Angel Marquez Cienfuegos…in Spanish, his last name means A Hundred Fires, and Angel is as fiery as they come. A hero in his home country of Cuba, he's used to getting what he wants…and what he wants is his former lover, Cristiano. Still torn up over the loss of his lover now happily involved with hockey player, Alex Hunter, Angel's career is on the rise, but the Cuban government is playing havoc with his family life.
Desperate to get his dying mother to the US so he can take care of her, the Cuban government won't allow her to leave the country. Angel is being punished for fleeing his country and turning pro--pro sports are illegal in Cuba. Determined to win back Cristiano and bring his mother to him, everything changes when he meets Alex's bad boy hockey champion buddy, Derik Grasser. The hard-scrabble boxer and rich hockey player make their own fire--on and off the ice in this sequel to Fire and Ice.
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A Hundred Fires
Copyright © 2010 A.J. Llewellyn and Stephani Hecht
ISBN: 978-1-55487-530-6
Cover art by Angela Waters
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.
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A Hundred Fires
By
A.J. Llewellyn and Stephani Hecht
Dedication
AJ would like to dedicate this to his friend, J.C. whose story inspired this one.
Stephani to Cody. You are my rock! I am so damn proud of you.
Chapter One
Miguel Angel Marquez looked out of the window of the crummy car that had picked him up early in the morning at his Hollywood apartment and driven him south. Miguel Angel, who went by Angel, had gone way south, past San Diego, across the border into Mexico. They'd cleared the mammoth twenty-four lanes of traffic crawling into the tiny border town of Tijuana. He'd watched as traffic flowed into Mexico, but ground to a halt leaving it. It was so much easier getting in than out of Mexico.
The idea that he may not get back into the US suddenly added to his already mounting anxiety.
Chill, Angel.
He couldn't. They were still on the road, nine hours later. Angel had given up asking the driver what the fuck was going on.
By late afternoon, he knew the driver was jerking him around and as a result, Angel was in real danger of being late for his own weigh-in. What started as a three-hour drive had turned into one colossal mind-fuck.
Shit! This lunatic is driving me around in circles!
"No, no!" the driver insisted.
"Si, si. Yes, yes!" Angel shouted back.
He glimpsed some of the oddities outside and he almost laughed. This was so far from what he had experienced growing up in Cuba and anything he'd experienced since he had defected to Los Angeles.
Angel found himself entranced by the jumble of stores. Any one store could give you a haircut, dental surgery, prescription pills without a prescription, tattoos, Cuban cigars or, you could have your photo taken with one of the poor, unfortunate donkeys painted like zebras.
Oh, and you could rent a pretty hot looking hooker or two as well.
He got hot under the collar again. Not that it was hard. Nine hours. He was so agitated, he cursed his opponent Ruben Gonzalez who had obviously orchestrated all of this. The driver was part of his promoter's company. Nothing had gone right since the morning his flight mysteriously canceled and to make the weigh-in, he'd agreed to be driven across the US border.
Angel had lost a whole day.
That's what I get for stepping into a fight at the last minute.
Playing games was an old ruse, but dammit, it still worked. Keep the opponent off guard, keep him moving so he can't rest, can't psych himself up for the big moment.
Cienfuegos…that was Angel's real last name. In Spanish, his last name meant A Hundred Fires and boy, he was hot enough to light dozens.
"I'm getting out," he said to the driver in Spanish. "We've passed this corner a hundred times already."
"No, no. All the corners in Tijuana look the same."
"Yeah, maybe. But not all the hookers. There could be only one transvestite in a lime green bikini standing next to a chick in white hot pants and fresh C-section scars."
The driver balked. He glanced at his watch.
Angel Marquez used his fists for a living. He was seconds away from punching this guy in the face.
"I know you've had instructions to keep me on the road, to keep driving around. If you want to stay alive, if you do not want to piss blood for the next week, take me to the hotel right now."
The driver's brows went up, down, up…he looked so panicked, Angel thought his thick, bushy brows might run right off his face and into the street.
"I take you," the driver muttered.
"Thank you."
Angel leaned back. I am all alone. I am so tired of this bullshit. He thought of Cristiano, the man he really loved. How nice it would be here to sit with him, to hold his hand. No…don't think about him. He's with somebody else now.
