Filthy: A Bad Boy Romance (3 page)

With one more smile, she blows me a kiss then heads out the door.

#

I have a real problem with the sun when it comes pounding in through the curtains in my bedroom. Another seventeen hours of sleep would be helpful, but I’m not going to get it. Not even another two hours. I sit up and stare at the opposite wall.

The events of yesterday roll through my head. The fight, the fuck-up, Jessica Spada with her legs splayed open on my kitchen counter. Frowning, I rub my arm. I’m sore. My dick is trying to convince me I shortchanged it last night by not giving it enough of a release. I tell it to shut up and head for the shower. I have a bad feeling about today. It’s one of those feelings you have when you’re damn sure your luck has just taken a drastic turn for the worse.

Sure enough, when I get out of the shower there’s a message in the voice mail on my cell. “McAllister, you’re in deep shit. I want you here today at ten to talk about why you fucked up yesterday.”

Spada doesn’t even bother to identify himself. No niceties, no, “Hi, Cain, how’s the body holding up?” Because he doesn’t care. As long as I’m flinging myself out there, making him money, he doesn’t give a shit what kind of condition I’m in. That’s just a straight-up fact.

So I make sure the buttons on my shirt are straight, comb my hair back so it’s not sticking out anywhere, and head for the Spada residence.

It’s not far, but in reality it’s a world away. Gated neighborhood, multimillion-dollar homes with big, manicured lawns that offer a middle finger to the current California drought conditions. Standing in front of the mansion’s wide front doors, I wonder if I’ll walk back out again. It’s a legitimate question.

One of Spada’s lickspittles—Nick, I think it is—meets me at the door and gives me one of those grand half-bowing gestures to welcome me inside. I don’t like the look he’s giving me. It’s got too much smirk in it, and I kind of want to slap it off his face. That’s not going to get me anywhere though.

“Mr. Spada is expecting you,” Nick says, waving toward the hallway that I know leads to Spada’s office.

“So I assumed.” My tone is dry. Nick’s responding look is disapproving. Too bad. I might only have a couple hours left on Earth, so I might as well enjoy them. And if that involves giving Nick shit, then so be it. He’ll have to deal.

I freeze in the doorway to the office. Phil Spada’s there, but he’s not alone. Jessica is bent over next to his desk, pointing to something in a ledger. The curves of her ass are all too visible under the soft cotton of the dress she’s wearing. My dick springs to immediate attention, remembering what that ass looks like. What it feels like.

I clench my teeth and school my expression, determined not to do or say anything that could give Spada any idea what I did to his daughter last night. So much for rubbing his nose in it, which is what part of me wants to do. Hell, that’s the main reason I took her home in the first place. Another other part of me, though—a part that wasn’t making itself known last night—wants to protect Jess. And that’s the part that’s winning.

I must make some kind of a noise, or move just the right way, because suddenly both Spadas look right at me. The father’s face clicks immediately into an emotionless mask. Jessica maintains a careful, disinterested coolness. Perfect. “Well,” she says to her father, “I’ll let you get back to work.”

“Thanks, honey.” He reaches up to her, and she takes his hand, lets her fingers trace across his palm as she moves away. It’s a loving gesture, and she gives him a gentle smile. He returns the smile, fatherly. I fight to keep from grimacing at the saccharine nature of it. But as Jess turns toward the door where I’m standing, her eyes catch mine for a split second, and I see in them what she really feels for her father. It’s not pretty.

When she’s gone, and the door has clicked shut behind her, Phil Spada makes a wide gesture toward the chair in front of his desk. “Have a seat, Cain.”

I swing a leg over the back of the chair and settle into it, nonchalant. Like I don’t give a shit what he says to me. I just look Spada right in the eye and let him think whatever he thinks about me.

Spada’s eyes narrow slightly. I don’t think he’s happy that I’m not cowering in front of him, begging for my life. Fuck that. I don’t beg anybody for anything.
Besides,
I think, my mouth twisting a bit,
I fucked your daughter. And she loved it.

That thought keeps me centered. Just that knowledge that I took something he thinks is his. I cross my arms over my chest and just keep staring him down.

“I think you know why I asked you to come talk to me this morning,” he says finally.

