Cruz (Diablo's Throne MMA)

by H. J. Bellus

  Love,

  Papi

  My face is soaked, vision blurring to the point I can’t decipher one more single word on the page. I lean back on the headboard trying to dry the tears with the backs of my hands. The love emanating from one single page knows no bounds. It’s powerful and heart-wrenching all at the same time. Cruz never had a mother to hate like me. He only had this one man who dedicated his life to his child just like my father. They loved fighting, but the bond of being single dads had to have brought them even closer.

  “Hey now.” I hear the clatter of Cruz’s plate being set down. “None of this bullshit or I’m putting this back.”

  “No!” I clutch the notebook to my chest.

  The pads of his fingers catch my tears, trying to dry my face. “I don’t like to see you cry.”

  “They are happy tears, baby. Your dad…I have no words.” I climb into Cruz’s lap, keeping the notebook safe with me.

  He leans down, kissing my exposed shoulder. Shivers and chills race up and down my spine.

  “These shirts are sexy as fuck on you.” He runs his tongue down the slope of my exposed skin this time.

  This makes me chuckle. It’s a slouchy sweatshirt. Nothing special. It hasn’t gone unnoticed on my end that it drives him crazy as hell. I melt back into his embrace, flipping through pages. Some are filled with pictures accompanied by captions in Cruz’s dad’s chicken scratch. Then there are other pages filled with drawings.

  “He had amazing talent.” I turn my head enough to press a light kiss on Cruz’s bicep.

  “Yeah, he was one of those guys who could do everything. Natural talent like no other,” he whispers into my hair.

  “Could’ve guessed that. You are so much like him.” I flip the page and gasp out loud, spinning in his arms. “Holy shit!”

  Cruz scares, knocking his head on the headboard. He moans in pain, rubbing the spot with a hand. “What in the hell?”

  “Look.” I point to the black and white picture. It’s a bit blurry but clear as day.

  “I am.” He squints, not picking up on what I am.

  “That’s us,” I whisper. “And my abuela with both of our fathers.”

  Cruz takes the book from me, bringing it close to his face. “Holy shit.”

  I see it the moment he puts the puzzle pieces together, his eyes lighting up and jaw going slack.

  “That was the second time your dad took the title from my dad.” Cruz runs his finger over the picture. “He always said there wasn’t a better man. And your abuela, I remember her giving me candy that day. I was so tired and ready to go home. How in the hell haven’t we put the pieces together?”

  “I don’t know.” I stare at the picture. My dad holding me in his arms, Abuela with her arm looped in his on the other side, and Cruz in his own dad’s arms. Smiles all around. “I never watched the fights and was behind the scenes pretty much.”

  Cruz peers up to me. “It was like it was meant to be, you know?”

  No truer words have ever been spoken. The notebook is placed on the nightstand. Cruz rolls us over caging me under him, and makes love to me like he was destined to.

  Chapter 18

  Layla

  “Wake up, baby.” Lips press into my forehead. “We are home.”

  I try sitting up, still clinging to sleep and miserably failing. Dad insisted on driving home from Boise so his fighters would be at the gym to train the next day. Another match down and more victories to stack up. Only two more fights until Vegas. The chatter still magnetized to Ash and Cruz matched up in Vegas for the heavyweights.

  “Here, I’ll wake her up,” Jag’s voice rings throughout the SUV.

  I open my eyes in time to see him hop from the back seat and begin to pull down the front of his gym pants. The neon teal Diablo’s Throne logo based on Cruz’s dad’s drawing flashes before my eyes.

  “Wakey, wakey, Jaggy is gonna teabag you,” he sings out.

  “Motherfuck-” Cruz doesn’t finish the insult before he thumps Jag in the chest, knocking him back on his ass.

  “Corndog, mofo,” I chime, when he lands on my tennis shoes.

  “Jesus Christ, you two still act like you’re seven.” Dad slams his fist in the middle console. “Get your asses out of my car.”

