Bruiser: A Lonely Housewife Embarks on a Passionate Affair with an Alpha Male MMA Fighter (20 page)

Chapter Sixty Six

Brandon

This time, Brandon didn’t fuck around.

As soon as the buzzer sounded, he threw himself at MacDonald, and sent the smaller fighter reeling back.

Brandon wrapped his big arms around MacDonald’s neck, and then leapt up with the power of his spring-board thighs.

His beefy legs wrapped around MacDonald’s waist. The Scotsman came down like a tossed caber.

With a thump, the two men landed on the canvas, and Brandon got to work. He crushed MacDonald between his thighs, and threw punches at his face. MacDonald panicked, and backed off – inadvertently giving Brandon an even tighter hold on him.

For several laborious minutes, the two men writhed on the canvas. Brandon’s stranglehold was brutal, but MacDonald was agile and strategic; and managed to defend his face and prevent the bigger fighter from pulling off an adequate submission.

The crowd roared as the two men wrestled and struggled on the octagon floor. Sometimes it looked like Brandon was going to get the upper hand – and then MacDonald would twist into some new contortion, and escape.

Finally, as the clock ticked down, disaster struck.

Brandon made for an arm bar, but MacDonald’s sweaty body slithered free. For a moment, that left Brandon open; and MacDonald eagerly took the opportunity.

The Scotsman finally wriggled out of Brandon’s kimura hold, and prized his beefy thighs apart like he was an oyster. Then MacDonald dug the point of his own knee into Brandon’s inner thigh, and the pressure he applied was excruciating.

For a second, Brandon was paralyzed; and that was enough for MacDonald to grab his arm and start pulling.

It was all over.

Brandon’s back arched in agony as the British Bulldog laid down two submission techniques simultaneously.

Exhausted, sweaty and stunned, Brandon cried out as the Scotsman threatened to pop his arm from its socket. Only his bulk and stubbornness prevented him from tapping out immediately.

But as James MacDonald’s face hung leeringly above his own, Brandon realized that it would only be a matter of time.

MacDonald caught Brandon’s gaze, and grinned. Sweat dripped from his face into the struggling fighter’s eyes. He tightened his grip, and Brandon saw stars as white, hot pain arched through every nerve in his body.

This was it, he figured. This was the end. To his MMA career. To his karate school. To everything.

Even through the pain, Brandon suddenly felt calm. He looked up into James MacDonald’s face, inches from his own, and experienced an almost cold detachment from his own body.

He remembered when he was in James’ position, just a few days ago – crushing Rob beneath him.

And then he remembered how Rob had escaped.

It was reckless. It was foolish. It could probably get him disqualified, or kicked out of the league.

But if it was the choice between that, and tapping out?

Brandon lifted his head, and kissed James MacDonald wetly on the lips.

Chapter Sixty Seven

Brandon

“What the
fuck
?”

James MacDonald reared back as if Brandon had pressed a white-hot poker against his lips.

Coughing and spluttering, the Scotsman rolled off Brandon and scrabbled to his feet – just in time for the buzzer to sound, announcing the end of the forth round.

“Jesus!” MacDonald was wiping his lips with the back of his glove. “Did you just fucking
kiss
me?”

Clearly Brandon had – and the crowd were going wild about it. Their screams, hoots and hollers were practically deafening.

The referee was less amused. Swaggering up to Brandon, the ref got right up into the younger fighter’s face and snapped, “That was
totally
off limits.” The ref then turned to MacDonald and asked, “Do you want to stop the fight?”

And, for a second, Brandon feared he would. The only thing worse than losing would be disqualification – meaning he’d sacrifice his appearance fee, as well as any potential winnings.

But James MacDonald just laughed.

Eyes bright, he laughed uproariously, and patted the referee on the arm.

“No, no, it’s fine,” he promised – and then the Scotsman turned to Brandon. “But don’t pull that shit again, okay? It’s only funny the first time.”

Brandon nodded – and then it was the referee’s turn to get into his face.

“You pull anything else like that,” the ref warned, “and you’re
outtahere
.” And from the look on his face, it was clear the referee wasn’t bluffing.

