Knocked Up By Love by Ella Goode
Chapter Nineteen
Bear
“Randy,do you remember when that guy came around asking if we would be willing to throw the fight against Mad Dog Barnes?” I ask. My mind is only on one thing right now: protecting Honey. Nothing else matters. I saw red when Honey told me there is a price on her head.
“Sure do. Not like I’m going to forget him putting you and our whole gym in jeopardy, why?”
“Wasn’t he connected to the Hollywood producer that put a hit out on his wife and then got arrested for the murder of his mistress?”
“Jared Lawrence?”
I snap my fingers and point at Randy. “Exactly. Him.”
“Yeah. Mad Dog put out a statement of support and then the Internet dug up that Lawrence was in Mad Dog’s camp for a fight a year ago. People suspected Lawrence had been betting on Mad Dog’s fights and earning a pretty coin off of them. What made you bring that up?”
“Ran into someone who might know him. Do we know where Mad Dog is these days?”
“Think he trains at the Vargas gym.”
“Thanks, Randy.” I slap the trainer on the back. When I turn to go, he grabs my arm.
“Whoa, you’re not going off to see him, are you?”
I give a pointed look at his fingers on my arm. I’m itching for a fight right now. I don’t want to take some of that itch out on Randy. He removes his grip quickly. “Yeah, I am. Why?”
“The Vargas gym is not friendly territory. Someone might spike your drink or drop a weight on your toe and call it an accident. You need to bring some muscle.” Randy whistles sharply.
“I am muscle. All muscle. Champion muscle.” I tap my biceps.
Two kids who are so fresh that the new car smell still lingers around them trot up. “Yeah, Randy?” the slightly shorter, stockier one chirps.
“You two go with Champ here. He’s on his way to the Vargas gym, and he can’t get sabotaged because he has a big fight next week. Got it?”
“I can handle this on my own. I’m not babysitting two kids. No offense, my friends.”
The leader speaks up again. “We won’t be in the way. Promise.”
I glare at Randy, who gives me a sheepish shrug.
“I wouldn’t send my grandma out in a storm without a raincoat. Not sending you to Vargas without some protection.”
“I know you think you’re giving me a compliment, but you just compared me to an old lady.” I jerk my head toward the boys. “Come on and don’t be a distraction.”
“Yes sir.” They practically click their heels together and salute.
“I’m going to return this favor someday,” I warn Randy.
He does give me a one-finger send off. “My grandma is spry. Given the right weapons, she could kick your ass.”
“As if she has a gun or a tank?” Randy’s grandma is probably 80 pounds soaking wet and comes up to my waist.
“Yeah. Like I said—the right weapons.”
I roll my eyes. “Let’s go, kids.”
“I’m twenty-one,” declares the leader.
“I’m twenty-three,” says the taller one with the longer reach.
“Good for you. You’ll see twenty-four so long as you stay behind me.” I march out the door. The two pups tumble into the back of my SUV, and I take off.
The Vargas gym is across town in the rich neighborhood where the women work out with earrings and makeup and the men pad their jocks with inflatables. Vargas makes money off these rich dilettantes by providing overpriced merch and food. The parking lot is packed when we get to the gym. The two pups stare wide-eyed at the two-story front entrance.
“Is that a chandelier? In a gym?” The stocky one who I thought was the leader is awed.
It’s irritating me. “Don’t matter what the lights look like if you can’t keep them on without illegal money.”
The one taller one nudges his friend, giving him a silent shut the hell up order, and the stocky one snaps his jaw closed. Maybe I had the leadership roles switched around. Someone wearing a fucking bow tie smiles brightly and asks for my ID. I keep walking.
“Sir. You need to show your ID. Sir!”
I turn the corner and head for the private lounge where Mad Dog is probably entertaining gym bunnies. Sure enough, inside a dark wood paneled room with fucking carpet on the floor, Mad Dog is ensconced in an overstuffed chair with LYCRA-clad women lounging all over him. Two security men show up.
“Sir, I’m going to ask you to leave once and if you don’t—” I punch the first one, and he falls to the floor, out like a broken light.
I rub my fist and address Mad Dog. “Who else is on Jared Lawrence’s payroll?”
His eyes grow wide, and he surges to his feet. “Out!” he yells. “Everyone out!”
Mad Dog waits until the room is clear but for the downed security guard at my feet. “Why the hell are you in my gym asking about Lawrence?”
“I know you guys pay off your competitors to throw matches so that Lawrence and his band of criminals can make money off of you, but I don’t give a fuck. I want to know the hired gun Lawrence uses. Tell me that and I won’t report you to the gaming commission and have you stripped of all of this.” I wave my hand around.
“Like I said, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You’re sweating like a guilty pig.” Not that I know what guilty pigs look like, but I’m guessing not much different than Mad Dog with the bulging eyes and perspiration beading around the forehead. “Give me the name and we’re gone.”
He hesitates, so I do what I have to. I punch him in the face, grab a fifty-pound free weight, and press it against his gonads. He’s always been a step too slow, which is why they have to pay off his opponents. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”
“I do—”
I lean into the weight, and he screams. “Fuck you. Fuck you!”
“I know the steroids have been eating away at your dick, but I didn’t think you’d want me to pancake it.” I draw back slightly and flex, ready to swing forward.
Scared for his future, Mad Dog spills. “I don’t know his name, but he works out of a mechanic’s shop on Seventh Avenue and Birchwood.”
I drop the weight, and it lands harmlessly between Mad Dog’s feet. “Feel free to tell him I’m coming.”