  “You can’t even rhyme, you dumbass.” I kick my legs out from underneath Jag.

  The back door opens. Jag tumbles out in a whirlwind of oomphs and uumphs. I’m wide awake now, bursting out in laughter. I lean up and peer over to where there’s enough streetlight to see Jag standing up and dusting his ass off.

  “Watch it. You’re talking to an undefeated fighter who’s about to get his cock on.” Jag starts to juke around, punching at the air.

  “Jesus, does he ever run out of energy?” Cruz mumbles into my shoulder.

  I shake my head. “Unfortunately not.”

  Jag gives us a final wave before grabbing his bag and jogging off. I do not doubt that he has a lineup of women waiting for him. He’s the biggest manwhore I know. Some would say it’s a fighter thing after big matches, which does hold merit, but in his case, it’s straight whore-ness.

  I cringe, creeping out of the SUV recalling the fierce, all-raw sex in the locker room. It’s the same after every single fight. I’d be a liar if I didn’t say it was my favorite part of the matches.

  Cruz packs all our bags up to his studio apartment after I kiss my papi goodbye. We’ve been staying at his place the last few weeks. You know, privacy and all. The way we go at it, I’m sure Papi appreciates it. I barely make it to the bed before I’m halfway back to sleep even after Jag’s antics.

  Cruz tosses his phone on the bed and heads for the bathroom. I hear the shower fire up as my eyelids grow heavier. Screw a damn shower tonight, even if the sexiest fighter in the world is naked in it. Keeping up with these men has started to take a toll on me. Nursing has nothing on this.

  Cruz’s phone vibrates followed by a piercing ding. It does the trick, waking me fully.

  “Jesus, Jag is probably already in trouble,” I mumble to myself picking up the phone.

  Freezing ice-cold water flows through my veins when the text appears on the home screen.

  Kip: She misses you. Don’t feel bad reaching out. It will take time.

  I drop it as if it’s a burning red coal, scooting back on the bed. Panic strikes my core. All of my fears tumble through me in one violent swoop. The secret phone calls. The days he disappears. I knew there was a she. The shower turns off. I jump into action, struggling to get my shoes on then glance around the room for my phone. I toss blankets off the bed, hoodies from the chair near his bed, and still nothing.

  Fuck my phone.

  “You okay?”

  I glance up at Cruz drying his hair with a towel. He stands completely naked before me. How ironic with so many hidden truths behind us. I step backward tripping over my own feet and landing on my ass. I do my best to scatter back in a crab walk.

  “Layla, what the hell?” Cruz steps to me pulling me up to him. “You are scaring the shit out of me.”

  I push back on his chest. He doesn’t budge. His phone chirps once more. He glances over to it then back to me. He doesn’t have to ask another question.

  “I, uh—thought it was Jag. I went to reply but didn’t have to. The text message popped up on your screen.” My lower lip trembles as each word falls from my mouth.

  “Layla,” Cruz pleads, dropping his forehead to mine, “it’s not what you think.”

  “Famous last line,” I mumble and shove off his chest. This time he lets me back up.

  “Fuck! Are you going to listen to me or assume the worst and run?”

  I don’t answer him, turning and walking out of his small bedroom. Once my hand covers the doorknob, I hear his fist slam into the wall. My heart cracks, but I need space right now.

  When I fly into Dad’s apartment, I’m stunned once again. I see sprays of blonde and him covering a woman. Their moans and movement die off once they se
e me.

  “Really, Dad?” I shake my head and slam the door, jogging back down the stairs.

  “Layla, will you fucking listen to me, then run?” Cruz steps up to me.

  He managed to get a pair of workout pants on before coming after me. I don’t respond, resigned and over tonight. I’m done. He takes it as his cue to speak.

  “She’s a part of my past I never knew about, and I’m trying to build a relationship with her.” He tucks his hands in his pocket, bowing his head.

  “That’s all I need to hear. She!” I’m screaming at this point, losing shreds of control.

  “Yes, she,” he counters right back. “It’s not what you think.”

