Baller: An Interracial MMA Stepbrother Romance (15 page)

Chapter Forty-Six

Kristen

“You’re nuts.”

That was the first thing Hannibal murmured to Kristen, as she dragged him around the corner into the deserted TV room, and pressed her lips wetly against his.

“Do you know how hard it’s been trying to keep my hands off you all evening?” Kristen whispered hotly, wrapping her tiny hands around his massive shoulders. “It’s been driving me crazy.”

“Well, can you sneak out later?”

“Where to?” She snorted, standing on her tip-toes to nibble on his ear. “Somewhere with a full-sized bed, I hope.”

Hannibal’s mind started whirring, considering the possibilities – even considering the big, leather couch over at
Fire & Iron
.

But that’s when the scream interrupted them.

With her arms still wrapped around her stepbrother, Kristen and Hannibal wheeled around and found Susie starring across the room at them.

“What the
hell
is going on?” she screamed.

Kristen squeezed shut her eyes. She’d forgotten that the TV room had another entrance, by traveling through the sunroom.

“What the
hell
is going on here?” Susie repeated, and that time it was loud enough for Jules and Cornell to come stumbling into the TV room as well.

Kristen let go of Hannibal’s shoulders, and roughly shoved her stepbrother aside.

“Hannibal Frederick Alexander,” Cornell boomed, so loud the windows rattled. “What was that display?”

Hannibal and Kristen were silent, glancing at each other anxiously. It was impossible to tell how much Susie and the others had seen – or what they’d
thought
they’d seen…

“Yo,” it was Jules who cut to the chase. “Are you two… are you two
hooking up
?”

Susie gasped, and slumped against the couch.

“T-this isn’t what it looks like,” Kristen held up her hands.

“Yes,” Hannibal snapped at her. “Yes, it is. It’s
exactly
what it looks like.” He turned to Susie and his dad, and said coolly: “Kristen and I… We like each other.”

There was stunned silence, interrupted only by Jules hissing: “Ewwwww, dude. You’ve been hooking up with our
stepsister
.”

“Hey, I didn’t
ask
her to be our stepsister,” Hannibal snapped back. “I mean, no offense Susie,” turning to Kristen’s mom, he said flatly: “Nobody asked you to marry our Pops.”

Susie gasped, as if he’d slapped her.

Cornell reared up to his full height – still a good foot shorter than Hannibal.

“I think you’d better leave, Hannibal.”

“
Hey
,” Hannibal snapped. “We’ve done
nothing
wrong.”

“I don’t even know where to
begin
with what you’ve done wrong,” Cornell snapped back, “but your tone’s enough to start with. You get out of my house, right now.”

Hannibal rolled his eyes. This was like a flashback to the previous night.

“C’mon, Krissie,” he reached for her hand. She didn’t take it.

Turning to his stepsister, Hannibal saw her big, blue eyes were glistening with tears. He followed her gaze, and saw Susie’s round, tan face was glistening with tears of her own.

“Aww, fuck,” Hannibal snapped.

And with that, he marched to the door, practically kicked it open, and stomped on down the garden path.

A moment later, the sound of squealing tires reverberated down the street, as the powerful Bentley screamed off into the night.

Chapter Forty-Seven

Kristen

“How could you?” Susie sniffed, sitting on the couch. “With
him
.”

“With him?” Kristen was trying to console her, but every time she reached to stroke her mother’s hair, Susie would bat her hand away. “What’s wrong with him?”

“Yes, Susanne,” Cornell was standing over them now, using his can to lean on. “What exactly is wrong with my son?”

Susie scoffed.

Looking up at her husband, she cried: “He’s a thug! You said so yourself! Everything you told me, every night when he was gone. He’s irresponsible, a womanizer. He takes no responsibility for anything.” She sobbed. “You spent the last year telling me what a monster he is, and now he’s trying to corrupt my daughter.”

“I never said…” But Cornell fell silent.

Everything Susie had said was true.

“Mom, he’s not
really
like that,” Susie rubbed her mother’s shoulder. “The tattoos? The women? That’s all just an act, for the audience.”

Susie wiped her cheek.

“Is it?” She spat. “I’ve seen the tabloids. I saw the video of the fight that got him suspended.” She rolled her eyes. “You’re just a silly girl, Krissie. You didn’t ever think that maybe
this
,” she gestured to Cornell’s old house, filled with books and paintings. “You think maybe
this
was the act? That he’s just back here
pretending
to fit into our world. That maybe he really belongs in that circus back in Vegas?”

She looked up at her husband.

“Tell him, Cornell. You said it yourself, that he’s just a thug.”

“I… I…” Cornell’s mouth flopped open like a fish. “That’s my
son
, Susie.”

“And this is my
daughter
,” she hissed. “And I don’t want him corrupting her like he did Julius.”

