Untamed (A Bad Boy Secret Baby Romance)(56)

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





“What the hell is the matter with you?”

Duncan’s been broody and silent the whole cab ride home, and when we finally walk up the long driveway, he refuses my coat, and instead wraps an arm around my waist as if shielding me from the cold wind.

And all he’s wearing his is fucking fighting shorts. He looks ridiculous.

Boys. Always got to be the tough guys.

We go inside, and Duncan climbs the steps two at a time, and I hear the old pipes shudder to life. I walk up after him, see the bathroom light spilling out into the hallway.

I hear the sound of splashing; a sink full of water, then some of it splatters to the floor.

I push the door open. Duncan is washing his face, then peers at himself in the mirror.

“Did you get hit?”

“Just here, above the eye,” he says. “It’s stopped bleeding.”

I examine it in the mirror, see a thin line of split skin.

“Damn,” I say. “It was close. I’m surprised you didn’t get hit more.”

He growls at me, “That’s the fucking problem.”

I’m taken aback by the tone of his voice, step out of the bathroom. He tears off his shorts, squeezes past me and goes into his room. He comes out later wearing jeans and a t-shirt, and then walks past me without meeting my eye.

“Why the hell are you giving me the cold shoulder?”

He stops at the top of the stairs, turns around, tongue on his lips. He heaves out a breath of air, and then frowns. It almost looks like he’s struggling to find any words.

“You can tell me,” I say, going to him. He’s so wound-up, I want to help him calm down, but I don’t know how. I don’t know how! I wish I did, I wish I could help him.

But I don’t even know what he’s so fussed about! He won those fights only taking a single hit. I don’t know anything about fighting, but I don’t think that’s typical. It sounds like a pretty good showing to me.

“You fought really well,” I tell him. “That last move, it looked like it was all choreographed for how smooth it was.”

His eyes narrow a little. “Dee, I put you in danger,” he says, not breaking eye-contact with me. “I was stupid. It won’t happen again.”