Baller: An Interracial MMA Stepbrother Romance Read online

  And even if somebody did, how would his runt of a little brother actually win?

  He guessed he’d find out tonight.

  “Yo, yo,” as if reading his brother’s mind, Jules demanded: “You gonna drive me there, or what?”

  “Drive you there?” Hannibal narrowed his eyes. “Why can’t you drive yourself? What happened to the Prius that Dad bought you?”

  Jules grinned.

  Crossing the room, he grabbed a shoebox from behind the TV and pulled off the top.

  Inside was stacks and stacks of cash – a good five grand’s worth of twenty dollar bills.

  “I sold it, yo,” Jules grinned. “I needed the purse money for tonight’s fight.”

  Chapter Seven

  Kristen

  Kristen actually flinched the moment Hannibal started shouting.

  “You sold the fucking car?” The walls shook at the sound of Hannibal’s voice. “Fuck me, Jules. Do you know how big a deal it was, Dad buying you a car?” He sniffed. “I sure as shit didn’t get a car when I graduated high school.”

  “Nah, it ain’t no big deal,” Jules waved his hand dismissively. “I’m gonna go back to the dealership and buy another one – a newer one – with the prize money I get tonight.”

  Slap!

  Hannibal knocked the shoebox out of his brother’s hand. Twenty dollar bills cascaded to the floor.

  “What the fuck, Baller?” Jules snapped, dropping to his knees to grab at the rogue twenties. “What is your fucking problem?”

  “What’s my problem?” Hannibal put his big hands on his narrow hips, and glared down at his brother. “My problem is my ungrateful shit of a brother.”

  Jules straightened up and shoved Hannibal right in the chest.

  Or, at least, tried to. Hannibal didn’t flinch.

  There was a flash of anxiety behind Jules’ eyes when his shove failed to have the desired effect, but he brushed it off, and growled: “I’m gonna win that money back tonight, yo.”

  “Win? In a fight?” Hannibal shook his head. “Look at you, you skinny little runt. You haven’t seen the inside of a gym in years. You get winded running up the stairs.” And then Hannibal’s eyes narrowed. “And you’re fucking drunk and high.”

  Jules hiccupped.

  “I won my last fight, didn’t I?” His eyes narrowed. “You know what, Baller? I think you’re just jealous.” He nodded, as if trying to convince himself. “Yeah, that’s right. Jealous ‘cos you’re not the only big shot fighter in the family any more.”

  “Big shot?” Hannibal growled. “You call fighting for shoeboxes of twenties ‘big shot’?” He shook his head. “Yo, I was headlining in Vegas two weeks ago. What you’re doing?” He shook his head. “Fucking playground stuff.”

  “We’ll see,” Jules spat.

  “Yeah, I guess we will,” Hannibal sneered. “Because I am gonna drive you tonight.” He snorted: “I want to see this for myself. I want to see you get your ass beat, and then I want to see your face when you have to tell Pop what you did with that car he bought you.”

  Jules stared up at his brother, and hissed: “Well, bro – I want to see the look on your face, when you finally realize you’re not the only champion in the family any more.”

  And then the skinny young black man pointed to the door.

  “Go on, get out,” he snapped. “I need to get ready anyway. Come pick me up at seven.”

  Hannibal stood there, staring at his brother for a moment. Mixed emotions coursed through him. Anger. Frustration. Hatred.

  But more than that: Concern and pity.

  His skinny little brother – drunk, and high, and so messed up in the head. He wished he could help him; but if growing up with Jules had taught Hannibal anything, it’s that the kid never listened to anybody but himself.

  Without a word, Hannibal turned and marched for the door. Kristen nervously followed him.

  “Yo, seven o’clock,” Julius snapped after them. “Don’t be late!”

  Chapter Eight

  Hannibal

  “So… What do you think his deal is?”

  That evening, Kristen and Hannibal were back.

  Once again, they were parked outside Jules’ shitty apartment – this time in Hannibal’s Bentley, with the engine running. Hannibal was too concerned about something happening to the car to get out of it – and too pissed at his brother to walk down the path and rap on his door.

