Don’t You Dare: A Bad Boy MMA Fighter Romance

by Claire St. Rose

  “I won’t take long, Baby. I’ll text you when I’m done.”

  She nodded, but her smile was forced as she tucked everything back where it belonged and finger-combed her hair.

  Fuck. She regrets it. Again. He grabbed her wrist and tugged her back to him. Thankfully he met no resistance when he pulled her against him, and her eyes blazed with lust again as he cupped her jaw and brushed his lips over hers. “We’re not done here,” he breathed against her mouth, reaching for her damp panties. “I’ll hold onto to these until later.”

  If her head was telling her no, it was the only part of her sending that signal. She melted against him, exquisite temptation, and they kissed breathlessly as he tucked the delicate fistful of fabric into his pocket. He was still distractingly hard. With a final soft kiss, she left him, passing Dobie in the doorway.

  The older man eyed her appreciatively, leaning to watch her walk out of the garage, and Alejandro had to suppress the violent urges caused by Dobie’s lecherous stare. “She’s mine,” he said, a little too forcefully, when Dobie turned back to him and wiggled his bushy eyebrows.

  “Old lady?” The admiration in his voice was obvious.

  “Not yet.” But she sure as hell should be.

  “Feel like sharing?”

  Just the thought knocked the wind out of him, and he forced himself to sound like he was joking to keep the violent haze at the back of his brain. “Not a chance, you horny bastard. But let me know if you want any pussy, I can find you plenty around here. Lots of beautiful women in Arroyo Flats.” But that one’s off-limits.

  “So I see.” Dobie took the hint and didn’t press further. “Listen, Shakespeare, I’m here because I’m worried about the Berserkerz.”

  “Talk to me.” He pulled two bottles of beer from the fridge and handed one to Dobie.

  “There’s some infighting,” Dobie began, taking a swig of the cold ale. “Normally it wouldn’t be anything to give a shit about, but they’re our link to the DEA. Specifically, Crockett’s our link because his cousin manages to keep the feds off our backs.”

  “So what’s going on with them that affects us?”

  “Their Prez told me he thinks Crockett’s going to split off, form his own club. If he goes, that’s another club after a piece of our pie and we no longer have the benefit of that connection.”

  “If Spidey told you that it must be all but a done deal. Fuck.” He rubbed his head in frustration and paced the floor.

  “Fuck is right. We can’t afford either loss. Any thoughts?”

  “We’ve still got Hennesy in our pocket.” Though the local police had the Padre Knights on their radar—a fact not lost on Alejandro, who knew Dawson money secured police loyalty—the sheriff’s department took another stance. They played both sides of the fence as and when it suited them. Sheriff Hennesy was a local boy with a taste for very young whores, and that knowledge had proved beneficial for the Padre Knights in their dealings with him. Although Alejandro despised that aspect of the business, he also knew it was the cost of keeping things running smoothly. When he thought of the money that flowed back into his community to people like his parents, who’d worked hard all their lives to be crushed under the heels of rich white pricks like Carmac Dawson and Police Chief Terry Anderson, he felt perfectly justified if a few prostitutes were part of that bargain.

  “For now. If ATF shows up, though, we might be fucked.”

  “Are the warehouses ready?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Is Haji ready with those passports?”

  “Yep.”

  “So we’ve got six million dollars of cocaine coming through on six undocumented illegals and now we don't know if we’re safe from the DEA? Jesus...”

  “For now we’re safe, but once Crockett goes…” Dobie threw his hands up.

  “Fuck. Nothing can happen to Crockett, you hear me? Maybe we can work something out. I’d hate to split our take three ways, but if it’s gotta be done…” He took a swallow of beer, swore, and took another swallow. Fuck. What a mess.

  Dobie nodded.

  “Thanks for telling me. When do we have to meet Haji tomorrow?”

  “Four o’clock. The other guys already know. We’ll meet at Turk’s house and go from there.”

  “This handoff tomorrow has to be perfect. You hear me?” He pointed the bottle at Dobie. “Flawless. Make it happen.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  When Alejandro and the others pulled up at the old industrial park it was far too quiet. The rumble of the bikes hadn’t so much as disturbed a pigeon. He gestured to the others to kill their engines and huddle.

  “Something’s not right.” The hairs rose on the back of his neck, but he kept his voice calm. “I can feel it.”

  Pitbull nodded. “Shakespeare’s right. It’s never this dead around here. I got a bad feeling.”

  Fuck. He texted Prez. Truck on its way? Pitbull already had his hand on his gun. They exchanged glances. “I’m holding the truck.”

  Affirmative, came the immediate buzz from Prez.

  “You think he bailed on us?” Crapper asked.

  Alejandro’s fingers flew over the keys. Pause it. Trouble. I’ll call in a few.

  Pitbull’s voice was quiet. “I think there’s someone else here,” he murmured.

  The six men spread across the drive in formation and headed toward the self-storage units, weapons drawn. They were halfway there when gunshots sprayed the gravel in front of them.

