“Don’t forget the stick of gum as I’m driving to work,” he joked. “Even after all these years, I’m still finding packets of Big Red secreted ‘round this place like a damned scavenger hunt.”
I shut dad up by shoving another fork full of bacon and eggs into his mouth.
“Listen,” I told him, as he chewed. “You told me you busted your hands when the hood of your truck fell on ‘em.”
Dad paused chewing as I said that, and narrowed his eyes.
“Well, I took the truck for a drive this morning,” I continued, “and the hood’s just fine. Shit, it’s about the only thing on that old beater that still works.”
Swallowing his mouthful, Dad growled: “Did I say my truck? I meant one of the trucks at work.” He shrugged. “It’s not important now, is it?”
I offered him another forkful of food, and watched him silently as he ate it.
My dad knew I wasn’t a damned fool. We both knew full well that there was more to his ‘accident’ than he was telling me. But Walter J. Oates is a stubborn son of a bitch if he’s anything, and I had no doubt he wasn’t going to tell me anything even near the truth until he was good and ready.
“So what are you gonna do?” I asked, as I served him the last fork full of food. “You called work? They know you’re out?”
He lifted his bandaged hands.
“They classified us all as ‘contractors’ last year,” he growled. “That means no workers comp or disability.” He shrugged. “Guess I’m just going to have to keep my expenses lean for a couple of weeks, until I’m ready to go back.”
Dad worked at an oil refinery, a couple of miles down the coast. It had hard, heavy work each and every day – and while the doctors had said he’d have that cast and those bandages off in two or three weeks, I could hardly imagine him getting back to work that quickly.
Dad narrowed his eyes. Sometimes it was like he could read my damned mind.
“I’ll be fine,” he growled, answering my unasked question. “You don’t need to worry about me, son. I’ve been through worse.”
And that much was true. In fact, if anything was true of Walter J. Oates, it was that life had thrown him more than his fair share of curveballs.
A discharge from the navy at 25. His wife – my mom – dying of cancer when I was just eight. Then fifteen years raising a kid all by himself, while struggling to make a living in the oil business.
Those wrinkles around my dad’s eyes? Those grey hairs, outnumbering the black? He’d earned every damned one of them.
“So, right back at you, son,” dad fired back, as I was lost in thought. “What are you gonna do, now you’re back?” He snorted. “Don’t you have a big fight to train for, or something?”
I practically winced when he said that.
“Actually, I’m between fights right now,” I told him, pushing a lump of egg around my plate with my fork. “Nothing’s lined up for the moment – but I’m sure it’ll happen.”
Actually, I wasn’t so sure. That was the whole reason I was back in Freeport. I’d just taken two hard losses in the MMA League – first, against my best friend and training partner, Nikolai Bukov, and then against newcomer ‘Bruiser’ Broderick.
Those two loses at put me right at the bottom of the league – and, as MMA League CEO Dan Blanc had warned me last time we’d spoken, “I don’t know how long we can keep you even there.”
There weren’t any new challengers on the horizon. I was too lean and rangy to drop a weight class. As far as my fight career went, there was a very real possibility that I was washed up at 27 – nowhere left to go but join the ranks of the could-have-made-its.
“Something’ll turn up,” my dad offered a rare moment of solidarity. “You’re an Oates, Travis – and if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that there’s never any shortage of men trying to kick our asses out there.”
I snorted. If only.
“Well, listen,” Dad pushed his empty plate away. “While you’re here, you might as well make yourself useful. I’ve got all your old weights and shit, under a tarp out back. Set ‘em up and keep yourself busy.” He snorted dryly. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s to always keep yourself in fightin’ shape – ‘cos you never know when you’re gonna have to go toe-to-toe with some motherfucker.”
It was good advice – and, as I slid out from the breakfast nook, and scooped up the dirty plates, I realized that hefting some iron and working out might be the perfect way to keep myself sane around here.
Chapter Eight
Roxy
My dad had always told me, “Roxy. If something’s trouble, you’re better off just leavin’ it the hell alone.”
