Untamed (A Bad Boy Secret Baby Romance)(71)

I raise my eyebrows. “Yes, I know,” I say. I hate that they all come to watch him fight, call out his name, scream ‘marry me’ at him, flash their fucking tits at him.

I hate that they can’t see me on his arm. I’m his, and he’s mine. It’s petty… but why can’t I indulge in a little smallness every now and then?

“And yet,” Frank says. “I never see Duncan bring one of them home. He’s never cozying up with them, you know? He could have any he pleased, all at the same time if he wanted.”

My eyes narrow, and I turn them on Frank.

“What?” he asks, shrugging, a guilty and dirty smile prying his lips apart. “What I would give to be his age again with all them girls after me like that.”

“Frank, I really don’t need to hear this.”

But the truth is he’s right. Duncan’s practically a superstar. It’s not just people clued in to underground fighting, either. Even middle-class people from the suburbs are starting to get wind of him. Dad really took underground fighting and blew it up big time.

Despite everything wrong with it – the corruption, the betting, the dirty money, the sheer violence of it all – it is the sting of jealousy that I feel the most. I can’t stand all these girls rubbing their hands on Duncan’s body as he leaves the cage after a win, walks back to his private room. I can’t stand the thought of any other girl getting to look at him, let alone touch him.

They like to crowd around him, fancy themselves groupies, cell-phone flashes going off as each tries to get a selfie, as each tries to strike a good pose and get a non-blurry snap.

It’s completely ridiculous. They all look so stupid doing it. The selfie-sticks have only made it all worse.

I feel the indignation start to turn to anger, and force myself to just forget about it. There’s nothing I can do. What, am I going to control what other people think?

To his credit, Duncan never entertains them. He never so much as looks at them. Their hands grope him and he ignores all of them, never lingers.

I got on him once about it before. I was in a bad mood and looking to start a fight. He asked me what he was supposed to do… lay hands on them, push them away?

He’s right of course. He could never do that.

But sometimes I wish I could.

I take a flyer from my bag. Duncan’s on it wearing nothing but his fighting shorts. The lines of his body are cut deep, and he’s staring straight into the camera. His jaw is a sharp cut, shadowed, and his lips full, endlessly kissable. And then there are those striking, blue eyes.

The girls in the back are right, of course… his eyes are something else.

“Don’t tell me you fancy him,” Frank says. “That would be wrong. He’s your brother.”

Once again I look at Frank, now a growing feeling of unease in my belly. I correct him: “My adopted brother.”

Frank grunts. “You know, little sisters… and he’s more like a cousin or something, anyway.”

“Don’t tell me you’re opening up to me about your own childhood fantasies, Frank.”

He barks out a hoarse laugh. But little does Frank realize he’s right on the money… he’s always had a nose for these things.

I rub my belly absent-mindedly.

I turn my eyes back down at the flyer. They were handed out all around town the last few days. The biggest underground MMA cage fight of the year.

Duncan ‘Creature’ Malone versus ‘Manic’ Conrad Butler. Their nicknames aren’t exactly oblique; they describe their respective fighting styles perfectly.

I sigh, wipe my eyes over Duncan’s almost-naked body. We’ve been joined at the hip, inseparable, for so long. It’s not been all good though, but what is? Ups and downs are a part of life. It’s like a heartbeat monitor. No ups and downs means you’re dead inside.

But now… now I’ve got to break the biggest news of his life to him… of my life, too. Something I only just found out for sure this morning. Something I only just worked up the courage to go through with.

Of course, I already knew. The body doesn’t lie.

I fold up the flyer, put it back into my bag. I’m just going to have to come out and say it. It’s not going to be easy, but I have to, no matter how worried I am about what he might think. I keep doubting myself. I keep telling myself, Don’t think you know him that well. Don’t think you can predict what he’ll say.

I don’t know why. Maybe it’s just a way to protect myself. Dim expectations are a suit of emotional armor.

But I know what Duncan is like on fight nights. He’s so amped-up, so psychologically prepared to beat a man to within inches of his life, to get him into a choke hold and black him out, or to take a twisted shoulder right to its limit before it pops out of the joint, or the same to a knee.