  “Motherfucker!” Popeye cursed, turning and firing a series of shots in the direction of the open fire. Alejandro watched as Motormouth staggered, seizing his side. He raced to the older man’s side and dragged him as best as he could manage around the corner of the building. One by one the others followed.

  “What the fuck was that?” Pitbull panted. “Who knew about this besides us and Haji?”

  “No fucking idea.” Alejandro swore as he looked at the bullet hole in Motormouth’s vest and the blood that seeped from between the man’s shaking fingers. “Must have something to do with the coyotes. Maybe Border Patrol followed them out here.”

  Popeye peered tentatively around the corner and quickly ducked his head back. “Fuck. They’re out there,” he whispered. “Three giant motherfuckers packing plenty of heat. Not Border Patrol.”

  “What are they doing?” Alejandro asked. They didn’t have much time before they Motormouth had lost enough blood that they’d have to get him to the hospital. Fuck, fuck, fuck. It was supposed to be an easy handoff. He peered around the corner himself and saw the men in question. He didn’t recognize a single face, and Popeye was right. All three men were far more heavily armed than the six of his crew put together. Suddenly he wished he hadn’t canceled the truck.

  Just then a fourth man appeared, with two men tied together and stumbling as he dragged them down the driveway. His voice rang out in their direction. “I found some rodents in this place,” he called in a thick Eastern European accent Alejandro couldn’t quite place. “Some rats. Or perhaps little mice.” He paused and lit a cigarette.

  Shit. The prisoners were clearly two of the men they were supposed to be transporting to Dallas. He heard the soft pleas from one and said a silent prayer that the others were still alive. Where the fuck were the coyotes?

  “I wonder what price is for little mice?” the man wondered aloud.

  Alejandro realized it was time to make his move. “Cover me,” he whispered to Popeye and then ran behind the next bank of storage units, popping out of the next aisle with his hands raised.

  “You started the party without us,” he called to the men, swaggering toward them. “Those are my mice you have there. What happened to the men who brought them?”

  The tallest of the men, a giant with a sloping forehead and exaggerated iron jaw, raised his weapon. The blond man next to him spoke softly and the giant lowered it, but only halfway.

  The other man forced the illegals to their knees and put a gun to the closest temple. “
They didn’t want to talk,” he said. “We made sure they won't have to talk anymore.”

  Alejandro swallowed hard. If that was true, they had just lost their most valuable coyotes. Shit. He tried not to think about Oscar, who had showed Alejandro a picture of his newborn son when they’d had the last handoff. He tried not to think of Oscar’s wife, at home and waiting for her husband to return, unable to go to the police to report him missing.

  “What do you want?” Although he knew already what they wanted. What they already had, unless the Padre Knights were somehow able to wrestle it back from them. He racked his brain for who might have known about the cocaine. Who might have known about today’s meeting. There was no one. No one who knew, and so it could be anyone, which was an even scarier thought. His mind raced with the domino effect this fuckup would have. The people who wouldn’t be paid, the fragile alliances that might be broken. He had to get the drugs, and it meant all four men would have to die but not before he found out where the hell they came from.

  The man threatening the illegals smiled. “You’re the one they call Shakespeare,” he observed. “I have heard of you. A smart man, they say. So, smart man. I think you know.”

  “That’s our cash,” Alejandro said. “This is our territory. You want your share? Pick a spot on the border, any spot, and get your own.”

  “I pick this one,” the man said smoothly.

  “This ain't the border, pendejo.” Alejandro replied. He reached for his gun just a fraction of a second before the other man swung the muzzle of his from the captive's temple. Alejandro’s bullet hit its mark. The man howled in pain as his fingers exploded in a spray of blood and his gun flew against the metal door of one of the units.

  Alejandro was on him fast. His brothers poured out from between the storage units and opened fire on the other men as he twisted the bleeding man’s good arm up so high between his shoulder blades that the man shrieked in pain. On their knees, the two prisoners murmured what Alejandro knew to be a prayer, even though it wasn’t in his language or to his god. He stepped in front of them and shielded himself with the cursing man in his grip.

  He had ever been so grateful in his life to see the bakery truck roar through the gates from nowhere, sending the surprised enemies against the storage units and straight into the arms of his brothers. From behind the wheel, Benny grinned as he spun in the gravel and skidded just a few feet from where Alejandro held the man fast. He hopped out of the truck and had the man trussed with rope and duct tape before Alejandro could issue any directions.

  “His eyes, too,” he ordered, wincing as he released the man. Somewhere in the fracas, he’d been hit. His bicep screamed as he flexed it, but he realized with relief that the bullet hadn’t hit the bone.

  He heard shouting from behind the truck and raced in that direction only to be clotheslined by one of the giants. Popeye shouted, “He’s unarmed!” and Alejandro reached for his blade as the other man straddled his shoulders with his knees. He wasn’t fast enough and the giant tossed his knife away as easily as taking a toy from a small child. He grinned at Alejandro’s discomfort as he pressed harder with his knees. Alejandro stifled a roar of pain as his shoulder bit into the rocks beneath him. The gunshot wound in his arm throbbed mercilessly.

