Dirty Jock

by Sienna Valentine

  Except Kellan. I was pretty sure he wasn’t gay, and he was the hottest guy I’d ever seen. Thom studied me as I reflected on how Kellan and I had run into each other at The Sly Fox, and for a moment, I worried that he could see right through me to all the naughty thoughts swirling around my brain, and I blushed.

  Finally, Thom said, “Okay. Why?”

  “I have this story,” I began. “Or at least, the makings of a story.”

  “The senator thing?” Thom wrinkled his nose. “Not exactly my area of expertise, Parker.”

  “It’s not that,” I said. “At least, not this part of it.” I quickly recounted most of the detail of my meeting with Kellan. Minus some of the more embarrassing, less relevant parts.

  Thom turned his chair all the way toward me. “Hmm, could be some sort of bareknuckle boxer? That’s the kind of shit you hear about in those underground fighting rings.”

  “Underground meaning ‘illegal,’ right?” I asked. It made sense. Kellan had alluded to as much when I’d pressed him about it at the bar. That would totally fit his story.

  Thom rolled his eyes. “Yeah, Parker. Underground as in ‘illegal,’ rather than literally under the earth. Though sometimes if you’ve got a basement big enough…” He shrugged. “Anyway, how does this guy tie in with your story? Sounds more like my territory.”

  “It might be both,” I told him. “This guy was a veteran, having trouble finding work ever since he got back from overseas. That’s my angle with the senator, and this could tie it all together. Assuming it’s what we think it is, but it all fits, right? His knuckles were all banged up and he kept going on about how he was dangerous and the only job for him was one that wasn’t exactly legal. He looked like the MMA-type, too. Grizzled, lots of muscles.”

  Thom sat forward, a brow raised. “Lots of muscles, huh?”

  It was my turn to roll my eyes. “Give it up, Thom. He’s straight. Besides, aren’t you engaged?” I nodded to the simple band on his finger.

  “That doesn’t stop me from looking,” Thom replied with a grin. “But yeah, could be your guy is part of some glorified Fight Club, especially if he’s looking to make a buck. Those pay out pretty good. Or they do, if you have the right manager. A lot of the guys in charge skim a hefty fee off the top, whether their fighters know it or not. It’s a corrupt business—happens, when you don’t have any regulations to worry about.”

  “They fleece their fighters? Isn’t that dangerous?”

  Thom shrugged. “Only if they get caught. Besides, most of these guys are desperate. They’re one accident or act of God away from living on the streets. And if they’ve come out of the military, they’re used to following orders. When you’ve got someone in charge telling you that you need them, who is seemingly taking a chance on you, doing what no one else would, that tends to breed loyalty, however inappropriate.”

  I wondered if that was the situation Kellan was in. He didn’t seem like the kind of guy who’d let anybody get one over on him, but if he didn’t know it was happening…

  “How many of them are veterans, do you think?” I asked Thom.

  He considered for a moment. “Probably more than few,” he came up with at last. “So, your angle is that Senator MacFarlane’s failure to support this bill has doomed these veterans to putting their lives on the line again?”

  I nodded emphatically. “That’s exactly it. And if I can get this guy to talk, I can put a real face to the problem.” A real handsome face, I added inwardly, though I was betting Thom had picked up on that already.

  “This could be good for both of us,” he mused. Then he grinned. “All right, Parker. I’m in. As long as you understand I’m getting a slice of the pie, too. From a sports angle, anyway.”

  “Not my department, not my problem,” I said, holding out my hand for us to shake on it.

  Thom clasped my palm tightly, then stood up and grabbed his blazer from the back of his chair. “I’ll tell Melanie we’re taking off early,” he told me. “We’ll need to gather some intel before we can find your guy.” He eyed me. “You might want to change. If we’re headed into the belly of the beast, you’ll be much safer if you don’t stand out.”

  Thom was right. In my work attire, I would look suspicious as hell. But what was I supposed to wear? It wasn’t as if my closet was teeming with halter tops and leather pants.

  Something low-cut, I thought as Thom walked down the hall to Melanie’s office. Kellan likes that kind of thing. I think.

  There was only one way to know for sure. And in just a few hours, I was going to find out.

  Chapter 5

  Kellan

  “You got this, Killer. Make it happen. I don’t have to tell you there’s a lot at stake.”

  I glanced at Vic as I finished taping up my hands. They’d taken a real beating lately, and I probably shouldn’t have agreed to another fight so soon after my last bout, but I had a lot on my mind lately, and planting my fist in some sucker’s face was a great way to forget about it all.

  Ever since I’d met that woman at The Sly Fox, I hadn’t been able to get her out of my head. Parker Jones, the goody-two-shoes with her pretty blonde hair and soft, full lips. The sweetness of her breath haunted my dreams, and every time I closed my eyes, I saw those perfect tits of hers gleaming in the dim light of the bar. Fuck, my cock ached just thinking about it. I ground my teeth. I didn’t need to get hard—not now.

  It was no use. Thinking of Parker got me hard every single time. Vic must’ve noticed, because he chuckled and shook his bald head at me. “Get your head in the game, Killer. You can get your dick wet after you’ve won.”

