Page 12

Chapter twelve

Titan MMA Gym

Hunter

Now I one hundred percent understand why Damon calls Emma Spitfire. I watch, with poorly hidden amusement, as she grabs his arm and drags him from the cage. His opponent skips around them, putting her in the middle of the two men; she turns to him, cranes her neck, and glares before pushing his chest with her free hand. Her mouth opens, and I assume a trail of expletives spills out. The man steps backward, at a loss for how to deal with the crazed woman who disrupted the fight.

Damon pulls his arm from her grip, but she retakes his skin, sinking her nails into his flesh. He grimaces but follows her from the arena like a puppy scolded by its owner. The couple are barely off the bottom stair when she spins and starts hammering his chest with a finger. The crowd circles around them, all eyes transfixed on the ongoing spectacle.

“Should you say something?” Isabella whispers in my ear. She’s moved closer to me and risen on tiptoe. Her breasts brush my arm; I’m highly aware of the sensation. “Protect him?”

“I’m not sure I’m brave enough.”

When I glance at her, her cheeks have colored beautifully and her dark eyes dance. She flashes me a shy smile, then we both return to looking at the ongoing argument. Damon gestures in our direction, and they approach our small group.

“Evening, Emma,” Russell says as they come within earshot of us.

“Fuck off,” she snarls back. “Which one of you losers set this up?” Her furious eyes move between Russell, Connor, and myself, looking for someone to blame for finding her man punching and being punched in the center of a cage in the middle of the night.

“Spitfire,” Damon whispers, tugging at her fingers.

“You promised. No more fights. What was it this time? A dare? A bet? You’ve lost your fucking mind since leaving the police. Get your fucking midlife crisis in check.”

“It was the last…”

“Don’t you dare,” she interrupts him. “Clean yourself up and get home.” She signals to his face, which is covered in blood; I’m unsure if it’s his or his challenger’s. “You can explain to your daughter why Daddy has black eyes again. And as for you…” She whirls to face me now, her whole wrath falling on me. “Damon will not be stepping in that ring again. Do you hear me?”

I hold my hands up in mock surrender, attempting to contain my laughter. When I glance at Isabella, she’s biting her lip, I assume trying to do the same. Emma’s focus falls on my wife, and her mouth closes immediately. She takes a deep breath before rearranging her face into something more neutral and less insane.

“Hello,” she says to Isabella, holding out her hand. “I’m Emma. You must be Bella.”

The two women stare at one another, and the men surrounding them wait to see their reaction. Both are strong, feisty women, and that means a meeting can go one of two ways. They will either get on excellently or be at each other’s throats in no time.

“Hi Emma, nice to meet you,” Isabella replies; her lips widen, and she chuckles. “You certainly stole the show. I don’t think anyone in this gym would take you on.”

The two women laugh together, and the tension of how the meeting began breaks. Damon taps Emma on the back, and she narrows her eyes as she looks at Bella, who smirks. Oh fuck, he’s in trouble. I almost feel guilty for encouraging him to fight again.

“Do you want a drink, Spitfire?” he asks, and she nods but doesn’t speak. He scuttles off toward the bar.

Isabella and Emma chat between themselves while I mingle with my guests and the subsequent fight begins. Russell and Connor are dealing with the pissed-off punters who bet on Damon’s match and are now at the desk demanding refunds. If the debacle hadn’t been so amusing, I would have been furious at the lost money.

Connor is handing out another round of beers when a gunshot sounds from the back of the hall. The glasses smash off the floor, and everyone grabs their weapon of choice. Most people here will have something to protect themselves with. Another shot, and people drop to the floor. It’s then I see dozens of policemen bursting through the doors.

“Oh fuck,” Russell grumbles, moving straight to his desk and throwing all evidence into a backpack. His brother collapses the chalkboards to the floor and quickly rubs away the scribbles. The sea of men scurrying between exits gives us time to remove what we can.

“Emma,” I hiss. “Take Isabella and go out the back door. Through the changing rooms.” I signal to a well-hidden doorway behind the ring. My hand drops into my pocket, and I throw her my car keys then pass her my knife. “It’s parked out the back, and take everyone’s guns. The last thing we need is the police finding illegal firearms.”

Emma collects the weapons as instructed, stuffing them into deep coat pockets. Isabella grabs my hands, her terrified eyes darting between me and the impending police.

