Trigger: An Alpha Bad Boy MMA Romance

by Simone Scarlet MMA

  I snorted.

  “Well, I’m pleased somebody’s here to take care of Walt,” I growled, hefting the driver’s door open, and clambering behind the wheel of my dad’s old truck. “I’d tell you to take care of yourself while you’re at it, Travis.”

  I shook my head.

  “But why bother? That’s what you’re best at.”

  Travis opened his mouth to speak, and I heard the words: “Wait, it’s not like that….”

  But I cranked the old 305 V8, and the grumble of the big, twin exhausts drowned his excuses out.

  I gave Travis one long, last look, and then knocked the truck into gear.

  The last thing I saw of my ex-boyfriend was his face, shrinking in the rear view mirror.

  Chapter Five

  Travis

  Damn.

  Watching Roxy drive off was like a kick in the guts – and after years spent fighting in the MMA circuit, I sure knew what one of those feels like.

  I thought I’d planned for every eventuality today. Missing my flight. Forgetting my passport. Not having enough cash for a taxi back from the hospital.

  But one thing I hadn’t planned on was seeing her again.

  And even if I had, I damn sure wouldn’t have planned on feeling this way about it.

  Same old Roxy. Those big, blue eyes. Those thick, red lips. That way she had of looking right through you – cuttin’ through the bullshit like a laser.

  In the years I’d been fighting in the MMA League, I’d shared my bed (or my trailer, or the couch) with more than my fair share of female fans, groupies and girlfriends.

  But none of them made me feel like Roxy could.

  And I wasn’t sure whether I loved her, or hated her for that.

  I stood there and watched her old F-150 rumble off down the street, and I figured out what hurt so much.

  It wasn’t seeing Roxy again. Hell, that part was good. Just looking at her felt as refreshing as an ice cold beer after a hard day outside.

  No, it was the look of disappointment in her eyes.

  The way she looked at me like I was nothing.

  That fucking hurt. That hurt more than every hit I’d weathered during my whole fighting career – even the one that had KO’d me in my last fight.

  To have a girl who was once your everything look at you like you’re nothing.

  Damn, son. That stings.

  “Yo, Travis!”

  I didn’t have time to think about it. Pops was calling me from the trailer. I shook my head, and swallowed down thoughts of Roxy, and headed back down the path to the sound of the angry yelling.

  * * *

  “Son, I know this is about to get weird,” Walt shrugged, as I ducked my head and stepped into the old, familiar doublewide. “But I need to take a piss…”

  He sat there at the kitchen alcove, and raised his bandaged hands.

  “…and I’m gonna need your help.”

  I stared at my old man for a second, and wondered if coming home from Brooklyn had been such a smart idea. Helping my old man take a leak was not what I’d envisioned when I’d climbed on board that Delta flight this morning.

  But I did what I had to do – not an easy job, in a trailer bathroom – and a moment later my dad was groaning a sigh of relief as he filled the toilet bowl with a steaming stream.

  “Jesus,” I washed my hands furiously in the little sink, “maybe I shoulda let Roxy stick around and look after you, instead.”

  Walt snorted, as he stomped back into the kitchen and slumped into the breakfast nook again.

  “Yeah, well if you’d done that, my stream might have gone in a different direction, if you know what I mean.”

  I stared at my dad in disbelief.

  “Christ, Pops. That’s my ex-girlfriend you’re talking about there.”

  “Yeah, ex,” Walt nodded. He’d required me to help him take a piss, but was somehow managing to unscrew the top of the bottle of Johnny Walker on the table. “I hope all that ass you were gettin’ in New York was worth it, ‘cos you were a dumbass, lettin’ a girl like Roxy slip through your fingers.”

  I snorted, slipping into the breakfast nook opposite my father.

  “Yeah,” I admitted, as I reached over the grabbed the bottle of whiskey he was struggling with. “Maybe you’re right about that.”

  I took a deep breath.

  “But what she and I had was a long time ago – and unlike your damn hands, there are some things that can’t be mended.”

