The Arrangement (41 page)

“She looks really familiar,” Devon noted. He studied the picture for a bit longer before closing the web browser. “But so do the fifty other women who hang off his arms.”

“Well…” The brief period of silence caused Devon to freeze. “I’ve seen her before.”

“Please tell me she isn’t an old girlfriend of yours because that would be creepy, man,” Devon said. Chaine snorted under his breath. “A whole new level of creepy, honestly.”

“Not an old girlfriend, Dev. She’s, uh… Well, you know that really well-to-do doctor that was kicked out of Chaine Lynk a few months back?”

Devon immediately knew whom his brother was talking about. Very few patrons had been permanently removed from Chaine Lynk’s client list. The doctor in question had liked to drink far too much and then bait their fighters when they were out of the cage. It was unacceptable behavior regardless of the money he was shoving at them.

“Sure. Why?”

“That’s his ex-wife.”

Devon cussed and slammed the laptop closed. “So she’s been to Chaine Lynk?”

“Once, I think, but maybe more,” Chaine said. “She certainly knows what’s going on behind the scenes, you know? Maybe that’s why we’ve been having these issues with the cops and stuff.”

Chaine Lynk was a very lucrative and popular business that had grown to unbelievable heights in the short three-year time span since the brothers founded it and opened the doors to the richest and the best. With his background in mixed martial arts fighting—gaining his first light-heavyweight title at twenty-one—Devon hadn’t been ready to say goodbye to the sport when a snowboarding accident had pushed him out of the league.

He’d worked almost every second of his life to gain what he had lost in a simple seven-minute run down a snowy mountain. Devon had made that run more times than he could count and never once had he crashed to that devastating extent before. The impact with the tree shattered his kneecap, nearly splitting his leg in half from the force of the hit. The heavy nerve and muscle damage left the fighter stumbling through the next few months, going in for surgery after surgery to repair the damage.

At only twenty-three and a half, Devon wouldn’t fight again, at least not professionally.

There was always opportunity in failure, though. Soon after the accident, Devon’s half-brother, who was the definition of hand-me-down riches, had waltzed into Devon’s world like he was always meant to be there.

With Chaine’s family money and Devon’s insurance payout, the brothers founded Chaine Lynk—an exclusive and member’s only event where the depth of your pockets determined if you were good enough to pass the threshold. The best mixed-martial art fighters came from all across Canada to be a part of the new up-and-coming fighting company. Devon’s experience and titles made the fighters flock. Chaine’s connections, money, and last name drew the clients in.

The stats, be them good or bad, of a fighter after each match were added to the pile in the database for Chaine Lynk, which caused a fighter’s popularity to grow or plummet within the group of people who were there to watch them battle it out. Unlike most mixed-martial arts companies, Chaine Lynk didn’t use rounds to break up the time in a fight; rather the ref who watched and judged the men allowed a single uninterrupted fifteen-minute match—unless injury needed him to step in.

The changes Devon and Chaine made were what made their MMA fighting company so different from the rest. There were no titles to be given or taken away. It was solely based on a fighter’s ability against the other opponent, and no one was removed out of the system because of their losses in the cage—though a loss would influence their influx of cash.

The illegal gambling on the fighters had begun as a small thing between Devon and Chaine. Fifty dollars here or there on a particular fighter they liked was nothing to the grand scheme of things. But like everything else with Chaine Lynk, the betting had grown quicker than it should have. Rich people with idle hands and pockets full of cash were a bad combination when they were trying to keep the business on the straight and narrow. The betting between patrons and hosts made the events more profitable, and fighters started gaining cuts from the winnings, adding to their pockets as well. Devon had opened an offshore bank account to hide the illegal cash coming through his business.

The gambling wasn’t completely out of control but Devon worried it could be getting there, seeing as how the attention of the police had started looking Chaine Lynk’s way in the last year. One raid, six months earlier, had given the police little evidence but enough to know there was something going on.

“Maybe Jeff’s money is talking,” Devon wondered aloud. “It would certainly explain why they keep hounding the doors like dogs.”

Chaine agreed. “Dad has a screwed up way of showing his love.”

“That’s putting it mildly.” Devon gripped at his hair in frustration. “I’m just the bastard from the street corner whore, remember? So, I expect his nonsense to a point. I mean, you’re the one he likes, Chaine, and he still can’t stop pulling this crap.”

“Define
like
.” Chaine laughed deeply. “This is getting old.”

“That it is.”

Behind him, Devon could hear his flat screen lighting up with more information from the automated polls for the fights. “Did Stacey get his draw tonight?”

“Jordan Stacey?” Chaine asked.

“That’s the only Stacey we’ve got, isn’t it?”

Turning in his chair, he reached up to the screen behind him and moved the touch-activated cursor upward to find his favorite fighter’s name hanging against another popular Chaine Lynk fighter in the heavyweight division. Jordan Stacey’s stats were lighting up the screen.

“Yeah, he did. He’s against Ron at eight. Pretty much certifies his win, anyway. I’m calling his name for my light-heavyweight choice of the evening.”

“You always pick Jordan.” The comment sounded suspiciously whiney.

“That’s because the kid always wins,” Devon shot back. With a couple taps of his fingers, Devon had placed his choice into the system along with the amount of money he was willing to throw in the pile. “It’s not my fault you agreed to give me first choice on fighters, Chaine.”

“Are you willing to let me take that choice back?”

Devon smirked. “Hell no; then whose money would I take? I like yours the best, Trust Fund.”

The topic of Chaine’s trust fund was a sore spot and Devon knew it. But he had to give his brother props: since they’d opened the doors to Chaine Lynk, he hadn’t touched that part of the bank. Devon knew it had something to do with Chaine’s desire to break away from his father and the Wolfe name. There wasn’t enough money in the world to push that kid into the oil country life Jeffery wanted to see Chaine living in.

