Unleashed: A Bad Boy Stepbrother Romance Part 6

It was like an iron bar, and that was even through his jeans! That was all for me, desire for me.

The truth is, I did want to do more... go further. But I also didn't, because I know, deep down, that this is never going to work. It can't work.

We're wrong for each other. It would be a fling, and I don't want a fling. It would be a tryst, but I want something more serious.

Oh, what am I doing to myself? Why am I torturing myself like this? Why did I even let him do that to me! I can't believe it. The first time a guy fingers me and it's like I'm mesmerized, like I'm powerless.

And it just happened! I never expected my first time doing anything with a boy to be in public like that, so impulsive, so out of control.

I've got the gown draped over my arm, and it's getting heavier, and I've got my cap in my other arm, my bag hanging off my wrist, and I'm walking in these uncomfortable pumps, and I've still got fifteen minutes to go.

And it's getting dark.

It's been such a weird and tiring day. I want to say that nothing has gone right, but I know that I'd just be lying to myself.

I allow myself a brief, self-indulgent smile. I guess I know now that the hottest boy in school wants me.

And only me. Those were his words.

But now I'm wondering why I even stormed off from Chance, why I just didn't get back into his car, let him drive me home.

At least I'd be home by now, into some comfortable shorts, lounging on the sofa.

But I know why! It's because he's a d.i.c.k. He just can't help it. That's just who he is.

So why do I like him so much?

Maybe it's not just that. Maybe I didn't get into the car because I'm embarra.s.sed. Because I don't want to listen to him call me out, or tease me, after he's just had his two fingers buried inside me, after I've just spent all that time pressing my body into him, moaning, sweating... coming.

Maybe I didn't want to hear him goad me into an argument, try to get under my skin, try to make me feel as if I'm somehow weird, somehow different, that I don't know how to give a b.l.o.w.j.o.b.

I hear a girl's screeching laugh, and then see, zooming down the road, some expensive car with the top down. "No more school, baby!" she shrieks as the car whips by me.

From the glimpse I catch of her, of how she's dressed, she is going out on the town, fake ID at the ready.

I have to go home, feed the cat, and probably spend the whole night unable to get Chance off my mind.

I sigh, my shoulders drop, and I trudge on to my empty home.

Chapter Eight.

I'm not following her.

Well, I am following her, but it's not like that.

A group of four girls whizzes by in a silver Mercedes E550 convertible. They've got the top down and none of them are wearing their seat belts.

I laugh while thinking about what Ca.s.sie would have to say about that. She's right, of course, even if she is a know-it-all.

The car screeches to a halt, and then kicks into reverse. I hear it wind up until it's by my side, and the girls all simultaneously bat their eyes at me.

I stop, look at each one of them in the eyes in turn, and then smirk. "What do you want?"

"Why are you walking, Chance?" one of them asks me. She's got her t.i.ts pushed up to cruising alt.i.tude. "Do you need a lift?"

"No," I tell her. "Where are you girls off to?"

"Club Ninety-Nine," the driver says. She's got black hair in a sleek side part, and of the bunch she's definitely the most eye-catching, but I'm not interested.

"Chance," another says, one I don't recognize from school at all. "When's your next fight? I was at the last one, it was so cool. You were great."

"Monday," I tell her. "Next week."

"I'll be there."

"Sure."

I flick my eyes back down the road, but now see that Ca.s.sie has turned the corner and I can't see her anymore.

I start walking after her, but hear my name called from the convertible.

"What?" I ask.

"Want to come out with us?"

"No."

I keep walking, and it takes a moment for the four girls to drive off.

I speed up, and eventually see Ca.s.sie again. She's walking quickly as she pa.s.ses by a house party where people have spilled out onto the street.

People look at her as she pa.s.ses, but she doesn't meet their eyes. She walks right by them, never once turning around.

Ca.s.sie doesn't know I'm following her, and she'd probably be real indignant about it, too. But all it takes is one drunk, overreaching and overbearing a.s.shole to ruin a girl's night.

And on this night, there will be plenty of them.

Another car screams by, and I catch the green glint of a beer bottle in the pa.s.senger seat.

f.u.c.king idiots.

I walk by the house party, and some guy smoking in the driveway recognizes me.

"s.h.i.+t, Chance f.u.c.king Hudson!" he says, walking up to me, fist held out, waiting for a dap.

"Yeah, man," I say, giving him a perfunctory look.

"Woah, hold up, man, join us!" He's walking by my side. "We got everything, bro. c.o.ke, shrooms, booze... whatever you want, it's on me."

I look at the dude-bro, regard him. "No thanks."

"Why not, man?"

But I don't reply, I just keep walking.

