Caged Love: MMA Contemporary Suspense (Book Two) Read online

  That’s why he felt so fortunate when he found Mr. Smith. The man was all business. He reviewed Harold’s finances, his assets, interviewed him and agreed to hand over ten thousand dollars on the spot. That was about the time Sherry found the grossly depleted financial statements and confronted Harold.

  The two rarely fought, but neither had ever done something so egregious. She shoved the papers into his chest. “What the hell is this Harold? What’s the matter with you?”

  “Sherry, I know it looks bad,” he tried to explain. “It was just one bad weekend. I was doing fine until this happened.”

  “Dammit Harold, I thought you were betting a few bucks here and there, no big deal, but seventeen thousand dollars, what the hell happened to our stocks? You know what? Don’t answer! I know what happened to them.”

  Harold felt horrible. He’d hurt her, betrayed her, but tried to defend himself. “Look Sherry, it’s not that big a deal. I’m already back on the right track. Just the other day I was able to get some money from a guy, no strings attached—”

  “What! Get some money from a guy, like a loan shark or something? Are you out of your mind? It’s one thing for you to ruin your own life, but now you’re possibly endangering me and Amanda. It sickens me to even look at you right now.”

  She stormed out of the room and Harold kicked the wall then fell onto the couch. She was right. Of course she was right.

  Only a week later Sherry and Amanda left for Phoenix. She just needed time she’d said, a couple weeks, now it had been a couple months and the money he owed Mr. Smith had ballooned to almost thirty thousand dollars.

  He’d already sold his three-year-old BMW 528I and purchased a Honda. The deal only netted a couple thousand dollars that went directly to Mr. Smith, just a drop in the bucket. He’d also looked into re-financing his house, but there was no way that was going to work. And even though it absolutely killed him, he’d thought about selling his pride and joy, the Rinker 250 Express Cruiser. He was sure it was currently rocking gently back and forth in Lake Mead Marina just waiting for him to take it out on the water.

  He bought the Cruiser brand new for almost one hundred thousand dollars. He still owed sixty on it and would be lucky to sell it for seventy-five thousand. So Harold reasoned that for now at least it would be best to keep it. Plus it meant so much to him, he felt it a symbol of his success...God he wished he was on it right now, far away from his life.

  Chapter Five

  Dana Murphy was only steps away from Harold and feeling the exact opposite. She was surprisingly curvaceous considering the amount of energy she expended on a daily basis. She answered phone calls, took messages, filed papers, snagged coffee, juggled schedules, anything to make her corner of the office run smoothly. Her job was both thankless and endless, but it paid pretty well and she was good at it.

  Dana was the office assistant for three men at Cranston, Jones, & Associates and took pride in the fact that she doggedly guarded their office doors. Nobody would see Harold Winstatt, Doug Woodson, or Caden Richardson unless they had an appointment. That is why she cast a wary eye toward the two men as they approached her desk.

  The men carried themselves stiffly in their sharp black suits. They walked with meticulous purpose and didn’t care to exchange pleasantries with anyone who crossed their paths. Neither held a briefcase, and both seemed out of place as they made their way over to her corner of the world.

  “Good afternoon. Can I help you gentleman?”

  They were about the same height and build, maybe six feet tall and two hundred pounds. Not overly imposing, but she could see their suits hung on well-sculpted bodies. The one with blonde hair said, “Where is Mr. Winstatt?”

  Dana did not appreciate his tone and glanced down at her schedule. She knew no appointments were scheduled with Harold, but needed a second to prepare herself for battle. She glanced over her right shoulder toward Mr. Winstatt’s office and then looked up at the men. “I’m sorry gentleman. I don’t seem to have you on Mr. Winstatt’s schedule. What were your names again?”

  Now the bald-headed one spoke up. “We didn’t give you our names and we don’t have an appointment. Now answer the man’s question. Where is Mr. Winstatt?”

  Both men were rude, but had done nothing to intimidate Dana. She was unsettled nonetheless, there was something about them, and then it hit her. Their eyes were cold, expressionless. They looked at her as nothing but an annoyance, like a nagging fly at a picnic.