  I grunted and adjusted myself on the bench. He was right, obviously, but that was easier said than done. I hadn’t so much as jerked off since I heard I’d be going up against Herman “The Herminator” Gomez. It was a stupid-ass name, but the guy was a beast. He’d been undefeated in his weight class so far, but then again, he’d never come up against me.

  Still, it was bad luck to fuck before a fight. So I’d kept my hands to myself. And if everything went the way I planned, I’d see Jasmine or some other ring chick in the winner’s room tonight. I could quench my thirst then.

  It wouldn’t be as good as banging Parker, but I could use my imagination.

  Fuck, what was wrong with me? I’d known that girl hardly two minutes, and I was obsessing over her. We were no good for each other—I was definitely no good for her. Maybe that last fucker I’d KO’d had hit me harder than I thought. Maybe I should’ve seen a doctor.

  Vic sat down next to me. “What’s goin’ on with you, huh? You got girl trouble?”

  “Not exactly,” I muttered. Vic was an all right guy. He’d practically saved me from the streets after my last bouncer gig fell through, and he’d never asked for much in return. But I wasn’t the confiding type, and talking to anyone, even him, was hard. “It’s not important.”

  “It is if it makes you lose,” Vic replied, but I shook my head at him.

  “I’m good, Vic. Promise.” I stood up, planting my fist into my palm. “I just need to get in a good hit or two, and I’ll forget all about it. Trust me, you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

  “That’s my boy,” Vic said, standing up beside me and clapping me on the back. He only came up to my chin and I winced as the blow jarred one of my kidneys. I’d taken more than a few shots to my flanks during my last fight, and I was still recovering. “You get out there and show this dumbass ‘Herminator’ he’s not the big-shot he thinks he is, huh?”

  “Will do,” I said, once again adjusting my shorts. I couldn’t walk out there with a semi. At least thinking of that dick bag’s face was enough to cool the blood rushing downtown. “Hear there’s a nice purse on this one.”

  “It’s damn good money, Killer. Damn good,” Vic affirmed as he walked me to the door. “And hey, I hear Jasmine’s back in the ring tonight. You must’ve done a number on her. She picked up this shift just for you. Lucky bastard.”

  Y
eah. Lucky. I could have whatever girl I wanted—or at least, whichever one had signed up for this kind of party tonight. Any girl except Parker Jones, the one who got my dick hard like nobody else. I ignored the smarting in my balls and took a deep breath as I let Vic drape my hood and robe over me.

  The crowd was thick tonight. That was no surprise. The Herminator was an underground celebrity, and I was coming into my own right along with him. We were both undefeated, but Herman had been at this a lot longer than me. My guess was that the smart money was on him, which meant I was going to disappoint a lot of people tonight, because I had no intention of breaking my winning streak.

  I’d been doing this for months, and still the short walk out to the ring made my insides twist. Hearing my name and Herman’s chanted among a cacophony of whistles and unintelligible shouts made my pulse pound in my ears. It was all so deafening, and not at all unlike the chaos of a battlefield.

  I swallowed thickly and tried not to let my nerves get to me. I was a weapon. A machine. This was what I was born and bred for. What I was meant to do.

  I stepped into the makeshift ring and tossed my robe aside in Vic’s general direction. I flexed, refusing to wince as my bruised ribs protested the movement. I was still sporting my last fight’s injuries whereas Herman, across from me, looked like he hadn’t seen a fight in weeks. I wasn’t sure who had the advantage there: him, obviously well-rested, or me, more freshly experienced.

  “Good luck,” Jasmine said. She was on my left, leaning over the ropes of the raised ring. She blew me a kiss. She had way too much eye makeup on tonight. “See you in the winner’s room, Killer.”

  I gave her a noncommittal shrug in return, and that seemed to only make her panties wetter. I shook my head. I’d never understand chicks like that. Not ever.

  There wasn’t a whole lot of fanfare in underground fighting, not like you see on pay-per-view boxing matches or in legit MMA. There’s no announcer to get the crowd going, no pomp and circumstance, no profiles of each of the fighters. That shit all gets hashed out while people are still placing their bets, and since this shit is illegal, time is usually of the essence. No sense wasting precious minutes blabbing when the crowd could be getting what they came for, not to mention we were less likely to get busted if we didn’t hang around all goddamn night drawing attention to ourselves.

  So now that I was on the mat, robe off, fists clenched, the fight was about to begin. The Herminator stood up and we both came to the center to quickly bump fists, the ref reminding us of a few ground rules.

  “No eye gouges. No kicks to the balls. And what I say goes. Got it?”

  The Herminator and I both nodded. Easy enough to remember. We’d only heard it about a thousand times.

  The Herminator was a big damn guy up close. I couldn’t believe this fucker and I were in the same weight class. He was taller, with shoulders the size of my head, and a mean look in those black eyes of his, something that seemed not even human. He had a reputation for ruthlessness, even more than I did. I guessed my advantage would be agility. I couldn’t let him get in a hit, otherwise this was gonna be a disaster.

