Trigger: An Alpha Bad Boy MMA Romance

by Simone Scarlet MMA

  If Travis was still heated about his confrontation with Frankie Slater, he didn’t show it. With his cool, calm, laconic charm, he patted Dan on the shoulder and promised:

  “Don’t you worry, sir. It’ll be a glass of milk and an early night for me tonight.”

  And for a moment there, I almost believed him.

  Chapter Forty Two

  Travis

  “There he is! Travis, my boy!”

  The rough London accent filled the room, and I wheeled around with my pants still undone. Somebody had just burst into the back room of the Indigo nightclub while I was getting changed – without even knocking.

  I was poised to yell at them, but framed in the doorway was the sort of guy who didn’t look like people said ‘no’ to him very often. He was a burly, grizzled old man with a cashmere jacket slung over his shoulders and gold shining in his teeth.

  “Hope you don’t mind me barging in, young man,” the stranger grinned, swaggering into the room with the easy confidence of a prizefighter. “Just wanted to say ‘hi.’”

  And then he stood in front of me – a couple of inches shorter, but with a confidence and attitude that suggested otherwise.

  The stranger held out a big hand.

  “Frank Slater, senior,” he growled cheerfully, in his thick East End accent. “I’m Frankie’s old man. Thought I’d come and see what my boy’s up against.”

  Frank stood there with his hand outstretched, and I didn’t know what to do. Why the fuck was this guy? Why did he feel like he could just barge into my changing room, without even an apology?

  But there was something about this well-dressed old man that made me keep my questions to myself, and I reluctantly shook his hand, and nodded: "Pleased to meet you, sir.”

  The ‘sir’ part was my southern upbringing – I was used to calling anybody older than me ‘sir.’ But Frank seemed to like the respectfulness it implied.

  He shook my hand with an iron grip, and grinned:

  “Hope you didn’t take offense to my boy out there.” With a snort of laughter, Frank admitted: “The boy’s got a gob on him. Surprised it doesn’t get him into more trouble than it does.”

  His ‘gob’, I’d later learn, referred to Frankie’s mouth. And, yes, the arrogant prick sure had one of those on him.

  “So, no hard feelings, right?” Frank offered his hand again. “Are we pukka?”

  “Pukka?” I asked.

  “Square. Kosher.” Frank snorted. “I guess you Yanks would ask: Are we good?”

  I looked down at this steely-eyed stranger and wondered what to make of him. In all my years fighting, I’d never been in a situation like this before – one of my opponent’s parents trying to play nice with me the night before a big fight.

  But my pop taught me right, so I nodded.

  “We’re ‘pukka’, Mr. Slater.”

  Frank grinned.

  “Call me ‘Uncle Frank.’ Everybody else does.” And then he offered his hand again, and I shook it warily.

  “Good,” Frank nodded. “Now that’s sorted – you showin’ up tonight?”

  “Tonight?” I’d just promised Dan Blanc I’d be in bed with a glass of milk. “What’s going on tonight?”

  “MMA League event, at my club down in Soho.” Just like in Manhattan, there was a bohemian district in London that shared the name and a similar identity to the one in New York. “There’s gonna be press there, Dan Blanc and his team. Plus lots of booze, of course.” Frank grinned. “I’d be honored if you’d join us.”

  “I’ll skip the booze,” I fired back, “but sure.” If it was an official MMA League event, there’d be plenty of smart reasons to be there.

  “Great,” Frank shook my hand again. “I’ll send a car for you and… and what’s the name of your trainer?”

  “Roxy.”

  The name echoed across the room, and Frank wheeled around to see who’d said it.

  Roxy herself, standing framed in the doorway with a suspicious look on her face.

  “Speak of the devil,” Frank grinned, recovering instantly, “and she shall appear.” And like a predator, he crossed the room and took Roxy’s hand, pressing his lips dryly against the back of it.

  “I’m sorry… do I know you?”

  Frank lifted his lips from Roxy’s hand, and purred: “Frank Slater, senior. I was just inviting your boy here to an event tonight…”

  “…at the Crane Club, in Soho,” Roxy interrupted him. “Dan Blanc was just telling me about it.” She narrowed her eyes. “We’ll be there.”

