Unleashed: A Bad Boy Stepbrother Romance Part 18

I just laugh. "Sorry, what?"

He clears his throat, somehow manages to sit even straighter, and folds up his newspaper carefully and puts it over his knee. "You'll call me 'Sir'."

I pretend to think about it. "Nah, no I won't."

"I'm your stepfather now," he says. "In my family, it's how we've done it for generations."

"I don't give a f.u.c.k about your family tradition," I say. "Or your insecure ego."

His face starts to get redder. What the f.u.c.k is wrong with this guy? He'll have a heart attack if he keeps on like this. I know why he dislikes me so intensely a it's because I threaten him.

At first, I thought it was because he had smelled something going on between Ca.s.sie and I. But now that I've spent a little time with him, it's clear he just hates the idea that I won't yield to him.

What on Earth my mother sees in him, I'll never know.

"I can see we're going to have to work on your att.i.tude."

"Oh just shut the f.u.c.k up, would you?"

He seriously looks like he's going to explode. I pull out my cigarette pack.

"You'll not smoke in here, young man."

I glance around, and my eyes settle on the marble ashtray in front of me. "We're sitting in the smoking section."

"I'm telling you not to smoke."

I laugh, and light my cigarette. "You don't get to tell me jack s.h.i.+t."

He's panting now, struggling to breathe, and his face is this strange mix of purple and red.

"I'm going to have a talk with your mother-"

"You f.u.c.king talk to my mother then," I say, standing up and stepping toward him. I can see he's clearly intimidated, he shrinks back in his seat, but I'm just walking past him, toward the hotel's entrance.

"We're going to get you sorted out, Chance," he says at my back from his sofa in the lobby, but I ignore him.

That's when I notice her. Ca.s.s. She's standing by the elevators, and she's looking at me, arms folded. Her eyes go from me to her father.

She looks... not angry. I can't place it, but for some reason, it makes me feel like s.h.i.+t.

f.u.c.k.

I leave the hotel, and step out into the cool afternoon air. It's damp a it's obviously just rained a and I can no longer tell the difference between my breath and my exhaled cigarette smoke.

"Why are you such a d.i.c.k all the time?"

I turn around to see Ca.s.sie, and I shrug.

"Your dad was the d.i.c.k."

"He just asked you not to smoke. Why are you trying to start drama? Cause s.h.i.+t? Why can't you just not be confrontational with my dad, not pull your bulls.h.i.+t with me? You know that every bit of tension will affect us, right? Will affect me?"

I look her up and down. Her hair is still wet from her shower, pulled to the side. She's wearing a sweater and jeans. My eyes linger on the swell of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

"I don't care about your dad."

"But I care about him!" she cries at me. Others walking by on the street look at us. "I also care about keeping this holiday as drama-free as possible. I care about them not finding out about us."

"Well, he's n.o.body to me."

"Is that all you've got up there in your thick skull, Chance? What's good for you?"

I look at her hard in the eyes.

"You're trying to hide from everything. What's the big problem? You're pus.h.i.+ng in every direction. First you're p.i.s.sed at your dad, now at me, what exactly is it you want?"

She sighs, shaking her head. "For none of this to ever have happened. For my plan to remain unchanged. For my life to work out in the way I envisioned it."

"Can't deal with a little change?"

"You're not dealing with that change particularly well, either. What's your end-game, riling up my father?"

I shrug. "It's amusing. He's a pathetic excuse for a man."

I see it, then. I see her face fall. I see that what I've said upsets her. I knew that it would, but somehow, I'm not prepared for the impact it's going to have on me.

It... it feels like s.h.i.+t.

"f.u.c.k you, Chance," she says.

"I just call it like it is."

"Remember when you punched that guy in the jaw because he talked s.h.i.+t about your mother?"

"Yeah," I say.

"Remember how you said even if it was true, even if she did do the things he accused her of, that he had no right to talk about her?"

I nod. "I remember."

"Well, let me say it again: f.u.c.k you."

She winds up her hand, and she honest to G.o.d slaps me right in the jaw. It's a loud crack, and there's a moment when everybody on the street stops, as if they're in a video that's been paused, before they carry on, trying not to look at us.

"I hate that you can't take this as seriously as me," Ca.s.sie tells me. "I hate that I like you, and have no control over it."

She takes a deep, shuddering breath. The skin on my face tingles.

"And I can't wait for this s.h.i.+tty family vacation to be over, and for you to go back home, so I'll never have to deal with you, with any of this, again."

She turns around and walks back into the hotel, shoulders drooped.