  We backed up a respectable distance and I put my hands up. Don’t let ‘em drop, I reminded myself—elementary shit that was easy to forget when you got tired or were in the moment. You had to protect yourself at all times, ‘cause nobody else would, and you didn’t wanna miss an opportunity for a knockout because you’d let your guard down.

  I heard the bell and let Herman come for me, first, dancing around him on the balls of my feet as we sized each other up. He feinted a right hook and I dodged, which earned me some jeers from the crowd. Fuck those guys. I bet none of them ever took a hit to the jaw like I had. It fucking sucked.

  The Herminator kept his eyes on me, seemingly an endless font of endurance. He was sharp, too, studying my every move, adjusting his tactics and position based on my reactions. I was going to have to stay light on my feet and switch it up if I wanted to make it out of this one with the purse. I kept my breathing even and tried to move a little less. This guy was giving me one hell of a calisthenics workout.

  Herman swung high and I ducked, putting me at the perfect level to shove my fist into his ribs. The crowd roared as I knocked the wind out of his lungs—a damn lucky hit—and came in a second time on the other side while he was stunned. He stumbled back and I kicked his knee hard, dropping him to the mat. A chorus of shrieks met my ears as I dove to pin him, but Herman swung a leg over me and rolled, forcing me onto my back.

  Shit. Shit, shit, shit!

  I raised my arms up over my face and let him whale on me a while. They weren’t easy hits to take, even on my bulky forearms. I still took a few to the head, though they were glancing blows. When Herman reared up for a much harder strike, I flinched out of the way and let his fist hit the mat, throwing him off balance enough for me to bring in a hit to his kidneys.

  Herman hissed and I scrambled out from beneath him, rolling to my feet. I put my hands up again and was glad I did, because this fucker was fast. I just barely blocked a right cross that would’ve dropped me for sure, and if he got me on the ground again, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to get up. He was heavy and a goddamn powerhouse. And he didn’t look like he would tire out anytime soon.

  Just keep moving, I told myself, dodging another swing. I heard the force of it whistle past my ear. Make him work for it. Don’t let him pin you down.

  Herman got in a couple more body blows during the first round. They hurt like hell, especially on my injured ribs, and I was desperately trying not to favor my right side and show him any weakness. The pain was distracting, though, and I knew I was losing steam. Herman, on the other hand, was cool, calm, and collected as ever. He was a machine.

  But goddammit, I was an animal. I could do this. I had to do this. Killer Kellan wasn’t gonna lose to some dipshit with a name as stupid as the Herminator. So when round one ended, I sat down on the stool in the corner of the ring and took a breather, ignoring Vic’s pep talk and focusing instead on what I had to do.

  Focus. Focus. Focus…

  I was staring so intently at my target that I barely even heard the bell. I let myself fall into that trance I used to get into during weapons training. When you fired a gun, you had to let your target consume you. All that existed at that moment was you and them—your weapon was just an extension of your willingness to maim, to kill.

  I let my fists be that desire now, and when I leapt full-force at Herman fucking Gomez, that monster’s blank slate of a face actually looked surprised.

  I wasn’t fucking around anymore. I had to drop this bastard, and soon, or I was going to get dropped. I came at his face, at his belly, at his legs, never striking at the same place twice. Herman was off his guard and trying to keep up with my lightning-quick precision, and the crowd was loving it. They were screaming their fucking heads off. I went in for the kill.

  Putting everything I had behind it, I slammed my knuckles straight into the underside of The Herminator’s jaw. His knees buckled and he went down hard, head bouncing off the mat. I surged down to pin him.

  I straddled his hips so tight there was no way he was getting his legs over me and started the ground-and-pound, giving him no quarter. A few blows connected and blood sprayed over my mouth. I tasted it and felt that rush of joy, like I used to feel back in the days of my drug binges. I was alive. I was fulfilling my purpose. I was downright murderous.

  Herman Gomez was lolling. His defenses were getting weaker and weaker. He dropped his arms and I pulled back to smash his face as the crowd around me roared, like they weren’t even people anymore, but some dark creature undulating and slithering out past the edge of the mat. I lifted my head for just a second to look at them, like a gladiator asking permission to deliver the final blow. I was met with shrill cheers and the sound of my name—not my real one, but the one that they called me, the name they gave me like I was the bogeyman that haunted their dreams.

  Killer! Killer! Killer! Ki
ller! Killer! Killer…!

  I prepared to bring my fist down right into the center of Herman’s face.

  But then I saw her, and all reason left me. There, in the crowd, was Parker Jones, clinging to some guy’s arm as she watched me with wide, unblinking eyes. I’d know those baby blues anywhere. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t seen her before. She didn’t fit in here; it was like watching an angel from on high wallow in filth.

  And suddenly, that name wasn’t encouragement anymore. It was an accusation; a portrait of who and what I was. It was an insult, spat from the mouths of every person I’d ever hurt, ever shot out there in the desert. I saw their faces now, shadows lurking at the edges of Parker’s radiant glow.

  Killer! Killer! Killer! Killer!

  My stomach turned. I put my fist down.