Jag (Diablo's Throne MMA Book 2) Read online

  “Jag!” I race over to him and grab the hem of his workout pants.

  “It’s so big. I like petting it.” Jag rubs his hand up and down his dick. “He likes it. He gets big.”

  “Dammit, Jag!” I slap his chest, getting his attention.

  His head whips up, eyes bright with delight as his full lips part open. “Sunni, you’re beautiful.”

  He reaches out a hand toward my face. I don’t flinch or move, instead pulling up his pants, making sure not to touch his pet dick.

  “I wanna kiss you, Sunni.” He steps closer. “I thought about it all night watching your hot little ass behind the bar.”

  I press my palms into his chest. “You’re drunk, Jag.”

  “I’m dick. I’ve got one.”

  I grab his hand, guiding him away from thoughts of a kiss, and tug him toward the car. “Yeah, you’re a drunk dick,” I mumble.

  Jag flops into the passenger seat with his thick muscular legs hanging out. He grabs me by the hips before I have the chance to back away. His long arms wrap me in a hug; he nestles his cheek on my lower belly, making me wince.

  “Why? Why now?” he mumbles.

  I can’t help it. I find my fingers roaming through the long, messy, inky black hair on top of Jag’s head. The motion soothes him. I continue it until his slurred words die off. Headlights flash into the vacant parking lot. The black Escalade whips right up by us. Both doors fly open, followed by two silhouettes.

  “Jag.” I shake his shoulder. “Your friends are here.”

  He doesn’t move. I try it several more times, and finally the sleeping beast stirs awake.

  “Here, we got him,” a deep voice booms behind me.

  I turn to see a man who is a giant. Way taller than Jag and thicker in muscle. The look on his face has me quaking in my sandals. His presence isn’t to be fucked with.

  “Jag, handing you over to your friends now.” I lean down and kiss the top of his head.

  My own action shocks the shit out of me. I don’t regret it but also couldn’t tell you what in the hell possessed me to do it.

  I turn to his friends, noticing one is a woman. The concerned look on her face scares me. Something in my gut tells me she knows exactly what Jag is fighting, and if the look in her eyes is any clue, I should be scared as well.

  “He had a lot of tequila. I cut him off, but he managed to charm another server into more shots.” I take the tiniest of steps back from Jag. “I’m really sorry about this.”

  “It’s not your fault. Thank you for taking the call.” The woman steps up, shaking her head.

  “Waywa, I showed her my dick. He’s a good friend.” Jag lifts his head up only to have it sway from side to side. “Wunni woves my cock.”

  “Jag!” The man grabs him by the collar, shaking him so violently I fear he might break Jag’s neck. “Get your shit together.”

  I step back closer to Jag with a hunger to protect him with everything I have. I don’t care how drunk or crude he is because this isn’t the Jag I know. We all have shitty days, or, hell, even months. Lord knows I have. I’m certain the last five years of my life have been my own personal hell.

  “Don’t hurt him.” I place a hand on the man’s forearm.

  Big mistake. Big, big mistake. His eyes flash at me, and I swear he bares his teeth at me. I slowly move my hand. Jag sways side to side.

  “I’m sick,” he announces.

  “No, you’re a dick,” the woman retorts.

  “My dick is the motherfucking cham—” Jag’s announcement is cut short when he gags on the last word. The other man is smart enough to back up. Not me. The next five seconds reel out in slow motion as Jag leans over and wretches every last drop of tequila from his stomach. It splatters on the pavement, my bare feet, and up my legs. I’m coated in human vomit.

  “That’s it.” The man steps back up again, not in the least hesitant about the vomit. “Your ass is going home.”

  He hoists Jag up over his shoulder in a fireman’s hold, still not concerned about the vomit. The man makes it looks like he has a bag of flour on his shoulder instead of a brute of a man.

  “Jesus.” The woman runs her hand through her hair. “I’m so sorry about this. How can I help clean up?”

  I shake my head, struggling to find a shred of decency in this fucked-up scene. I wave her off and shut the passenger door.

  “I’m Layla.” She holds her hand out and points to the man with her other one. “That’s Cruz. He’s my husband.”