I walk off into the street without looking back.

I flick my b.u.t.t, and light up another cigarette.

Chapter Twenty One.

The pub's called The Spotted Hen, and it looks different from the rest. Whereas it's neighboring establishments are all buzzing with people, some even spilling out onto the street, this pub is basically empty.

I've been walking winding, cobbled-stone alleys for hours, touring central London myself. I walked along the River Thames, past the London Eye, Houses of Parliament, and Big Ben.

There was never a moment when I wasn't surrounded by streams of tourists, many part of package tours, but not all.

It was a little surreal, walking around a first-world, metropolitan city, and seeing more tourists than I did locals.

But as the daylight faded, as the sun dipped below the horizon, they all disappeared. Off to package-tour dinners or wherever the f.u.c.k.

And my thoughts stayed on Ca.s.sie, how I'd let her down.

How much it matters to me with her when it's never mattered to me before.

She thinks I make her act out of character?

She does the very same thing to me.

Outside the pub, two mean looking bouncers wearing leather jackets and scowls deny everyone entry.

"Sorry, mate," I hear one of them say to a group of college-aged boys. "Venue's booked tonight."

They've got tattoos extending up their necks, and on the backs of their hands I can see more ink peeking out from beneath their sleeves.

Their crew-cuts make me think ex-military. At the very least, it's clear they are trained.

And this piques my curiosity. Obviously this particular pub is being used for shady business. A front? A headquarters for some crime gang?

Either way, it's interesting.

I stand on the opposite side, spark up a cigarette, and wait to see what kind of people go into this place.

There's a slight drizzle, and so I pop the collar up on my jacket, move a little to stand beneath a tree leaning over the sidewalk.

In the shadow of it, all that can be seen is the bright orange burn of my cigarette, and the misty smoke that drifts outward into the cones of light cast down by streetlamps.

That's when a black cabbie pulls up, tiny wheels and chugging exhaust. Out of it steps... Frank Kaminski.

I blink, do a double take. Kaminski is an ex-professional MMA fighter. He retired a few years ago after a string of humiliating losses to young bucks. Rather than remain middle-of-the-pack, he decided to call it quits.

He lost all his endors.e.m.e.nt deals, practically dropped off the face of the planet.

But what the h.e.l.l is he doing here? What the f.u.c.k are the chances that I see him here, now?

From the taxi another two people emerge. One of them is a woman, wearing a disgustingly showy fur coat. She's got cheekbones all the way to the moon, paired with square-ish features. The wolf's head is still attached to her fur coat.

She's wearing a pouty b.i.t.c.hface, seems to check every stereotype box.

The other person, a man, is the visage of a body guard. Tall, broad, sungla.s.ses at night.

Every stereotype indeed.

He taps Kaminski on the shoulder, nods at the woman, and then together the three of them make their way past the bouncers who let them by without saying anything.

I notice the bag Kaminski is carrying. It's a duffel bag, black, and the zip is open. Inside, I see a roll of red tape. It's the kind you use to tape your hands and wrists before a fight.

I lick my lips. So there's a fight going down tonight. Underground, illegal, unlicensed. That means the money will be flowing. Mobsters will all be here to place big bets, especially if they've got an ex-pro.

It'll be a show for sure, but likely a brutal fight. An ex-pro in an underground cage match? It's not altogether a rarity, but there's no fanfare about this pub, everything looks extremely discreet.

It's not a big event, and that likely means Kaminski's opponent is going to be very outmatched. At least, that's my guess.

But I can't place what the angle is. Who is going to bet big on some amateur fighting an ex-pro? It doesn't make sense.

Another cabbie pulls up, and this time there's just a single man that gets out. By the build of him, the gait, it's obvious he's here to fight as well. I don't know if he's going to be fighting Kaminski, or if tonight there is going to be more than one fight.

My bet is the latter.

My thoughts go back to Ca.s.sie's slap, but I push it away. I want to distract myself, and there's no better way than watching a cage match or two.

I begin to unb.u.t.ton my s.h.i.+rt, then take it off. I'm wearing a black singlet beneath. I stuff my s.h.i.+rt into my back pocket, and walk up to the pub. As I antic.i.p.ate, one of the bouncer's stops me.

"The f.u.c.k you think you're going, mate?" The bouncer looks me up and down, sees that I'm no average Joe that just stumbled in off the street.

His eyes wipe over my arms and shoulders, and he considers my tattoos, my build, my scarred knuckles.

"You fighting tonight?"

"Yeah," I lie. "I heard there was an opening, somebody dropped out."

"You're early."