IRISH: a Bad Boy Fighter Romance (2 page)

Without warning the bartender from George’s popped into my mind and my cock responded in kind with a twitch and hardening to an almost painful ache.

She’d been perfect. Pale, creamy skin with bright green eyes and jet-black hair that cascaded down over her shoulders. And tits, god I had to love a nice set of tits on a lass and she had a really fucking nice set.

It didn’t hurt that the O’Malley’s shirt she’d been wearing had appeared a couple sizes too small and clung to her small waist like it was a second skin.

Her hips had flared out, wide and sensuous giving way to shapely legs and an almost plump, full ass.

Ah, but it was her attitude that got my cock throbbing. I loved a girl with a bit of fire, and she had that determined set to her jaw that meant only one thing.

She’d be a fun one to break in. Like a wild horse needing to be tamed, she’d toss her head and stamp her foot at me, but she’d eventually let me tame her.

There’d be no harm in breaking her in, fucking her while I was in the country, and leaving her behind afterwards.

There was nothing wrong with a month or so of good, old-fashioned fun.

I was stroking harder, gripping my cock and imagining myself buried balls deep inside the girl’s hot, desperate body.

“Fuck,” I grunted as I shot my load, thick streams of cum that slid down my hand. I grabbed the sheet, wiped it off, rolled over and went back to sleep.

Somewhere in the back of my head her smile lingered though. Something in the pit of my stomach clenched when I thought of conquering George’s beautiful little bartender.

Something like the fighting spirit that had gotten me to the top of the fighting world, the part of me that spotted a goal and wouldn’t back down until I got what I wanted.

She’d be mine.

***

“Harder! Come on, so you get drunk and fight like a fucking bitch?” Jake yelled at me continually as I punched the bag in the gym we were using. “Maybe I should paint tits on it so you’d be able to fucking focus.”

I slammed my fists into it a few more times and used my feet to slam the bag repeatedly. I finished with a roundhouse kick to what would be the bag’s head had it been a person.

Fuck, he wasn’t pissed off for no reason, last night’s binge session had done my shit in good. I was wobbly and not ready for the hours of hard labor Jake had in store.

I stopped, panting, and reached for my water bottle.

“I’m getting too old to drink,” I said between breaths. “You need to stop me next time.”

“You need balance,” Jake said and massaged my shoulders. He was my trainer and manager; he had just as much of a vested interest in my success as I did.

“I need to stop pounding the whiskey when you’ve got an eight hour training day planned,” I laughed and handed him my water bottle. He stepped back, punched me in the shoulder a couple times and chuckled.

“I forgive you,” he told me, “They’re our potential sponsors, you were allowed to drink with them. If we get them on board, this could be a multi billion dollar deal over the next five years. That’s more than enough money for all of us.”

I danced on my feet, punched the air in front of me and breathed into the blows. “It is a good fucking deal, ain’t it?”

“Fuck yeah, the highest offered to any fighter at any time,” he grinned and picked up the arm blocker. He held it up like I was an attack dog and gave me a look.

I pummeled him with punch after punch until his face was red and his breathing strained.

“Good, that’s what I’m after,” he laughed as I pulled back. “Now let’s do that a few thousand more times today and we’re good.”

I punched and kicked, jumped and ran, all to get the booze out of my system and all to reach that level of freedom I craved through exercise.

The point where my body and brain were no longer stuck on earth, but flew free, like I was high.

It was strange though; this time the girl from George’s bar kept popping into my head at the most inopportune times.

Now that was one thing I could fuck to get rid of. Conquer to keep her off my mind.

Always one for a challenge, I was driven on by the thought of breaking her down and making her mine.

Even if just for a few nights.

Chapter Three

Lennon

“All right, I’m coming, I’m coming,” I yelled and scrambled around my room for a bathrobe.

I’d been sleeping off my long night at George’s and had turned off my phone so he couldn’t lure me into working an eleventh night in a row.

My roommate was at work, and I was catching up on my shuteye when some rude asshole had decided to interrupt.