Can't get anywhere in this town without being hara.s.sed.

Ca.s.sie turns, cuts through a dark path without streetlamps. She's brave.

It's not like I'm playing hero, but I did just manage to p.i.s.s her off into walking home.

I puff on my cigarette, walking the same route she does, and eventually I see her reach her house. She unlocks the front door.

As she steps in, I swear she casts a glance in my direction. I'm just standing at the corner, smoking. Loud ba.s.s is thumping from a nearby party.

But her body language betrays nothing. I don't know if she recognized me or not. She closes the door, and the living room light switches on.

I start walking back to my car.

Chapter Nine.

Southpaws will always throw off an orthodox fighter.

My opponent leads with his right hand, and his right foot. He's going to jab with his right, feint with his right, before he hooks or crosses with his left.

He's a southpaw, a lefty. They have something of a genetic advantage, having their left side as their dominant. Because there are relatively few, it's hard to get training against them.

Therefore, it's hard to properly counter them.

He's a mirror to me. My leading left is in line with his leading right. His pivot is right foot, he'll swing a kick with his left. My pivot is my left foot, and I'll swing a kick with my right.

He's a reverse to what I'm used to fighting, to what most fighters are used to fighting.

The challenge is welcome.

Southpaws do well by virtue of their left-handedness, but sometimes it leads to overconfidence. Only one thing is worse than being too confident, and that's having no confidence.

Mickey is a few years older than me, but his body is no more developed than mine. He's got a heavier base, and I can tell he's a kicker. His weight rests on the b.a.l.l.s of his feet, which means he'll kick quickly, throw his body into a pivot to get more force behind it.

Some fighters, lower, stockier, are more even in their weight distribution; they don't always stand on their b.a.l.l.s or toes. A man who puts more weight on his heels is harder to dislodge, a grappler, someone who'll corral you up into his arms, spin you around, slam you to the mat, and lock you.

Mickey's going to look to land a few low and heavy kicks into my side, or against my thigh. He's going to try and numb me, weaken my muscles, before taking me down to the mat.

How do I know this? It's just instinct. I've fought him before, but it's not that. You just can tell, by the s.h.i.+ft in weight, the minute twinges of muscle that betray direction of movement.

Fighting is not just a question of how hard can you get hit, but whether or not you know the hit is coming.

But Mickey knows that once I'm on the mat with him, I'll win. He's going to do everything he can to gas me out before that, because when it comes to grappling, I've never fought anybody my equal, anybody who understands leverage, angles, body positioning like I do.

"Chance!" Coach barks. He sounds like he's been crunching on gravel all day, washed down with a whole pack of unfiltered Benson & Hedges. "What the f.u.c.k are you doing?"

I'm circling Mickey, but on his face he's wearing confusion. The beefcake was never the brightest bulb.

"Yeah, the f.u.c.k you doing?" he asks, spreading his arms and shaking his head at me.

I step with my right, jab with my right. Mickey dodges it easily, so I step and jab again, this time to the other side of his head. He sidesteps toward my left, and I throw a thunderous left hook right into his padded helmet.

Mickey goes down, scrambles on all fours, before finally getting to his feet. "f.u.c.k, Coach, he ain't no lefty!"

I don't even look at Coach. I close the distance to Mickey, jab him again with my right, cross him with my left.

I feint a kick with my right, turn it into my pivot, and whirl a low kick with my left, catching Mickey on the thigh. He stumbles backward.

He has no idea how to fight what he is.

"Fight, Mickey," Coach yells. "You think you'll always fight orthodox opponents?"

Mickey growls, spits out a sticky stream of blood and then hops toward me. I skip over his sweeping first kick, antic.i.p.ate the rapid follow-up second kick, and I grab his leg mid-flight and twist him, throwing him to the mat.

I'm on top of him in an instant, wrap my legs around his hips, get my arm beneath his chin, and it's game over. We're evenly matched for strength, so there's no way he's getting out of this rear naked choke hold.

"Okay, okay," Coach says coming into the practice cage. He slaps the top of my head, and I let go of Mickey, barely having broken a sweat.

Coach is a big man. He's got a bit of a gut now, but he's freakish strong. He never made it to the pros a he was too old by the time MMA became fas.h.i.+onable a but he's an accomplished wrestler, boxer, and now MMA trainer.

"What the f.u.c.k was that, Chance?"

"I thought I'd give it a try," I say. I switched my stance, became a left-handed fighter.

"You think you can just switch up?" he barks at me as I get up. He gets in my face, forehead against the padding of my helmet. "You think it's that easy? There's no place for gimmicks in the cage, Chance! That s.h.i.+t'll get you locked up against a pro."

"It worked."