“I won’t,” Brandon promised, as he was led back to his corner. “He’s a lousy kisser, anyway…”

*              *              *

Slumping into his stool, Brandon eagerly gulped down the water than Vinnie sloshed water in his mouth. He gasped in relief as Rob pressed an ice pack against his screaming shoulder.

“Fuck, man,” he gasped. “I-I’m
beat
.”

“One more round, champ,” Vinnie patted him on the shoulder.

Rob was smiling as he wiped Brandon’s sweaty brow.

“Did you really just pull ‘gay chicken’ on that bastard?”

Brandon snorted, and a smile spread across his bruised face.

“Well, you’re lucky they didn’t throw your ass out of the cage,” Rob shook his head. “That move of mine wasn’t match-ready.”

Brandon took a ragged, deep breath.

“It kept me from tapping out,” he laughed.

Rob shook his head, but it didn’t matter. Brandon was ignoring him now. He was focused on James, on the other side of the octagon.

James’ manager, a little Welsh guy called Taffy, was pouring water into the Scotsman’s mouth. Although he was sweaty and red-faced, James still looked limber, eager and ready for action.

Brandon wasn’t looking forward to the last round.

He knew three possibilities existed:

First, he might take James MacDonald down. If he could get him onto the ground, just
maybe
he could pull it off.

Secondly, he could just outlast MacDonald, and hope the judges would give him some credit when they decided who won.

But, more likely, James would take
him
down. A well-timed punch, or a lucky submission, and everything Brandon had worked for could be taken away.

“Come on, champ,” Rob hauled Brandon to his feet, and patted him on the back. “Go out there and do something amazing.”

Brandon staggered into the center of the octagon, and attempted to do exactly that.

Chapter Sixty Eight

Brandon

At this point in the fight, Brandon knew he was facing the gambler’s dilemma – James MacDonald was chipping away at Bruiser’s reserves of energy and focus, and that left him increasingly open to disaster.

At this point only bold and decisive action would cut it. Brandon needed to play one hand, and bet big enough to take down the house.

In this case, the ‘house’ was that looming, agile Scotsman.

As Brandon lumbered into the center of the octagon, he tapped gloves with MacDonald and then raised his fists; eager to see what would happen next.

He already had a plan in mind… The question was whether it would pay off or not.

James MacDonald started predictably enough. Dancing on the balls of his feet, he made some plays for Brandon with typical boxing technique. Brandon hung back; giving MacDonald just enough of a tempting target to keep him interested, but not enough of one for him to actually make a move.

And that’s when Brandon struck.

As James MacDonald edged in for a swing, Brandon hit him with a spinning hook kick that the Scotsman
never
saw coming.

It was straight out of the Muay Thai playbook, but looked more like something straight out of
Walker: Texas Ranger
. Chuck Norris would have been proud.

As James pulled back for a punch, Brandon threw him a kick with the force of a freight train behind it.

The hook kick landed Bruiser’s shin and foot
hard
across James’s undefended face – and the Scotsman went down like a sack of potatoes.

The crowd screamed in delight, and then roared even louder as Brandon took the opportunity to pounce on MacDonald as he lay sprawled across the canvas.

Bruiser’s fists flew. He pinned MacDonald down onto the mat and pummeled him again and again, until the Scotsman could do nothing but shield his face and try to twist free.

It was brutal – and Brandon grinned as he tasted victory.

But somehow, in a feat of almost superhuman strength, James broke free. Rolling onto his back, he pushed Brandon off him and then staggered to his unsteady feet; stumbling across the mats.

By the time Brandon was back up again, James had his fists raised in a defensive position; and Bruiser realized he’d blown the best opportunity he’d had.

But that didn’t stop him… Seeing blood rolling down MacDonald’s chin, and the Scotsman’s agile footwork replaced by drunken swaying, Brandon moved in for the kill.

He swung. MacDonald blocked. The Scotsman retaliated with another punch, and that one bounced off Brandon’s elbow like a pebble.