  Dana Murphy was much more than a fly at a picnic. She glanced toward Mr. Winstatt’s door again and then leaned forward placing her hands on the glass-topped desk. “Gentleman, if you don’t have an appointment I can make one for you, but Mr. Winstatt is a busy man and without knowing your names I will be unable to ever schedule an appointment for you.”

  The blonde-haired man’s lips curled into a smile but his eyes remained unnervingly impassive. “We’ll just let ourselves in.”

  The bald man seemed amused as Dana stood. “Sit down lady,” he said.

  They pushed past her to Harold’s door and opened it without knocking.

  Harold rose, surprised by the unexpected intrusion. He saw who graced the doorway and placed his hands on his desk to keep from collapsing. Dana pushed between them, her face lined with worry. “I’m so sorry Mr. Winstatt these two belligerent men forced themselves by me.”

  Harold waved her off. “It’s okay Dana, please don’t worry about it. It’s okay.”

  She noticed his face was pale. “Are you sure Mr. Winstatt?”

  “Absolutely Dana, these gentlemen are long-time acquaintances. You can get back to work.”

  She was not convinced, but executed her orders unfailingly, so she turned heel and glowered as she pushed back through the two men. As she closed the door she heard one of them say, “Sit down Harry, we need to talk.”

  “What are you doing at my work?”

  The blonde-haired Eck said, “Don’t ask stupid questions, Harry.”

  “It’s Harold please.”

  Now the bald Dean said, “Listen Harry, you owe Mr. Smith thirty-four thousand dollars and he is having a hard time figuring out exactly where it is going to come from.”

  “I will get it, I may be able to re-finance my house,” Harold lied. “Wait a minute, thirty-four thousand?”

  “Interest Harry, it’s standard business practice, maybe you’ve heard of it. How much can you pay right now?”

  “I can get eight thousand first thing tomorrow morning and another five thousand in a couple of days.”

  “Harry, Harry, Harry, do you think Mr. Smith is running some kind of charity for pathetic gamblers like yourself? With interest your thirteen thousand over the next few days will only make something like a ten thousand dollar dent. We know you have a boat. You’d better think of getting rid of it.”

  Harold kept his hands in his lap. He didn’t want the men to see they were shaking, but anger also crept into his emotions. “Look, I’m doing the best I can. Please let Mr. Smith know he will have his money.”

  Both men glared at Harold, but said nothing. The silence only lasted a couple of seconds, but it was painful. Then Eck edged closer while Dean reached over and picked up Harold’s favorite picture of Sherry and Amanda. “It would be very wise on your part if your best was good enough to repay Mr. Smith entirely,” Eck said.

  Harold couldn’t speak. He just nodded and stared as Dean set the picture back onto the desk. “Very wise Harry,” Dean added. “We’ll be in touch soon.”

  They walked out, leaving the door open, Harold heard Eck say to Dana, “Don’t worry honey, won’t have an appointment scheduled next time either.”

  Dean laughed at his partner’s comment. A moment later, Dana appeared in the doorway. “Are you sure everything is alright Mr. Winstatt?”

  He managed a smile and nodded. “Yes, fine Dana, thank you for your concern but it isn’t necessary.”

  She knew though that he was not alright, and her concern was perfectly
valid.

  Chapter Six

  Bretten re-inserted his mouthpiece and slid his bare feet across the sweat-soaked mat in order to gain traction. He’d lost count after the seventh opponent, but thankfully Whit said this was the last one. It was actually Whit who Bretten stood face to face with now. Doc blew the whistle and the two touched their padded gloves, nodded to each other through their head gear and started boxing.

  The wrestling mat, the ring, the cage, the entire gym was a sea of boxers of all different levels. The wrestling mat housed the higher level professional fighters. Nine pairs in all looked for openings, threw their gloved hands at each other, and dodged and blocked.

