Untamed (A Bad Boy Secret Baby Romance) (48 page)

Legs like tree trunks, short, low center of gravity. He’s a kicker, but not a high-kicker. He’ll go for torso-kicks and thigh-kicks. He’ll try to tire me out then take me down. On the mat, in between those legs… that’s a position I must not find myself in.

I look toward Dee. She’s absolutely shining. She brightens up the whole room. She fills me with a crazy motivation. I don’t even want to take a hit with her watching. And when you’re a fighter, you’re expected to take hits.

The referee tonight is nothing but a safety release. He’s short, too, but big, strong, and he’s there to make sure the fight doesn’t end in a death.

I have no intention of taking a life in the cage, but I can’t say the same for the man I’m about to trade blows with. He looks at me out of wild, undisciplined eyes. My guess? He out-violences people in the cage.

It’s the wrong way to fight. You can never rely on anger. So he won’t submit me tonight.

Definitely not with Dee watching.

It’s odd to me, this feeling of not wanting to lose in front of someone. Before, it used to just be my own self-respect, but all that buys you is immunity against cowardice, and for some men, not even then.

But with Dee looking on, her dark, endless eyes on me, suddenly there’s more to fight for. Now it’s no longer appeasing whatever selfish instinct I have to uphold a personal sense of greatness or achievement or some bullshit like that.

Now… now I feel like I’m fighting
for
her.

And I’m not ashamed to admit… I don’t want her to see me lose.

She doesn’t know it, but she gives me a reserve of strength, determination. It’ll make me work harder, faster, better. Without realizing it, she makes me a better fighter.

The ref starts the fight, and I extend my fists. My stocky, square opponent – ‘Beefcake’ in my head – doesn’t tap my fists.

I grin at him, wink as we back up. He seems to take offense at that, and it riles him up.

Good, got to get him off-balance to make this easier.

The ref slices the air between us, and we dance, circle each other, size each other up. He’s a righty, strong base, can push off hard and take you down mid-mass.

I glance to my left, see Dee’s face, see her chewing on her lower lip. She looks nervous.

Beefcake tries to use that moment, lunges for me, goes straight for the take-down. I spin out of his way, a fast pivot on the heel of my right foot, and he goes sailing past me.

I catch him mid-move, wrap up his neck into my arm, twirl him into me like we’re doing some kind of fucking modern dance, use it as leverage as I pull my weight around, jump off the mat, and latch onto his back.

I knee him in the thigh, send him off-balance, then kick him in the back of the calf. He drops to one knee with a grunt, and I launch myself higher up onto him still, sit on his shoulders for the briefest of moments before I coil my legs around his neck and straighten out my body, jerking backward.

Both our backs slap the mat hard, wet, sweaty, sticky, and he’s gripping at his neck. I twist him with my legs, bring his neck into the pit of my knee, and grab hold of my own foot, and pull.

He tries to punch above him, and I catch his arm, twist it, use it to leverage him against any movement.

It’s only a matter of time now.

He’s a fighter, that’s for sure.

Tap out motherfucker.

Tap the fuck out!

He doesn’t. He keeps going, face beet-red, lips now blue. I’ve cut off his windpipe, his major arteries. The split second he loses consciousness I need to let him go, or I risk permanently damaging him.

“Tap out you dumb motherfucker!” I growl, twisting his arm some more. He lets out a strangled cry of pain, but still he does not tap.

Slowly, his light fades. In maybe fifteen seconds, he’s out, and I let his limp body go. I scramble up to him, roll him onto his side, check his throat.

He’s still breathing.

The ref races toward me, pushes me away, inspects Beefcake, then declares me the winner.

Another fight over in under five minutes.

I leave the cage, pass Dee’s father first. Glass’s expression is that of something approaching arousal, but I expect nothing less from him. And nothing more.

I seek out Dee, and she just looks at me wide-eyed.

I retreat to the changing rooms, go to get back on the bike when I hear a rising murmuring behind me. Dee quickly comes in after me, shuts the door.

“They’ve cancelled the rest of the fight,” she says.

I crease my brow, look at her, and then rush to the door and slam shut the deadbolt.

I press my ear to it, hear shouting, arguments. Glass is defending himself against accusations of bringing in an ex-pro.

“Fuck,” I say, pinching the bridge of my nose.

“We need to get out of here,” Dee says.

She’s absolutely right.

I scour the changing rooms, past the shower, past the toilets, past the workout equipment, and see a fire escape.

Returning to her, I can already hear the shouting escalating. She slips her hand into mine, and together we weave through the room, out the fire escape which takes us to street level around the back.

It’s fucking freezing, and I realize too late that I’m still just in my fighting shorts.

We rush around to the front of the building, and there see Frank sitting on the hood of the limousine.

“Frank!” Dee calls, pointing toward the restaurant. “Dad needs your help!”

He flicks his cigarette, reaches behind him and pulls out a large silver pistol. “Get a cab, you two,” he tells us, waving us off, and he waddles into the building, his dark trench coat flapping in the wind behind him.

Dee flags down a cab, and we climb in together.

“Think my Dad will be okay?” she asks.

I nod, but I’m angry with myself.

It had never even occurred to me, not even once.

Why couldn’t I see that fighting at my best would put Dee in danger?

Chapter Nineteen