Chapter Ten
Roxy
Dad had loved him like a son, of course.
That was why I was so pissed at him.
As I stood there in the office, and stared at Travis through narrowed eyes, I couldn’t help by think of all the days and evenings my dad had spent in this same room with him – showing him the ropes of the business, giving Travis advice.
‘Trigger’ was always a wild one, and God knew Walt wasn’t much of a father to him. More like a badly behaved big brother. So Travis and my dad had grown to be close.
So close, that Dad wanted him to take over the business when he retired. Send me off to college, or some such. Give us all some security. A purpose. A reason to stick together.
And then Travis had just thrown it back in Dad’s face. Telling him he was going to up sticks and move to New York – to try and make it in the fighting circuit.
Dad had tried to talk him out of it, but it was no good. When Travis puts his mind to something, he’s as stubborn as a longhorn. And part of me thought Dad never really wanted to talk him out of it.
That’s why he followed Travis’ career long after he’d left. Why he kept these newspaper cuttings on the wall.
He believed in Travis, even if Travis hadn’t believed in this place.
And maybe I should have been alright with that – but I wasn’t.
Because Travis leaving for New York saddled me with this school. With my dad, when he got sick. It condemned me to a life sentence in his dead end town; and turned me against the only person who’d made living here worthwhile.
I stared up at Travis, as he read the newspaper cuttings on the wall, and my heart felt like a lump of ice.
I hated him. And, even more, I hated the fact that I still felt so strongly about him either way.
“C’mon,” I snapped, jerking my head towards the doorway. “Let’s get you home. I don’t want to be late for classes.”
* * *
A few minutes later we were back in the truck – the Wavemaster sliding around in the bed, and Travis staring pointedly out of the window.
Maybe I should have just kept my mouth shut – but I’ve never been very good at that. Ever since I was a kid, I’ve hated awkward silences.
“So,” I asked, almost dreading to hear the answer. “You got anybody special up in New York? Some Long Island Lolita or a Kale-munching hipster?”
Travis barked in laughter. I’m not going to lie, it made my lips curl. I’d missed his laugh.
“Hell, girl,” he purred. “You know I’m not one for rabbit food.” He took a deep, sad breath, and then admitted: “Nah. Nobody special. Not right now.”
There was another one of those awkward silences, but he filled it this time.
“I was datin’ this one chick for a while. Well, me and my buddy Nico were.” I glanced over and smirked, watching his cheeks burn red. “It was complicated,” he explained. “One of those New York things.”
“Lucky girl,” I snorted.
“So, what about you?” Travis asked – and from the way his voice faltered, I wondered if he was dreading the answer too. “You got anybody? Plenty of men down here, what with the oil business boomin’, and all.”
“I date,” I admitted, wanting to make him feel jealous, but also feeling self-conscious about it at the same time. “Nothin’ serious. I mean, there was this one guy for a few months – I thought it might go somewhere. But then he got transferred up to Athabasca and I sure as hell wasn’t going to go with him.”
I finished my story, and Travis was silent, pursing his lips in thought. I wondered what was going through his brain just then – was he jealous? Mad?
But then he snorted, and his beautiful mouth curled into a handsome smile.
“Well, shit,” he laughed. “Look at us both. All them fish in the sea, and neither of us have a hook.”
I laughed too, and was about to open my mouth to speak – but then I saw it.
I’d just rounded the corner to Walt’s old doublewide – and as we approached I saw an unfamiliar car parked outside his trailer.
A long, low, gleaming Cadillac.
But that wasn’t what worried me.
There were three men standing in Walt’s front garden, wearing suits and hats.
And even from a quarter of a mile away, I could make out what was happening:
They were beating the shit out of him.
Chapter Eleven
Travis
My hands balled into fists immediately.
I was looking at what Roxy was staring at – quarter of a mile ahead, and closing fast.
Some jerks in a big, black car – an old 80s Cadillac – were in my Pop’s front garden – and they were tossing him back and forth between them.
“What the fuck?” Roxy hissed.
Her boot lowered onto the gas, and a moment later we were on them – her old truck skewing to a halt, and me throwing open the door before we’d even stopped moving.
My boots hit the asphalt, and I broke into a run towards them.
“Hey!”
My voice echoed across the trailer park like a lion’s roar, and the three men stopped, and turned to face me.
Dad was in the middle of them, bandaged hands raised to protect his face. These three strangers had been shoving him back and forth between them – like bullies in a schoolyard.
I was into the front yard within seconds, and the three strangers backed off my dad and turned to face me.
“Hey!” The one in front – a big bastard in a cheap black suit – held up his hand and warned, “This ain’t none of your business, cowboy.”
Presumably, he expected me to stop. He looked like the kind of guy who was used to people listening to him – maybe he was a bouncer in a club, or something; and thought people would be intimidated by his dark suit and broad shoulders.
But I’m not ‘people’.
Even as he held up his hand, ordering me to stop, I stepped up to him, grabbed the lapels of his jacket, and head-butted him squarely in the nose.
There was the crunch of splintered cartilage, and the big bastard went limp in my arms. I was already shoving him aside, and stepping over his limp body, before he hit the floor.