  Frank grinned wolfishly.

  “Delightful.” And then he abandoned her hand, and turned to me with a sneer. “See you tonight, then.”

  And them, cashmere coat wooshing behind him, Frank left the room, and Roxy and I were alone.

  Chapter Forty Three

  Roxy

  “What in the hell was that?” Roxy demanded, as the door clicked shut behind ‘Uncle’ Frank Slater.

  I crossed the room and curled my arms around her.

  “I dunno.” I admitted. “I’d always heard these Brits were a cold-blooded bunch. He seemed mighty welcoming – especially considering I’m fightin’ his son tomorrow.”

  I looked up at Travis, and narrowed my eyes.

  “That big, limey bastard looked about ready to rip your head off at the weigh in…”

  “Ha!” Travis barked. “He’ll have to wait until tomorrow night.”

  And as suspicious as I was about the whole thing, I had to admit that he was right. Sure, Frankie Junior looked like an ornery piece of shit; but even he was unlikely to start something at his dad’s own place.

  “C’mon,” Travis was pulling a t-shirt on over his deliciously ripped muscles. “Let’s get back to the hotel. I need a nap.”

  “Well,” I warned, as I reached over to take his hand. “I’ll take you back to the hotel… But I can’t promise you’ll get much rest.”

  And Travis’ lips curled.

  “Well,” he grinned, lowering his head and kissing me hard on the mouth, “I don’t think I’m gonna complain about that at all.”

  * * *

  Well. That plan didn’t last long.

  A black London cab took us back to the Park Plaza, and with his arm wrapped around my waist, Travis led me through the sliding doors into the elegant, sleek lobby.

  But before we made it to the elevators, two men stepped up in front of us.

  “Excuse me,” demanded one of them – a tall, grey-haired man with steely eyes. “Are you Mr. Travis Oates?”

  Travis jerked to a halt, and without even realizing it, I felt him push me back behind him.

  He surveyed the two men blocking our path suspiciously.

  The older one was tall, lean and handsome in a grizzled, weatherbeaten way. He wore an ill-fitting suit and a beaten-up Barbour trenchcoat.

  Beside him stood a shorter, fatter young man with early-onset balding and a paunch.

  “I’m Inspector Phelps,” the tall man announced, in a crisp, upper-class accent. “This is Constable Decker.” He jerked his head towards the shorter, stouter man. “We’re from Scotland Yard, on loan from the Hampshire Constabulary.”

  “Scotland Yard?” Travis demanded suspiciously. “What? Like Sherlock Holmes, or something?”

  “Sort of,” the Inspector nodded. He looked around the lobby warily, before demanding: “Can we have a word, please?”

  Travis narrowed his eyes.

  “Am I in some kind of trouble?”

  I winced almost as he said it, but I couldn’t blame him. I didn’t know what the cops were like here in England – I had the mental image of British ‘bobbies’ in their funny hats – but back home in Texas if a cop asked you ‘for a word’ there were handcuffs and an ass-whippin’ in the not-too-distant future.

  “Quite frankly, Mr. Oates,” Inspector Phelps hissed, taking a step closer, “I think you might be in trouble. And I’d appreciate five minutes to talk to you about it.”

 
And seeing the sincerity in the Inspector’s steely eyes, Travis nodded towards the elevators and hissed: “Come upstairs.”

  Chapter Forty Four

  Travis

  “Andy Mackey.”

  The Inspector threw a black and white photograph onto the coffee table, and waited patiently while I looked at it.

  Some poor bastard, in a hospital bed with his legs in traction.

  “You know him?” Inspector Phelps asked, sitting across from me on the sofa in our hotel suite.

  I picked up the photograph and stared at it for a second. The beefy looking guy with the IV and bandages looked familiar.

  So did the name.

  “That’s ‘The Hammer’, isn’t it?” I asked. “Andy Mackey. The guy who was meant to be fighting Frankie Slater tomorrow night.”

  The Inspector nodded, confirming my suspicion.

  I threw the photograph down onto the coffee table.

