Unleashed: A Bad Boy Stepbrother Romance Part 60

"f.u.c.k you!" I shout. "You put a f.u.c.king hole in my foot."

"And you lost me fifty million dollars! And it might be more if you don't f.u.c.king win tonight."

"Take it or leave it," I tell him.

Fallon pauses, considers it. "What condition?"

"Bring Penny out. Let her watch."

"You want her to watch?"

"d.a.m.n right I do."

He grins. "You b.l.o.o.d.y showoff. Fine."

"And when I win-"

"If you win."

"She leaves here with me... unharmed."

"That was always part of the agreement."

"Well you make sure none of your f.u.c.king boys get their grubby hands on her."

I'm breathing quick now, rage-filled at the thought.

"Don't worry, Pierce. We're professionals. But you get one thing straight. The only reason we're here is because you didn't finish the fight. The only reason, and I mean the only f.u.c.king reason, that Mogilovich is even considering doing a second round, is because he's a greedy little f.u.c.king b.a.s.t.a.r.d, and double-or-nothing on a handicapped fighter was too good to pa.s.s up.

"Now, I have to front the extra fifty mil out of my own pocket for the little group of partners we've got. If you don't win, you will die. Anton will break your f.u.c.king back and leave you here to rot. n.o.body will ever find your stinking carca.s.s until it's nothing but bones after the rats are done with you. They won't even be able to tell your ident.i.ty by your dental records because I'll have Micky here stomp your teeth out of your lifeless f.u.c.king mouth, and I will f.u.c.king keep them on a necklace, and then I'll go find your mother, Penny's father, and whoever the f.u.c.k else you have that you care about, and I'll show them your teeth before I do the same to them. You f.u.c.king got that, you f.u.c.king c.u.n.t?"

I give Fallon a bland look. "Done barking yet?"

Fallon grows fl.u.s.tered. His face goes beet-red. "And your little f.u.c.king girlfriend? If you lose, she goes to work for Mogilovich. I'm sure you know what that means."

I clench my jaw.

He just shrugs. "You reap what you sow. Maybe next time you'll be a little smarter before crossing somebody like me."

I spit on the floor, and wipe my nose with a finger. "Where's the f.u.c.king tape?"

He grins, and claps at Micky the medic. He pulls out a roll of tape from his jacket pocket and chucks it at me.

"You got her into this, mate," Fallon says. "It's up to you to get her out."

I start taping up my wrists, making sure they are tight, making sure I minimize all risk to sprain them.

"I'll get her out," I say quietly. "And then I'll f.u.c.king break your leg."

"What's that, mate?" Fallon says, stepping closer. "Didn't quite hear you."

"I'll... break... your... leg," I tell him.

"Will you, boy?"

"Bet on it."

"Come on, mate," Fallon says, gesturing for me to get up. "It's time."

"I need water."

"You need water?"

"You want a good fight?" I growl. "Hydrate me. Give me something salty to eat, and get me something sweet to drink. If you don't I'll cramp up. I've been sweating all night."

"Something salty?" he echoes dumbly.

"Water retention!" I bark. "Gradients... Glucose and sodium. Didn't you go to f.u.c.king school?"

"We're not exactly near a corner shop, Pierce."

"We came here in a f.u.c.king limousine!" I yell. "You dumb f.u.c.k, there's a bar in the limo!"

Fallon grins, and looks at Micky who promptly runs off. He returns with a pack of peanuts, some candy, an energy drink, and a bottle of water.

"Drink the energy drink," Fallon says.

"f.u.c.k that," I tell him. "I don't need caffeine or yohimbine or whatever the f.u.c.k is in there messing with my timing."

"He's right, boss," Micky says. "Might not actually be the best idea."

"But it's got, what are they called, electrolytes, right?"

"No f.u.c.king caffeine!" I shout, glaring at him. He puts up his hands, as if to say, 'alright'.

I tear open the pack of peanuts and shove them all into my mouth. I suck the salt off them before spitting the peanuts out, one by one, until the last few that I chew up and eat.

"What a waste," Fallon grumbles.

Next it's the candy. They're the cola-bottle type with sugar stuck on the outside. Perfect. I do the same, suck the sugar off, and then take a big gulp of water and swish it around my mouth. It'll absorb into my blood stream quicker if it's dissolved in water.

I drain the rest of the bottle, and hope that it's enough. The salt and sugar should help me keep water in my tissue, rather than my bladder. The water will regulate my body temperature, lubricate my joints, keep me from cramping.

"So where are we?" I ask. "Judging by the drive, and the roads, I'd say we went west."

"You'll find out after you win this fight."

"You're putting a lot of faith in me, Fallon, and I'm injured. You might just lose twice as much."