“Whoa!”
That changed the dynamic pretty damn quickly. The two other strangers backed off my pops immediately. The one on the left held up his hands, trying to play the peacemaker.
The one on the right took a swing at me, instead.
That was a dumb move. Twenty years of martial arts training ensured my body moved even before my brain ordered it to.
I ducked out of the way of the swing, hooked my arms under the guy’s armpits, and threw him to the ground.
A moment later my knee landed in the center of his chest, and my fist landed in the center of his face – three times.
Thump! Thump! Thump!
By the time I straightened up, the asshole on the ground wasn’t making any effort to get up.
“Whoa,” the third stranger raised his hands, and took a nervous step back. He was dressed in a shitty black suit like the other two, but looked smaller, and smarter. “Back the fuck off, buddy. This ain’t none of your business.”
I paused, and pointed an accusing finger at the asshole.
“That’s my dad,” I growled. “You touch him, and I’m makin’ it my business.”
The third stranger took another stumbling step back.
“Hey, the asshole owes us money, capiche?” One of his hands was still raised in the air. The other was reaching for his hip. “We’re just here to collect, cowboy. So back the fuck off.”
I had no intention of ‘backing the fuck off.’ In fact, my plan was the back the fuck on. I took a menacing step towards the scrawny bastard.
And that’s when he went for the gun.
I should have moved faster. He’d practically telegraphed his move – dropping that hand towards his hip. I’d have had enough time to close the distance between us if I’d acted on it
.
But I hadn’t – and from a hip holster, this black-suited bastard pulled a snub-nosed automatic and leveled it at me.
“Back the fuck off,” he hissed again – and this time I had no choice but to listen.
Or did I?
Because the moment the scrawny man spoke, there was a loud and ominous ‘click’ from across the yard.
Both of us turned to the fence, where Roxy had been standing.
She was still standing there – but this time her legs were apart, her arms were raised, and she was clutching a .44 Ruger Redhawk in both hands.
Thank fuck we were back in Texas – where even nice girls like Roxy Rockatansky kept a gun in their glove compartment.
“You put that fucking gun down, mister,” Roxy growled, knuckles turning white on the trigger, “or so help me, I’ll paint Walt’s trailer with your brains.”
The scrawny bastard looked pale enough, but even I could see the blood rush from his face.
He lowered the gun, lifting his hands passively again.
“H-hey,” the bastard whimpered, “I don’t want no trouble. We were just here to collect what this asshole owes us.” He jerked his head towards my dad. “Five grand – and he’s already a week late payin’ up.”
Walt had said nothing during this whole encounter. Bandaged hands raised, he’d just stumbled out of the way the moment I’d come in with my fists swinging.
But now he was out of danger, my dad growled, “You tell Red to kiss my ass.” He lifted his bandaged hands. “If he’d wanted that money so bad, he wouldn’t have done this.”
Gun still clutched in his hand, the scrawny stranger span around and hissed, “You’ll get worse unless you pay up, capiche?”
Just then, the two other men I’d knocked down started stirring. The guy with the broken nose clambered up off the ground, wiping the blood that was gushing down his chin.
The other asshole struggled to sit up, looking punch drunk and woozy.
The asshole with the gun looked back and forth – between me, my dad, and Roxy.
Seeing that the situation wasn’t good, he started backing off towards the old Cadillac.
“This ain’t over,” the black-suited asshole yelled at my dad. “You’d better pay up, or else.”
And then he turned to me.
“And if we meet again, you better not pull any shit like this. Or I’ll fucking end you, capiche?”
Right then and there, I was tempted to end him. If he hadn’t still been clutching that gun, I might have taken three strides over to him, and given his face a makeover with my fists.
But, instead, I just stood there and watched him back off towards the Cadillac.
“C’mon, assholes,” he sneered at his two companions, as they stumbled to their unsteady feet. “Let’s bounce.”
And then the three of them scurried off to the old Caddy – like frightened dogs with their tails between their legs.
The old luxury car grumbled into life, and a moment later it was tearing off down the street with the squeal of spinning tires.
Only when it was around the corner, and out of sight, did Roxy lower her Ruger.
I turned to my dad, standing there with his bandaged hands by his sides.
“Get the fuck inside, Dad,” I warned. “We need to talk.”
Chapter Twelve
Roxy
“What the fuck, dad?”
The walls of the doublewide rattled, as Travis laid into his father.
“Who the fuck were those assholes? And what do they mean you owe them money?”
I crossed my arms in front of my chest, and shivered as I listened to Travis berate his father.
To Walt’s credit, he didn’t make any excuses.
“They work for Red Callahan,” Walt shrugged, sitting in the breakfast booth, hands resting on the table. “He’s a bookie – runs a bar over on Gulf Drive.”
Travis blinked – clearly not expecting such blunt honesty.
“A-and what did they mean: You owe them money?”
Walt snorted.
He reached for the nearly-empty bottle of Johnny Walker on the table, and picked it up with his bandaged hands. He pulled the cork out with his teeth.