  “Dan Blanc said he’d had an accident,” I explained. “Got hit by a car, or something. That’s why I had to step in, instead.”

  And that’s when Phelp’s tubby little buddy spoke up.

  “Mackey was run down in broad daylight, in the middle of London, in a hit and run.” The short man’s beady eyes narrowed. “If it was an accident, I’ll eat my hat.”

  “Um,” Roxy injected, “you’re not wearing a hat.”

  “No, he’s not,” Inspector Phelps turned and snapped at his colleague, “and he’s talking out of turn, too.”

  Turning to me and Roxy, the steely-eyed Inspector hissed:

  “What happened to Mr. Mackey is being treated as an accident… But, off the record, there are some of us to believe what happened was…”

  He gulped dryly.

  “…deliberate.”

  I glanced at Roxy, and she stared back.

  Gauging our reaction, Phelps pulled out another photograph, and tossed it over.

  I picked it up. This time, I recognized the subject instantly.

  A grainy mugshot of ‘Uncle’ Frank Slater.

  “That’s Frankie’s pop,” I looked up at the two policemen. “Why are you showin’ me this?”

  Phelps snorted bitterly.

  “Because you Americans only know ‘Uncle’ Frank as the kindly investor getting your mixed martial arts league a foothold in Britain,” he explained. “But if you were born and bred in London, you’d have a very different idea about him.”

  “He’s an old-school London gangster,” Decker injected. “On the tail end of the Kray brothers, and Ronnie Biggs.”

  “The who?” Roxy cocked her head on one side.

  “Think of them as Britain’s answer to Al Capone, or Sam Giancarna,” Phelps explained – rattling off the name of two near-legendary American mobsters. “Dear old ‘Uncle’ Frank used to run with those types as a boy.”

  “When he grew up, he went into the Royal Marines,” Decker continued. “Kept him out of jail, and got him into his current racket. He was a three-time Marine boxing champ before he got dishonorably discharged back in the eighties.”

  “Frank Slater’s been a fight promoter ever since – running boxing matches out of his gyms and nightclubs. And we’ve never been able to nail him for anything, but there’s been some sketchy stuff alleged.”

  “Rigging fights. Illegal betting.” Decker narrowed his eyes. “Even fighters hospitalized – or worse – if things didn’t go the way Frank wanted them to.”

  I felt a chill as I heard that. It sounded all too much like Red, back home in Freeport – rigging fights so he could make a killing off the bookies he ran as a side-piece.

  “Scotland Yard brought us in when Frank got involved in your MMA League,” Phelps explained. “There was something fishy about it right from the start – especially when Andy Mackey wound up in the hospital…”

  “Woah, woah, woah,” I held up my hand. “Now, I don’t know much about this Uncle Frank fella, but I’ve been fightin’ with the MMA League for years – and there’s nothing that ain’t square about it. Dan Blanc, and the guys who run it, are on the level. Honest as they come.”

  Phelps looked at my skeptically.

  “Perhaps,” he conceded. “But I don’t think Mr. Blanc and his team have any idea about Frank Slater’s history; or what his involvement in your league might lead to.”

  I paused, and tossed the old photograph down onto the coffee table.

  “I’ll take my chances,” I grunted. “That Frank guy seemed kosher to me, and tomorrow’s fight is a big deal as far as my career’s concerned.”

  “Yeah,” Roxy injected. “I mean, not to be rude, officers – but what is any of this to us?”

  Phelps and Decker exchanged nervous glances, before turning back to face us again.

  “Look, we don’t have any evidence of wrongdoing,” Phelps warned, “but we felt like we had a moral obligation to warn you about ‘Uncle’ Frank.”

  I snorted: “Well, consider us warned.”

  “And, look,” Constable Decker passed over a business card, “if you suspect anything illegal going on – or feel in danger – give us a call.”

  “We don’t want what happened to Andy Mackey to happen to you. Understood?”

  I accepted the card, and read the number on it quickly. Then, shaking my head, I passed it over to Roxy.

  “Sure,” I said dismissively. “We appreciate the warning.” I hoisted myself up out of my seat – looming over the two other men. “But if you don’t mind, I’ve got a big fight tomorrow, and a lot to do to get ready for it.”