  Instead he just honked the horn.

  “Well?” Kristen repeated.

  Hannibal turned to his step-sister. He looked down at her tan, pretty face, and snarled: “What’s wrong with my brother? Where do you want to start?”

  Kristen didn’t want to touch that one with a ten-foot pole.

  “When that shit with my mother kicked,” she said quietly, “you were supposed to be the bad boy. Heading off to Vegas to be a fighter.” She shook her head. “Your dad used to curse you out about that.”

  Hannibal snorted bitterly.

  “Don’t remind me.”

  “But Jules? He seemed to have his shit together. He was going to college. He had a job…”

  “Until he got busted for fighting, and smoking weed, and all that other shit.”

  “Yeah, well maybe he wouldn’t have got mixed up in that if you’d still been around.”

  Hannibal’s eyes flashed, but he didn’t have time to respond. Right at that moment, the front door of Jules’ apartment slammed open, and Hannibal’s skinny little brother came swaggering out.

  Jules lurched down the path in a wife-beater and jeans tugged down around his hips.

  Kristen looked at him through the windscreen, and asked Hannibal: “Where did it go wrong with you two?”

  She fell silent as Jules finally swaggered up to the car, and pulled open the door. Kristen slithered into the back seat, and Jules flopped down onto the luxurious black leather beside his brother.

  He reached into his pocket for a packet of Marlboro.

  “Not in my fucking car you don’t,” Hannibal knocked them out of his hand.

  Jules growled at him, but knew better than to argue. He reluctantly pulled on his seatbelt as Hannibal eased off the brakes and the powerful car rolled forward.

  Soon they were out of the city streets and rolling onto Interstate 84.

  “Head north,” Jules ordered. “They hold the fights at a warehouse out of town.”

  “Sounds legit,” Hannibal said mockingly.

  “Yeah, well, I don’t know if the shit’s strictly legal,” Jules growled. “But it’s legit, bro.”

  Hannibal said nothing. He just narrowed his eyes and eased his foot down – rolling the big Bentley up to nearly 90 miles an hour as they roared north.

  It didn’t take them long to get there. Jules directed them off a slip road and the Bentley purred into a rundown industrial part of town, full of darkened warehouses and garages.

  “Cross the railroad tracks,” Jules ordered – which was always a bad indication as far as Hannibal was concerned.

  He was already wondering about how smart the decision to drive Jules to his ‘fight’ was – and how clever he’d been to bring his Bentley. The beautiful grey car was pretty much the only valuable thing he owned at that point in time, and he didn’t like the idea of watching his brother get a beat down, and then coming outside to find his car on blocks.

  But, as it turned out, he needn’t have worried.

  At the end of the road, a warehouse lay behind towering wire fences. Spotlights seared through the darkness, and music thumped through speakers. Parked in the lot were dozens of high end and customized cars – Hummers, Toyota Supras and enough aftermarket neon and chrome to equip a Fast and Furious sequel.

  “See?” Jules saw the look on his brother’s face. “I told you, bro. It’s legit.”

  Hannibal whistled through his teeth. Shit, maybe his brother was right.

  But that didn’t stop an uneasy feeling swimming around in his belly, and that just intensified as the B
entley rolled up to the entrance to this warehouse lot – and two men walked out to block its approach.

  They were big, white guys in cheap suits. One held up his hand, and indicated that Hannibal should stop the car. The other marched to the car window, one hand held behind his back.

  There was probably a gun tucked into the back of his pants. Hannibal had been to enough illegal raves and parties while in Vegas to recognize that trick.

  The towering guard rapped on the window, and Hannibal rolled it down.

  “Yo, yo, it’s okay,” Jules leaned over, and peered at the guard. “I’m here to fight, bro. Just ask Red.”

  The guard nodded, recognizing Hannibal’s brother. Silently, he indicated that Hannibal should drive on – and the other guard stepped out of the way and let the Bentley past.

  “Man, I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” from the back seat, Kristen finally spoke up.

  “Nah, nah,” Jules waved his hand dismissively. “It’s all cool.”

