Filthy: A Bad Boy Romance (18 page)

I glance at the clock on the wall. I’m staying in a hotel not far from home—correction, not far from Cain’s condo. That’s not really home to me anymore, if it ever was. He didn’t throw me out of his life, but he might as well have. If he can’t accept this baby then I’m done.

I realize then that my hand is lying on my belly. I always thought that was something pregnant women did on purpose, to draw attention to themselves. I’ve honestly found it rather annoying when I’ve seen friends or family doing it. Like,
Hi, look at me, how pregnant I am with babies inside me!
But I did it without realizing it at all. I look down. My stomach looks exactly the same as it always has. How long until it starts to shift, to get bigger? How long until I have a baby bump I won’t be able to hide from Pop or anybody else? What happens then?

I’ll figure that out when the time comes. I can disappear if I have to. All you have to do is look around on the Internet to find out how to do it. It’s not easy, and it’ll mean never seeing my family again—never seeing Cain again—but I’m willing to do it to protect my baby.

I’m still thinking things over, making plans that don’t stick in my brain more than a few minutes at a time, when my phone rings. My heart leaps, hoping it’s Cain.
Please let it be Cain.
But it isn’t. Of course it isn’t. After all, why would it be? He called constantly the first several days I was gone, and I never bothered to pick up. Now that I actually want to talk to him, it looks like he’s given me up as a lost cause.

Instead it’s my sister, Sophie. “The fight’s today,” she says, without even saying “hello” first.

My heart jumps again, for another reason. I know this, of course, although I’ve tried not to think about it since Cain walked out. He’s going to win the fight, no matter what my father wants him to do. And then… Well, regardless of my plans or lack of same, I might never see him again, anyway.

“I know,” I tell her, wondering why she’s called just to tell me this.

“Look, I don’t know what’s up with you,” she starts, her voice a little hesitant. “I mean, I know about you and Cain McAllister, obviously—Pop keeps hollering about it. But the rest of it…” She trails off. Then, “Go,” she tells me. “Go to the fight. Just go.”

“Why?”

“Because if you don’t, you’ll wish you had. For the rest of your life. Trust me, Jess. You don’t want to live the rest of your life wondering what could have happened if you’d just…”

She stops, and then she hangs up. No “goodbye,” no nothing. I can’t help but wonder if her husband’s nearby, and she’s trying to keep him from overhearing. There’s no way to know. I might never know.

I stare at my phone for a few long seconds. I’ve got a couple of hours before the fight starts. Should I go? Should I stay here and keep making my plans?

I have no idea. My hand starts to shake. I burst into tears, and then I have to run into the bathroom to throw up.

Stupid “morning sickness,” anyway.

Cain

I’m not ready for this fight. I’m not sure I could ever be ready for this fight. I know what I’m going to do, but I still don’t know if it’s the right thing.

I have to win. It’s the only way I know to get out from under Spada’s thumb. It doesn’t matter that he threatened to kill me if I ever defy him again. In the end, it doesn’t even matter if he goes through with that threat. I’ve made up my mind. This is what has to happen. I’ll take my money and hightail it out of here as fast as I can, and to hell with Spada and his goons. I’ll outrun them if I have to. I just can’t do this anymore.

Paul’s telling me what to do as we wait in the corner for the official start of the match. I’m barely paying any attention to him. He’s telling me how to follow the approved game plan, of course. While he’s explaining how I can make it look real before I let the other guy take me out, I’m scoping out the fighter across the cage, sussing out his weak points. I’ve never fought him before, but he’s big, and he looks like he knows what he’s doing. It’s immediately obvious, too, why they call him “the Wall.” His trainer is giving his instructions, too, and he nods along, side-eyeing me throughout the monologue.

Finally I tell Paul, “I’ll be okay. I know what I’m doing.”

“Just remember what I told you about his right uppercut,” he says. I nod, although I can’t remember what he told me about his right uppercut. I’ll find out soon enough.

The bell rings. We’re underway.

I can tell within the first fifteen seconds that I’ve got my work cut out for me if I want to take this guy. He’s good. He knows how to maneuver his body, and I can see him evaluating me constantly, looking for weak points. Every time a fist flies out, he’s testing something, checking my reaction. Of course, I’m doing the same thing.

Tired of the flirting, I move in and grab him, trying to bring him down to the mat. He holds his own, and after several seconds the referee makes us separate. We dance around each other again.

Normally I’d be in the zone by now, completely focused on what I’m doing, building strategy almost subconsciously as we bob and weave. Today, though, I’ve got far too many thoughts rattling around too near the surface. Jessica, Phil Spada, the baby that can’t be much bigger than an eraser head at this point, but which has completely upended everything I ever thought or planned about my life.

Where’s Jess? Where has she gone with our baby inside her? Is she hiding from me? She hasn’t answered any of my calls. Did she go back to her father’s house, and that’s why she hasn’t picked up the phone? Is he keeping her from doing it?

A fist pounds into my face, and my neck snaps back. Shit. I let my thoughts drift just that little bit too far, and the Wall, in all his Wallishness, has taken advantage. I spit blood, resume my fighting position, and force myself to focus.

I’m a bit more successful this time, and before long I hear the end of the first round declared. I retreat to my corner.