  “Don’t fucking tell me what to think! You have another woman in your life and you kept it from me even when I asked several times. You treated me like a crazy stalker.”

  “She’s my sister,” he roars. “The secret my dad kept from me and the one I found out when he died. My birth mom had another child and Dad didn’t want me near them. She’s married to a pompous asshole in Congress. The more I investigated, the more shit I found out. Chloe’s been through hell and back and now we are struggling to connect with her.”

  I don’t say a word. I don’t need to. He kept this from me. And that’s the problem. My temper gets the best of me. I can’t think straight.

  “Good luck with that.” I turn and walk away from Cruz.

  He doesn’t try to stop me and that hurts more than any secret he could’ve kept from me. I understand this is hard for him to deal with, but if he can’t share this with me, then what else is he hiding? That’s where the real issue lies.

  I get in my car and find the cheapest local hotel around.

  Chapter 19

  Cruz

  Fucking great. I throttle the bag in front of me. My damn luck. Another brutal punch makes my unwrapped knuckles ache. She wouldn’t listen. I had to beg her, and when I got the words out, she still turned her back and walked away.

  It’s been three long and grueling days. I’ve beat up my body every hour since. Boss has been all over my ass for tearing myself to shreds. He swears Layla will come along. He reminded me of her abandonment issues and adjusting to life since Abuela passed. The slight lingering feeling of her never being able to open her mind is too close to reality for me right now.

  I continue slamming the bag until red rivulets of blood stream over all my knuckles. My sweaty back hits the wall. I sink down until my ass hits the cold, cement floor of the gym. I kick my legs out on the mats in front of me and bang my head back on the wall. I’ve done all the screaming and beating my body is capable of.

  I need her. My head is so fucked. Thing is there’s no chance of ever avoiding the torrid storm that is Layla. Before my brain can play any more games on itself my phone chirps. I tilt my head to the side to see the screen. I blink once, twice, and three times to make sure I’m reading the correct name. Layla.

  Layla: Do you have time to talk?

  I pick up the phone, running the pad of my thumb over the screen. The three dots at the bottom bounce up and down, my heart racing right along with them.

  Layla: The diner for coffee and doughnuts?

  She’s serious. My body jolts into action, firing a text right back.

  Me: When? I’ll be there.

  Layla: Twenty minutes.

  Me: Sounds Good.

  I pause from typing, wanting to say so much more but not wanting to scare her off. I type over and over but in the end erase everything but “sounds good.” I’m up on my feet, turning and ready to sprint for the stairs to my studio only to collide into another chest.

  “In a hurry, Tiger?” Jag pats the top of one of my shoulders.

  “She texted me. Wants to meet.” I step back, running a hand through my short hair.

  Jag’s in his typical city clothes, the ones he wears when he’s going out to chase tail. His damn ripped skinny jeans, tight Henley, and slicked up hair are always his go to. And typically in this state, his ass is on fire to get out the door. He shocks me when he steps back and relaxes down on a bench.

  “Take it easy with her, Cruz.” He rests his elbows on top of his thighs. “I know you have the best expectations for her, and I might even go out on a ledge and say you love her. The thing is Layla has only been disappointed and broken by people in her life except for her dad and Abuela. She’s lost one of them. She’s home and confused and fell right into you.”

  I growl, growing frustrated and kick the edge of the mat. “Get on with it, Jag.”

  Hate sugarcoating shit. Jag is running circles right now trying to give me the blow soft. I don’t have fucking time for that shit.

  “Be honest with her. You’ve kept quiet since you’ve been here. Hell, we are a band of brothers who spend nearly twenty hours a day together in this gym, and I still know nothing about you. She deserves to know it all no matter how ugly it is or if it peels open old wounds for you.” He stands, adjusts the crotch of his pants, and nods to me.

  I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. I watch as Jag saunters away as if he didn’t just lay it out straight to me. Instead of the rampage of fear and anxiety coursing through me, there’s light. A big, shiny, bright bastard of a beacon of common sense.

