Untamed (A Bad Boy Secret Baby Romance)(16)

“This is all for betting? All so you can make money?”

“He’ll be an unknown,” Dad says, baring his teeth at me with a nasty smile. “Everyone’s going to bet against him. The underdog.”

I shake my head, can’t even understand why he’s doing this. I just don’t get it. How can he just adopt someone, ship them off somewhere, train them, and then make them work for him? How can he expect to control another human being?

“He figures he owes me, getting him off the streets, giving him resources,” Dad mentions off-handedly. He jerks his head at me, urges me to climb up into the jeep.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Dad says, “That he’ll be easy to tame.” He looks at me with that same nasty smile on his face, flashes his eyebrows. “Heel.”

He starts the jeep, and we don’t talk for a while.

Heel… the word echoes in my mind.

“Can you tell me how you met him, Dad?”





Chapter Four





They say I have to be taught a lesson.

To them, that means they have to kick the shit out of me.

This is how everything works in the home. The older boys teach lessons. Why they teach them, they don’t know. They just use words like ‘disrespect’ and think that it means something.

I didn’t disrespect these guys, I just didn’t let them take my money. I earned that money working. It’s mine, and I never let people take what’s mine.

But that’s not how they see it.

I don’t deny that I’m afraid. I don’t deny that I’m nervous. These boys are bigger than me, and they want to kick my ass, give me a beating, put me down and tell me to stay down.

They want to build their name, like a brand. They want other people to know not to mess with them, not to cross them, to hand over everything without hesitation.

They’re thieves and bullies, and they think that because they’re cocky and older, they have a right to do this to me.

I have no training, but I’m confident in a fight. It’s not my first, and it won’t be my last. I’ve lost before, many times, but I’ve won many times more. I’ve taken hits, kicks, and slaps. I’ve dished out worse.

Back me into a corner and I know I’ll stop at nothing to make sure I’m the one leaving the corner walking, not crawling.

The social workers tell me that I have a violent streak. I tell them that the only other option is to let people take what’s rightfully mine.

I’ll never do that.

Anyway, if worst comes to worst, I can run, and they’ll never catch up to me. I can go for miles, whereas they’ll be out of breath in minutes.

But that’s only a last resort. They’ll call me names, say I’m a fucking coward for not standing and fighting ‘like a man’.

But it is three against one. Running would be wisdom in the face of danger… not cowardice. If it comes to that.

I won’t run if I don’t have to.

You earn a name if you run.

One of the boys takes off his gloves. He’s the tallest, the strongest, the oldest. His knuckles are scarred and chapped dry by winter, but his hands still shake a little.

He’s scared. I guess we all are.

The difference is I like the fear. It gets me feeling amped, gets the adrenaline kicking through my body. I feel like my engine is revving, that I’m ready to go from zero to one-hundred instantly. My heart hammers so hard in my chest.

I… I like this feeling. Really like it. Distantly, I wonder if there’s something wrong with me.

The older boy is eighteen, has got nearly two years on me and maybe two inches. He’s stocky, wide, strong. He’s cocky, but not necessarily confident.

He’s already out. Once they turn eighteen they’re on their own. That’s how it is, kicked out the door. No resources, nothing but a fucking guidance counselor and a bunch of ready-made emails and bare-as-fuck resumes that, if you’re lucky, land you menial work.

Nothing wrong with menial work. I clean up a tattoo parlor part time. Mopping the floor is not above me if it buys me a ticket to the movies, an hour at the gym, maybe a seat at the game, nosebleeds of course.

But these boys want glitz. They won’t mop floors. They talk about fat stacks. What little help they offered him, the older boy now squaring up against me, he threw it all aside, turned to recruiting kids from the same group home he lived in to work corners for him.

He calls himself a manager. White-collar, motherfucker. His words, not mine.

His name is Danny, and he’s got a reputation. He carries a gun, but he likes to use a knife. He likes to carve people up. It’s a butterfly knife, the kind that you have to twirl open, the kind people learn to do tricks with, and if they’re lucky, not lose a finger as part of their education.