Unleashed: A Bad Boy Stepbrother Romance Part 37

I'm motherf.u.c.king Pierce Fletcher, and I'm the best underground fighter in Australia. Probably the world, too.

"Pierce! Pierce!"

The women are screaming my name. They're everywhere, bikini tops and micro-shorts, crop tops and miniskirts, deep-Vs and backless dresses. Everyone from everywhere is here to watch me.

They've got their arms up, they're dancing, sweating, oozing s.e.x, with full lips or fake lips, and full t.i.ts or fake t.i.ts. They're writhing and wriggling, shaking their hips, giving me the look.

I know that look. I've seen it a hundred times before. They all want me to make them scream.

"I love you, Pierce!" someone shouts, and I turn to her and wink. Her knees. .h.i.t each other, and she drops into her seat. She might as well have had an o.r.g.a.s.m.

There are six stands of people arranged in a hexagon around each face of the six-sided, steel-wire cage. The wire is sharp; get thrown into it hard enough, and it'll slice into your flesh. You'll walk away with a crimson stamp.

I've got a ritual. Fighters have rituals. People like to say we're superst.i.tious, that athletes are superst.i.tious, but it's not some bulls.h.i.+t belief in the uncontrollable, or the unpredictable, or the unknowable.

Ritual is rhythm, and rhythm is consistency, and consistency is king.

You dance in the cage consistently. You have to pick up and put down your feet each time the same way. You can't be slower one time, and you can't be too fast the next. You have to know your body, know its timing. Each move is practiced the same way every time. Sure, improvisation is essential, but if you're not consistent with the basics, well, then you're going to get messed up real bad.

Especially if you're fighting me. G.o.d help you then.

I stare up into the stands, soak up the adulation. I scan the faces, look for anybody interesting. I pick out drug dealers and mobsters and mafia crime families. I pick out a couple of politicians and high-ranking businessmen, trying to dress down, look inconspicuous, but the dips.h.i.+ts have still got f.u.c.king sweaters over their shoulders.

I see a group of college girls and each has a letter of my name painted on her stomach. Only, they've gotten the order wrong. 'I'-before-'E'... get it right, for Christ's sake.

But it never stops being amazing. An adrenal experience.

I've got millions riding on me tonight. All the gangs and crews are here. Everybody is betting. Some of them actually think this punk I'm going to fight has a chance. They're the fish. They're the idiots.

The guy I'm fighting doesn't have any chance at all. He's good, but he's not good enough. s.h.i.+t, I put down a cool mil' on myself without even blinking. He'll be lucky if he lands a hit.

I walk to the next stand, and there I see a pretty blonde. I flash her a smirk, and she screeches and covers her mouth, before waving back frantically at me. She lifts up her top, shows me her t.i.ts. She's got implants and nipple rings.

Whatever.

I'm about to go to the door to the cage, I'm about to turn around, when I see this face. The noise is silenced. I hear the ding of a bell, and know I need to get into the cage, but I just can't stop looking at her.

This girl is the most beautiful girl in the room, and she doesn't even know it. It's a thump in my chest, a pang in my gut, an energy racing into my c.o.c.k.

Oh, I want her.

And I'm f.u.c.king Pierce Fletcher.

I'll have her.

That's when I realize she looks... bored. I lock my eyes on hers; they are a dark brown like dark chocolate, but she's not looking at me. She's not watching me. She's... pecking at her phone!

What the h.e.l.l? I think to myself.

The crowd stays quiet as I peer at her.

She's got bushy eyebrows, and her coffee-colored hair looks carelessly tied back. Its shoulder-length, a little wavy, s.h.i.+nes in the light. Her b.u.t.ton-nose is slightly upturned, and she's got full lips above a chin that's just a little too strong.

This girl is striking. She's got my attention. She's not caked in makeup, nor is she showing off her t.i.ts or trying to be s.e.xy or anything. She's just sitting there, uninterested.

She's taking my breath away.

She finally looks up, and she meets my eyes. I know what's coming now. At first, she's going to break eye-contact because she's nervous, because she's looking at me.

Motherf.u.c.king Pierce Fletcher.

And she's going to think to herself: Oh my G.o.d I just made eye-contact with motherf.u.c.king Pierce Fletcher!

But then she's going to realize that I'm looking back at her, and she's going to realize she has my attention.

What can I say? I'll be the best lay she ever has, and she'll know it then and there.

She's going to look back up at my eyes, and she's going to smile, do something cute with her hair, shoot me the look, and then I'm going to take her home with me tonight, and I'm going to screw her f.u.c.king brains out, make her scream my name over and over again. I'm going to make her claw my back, her throat go hoa.r.s.e begging for more. And then when I leave, she'll send me text messages that I won't reply to.