  I’ve been flying solo getting by in life since Dad’s death. Hell, managed to make it here and get back in the ring tearing shit up. The one thing missing, and the most important part, was someone to slap me upside the head to tell me how big of a dumbass I was being. I had no one to do that—not until a few moments ago.

  Over the course of the last three days, I realized how big of a mistake I made keeping my past in the past. Hell, it was apparent right off the bat Layla had issues with her mom abandoning her, coupled with her concerns over her dad’s health, not to mention the grieving process she’s cycling through right now. Her fuckwit of an ex throwing shit in her face. Then me, the guy who wants her, loves her, and held her smacks her in the goddamn face with a hidden fact.

  I race up the stairs to my studio apartment, not waiting for the shower water to warm up before jumping in. The vision of Layla sitting in a booth clutching her coffee mug, worrying her lower lip, nervous I won’t show is a sight I never want to happen.

  I’m out of the shower before the water ever has a chance to heat, drying off with a few swipes of the towel and racing around the room, tugging on black workout pants and finally pulling on a gym shirt. I smooth my palm over the logo, knowing the two most important people in my world who never had the chance to meet created this logo. It’s powerful shit grounding me. I have no doubt any more that I’m right where I belong. I’ve beat up myself over and over about it, but tonight as I jog down the steps there’s no doubt.

  I swing open the diner door. The bell overhead sings out as I enter. The place is deserted which makes me relax a bit. I’m pulling out all the stops, so nothing remains between Layla and me. It will just be us. It may get loud and not having a crowd is a bonus. I’m sure the safe Layla will want to take this slow and dissect the fuck out of it. She won’t be walking away from me tonight.

  I order water for myself and a variety of doughnuts for Layla along with her new favorite coffee, white chocolate mocha with a splash of peppermint. The bell to the door chimes again once the waitress places the order on the table.

  “Anything else, darlin’?” The waitress who is old enough to be my grandma isn’t shy about her flirting tactics. She places a hand on my shoulder and flutters her eyelashes.

  I clear my throat and point to Layla who is standing off to the side. “I’m good now. My girlfriend is here.”

  Layla’s eyes bulge and her nostrils flare. It’s cute. It really is. She’s still pissed. Her temper is ready to tango. I can take it, and will hopefully be taking her to bed later tonight.

  The waitress saunters off after excessively petting my shoulder and eventually picking up on the clue. Layla plops down on her side of the booth and scoots to the center. Her hair is tied up on the top of
her head with wavy strands framing her face. Just the perfect amount of her shoulder peeks out of her sweatshirt.

  “And fuck me.” It comes out as a growl even though it was only a thought.

  “Excuse me?” Layla leans in, resting her elbows on the top of the table, pushing up her perfect cleavage.

  She’d been waiting forever to get her slouchy sweatshirts with the gym’s logo. It’s all she talked about for a damn week since she placed the order. I wasn’t there to see and experience the pure joy of watching her reaction. She treats every piece of new inventory like it’s a brand new Christmas present.

  I clear my throat, lean forward, and stretch out a hand, rubbing it over her arm. She flinches but doesn’t move. Her skin is dry from where her cast was set. I bite down on the inside of my cheek to stop the profanity dying to fly out. I missed that too.

  “What did you say?” Layla grits out, tugging her arm back to her chest.

  “And fuck me.” I enunciate each word.

  She shakes her head and begins sliding to the edge of the booth. “I knew this was a mistake.”

  I’m faster than her, leaping to my feet and trapping her once she stands up. I move closer until I have the backs of her calves pinned against the booth. I don’t ask; I just move. I wrap my arms low around her waist, pulling her chest into mine. I want more than anything to seal my lips to hers but don’t.

  “It’s your sweatshirt.” I drop my forehead to hers. “It’s sexy as hell on you and caught me off guard. I can tell you’re not ready to do this, but I can’t wait a moment longer. You can run when I let you go if that’s what you want. Either way, you are going to hear me out.”