Caged Love: MMA Contemporary Suspense (Book One) (7 page)

B
retten dragged himself out of the shower. The old bathroom rivaled an England fog as he snatched his towel. It was nice and warm because the bent towel rack, sat right above a rusted radiator that hummed and clanged. He tried to keep his feet on the worn rug because the linoleum floor was cold despite the radiator’s determination.

Wrapped in his towel, he bent over the counter top and wiped the mirror with his forearm. Little beads of water still sprang from the smooth surface, but it was clear enough for him to see that he still looked like a train wreck. At least now he was one in the final stages of clean up. He opened his eyes wide and said to the man in the mirror, “Hero or not, you’re a true fighter now. You’ve made it, so you’d better kick some ass.”

Rodrigo showered hours earlier, but Bretten was too tired. He’d arrived in his new house and collapsed sideways across his lumpy mattress while still wearing his sweaty workout clothes. It could’ve been a bed of nails for all he cared. He still would’ve slept with ease. His coma ate up the entire afternoon and probably would still be chomping up the evening if Rodrigo hadn’t shaken him back into the waking world.

Bretten dressed in blue jeans and a black and gray button down shirt that clung to his shoulders and chest. The wooden floor creaked with every step. Almost as if the three story American Foursquare style house was grumbling about its occupants. A jumble of voices rose from downstairs and Newcomb’s carried all the way to the third floor. Bretten heard Woods bust into uncontainable laughter, but from this distance was unable to hear the joke. Living in a house with all these fighters was going to take some getting used to, especially since Brooke Simms was one of them.

He’d found himself thinking about her often after the gauntlet. Now as he finished getting ready she danced across his mind again. There was something about her. He wanted to get to know her so much better. He wanted to be around her.

Bretten fumbled with his iPhone and slid his thumb across it. No important messages. He glanced out the window. Even though the Oak tree in the back yard and the angle of the setting sun cast long shadows across the alley, he could see his Chrysler still sat in its same place with the enormous tractor tires hot on its heels,
God he hated those things now
. If he strained enough he could even make out the back door of the gym.

Bretten slipped on his newest pair of Nikes and heard the repeated thuds of feet on wooden stair steps. Judging from the slow pace it had to be either a zombie or Rodrigo.

“Nice of you to pull yourself together. I got in an hour nap but had to get out of the room because you smelled so bad,” Rodrigo said.

“Sorry, I was nearly a broken man earlier, guess even my nose muscles hurt to the point I couldn’t even smell my own rot.”

“I’m just messing with you roomy, pizza will be here any minute and we’ve got damn near a party downstairs, bunch of people from the gym.”

“Sweet, let’s go.”

They walked down the stairs one step at a time. The pizza arrived as they negotiated the last step. Minutes later everyone was noshing down. Some were on the couch, others stretched out on the floor, a few hauled chairs from the kitchen into the living room. In high spirits the group joked and laughed as they watched DVD’s of old fights. The crowd went bonkers when a replay of Darnell Woods, in his first ever UCC fight, was shown over and over as he performed a ferocious slam that was now referred to as the “Darnell-Plex” in fight circles.

The 70” High Definition Flat Screen TV with surround sound, one of Newcomb’s sponsors was an electronics company, blasted the fights into the living room and the beer disappeared right along with the pizza.

The two new guys were on the wrong end of plenty of good-natured jokes. Even though both had only been there for a half a day they felt comfortable, like they belonged.It was seven thirty and the whole production started to gear up for the short walk to Ben’s Bar. Newcomb’s booming voice warned, “I am not your momma, everyone clean up your mess or I guarantee I’ll “Darnell-Plex” you.”

An even bigger voice cut in over his and it came from the tiniest housemate. “Time for the two newbs to finish the gauntlet, everybody in the kitchen,” Brooke said.

“No, no, no we finished the gauntlet,” Bretten said.

“Yeah come on, we’ve done everything already.”

“Not everything,” was the reply, and they were swept up in the rush of bodies. Both were ushered to the center of the room and the crowd’s anticipation built. Neither had a clue what was going on, but could tell that it was big.

Someone in the back of the pack hollered. “Here they come!” The sea of fighters parted. Brooke stepped into the pathway holding what looked like a tattered fishing jacket. Right behind her was her roommate, the only other female resident, Marita Harris. She carried something that was a little more ominous, a silver revolver.