  I relax with the knowledge she’s not Jag’s girlfriend.

  “Sunni.” I shake her hand and offer a slight grin.

  “Thank you for taking care of Jag. He’s like a brother to us.”

  “No problem. I really did try to cut him off. He was determined to destroy himself.”

  “Seems to be his game these days. Don’t worry. We’ll get to the bottom of it.”

  “Good.” I tuck my hands into my jean shorts pockets. “I really like Jag. I mean, I only know him from the diner and here tonight. Seems like a really good guy.”

  “He is.”

  Cruz steps up to us, placing his hand on Layla’s shoulder. “Ready?”

  “Yeah.” She nods. “Nice to meet you, Sunni.”

  “You too.” I step to the front of my car as the cute couple begins to walk away. A pang of tempered pain beats along with my heart. I had a love like that once, or at least I thought I did.

  “Hey, wait.” Layla freezes and whispers to Cruz. He nods and then pulls a business card from his wallet. Layla races back up to me again.

  She waves the card in front of me while rambling on a mile a minute. “My dad owns Diablo’s Throne gym. Cruz, Jag, and some other fighters teach a free self-defense lesson for women on Tuesday nights. You should join us. I mean, you are leaving a bar in the middle of the night, you know. It never hurts. Oh, and tomorrow is Tuesday night. Thanks again.”

  Just like that, Layla is gone as soon as she showed up. The black Escalade pulls out of the parking lot with Jag in the backseat. I find myself kicking myself in the ass. A large part of me wanted to take Jag home to watch him sleep and nurse him in the morning when he woke up with one hell of a hangover. And maybe then he’d open up to me and tell me exactly what’s eating him alive. Once the glowing taillights fade into darkness, that hope diminishes.

  Chapter 3

  Jag

  The fuck. I roll over, immediately blinded by the sunlight soaking into the room. I shield my eyes and groan in pain when my skull cracks. I struggle to lick my dry lips and fail. I push myself into a sitting position, but the room spins out of control, so I flop back down.

  I know by the popcorn texture on the ceiling I’m in Cruz’s spare room above the gym. Fucking great. Momma and Daddy Felix will be in here any minute now. I squeeze my eyes shut and try like hell to remember last night.

  The dive bar.

  Sunni.

  Tequila.

  My dick.

  Puking.

  Each action plays out in slow motion behind my closed eyelids. I cringe, remembering helicoptering my dick and then petting it as if it was a long-lost friend. I puked all over Sunni. Jesus, I was a wreck walking into that bar, and it seems I only made things worse.

  “Wag!” Bella’s shrill cry makes me shudder because of the hammering drum beating a steady rhythm in my head.

  I peer up to see Layla in the doorway with a hand perched on her hip. Bella’s dark black unruly hair bobs up and down beside the bed. I manage to reach over and tug her into the bed. She’s all high energy, what I’m used to; hell, it’s the way I was born too. But this morning, not so much.

  “Wag!” Bella slaps my cheeks, straddling my chest. “Wag!”

  “Sweet Bella.” I reach up and brush her chubby cheek.

  Since the day this girl was born, she’s been my favorite person in the world. I’m the number motherfucking one uncle in the world. Bought her all the cheesy onesies with cool sayings about her sexy uncle and eve
n a motorized Barbie jeep when she was three months old. She’s finally old enough to drive it.

  “Fight. Fight.” She raises her balled fists up in the air.

  “Jab. Jab,” I tell her.

  She follows instructions, and we go through every single move. After the last instruction, she tilts her curious face, twisting up her lips.

  “¿Te sientes mal?”

  “Not sick, Bella. Tired.”

  “Pop-Tart? Mmmmm.” She rubs her protruding belly. “Madré has them.”

  With all the energy I have left in my abused body, I toss Bella up in the air and then catch her. “Let’s go raid Mommy’s Pop Tart stash, little one.”

  She squeals then scrambles off me. The sound of her tiny feet pounding the hardwood floor makes me smile. Doesn’t matter how shitty I feel or how many broken bones I have, Bella always lights up my day.