  Whit let the lesser skilled amateurs or students take the ring and cage. If those areas filled up they boxed between the rows of heavy bags. Another twenty or so people and a couple of reporters watched from the side, some cheered, some shouted, others took notes. In the middle of it all a couple boxing coaches moved about offering advice, hands up, circle, follow it up with a hook.

  The famous Friday night open-to-the-public sparring session was drawing to a close. Bretten’s shoulders burned, his neck ached, and he sucked oxygen through his mouth, not nose. He was quicker than Whit, but the older man knew how to move just right. It was hard to make solid contact and Bretten found out in a hurry that when Whit landed a blow it was with hammer-like authority.

  Three or four fighters ago he realized how hard the heavyweight Bobby Newcomb hit. Now he was surprised to learn that Coach Whit’s punches were on par with Newcomb’s. Yet despite his aching body and the very real need to remain laser focused as Whit fired jabs and crosses at him, Bretten caught his mind wondering. He thought of that night in the ring earlier in the week and how Brooke looked at him. How her breath felt on his and how her full lips felt against his.

  There was something about her eyes. They were full of kindness, hope, and yet just beneath the surface there was an ever-gathering storm. Bretten wondered what they were hiding.

  It had been a long week for Bretten and Rodrigo. But now they at least saw light at the end of the tunnel. Once this three minute round was over they would just have to endure one more strength training session tomorrow morning, followed by an hour or so of individual work on whatever they felt necessary. Then after only one day off they would do it all again.

  The celebration after the gauntlet was a distant memory. The dream Bretten had after the celebration was still fresh in his mind. It seemed so real the way Brooke straddled him and the way he slid inside of her. It was a dream he yearned to become reality.

  At seven in the morning the Monday after the dream, Whit’s gym had gotten back to the business of fighting. Bretten and Rodrigo met with Doc and he went over their training and nutrition schedule. They sat in his office as he showed them the big board, a whiteboard displaying a series of grids that provided a snap shot of each fighter’s current training phase. It was based on a dizzying amount of variables and Bretten and Rodrigo were glad they weren’t tasked with learning all of them.

  Doc also provided them with their very own training notebooks. He glared and said, “You better record everything, your nutritional intake, each and every repetition during weight training sessions, everything, write it all down, if you don’t, I won’t be able to help you as effectively. I’m not kidding here. I don’t tolerate slacking on the notebooks.”

  “We won’t let you down,” Rodrigo said, and Bretten nodded in agreement.

  Doc then spent the better part of the next hour talking about the training using words like compensatory acceleration and anaerobic threshold.

  Whit showed up, sweaty and swollen from his own strength training session. All of them talked for a while before he got down to explaining his thoughts on training. “In our weekly schedule we are going to focus on what I consider the three keys to successful fighting: the ground game to include wrestling and jiu jitsu, the standup game, hands, feet, knees, elbows, and in the clinch, and then the transition between the two, with takedowns and takedown defense. It is important to be well-versed in each in order to be a complete fighter. We don’t want to offer any holes for our opponents.”

  Rodrigo smiled. “Coach that sounds a little like Bruce Lee, ‘Don’t get set in one form, adapt it and build your own...’”

  “Yeah something like that Cortez. I want you to be comfortable no matter where the fight goes. Sure you will have your strengths, but the idea is to continually narrow the gap between strengths and weaknesses.”

  Finally, at ten o’clock Bretten and Rodrigo were grateful to be able to get on the floor and begin training. The structured day slipped by and then they walked across the alley and ate foods designed to re-energize their bodies in order to do it all again. Another day, the routine changed slightly but was again deftly structured. Their world had shrunk to encompass only the gym, the alleyway, and their house. Rodrigo commented to the group after Wednesday’s session as they sat around their living room, “It seems like we are in a prison made of fighting instead of bars.”

  “You are dude,” Darnell said. “We all are, if you want to be the best you’ve got to buy in completely and just keep working.”

  “The hardest part about being a fighter is not the cage,” Tristan said. “It’s the most public part, but the daily training, the grind. That’s what makes a fighter. I don’t know if you have it Rodrigo.”