That went for hornet’s nests, stray dogs and the Middle East – that last one especially, as it where he’d lost his big toe - serving his last deployment in the Navy, during Desert Storm.
I’d never had anything like that to deal with; but the advice was still good – which is why I was kicking myself, as I powered the old truck across the water to Quintara, and the Handy Villas Trailer Park.
Travis Oates was trouble – the kind you definitely should just leave the hell alone.
But I couldn’t.
Which was why, on the passenger side of the big, bench seat of my truck, were three foil-wrapped cheeseburgers and fries.
They were fresh from the Jetty Shack, and smelling up the whole cab. My stomach rumbled as I smelled the fresh-grilled beef and the scent of hickory smoked bacon. They were just the way I remembered Walt and Travis liking them, and as good an excuse as any to see them both again.
The truck rumbled over the cattle grate of the old trailer park, and I powered down to Walt’s doublewide. As I pulled to a halt in front, I saw both Oates boys out in the back yard, rooting through piles of junk buried under an old tarp.
I honked the horn, and wrenched open the creaking door. Travis and Walt looked up at the noise, and I saw Walt’s face break into a grin as he recognized me.
“Well, hello, girl,” the old man swaggered out from the back of the trailer, and waved a bandaged hand. “Why brings you out here?” He snorted, and jerked his thumb towards Travis. “Not that I ain’t happy to see you, but I’ve got this jackass lookin’ after me now.”
I reached into the truck and pulled out the foil-wrapped burgers. I could see Walt’s eyes light up as the saw them.
“I figured you boys might be hungry,” I purposefully ignored Travis as I strode down the path. “And I figured it’d been a while since you’d had anything from the Jetty Shack.”
Walt licked his lips as I laid the foil packages out on the picnic table, and started to unwrap them.
That’s finally when I turned and looked at Travis – as the tall, handsome fighter came striding around from the back of the trailer.
Fuck.
I couldn’t help it. Just the sight of him hit me like a punch to the solar plexus. He was so tall, and tanned, with his long, muscled arms bulging out the sleeves of his too-tight t-shirt.
But Travis looked right through me as I stood there. I guess seeing each other again didn’t hit him the same way it nailed me – and that hurt.
Shit, the only time his eyes did light up was when he recognized the shape of those foil packages on the picnic table – and I realized how ridiculous it was when I felt a surge of jealousy; wishing he’d look at me the same way he looked at those goddamned burgers.
“Are those what I think they are?” Travis licked his lips.
“Jetty Deluxe, bloody as hell, with extra bacon,” I handed him one of the foil packages. “Got extra fries, too. I figured you boys would be hungry.”
And the way Travis snatched the burger out of my hands, and tore off a third of it with his teeth, demonstrated that he was.
As Travis chewed, I helped unwrap Walt’s burger, and held it out for him to take a grateful chomp.
“Hot damn,” Walt groaned, as he chewed. “That’s a little chunk of heaven right there.” He turned to T
ravis, and thumped his son in the ribs with his elbow. “You got any fancy burger places up in New York that measure up?”
Travis wiped a spot of ketchup from the side of his mouth, and grinned.
“We’ve got our share,” he shot back. “There’s a place called Tea & Burger I go to with my buddy Nico. You should see the size of the damn burgers there!”
But then he tore off another chunk of Jetty Deluxe, and closed his eyes with a moan.
“’Though, I ain’t gonna lie. I’ve missed this.”
The orgasmic look on Travis’ handsome face made me smile, and I felt almost proud watching him devour the rest of the burger. With the way things were going at the karate school, I couldn’t really afford to be buying people lunch – but it felt good seeing how much Walt and Travis were appreciating it.
“So what are you boys up to?” I asked, as I unwrapped my own burger and took a chomp. “You lookin’ for possums back there?”
I pointed to the old tarp, covering up a load of old junk amidst the overgrown grass and reeds.