  But Hannibal narrowed his eyes, as he pulled the Bentley to a halt beside a chromed-out Chrysler 300.

  He shared Kristen’s concern.

  Chapter Nine

  Hannibal

  “Well, as I live and breathe,” the accent was grating and southern, and cut through the thumping bass music like a knife. “We’ve got a mother-fucking celebrity in the house.”

  Hannibal, Kristen and Jules had clambered out of the Bentley and headed towards the warehouse – and that’s when a stranger had appeared to block their path.

  He was a burly redheaded guy with a bushy ginger beard and a battered black cowboy hat that looked like it had survived one too many Lynyrd Skynyrd concerts.

  He was flanked on both sides by more of the looming guards, in their cheap black suits. Neither of them looked that tough – big, fat fellas with round bellies – but they looked mean, and they were probably carrying guns.

  Hannibal knew better than to mess with them.

  His brother, apparently, wasn’t so smart.

  “Yo, yo,” Jules loped over to the redheaded stranger and gave him a fist bump. “Let me introduce Red, bro. This is his league.”

  Red returned Jules’ fistbump, and turned to Hannibal. The black fighter loomed over the burly redhead, but Red didn’t look scared.

  “Well, y’all don’t need an introduction,” the redhead grinned, with a redneck accent that hovered between Texas and Atlanta. “’Baller’ Alexander. It’s fuckin’ pleasure, hoss.” He held out a big, calloused hand.

  Hannibal stared at it, and then shook it cautiously.

  “The name’s Rodney Callahan,” the stranger introduced himself, “but everybody calls me Red. And I’ve been lookin’ forward to meetin’ you, Baller – ever since your brother here started fightin’.”

  Hannibal didn’t say anything. He just grunted.

  If Red was offended, he didn’t show it. He just turned to Kristen, who was cowering behind Hannibal’s comforting bulk.

  “An’ who’s this lovely lil’ lady?” Red offered his hand again. When Kristen meekly offered hers, the redneck lifted it to his mouth and planted a bristly kiss on it. “Ain’t you just a cool drink o’ water? You bangin’ one of these boys?” Then Red snorted lasciviously. “Or both of ‘em?”

  “She’s our stepsister,” Hannibal growled, with an unspoken suggestion in his voice that Red ought to stop talking about her that way.

  Red looked mean, but he was smart. He dropped the subject.

  “You here to fight, Baller?” The cowboy asked. “Or just to watch?” He patted Jules on one of his skinny arms. “Your little bro here did good work last week.”

  “You ain’t seen nuttin’ yet, Red,” Jules grinned. “I’ma be a mother fuckin’ champion walking out of here tonight.”

  “I’m sure you will,” Red grinned – and then his eyes narrowed. With an icy coldness in his voice, he demanded: “You’ve got your purse money, though, right son?”

  Jules nodded eagerly, and produced his box of crumpled twenties.

  “Five thousand dollars, Red.”

  The redneck narrowed his eyes, and Hannibal could see that he was silently calculating how much was in the box. Hannibal had seen coke dealers on the strip work the same way.

  “Looks good,” and just like the dealers did, the moment Red had determined that the cash was all there, he pretended like he didn’t give a shit about it. “You’re on at ten, son. Go prep.”

  And, with that, Red passed the box of cash to one of his guards, and turned to Hannibal and Kristen.

  “We’ll take good care of your lil’ brother,” the redneck promised, as one of the guards led Jules off to get ready. “But I wanna take good care of you.” He snorted loudly. “Ain’t all that often we have a real fighter down these parts. Let me get you a drink and show you around.”

  Hannibal stood silently for a second, peering down at the bearded redneck.

  The hairs on the back of Hannibal’s neck were standing up. He felt nervous – and that wasn’t a feeling that came easily to a guy like him.

  But he was also curious. This underground fight league seemed like a big deal – much bigger than the basement fight clubs you read about in the crime section of the local paper.

  “Sure,” swallowing his nerves, the big fighter forced himself to smile, and nodded at Red. “I’d like that.”

  Red grinned, showing off his mismatched teeth.