In a voice much higher than he preferred, Bretten said, “What the hell is going on?”

“Yeah, I don’t like the looks of this,” Rodrigo said.

Except for the intermittent faucet drip, the kitchen remained dead quite.

Bretten asked again, his voice even higher, “Come on guys, what is this shit?”

Tristan stepped out of the crowd. His moves were mechanic, his voice stiff. “
This
, my friends, is the part of the gauntlet that Whit knows nothing about. It is the most intense, more so than anything you did earlier this afternoon.
This
is where you show us you truly belong in the house.
This
is where you take a bullet.”

Now Newcomb plucked the fishing jacket from Brooke. “This is a Model Y all Kevlar vest,” he said in an ominous voice, “one of the first of its kind and over thirty years old.” Marita handed him the gun. “And this is the Colt King Cobra .357 Magnum.”

The pizza gurgled in Bretten’s stomach.

“What the hell, this is stupid, what are we...?” Rodrigo said.

Darnell Woods stepped into the circle, grabbed the gun and held up a bullet that looked something like a missile to Bretten. The room was still. The water dripped from the faucet.

As Woods was about to slide the bullet in the chamber, Newcomb started to slip the worn vest over Bretten’s head. He shook and shimmied keeping the vest at bay. “Christ, I’m not putting that thing on. Nobody is shooting me tonight!”

“Yeah, look it’s even got a hole in it,” Rodrigo added.

“We don’t aim for the hole you fool,” Brooke said.

Everyone except Bretten and Rodrigo erupted in laughter.

Woods spun the chamber and clicked it into place. Bretten and Rodrigo were like trapped animals desperate for escape. They again protested. “We’ve all done it,” Newcomb said. “It’s just the way it is here, you gotta take a bullet.”

Someone piped up from the back, “Hope the old Kevlar holds up this time.”

“Hey, that was a onetime deal,” Marita said. “The kid lived didn’t he?”

All eyes were squarely on the new guys, both shook their heads. “No way. I’m not doing it,” Bretten said, and Rodrigo agreed.

Brooke stepped through the crowd. “There is only a one in six chance that you will even take a bullet, it’s not like we keep firing until you’re hit. This is just our little version of fighter roulette.”

Both men were not convinced to go ahead with the stunt despite her reasoning. Brooke responded by snatching the Kevlar and throwing it over her head. She didn’t even take the time to put it on properly. “Come on Woods, show these rookies how it’s done.”

Woods stepped to within a couple feet of Brooke. She tensed and let out a prolonged growl, his finger put pressure on the trigger.

“This is freaking insane,” Bretten said.

Click, the gun did not fire. The room exploded with a chant of Brooke, Brooke, Brooke!

Bretten and Rodrigo didn’t know how they got in their current position, but they were clutching each other.

“See boys, it isn’t that hard, if I can do it you two can.”

Rodrigo recognized he wasn’t leaving the kitchen without donning the Kevlar vest. In an almost inaudible voice, “I’m going to, I’ll do it.”

Bretten pushed Rodrigo away. “What?”

“I just realized bro, it has to be done.”

Bretten’s mouth opened but no words came out. This whole scene happened with shocking abruptness, and now just as fast he was all alone. His only ally had turned mad like the rest of them.

The room fell silent. Bretten’s pizza pushed towards his esophagus. His legs barely worked and he wasn’t even the one about to possibly get shot at close range by a Colt King whatever the hell that big nut job Newcomb called it.

Woods took aim. “You ready?”

The response was an almost imperceptible nod.

Again Woods’ finger tensed on the trigger, Rodrigo squeezed his eyes shut. Bretten repeated over and over, “Oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God,”....click!

The kitchen again broke into pandemonium, “Rodrigo, Rodrigo, Rodrigo...”

Bretten came to the same conclusion as his friend. He had to do it. There was no other choice. In a weak and raspy voice, “Give me the damn vest.”

Trembling, he slipped the vest over his black and gray shirt. “One in four chance now,” someone said.

The kitchen grew quiet. He became transfixed on the barrel of the monstrous pistol. Woods nodded to ask if he was ready. Bretten couldn’t force any movement or words in reply. The hole in the lower left side of the vest seemed the size of the Grand Canyon. He was alone, just him and the gun. Woods pulled the trigger.

