FIGHT NIGHT #1: Three Story MMA Romance Bundle (11 page)

Chapter Seven

James

She was looking like a pint-sized princess, in her skintight white dress and towering heels.

James MacDonald peered down at the gorgeous African-American girl and felt butterflies churn in his stomach. And, just like he did whenever he felt nervous, he confronted his fear instead of running from it.

“How are you doing tonight, Ms. Rome?”

The black girl’s startled expression turned from surprise to a more familiar one – a slightly-mocking smirk. She looked up at the clean-cut British fighter, towering a foot and a half taller than her. He looked like something from the front of one of those romance novels you could buy at CVS – wearing a crisp, white shirt and a plaid green kilt that hung down to his knee.

A kilt? Here? She had to admire his balls – and suspected, if MacDonald sat down and didn’t cross his legs, she’d be able to do
exactly that
in that outfit.

But his style of dress was too easy a target.

“
Miss Rome
?” she repeated his words. Cocking her head and her hip disdainfully, she murmured: “So
now
you know who I am?”

The handsome blonde man grinned.

“I Googled you after the fight.”

“You Googled me? You didn’t even buy me a drink first?”

His smile widened.

“I’m sorry I didn’t know who you were earlier. I’m not really into American music.” He held up his hands apologetically. “I’ve educated myself since then, though.”

“Oh,
have
you now?” Toni grinned. “And what did you think?”

“I YouTubed your videos on the way over here. I like your stuff,” he shrugged good-naturedly. “I’m particularly fond of the song that goes, ‘I’m your biggity, biggity, biggity booty girl.’”

Her smiled widened.

“Are you
making fun of me
?”

“No, no,” James promised. “That’s some really profound shit right there.”

Toni laughed, and it was as light and musical as the sound of ice-cubes tinkling in a glass. She actually turned away from James MacDonald for a second, and her chocolate-brown cheeks burned a little pink.

James grinned. The prizefighter instinct in him spotted her giving him an opening – and he went in for the kill.

“You look beautiful, by the way. That’s a stunning dress.”

Toni’s cheeks burned even hotter.

She turned back to James MacDonald and saw him looking down at her with a smile – drinking in her curvy, petite figure; showcased by the figure-hugging microfiber of her $1,500
Herve Leger
bandage dress.

But she wasn’t the kind of girl to take a compliment lightly.

“Well, you know what, England,” the beautiful hip hop artist purred, “your
dress
ain’t so shabby, either.”

James’ smile widened. He liked a girl with a bit of sass – although he suspected Toni Rome abused the privilege.

“This isn’t a dress,” he corrected her. “It’s the
kilt
.”

“
The
kilt?” She murmured back, sipping her drink through her straw. “Like, there’s only one?” She laughed. “Do you guys, like, pass it around or something? That doesn’t sound very sanitary.”

“It’s just called
the
kilt, not
a
kilt,” James explained. “I couldn’t tell you why.”

“Well, it looks like a
skirt
to me.”

James’ eyes flashed.

“If I wore anything under it –
then
it would be a skirt.”

Toni took a physical step back, and her eyes widened with surpise.

Well, apparently this good-looking white man could
dish it out
as well as take it – both
in
the MMA octagon, and
out of it
.

James smiled at her reaction. He always knew when he had an opponent on the ropes.

But their flirtation was suddenly interrupted.

“Yo! What you doing? Talking to
my
woman?”

Chapter Eight

Toni

The voice was loud enough to make everybody in the club fall silent, and turn to look at where it came from.

Swaggering across the room, beefy hands balled up into fists, was Hannibal Alexander.

He was marching over to where Toni and James had been talking, and he didn’t look too happy about it.

“Step
away
from my fucking girl.”

The British fighter and the attractive hip-hop artist turned just as Hannibal came swaggering up to them. He snatched Toni’s bare arm, and physically wrenched her away from MacDonald – so hard she spilt her drink.

“
Hey
!”

Watching that ungentlemanly behavior made James ball his hands up into fists, and he took a menacing step towards the black fighter – before Hannibal wheeled around and stared him down.

James stopped.

Like angry pit bulls, they stood facing each other, virtually growling.

“What were you doing talking to
my
girl, England?”

Hannibal Alexander’s face was a mask. Eyes narrowed, he bared his sharp, white teeth and inched towards the British fighter.

“Yo, yo,” Toni Rome shook free of Hannibal’s iron grip and tried insert herself between the fighters. “We were
just
talking
, baby.” She placed her hands on Hannibal’s chest, to physically prevent him inching forward. “Don’t cause a scene.”

It was too late for that. Already, other guests were mingling around them, trying to see what the fuss was about – and a couple were snapping shots and filming video on their cellphones.

Hannibal must have spotted this. Once again, his beefy hand wrapped around Toni’s elbow, and he wrenched her aside. But this time, because of his new audience, he didn’t continue his threats. He just laughed sharply in James MacDonald’s face – like a hyena cackling over a rotting carcass.

“Why would I cause a
scene
, baby?” He sneered. “What’s this Limey loser gonna do? Steal you?”

He looked down at Toni derisively.

“My girl don’t talk to
losers
.”

James MacDonald bristled, stiffing to his full height of 6’ 2” – an inch taller than the African American fighter.

“
Your
girl can talk to
whoever the fuck she likes
.”

“Please,” Toni held up a hand to James, and her big brown eyes pleaded with him to back down. “You’re
not
helping.”

