Unleashed (A Bad Boy Stepbrother Romance) (119 page)

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 scraping 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 stitched, 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. “Fuck you, Dad. Fuck 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. Damn straight it is.

“Cassie,” 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.”