His eyes opened as they pulled up outside a total dump off Revolution Avenue.
"I give up. What is this?" Angel asked looking at the square white block that had razor and barbed wire unspooled in puffy silver clouds around its roof, chicken wire over the windows and a padlocked front door.
The driver had the grace to look embarrassed when he said, "Your hotel."
From next door at the sombrero and cheap electrical goods store, a toothsome guy approached the car.
"Special today! Everything one hundred percent off!" He didn't seem to be able to close his mouth properly.
Angel glanced a floor above the sombreros dangling in the breeze. It was a cut-rate dentist's office. The poor guy looked like he was wearing horse dentures. Angel had a soft heart. He would have given the guy some money, just to get some better teeth, but he had problems of his own.
He'd had just about enough of the mind games. He pulled out his cell phone and called his manager, Willie, who had just jetted into Tijuana.
"Ola, Angel." He pronounced it Ahn-hell the way it was pronounced in Spanish-speaking countries.
"Wait until you see the hotel," Angel said without preamble.
"Where you at?" Willie asked. "You had a nap yet?"
"A nap?" Angel screamed. "This guy drove me around for nine hours. I just arrived. It's a dump."
"Not a dump," the driver protested weakly. "Is nice!"
"Fuck you!" Angel screamed.
The driver slunk back in his seat.
"Lemme talk to him," Willie said.
Angel passed the phone across the front seat and the driver took it.
"Si?"
The driver listened in silence for a beat and threw the phone over his shoulder back at Angel. A few seconds later, they arrived back on a street called Agua Caliente. Hot water, how apt! Angel bristled when he recognized the two towers he'd glimpsed all afternoon from a variety of angles. It was the host hotel, The Grand.
You kept it just out of reach, so near and yet so far all day. Man! It's a half hour drive from the border! I wanna kick your ass so bad. Right buddy…first I'll beat up Ruben Gonzalez, then it's your turn.
Angel jumped out, thankful he'd kept his overnight bag and suit bag with his brand new ring wear in it with him since the driver took off.
For a moment, Angel stood in the doorway and peered inside. He wasn't sure if it was a Grand Hotel, but it sure was a dark hotel.
He stepped forward. He was worried he'd been duped yet again, but he was astonished to see Alex Hunter, the hockey player guy who'd stolen Cristiano from him. Well, not stole exactly, but snapped him up.
Alex walked out of a door, eating a candy bar. Now, Angel really wanted to kill somebody. He hadn't eaten more than lettuce and sips of water for a week to make weight. Here was this culo, this asshole, with the two things Angel wanted most in the world but couldn't have, Cristiano and candy.
"Hey," Alex said. "Everybody's waiting for you."
It was on the tip of Angel's tongue to tell Alex to go fuck himself, but then Cristiano came out of the same door Alex had used. His face lit up at the sight of Angel.
"I told them you'd be here." He turned to Alex. "Baby, can you take Angel's things to the dressing room? He's going to have to check in with the ringside physician first."
"No!" Angel screamed. "I'm not letting these things out of my sight."
Cristiano's face softened. "Did they give you a hard time?"
Angel nodded. I love you. I love you. I love you.
"You can trust Alex. Right Alex?"
Alex was looking at Angel funny. He knows I love Cristiano.
Cristiano nudged his boyfriend. "Alex?"
"Huh? Yeah. Oh yeah. No problem." But Alex didn't look happy.
"Is this what you're wearing for the weigh-in or is there anything you need from your bag?" Cristiano asked.
Angel glanced down at his jeans and T-shirt. "I have what I need. Oh, wait. My ID, my papers." He unzipped a pocket, took out his paper work and handed his things to Alex.
"See you in a few minutes." Cristiano's gaze on Alex's face was adoring. Angel felt sick. I found him first. I was the first man to be with him, the first man to make him come. Fuck, I was stupid to walk away from him.
Alex went back through the door he'd just left and Cristiano tugged on Angel's T-shirt, steering him the other way. In the ballroom that they passed, the boxing ring had been set up for the following night, but he could see four burly guys in black T-shirts marked Seguridad, security, in big white letters across their backs, setting up tightly-packed rows of seats. He already knew the fight was a sellout. He felt the thrill of the blood-hunt start to tickle his balls and belly.