  As I said that, I popped the top off the Johnny Walker, and reached for the two chipped glasses at the end of the table. I splashed a good two inches of Scotch in each, and pushed one across the Formica table towards my pop.

  Sure enough, the man who didn’t have enough manual dexterity to unzip his pants, somehow managed to scoop up that glass of whiskey in both his bandaged hands.

  “Cheers, son,” he nodded, lifting the glass to his lips. “Whatever the circumstances, it’s good to see you.”

  And I gulped down a mouthful of searing alcohol, and wished I could believe that.

  Chapter Six

  Roxy

  Dammit, why the fuck was I crying?

  As I powered dad’s old truck down the Nolan Ryan Expressway, I found tears welling up in my goddamn eyes. Tears like I hadn’t cried for four goddamn years – not since dad died.

  Fucking Travis.

  I’d never expected seeing him to have this effect on me. It was like a slap to the face – all those memories, happy and sad, rushing back over me like a tidal wave.

  I’d spent four years trying to swallow them the fuck down, and now I felt like I was choking.

  I managed to keep my shit together long enough to reach my destination – and pulled in gratefully to the parking lot of a long, low building with ‘KARATE’ and ‘MARTIAL ARTS’ emblazoned on the side.

  X-AMERICA Martial Arts.

  I coasted into a spot outside, cut the engine of the old truck, and sunk my head into my hands.

  Fuck.

  It took three long, trembling breaths before I had my shit together again. Then I had to wipe my eyes, and check my reflection in the mirror, and convince myself that the moment I stepped out of this truck, it wouldn’t look like I’d been crying.

  And I lied.

  But I shoved open the creaking door of the old Ford anyway, and slipped onto the asphalt. A moment later I was shoving open the glass door of the old karate center, and breathing in a lungful of sweat, vinyl and stale air conditioning.

  It smelled like home.

  “Hey, Roxy! You’re back.”

  Mopping the vinyl mats in the big, open studio of the gym was Joe Santos, the janitor.

  Joe was a kindly old Native American man – in his seventies, at least, but still able to handle a bo staff as effectively as a mop. He’d been here as long as I had – a fixture of X-AMERICA as much as the peeling grey paint and the old Navy pictures hanging on the walls.

  I sniffed, and wiped my eyes again – hoping Joe didn’t notice how red and puffy they were.

  “You should get your ass home, Joe,” I snapped, as I headed to the reception desk. “You know we don’t have classes tonight.”

  Joe leaned on the mop, his greying braids hanging down around his shoulders.

  “Just because the place is empty doesn’t mean it should be dirty,” he chastised me. “Anyway. I wanted to hear how Walt was.”

  Travis’ dad was well known in X-AMERICA. He and my dad had been old Navy buddies, serving on the U.S.S. America together during the 1980s.

  There weren’t much of the old crew left – the guys my dad used to train in Brazilian Jiujitsu and Taekwondo back when he was still alive – but people still remembered old Walt.

  “He busted up his hands pretty good,” I explained, as I slumped into the creaking chair behind the reception desk, and fired up the old computer. “But Travis is back to look after him.” I sniffed. “Walt’s not my problem anymore.”

  I’d tried to sound n
onchalant about dropping Travis’ name into the conversation, but Joe’s ears pricked up the moment I mentioned him.

  “Travis is back in town?”

  The old Indian limped up to the reception desk and thumped his elbows down on it.

  “Did you see him?” Joe demanded.

  I looked up at Joe’s wrinkled, kindly face.

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” I told him – and I’d known Joe long enough for him to know I meant exactly what I’d just said. I didn’t want to talk about it.

  But still he insisted.

  “How is he? Did he miss you?”

  “I said I don’t want to talk about it,” I growled, and slapped the side of the computer, willing it to boot up faster. “Now grab your shit and go, Joe. Peggy will be wondering where you are.”

  Peggy was Joe’s long suffering wife – and even she was getting tired of him spending more time at the karate center than their bungalow on the north side of town.

