Untamed (A Bad Boy Secret Baby Romance)(33)

“Oh, now you’re going to get all sanctimonious on me? How do you think you have the life you do? Damn it, Deidre, why are you always so difficult?”

I shake my head. “You’re a monster.”

Dad opens his mouth to shout at me, and I wince, shutting my eyes, recoiling, taking a step back. I know it’s going to be bad.

But the shouting never comes. I open my eyes to see Duncan’s hand on Dad’s shoulder. He’s not saying anything, just staring at Dad.

Dad’s eyes flicker between us, and then he fixes them on Duncan. “You better watch and learn,” he says, his voice lowering. “You need to know how it works.”

“It’s late,” Duncan says. “Don’t we have an early start tomorrow? Long drive?”

Dad straightens his back, rubs a hand rapidly over his dome. “You are correct,” he says.

Duncan’s hand comes off Dad’s shoulder.

I’m just shocked. I’ve never seen something like this before. The whole atmosphere changed. The air between us three has gone ice-cold.

“Had a bit too much to drink tonight,” Dad says, joking. “It’s the good stuff. It was a gift from Mr. Jung.”

Dad holds up a bottle of what I can now see is brandy. “Them Chinese fellas love their brandy, don’t they?”

“Jung is a Korean name, Dad.”

“Whatever,” he slurs at me.

“You should go to bed,” Duncan says, his voice even. “You don’t want to be hung-over tomorrow.”

“I haven’t been hung-over in two decades, boy,” Dad fires back, some of his nastiness returning. He pushes past Duncan, and starts climbing the steps, hanging precariously onto the railing. “Tell Frank to lock up on his way out. I expect to see him at seven tomorrow morning.”

“Right,” Duncan says.

We both watch Dad climb up the steps, wait until he disappears up to the third floor. We hear his bedroom door slam shut.

I look at Duncan, and he meets my eyes. I see… anger in his. He turns around, begins to walk away.

“Where are you going?” I ask.

His steps stop. The features on his face soften, and he comes back to me, grabs my hand, and pulls me with him.

“Where are you taking me?”

But he doesn’t answer. He pulls me through the house, and into the gym. A hard slap against the light switch, and the room buzzes into brightness.

Immediately, he’s setting something up; the frame and the punching bag.

“You feel angry right now?” he asks me when he’s finished setting it up. His eyes, now a blazing blue, are hard on mine.

“Yes,” I tell him. “Angry… and sad.”

“Do you feel powerless?”

I tilt my head to the side. That’s a strange question. “I guess so.”

“Come here,” he says. I step toward him, and his fingers go to the edge of my robe.

“Hey.”

“You can’t wear this.”

“What if I’m not wearing anything underneath,” I say, pulling away from him.

“Aren’t you?”

“I am,” I say. I take off the robe. Beneath it I’m wearing my pajama pants and a t-shirt. “But you can’t just go taking off my clothes like that.”

From the equipment cupboard, he produces a pair of gloves. “These are a bit big.”

“What are we doing, Duncan?”

“Trust me,” he says. “Okay? Will you please trust me, Dee?”

I shrug. “Fine, okay.”

He takes my hands into his, and begins to wrap a bandage around them, delicately, but tight.

“What’s that for?”

“Prevents injuries. Keeps your fingers from bending in ways they shouldn’t. And your wrists.”

He wraps it around, precisely, methodically, in a crisscrossing pattern he’s obviously committed to memory.

When they’re tight, he motions for me to ball my fists, and so I do. He slaps each of them, grips onto them, shakes my wrists.

“Good,” he says before fixing the boxing gloves over my hands. They’re bright blue, big, cushioned, surprisingly snug on the inside. And very warm.

“You’re right handed,” he says. “So you lead with your left hand and your left foot. It may feel a little weird at first, but you want your strong arm in the back, not the front.”

He bends down and grabs onto my thigh, and I yelp as he places it in position.

“Your left foot here,” he says.

“Okay,” I say, nodding.

“Okay, like this. Jab, yeah? With your left. Yes, just extend your arm quick, straight out in front of you, then pull it right back in.”

I do it.

“Faster.”

I do it faster.

“Watch,” he says. He demonstrates it for me, lightning fast. He whacks the punching bag, his arm is out and back in an instant, like a snake striking. The thud against the bag is so loud it shocks me, and the chains rattle.