  Layla puts a hand on my chest before I have a chance to waltz past her. She never lets shit go. Ever.

  “Are you fucking serious, Jag?” she hisses.

  I shrug, knowing there’s nothing I can do right to get her off my ass.

  “What is wrong with you? Dad said you’ve slacked off not training. You were right there with Cruz for your own title, but you threw it all away. What the hell gives?”

  I run my hand over my head, slicking back my messy locks, and huff. “Just working on some shit, Layla.”

  “I get that. We are your family, and you need to lean on us instead of pulling stunts like last night.” Layla takes a step back. “I mean, I know you’re a manwhore, but the parade of broads on continuous loop going in and out of your place is ridiculous, and now mixing alcohol into it. Not to even mention the poor woman you puked all over last night.”

  “Yeah.” I tap her chin. “At least I don’t have a neon hot pink cast yet.”

  She shakes her head. “We are just worried about you.”

  “I know.”

  She wraps her arms around my waist and presses her cheek to my chest. I’ll never let Layla know how worried I am about myself. I’m in self-destruction mode and can’t seem to claw my way out of it.

  “Wag!” Bella races up the hallway. I don’t have time to react before she throws her arms up in the air. Each one of her tiny hands holds silver packages of Pop-Tarts and nails me right in the nuts.

  “Son of a…” I catch the last word on the tip of my tongue. Bella is a damn parrot.

  “Bitch!” she squeals.

  Point proven. Layla whacks the back of my head, reminding me of the massive headache taking place there. I can’t catch a damn break. A low, evil chuckle floats in from the end of the hallway. I peer up to see Cruz with his hands on his hips, enjoying this situation way too much.

  “Good thing my girls kicked your ass, because I was heading there to do it myself.”

  “Papí!” Bella turns and streaks for her dad.

  He’s more conditioned than me, crouching back, anticipating the nut shot. I follow Layla into the kitchen, toss the Pop-Tart on the counter, and help myself to a large mug of black coffee. The thought of it makes my stomach churn and protest, but my dehydrated body will appreciate it.

  I lean back on the counter, crossing my feet at the ankles, and watch the happy family interact. My chest constricts at the sight. I love these people more than anyone or anything. I want what they have, but I know it will never happen, especially with the threat that has reentered my life. It’s been nine months of constant hell. At first, I blocked it out and avoided thinking about it at all costs.

  It fucked up my fight season. I stood by watching my teammate win his championship, and I should’ve been doing the same in my weight division. Didn’t happen.

  “You ready to roll?” Cruz eyes me.

  “Fuck,” I groan under my breath then reach for a bottle of aspirin. I down four of them with my coffee and hope like hell they dull the pain just a tick.

  “Boss is going to kick your ass today.” Cruz ends his sentence with a hearty chuckle.

  “Why?” I push off the counter. “He has no idea I got trashed last night.”

  Cruz shakes his head, kisses his girls goodbye, and opens the door for us. I swoop in, giving Bella a quick kiss before following her dad out the door.

  “Man, you tried showing him your dick trick last night when I was trying to haul your ass up here.”

  “Shit.” I cover my face. “My ass is grass.”

  “Fair warning. He was not impressed at all over the fact you came home drunker than shit then insisted on flashing your peen to him.”

  My joints already ache imagining the hell Boss is going to put me through today. I thought about this exact moment when I walked into the bar. Knew it was wrong and I’d let him down, but after that first shot of tequila went down, I couldn’t stop. Feeling numb exhilarated me and gave my mind a chance to slow down and relax. It worked for the time being. Now it’s time to pay the price.

  “Jag.” My name booms out in the gym, echoing off the walls as soon as I take my first step. “Your ass is mine!”

  I find the source of the voice—Boss. His fists are clenched at his sides, the veins in his neck throb, and the glare he sends me downright terrifies me. I am well and truly fucked.

  I jog over until I’m facing Boss. I don’t cower or offer up any excuses, because there are none. I stand in front of him ready to take it like a man. Boss gets right up in my face to the point I can feel his breath tickle my flesh.