  That was a pretty unequivocal message to leave.

  Nodding, the two policemen stood up, and we shook hands.

  “Remember,” Phelps barked, as he grabbed his Barbour from the back of the couch. “You hear anything, give us a call.”

  “Sure, sure,” I showed them to the door of the hotel suite. “Count on it.”

  And then I ushered them out into the corridor – honestly expecting to never see either of them again.

  How wrong I was.

  Chapter Forty Five

  Roxy

  I hadn’t really known what to expect when Travis and I turned up at ‘Uncle’ Frank’s club that night – but it sure wasn’t this.

  Los Amigos, the sign outside read, hanging above the door of the cozy Soho restaurant. “Spanish Tapas and Bar.”

  Travis tipped the driver, and led me into the darkness of the restaurant – where we were greeted by gentle Spanish-style music played by a band up on stage, and the smell of delicious food.

  A bouncer was waiting just inside the door, and as we stepped up to him he checked his list, and then ushered us past a sign that read: “Reserved for Private Event.”

  On the other side, a banner hung overhead: “London Welcomes the MMA League” – and projectors on the walls played videos of famous fight moments, and swirling montages of the MMA League logo.

  “Trigger! Ms. Roxy!”

  A sharp bark cut across the room.

  There was a crowd at the bar already, and from the midst of it emerged ‘Uncle’ Frank, in a gleaming sharkskin suit, with his white silk shirt open to his midriff.

  “So pleased you could make it!” The grinning Londoner swaggered over, and shook Travis’ hand effusively. He then bent and planted wet kisses on both my cheeks – drowning me in the scent of his cologne.

  “Thanks for the invite,” Travis peered suspiciously at the old Londoner. “We ain’t stayin’ for long. Got to catch up on my sleep for tomorrow, you dig?”

  “Oh, I dig,” Frank nodded. He pounded Travis’ arm. “And you do what you have to, my son. But first, grab a drink. Mr. Blanc and the MMA League boys are over there, by the bar.”

  He gestured towards the bar, where we spotted Dan Blanc sipping on a Budweiser, and James MacDonald holding court to an assembled group of fans, fight promoters and executives.

  It’d been a long day, and the thought of an ice cold beer was exactly what I needed. Giving Frank a nod, I grabbed Travis’ elbow
and tried to maneuver him towards the bar.

  “Oi, before you go,” Frank grabbed Travis’ other elbow, and for a moment we were caught in a bizarre game of tug-o-war. “Give me a shout before you leave. I’d like to have a word with you.”

  Frank looked back and forth shiftily.

  “…in private, if you don’t mind.”

  Travis stiffened when he heard that – and, truth be told, I didn’t blame him.

  This ‘Uncle Frank’ character seemed like he was all smiles – but the two policemen who’d visited us that afternoon had given us reason to be suspicious.

  Yet with nothing but a smile, Frank slipped off – schmoozing with other patrons of the club. That left me able to tug on Travis’ arm and lead him towards the bar.

  “Travis! Roxy!”

  There were more enthusiastic calls as we neared the bar. James MacDonald, clutching a Scotch in one hand, and the waist of Toni Rome in the other, welcomed us into his clutch of acquaintances.

  “Now, I thought you promised me you were headin’ to bed with a glass of milk,” Dan Blanc snorted, as he shook Travis hand and made room for him at the bar.

  “I’ll be in bed nice and early,” Travis promised, as he accepted a bottle of Diet Coke from the bar. “There’ll be plenty of time for celebrating after I win.”

  “That’s the spirit.” Dan pounded him on the shoulder.

  “Travis, old man,” James snapped for my lover’s attention. “There’s somebody I’d like you to meet.” And he gestured towards a small, grey-haired man standing next to him, clutching a glass of whiskey even bigger than his own.

  “Danny Evans,” the small man offered his hand. His accent was unusual – an almost sing-song dialect halfway between England and Irish. “Although most folks call me Taffy.”

  “This little Welsh bastard’s my trainer,” James slapped the smaller man on the shoulder. “One of the best in the business.”