For lingering minutes, they staggered in circles, and threw punches; both fighters visibly more exhausted by the second. Then MacDonald stumbled, and Brandon was on him again.

Thump! MacDonald hit the canvas again, like a ton of bricks. Brandon immediately pancaked on him, wrapping his arms around MacDonald’s shoulder.

They wrestled on the floor, and the crowd screamed as they tried to guess who was going to come out on top.

At first it looked like Brandon – he was bigger, and heavier, and more relentless in his technique.

But then James MacDonald would wriggle free, and slide his hand or his knee somewhere Brandon didn’t want it to go, and open up his submission attempts like they were fortune cookies.

And all the while, the clock ticked inexorably down.

Finally, Brandon got the upper hand.

James made the mistake of clambering onto his hands and knees, and that opened him up for a guillotine choke. Like a vice, Brandon wrapped his beefy arms around MacDonald’s neck and tightened his grip.

MacDonald twisted, and wriggled, and threw ineffective punches that bounced off Brandon’s bear-like body. Finally, he struggled to dig his fingers in between Brandon’s arm and his throat – and for a minute it looked like he might succeed.

But a minute is an eternity in MMA…

Brandon tightened his grip. James went limp in his arms.

Just a few more seconds, Brandon thought, and he’s mine.

And he started counting in his head… Counting down the seconds until James MacDonald wouldn’t be able to take it any more.

But it didn’t come soon enough.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, the buzzer sounded – and the crowd went wild as the fifth and final round ended.

Stunned and blinking, Brandon released James from the choke, and the Scotsman rolled away gasping and hacking.

He’d been close, Brandon snarled. He’d been
so fucking close
…

But as the referee and announcer came closer, the karate instructor realized the future of his martial arts school rested on the judge’s decision now.

Chapter Sixty Nine

Brandon

“And the winner, by unanimous decision, is James MacDonald!”

The crowd went
wild
. Screaming, and roaring, and pounding their fists in their air, they all cried triumphantly as the referee hoisted James MacDonald’s arm into the air and announced him the victor.

Standing the other side of the ref, swaying from side to side, Brandon felt like his stomach had just plummeted out of the bottom of his guts.

He’d
lost
.

And it wasn’t like he’d lost by submission, or a knock-out. That he might have been able to deal with. Instead, he’d lost on the judge’s verdict – on their opinion of five rounds of brutal combat.

Sure, Brandon had made mistakes – but
surely
the judges owed him more than this.

But nobody seemed to care. Brandon stood there, swaying from side to side, as the TV announcer shoved a microphone into James MacDonald’s face and quizzed him on his victory.

Brandon was hardly listening as the Scotsman foisted out some tired old platitudes.

“…great match…” and “…tough opponent…” At one point he threw Brandon a bone and admitted, “I was lucky. It could have gone very differently.”

Then the camera was pointed at Brandon, and he struggled to find the words.

“I-I did my best,” Brandon choked. “I don’t care about losing… It’s just…” He ran a hand through his sweat-soaked hair. “My school, man… The kids…”

He didn’t even register what the announcer said in response. All Brandon was aware of was Vinnie and Rob appearing, and leading him down the steps, out of the ring, and onto the cold concrete floor of the stadium.

Brandon dragged in a ragged lungful of air. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to faint, or throw up.

Instead, he saw a flash of brown and pink, and Ava Cassidy came skidding around the corner.

Not caring that he was dripping in sweat and blood, the beautiful housewife threw her arms around Brandon’s dripping body and crushed her head to his chest.

For the first time that night, Brandon felt whole.

And he also felt reckless.

Oblivious to the TV cameras recording him, and the thousands of spectators watching live, Brandon grabbed Ava’s shoulders, peeled her off his sticky chest, and bent his head to kiss her,
hard
.

He tasted his own sweat on her lips, and felt her swoon in his arms. More than that, he heard thousands of fans roar in approval – no doubt assuming this pretty dark-haired woman was Brandon’s wife or girlfriend.

The only person who didn’t look amused?

Rob Staavig.

Ava’s ex-boyfriend watched them kiss with wide eyes, and a snarl on his handsome face.