I nod. “I’ve got a fair guess.”

“Then why don’t you explain to me what happened last night?”

“I won the fight.”

Spada leans forward in a sharp movement. For a second I think he might actually slap me from across the desk, but that’s not in the cards. Mostly because his arms are too short. Otherwise…

“You,” he bites out, “were supposed to
lose
.”

“Yeah. Well. That was the plan. Unfortunately nobody told the other guy.”

Spada leans back again, his expression shifting from anger to a questioning annoyance. “Okay. What happened, Cain?”

I decide to back off a little. No point giving him still more excuses to hurt me. “It was an accident. I was trying to make it look real—that’s the way you want it, right? It has to look real, or people might start looking too close.”

He gives a terse nod. We’re on the same page on that one. Nobody wants anybody looking too close, because that path leads nowhere good.

“Well,” I go on, and at this point I manage to look a little contrite. Just a little. “I was making it real—but not too real, you have to understand me on that one—and he couldn’t take it. When he went down, it was as much a surprise to me as it was to you.”

The tension in Spada’s shoulders eases a little, and he breaks eye contact, looking down at the surface of his desk. “All right.” He looks back at me again. “I can believe that. You swear to me it wasn’t on purpose?”

I shake my head. “No. It was a fluke. Or maybe your scouts overestimated the guy.” I shrug. “Either way, it wasn’t my plan to take him out.”

“All right,” he says again. “All right. But you understand I’ve got to answer to people, too.”

“Sure. We all do.” I resist the temptation to take a relieved breath. He’s not going to kill me, after all. Not this time, anyway. I’ve been too reliable, too much of a cash cow. Although that thought twists my stomach, too.

“So you’ll have to pay.”

“Fine.” The word is clipped. What’s he going to do to me? I expect a beating, maybe out back. He can do that—he hasn’t given me a new fight schedule yet, so I’ll have time to recover.

“That was a pretty big purse you won last night. You’ll give me half of it.” Again, he leans forward, the movement sharp, like a snake striking. “And, Cain—this happens again? You’re a dead man. You got me?”

Well. There we go. He’s not even going to rough me up.
Got off easy this time, didn’t you, Cain?
“I got you. And it won’t happen again.” Unless Spada’s scouts fuck up again, but now that I know they can, I’ll keep an eye out for the signs. Last night I was just blindsided at how bad the guy was. It was like fighting a twelve-year-old.

“Good.” He pushes to his feet, and I do the same, shoulders wide, facing him squarely. He wants to intimidate me, but I’ve never let him. I don’t think he likes that about me.

There are a lot of things he probably doesn’t like about me. And one of them he doesn’t even know about. I smile a little—just a little, since I don’t want to piss off Spada now that I’ve dodged that bullet. But it’s hard not to. Because Jessica’s mine. She’s got my smell on her now, all over her skin, all up inside her. I own her. And he doesn’t. Not anymore. Never again.

And I don’t care what Jessica says—she and I aren’t through. I’ll have her again. She’s just going to have to deal with that. And so is Phil Spada.

“Thank you, sir,” I say to him with a brief, subservient nod, and I turn and walk out of his office.

CHAPTER TWO

Jessica

I run a hairbrush through my hair, feeling it snag on the little snarls and tangles. It pulls, hurts my scalp a little. Which is fine, because it distracts me from the other places where I hurt.

Between my legs. In my mouth, where I can taste the bruises from Cain’s hard, almost brutal kisses. The back of my neck hurts—I’m not sure where that one came from—and my elbows hurt where I shoved myself up on the hard kitchen cabinet.

I still can’t believe it happened. I’ve never done anything like that before, much less with a man like Cain “The Flame” McAllister. A man Pop would never approve of, not in a million years.

But Pop owns him, just like he owns me, and somehow that drew me to him. Last night, and before that, from when I first met him four or five years ago. I’ve always felt a little flare of want when I see him, whether it’s in the ring or in my father’s office—the only two places I’ve ever really seen him.

