The Slayer (Untamed Hearts #2) (13 page)

Then he would lie next to her in bed and confess his fears.

That he wasn’t good enough.

That he didn’t deserve all this fame and fortune that had shown up without him really expecting it.

That he would lose another family member to a war that raged across the country in Miami, and he would be here when it happened.

Let him win.

Give him enough money that his cousin would accept the handouts when Chuito offered. Alaine didn’t care if Chuito was rich; she just cared that it was enough of a reason for him to stay here in their little hidden place together.

“Introducing first, fighting out the blue corner, with black belts in tae kwon do and karate. He holds a professional record of twenty-one wins and three losses. Standing at five feet eleven inches and weighing in at one hundred ninety-nine pounds. Current Light-Heavyweight champion fighting out of Liverpool, England. William Evans!”

Alaine stared at Chuito’s competitor, a man who, like Wyatt, looked a little too clean-cut to be a UFC fighter, with intense blue eyes and cropped blond hair. William Evans turned around and held his fist up at the crowd like he deserved their admiration.

She didn’t even know William Evans, but a part of her hated him simply for being in the cage with Chuito. He was someone who could destroy Alaine’s future with his black belts and extensive fighting experience, because somewhere along the way, she had fallen deeply in love with Chuito.

If all it took to have Chuito stay here was for this fella to fall off his high horse…Alaine was all for it.

“Out of the red corner. This man is a mixed martial artist with a professional record of nine wins and zero losses. He stands at six feet two inches tall and weighing in at two hundred and three pounds. From Puerto Rico, fighting out of Garnet, Kentucky.” The announcer took a deep breath and shouted, “Jesus Garcia!”

Chuito’s eyes were closed during his introduction, but once the announcer was done, he crossed himself, making it obvious he had been praying. He bumped his fist against the cross tattoo on his chest and held it up as if silently asking for his brother and aunt to help him.

God, Alaine hoped they were watching!

At the referee’s urging, Chuito and the other fighter bumped fists in the center of the cage and then backed up to their corners. The two of them looked so mismatched, a clean-cut British man against Chuito, with his tattoos and dangerous glare across the cage.

Alaine held her breath, waiting for it to start.

Once it did, the commentators immediately homed in on Chuito.

“The southpaw, twenty-two-year-old Garcia in the black shorts,” one said just as Chuito stepped forward and swung for Evans. It didn’t look like Chuito hit him hard, but the announcers shouted anyway. “Oh! Right hook! You saw him warming up earlier with Clay Powers, UFC Heavyweight champion. He was fighting southpaw, but Garcia is clearly using an orthodox stance here.”

“Evans has been training to fight a southpaw,” the other announcer added. “This is significant. This is very much something out of the Cellar camp where Garcia trains. One of their strengths is strategy. They’ve clearly been working on this. Oh! Evans goes for the takedown!” Alaine still wasn’t breathing as she watched Chuito fight his way out of the other man’s hold and back up. “Garcia breaks out!”

“Garcia is not a strong ground fighter, but we’ve been seeing a heavy improvement in his ground game this past year. Evans is very quick, great footwork. Evans with the leg kick.”

Alaine covered her face, peeking through her fingers, when Chuito got kicked a second time.

“Evans with another high kick. Evans truly is one of the greatest athletes to ever be in the octagon. Garcia is a new fighter. He’s going to have a hard time competing with someone like Evans, whose skill set really is much more well-rounded. Ow! A left kick from Evans caught Garcia inadvertently! Sometimes those will slide up and get you in the groin.”

Alaine winced, thinking that was a very polite way to say this horrible man had just kicked Chuito in the balls. She covered her face again as the other fighter backed up, and the ref held out his hand, giving Chuito time to recover when he ended up on the mat.

She thought he recovered fast, and the announcers agreed.

“Garcia is a very intense fighter. We don’t see a lot of emotion from him. He’s very focused, and he wants this title. We saw in the locker room. This is very important to him.”

Those stupid announcers had no idea.

“He’s determined. We don’t see a lot of sportsmanship out of Garcia. You don’t see him reaching out to other fighters. No pats on the back. They call him the Slayer for a reason. Great jab from Garcia!” the announcer went on once the fight started again. “He is a fantastic striker. His strength is in his strikes, but Evans knows that. We see him constantly hopping out of Garcia’s reach, not letting him use those extra inches to his advantage. Another left kick from Evans. Keeping a good distance, not giving Garcia the opportunity to use that powerful left hook.”