  Rodrigo let the comment go. “He’s got it,” Newcomb said.

  The group talked about the perpetual training, the feeling of always preparing, and Newcomb said, “Hell, let’s get out of here. That new action movie is playing at Oakwood Mall, starts in thirty minutes,”

  Everyone thought it a brilliant idea and piled into their cars. The theater was run down, no one’s nutrition plan allowed them popcorn, and the movie was average, but the two hour mini-vacation was the only time both Bretten and Rodrigo had not lived fighting during the week and it was nice to get a tiny break.

  And what was nicer for Bretten was the time he spent in the boxing ring under the glow of the red light when Brooke showed up. He’d told her about his brother and it felt good to let a little bit of it go, and then he was unsure how it happened but their lips were touching. Then her hands on his back, his on hers, God he wanted her so badly.

  Now at Whit’s Friday night fights Bretten landed a combination on his coach. Whit recovered quickly and stung Bretten with a left hand. Sweat rained from overheated bodies throughout the gym, and then with a blow of Doc’s whistle it was all over. Everyone touched gloves and Whit proclaimed it a successful day of fighting.

  Bretten and Rodrigo bumped knuckles. “Nice job, bro,” Rodrigo said.

  “You too. Your jab is sharp.”

  “So what’s up with you and Brooke?” Rodrigo asked.

  The question caught Bretten by surprise. “Nothing, she’s just a girl who fights.”

  Rodrigo smirked, “Uh-huh. Then what’s up with you and Tristan?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve seen him glaring at you. Haven’t you noticed?”

  Bretten hadn’t, but then he remembered the slamming door when he kissed Brooke. He wondered if that could have been Tristan.

  Chapter Seven

  All across Oklahoma people were heading out for the evening, excited to have the work week over, ready to party, but not the young men and women who just finished sparring. For them it was just another night. They lounged around the house, some iced knees or elbows, some played cards, one searched the internet, and Bretten, Rodrigo, and Brooke watched TV and talked. It grew late and Rodrigo called it a night.

  Bretten and Brooke were alone in the living room, he in shorts and a tank top in the lounge chair. She was on the couch and dressed similarly with her legs crossed under her and a pillow on her lap. Eventually the talk turned to the sometimes sensitive subject of relationships. “So no boyfriend?” Bretten said.

  “Nope, kind of tough to have a boyfriend when your life is this.”

&nbs
p; “What about Tristan?”

  “We grew up together.” She shifted her weight uneasily.

  “But didn’t you used to date?”

  “You’ve done your homework,” she said.

  “No, sorry, it’s just something I heard.”

  “Yeah, we dated for almost a year. It was a bad idea. How about you, no girlfriend?”

  “Not now, I had one until about six months ago. She heard about my first fight and said that she just couldn’t be with such a violent man.”

  “Yeah, you do seem like the real bully.”

  Bretten laughed. “If you don’t mind me asking, what happened with you and Tristan?”

  “It’s a long story, but basically I came to live with him when I was just a kid. His dad took me in and now here I am. We got older and dated and then we stopped.”

  “Long story? I’m not very tired...”

  “Maybe you’ll hear all of it another time, because I am tired and it’s kind of hard for me to tell.”

  There was a long silence between the two of them as they danced around what had happened two nights ago after the movie. They each let their guards down in the ring and as they thought about their brief kiss their emotions became tangled.

  “So…I’m sorry about the other night in the ring,” Bretten finally said.

  Brooke shifted her weight again, this time leaning towards him. “Don’t be sorry.”

  “It’s just that I don’t want you to think I’m that way.”

  “What way?”

  “You know, someone who only wants to get with you. I think you’re amazing and I just got caught up.”

  “Me too,” she replied.

  There was another lull in the conversation that stretched for many moments. Bretten let his eyes fall on this beautiful woman who sat across from him. He didn’t come here to find love. He came to fight. But as he looked at her glossy hair and her green eyes he couldn’t help but see himself with her.