Unleashed: A Bad Boy Stepbrother Romance Part 30

But one thing I didn't antic.i.p.ate was our proximity to the edge of the cage. He kicks off it, rolls me backward, and his weight crushes into my gut, and I feel my lowest rib on my right side snap.

I wince, groan, but continue the roll, throw him over me and then grab onto his wrist. We're lying on the mat, him 'below' me, and I've got his arm stretched out above his head, draped against my torso.

I've got a hold of his wrist, I wrap one leg around his shoulder, the other around his neck, and force him flat onto the mat.

I pull. I motherf.u.c.king pull and twist like I have never before.

The veins in my head and neck feel like they're about to pop. I can barely see from all the blood in my eyes, and my f.u.c.king abdomen is killing me, but G.o.d d.a.m.n it I ain't letting go.

I see Kaminski get his left knee up, try to get the sole of his foot against the mat.

Ca.s.sie sees it too, and I hear her voice: "His foot!"

I turn Kaminski, use his own body weight against him. It pinches the nerve in his hip, and his whole leg jolts out, a reflexive reaction, and he loses leverage.

He's not getting out of this hold.

"Tap out!" I tell him, glaring down into his eyes. He's looking up at me with a mixture of anger and surprise.

He thinks he has a chance of losing!

I f.u.c.king have him now.

I throw my heel down onto his chest again and again, twist his arm even harder.

The tension in his shoulder is insane, I don't know how it hasn't popped out yet. His anterior deltoid head is straining a I can see it clearly, the muscle striations getting all messed up, misaligned a and still he's not tapping out.

"You won't beat me, kid," he spits at me, his voice hoa.r.s.e from my choke hold. Blood dribbles from his lips, and sweat drips off his chin.

So I twist harder, pull harder, but still, this f.u.c.king beast won't tap out!

"Tap out, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d!" I growl, wrenching his arm even farther.

Kaminski slams a fist against the ground in frustration, and he whips his head across his shoulder to look up into my eyes.

I twist my legs, hold them tighter around him, exert every ounce of f.u.c.king strength I have to keep him stapled to the mat, to stop him from gaining leverage to get out of this hold.

"I'm not losing to a f.u.c.king boy!" he shouts, and he tries to roll his body, tries to get purchase. But he can't; I understand the angles better than him. He's got no place to push from.

One arm is trapped in my vice grip, the other beneath the weight of his own body, and even if he bends his knees, gets his soles on the mat, he can't push up because I have his torso pinned with my legs.

Dull pulses thread through my nervous system telling me I'm hurt in numerous places, but the adrenaline drowns them out.

"Come on!" I shout, sending a spray of spit at Kaminski.

"I'm going to kill you," he snarls, nothing but venom in his voice. He starts trying to lift himself, and his sheer brute strength is hard to contain.

I grab onto his arm tighter, scream out a primal roar as I twist, and I feel the strain, the tightness, the elasticity of his tendons stretched to their limit.

I wrench, and I feel his anterior labrum tear. His shoulder pops out of its socket; I actually hear the pop. His arm bends unnaturally, twists in ways I don't antic.i.p.ate.

He howls, his body losing strength. I roll off him, pivot on the small of my back and swing a kick at his jaw.

Lights out.

Kaminski's head hits the mat, and crimson pools beneath his drooling mouth.

I push back from him, climb to my feet. Kaminski's arm is definitely out. It's draped backward across his own back, facing the wrong way around.

"f.u.c.k!" I shout at him, still filled with adrenaline, still tight, still in fight-or-flight mode. "f.u.c.k!"

But then I start to hear the silence. The whole place, every face, is looking at me. The bald ref jumps into the cage, lifts my arm, p.r.o.nounces me the winner.

I don't even hear his voice.

All I see is the disbelieving eyes.

What the h.e.l.l did they think would happen?

That I'd lose?

Impossible.

I had more to lose.

I spin around, find Ca.s.sie. I can see just fleeting glances of her body as she threads through the crowd. I try to wipe blood from my eyes but it's all coming out too quickly.

"Come here, boy," the ref says, and I turn to him. He glues the cut above my eye, then puts a hand out and catches a towel thrown at him by an attendant.

He wipes my face, the blood out of my eyes, then gestures with his head behind me.

I turn around, see Ca.s.sie laughing, her eyes red, her hands clasped together in front of her.

"You won!" she says, putting her hands on my chest.

"I told you I would."

"I helped," she kids, but she's right.

"You did," I tell her.

She gets under my arm, lets me put my weight on her.

