FIGHT NIGHT #1: Three Story MMA Romance Bundle (18 page)

Chapter Forty

James

As the Americans were fond of saying: Shit was about to get real.

James MacDonald lifted his fists in a defensive stance, and stared across the four feet of space separating him from Hannibal Alexander.

This was it. The moment of truth.

He looked deep into the black man’s eyes, to see if he meant it or not. If this fight was really happening, or it was just bluster.

James had been on the receiving end of both over the years. Back home in Britain, he’d been cornered in pubs and clubs a number of times, and he’d always been able to tell.

There was a look a man’s eyes – the look of somebody bluffing, or somebody who would really go for it.

And there was no mistaking the look in Hannibal Alexander’s eyes.

He was here to crush James.

“Are we doing this?” Hannibal sneered, “or what?”

James stood his ground. He was in unfamiliar territory. A 6am brawl in a hotel lobby was hardly his style.

Like a computer, the Scotsman’s mind raced with all the possibilities and variables.

Firstly: This was illegal. The cops could turn up any second, and they’d be happy to break this fight apart with tasers and pepper-spray if they had to.

Secondly: There’d be no tapping out. James wasn’t sure how far Hannibal was willing to go; but if the man lived up to that mad-dog look in his eye, the Scotsman could, quite literally, be fighting for his life here.

Thirdly: The rules all changed. There were no gloves. No rules. That changed
everything
. A punch to the face could fracture your knuckles. A kick in the leg could break your femur. They were playing for keeps now; and the consequences could last a lifetime.

James gulped dryly, and lifted his bare fists.

“Bring it,” he nodded.

Chapter Forty One

James

He let Hannibal swing first.

It was an easy call to make. James lifted his elbow and  effortlessly deflected the big black man’s punch. He’d seen it coming and – more importantly – everybody in the crowd had seen it too.

That meant, when the police came, he could legitimately defend himself with the claim that: “He swung first.”

But
now
the fight was on
for real
.

James backed off, and lifted his fists. Hannibal started circling him, making experimental jabs with his bare fists.

This was going to be ugly, James thought.

Hannibal made the first attack – coming in strong, with a one-two combo that James barely defended against. Then Hannibal
kept on coming
, and a glancing blow on the side of James’ face sent the Scotsman staggering back, his ears ringing.

“Ain’t no referee gonna break things up this time,” Hannibal grinned, raising his fists. “The only thing that’s gonna get broken is
you
.”

And then he came in swinging again, first with blows that James easily blocked. Then, seemingly out of nowhere, Hannibal threw a haymaker that James didn’t see coming.

Clob
!

With a sickening crunch, the full force of Hannibal’s fist landed in the side of James’ head, and sent the taller man staggering back.

He skittered across the lobby, and collided with a coffee table. A lamp spilled over, and an ashtray shattered on the floor.

For a second, James fell to his knees, stars exploding in front of his eyes, and he thought it was all over. But with sheer force of will, he hauled himself up and wheeled himself around just as Hannibal came in for the kill.

Placing both hands in the big man’s chest – a move Hannibal hadn’t anticipated – James shoved hard, and sent the black fighter staggering backwards across the room.

That gave James the valuable seconds he needed to shake his head, and clear the ringing in his ears.

Hannibal was already back on his feet, dancing left and right.

James shook his head again.
Damn
– that bastard could
hit
.

All it would take would be a couple more blows like that, and it would be all
over
.  The only condolence, James mused, was that hitting him that hard
must
have hurt Hannibal’s hand. Maybe even broken it.

Not that he was acting like it.

“Oooh. I got you good with that one, motherfucker,” Hannibal leered. Then he reached up and patted his own cheek. “Why don’t you try and land one on me, you pussy.”

James narrowed his eyes, and tried to do exactly that.

His footwork was textbook. His swing was powerful. With a hard one-two, James swung first his right fist, and when Hannibal blocked that blow – exactly as expected – he came in with his left.

As a left-handed hitter – a ‘southpaw’ – James was used to that maneuver giving him a clean hit.

But not today.

Thump! James’ fist met uselessly with the muscle of Hannibal’s arm, as he protected his head with his elbow. Then:
Pow
!

Like a cobra striking, Hannibal jabbed James right in the nose.

James staggered back, blinded. His head rang. His nose throbbed. Hot blood gushed down his chin. Hannibal had just jabbed him with the power and precision of a hammer blow.

As always, the bigger fighter moved in for the kill, but this time instinct took over.

James blocked the punches that followed, and then managed to make a blind swing that caught Hannibal on the corner of his eye – knocking the big man back.

That gave James enough time to stagger back, wiping the blood pouring from his nose with the back of his hand. A moment later, he was back in the game; albeit no longer winning.

Eye to eye – fist to fist – the two fighters circled each other, and Hannibal grinned as he started to taste victory.

“I’m coming for you, motherfucker.”

Chapter Forty Two

James

So this was how it ended, James mused.

Dancing left and right, eyes ready for Hannibal’s next strike, the Scotsman realized it was over.

He was hurting,
bad
. His head was ringing, and hot drops of blood were staining the front of his shirt. The next hit would be a knockout – and James might be leaving this hotel lobby in an ambulance.

He was furious. Furious with Hannibal, for cornering him like this. Furious with himself, for leaving himself open for those two hits.

But mostly, he was furious for letting himself be humiliated in front of Toni.

Again.