  “Fine, fine,” Joe reluctantly leaned the mop up against the wall, and pushed the bucket to the side. “But don’t stay too late, Ohpitsa. You’re too young and pretty to need beauty sleep. Yet. But you should still stock up on it while you can.”

  I snorted at that, and grinned at the old man as he pulled on his leather jacket and headed to the door.

  Joe gave me a wink as he left – and a moment later I heard his truck grumble into life, and I was finally left alone.

  The computer had booted up by then, too – and it allowed me to check what I’d wanted to look at.

  The books.

  And I didn’t like what I saw.

  Doing the books is something I’d been putting off for weeks now. It’s like that old saying – “when you’re too scared to look at your bank balance, you know it’s time to look at your bank balance.”

  The books at X-AMERICA where kind of like that.

  Membership was down. Classes were cancelled. Rent was due.

  I looked at the number in red at the bottom of the ledger sheet and my stomach did a flip. A few more months like this, and my dad’s old karate school would be out of business.

  I couldn’t believe it.

  The chair creaked as I leaned back in it, and I turned to look around the old place.

  The faded vinyl mats. The battleship grey walls. The punching bags and kicking stands, all lined up opposite the windows.

  This place had been home to me as long as I could remember – more so even than the little house I’d grown up in, up north of town.

  I’d come in the morning, with dad, and waited for the school bus here. I’d sat at this very desk to do my homework every night, as dad taught a kickboxing class, or self-defense. In fact, if you added up all the time I’d spent in this place growing up, it’d easily be more than I’d spent back at home.

  And that was before dad had died, and this place had become my home.

  I’d been struggling to keep the school running for the last four years, all on my own. It was all I had left of dad. All I had going for me in life.

  And now it looked like I was two months away from losing even that.

  I sighed, and switched off the computer. Staring at the little red numbers on the screen wasn’t going to change them. All I could do was stick at it – and pray that I could figure something out to change the inevitable.

  I thought for a minute about Travis – who was as much a memory of this place as even the time I’d spent here with dad.

  Maybe he hadn’t been so dumb, bailing on this place. Walking out on me and pops, all those years ago. Maybe he’d seen the writing on the wall all the way back then.

  I shook my head.

  Maybe. But that still didn’t make what he’d done easier to swallow.

  Pushing up from the chair, I grabbed my bag from the edge of the desk and headed for the door. I’d have to be back here at 6am tomorrow – but I might as well head back home and catch some sleep while I still could.

  I headed for the door – feeling empty as I turned the key in the lock, and left the place alone, and in darkness.

  Chapter Seven

  Travis

  The chirping of the birds outside woke me up.

  I groaned, and shifted my weight on the narrow couch – feeling every tendon in my neck and shoulders crack like guitar strings.

  As I struggled to sit up, I realized out of all the things I hadn’t missed about this old place, the couch was definitely top of the list.

  This little doublewide in Handy Villas Trailer Park was the only home I’d known growing up, and this couch in the living room had been my bed for the first twenty years of my life.

  That hadn’t been ideal, since I’d topped six feet before my sixteenth birthday, and the damned couch just seemed to get smaller and smaller every day that followed.

  I yawned, running my hands through my hair. My mouth was dry, and still tasted of last night’s whiskey. I’d stayed up with pop until late in the night, sipping the old Johnny Walker and talking about nothing until the moon was high in the sky; and I think both of us were going to be feeling the effects of that this morning.

  I glanced at the old clock on the wall, and saw that it was a little past six in the morning. I was still on New York time, so that made sense. This was when I’d normally be dragging my ass out of bed to head to the gym in Brighton Beach – pounding on my buddy Nikolai’s door as I stumbled down the hallway.

  Of course, there wasn’t any gym down here in Freeport. Not one that I was welcome at any more, anyway. But I knew I needed to get the blood pumping, just to get rid of the taste of whiskey from my mouth, so I hauled my ass off the couch and reached for my suitcase.