“Rocky here was tryin’ to dig out his old exercise equipment,” Walt snorted. “Though most of it’s rusted to shit by now.”
Travis picked up a rusted dumbbell, and performed a curl. I’m not going to lie – I felt a throb between my legs as I watched his tanned bicep bulge beneath the sleeve of his t-shirt.
“Rusted or not, it still weighs the same,” Travis snorted. “This’ll be good enough ‘til I get home to Brooklyn.”
Then he pointed to a chewed up punching bag, lying half under the tarp.
“Pity I can’t say the same about that.”
Something had gnawed the leather open, and rags and shreds were tumbling out of it like entrails. I’d joked about possums earlier – but it was pretty clear some of the little critters had got to the old Everlast bag – and I wouldn’t have been surprised if they’d had babies in it, or something.
“I need a rabies shot just lookin’ at that thing,” Walt joked, as I held up his burger and he took another bite. “You can throw that in the damn trash.”
Travis didn’t say anything, but he nodded… and that made me open my damn mouth.
“I’ve got an old Wavemaster punching stand you can borrow,” I fired out, before I’d even thought about it. “I mean, enrollment’s down. Classes are small. It’s not like I’d miss it for a week or two.”
Shit. What did I just say?
It was true enough I had a dozen Wavemaster punching stands lined up against the wall of X-AMERICA, but why the hell was I volunteering to let Travis borrow one?
“You sure?”
And, worst of all, he looked at me seriously – like he was going to take me up on the offer.
“Uh, sure,” I gulped. “I guess.”
Walt reached over and nudged me in the arm with his bandaged hand.
“Thanks, kid,” he grinned. “I promise we won’t let the possums get to it.”
I rolled my eyes at that, and grabbed a fistful of fries.
Chapter Nine
Travis
I was planning to be back in Texas for three weeks or so. Maybe a lot less, depending on how much of a pain in the ass my old man continued to be.
That meant, on my list of priorities, getting my hands a punching bag was way down on the list.
And yet, when Roxy had volunteered to lend me a spare Wavemaster, I hadn’t hesitated – and I was kicking myself for it.
But I couldn’t help myself. It was something instinctual. I saw an opportunity to force us together for just a few more moments – and I took it.
And that’s how, ten minutes later, I found myself sitting in the passenger seat of Roxy’s truck, as she headed off across the water back to Freeport.
Damn, it was awkward. I leaned against the passenger door, staring out of the window – leaving as much room across the old bench seat between us as I could.
“Hey, I really appreciate this, Roxy,” I told her, pleased she was staring at the road ahead, and I wouldn’t have the delicious agony of having to make eye contact with her.
“It ain’t no skin off my nose,” Roxy growled back, resolutely staring ahead. “I mean, maybe if you’ve got a punching bag to keep you busy, you won’t run out on your old man, like you did the rest of us.”
Ouch, that hurt.
She couldn’t let it go, could she? She couldn’t hold off making a dig about what had happened all those years ago.
Fortunately, I didn’t have to respond. We were already pulling into the parking lot of X-AMERICA and as soon as I saw the old place, I lost any interest in carrying on the conversation.
The brakes squealed as Roxy pulled the truck to a halt. I wrenched open the creaking door, and my boots hit the asphalt.
“Damn,” I murmured, hands on my hips. “This place hasn’t changed one bit.”
I’d spent more time at X-AMERICA Martial Arts during my teenage years than at home; and I felt like I had every brick of that place memorized.
It still looked the same – a long, low building faded by the Texas sun, with wide windows at the front and the faded sign above the door.
Seeing the place again sent chills down my spine.
“C’mon,” Roxy clearly wasn’t so sentimental. “Kid’s classes start up at 4pm, and I don’t want you to make me late.”
She crossed the parking lot and swung open the door. I followed her inside, kicking the dust off my boots before I stepped across the threshold.
Immediately I was hit by the wall of air-conditioned air from inside – the achingly familiar scent of sweat, and vinyl, and leather. There was no other smell like it; and it made me feel at home.