“I owe that crooked bastard five thousand dollars,” Walt admitted, as he sloshed whiskey into a mug. “I made a couple of bets, and they went south.” He shrugged. “Ain’t much more to it than that.”
Travis just blinked, so I stepped up and interrupted.
“Walt. Were you serious? About them doing that?” I pointed to his bandaged hands. “I thought you said you slammed them under the hood of your truck.”
Walt snorted, and struggled to lift the whiskey to his mouth.
“What did you want me to say, sugar? That stupid ol’ Walter Oates got himself in the hole with the local bookie? And they busted up his hands for not payin’?”
He snorted.
“I was embarrassed, okay?”
Travis slumped into the booth, opposite his father.
“Holy shit, dad,” he murmured, head sinking into his hands. “You owe this asshole five grand?” He looked up at his dad’s grizzled old face. “And he broke your fucking hands?”
“I think those three boys were here to break my legs, next,” Walt admitted, without breaking his stride. He shrugged. “If you thought your credit card was bad, you should get a load of Red Callahan’s repayment terms.”
“Jesus, Pops,” Travis groaned, “how can you be so goddamn flippant? They broke your fucking hands.” He looked up at me, blue eyes wide and angry. “Who is this Red Callahan asshole? Strikes me he and I need to have words.”
“No, no,” Walt reached across and touched Travis’ arm with one of his bandaged hands. “You don’t want to make things worse. You’re a tough kid, Travis – but Red and his boys will fuck you up.”
Travis shrugged off his dad’s hand.
“So what d’ya want me to do, pop? Just sit back and let this asshole beat up on my dad?” His shoulders slumped. “Holy shit, Dad. How did you even get into this mess? What the fuck were you bettin’ on?”
And that’s when Walt looked his son square in the eye.
He admitted, “It was you, son. I was making bets on you.”
Chapter Thirteen
Travis
So ol’ Walt wasn’t ever in the running for Father of the Year.
He used to take his belt to me when I was a kid, and he’d never been shy in raising his voice.
But he wasn’t like a lot of dads down here in Freeport. He never got drunk and sloppy. He never beat me unless I deserved it. He worked his ass off when I was growing up – just to keep a roof over our heads.
So this? The news that my dad was in hock to a local bookie?
It was a total curveball.
And the kicker? When he told me it was all over bets he’d made about me.
“What can I say?” Walt shrugged, draining his mug of whiskey. “I was proud of you, son. I got to see my boy on TV – the real TV, not the local shit. Up there in the octagon. Fighting. Winning.”
I gulped, knowing what was coming next.
“Or, at least, you were winning.”
Walt slumped back in his seat.
“I used to drive over to Red’s bar on a Friday night. Sink a few cold ones and watch the fights.” He snorted dryly. “Hell, they used to buy me drink after drink on the nights you’d be up on that TV. They were some good times.”
He reached for the whiskey, but I moved the bottle out of reach. It was mid-afternoon – and he’d had enough Johnny Walker already.
“So what happened, Walt?” Roxy demanded.
My dad took a deep breath, and admitted:
“I got talking to the guy who ran the bar. This asshole from Georgia, Red Callahan. And he said, If your boy’s so good in the cage, maybe you should start makin’ some money from it.”
My heart sank as I listened to this.
“…and at first, it worked out great,” dad continued.
“You remember that fight the other year against Paddy White? You kicked that Yankee’s ass in the first round.”
I smirked, remembering one of my first fights in the MMA League. I’d gone up against a ten-year veteran from Long Island, New York, and given him a K.O. in the first two minutes.”
“After that, I started putting more money down,” dad admitted. “And why the fuck not?” He looked up at me, and those steely grey eyes of his softened a little. “What else was I supposed to do? Stay home in the trailer?” He snorted. “I had nothing else, Travis. Work, and that bar, and watching my boy on TV.”
His lips curled.
“I was proud of you, son.”
And my heart sank lower, knowing what was coming next.
“So I started making bigger bets. I mean, I wasn’t spending the money anyway, so I’d just roll it on over. Whatever I won the first time, I’d bet the next.”
He looked up at me bitterly, and sighed, “And then you went up against your buddy, Nicolai Bukov.”
That fight had occurred earlier in the year. Nico was my best pal. We shared an apartment together in Brooklyn, and trained together each and every day. It’d been a mean trick, squaring us both off against each other.
And a bad day for me – Nicolai had knocked me on my ass.
“So, poof,” my dad shook his head. “All that money, gone in an instant.” He looked up at me, and I was wondering if I saw disappointment in his eyes.
Even if I didn’t, I sure felt it.
“And so Red offers me double or nothing, and like some kind of jackass, I accept.” Walt peered into the empty coffee cup, and breathed in the final fumes of whiskey. “And that’s when you went up against ‘Bruiser’ Broderick.”
I practically winced when he mentioned that name.
Benjamin ‘Bruiser’ Broderick was supposed to be my stepping stone back into competitive fighting. A nice, easy mark after Nico knocked me onto my ass.
He was karate instructor from New Jersey – soft round the middle, and reeling from his own recent loss. I’d gone in cocky, and overconfident, and paid the price.
Trigger: An Alpha Bad Boy MMA Romance Page 4