B
ear Haynes felt great. The day continued as it had started. Everything was going smoother than a showgirl’s ass. He finished up his sixth beer and watched the Celtics take an 81-66 lead into the fourth quarter. The game appeared to be in hand and he needed to take a leak. He slid off his barstool and wobbled to the restroom. At some bars and clubs in Vegas there is a line for the pisser, sometimes there is even a man there to offer lotions and such. Not at Marshall’s. Bear had his pick of the two urinals ninety-nine percent of the time. He chose the one on the right because any time his team was ahead it was the one that kept it that way. If his bets were losing, he broke it up by peeing in the left urinal.

He doubted his urinal choice really affected the outcome, but the first time he tried it his team miraculously came back to beat the spread, so now no matter how many times it didn’t work, it was still something to which he clung.

Satisfied that he’d ensured victory in the restroom, he returned to his stool. Marshall lounged against the bar with his arms folded. A fresh brew was already waiting. “Don’t want to jinx it, but it looks like your Celts are going to cover easy.”

“You owe me three thousand bones if they blow it now, Marshall. And God I hope so. If I can just get these two games to cover and then sign the Maris kid next week...and maybe even Cortez too, I’ll get away from borrowing from that asshole Smith.”

If that asshole was within ear shot, Bear would’ve done his best to kiss it. He knew Mr. Smith presented a cordial, business-like facade, but deep down was as ruthless as they come. A chill slithered up and down Bear’s spine when he thought about some of the things he’d heard the man had done to late-paying borrowers. Once all avenues for collecting his money were exhausted, Mr. Smith made them pay with blood and flesh.

The stories that shook Bear the most involved lost eyes and fingers and a drop off in the middle of the desert. The worst part about it, Mr. Smith made his muscle stay and video the horribly painful final hour as the poor sap moaned and stumbled through the crusted sand until collapsing and becoming just another dinner.

Bear couldn’t see the reasoning behind the whole video tape deal. It seemed strictly for Mr. Smith’s pleasure. Like his cold eyes warmed with the grotesque ending of a life, one that was just trying to get ahead in the world, not unlike Bear himself.

“I don’t get it,” Marshall said. “Why are you always borrowing from that shark? With Tristan and Brooke and the few other fighters you’ve got it seems like you’re making a pretty good chunk of change.”

“Yes and no. That’s the problem with being an agent, never a steady paycheck. I have to rely on getting the fighters their sponsors, appearances, and fights. Some months are great for the finances, others suck. You know me, Marshall. I’ll do what it takes for the money and when I’ve got enough I’ll tell Mr. Smith to fuck off.”

“Well why don’t you just hold off on gambling until you have the money to cover it?”

“Ha, you’re funny Marshall. You know how it is, when you’ve got next to a sure thing you do whatever you can to jump on it.”

Marshall shook his head in agreement even though he didn’t know how it was. He couldn’t imagine taking risks like Bear, especially when the rewards were few and far between. He thought back to the time his cousins came to stay for a few days. This meant more trips to The Strip than Marshall had made in years. He lost fifty bucks at the Craps table and his stomach knotted up. The idea of sipping beer while watching basketball games of which you had thousands riding on, and some of it was a dangerous man’s money, was absolutely foreign to him.

“Anyway, if I can get these two wins I’ll be up a grand and just coast for the rest of the week. I’m heading to San Jose to promote one of my fighters for a small show in a few days. And then it’s on to Oklahoma.”

“Who am I going to talk to all week, Bear?”

“I don’t know. Talk to the low-life regular who always throws darts. He seems like a real jewel. I’ll be talking to Maris and getting him to become property of the Bear. After six months and a few wins I’ll have that kid on the map and my salary will damn near double.”

Marshall offered an absentminded shake of the head, but left the last declaration alone and went back to watching the game. The Celtics were now up by eighteen. He glanced at Bear and noticed he wasn’t too interested in basketball at the moment. He instead stared at his half-f beer and thought about the future, the possibilities. He was on his way to the wealth and notoriety he deserved. If he knew what was going on in a kitchen in Enid, Oklahoma, he might not have been so confident.