Smash_ A Stepbrother MMA Romance(39)

I dialed his number but got his voice mail.





Chapter Ten: Cole





It was surprisingly easy to find him.

Since his name was on the police report, and I was directly involved with the incident, all I had to do was make one phone call to a bored desk sergeant and I knew what his name was.

Sergey Svitko lived alone in L.A. and published mainly fluff fiction for women’s magazines and other periodicals. He also sold images and other things like that. Basically, he was a paparazzi for hire with aspirations to be a real journalist, but the guy was clearly too much of a sleazeball to get his shit together.

Or at least that was my guess. From what Google told me, Sergey had never held any other jobs or even had very many friends. He lived and breathed the celebrity circle, sometimes dabbling with startup assholes.

Which was probably what he was doing in San Francisco the night I clocked him.

It took me five hours on my bike to get to L.A. I wound my way through the California foothills, the smell of the ocean never too far away. I wove in and out of traffic, dodging the occasional speed trap, and basically kept my nose pointed directly at Sergey the Fucked Asshole.

I should have probably been a little nervous about how easy it was to find out all his information. Frankly, it was insane that I could Google the guy’s name and figure out his home address and plenty more besides, but that was the world we lived in. Even fighters had to have a social media presence anymore. It wasn’t enough to be a tough motherfucker; you had to be likeable, too, for some fucking reason.

I checked into a seedy motel for the day and crashed. The place was probably full of hookers and their clients, but it didn’t matter to me. I didn’t plan on staying very long.

My phone kept ringing all night and all morning. It was Alexa, trying to stop me from finding the Sergey fucker. I couldn’t talk to her, not yet, not until I had found the guy and killed him. Or at least beat him to a quivering pulp.

So I turned off my phone and went to sleep, pulling the heavy curtains shut. I was bone-tired from riding all night, and I’d need a little rest to be sharp the next day.

Hours passed. When I finally woke up, the sun had already set. I rolled out of bed, took a quick shower, and then got dressed. I headed out into the cool L.A. night and hit the streets.

I’d been to L.A. once before, but it had been a while. I had the guy’s address and my phone to guide me, but I still got lost a few times looking through the dense streets.

Eventually, though, I found his little rat’s nest. He lived in a shit neighborhood on the top floor of a three-story apartment building. The place was a converted house, so he had the whole top floor to himself, which was perfect for me. I didn’t need any nosy neighbors calling the cops.

I sat back against a wall within eyesight of his place and waited. Charging in there was my preferred method, but I knew it would be stupid and would lead to nothing. Instead, I watched and I waited.

Hours passed. Eventually I started to wonder what the hell I was doing all the way out in L.A. trying to track down some bullshit paparazzi asshole that probably was only at that event because he got paid some petty cash to stake the spot out. The guy probably traveled all over California taking pictures for people. He might not even come home any time soon.

As midnight slowly rolled by, things were looking bleak and I knew it. If Sergey was blackmailing us, it would make sense that he was in San Francisco. Why did I assume that he was running the show from home? And why was I assuming he was even the one running the show? Whoever had hired him could have easily been the one with the pictures in the first place.

Either way, I was there and I was waiting. It didn’t make sense to start second-guessing myself considering I was already committed to staking the guy’s place out for at least a night.

Finally, around three in the morning, when hope was just a tiny speck of shit in the sky, a car pulled up outside his building. I perked up and watched closely as a guy got out. He looked to be about Sergey’s build, but it was hard to tell at night, especially considering I had only gotten a quick look at him originally before knocking him the fuck out. The guy disappeared inside the building, and I felt a bolt of adrenaline hit me as a light flicked on up in a third-floor window.

Perfect. All of my patience was paying off. I pushed up off the wall and headed over toward the building, heart beating hard in my chest as I rehearsed my plan in my head.

Up in front of the door, I looked at the intercom and hit the buzzer for the third floor.

I waited. Nothing happened.

I hit it again, this time holding it longer.

Nothing. I hit it again, and finally a haggard-sounding man responded.

“Who the fuck is it?” he said, clearly angry.