“Hey!”

Up until now, Jules had just been hanging back, listening. But, at the mention of his name, he stepped forward and growled: “Baller got me back into class. He’s giving me lessons for two hours every day.” He narrowed his eyes. “If making me work my ass off is ‘corrupting’ me, maybe that’s exactly what I needed.”

“Oh, shut up, Julius,” Cornell snapped. “You’re just a kid. You don’t know anything…”

“I know enough not to put up with this bullshit,” Jules spat. He grabbed his coat from the back of the couch. “Don’t bother about giving me a ride home. I’ll catch a cab.” And then he snorted loudly. “See, I’m gonna win an MMA fight this week, and then I won’t need to listen to any of you motherfuckers again.”

The walls of the old house shook as Jules slammed shut the door, stomping off into the night.

Susie let out another wail.

Kicking the coffee table, Cornell turned his back on the two of them, and stomped miserably into his study.

Chapter Forty-Eight

Hannibal

“Part of me wondered if you’d even bother coming.”

That’s how Hannibal greeted Jules, as his younger brother came skidding to a halt on his fixie bike outside
Fire & Iron
.

It was the following morning, and from the bloodshot appearance of Hannibal’s eyes, it was clear he hadn’t got much sleep.

“Nah, blood, we good,” Jules slid off his bike and gave Hannibal his signature ‘homie handshake.’ “What they were saying about you last night… Well, that was bullshit.”

Hannibal snorted bitterly.

“Maybe… I dunno.” He paused. “How’s Krissie?”

“Beats me, brother,” Jules shrugged. “When they started going off, I bailed. Fuck if I’m going to sit around and listen to them badmouth you.” He snorted. “Shit, you’re the only fucker around here who even listens to me.”

Hannibal allowed himself a wry smile, and patted his little brother on the shoulder.

“Thanks, man.”

Jules shrugged it off.

“C’mon, man. I came early, like you said. I want to see you train with this German dude.” He sniffed. “I might learn a thing or two.”

“Well, hurry your ass up. He’s waiting.”

Hannibal led Jules into the dark, cool comfort of
Fire & Iron
. It was a Saturday, so the gym was pretty busy, and the clank of free weights and the thump of gloves on punching bags echoed through the redbrick warehouse.

Waiting at the boxing ring was Manfred Schumacher – and, of course, his beautiful girlfriend, Sally.

“Holy shit,” Jules’ eyes widened the moment he saw her. “Who is
that
?”

“His girlfriend,” Hannibal hissed. “Play it cool.”

And then he introduced them.

“So, you are Baller’s little brother,
ja
?” With his typically over-aggressive friendliness, Schumacher gripped Jules’ hand with an iron grasp and got right up into his face to say hello. “I hear ve vill be seeing you on the fight circuit before too long.”

“I hope so, cuz,” Jules feigned confidence, but it was clear Schumacher’s in-your-face behavior threw him a little. “Maybe we’ll have a tangle one of these days.”

Schumacher snorted when he heard that, and then examined Hannibal’s little brother very seriously for a second.

“Put some weight on,” he finally nodded, slapping Jules’ shoulder, “and we’ll talk.”

“Speaking of talking,” Baller was stripping off his hoodie, “maybe we ought to do a little less of it.”

“
Ja
,
ja
,” Schumacher held up his hands in mock apology, “you are a busy man.” He turned back to Jules. “Vhy don’t you sit down viz my little girlfriend, Foxy, and enjoy the show.”

And that’s when Sally extended her slender hand, and Jules’ eyes widened as he shook it.

Hannibal watched from up in the boxing ring. He guess he couldn’t blame Jules for being a little star-struck. Sally Fox really was lovely. But after fucking porn stars and hip hop models in Las Vegas and Los Angeles, Hannibal was beginning to understand that ‘hot’ was an overrated attribute.

Manfred climbed into the ring, and slapped his fist into his palm a couple of times.

“Ready to go,
mein Freund
?”

Hannibal wheeled around, and grinned dangerously.

“As you said the other day, Manny: Come at me, bro.”

Chapter Forty-Nine

Hannibal

Emotion is a dangerous thing in fighting.

It can be a distraction, or make you act irrationally. An assault driven by emotion is never as strategic as one plotted out beforehand.

But focused emotion – anger, and frustration – has its place. An angry punch lands faster and harder than a level-headed one, and fury will wriggle you out of an arm bar or choke hold in a way a cooler head never could.

And that’s why Hannibal was especially dangerous that morning.

Still furious with his father, he focused that pent-up aggression into his training with Manfred; and didn’t give the German a moment of respite.

His punches flew like jackhammers. He blocked so aggressively that the deflected blows actually hurt Schumacher. Fists and feet impacted with Hannibal’s muscular body time and time again, and he brushed off the pain like it was rainwater.