The place was deserted, and the lights were off. Not that it was an issue – there was plenty of sunlight flooding through the windows at the front of the studio. In fact, the mats at the front of the room were faded and bleached – while the others were still dark blue and red.
God, it was weird being back.
“You can take one of the punching stands from over there,” Roxy indicated the row of Wavemasters standing lined up along the wall. “Leave the one at the end – it’s broken.”
The mats creaked beneath my feet as I crossed the studio space and grabbed the punching stand. The base was full of sand, and it was too heavy to carry. Instead, I just started rolling it across the floor – looking up at Roxy as I did so.
Damn, she looked good – standing by the reception desk with her hips cocked, and her big blue eyes staring at me.
In a tank top and workout pants, every curve of her toned body was emphasized; and I felt my cock throb at the memory of what lay beneath those layers of cotton.
“Quit lookin’ at me like that,” Roxy snorted – and I couldn’t tell if she was joking or not. I turned my eyes away, and focused on hefting the punching stand across the room.
“Sorry,” I let the corner of my mouth curl as I said it. “It’s just a treat seein’ you again.”
Roxy snorted dryly.
“You could have seen me every damn day, if you hadn’t left.”
I paused rolling the heavy stand, and looked up at her for a second. Damn, if she didn’t look beautiful when she was angry.
“I didn’t want to go, Roxy,” I told her. “I had to.”
I shook my head, and added, “What was I supposed to do? Hang around here forever?” I sniffed. “You know Freeport was never big enough for me, Roxy.”
She narrowed her beautiful blues, and sneered, “But it was plenty big enough for me, right? And for your dad?” Shaking her head, Roxy continued, “Bein’ in a big city doesn’t make you a big person. Don’t stand there and act like you’re better than me for leaving.”
“That’s not what I said,” I stammered.
“Well, it sure sounded like it,” Roxy spat out. “You say shit like that and it just makes me feel like a loser. A loser for hanging back here. A loser for taking over Daddy’s goddamn gym.”
I paused, and looked at her longingly.
“You’re not a loser, Roxy,” I told her. “I’m just sayin’ I had bigger plans than running a small town karate school for the rest of my life.”
“And I didn’t?” Roxy put her hands on her hips.
I winced when I heard the tone in her voice. I knew coming back here was a mistake. I should never have taken her up on the offer to borrow the damn Wavemaster.
“Look, I know your dad was pissed when I left,” I told her. “But I had to go. And I hoped one day he’d understand that.”
Roxy snorted dryly.
“Come here,” she ordered, and turned towards the door to the old office.
I let the punching stand thump to the floor, and I followed.
The office was just to the left of the reception desk – it was where Roxy’s dad used to do the books, and it was dark, dank and windowless.
As I ducked my head under the door, Roxy flicked on the lights – and the single bulb shone across the opposite wall.
It was covered with newspaper clippings.
Dozens of them. Maybe hundreds.
I narrowed my eyes as I read them.
FREEPORT PHENOM MAKES THE LEAGUE
TRAVIS OATES WINS BY K.O.
‘TRIGGER’ TAKES OUT OPPONENT IN VEGAS
They were all cutouts from the sports section of the paper – and they were all about me.
Every fight. Every interview. Right from when I’d first moved to New York, with less than fifty dollars in my pocket, to the height of my career - when I’d headlined in Vegas a few weeks before Roxy’s dad had died.
Roxy crossed her arms.
“He kept ‘em all, Travis. Every column. Every article. He was too damn stubborn to ever reach out to you, but he never forgot you.” She snorted. “It used to drive me wild, when he’d drag me to the sports bar to watch your fights, or get up at the butt-crack of dawn to grab the early edition sports pages.”
I stared at the newspaper cuttings and felt a chill down my spine.
I’d had no idea – and it made what happened between Roxy’s dad and me hurt even worse than it had before.
Trigger: An Alpha Bad Boy MMA Romance Page 3