“Or right hook. We still see him fighting orthodox, very unusual for him.”

“He’s not doing half-bad. I can see a lot of training went into his new strategy. Oh! A right hook from Garcia. This
was
very good strategy on the part of his camp. Evans has been preparing all these months, expecting that powerful left hook Garcia’s become known for. We’re not seeing it, but we don’t know if he’s going to pull it out. It could throw Evans off. Another kick from Evans, but we’re seeing good footwork from Garcia. He trains with Wyatt Conner too, former UFC fighter, known for amazing footwork.”

The round seemed to last forever, with the commentators rambling on about strategies and left hooks and right uppercuts and footwork. All Alaine saw once the round ended was that Chuito had a horrible cut over his right eye that his team was trying to treat in a way that looked very painful.

Chuito’s dark gaze was intense as he stared ahead; then he turned to Wyatt and said something that sounded sort of like, “Fuck this.”

“That round clearly went to Evans,” the commentators were saying as they flashed to Evans. “Garcia is just not as experienced as Evans. He doesn’t have the fights under his belt that Evans has.”

Alaine could already feel her heart dropping, but she didn’t stop praying. Hoping. Wishing with everything in her.

When round two started, she was back to peeking through her fingers.

“Nice kick by Evans,” the announcer started. “It is loud in here tonight. Evans is a very popular fighter, but you’re hearing that chant of USA. A lot of people want a win for Garcia tonight. A great uppercut from Evans!”

Chuito’s head snapped back with the last hit, but he didn’t stumble; he just bounced back, his dark eyes narrowed, his fists held up as he moved around the other fighter.

Alaine could almost see the change in him, some sort of hidden reserve of fury. She wasn’t nearly as surprised as the announcers when Chuito jumped forward.

“A powerful left! Oh! Evans is down!”

Alaine stared in shock, blinking because it was
so fast
, the way that fighter just dropped flat on his back, blood covering his face.

“KNOCKED OUT COLD!”

The other fighter’s leg shook as the ref leaned over him. He was totally unconscious, his body stunned as if it didn’t know how to react. Just like that and William Evans was passed out and twitching on the mat. It was sort of horribly fascinating to watch.

“A SECOND-ROUND KNOCKOUT BY GARCIA! UFC LIGHT-HEAVYWEIGHT CHAMPION!”

The cage doors opened, and Clay, Wyatt, and Jasper, one of Chuito’s other coaches, ran in. They all piled on him and hugged him. Chuito looked a little shocked, sort of like Alaine felt, just thunderstruck that it was over. That he had won.

There was so much chaos in the aftermath, but Alaine didn’t see it.

She burst into tears instead.

All the fear. All the hope. It all flowed out of her as she slid off the couch and sobbed there alone for Chuito. For what he had achieved. She cried through his octagon interview, where the announcer told everyone that the entire island of Puerto Rico had shut down for his fight, and all Chuito could say about that was, “
Gracias, esto fue para mis Boricuas
.” He looked to the camera and grinned, showing off his dimples, and actually yelled into the mic, “
Weeepa!
”

The interviewer asked, “This is a big win. You trained hard. What does it mean to you to be the champion?”

“It means, uh, a lot. Not for myself, for the other people who helped me. I did it for them. It’s not for me. It’s for them. I won for them.” Chuito smiled again, those dimples making him look so handsome. Then he took off the black UFC hat that he was wearing and rubbed a hand over his head that was shaved down to black stubble. The action made him look humble in a way the other fighter didn’t. All the more so when he said, “It was for my brother. For my tiá. Maybe they were watching over me.” He hit his chest as he said it, touching the tattoo over his heart. “For my mother. My cousin Marc.” He lifted an eyebrow at the camera. “My bros in Miami. My bros at the Cellar.” He turned around and reached out to Wyatt, clasping his hand quickly before he turned back to the camera and said, “It was for you too, mami.”

More tears ran down Alaine’s face, because it felt like he was talking directly to her. He didn’t say her name. He didn’t have to. She knew he was talking to her.