  “I’ll kill you, you motherfucker,” he swore as the giant rocked on his bad arm. The man made a clucking sound with his tongue before a loud crack exploded near Alejandro’s ear and the giant dropped sideways with a neat hole blooming crimson at the back of his head.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Ali looked out her window when she heard the tires on her gravel. She almost didn’t recognize the pearl-colored Cadillac as it crawled along the driveway until she recognized its driver, hidden behind giant dark glasses. Mama. And beside her sat Ali’s least favorite person, Cecile Dawson.

  The two women got out of the car, mincing across the gravel path as if they were navigating the unpaved streets of a third-world country. Ali sighed and smoothed her hair before opening the back door to greet them. She was glad that she’d swept the back stairs that morning or there would have been no end of drama over the uncleanliness of her entryway.

  “Cecile. Mama.” She nodded at each, mustering a bright smile. “What a surprise.”

  “Ali, honey, you have got to do something about that godforsaken driveway. It’s a menace. No wonder no one wants to buy this place.” Claire glanced around her mother-in-law’s former home and frowned. “Where are the signs? And the lockbox?” She turned back to Ali, her lips pursed. “Didn’t you list with Peggy Swearengen like I told you to?”

  “Well, I did, but the ranch is no longer for sale, Mama.”

  The two women exchanged heavily mascaraed glances.

  “Can I get you both some tea?”

  Cecile grimaced in a way that Ali took as a yes, and Claire nodded curtly, clearly miffed about Peggy Swearengen’s lost listing opportunity.

  Ali handed the two women their glasses and was pouring a drink for herself when her mother started. “Cecile and I decided to pay you a visit because we’re both quite concerned.”

  Ali smiled. Says the mother who barely raised me. “Because I called off the wedding?” she asked innocently.

  “Yes, that and—”

  “Bobby is devastated,” Cecile interrupted. “Do you have any idea what this has done to him? Or how it will look to break off the engagement right before the campaign?”

  “You’re just not acting like yourself, Ali,” Claire chastised. “I’m worried about you. I think perhaps your job is too stressful.” She and Cecile exchanged another glance.

  “Mama, I assure you, I’m feeling just fine. My job is not at all stressful. And Bobby will be fine, too. People love him.”

  “Let’s hope their devotion is a little stronger than yours,” Cecile snapped. “I’m so disappointed in you, Alaine. Never in a million years would I have expected this from you. The stress you’re putting on both families is so unfair. Think of your poor mother.” She patted Claire’s hand sympathetically.

  Ali knew her mother was about as delicate as a barbed wire fence, and Cecile was made of even sturdier stuff. In typical Southern style they tiptoed daintily around the truth: they were pissed off that she’d shamed them in front of their peers by calling off the wedding, which they’d both hoped would be a major social event of the year. When a wedding that size was called off, there was almost always a scandal at the bottom of it. Ali had no doubt it was their reputation, not Bobby’s feelings or her own mental stability, that had driven the two out to her ranch for this intervention.

  “Well,” she said. “I sure do appreciate your concern. Mama, I will happily pay Daddy back for the deposits.”

  Two crimson spots bloomed high on Claire’s cheeks. “Alaine Helene! Don’t be vulgar!”

  She’d done it now, bringing money into it. Both women rose in tandem to their feet, and two sets of pursed lips brushed past her cheek in the chilliest goodbye she’d ever experienced.

  “I’ll call you tomorrow,” Claire hissed, and Ali just smiled back at her. It was liberating to not cower at her mother’s feet for once. She would never make Claire happy by living her own life. There was no point in even trying. Cecile was already halfway to the car. Clearly just being at the ranch was so offensive to her that she couldn’t wait to leave it.

  ***

  Ali’s phone chirped from the kitchen counter half an hour later and she checked to see if it was Alejandro. Cristina’s number appeared on the screen, and after the last few judgmental texts she’d received from Bobby and the surprise visit from the Mothers from Hell, she figured it was more of the same. There had been enough lectures for the day, she decided, and sent it to voicemail, silencing her phone as she did. She changed for her riding lesson and didn’t hear it ring several more times. Eventually she shoved it deep in her handbag and drove into town to meet her student.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Alejandro woke up in the hospital with Pitbull by his si
de looking about as bad as he felt. The other man grimaced at him through a swollen lip, his smile twisted so it looked grotesque beneath the mangled flesh. His knuckles were scraped and he moved like a man of a hundred, not thirty-two.

  “Lucky fucker,” Pitbull croaked hoarsely. “I thought we lost you.” He filled in the blanks for Alejandro: the struggle in the truck that had sent Alejandro tumbling out the back, the one casualty from among the illegals, the four Czechs who were on their way for disposal in an old oil field. “It was the Diablos Verdes,” Pitbull said. “Greedy motherfuckers. They couldn’t leave well enough alone.”

  “How’d they find out?”

  “Haji.” Alejandro’s face must’ve registered the shock he felt, but Pitbull held up his hand. “Not what you think. The DVs worked with him in the past but he cut them off because he wasn’t getting paid. They decided they wanted in on the action again and had the Czechs follow him to the industrial park. The rest was a bonus. Well,” he grimaced. “Almost a bonus.”