"Well, then I'll kill you and give your girlfriend to Mogilovich, and we'll be even."

"But you still won't have your money."

"This isn't about the money," Fallon says, and he puts the tips of his fingers together. "I'm like you. I want to win, and I'll do it one way or another. Whether that means beating Mogilovich, or beating you, I don't give a s.h.i.+t."

"You're pathetic."

He laughs, winks at me. "So are you, mate. Now let's go."

Chapter Thirty Four.

I can cut through the zip ties.

I suck in a deep breath of air, and begin to scratch the zip tie binding my wrists against the corner of a table. They are the thin sort of zip ties, and it shouldn't take too long to file down the plastic.

It's not easy work. The s.p.a.ce between my palms is tiny, and I keep scratching them on the table. I've already torn the skin, and I'm dripping blood.

But I need to do this. Good thing I got a teta.n.u.s shot before coming out here.

At first I think the plastic-on-metal sound is too noisy, will alert somebody, and so I keep looking at the door, expecting a guard to burst into the small office at any second.

But he never does, and so I keep filing away. Grinding it down and down and down, until there's just the tiniest thread of plastic holding my wrists together.

I can pull my wrists apart at any time now, but I keep them together. If I'm going to make a move, it's best that I have the element of surprise. It's best that I'm in a position where I can make a break for it, try to escape.

Or, if not, try to attack. I'm not going down without a fight. It's something that I've decided. I will scratch and claw and punch and kick and gouge and tear and rip and bite.

I go back to the chair and sit down. I can hear voices from outside, but can't make out what they're saying. All I know is that I can hear Pierce's voice. It's deep, seems to vibrate through the concrete walls of the office I'm tucked away in.

I can hear that he's in pain. His words are s.p.a.ced, their intonation all wrong.

I know they shot him. I can feel it in my heart. I don't know where, and I don't know why, but I know they put a bullet in him, and it makes me furious.

They can't just do this. They can't torture us. It's cowardly. It's pathetic. These f.u.c.king mobsters are nothing but sc.u.m.

Looking at my wrists, I see my tattoo there. The Chicago skyline... as seen from the lake. It reminds me of Dad. It reminds me of home, and how, right at this moment, I'm realizing that I miss it. I miss it terribly.

I feel a surge of guilt, a pang in my gut. What if Dad knew what was happening to me?

d.a.m.n it! I promised him that I wasn't going to get myself in trouble, and somehow, here I am, in trouble. I promised myself I wouldn't get in trouble. I promised myself I wouldn't get involved with Pierce.

How could he lead me anywhere else but trouble? That's him, that's who he is. A whirlwind, chaotic and unpredictable. He goes where he wants. I was stupid to think that I could temper that, could tame that.

And now I'm in trouble. Bad trouble.

Looking around, I realize I need more than just my hands as an exit strategy. I need a weapon, something sharp, something I can use to stab or cut.

I begin to search the small office, always keeping my ear faced toward the door. If someone is going to be coming in, I'll need to dart back to the chair, make it look like I wasn't up to anything.

The light overhead is mustard yellow, and it casts dark, black shadows everywhere. Everything I see is either rust brown or ink-black. I feel like I've stepped onto a movie set.

Frantically, I open all the drawers, trying to find a pen, or a metal ruler, something sharp that I can use. But the drawers are all empty.

d.a.m.n it! They've cleared the office of anything I can use. I can't even find a pencil. The pen pot sits naked.

That's when I notice the first aid kit on the wall. A light bulb goes off above my head. I run to the kit, open up the plastic box, and sure enough I see a pair of small scissors inside.

When they're closed, they make a decent stabbing knife, and they're small enough to hide. I pick them up, test their rusty blades. The scissors snap in half. The metal is so old, so rusty, it's become brittle.

f.u.c.k! Defeated, I go back to the chair, and the moment I sit, the door swings open. The same man walks in, a rude sneer on his face.

I pretend to be looking into the corner of the room.

"Well, love," he says, moseying up to me. He tears the tape from my mouth, leaving my skin stinging.

"What?" I ask through gritted teeth. I don't even look at him. I have nothing but contempt for him, and I'm not afraid to show it.

"Your lover boy is going to be fighting tonight. Again."

I'm interested, but try to hide it. "What are you talking about?" I ask in as neutral a manner as I can.

"The Russian's here, and they're having a make-up fight."

I train my eyes on the guard. "Oh?"

"And your boy's been handicapped."

"He's not my boy..."

He puts his hands up. "Excuse me, missy, but you two looked very close."

"That's none of your business." I pause before asking, "What are the stakes?" I don't know the lingo, I don't know if I'm using the right mob or gangster terminology, but I need to know.

"Stakes?"

"What happens if he wins?"

"If he wins, you and him go free."

"And if he loses?"