I peeked through the peephole and saw a mass of flowers. A gorgeous spray of lilies and roses that blocked the delivery guy’s face.

“Who is it?” I asked, never one to open the door for just anyone.

“Blooms and Bees flower delivery, ma’am,” he said and leaned around the flowers to show his face.

I opened the door with my heart pounding. I never got flowers, and the prospect of such a lovely bouquet got me more than a little excited.

“Are you Jessica?” he asked with a bored tone.

“No, that’s my room mate,” I replied as my heart sunk.

But seriously, who would be sending me flowers? I had nobody in my life and hadn’t had anybody serious enough to drop cash on pretty things in a long time…if ever.

“Sign here then,” he said and handed me a clipboard. I signed my name and closed the door behind me, carrying the mass of blooms.

I peeked at the card; they were from Brody, her latest conquest and also her married boss at the law firm.

She was walking a narrow path, playing with fire, all that shit, but she was happy. She loved the drama and excitement that a dangerous relationship brought.

Not me, in fact I couldn’t remember the last time I’d even had anything that could be considered a relationship so I wasn’t exactly an expert in the arena of love.

I set the flowers on the kitchen table where she would see them and padded back to bed.

I didn’t know why I’d reacted like that, hoping they were for me. I was getting hormonal maybe, after behaving like a dick hungry slag for that Irish fighter last night, and now this. I must have been getting my period. There was no other explanation.

I slid under the covers and tried to sleep a little longer but just couldn’t relax enough to get there.

Curiosity got the best of me and I grabbed my phone. I put “Knox Fighter” in the search site and was assailed with millions of websites.

Apparently his name was Knox O’Conner, and he was fighting fucking royalty.

I felt even dumber for stumbling around him, for stuttering and letting my body get the best of me. He must be used to it, all women from all walks of life throwing themselves at him.

I scrolled through a few celebrity websites and felt my face grow hot seeing him out on the town with A list actresses and pop star princesses.

I must have been insane to even fantasize that the strange connection I’d felt could have been mutual. He was used to banging super models and the hottest women in the world, why would a frazzled bartender even register on his radar?

I opened one last gossip site and read a detailed account by some ex girlfriend of his warning the women of the world to stay away. He apparently couldn’t keep it in his pants, shagged anything with two legs and tits, and was a thousand percent unfaithful.

“Dodged a bullet there,” I muttered and closed my phone. “And probably a few nasty infections.”

I closed my eyes and finally drifted back to sleep with a deep Irish voice on my mind and my hormones raging out of control.

It seemed nothing I read or told myself would quench the fire I’d felt around Knox.

The only way to avoid being one more notch on the belt of that cocky Irishman would be to avoid him all together.

Chapter Four

Knox

“You want the good news or bad news first?” Jake asked me first thing in the morning a few days after my hang over training session.

He was a big, sincere black American guy who’d taken a liking to me back in my early fighting days in Belfast.

He’d been there training some other brash young fucker and liked the way I didn’t stop pushing until I had perfected what I’d set out to try.

And the moment I’d reach perfection, I’d find something wrong with it and keep pushing past.

He shared the same single-minded obsession that I did, but that’s where the similarities stopped.

He was a family guy; he’d gotten married a couple years back and never understood my love of drinking and fucking. At times it had caused conflict between us but we mostly got along.

“The bad,” I said immediately. I liked to take it on the chin so I could brace myself for the rest.

“I’ll start with the good,” Jake said with a chuckle. “They liked you. Nike, Gatorade and the Sports Network. They want you for the next three years. A full contract that’s worth several million a year plus endorsements, paid advertising, paid speaking gigs, free product, housing, travel…basically you name it and they’ll give it to you.”

“Okay,” I replied slowly as if in disbelief. I still had to shake my head sometimes, how I’d managed to scrape myself up from being a scrappy little street kid back in Ireland to becoming the UFC’s Heavyweight champion of the world. “So tell me the bad,” I continued, waiting for the other foot to come down.