“You’re on rare form, this morning,” Schumacher panted, clearly surprised by Hannibal’s aggressiveness. “Is this the level of performance you gave MacDonald?”

“Heh,” Baller snorted bitterly. “If I’d been on my game like this, they’d have carried that Limey bastard out of the octagon on a stretcher.”

And then he launched into an assault that had the German reeling.

Powerful swings landed punishing blows – hits that Schumacher only barely blocked with his elbows and fists. One roundhouse kick even sent him sprawling, and the German narrowly avoided going down twice more as Hannibal went at him without mercy.

But just as Hannibal had observed before, Schumacher was adaptable. The next time Hannibal came swinging, his fury blinded him to Manfred’s change of tactics. The German ducked under Hannibal’s meaty fists, and hooked his elbows under the big fighter’s thighs.

It’s not easy to yank over a 235lb man; but Schumacher did it with practiced ease – and a moment later, Hannibal went sprawling onto his back like a felled oak.

For a moment, the wind was knocked out of him. Hannibal struggled to defend himself as Schumacher leapt on top of him.

At first he thought he’d managed; wrapping his legs around Schumacher’s muscular hips, and trapping him in a full guard position. From there, Hannibal brain was already trying to figure out which joint lock or chokehold he should attempt.

But the German was a step ahead. He lurched forward – one of the few directions you can go when you’re in a trunk hold – and snatched for Hannibal’s wrist. Baller was too slow to stop him; and with a lurching sense of horror, he realized what Manfred was attempting to do.

With almost surgical precision, the German pinned Hannibal’s wrist to the canvas, right next to his ear. With all Schumacher’s weight behind it, it was impossible for Hannibal to lift it away.

And then, grinning eagerly, Schumacher slithered his other hand under Hannibal’s pinned arm, and locked the grip by grabbing his own wrist on the other side.

And then he rolled onto his side – or, as wrestling experts sometimes called it, he ‘turned the lock.’

Hannibal groaned in pain, as his shoulder, elbow and wrist was brutally bent in a direction nature never intended. The agony was white hot, and it took him less than a second to slap Schumacher’s shoulder desperately with his free arm.

As soon as Schumacher felt him tap out, he released the vice-like grip – and Hannibal flopped to the canvas, panting for breath.

Face softening, Schumacher leaned over and asked: “You okay, Baller?”

Hannibal snorted in frustration.

“Yeah,” he grunted, sitting up stiffly, and rubbing his aching shoulder. “Yeah, I’m fine.” The sting of the shoulder lock was mild compared to the humiliation of tapping out. “That was some move, brother.”

“
Ja
,
ja
,” Schumacher extended his hand, and Hannibal clasped it – getting pulled to his feet. “You had me, as you say; ‘on the ropes.’ I pulled out my secret weapon.” The German tapped his nose. “Keep it a secret,
ja
?”

Hannibal narrowed his eyes, and studied the German as he smiled cheerfully back at him.

“Yeah,” he nodded thoughtfully, kneading his aching shoulder. “Yeah, sure, brother.”

But in Hannibal’s mind, he was lodging that move away; slotting Schumacher’s tactic into his memory banks in case he ever had to face the German for real in the octagon.

“Why don’t we take a breather,” Manfred suggested, and Hannibal gratefully acquiesced.

As they clambered out of the boxing ring, Jules came over bearing bottles of Poland Spring.

“Yo, dawg,” he patted Schumacher on the shoulder. “That move you pulled… That was
tight
.” Jules turned to Hannibal. “Man, you tapped out like a little bitch, blood.”

Hannibal’s eyes narrowed, and water splashed down his front as his fist tightened on the bottle.

“
Nein
,
nein
,” Schumacher clarified. “Your brother was tougher to pin than anybody else I’ve fought. He’s not a bitch. He’s a
bull
.”

“And he’s more than welcome to prove it any time he wants,” Sally purred flirtatiously, stepping up and curling one of her hands around Schumacher’s sweaty bicep.

Hannibal’s anger turned to embarrassment, and then to good humor. He snorted bitterly, and took a long, slow swallow of water.

“Well, hey, look,” Jules injected, “I’m here to train with my brother, yo. But maybe…” He jerked his thumb at the grimacing Hannibal, “…seeing how you busted him, and all. Maybe you could teach me that trick.”

Schumacher turned and looked the scrawny black kid up and down, as if measuring his worthiness.

Finally, he pursed his lips, and then turned to Hannibal.

“Vat do you say,
Herr
Alexander?”

Baller looked at his skinny, over-eager brother. Part of his ego smarted at the thought of this talented German fighter teaching Jules something he couldn’t.

But, the more rational part of him knew that he was there to give his brother the best chances he could of surviving his bout in that illegal MMA cage match. And right now? Those chances had a German accent.