Baller: An Interracial MMA Stepbrother Romance (23 page)

Chapter Seventy-Four

Kristen

It took Kristen a minute before her wits caught back up with her.

She looked at the gorgeous, naked girl – who’d clearly opened the door expecting it to be Hannibal. And then she turned to Baller, and punched him in the arm and snapped: “
I should have fucking known
…”

But even as she hissed that, there was an apologetic call from inside the apartment, and a handsome blond man in a pair of tight boxer briefs came lolloping over, pushing the naked girl to one side.

“Hannibal!
Es tut mir leid
!” He shooed the girl away. “
Meine kleine
Foxy, she was playing a joke,
ja
?”

And then the German turned to Kristen, and offered a hand.

“My apologies,
Fräulein
,” he stammered emphatically, shaking her limp hand. “This is, as you Americans say, ‘not what it looks like.’”

The naked girl was sauntering away, her heavenly bottom gyrating rhythmically as she headed to the bedroom.

Almost bored, she called over her shoulder: “It’s just bad form, Manny, darling. You have to tell me in advance if he’s bringing a
girl
.” She pouted. “I’d have waxed my arsehole. Girls notice things like that.”

And then she disappeared into the bedroom, and slammed shut the door.

“Come in, come in,” the German pleaded. “I am Manfred…”

“Schumacher, yeah,” Kristen nodded, brushing past him. “I know who you are.”

“Manny said I could crash at his place for a few hours,” Hannibal explained, following Manfred inside. “The girl there…” He looked at Kristen carefully, gauging her reaction. “I didn’t come here to see her naked, if that’s what you were thinking.”

And to bolster that, Manfred shook Kristen’s hand again and promised: “
Herr
Alexander has told us about you. Turned my pretty little Foxy down because of you.” He laughed. “Hence her little display. She doesn’t take rejection very well.”

Kristen looked back and forth between the nearly-naked German and her handsome might-be-boyfriend.

“So you
didn’t
come down here to bang that British chick?”

Hannibal reached over, and squeezed her hand.

“I told you, baby. Since we got together, there’s been nobody else.” He squeezed her hand. “Shit, I got that freaky stuff out of my system in Vegas.” He tightened his grip. “I’m happy I finally have something
real
, you dig?”

Kristen nodded.

“I dig.”

“
Ja
,
ja
, ve all dig,” Manfred laughed, and Kristen turned to look at him properly for the first time, amidst all the drama.

Holy shit, she gasped. He’s fucking
gorgeous
.

And he was. Manfred ‘Brickhaus’ Schumacher was pale and ripped, with abs you could have played the xylophone on.

Kristen felt an involuntary throb between her legs. He was standing there in nothing but tight, blue boxer briefs and she could even tell that he was packing something the length and thickness of a
bratwurst
inside them.

“I have coffee, bagels,” the German offered. “Or you can take a cold shower. We’ve made up the sofa bed in the TV room, if you’d rather.”

Hannibal patted the German on the shoulder.

“I really appreciate this, man.” He shrugged. “Some real crazy shit’s about to go down in Jersey City, and I’d appreciate some calm before the storm.”

“Get some rest. Take whatever you need.” Manfred smiled. “I like you, Hannibal. Anything I can do to help, I do so willingly.”

“Well, I’m gonna take a shower… That’d be a start.”

“It’s over there, to the left.”

As Hannibal grabbed his bag and headed across the room, Kristen followed him.

He laughed, as she ducked into the beautiful, high-class wetroom behind him and clicked shut the class door.

“Dude,” Kristen stood there, star struck. “That’s really Manfred Schumacher. I’ve, like, seen him on TV.”

Hannibal peeled off his suit and shirt, standing there looking magnificent in the pale morning light.

“Yeah,” he nodded. “He’s a good dude.”

“And that girl… That was his… wife?”

“Girlfriend.” Hannibal snorted. “Shit, she used to be engaged to the guy who got me suspended in Vegas, James MacDonald.”

Her eyes widened.

“Fuck. It’s like I left Hartford and fell into a reality show.”

Hannibal snorted, smiling at her.

A high-end bathroom in a luxury apartment. Just a few weeks ago, this had been the norm for him. He was surprised how at home he felt, back in the glitz and glamor.

“A-and the way she answered the door,” Kristen wrung her hands together. “Naked, like.” She shivered. “Was she really expecting you to, like, just come in and fuck her?”

Hannibal laughed again, peeling off his pants.

“Manfred and his girl are into some freaky shit, not gonna lie,” he admitted, having a flashback to watching them seduce Jules together. “But that’s part of what this world is. It’s all money, and drama, and the sex just gets mixed up in all that.”

Kristen’s eyes were painfully wide.

“But it’s okay,” Hannibal tried to reassure her. “The crazy sex? The freaky shit? I swear, that’s behind me now. I promise.”