  “What in the fuck is wrong with you, Jag?” He grips my shoulders and shakes me. I don’t flinch. I know the man would never lay a hand on me. “I’ve stood by and watched you go downhill the last several months. What the fuck gives?”

  “Just been off.”

  “No shit. There’s more to it. And you’re going to run your ass on that treadmill until you fucking break, Jag.” He slaps both of his palms on my face and drops his forehead to mine with his eyebrows scrunched. “I want my Jag back. Don’t let whatever is threatening to pull you down win. I need my champion back.”

  I’m not the crying type. Can count on three fingers how many times I remember crying. The tears well up, but none ever fall. I keep my head held high and square my shoulders, then walk over to the treadmill.

  Trick is bent over on a bench lacing up his shoes. I bop him on the back of the head and then grab his headphones.

  “Thanks, pussy,” I holler, twirling them above my head.

  It feels good to slide back into the façade of being the carefree, lovable asshole.

  “Bitch,” Trick grumbles but never comes for his headphones.

  I blast the music, making sure to skip my intro song for fights. It’s too fucking painful to listen to in my broken state. The hangover kills me as my feet slam down on the treadmill. I glance down to see I’ve only run three miles, and I feel like I’m going to die. I push forward, ignoring my screaming muscles and the echoing drum beat in my skull. There’s no option to stop. I refuse to let the ghosts of my past haunt me. I’m better than that. Now I just have to convince myself.

  ***

  “Heading out.” I toss my duffle over my shoulder.

  “My fucking ass,” Boss growls, his towering frame eating up the distance between us. “Self-defense class tonight.”

  I stare up at the ceiling, biting down on my bottom lip. I totally forgot about the damn class. I want more than anything to go home, flop on my bed, and die. After my ten-mile run, Boss put me through hell. I haven’t worked out that hard in a decade. I never cracked, mustering up the energy to complete each task.

  All I do know is my head needs to get on straight, and I have no idea how to go about it. I drop my duffle to the ground, stifling the groan wanting to escape from deep in my chest. This class means the world to Layla and Cruz. It might be the one thing that saved her life. This is something I can’t bag out on.

  “Need a tampon, bitch?” Trick nudges my side.

  The asshole has taken way too much glee in my misery today. Can’t fault him sin
ce I’ve ridden his ass and pulled his hair in the past when he’s been in the doghouse.

  “Go fuck a cactus.” I shove his shoulder and wait for instructions.

  Layla is in her power gym boss mode wearing a Diablo’s Throne black tee and black yoga pants. She bustles around getting everyone signed up for the class. This is her baby, and it’s thriving with her structure. The little shit has become quite the fighter as well. It’s not lost on me how life has evolved, and the loved ones around me have found their way, except for me. I’ve felt like the lost little boy I once used to be more and more every day.

  “You okay?” Layla bumps me with her hip.

  I turn to look at her and realize I’ve been lost in my thoughts for way too long once again. It’s a torrid of never-ending emotions and self-destruction. I haven’t come this far to let him win. I will no longer be the victim.

  “What’s that?” I point my finger at her chest.

  I damn near bust up laughing when she falls for the oldest trick in the book. Once Layla glances down, my finger races up to flick her nose. She startles and jumps back. It only takes her a second to react. She lunges forward, fists balled up and ready to attack. I’m quicker and smarter, grabbing her in a headlock and spinning her around.

  “Goddamit, Jag, let me go!” Her arms wave, slapping the thin air.

  “What do you say?” I taunt her, taking her down to the mats, pinning her hands behind her back.

  “Never,” she hollers. It comes out muffled with her cheek pressed into the mat.

  “Mmmmm.” I scratch my chin with my free hand, easily holding both of her wrists in one hand. “Should I check for new tattoos?”

  “Don’t you dare!” She kicks the toes of her sneakers into the mats.

  I throw my head back, laughing, remembering the last time I depantsed her in the middle of the gym.

  I keep Layla pinned down, enjoying her misery while laughing my ass off. I wonder if Cruz has signed his autograph across her ass like last time. That shit was classic, and I thought Boss was going to blow a gasket seeing a fighter’s name scribbled across his daughter’s ass in the middle of his gym.