  “C’mon. I’ll show you around.” And then he was off, wordlessly expecting Hannibal to follow him.

  Baller turned and looked down at Kristen. His stepsister looked even more nervous than he did.

  Without even thinking about it, he offered her his big hand.

  She entwined her pale fingers in his dark ones, and squeezed.

  Hand in hand, they followed this loudmouth redneck into the warehouse.

  Chapter Ten

  Hannibal

  Inside, the music was so loud they could barely hear each other speak. There must have been five hundred people crammed into the warehouse – all surrounding a makeshift MMA octagon made out of scaffolding and wire fencing.

  “C’mon up to the VIP section,” Red grinned, shouldering his way through the crowd. Hannibal noticed that the folks gathered for the fight got out of the cowboy’s way real quick – like he was some kind of celebrity or something.

  The crowd gathered there was an unusual bunch. There were a lot of white trash folks in baseball caps and t-shirts. A sea of brown faces suggested the Hispanic contingent was big as well. Then Hannibal saw enough African-American folks to make him wonder if Jules had sent the word around his run-down housing development.

  All in all, it was a pretty multicultural crowd. The only difference from a real MMA venue being that these folks looked mean and hungry.

  “Up here,” Red had led them to a trailer, parked incongruously in the middle of the warehouse. Two men in cheap suits guarded a staircase up to the trailer, and stepped out of the way as Red approached.

  Three steps up and Hannibal and Kristen found themselves in the best seats of the house – with a clear view of the makeshift octagon, and luxurious seating in the form of old patio furniture and a couple of beer coolers.

  Red offered them seats, and Kristen and Hannibal sat down cautiously in rickety lawn chairs. Grinning, Red sat down opposite, and reached into the cooler next to him for two cans of Miller Lite.

  He flung them over.

  “Neck these suckers, and let’s talk,” the redneck grinned.

  Hannibal picked up the beer suspiciously. He wasn’t much of a beer drinker – as a top-tier fighter, he ate far too clean for that. But he went along with it, and popped the top – gulping down two long swallows of the frothy brew before Red pulled out his next trick – a mason jar full of clear liquid.

  “My boys bring this up from North Carolina.” Red popped the top, and took a long swallow from the jar. Then he passed it over. “Get some that down you, son. It’ll put hairs on your chest.”
/>   Hannibal snorted. He shaved his chest.

  But, once again, he did as he was asked; and brought the Mason jar to his lips.

  Moonshine.

  The alcohol fumes made his eyes tear up, and that was even before he’d let the glass touch his lips. He gulped down two searing swallows before he had to pass the jar over to Kristen, gasping as the ‘shine burned on the way down.

  “That’s the good stuff,” Red grinned. “Whaddya think?”

  “I think I’ll stick to Hennessey,” Hannibal gasped.

  Kristen didn’t fare much better. She coughed and spluttered as she handed the Mason jar back. Then she eagerly washed down the firewater with the cold Miller Lite.

  Red grinned. The moonshine was clearly a test – and one the two of them had failed.

  “So what d’y’all think of my little set-up?” Red asked, as Hannibal blinked away tears. “I know it ain’t as fancy as your big league getup over in Las Vegas, but you can’t deny I can bring in a crowd.”

  Hannibal surveyed the crowd of roaring patrons and nodded. It was pretty impressive.

  “So this venture’s illegal, right?” he asked.

  “Shit yeah,” Red snorted. “I tried to go legit when I was younger, but there are too many hoops to jump through.” He gulped down some more moonshine. “Besides, the money’s better this way.”

  Hannibal surveyed the crowd.

  “You’ve got spotlights. They can probably hear the music all the way over in Hartford.” He narrowed his eyes. “Don’t you get worried about the cops?”

  Red shrugged.

  “Let’s just say the cops and I have an agreement.”

  Hannibal pursed his lips. He didn’t like the sound of that.

  “I know you might turn your nose up at this lil’ setup,” Red leaned closer, “but it’s a startin’ point for a lot of young fighters. Not everybody had the advantages you did, gettin’ into the sport. Take your lil’ brother, for example. He has to work for it.”