  Sneakers. Shorts. My old Exporters t-shirt – with the B-port high school logo on the front. I pulled those on and staggered out of the trailer, and a moment later I was loping down the road like a racehorse trying to find its stride.

  Don’t get me wrong – Handy Villas Trailer Park is never going to find its way into Homes & Garden magazine. But as I started jogging that morning, I couldn’t help but admire the rugged beauty of the place.

  This old trailer park was located a half mile from Bryan Beach Park, and all that separated it from the churning Gulf of Mexico was a stretch of reeds and swampland.

  As early as it was, the birds were out in deafening chorus that morning, and the cicadas had already started strumming. The sun was bright in the sky, but it was still too early for that oppressive Texas heat and humidity to come rolling in yet.

  It was perfect weather to run in – and I got up to a good pace as I jogged a lazy mile around the trailer park, and then hit Country Road 750 for a spell.

  By the time I came loping back to dad’s doublewide, my heart was thumping, my skin was clammy with sweat and the taste of Johnny Walker in my mouth was nothing but a memory.

  The old trailer rocked as I hauled myself inside, and I peeled my t-shirt and shorts off for a quick shower. Then I pulled on my Levis, and wrenched open the fridge door to find some breakfast.

  No luck.

  All my dad had in there was a six pack of Schlitz, a stick of butter and a single, limp stalk of celery.

  No wonder he was still a rangy son of a bitch.

  I slammed shut the fridge door and scanned the kitchen. Hanging up by the door was what I was looking for – the keys to dad’s truck. There was a grocery store up on Pine Street, and I still had enough cash in my wallet to fill up a brown paper bag or too.

  A moment later I’d pulled on my cowboy boots and a fresh t-shirt, and I was back out in the sun again – walking around to the side of the trailer, where dad’s old truck was parked.

  His 1984 Chevy S-10 was just where he always left it – the paint fading and the chrome peeling, but still a good looking truck after all these years. I climbed behind the wheel, gunned the old V6, and a moment later I was rumbling down the highway feeling like a teenager again.

  Freeport Grocery was a mile or so away – a tiny convenience store no bigger
than a Brooklyn bodega. It had what I needed, though – coffee, milk, eggs and bacon. I picked up a newspaper too, and a pack of Big Red chewing gum as I was standing at the register.

  That last one had been an instinctual purchase. Back when I was a kid, I’d always pick up a pack when I was at the store, because I knew Roxy loved the stuff. The rubbery smell of cinnamon was enough to make me think of her instantly, and I kind of felt naked being back in Freeport without a pack in my pocket.

  Ten minutes later, I was back at Handy Villas, and lighting up the stove. Coffee was bubbling, and the smell of sizzling bacon filled the trailer.

  That was enough to wake dad.

  The door the bedroom rattled, and my old man staggered out, rubbing his eyes with his bandaged hands.

  “Good Lord, son,” he growled, looking at me standing at the stove with a frying pan. “Where’d you get all that?”

  I spooned scrambled eggs and bacon onto a plate, and put it on the table at the breakfast nook.

  “I went out shoppin’,” I explained. “You didn’t have a damn thing in the fridge.”

  “Yeah, well, I need to get to the grocery store,” Dad grumbled, as he slid onto the bench and stared hungrily at the plate of food sitting in front of him. “Now, you gonna help me eat this, or what?”

  It felt weird, sliding into the booth opposite my father, and cutting up his food with a knife and fork. Like we’d switched roles, or something. As I stabbed a lump of eggs and a swathe of bacon, and lifted them to his mouth, I felt like I was feeding a baby or something.

  Foulest-mouthed, worst-smelling baby I’d ever met, but still.

  “Son, you didn’t need to do that,” Dad nodded at the grocery bags on the counter, as he chewed. “I’d have gone shopping eventually.” He snorted. “I just hadn’t been expecting company, is all.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  “What’s your typical breakfast, then? A Schlitz smoothie and a stick of celery?”

  He snorted.