I've never put my weight on anybody before.

"Let's get the f.u.c.k out of this place before they all riot at the upset," I say.

Chapter Thirty Six.

Chance is draped over my shoulder, putting a lot of his weight on me. I can barely prop him up as we step out of the cage.

The audience is in complete silence. The only sounds are that of the shuffling of feet, the sc.r.a.ping of soles against concrete.

Everybody in the room has just lost money. Everybody but us. Some glower at him with venomous eyes, and others look pleasantly surprised.

Some even look at him with admiration, genuinely shocked that he, an amateur, a relative unknown, a total underdog, could have taken out an ex-pro.

Those are the people, I presume, who can appreciate a good fight.

Me? Not so much. I hate that we had to do this. I hate that Chance is leaking blood, is bruised blue, has a broken bone.

I saw his rib snap, saw the way his body jolted. Now, with his hand over his side, I can see the misshapen portion of his abdominals. It's sunken in just a little bit.

But there was that moment, during the fight, where I saw Kaminski's moves, where I called them out to Chance, and in that moment and that moment alone, I saw more to what a fight was.

It's an elaborate dance, a game laser-focused around countering your opponent, maneuvering your opponent into a weaker position.

I suppose I can appreciate the strategy of it, the... calculation of it.

But I don't think I could ever get used to seeing this kind of visceral violence all the time.

"Come on," I say, guiding him toward the back changing room. We step in, and I set him down against one of the benches.

A man follows us in, announces he's a doctor, and quickly examines Chance. He says we need to go to a hospital, get the cut above his eye st.i.tched, and an x-ray to make sure the broken rib hasn't perforated any organs.

"Fine," Chance grunts.

Chance meets my eyes, and smiles, and I return it without hesitation.

"You did really well," I say.

He's still breathing hard, but he nods.

"Alright, otherwise I think you're fine," the doctor says. He gets up and looks down at us. "Who is he, your brother?"

I chew on my lower lip. "Sort of. For now."

The doctor wears a puzzled expression. "Well, anyway, he knocked the stuffing out of Kaminski in the cage tonight. Going left-handed and then switching to your right was a great fake-out."

"Thanks," Chance says icily.

The doctor leaves us, and moments later Dad walks in. He's beaming, but when he sees my expression, his smile fades.

"They're counting up the money now," he says. "We'll get it in duffel bags."

"Don't forget our share," Chance says a moment later, cool venom in his voice. "I placed a little wager on myself."

Dad balks. "You what? You can do that?"

"No, Dad," I say. "They don't let fighters bet on themselves here. But I did it. I bet all my savings, too, and that money that Grandma left me."

Dad looks at me, brows fused together. "You did what?"

"I did," I tell him. "This was our only shot, and if we didn't get it, I might wind up dead or worse. I took a chance. Now I don't need you to pay for my college. You can't ever bring up finances with me again, you got that?"

He looks hurt, but I really don't care anymore.

"You have no idea how disappointed in you I am, do you?" I tell him. "f.u.c.k you, Dad. f.u.c.k you for getting me into this, for getting Chance and his mother into this. You've changed since you got your promotion, and I'm sick of it, and I have the right to be sick of it. Your behavior has been completely unacceptable."

Dad opens his mouth to speak, but no words come out.

"Don't talk, Dad. There's nothing you can say to me right now. Will I forgive you? Yes, eventually. But not right now. I'm not coming home with you, either. I'm staying here."

"What are you going to do?" he asks lamely.

"I'm going to travel, set myself up in a place, use it to get an early start by buying text books. It's enough for everything I need and want right now. I did the math."

He looks between Chance and I, sees that it's him against us. d.a.m.n straight it is.

"Ca.s.sie," he says, shaking his head. "You're not coming home?"

"No."

"What about during your semester breaks?"

I soften a bit. "We'll see."

"I'm sorry," he says.

"It's too late for sorry. You'll just have to take your lumps and wait for me to come around. You can't force me how to feel."

He sucks his upper lip, then nods. In what I can only describe as the most painfully awkward gesture I've ever seen somebody do, he steps toward Chance and grips his shoulder.

"Good fight, Chance."

Chance doesn't even look up, and when he speaks, he sounds tired and disgusted: "Don't f.u.c.king touch me."

I see a vein in Dad's forehead wiggle, throb, but it fades. He just smiles politely, and leaves us in the changing room alone.

I'm still huffing, but he deserved it. I know that sooner or later I will forgive Dad, but it won't be now. It won't be for a long time.