Unleashed: A Bad Boy Stepbrother Romance Part 51

"She writes you snail mail?" I gasp. "The wedding will happen before it even gets here!"

His eyes open wide, and he c.o.c.ks his head to the side. "What wedding?"

I groan, and bury my face in my hands. "You're not going to believe it."

"My mother?"

"Yeah."

"And who?"

I shut my eyes and just shake my head.

"No," he says. "You're not serious."

"I got an email from Dad this morning."

"Don't f.u.c.k with me, Penny."

"I'm not f.u.c.king with you, Pierce."

He starts to laugh. At first it's a chuckle, but then he's slapping his stomach and holding onto his chest, and tears are streaming from his eyes.

"Oh, G.o.d, I'm cramping, I'm cramping," he wails as he laughs.

I am beside myself.

"This is not funny, Pierce."

"It is! Oh, it f.u.c.king is. Don't you see what that means?"

"Yeah," I say, rolling my eyes, waiting from something crude to come out of his mouth.

"It means you're f.u.c.king your stepbrother!" He bursts out laughing again. "This is unreal. This is only s.h.i.+t that you read about. It's always something that happens to somebody else."

"You're not my stepbrother yet, you idiot." I fold my arms, and sit up in bed. "And we're not f.u.c.king."

"Right," he says, walking over to me. His erection is half-gone now, and he stands right next to my face.

"Go away," I say, making a face.

He leans down, tilts my head up, and kisses me quickly.

"Eugh!" I say, pus.h.i.+ng him off me. I turn away from him and put a hand over my mouth. "I haven't brushed my teeth yet."

"Pen," he says. His c.o.c.k throbs as he pinches his pelvic muscle. "I really don't care."

I get out of bed, rush past him into the bathroom. "We're not doing this again," I throw at him on my way in.

"Yeah we will," he says.

I catch a flash of his arrogant smirk as I slam the door shut.

My head is spinning. Our parents are getting married!

Oh, G.o.d, how awkward is this going to be?

I brush my teeth, gargle mouthwash, and then examine my hair.

Sigh.

That's when I remember that I've got my hat in my bag. Perfect.

Rus.h.i.+ng out of the bathroom, I get dressed, sling my bag over my shoulder, and walk toward the door. Pierce watches me from the kitchen counter. He's drinking something thick and brown a probably a protein shake a and watching me with an amused grin.

"Where are you going?"

"Out," I say. "I'm leaving. I'm have to get to work."

"Shouldn't we talk about this?"

It's always surprised me how fast irritation can lead to las.h.i.+ng out. I fire an angry glance at him. I feel... foolish. The news that our parents will be getting married has totally shaken me.

I mean, this is something I've got to get out of early. There's no way I want to start forming any attachment toward my soon-to-be stepbrother.

Because once you dig that hole, climbing out involves a whole lot of awkwardness and embarra.s.sment. I hate both of those.

And I have to admit to myself that I hate the idea of heartache even more.

"Pen," he says. "What's gotten you so worked up? We're only going to be stepbrother and stepsister." He laughs as he says it, apparently unable to contain himself. I don't know what he finds so funny. It would only be funny if I were watching it happen to somebody else. It would only be funny if this was part of some television show.

But it's not. It's real. It's happening.

It's weird, icky. It's not something people should do.

"Come on," he says, as if reading my mind. He's got a frothy protein-shake mustache, and wipes it off on the back of his hand. "It's not like we're actually related."

"Officially we're going to be."

"So? We'll keep it a secret."

"Keep what a secret?"

"Keep f.u.c.king," he says, shrugging.

"I'm going, Pierce."

I make a beeline for the door, glancing at the clock. I'll make it on time if I can get a taxi. Just as I'm about to open it, the doorbell rings, and then a gruff voice booms through the wood: "Pierce Fletcher!"

I freeze, and look at Pierce. The voice sounds... off. It's bad, sounds like an order rather than a question.

"Who is that?" I whisper. "You're expecting somebody? And you didn't tell me?"

He shakes his head, and already I can see his expression has changed. He very definitely wasn't expecting somebody.

"n.o.body knows where I live."

"Well, obviously somebody does!"

Chapter Twenty Two.

Pierce's expression has lost all its buoyancy. He actually looks concerned, and it's freaking me out.

Quickly, he moves toward me, and guides me back from the door. He places his ear against it. The atmosphere has switched from awkward and argumentative to extremely tense in just two seconds flat.

Why doesn't the door in his place have a f.u.c.king peephole?

My heart is racing. Something very definitely feels wrong.

I shadow him, watch as he unlocks and opens the door. In the hallway outside are two men in suits. I don't fail to notice that they both sport the same tattoo on their necks, the left side just below the jawline. It's a symbol of some kind, but I can't make it out. One of them has his hands behind his back, and I see that they are beneath his jacket.

It dawns on me a second later: That man must be gripping onto a gun!

"Who the f.u.c.k are you?" Pierce asks, standing in the doorway. The men try to enter the apartment, but Pierce puts a hand out. "Uh-uh. Talk here, or f.u.c.k off."

The two men look at each other. One of them is about five-eight, bald, with the build of a 1920's Chicago gangster caricature, the other Pierce's height, skinnier, and with a scar running down the side of his face. It joins his eye to his chin.

I touch Pierce's elbow. These guys are definitely not door-to-door vacuum salesmen.

The stocky bald guy steps forward. "We work for Lev Fallon. You know of him, I presume?"

"Yeah, I heard of him," Pierce replies.

"He's setting up a fight."

"First I've heard of it."

"Next week, Friday. One fight only."

"Against who?"

"Anton Vasilev."

I see Pierce's fist clench. "Never heard of him."

"Fallon has arranged this fight in cooperation with the Mogilovich family. I take it you know who I refer to."

Pierce's body stiffens a little. He obviously knows, but the name means nothing to me. It doesn't take a genius to figure out that these names are those of mobsters, though. Or the mafia... whatever they're called.

I don't like this one bit.

"Why me?" Pierce asks.

"He's been a long-time fan, mate."

"I'm not interested."

"You stand to earn two million bucks."

Pierce, in the process of closing the door, opens it. "Two mil? For one fight? You're s.h.i.+tting me."

"Pierce!" I hiss, but he ignores me.

"That's right. Two percent of the forecasted winnings."

"Don't tell me your boss is placing a fifty mil bet on me."

"He represents a conglomerate."

"Other fans," Pierce sneers.

The stocky man straightens his tie. "He believes you can win."

There's a stony silence. The air between them turns thick as treacle.

"I won't talk to some f.u.c.king goon." He waves them off with his hand. "If your boss has something to ask me, then he can talk to me personally. Until then, you're wasting my time."

The man with the scar pulls out a radio, and when he clicks the b.u.t.ton on the side, it bursts to life with a static hiss. "Boss, he says he'll only talk to you."

There's a pause. A voice comes through with a thick Australian accent. "Be right up, mate."

"He's here now?" I ask. I pull Pierce to the side, press the door shut, and shoot him an angry glare. "Who is this guy that's coming up?"

"Lev Fallon, one of the local mob bosses."

I blink. "Pierce, you a.s.shole. You can't involve me in this. How the h.e.l.l did they get your address?"

But he doesn't reply. It's clear to me that he doesn't know. Suddenly, I'm feeling overwhelmingly disappointed.

"Jesus, Pierce! Are you listed anywhere?"