And Kristen shivered, and bit her bottom lip – remembering the sight of the English girls’ naked body, and Manfred’s beautiful chiseled, pale muscles.

“Well,” she murmured, squirming. “After we’ve got this situation with Jules sorted – let’s not rule anything out…”

Chapter Seventy-Five

Hannibal

Hannibal and Kristen crashed in each other’s arms on Manfred’s couch, and their sleep was deep and dreamless.

As the noon-day sun finally flooded the TV room, the big man groaned and opened his eyes. It took him a second to figure out where he was – after spending so much time in so many different beds recently, it was difficult to keep track.

Kristen was lying next to him, in her panties and a t-shirt. She looked adorable, with her honey-blond hair laid out across the pillows, and her tanned face peaceful and still.

Hannibal stroked her arm, marveling at the contrast of his dark skin against her tanned, brown flesh. And then he slipped out of bed, grabbed his pants from the back of a nearby chair, and headed for the doorway.

He had a lot of work to do before that night’s fight.

*              *              *

Scrabbling around urban New Jersey running errands isn’t exactly great preparation for a fight – and neither were the two slices of pizza that constituted his pre-fight dinner. But there was a lot more going on in Hannibal’s head than his upcoming confrontation with Rashaan Jackson – and, besides, New York pizza is the best in the world.

At seven o’clock, already beat from making his arrangements, Hannibal Alexander finally reconnected with Kristen and Manfred back at the luxurious Hoboken apartment; and filled them in as he was changing into his shorts and sweats.

“None of y’all are coming with me,” he warned them, as he found his gloves and tape. “You can drop me off outside, but when I go inside for this fight, I’m going on my own.”

“No fucking way,” Kristen cried, sitting at Manfred’s kitchen island. “I’m going with you.
Somebody’s
got to look out for you.”

“Yeah, well, who’s going to look out for
you
?” He crossed the room and laid his palm against Kristen’s cheek. “You heard Red the last time. He threatened to kill me – to drag you out back and… and
do
things to you.” He shuddered at the thought. “I can’t put you at risk. Not after what I’ve already let happen to Jules.”

“
Nein
,
nein
,” Manfred held up his hands. He was dressed in a sharp black suit, but had cleared his schedule for the evening. “I’m not sitting around while something…” His eyes lit up. “Something
exciting
goes down.”

Hannibal looked over at the German, standing there with his gorgeous English girlfriend sitting at his side.

“Manny, you made some calls for me this afternoon that might make all the difference. But now? You can’t afford to be affiliated with me, or this fight.” He narrowed his eyes. “Shit, I’m still countin’ on you to bring down ‘Bulldog’ MacDonald in Vegas. Give that motherfucker some long overdue payback.”

But then he leaned forward: “But if you’re up for it, there is one more thing you can do for me. And it’s suitably illegal enough for you to get your rocks off on.”

And as Manfred nodded his consent, Hannibal outlined his plan.

*              *              *

Thirty minutes later, a town car dropped Hannibal off outside a run-down warehouse in a sketchy area of Jersey City. There was already a crowd gathered outside – gangbangers, and hoodlums of all creeds and colors by the looks of it.

As Hannibal clambered out of the car, Manfred, Sally and Kristen looked from the backseat at him warily.

“You all don’t worry about me,” he dismissed their concerned looks. Hefting his gym bag over his shoulder, Hannibal explained: “This is like the end of those action movies, where the hero’s all, like: ‘I gotta do this alone, yo.’”

That didn’t seem to convince any of them.

Hannibal snorted, and reached into the car to squeeze Kristen’s hand. Looking deep into her blue eyes, he murmured: “Whatever happens, you look after Jules, okay? Fuck, Mom and Pops have proven they can’t. It’s up to you, now.”

A fat tear rolled down Kristen’s cheek.

“Don’t say shit like that. I’m worried enough as it is.”

Hannibal snorted, and kissed her hand. Then he leaned out of the car, slammed shut the door and slapped the rear panel of the car to send it on its way.

The truth be told?

He was plenty worried for the both of them.

Chapter Seventy-Six

Hannibal

At the doorway to the deserted warehouse, the security detachment recognized Hannibal instantly.

Shoving the crowd aside, they escorted him in through a side door – one of the cheaply-suited punks asking: “Yo. It’s just you? Ain’t got no entourage.”

Hannibal snorted.

“It’s just me in the octagon. Why do I need anybody else?”

But as he was led through the darkened corridors of this makeshift fight venue, the truth was that he’d never felt more alone in all his life.

There was a dingy old office that served as a changing room, and as Hannibal was shown inside, he found Red Callahan and Rashaan Jackson waiting for him.

The bearded southerner grinned, pushing back the brim of his cowboy hat as Hannibal walked in.