“Will you be okay?” she asks, barely audible in the insanity. I touch her cheek, then drop my lips to hers momentarily. The touch is all I need for my heart to beat like a drum. I’m sent back to my teen years, when a kiss from her was enough to make life bearable for a few more months until I saw her again.

“Oh, Bella,” I tell her. “I’ve survived worse, and to know you’re waiting for me will be all I need to survive it again.”

Before she can reply, Emma grabs her hand and pulls her off into the crowd. The two women disappear into the chaos until I see one head of blonde hair and one dark leave through the door as instructed. I turn to my three friends, all of us standing our ground, waiting to deal with whatever shit is about to fall on our plate.

As I look up, a familiar face walks through the crowd toward us. His focus is firmly on Damon, and the two men glare at one another before he reaches us.

“You’re having a fucking laugh,” Damon mutters as the man comes to a stop.

“Constable Menzies,” I say politely, stepping forward and placing my body between them. “How can I help you this evening?”

“It’s Sergeant now, Mr. Devane,” he says with a scowl. He puffs his chest out, obviously pleased at being able to correct me as to his status. What a dick.

“Apologies, Sergeant Menzies. As I said, what brings you to my gym this evening? You’ve trespassed onto a private event. Do you have a warrant?” His hand disappears into his pocket and pulls out a folded paper. Russell steps forward and takes it from him. He studies the document then nods to me.

Menzies was a thorn in Damon’s side while still in the police. He enthusiastically ran intelligence, attempting to find information that would force Damon to leave. In the end, it was discovered he was actively sitting on information about the murder of Damon’s wife. The day Damon cleared his desk, Menzies threatened that this wouldn’t be the end. He was out to get us all.

“The four of you will need to accompany me to the station,” Menzies says as three officers come up behind us. “We have questions.”

“Are we under arrest?” Connor asks, morphing into lawyer mode.

“Not yet, but I suspect I have enough evidence from tonight to create some charges.”

“This is a fun event between friends,” Russell tells him smoothly. “Unless having fun is now a crime, I don’t think you will have much to charge us for.”

“I assume you have the relevant licenses in place, Mr. Devane?” Menzies turns to me, ignoring Russell completely. “Betting and gambling unlawfully are a criminal offense. I need copies of your operating, personal management, and premises licenses.”

I gesture to Russell and Connor.

“Speak to them. They’re my lawyers.”

“I have reason to believe Mr. and Mr. Chase are also involved,” he replies with a snigger. “So, I would suggest that perhaps you appoint someone else.”

“Phone Waite,” I mutter to Russell, who pulls his phone out of his pocket. Harrison is going to love this. Not only have we been caught, but he’s getting pulled from his wife’s side in the middle of the night. His pregnant, hormonal wife to add insult to injury. Russell walks away to make the phone call, and Menzies’ attention turns to Damon.

“As for you, Mr. McKinney.” He emphasizes the “Mr.” enjoying the fact that Damon is no longer considered an officer of the law. “The man you attacked wants to press charges for assault. Please turn around and put your hands behind your back.”

The officer closest to Damon slams the cuffs on and begins to read him his rights. Menzies sidles over to my friend, and I look at Connor for guidance. He signals to me to stay calm and let them do their job. Russell reappears, his nose still in his phone.

“Harrison will meet us at the station,” he says, then he glances up and sees Damon in handcuffs.

“What the fuck…” Connor jabs his brother in the ribs to stop any more words from leaving his lips. The last thing we need is for one of his detonations to happen. One person in handcuffs is enough.

Menzies walks around Damon, standing rigidly in the center of the circle of officers. His body is tense with rage. I’ve seen him lose his temper before, and today, he’s on the brink.

“I always promised you would get to wear these,” Menzies goads him, pulling at the restraints. My friend closes his eyes, and I can almost hear him counting in his head to distract himself. “And today is the day.” He turns to his staff. “Take him away, and you three follow me.”

Other officers have cleared the gym, and we follow the little bastard across the space which is now littered with spilled drinks and bottles like fucking ducklings. As we step outside, the freezing winter air hits my nostrils, and I’m acutely aware that I’m only wearing my shirt on this cold London morning. My tuxedo jacket was discarded somewhere in the gym. The sun hasn’t started to rise yet, but I can hear vans and lorries going about their business, getting ready for the day ahead.

As we’re all directed into separate police cars, Connor clears his throat to get all our attention. “No comment,” he says simply before we are all taken away for questioning.

***

“No comment,” I say again to the officer across from me.