I never do the same chick twice, even if she's smokin'. What can I say? It just gets boring. I've got more than enough experience to know that.

So I wait. The fight will wait for me. I'm the star of the show, the biggest name, the sole reason there are five-hundred people in this place.

I wait.

She looks up.

She looks into my eyes.

Her stare is utterly blank.

I keep looking at her, and she starts to get visibly irritated.

"What?" she says, shaking her head, now awkward and embarra.s.sed. It's cute. Her voice is lost in the rising murmuring.

I smirk.

I really like this girl. I don't know why, but I've learned to trust my body, my instincts, my c.o.c.k. Everything is telling me to go after her, and by the end of the night, I'll have her. She'll be mine.

It's time for a little flourish. I make a fist with my right hand, and bring it up to my mouth and kiss it. Then, slowly, milking the moment while the whole crowd is watching expectantly, I extend my lean, muscular arm outward, and point at her with two fingers, knuckles-up.

She fiddles with her cardigan. The crowd erupts into 'oohs' and 'aahs'.

I turn around, and I step into the cage.

Chapter Seven.

"What the h.e.l.l was that about?" I ask n.o.body in particular, blinking a few times.

Rose and her boyfriend look at me, grinning. "He's claimed you."

I shake my head. "Claimed me?"

"I don't know," she says, biting her lip. "He's never done that before. He's definitely interested in you."

"You've watched him before?"

"Yeah, heaps," Jason says. "His fights are always a good show."

I laugh, incredulous. "Don't I get a say in any of this? How can he just claim me? What does that even mean?"

"Oh, come on, don't tell me you don't think he's hot stuff."

"Hey," her boyfriend says, but Rose ignores him.

"He's alright," I lie.

"You're lying," Rose says. "I always know when people are lying."

"That's one of those things people say," I tell her, "That's not true and really annoying."

"Fine, I know when you're lying. Besides, you're blus.h.i.+ng."

"I am not!" I say, but I know it's pointless to check. She's right. I realize then that my ears are burning too. I look around at all the people who came to watch fight night, and their eyes are all on me.

Some girl is shooting me a death stare. Another winks at me, and blows a kiss.

What the h.e.l.l is this?

"Babe, if Pierce wants you, he's gonna-"

"Going to what?" I say, cutting her off. "Going to ask me out on a date?"

She snorts. "Please."

"It's not like anything can happen, anyway."

"Why?" Jason interjects. "You on your period?"

I glare at him.

"Oh relax," she says, slapping my knee.

"Nothing can happen because his mother is dating my father."

The small group of people around us all fall silent, and Rose bursts out laughing.

"What's so funny?"

"You really think that's going to stop him?"

I scrunch up my face in disbelief. "It's going to stop me. And," I say, realizing that I need to recover. "It's not like I'm interested, anyway."

"Yeah. Right."

"Just shut up."

"This is going to be interesting," Rose says with an ultra-annoying grin. "Where's the popcorn?"

We sit in silence for a while, and then I see a young couple walking up the steps in the stand. They enter our row, and Rose gets up and hugs them.

"Hey Ca.s.sie, hey Chance!"

I realize the two empty seats beside me are for them. I'm unhappy. Rose didn't tell me she was bringing friends. It's not like I came out prepared to really socialize with anyone else but her and her boyfriend.

I smile and introduce myself.

The guy, Chance sits beside me with Ca.s.sie, and he pulls out his zippo and clinks it open. "Relax," he tells me when he sees my expression. "I don't smoke. Just an old habit."

The bell dings again, and a second fighter steps into the cage with Pierce. The crowd goes silent, but the air is charged.

The man is smaller than Pierce, but he's stocky and obviously strong. Pierce is leaner, with longer arms and a lighter step.

I groan to myself. I'm really not having a good time, and the fight hasn't even started yet.

The two meet in the middle of the cage, and they tap fists. I notice they're not wearing gloves, but instead have some kind of tape or wrapping around their hands.

If they don't wear gloves, then each punch is going to really hurt.

The referee motions for them to step back. Already Pierce is putting on a show, strutting about, and the light plays off the deep lines cut into his stunning body. His shorts are tight, hug his a.s.s.

He turns around, shows his back to his opponent a who I've already dubbed 'Stocky' in my head a and looks at me. He smirks, winks, and again a sea of heads turn to face me, as if they're expecting me to... respond.

I lick my lips, nod my head slightly at his opponent. Pierce shrugs, like he hasn't got a worry in the world. But Stocky is already moving in, charging at him.

"Turn around!" I mouth, shaking my head at Pierce in disbelief. He's going to get punched in the back of the head.

At the last moment, Pierce twists on his heels, and brings an elbow around. Stocky ducks it, but already Pierce is on him, aggressively closing the distance.

Beside me, I hear Chance say, "He always was a showoff."