“Oh, you’re talking
for
her now, are you?” Hannibal took a menacing step forward, and James nearly flinched.

Shit looked like it might be about to get real.

“Gentlemen?” It was club owner – a big looking man in a sharp suit, who didn’t look particularly thrilled at getting in between two heavyweight fighters. “Is there a problem?”

He stepped forward nervously, and both James and Hannibal turned to him.

“There’s no problem,” James promised. “We’re sorry for creating a disturbance.”

Hannibal howled in laughter.

“Oh, don’t kiss his ass, England,” he sneered. “This asshole fucking
loves
it.” Aggressively, the black fighter gestured to the assembled crowd of celebrities and press. “We’re putting on a free show! Look at these fucking jackals, just waiting to see me knock your ass down.”

He turned back to James and balled his hands into fists. “They won’t even have to pay-per-view for the privilege.”

“Please,” Toni placed her hands on Hannibal’s chest. “
Chill
, baby. We were just talking.”

Hannibal snorted. His shoulders slumped a little, and his fists unclenched slightly.

“Well, England over there ought to watch who he talks to. I beat his ass three hours ago. I could do it again, right here and now.”

And that’s when a third voice rang across the nightclub – loud and clear:

“I’d like to see you try, you big, black cunt.”

Chapter Nine

James

James winced as he heard it.

The clarity of that beautiful, clear, orchestral voice. It could
only
be Taffy Evans.

Absolute silence fell across the bar. Even Hannibal looked stunned – turning to look across the room at the source of the loud cry.

But shouldering his way through the throng of onlookers came that skinny little Welshman with his greying hair, and he shamelessly repeated the comment:

“I said:
I’d like to see you try
.”

James relaxed a little when he heard this. At least Taffy had left off the ‘big, black cunt’ comment this time. The tabloids would eaten
that
for breakfast.

Hannibal blinked, staring down this tiny man. Taffy had his hands on his hips and was glaring up at the black fighter like a fearless little Jack Russell terrier.

Hannibal blinked.

Almost sounding friendly, he turned incredulously to James MacDonald and asked, “Does
this
belong to you?”

“Oi!” Taffy’s voice was piercingly loud and clear – he was a Welsh choral singer, after all. “
I
was the one talking to you, you deaf bastard. Fucking look at
me!
”

Hannibal blinked again. He had been taken completely off-guard. He was used to facing down intimidating assholes in nightclubs – not a little, 120 pound old man.

But this guy seemed fearless.

“I watched the fight tonight,” Taffy pointed an accusing finger at Hannibal. “You call that a win?” Then he pointed at James MacDonald. “If you two threw down right here, right now, my man James would
wipe the fucking floor with you
.”

“Now, now,” James held up his hand to try and silence his trainer. “Let’s not stir things up, Taffy.”

“No, I
mean it
,” the little Welshman growled. “It was a split decision tonight. Your man Hannibal there got lucky. If he had the balls for a rematch, I think the big, black cunt would be singing a different tune by the end of the night.”

Hannibal blinked.

Had this skinny old man really just called him a ‘big, black cunt’?
Twice
? Had he even never
heard
of political correctness? Racism, even?

“I don’t think he’s got the
balls
to throw down with you, Jimmy,” Taffy growled, using the nickname that James hated. “He knows you’d knock his block off.”

That knocked Hannibal out of his daze.

Snarling, he pointed an accusing finger at James and hissed, “Just you watch! I’ll fuck this asshole up
right here
,
right now
!”

He then took a menacing step towards James, who balled up his hands into fists and lifted them into a defensive stance, ready to throw down.

“Hey!” A new voice rang out.

Shouldering his way through the crowd came a barrel-chested black man with a shaven head and bushy white goatee.

Chapter Ten

James

James recognized him instantly. Pretty much anybody who followed MMA would.

Delwood Grey – the legendary fight promoter, trainer and, of course,
manager
of Hannibal Alexander.

“Back the fuck down, Baller,” the swaggering manager roared, crossing the room in his velour tuxedo. “And you, you little Irish shit,” he pointed angrily at Taffy. “Shut the fuck up before I
shut you up
.”

James winced when he heard that. It hit harder than any of Hannibal’s punches had. Out of all the mistakes you can make, threatening a former member of the Welsh fusiliers – and mistaking him for Irish in the process – was pretty close to the top of the list.

“Why, you
little black
…”

“Woah, woah,” James stepped forward, holding his arms out, palms exposed. “Let’s all calm it down for a second.”

“
Calm it down
, Jimmy? Did you hear what that
ni
…”

“TAFFY!” James snapped, cutting off would could have potentially been a career-ending racial epithet. Thankfully, Taffy listened and fell silent.

That gave Delwood leeway to focus on his own client. Marching across the room to Hannibal, he snapped, “Baller! Lock that shit down. If you ain’t getting paid for it, you ain’t punchin’
nobody
.”

With a snarl, the grey-haired promoter turned to James and snapped, “And he got paid for kicking
your
ass three hours ago.”

Ouch
, James winced.

Delwood turned and addressed all of them – Hannibal, James, Toni and Taffy.

“I know these people,” he indicated the crowd behind him, “came out for a show – but I’m gonna have to start charging them if you all don’t
calm the fuck down
.”

To their credit, even Taffy listened to him and fell silent.

“Now, what the
fuck
is going on here?”

Taffy, Hannibal and James all opened their mouths to speak – but it was Toni whose voice they heard first.