“Well the bad is that they don’t like your public image,” Jake said, his eyebrows furrowed together.

He was standing by the practice ring where I’d been running on the spot, getting my heart rate up before sparring the new guy we were working with.

It was tough to find people who could take a beating from me; I was almost six and a half feet tall and over two hundred pounds of lean, solid muscle.

Most sparring partners took one of my fists to the face and dropped like a sack of shit. I wanted to keep this new guy around. Being angry wasn’t going to cut it.

I took a deep breath, relaxed and said, “Public image? I wasn’t aware I was projecting a fucking public image. If they don’t like it, tell ‘em not te fekking look.”

“They mean your values,” he said, as if that made it any better.

“Me values? Me fekking values?” I exclaimed. When I got pissed off, my accent got thicker and I started talking like my dad in his old fashioned northern rural voice. “How many times have those valueless shit bags gone te church in te past six months?”

“I’m on your side,” Jake said calmly. I could feel him working his magic on me, that soothing voice he used to calm my shit when I went off the rails. “But they do have a certain point. This ain’t about a pissing contest between you and them. You’re the one in the public eye, and the public don’t celebrate douche bags like they used to.”

“What do they want me to do then?” I asked, twitching to start punching something as the irritation grew to anger.

“They want you to clean up your act. Get a steady girlfriend, a wife even,” Jake said.

“A wife?” I exclaimed. “Shit, that ain’t never gonna happen. Are they daft? I’m only twenty seven, I’ve got years before I settle down with only one girl.”

“Well the other part of the bad news is that a wife would help. An American wife. Otherwise they can’t sign the contract with you,” Jake said.

“American? I need a green card?” I shouted. “Shit, Jake, I’m gonna go back to Ireland, buddy. This is all bullshit. I just wanna fuckin fight.”

“It’s bullshit and it’s annoying and it’s against your high and mighty morals,” Jake told me, putting his hand on my shoulder and looking me right in the eyes. “But this is not just millions, this deal is worth billions. You gotta suck it up and take one for the team here, buddy. Melody’s pregnant. I need this.”

“Oh damn, you’re gonna be a dad?” I asked, laughing. “Shit, you’re trapped now, my friend.”

“Love is not a trap,” he said with a frown. “That’s your problem right there, Knox. Love is freeing when you’re with the right person.”

“Nah, my problem is there are too many hot bitches in the world that I can’t possibly settle for just one,” I chuckled. “Now are we gonna fight or chit chat today? Cause I wanna fight!”

“We’ll fight. But I need you to think about their offer and what it means for both of us. Let me know by tomorrow.”

“Will do,” I said and jumped back, swung at him and laughed when he dodged my blow.

Jake was a good friend, manager, trainer and a pretty decent fighter to boot. Not as good as me, of course, or he’d be the one fielding the sponsorship offers and dodging the pussy being tossed at him on a daily basis.

But I was the king of the ring, and the lucky bastard with the fists of steel.

And the one who had to figure out if settling down for a couple years for that kind of cash was gonna be worth it.

Chapter Five

Lennon

I had a couple days off but Tuesday night I was back to the grindstone, George’s.

It was my regular shift and generally very quiet. A nice mid week chill night in stark contrast to the craziness of the weekends.

I wiped the countertops with the old towel behind the counter, refilled the peanut bowls, and dragged a couple kegs out of storage in anticipation of the current ones running out any time.

George was lucky to have me.

And speak of the devil, George came out of the back office and waved at me to join him.

I looked at the waitress, Charlotte, and said, “Can you cover for a minute? Big Boss wants to see me.”

“Oh no,” she grinned, “I hope this isn’t about that peanut I saw you eating earlier. He might want to take it out of your wages.”

“Ha! I dare him,” I winked and walked to George’s office.

“Have a seat,” he told me and pointed at the wooden chair across from him.

“I hope this is good news,” I said and sat down. I’d asked him last week for a raise, our rent was going up and everything was costing so much more lately I was barely making it.