Then the moment was over as Chuito finished with, “
¡Y fue para Puerto Rico!
”

It wasn’t the last thing Chuito had to say throughout the night. He did another postgame interview, this time wearing dark sunglasses to hide the cut over his right eye. His black UFC hat was pulled low on his forehead, making him almost look normal, rather than battered and bruised.

The other fighter was surprisingly gracious in his defeat.

Just as Chuito was humble with his win.

Not all fights ended like that. Some fighters were cruel and cocky in the aftermath. Chuito wasn’t one of them. He was genuinely likable in the limelight, though Alaine knew he would argue with her if she told him that.

All she could think about as she watched it was his promise that it was for her too. It felt like it meant something. Like he was going to stay here, and maybe, just maybe, they could be more than neighbors and friends who had sleepovers more often than not.

Chapter Fourteen

Las Vegas, Nevada

March 2011

Chuito had eighty-seven missed calls when he finally got a moment in the locker room. The noise was still crazy, but he managed to pull away when Wyatt started running his mouth with a postfight breakdown.

Those cameras just fucking loved Wyatt, with his hickisms, big mouth, and bigger ego. Chuito left him to it and stood in a corner, looking at the phone in his hand when it started ringing again.

He picked it up with a grin and held it to his ear, wincing even before the shout reached him, because he knew it was coming.

“WEEEEEEEEEEEEPA!”

“Ay, Marc.” Chuito groaned, though he was still grinning. “I got a headache.”

“Weeepa!” Marcos shouted in response, because the noise was deafening on his end too. “Suck it up, chica! Suck it up and let me scream at you! My cousin just became a world fucking champion!”

Chuito laughed when the entire room erupted in chaos along with Marcos, but he couldn’t help but ask, “Where are you?”

“Don’t worry about where I am. Talk to your mother.”

Chuito lowered his head, because he knew where his mother and Marcos had gone to watch the fight, and it wasn’t at a bar.

“
Que emoción
,” his mother said in a singsong voice. “I’m proud of you.”

“Wow.” Chuito raised his eyebrows at that, because he didn’t hear it too often in his life. “Proud enough to let me buy you a house?”

“That proud,” she agreed, and he could hear the smile in her voice before she got louder, making it obvious she was talking to others instead of him. “My
nene
is gonna buy me a house!” The entire room screamed again, as if every gangster in that room knew just what a feat that was for Chuito to achieve. His mother was laughing as she said to him, “A big house with nice furniture and a nice car and nice clothes.”

“All that?” Chuito was sort of impressed with himself. “All I had to do was almost get my ass kicked on national television.”

“Almost,” she agreed. “Next time. First round. I don’t like watching that, chico. Took too long.”

“Sorry.” He shrugged before he had to ask, “Why the warehouse?”

“Big television,” she said dismissively. “Your friends wanted me to come. Marcos was working. Easier to meet him here. Talk to Angel.”

Chuito scowled, not missing that his cousin was working at the warehouse again despite promising that he would try to stay straight now that he was out of prison. No one chopped cars better than Marcos, and Angel had obviously made him an offer he couldn’t turn down.

“Cabrón,” Angel said as he took the phone. “You motherfucker. Forgot to mention Los Corredores.”

“I gave it up for my bros in Miami.” Chuito couldn’t keep the edge out of his voice. “You know Marc’s on parole. If you get raided—”

“What am I?” Angel barked at him. “I got it, bro. I got your cousin’s back, just like you got our back. Next time, you gonna give it up for Los Corredores? We made you. Don’t forget that.”

Chuito narrowed his eyes, hearing a thinly veiled threat. “I gave you that crew. You didn’t make me, motherfucker.
I made you
,” he reminded him harshly. “Best not to forget that.”

“What are you going to do?” Angel laughed. “You’re a big star now. You think you’re going to come back and get in the trenches with us? You’re too famous for that. Leave the business to the businessmen.”

“You’re a fucking businessman now?”

“Yeah, I make four times what we did when you were running it,” Angel said proudly. “I’m coming to the next fight. Front row. So you don’t forget to give it up for the motherfuckers who made you.”

“Mmm,” Chuito hummed as he smiled the hard, mean smile of his youth. “You do that, Angel. Buy out the whole front row. Your money won’t be the first dirty green I put in my pocket. Doesn’t bother me one fucking bit.”