Ruben Gonzalez would pay for this day.
* * * *
Derik looked through the grimy windows of the taxi as his driver slowly navigated the streets. He had his cell to his ear, but he was only half listening to the person on the other end. One smart ass sports reporter who so owed him right about now.
"So what's Tijuana like?" Val asked, her voice more static than clear.
"Flat and dusty," Derik grumbled as they narrowly missed a guy on a bike.
"So, a lot like Ohio then?" she replied in that snarky tone of hers.
"Tell me again why I let you talk me into this?"
"Because if anyone needed a few days of fun and sex, it's you," Val replied in her usually cutthroat blunt way.
"What's that supposed to mean?" Derik asked as he shifted uncomfortably in the seat. Crap, who ever heard of a taxi without A/C?
"You need to get a handle on your anger issues. Just this morning, ESPN ran another bit about you and your fists."
"So, you send me to watch a boxing match, in order for me to learn to restrain myself from fighting? That's twisted logic, even for you," Derik countered, incredulous.
"No, I encouraged you to meet up with the only other friends you have besides me so you can relax. Who knows, you may find you actually like it."
"I could have relaxed at home." Derik numbly looked at a pair of hookers, working a corner. One wore a lime green bikini that was more string than anything else.
"Hate to break it to you, bud, but sitting in your recliner and watching old game footage isn't relaxing--it's brooding," Val drawled.
He heard her sipping something and he knew it would be her usual after two o'clock martini. Not to be mistaken for the after lunch, after dinner and just because martinis.
"I don't brood. That's for emo high school kids with too much time on their hands."
Val snorted her disagreement. "Be a good boy and have some fun for once. You're getting so boring, I'm beginning to wonder why I hang out with you. At least Alex has raunchy sex stories to share with me. You don't even give me that anymore."
Derik shook his head. If he knew anything about his friend, it was that Alex would never share the intimate details of his love life.
"Maybe Cristiano will introduce you to his buddy, Angel," Val said, suddenly sounding way too excited. "I've seen the pictures of him. He's sexy as sin."
Derik didn't reward that comment with a response, although she did have a point. He'd seen plenty of pictures of the boxer, too, and Angel was damn good looking. With dark hair and eyes, he was the type of guy that Derik had always gone for. It didn't hurt that the boxer had a body that just begged to be fucked, either.
The cab pulled in front of a hotel, jerking Derik out of his musings. "I'm finally at the place, so I have to hang up."
"Okay, but if you hook up, you have to promise to call me with all the nasty details," Val practically begged.
"No way. The last time I did that, you posted them on your Facebook wall for the world to see." He got out and paid the driver.
"I didn't use your name."
"You used Angry Goalie number thirty three. Given my reputation and the fact that thirty three is my jersey number, I don't think it took anyone long to figure out who you were talking about."
"Hey, I did start using AG three-three, after a while," she pointed out.
"Only because you didn't want to waste any more time typing the whole thing out. Don't think you fooled me into believing that you did it out of respect for my privacy." Derik held back his laughter. The last thing he needed to do was encourage her.
"Spoilsport. You are so not invited to my wedding."
"You're getting married?" Last he heard, her last boyfriend had dumped her for the weather girl.
"No, but it's never too late to start crossing ungrateful jerks off the list."
"On that note, I'm hanging up. Bye."
"Bye, sweetie. I meant it, too. Have some fun for once. God knows you've earned it." She made a kissy noise in the phone before she hung up.
Derik closed his cell and put it in his pocket. He looked up at the hotel, which was alive with people and camera crews. How in the hell was he supposed to find Alex and Cristiano in all this mess? It didn't help that the only Spanish Derik knew was from watching Dora the Explorer with his nieces, either. Unless all the conversations centered on his ability to count to ten, he was screwed.
He shouldered his bag and slowly walked up the stairs, narrowly avoiding being mowed down by some sports announcer who looked vaguely familiar. Inside the lobby, it was even busier, the noise so loud one would have to shout to be heard.
This was supposed to be relaxing?
Derik made a mental vow to never listen to Val's advice again as he went off in search of Alex and Cristiano.