Wrong (A Bad Boy Romance)(128)

He wasn’t expecting that, and we go down in a pile. I’ve got him pretzeled under me, and I can feel the strain in his shoulder. I push him harder. If I can get him into a precarious enough position, maybe he’ll tap out. That’ll be good enough for me to take my winnings and run.

He doesn’t, though, and after a few long seconds of motionless grappling, where I’m just holding him down on the mat, the referee breaks us up.

Dammit. I’m off my game. I can feel it. I need to get this thing wrapped up. I glance into the crowd. There’s Spada, watching me with a thunderous expression. I think if he were allowed to come up into the cage and smack me around, tell me what I’m supposed to be doing, he’d do that. That’s what Paul’s for though.

“Go,” says Paul, and that’s it, but he tips one eyebrow and his look at me is steady and meaningful.

It’s time for me to throw the fight.

Fuck that.

We meet again in the center of the cage. I keep my eyes level on the Wall’s. The Wall bares his teeth—or rather his mouth guard—in a feral not-quite grin. One of his eyes is so bloodshot there’s almost no white left. He’s got a big cut above one eye where I caught him a good one in the first round. His trainer put some stitches in it, and they’re ragged and ugly.

I swing, connect with his jaw. His head whips to one side, but he keeps his balance. He circles. I follow his movement, keeping my attention on his body so I can anticipate which way he’s going to go.

The movement puts me in a place where I can see Jess. I suddenly realize it without even looking for her. I clench my teeth. Don’t look, Cain. You can’t afford to lose your concentration now.

I look. I see her there, and she’s utterly white, but there are red streaks on her face. She’s been crying. And her arms are still folded protectively over her belly.

Somehow I see the Wall’s fist swing toward my face, and I duck just in time. I drag my attention back to the fight. All I can see is Jess. Everything inside me is filled with Jess.

Just Jess.

And suddenly everything is thoroughly, utterly clear to me. Everything I am has become her. She’s all I care about. That woman and that baby inside her are all I’ve ever wanted, all I’ve ever looked for. Fuck freedom. If she needs me to fight for Spada, then that’s what I’ll do. If she needs me to lose for Spada, then…

The Wall draws his fist back. I see exactly which way I need to duck to keep him from pounding me right in the face. Will it knock me out? Probably. If it doesn’t, I know how to fake it. For a split second my body tries to overrule me, because my body is bent on self-preservation. But in the end I move just a split second too slow.

There’s a flash of pain then nothing but black.

#

Apparently that hit was hard enough to knock me out, but not for long. I’m basically conscious a few seconds after I hit the mat. I open my eyes to see the referee is bent over me, a hand on my back as he counts down.

“Three,” he says, then, “You okay, Cain? Four!”

I mutter something and push feebly against the mat. I could get back up again. I’m clearheaded enough, and when I lift my head it’s not spinning. The Wall put me down, but I’m not down for the count unless I want to be.

I don’t get up. I pretend to try, but I let myself collapse. I mumble inarticulate things, shake my head. There’s blood dripping down the side of my face; I can feel it. If I don’t get up, it’ll look good. It’ll look real.

The ref hits nine. I wait for ten, but it doesn’t come right away. I know he’s delaying, thinking I might go ahead and get up. I make a few more wiggling motions and then collapse back to the mat. With an obvious reluctance in his voice, the ref pronounces, “Ten!”

So the Wall is declared the winner. As he’s brought to the center of the ring, hand held high, Paul comes to help me back to my corner. I lean on him hard, letting him believe I was really knocked out, too. No point not making the best of the performance.

He leans in close. “You good, Cain?”

I nod. “I’m good. I’m bleeding.”

“Yeah, I know. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

“I’ll help with that.”

My head snaps up at the sound of that voice. It’s Jess. She’s half bent over, moving between the ropes and into the cage. She’s gotten some of her color back, I notice.

I don’t care anymore about pretending to be incapacitated. I push away from Paul and into Jess’s arms.

“Jess, I’m sorry. I want to be there for our kid.” I try to kiss her and miss her mouth, and when I look down at her she’s got a smear of blood on her face, but she’s smiling at me.