I already know there’s no future there, for so many reasons. First, I’m not sure what’s going on right now in Pop’s office between the two of them. I know Pop was mad Cain won the fight, although it should have been obvious to anybody that the kid Cain was facing was several skill levels beneath him. I watched the fight, and I’m still not sure how Cain held out as long as he did without taking the kid out. Everybody in that room knew how good Cain is; if he’d lost, I wonder if it would have gone under the radar the way Pop always wants it to.

In any case, just the fact that Cain’s in my father’s stable of fighters means there’s no way I could ever have anything with him. That’s a road I’d be an idiot to go down. Pop would do more than have a shit fit. In fact, I’m not sure what he’d do.

Then there’s Cain himself. Hot, yes, with that honed body, the streaks of ink all over him. I tried to count his tats once and got lost at twenty. He was moving at the time, but still. He’s a work of art in more ways than one.

He’s also an asshole.

Oh yeah, he knows how to fuck a woman. He proved that last night. But I’m not sure he knows how to
be
with a woman, if that makes sense. How to take care of her, be there for her. Make love to her instead of just fucking her. And let’s face it—I’m not going to find out.

I pull my hair back and wind a tie around it so it’ll stay out of my face. I’ve got some studying to do—I have tests coming up in a week, and I’ll be damned if I’m not going to pass them with flying colors. Anything less and Pop will rub my nose in it—if he finds out, that is. He doesn’t want me going to school in the first place. Wants me to focus on the “family business.”
God
. That’d be one thing if the family business was, I don’t know, making shoes or raising racehorses or something. But this? No. All he wants me for is to marry me to the guy who’s going to take his place. Make him part of the family. There’s no future in that—not for me, anyway. So I’m taking online classes. He doesn’t need to know.

I grab my e-reader and head downstairs. I want to be outside, in the fresh air. Get some of the stink out of my brain. I’d rather go to the library, but I’m thinking Pop might not be happy about me leaving the house today. I’ll humor him in that, at least for now. Because if I do, it’ll be easier to get out of the house later.

I shake my head a little, disgusted. No grown woman should have to worry so much about what her goddamn father thinks. But that’s life. My life, anyway.

It’s quiet downstairs, and I think I’ll be able to slip out easily. No worries—nobody’s looking for me. But as I swing through the kitchen, there’s Pop.

Shit. The last thing I need right now is a confrontation. Hopefully I can hold him off. That’s at least one reason why I bought e-books to study from—so Pop can’t tell what I’m doing.

He looks up from the coffeepot and gives me a smile. “Hey, honey. Where are you off to?”

“Just out to the porch to read.” I say it airily. He likes it better when I act like there’s not much inside my head.

“What are you reading?”

I shrug. “Just a book Liza told me about.” Liza has terrible taste in reading material.

“What’s it called?”

Of course my mind goes blank. “I forget. Some bestseller. I haven’t started it yet.”

He gives me a narrow look. Then he turns to face me squarely. “There was a phone call a few minutes ago for you.”

I go still. Who’s calling me? But I think I might know. I made a few calls over the past few days looking into some programs where I might apply to keep working on my degree. I want to be a physician’s assistant—maybe even go to medical school down the road. I want to help people, not spend my life decorating the arm of a mob asshole whose life is about doing whatever it takes to hold on to his power. Lie, cheat, steal, kill—whatever.

I try to sound uninterested. “Oh?”

“Yeah. From UCLA. Something about a graduate program.”

I give him a direct look. “Did you take a message?”

His mouth tightens. “No, I did not. Do you know why I did not?”

I know exactly why, but I say nothing. I just tilt an eyebrow at him. If he wants to be an asshole, then let him explain to me his asshole ways.

“We’ve talked about this, Jess. I put you through college so you’d have some grounding in your education, but that’s all there is. You’re not going to graduate school. You’re sure as hell not going to medical school.”

I don’t know why I ever told him what I really wanted out of my life. I must have just been extra stupid that day. All it did was open me up, make me more vulnerable. Silly me, thinking my own father might want to support me in my life goals. I grind my molars together and manage not to retort.

“I’m not wasting my money on another degree for you.”

He gets angrier when I don’t answer him. I know this, and I know there are times when it would be smarter just to have it out with him, because the quieter I am, the more dangerous he gets. But I just can’t do it today. And it’s not because I’m afraid of him. It’s because somehow, inside, I feel stronger than I have in a long time.