyssa sniffed angrily.

  “It’s fine,” she growled, although it clearly wasn’t. “It’s done. I’m over it.” She wiped her eyes, hoping these two hadn’t fucked up her mascara. “Can we just drop it, now?”

  “Okay,” Travis pulled his hand from her shoulder. “But I want us to be cool, okay?”

  “Da,” Nikolai nodded. “In a few months, Harmony might be coming out to New York with me, and…”

  “…and you don’t want me blowing up your spot,” Lyssa growled. “I get it.” She shrugged Travis’ arm off her shoulder, and crossed her arms. “It’s okay, boys. I’m cool. Bros before hoes, right?”

  “You don’t need to be like that,” Travis murmured.

  “Yes,” Lyssa spat. “Yes, I do. If you want me to be ‘cool’ with this, then you have to let me process it my own way.” She sniffed again. “I’ll get the fuck over it.”

  She thought about Silas, and the moans and groans she’d uttered into his ear that very afternoon.

  “I’ve got my own shit going on, anyway,” she finally added; grateful for that, at least. “We’re cool, okay?”

  Travis and Nikolai exchanged nervous glances, as if wondering whether to believe her or not.

  �
�Tell you what,” Lyssa added, finally finding the strength to smile. “If you really want me to play it cool – to not blow up your spot when Harpie, or Harley, or whoever the fuck she is comes to town…”

  “Harmony,” Nikolai corrected her. Lyssa ignored him.

  “…you treat me right in return. Next time I need a couch to crash on in Vegas?”

  “You’ve got ours,” Travis nodded. “That’s a fair trade.”

  “Good,” Lyssa sniffed. She drained her second margarita. “Now let me be. Silas and Rashaan are about to come out; and in case you’d forgotten, I came here to be a journalist.”

  Leaving the two MMA fighters stunned, Lyssa left them and headed towards the front of the room – hoping covering the press conference would distract her from the feelings swirling around inside her stomach.

  Chapter One Hundred and Fourteen

  Lyssa

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” announced Jack Ranger, the head of marketing for the MMA League, “please give it up for Silas ‘El Torro’ Batras, and Rashaan ‘Hungry’ Jackson.”

  The crowd of reporters and journalists broke into applause as Silas and Rashaan appeared from behind the curtain.

  Lumbering like fearsome apes, the two super-heavyweights approached the tables at the front of the room, and took places at either end – giving each other the stink-eye as they did so.

  Lyssa was sitting on a rickety fold-up chair at the front of the audience; and her eyes widened as she watched the two fighters enter.

  All MMA fighters had a presence about them – but when you reached the super-heavyweight tier of competition, it was a different presence entirely – more physical than mental.

  Both Silas and Rashaan towered over everybody else in the room. They were like Batman and Superman; superheroes amongst regular, boring-ass pedestrians.

  Dan Blanc, head of the MMA League, took center stage at the assembled table, and spoke into the microphone.