This was like a replay of yesterday’s fight. Hannibal was faster, and more agile, and hit like a fucking meteor. There was no way James could compete punch-to-punch.

And, as if to prove that, Hannibal launched himself towards him.

This time James was ready. Hannibal’s punches collided with his forearms and fists as James protected his face. But, nevertheless, Hannibal’s final hit got through, and James took a glancing blow to the temple that hurt his pride more than his head.

Swinging back, James missed his opportunity – but did buy himself a few seconds as Hannibal retreated and regrouped.

“Oh, you’re gonna go
down
,” the black man roared.

James narrowed his eyes.

At this point, maybe he
should
. Feigning a knockout might be the only way to end this. Surely it would be better to go down quickly than draw the fight out any longer.

But the Scotsman growled as he considered that option.

Dammit, he was from the nation of Rob Roy and William Wallace. You didn’t see them taking a fall when the going got rough. They fought to the end.
Always
to the end.

Narrowing his eyes, and balling his hands into fists, James decided then and there that
he’d do the same.

And that’s when he heard it.

Until now, he’d drowned out the crowd. The roars of ‘fight, fight, fight!’ and people catcalling them.

But he suddenly heard Toni’s voice, calling to him as loud and clear as if she was the only person in the room.

Looking up, James locked eyes with the beautiful black girl, who was screaming at him from behind Taffy’s shoulder.

“Take him down!” She was screaming. “Take him down!”

And
that’s
when James remembered their conversation from the night before.

He wheeled around, and relaxed his balled-up fists. And then he grinned. A smile crossing his bloody face, James MacDonald looked Hannibal Alexander in the eye and winked at him.

And that was the first time he saw a flash of fear in the black fighter’s eyes.

James braced himself. He raised his fists. He put one foot behind the other, to become as solid and stationary as a building.

And then he waited.

Chapter Forty Three

James

And James didn’t have to wait long.

With a snarl, Hannibal launched himself at him, with a series of punches that would have knocked James to the floor – if he’d been boxing.

But, instead, James actually threw himself
into
the punches.

Hannibal’s right fist glanced off the side of James’ head, and
just kept going
. James used that momentum as a trap; opening his arms and letting Hannibal practically fall into his grasp.

The Scotsman whipped one arm over Hannibal’s shoulder. The other he curled around his arm. Then, finally, James hooked his ankle behind Hannibal’s left knee, and pulled.

“Fuuuuck!”

Hannibal lost balance instantly. As James leaned his weight into him, the off-kilter fighter went crashing down onto the carpeted floor.

James landed on Hannibal with a
thump
– knocking the wind from the bigger fighter. As he did that, the Scotsman kicked open Hannibal’s legs, and dug his knee into the pressure point of his inner thigh.

Hannibal screamed in anguish.

The big fighter went limp, and James couldn’t blame him. The Scotsman’s entire 210lb weight was focused into the point of his knee, and that was digging into a particularly painful pressure point in the Hannibal’s thigh.

But the fight wasn’t over.

With the cold precision of a surgeon, James methodically wrapped his arms around Hannibal’s right arm, and sunk his weight into it. Hannibal screamed as his arm threatened to pop straight out of its socket.

James grinned, and pulled harder.

“Fuuuuuuuck!” Hannibal wailed.

The Scotsman’s eyes flashed.

Hannibal had passed up three opportunities to wriggle out of this take down. A better trained fighter could have turned James’ moves into an opportunity – and pinned the Scotsman down instead.

But just like Toni had revealed to him, Hannibal didn’t know his stuff. He’d made rookie mistakes, and now James had the bigger man pinned and at his mercy.

He dig his knee into Hannibal’s inner thigh.

“Shiiiit!”

Then he pulled on the black man’s arm, threatening to pop it clean out of its socket.

“Oh, Jesus! Fuuuuck!”

And that’s when Hannibal started tapping.

Tap! Tap! Tap! The fingers on James shoulder. The universal sign to ‘tap out’ and surrender the fight.

But this wasn’t an MMA fight. This wasn’t the octagon. This was the floor of the Hilton hotel, and neither of these dangerous men was playing for the judges.

“Oh fuuuuuck!” Hannibal wailed. “Please! Fuuuuck! My arm!”

“Do you yield?” James growled.

“Fuuuck!”

The Scotsman increased the pressure.

“Do you yield?”

“YES!” Fat tears sprang into Hannibal’s eyes. “I fucking yield! Please, fuck,
let me go
! Let my arm go! You’re
fucking breaking it
!”

And, with that, James released the pressure.

Hannibal flopped limply to the floor, gasping for breath.

Legs shaky, James clambered off him. Somebody from the crowd handed him a box of tissues, and he balled up a fistful and pressed them against his bloody nose.

Camera flashes were going off. Cameras were rolling. Everybody in the room – more than a hundred pairs of eyes – was watching the bloodied, but handsome Scotsman loom victoriously over the sobbing, squirming Hannibal.

And that’s when Toni came running over, and wrapped her arms around James’ midriff.

Burying her face in his bloody t-shirt, Toni sobbed, and squeezed her lover, hard.

James looked down at the top of her head, and wrapped a protective arm around her.

And that’s when Taffy came swaggering over.

The little Welshman watched as Hannibal’s posse helped their friend up, and supported the staggering, gasping fighter over to one of the lobby couches.

“How’s that for a fucking rematch?” He grinned.