“Mr. Devane, unlawful gambling was clearly taking place on your premises tonight. It would be much easier for you to admit the crime so we can move forward.”

“No comment.” My ass aches in the cheap plastic chair I’ve been sitting on. Harrison sits silently beside me as we attempt to wait out the insanity. He’s scribbling furiously on a notepad, fuck knows what, because I haven’t said anything, and my interrogator seems to be getting weary. Eventually, the officer ends the interview and leaves the room.

“Where is Damon?” I ask Harrison.

“Russell is representing him. He and Connor were released when we arrived.”

“How?”

“A technicality,” he says with a shrug. “You know what they’re like, or maybe Menzies couldn’t be bothered with them. It’s always been you and Damon he wants.”

“Is it still twenty-four hours I can be held?” I ask him.

“Thirty-six, if a senior officer allows it.”

“For fuck’s sake,” I mutter, and he glances at me.

“Somewhere to be?”

“I want to go home.”

“Someone waiting for you?” His mouth twists into a knowing smile. “Me too. Just stick with no comment, and they should release you. But it won’t be the end of it. You’ll need to stop your events for now…”

I cross my arms over my chest and huff audibly. Harrison rolls his eyes at my pettiness. My refusal to stop some of my more public practices when things heat up is a constant headache for him. But I keep him in a job which he is well paid for—plus deep down, he loves the morally gray bullshit we get involved in. I remember how excited he was on our first stakeout; I think he thought he was in an action-hero movie.

The officer returns, his demeanor subdued. He comes to stand beside us and stares down, his expression impassive. His mobile phone is clasped between his palms as he flips it over and over, clearly uncomfortable.

“You’re free to go,” he says bluntly. We both look up at him in surprise. “But don’t go far; there will be more questions.” The words are said in what I think is meant to be an ominous tone, but sound like a little boy trying to mimic his father.

I push myself up to stand, the chair scraping noisily over the tiled floor.

“Of that, Officer, I have no doubt.” I extend a hand to shake his, and he narrows his eyes and ignores the gesture. Harrison rises beside me, and we both leave the interview room to wait in the reception area, where we find Connor dozing in another cheap plastic chair. I walk over and then crouch down in front of him. He doesn’t feel my presence before I clap my hands loudly beneath his nose.

Connor jumps out of his seat as I step backward. His eyes fly around the room, furiously searching for the source of his upset. They eventually land on me, and I reward him with a beaming smile.

“What the actual fuck, Devane,” he roars before turning to the police staff member behind the reception desk. “Take him fucking back. Throw him in a cell.” He points dramatically at me as Harrison and I bend double, laughing. Even the lady behind the desk seems amused.

“Are you causing chaos?” Damon’s voice asks as he and Russell arrive to join us.

“Oh, you’re out,” I say. “There was me thinking they were throwing away the key.”

“Well, I’m not a fucking apparition.” He rubs at his forehead with his hand, then looks at the old, white clock on the wall. Daylight is bursting through the dirty windows; it’s already one in the afternoon. “Emma’s going to kill me. I won’t make it to jail.”

Our little group laughs, but we all know it’s true. After the last time Damon returned with a cracked nose and two black eyes, she demanded that he stop fighting competitively. And if her scene in the ring was anything to go by, there will be more bruises on his body before today ends.

“Fuck,” he says, almost to himself. “Let’s go home.”

As we all walk out of the door, a familiar voice we all hate calls across the room.

“Mr. McKinney,” it says, and Damon turns to face Menzies. “Don’t leave town. I’ll be back with a warrant.” My friend glowers, gives him the finger, then turns and walks away.

Upon arriving home, I’m met with the beat of dance music pumping out across the ground floor of my house. I follow the noise in search of the source. Perhaps Isabella’s housekeeper likes to dance while she works. What I find is not what I expect, and rage courses through every vein as I storm across the room, jumping over my coffee table in the process.

My furious fingers grab his t-shirt, and I pull him up off Bella’s body. Face down on the floor, she flips onto her back with the commotion in enough time to see me cracking her personal trainer across the jaw with my fist.

“Don’t fucking touch my wife!” I scream, feeling almost feral. “Or next time I’ll cut off your fucking hands!” The pathetic cretin cowers below me, hands raised to protect his pretty-boy face. This only accentuates my fury, extreme jealousy coursing through every vein. She’s here, she’s mine, and no other bastard will lay a finger on her skin ever again.