“Well, would ya look here? I was worried you weren’t gonna show, boy.” Red chuckled. “Wouldn’t be the first time somebody got an attack of conscience fightin’ here.”

Hannibal dumped his back on the table in the corner.

“I’m just here to get this done,” he growled. “You got my brother’s money?”

“I may do,” Red purred. “Depends on you. You got your brain switched on? You know the drill, right?” He jerked his thumb at the looming hulk of Rashaan Jackson. “I don’t care
when
, I don’t care
how
. But your ass goes down in the third round. You dig?”

Hannibal nodded.

“And don’t think I didn’t notice your lil’ lady friend ain’t here,” Red pointed an accusing finger at him. “I know you’re tryin’ to keep her safe; but it’ll take a lot more than that, hoss.”

Red took a menacing step forward.

“You even think of double-crossing me, and I’ll make life hell for ever motherfucker you know. I’ll have
Fire & Iron
burned down to the ground. I’ll have your parents put in hospital. And that pretty little piece of ass? Your stepsister?”

Red snorted.

“I’ll pull her teeth out one by one, and have her suckin’ cock in Tijuana for five dollars a blow.”

Hannibal’s hands balled up into fists. It took every ounce of self-restraint not to embed his knuckles deep into Red’s menacing, bearded face.

“So we got an understandin’, hoss?” Red purred.

Hannibal’s eyes were narrow slits.

“Yeah,” he grunted. “Yeah, I guess we do.”

Red snorted.

“Good. Now get ready. You’re up at ten.” He jerked his thumb towards the door. “And in case you go getting’ any ideas, I own the police ‘round here like I do the ones up in Hartford. Ain’t nobody comin’ for your ass if things go south.”

Hannibal nodded.

Grinning malevolently, Red brushed past the towering fighter, and out into the corridor.

That just left Rashaan.

The looming black fighter stood like a towering statue in the corner. He clicked his knuckles, waiting for Hannibal to kick shut the door and give them both some privacy.

And, the moment Hannibal did so, Rashaan hissed: “I was thinking about this… I don’t wanna do it.”

Hannibal’s lips curled as he heard this. The conversation from the previous night had obviously stuck.

“Do what? You don’t wanna fight me?” He shrugged. “Shit, I’ll take that. Call Red back in and tell him to give me my money right now.”

Rashaan took a menacing step forward.

“No, dumbass,” he growled. “I don’t wanna do
this
. Make this fight
real
.” He whispered conspiratorially: “I don’t wanna go behind Red’s back; so let’s just do what he asks and make sure your ass goes down in the third round.”

Hannibal’s eyes narrowed.

“If you want my ass to go down in the third round,” he growled, “you’re gonna have to fucking
put it there
.”

“Shit, didn’t you listen to him?” Rashaan hissed. “He’s gonna fuck things up for you if you don’t. You double cross him, and he’ll make good on those threats.” For a moment there, the towering black fighter actually looked scared. “I’ve seen him do it, man.”

Hannibal said nothing – he just let Rashaan keep on talking.

“Be smart, man. Go down in the third round. When this is all over, and your little brother’s got his money back, we can do this again
for real
. Maybe even in a legit fight.”

And that’s when Hannibal snapped.

“No,” he barked, pointing that finger again. “We’re never gonna do it ‘for real’ because the moment my ass goes down, people are gonna think you won. No matter where we
go
, or where we
fight
, people are always gonna look at you and say: ‘He’s the motherfucker who put ‘Baller’ Alexander down.”

And then he sneered: “And
you ain’t earned that right
.”

Rashaan’s look of concern turned to anger.

“You’re really that fucking stupid? You’re really going to jeopardize everything because you don’t wanna take a dive?” He poked a finger into Hannibal’s chest. “Shit, dawg. Let me tell
you
what Red told
me
when I hooked up with him.” Rashaan took a ragged breath: “Don’t like your
pride
fuck things up for the rest of you.”

But Hannibal growled: “Unlike you, I’ve still got some pride left.”

For a moment, he thought Rashaan was going to take a swing at him – and he wouldn’t have fucking blamed him. But after his eyes flashed once, the looming black fighter snarled: “Okay, dumbass, have it your way.”

He poked Hannibal in the chest with his finger.

“Whether you’re throwing the fight, or goin’ at it for real, it doesn’t matter. I’m putting your ass down in the third round.”

And Hannibal looked Rashaan dead in the eye, and told him: “If you do that, then I’ll pick myself up and shake your hand afterward.”

His lips curled.

“Shit, dawg. I’m doing this for you. Because whichever way this turns out tonight, at least you’ll know it’s
real
.”

Rashaan snarled at him, and then shouldered Hannibal aside.

“I guess I should thank you,” he snapped, as he stood in the doorway. “At least now I don’t need to worry about goin’ easy on you.”

And then the walls of the office shook as the intimidating fighter slammed shut the door behind him.