Devon didn’t blame him a bit.

“Shut up,” Chaine said. “I’m taking on the lightweights tonight, anyway.”

Devon noticed that. The screen in front of him started filling with the information other members had recorded in. Their top picks and bet amounts were adding to an already massively growing number.

“I think we might break a record,” Devon said, grinning.

There was nothing more satisfying than taking cash off the hands of those who needed their pockets lightened a bit.

“We should probably go back to the old way, though.”

Devon knew what his brother was hinting at. The electronic system allowed members who weren’t even in Edmonton on fight nights to bet on the divisions or fighters of their choice and be paid out through offshore accounts. While nothing led back to them directly, there was still a chance their systems could be corrupted and then they’d have police stuffing illegal gambling charges down their throats.

“I know. But the guests won’t like it and we’re going to lose a lot because of it.”

“They don’t matter.” Something in the tone of Chaine’s voice stuck Devon as odd but he chose not to press on it. “It’s not their company, you know? Besides, we have those contracts to think about, too. We can’t have the major companies coming in to plaster their logos across our stuff and the fighters while we keep up the betting on the side. It’s not worth that risk, Dev.”

“True, but I haven’t okay'd that yet, man, so quit bringing it up. I don’t like the thought of my boys wearing what someone else wants them to and you know that. They’re fighters, not prizes to be put on show while they wear someone else’s garbage,” Devon said, reiterating an argument the brothers had been having for quite a while. Devon’s phone, which was lying on a chair across the room and had been going largely ignored all night, began ringing once more. “I got to go. People are demanding my attention again.”

Hanging up on his brother, Devon fumbled to get to his phone before the call went to voicemail again. “Yeah?”

“Mr. Lynk?” Stress echoed in his secretary’s voice. “I don’t mean to bother you but a fighter would like to speak with you before you leave for the event tonight.”

“Was that you calling every five minutes?” Devon asked his secretary.

“Um, yes, I think?”

“I thought their managers understood you weren’t the messenger between us?” he asked.

“This request came directly from the fighter, sir,” she replied.

They seriously needed to get their fighters better ways to contact their bosses if the guys were still refusing to use the manager to boss system they had in place. “Which fighter?”

“A Jordan Stacey?” Kelly answered.

“Thank you. And Kelly, the next time a fighter calls, be sure to give them their manager’s number as a polite reminder for how they’re supposed to contact me when I’m away from the offices, venue, and gyms.”

“Will do.”

Hanging up the phone, Devon was quick to seek out Jordan’s contact number. The whole secretary deal was his brother’s idea. All the day-to-day tasks of handling the fighters landed on his shoulders and because of his experience, it wasn’t all too hard for him to keep up. There was something to be said for a hands-on boss, and that was what Devon preferred to be when it came to Chaine Lynk and the fighters they contracted. However, on fight nights in particular, he couldn’t be their go-to guy like he was every other day. Devon had a different mask to wear, and for the most part, the fighters understood and respected that.

“Hello?” Jordan asked when the call picked up.

“Jordan. It’s Devon, what’s up?” The light laughter of a female followed louder male laughter on the other end of the phone. “Please tell me you’re not drinking, Jordan. I just bet on your ass.”

“No way, Dev, I’d never do that. The guys were just joking around with my little sister so it’s a little loud.” Devon said nothing as Jordan continued speaking. “I need a second fight for the night. Can you put it in?”

“We don’t do two in a night; you know that. There’s a big risk of injury and I don’t want you in that position. You’ve got major scouts looking at you right now, Jordan.”

The voices became muted as Devon heard a door shut. “Chaine did it for Sammy a month ago so I know you can.” There was a short pause and then a quiet sigh. “Listen, under any other circumstances I wouldn’t ask but I finally got Veronica out here from back east and I need the cash.”

“That’s your sister, right?”

“Yeah,” Jordan replied. “She wasn’t supposed to come out until the fall but, well it’s a mess, okay? So I need a second fight tonight.”

A war began battling in Devon’s mind. He didn’t care much that giving the twenty-three-year-old a second match would possibly cause issues between the fighters because they’d handle that on their own. It was more the dangers of putting Jordan’s body through a double round of beatings when the first would certainly take a major toll on his level of endurance and strength.

“If you lose, Jordan...”

Jordan scoffed. “I won’t.”

“You’re too damn arrogant for you own good, you know that?” While it sounded like an insult, Devon meant it as a sort of compliment. The kid had a reason to be a little arrogant, honestly. “Fine, but a medic has to clear you in the back. And don’t ask for it again.”

“Gotcha, Boss.”

With his phone finally silent, Devon sat back in his large chair and stretched. His wrists popped as his neck cracked. The familiar pain in his left knee stung when he extended his leg but it was a sensation Devon had come to ignore out of habit. Despite the medical warnings to not push his old injury, at twenty-seven, Devon still went to the gym three times a week and took a seven-kilometer run every morning. It hurt more than he was willing to admit but there were limits in his life that Devon wasn’t willing to put up simply because someone else said he couldn’t do it.

At those thoughts, Devon’s eyes traveled to the sidewall in his office that was filled with the different awards he’d received for his accomplishments in the fighting world. His time as a professional mixed-martial arts fighter had taught him a simple but harsh lesson: as quickly as you rose, you fell.

A small piece of mesh he’d cut out from the mat where he won his first professional match still hung in a shadow box on his office wall. It solidified everything he’d ever worked for. It was his pride, sweat, and tears on a roughly cut square, stained with a ruddy brown. Only, sometimes the fabric reminded him of what he’d lost, too.

Double edged swords. They were everywhere.

To purchase this ebook and learn more about the author,
click here
.