Spada’s instructions were to drop near the middle of the second round, beginning of the third at the very latest. Any longer than that and I guess he loses some kind of bonus on the bet. Technically I can get most of the way through the fight without Spada necessarily knowing anything’s going wrong. In addition, I’m supposed to let him knock me out, or at least make it look that way. A simple tap out isn’t enough.

That part doesn’t make any difference, since I’m not going to get knocked out, and I’m sure as hell not going to tap out. I’ve only tapped out once in my whole career, and that was because the other guy damn near dislocated my shoulder.

Paul’s talking to me again while he checks a few cuts on my face and squirts water into my mouth. I chew on my mouth guard and glance out over the crowd. Mostly I’m looking for Spada. I want to see his face. I want to know what kind of mood he’s in so far.

I find him near the front. He’s sitting with his arms crossed over his chest and a frown on his face. I wonder if he suspects I’m not going to throw this fight. Probably. Even if he doesn’t suspect, I’d bet he’s prepared for it. He probably has goons waiting around the arena to take me out as soon as he gives the order.

I give him a salute that’s more sarcastic than he probably wants to see. I can’t help it. If I were smart, I’d stay neutral and not act like I’m mocking him. But nobody’s ever accused me of being smart.

“Are you listening to me?” Paul demands.

I return my attention to him. “Of course I am. I always pay attention to you.”

“Good, because it sure as hell doesn’t look like it. Now, are you ready for this?”

I shrug. “Ready as I’ll ever be.” And then I freeze. Because I’ve let my gaze drift out over the crowd again, and this time I see not Spada, but his daughter.

Jess is here.

She’s sitting a few rows back, and her face is stark white in the midst of the crowd. She has her arms folded over her stomach as she sits there. I wonder if she even knows she’s doing it. Maybe she even sits like that all the time, and I’ve just never noticed. This time I notice, though, because suddenly all I can think about is the baby that’s lying there behind her arms. Sleeping, I think, although I know it’s nowhere near far enough along to do anything that’s even remotely like real sleep. Floating, then. Drifting in protective fluid, growing at an astronomical rate. Is it a boy or a girl? It’s not even sure yet, I bet.

Then I look back at her face, and our eyes meet across the crowd. I know she can see me, and now she knows I can see her. I smile a little, gentle, and try to tell her with my eyes that I’m sorry, that I’m ready to talk about us, about the baby, about everything. Her eyes widen, and I swear she goes even whiter.

I hope she’s okay. If anything happens to her now, I don’t know what the fuck I’ll do. I lift two fingers to an eyebrow and give her a salute, too, this one nothing like the one I gave her father.

I’m tempted to look back at Spada and see if he’s seen this interaction, try to gauge his reaction. But I don’t. Instead I hold Jess’s eyes a moment longer then turn back to Paul, who squirts another load of water into my mouth.

I swallow part, spit out the rest. “I’m ready,” I tell him, and he nods.

#

I start the second round with my brain roiling. I know exactly where Jess is sitting now, and I can almost feel her gaze burning into me even though I’m not looking at her. If I look at her, I’ll forget what I’m doing, and the Wall will pound me into the mat until I’m hamburger. Although I suppose that would make Spada happy.

She’s here. She came to watch me. To support me, I assume. On the other hand, maybe she’s here to see me get the shit pounded out of me. That’d just about serve me right.

The Wall catches me in the jaw, and I stagger. Well, if this is the kind of fight I’m going to put up, then maybe I deserve to get knocked out. I steady myself and get my head back in the game. He’s expecting more fisticuffs, so instead I kick at him and then move in to grapple.

He wasn’t expecting that, and we go down in a pile. I’ve got him pretzeled under me, and I can feel the strain in his shoulder. I push him harder. If I can get him into a precarious enough position, maybe he’ll tap out. That’ll be good enough for me to take my winnings and run.

He doesn’t, though, and after a few long seconds of motionless grappling, where I’m just holding him down on the mat, the referee breaks us up.

Dammit. I’m off my game. I can feel it. I need to get this thing wrapped up. I glance into the crowd. There’s Spada, watching me with a thunderous expression. I think if he were allowed to come up into the cage and smack me around, tell me what I’m supposed to be doing, he’d do that. That’s what Paul’s for though.

“Go,” says Paul, and that’s it, but he tips one eyebrow and his look at me is steady and meaningful.

It’s time for me to throw the fight.

Fuck that.

We meet again in the center of the cage. I keep my eyes level on the Wall’s. The Wall bares his teeth—or rather his mouth guard—in a feral not-quite grin. One of his eyes is so bloodshot there’s almost no white left. He’s got a big cut above one eye where I caught him a good one in the first round. His trainer put some stitches in it, and they’re ragged and ugly.

I swing, connect with his jaw. His head whips to one side, but he keeps his balance. He circles. I follow his movement, keeping my attention on his body so I can anticipate which way he’s going to go.

The movement puts me in a place where I can see Jess. I suddenly realize it without even looking for her. I clench my teeth.
Don’t look, Cain. You can’t afford to lose your concentration now.

I look. I see her there, and she’s utterly white, but there are red streaks on her face. She’s been crying. And her arms are still folded protectively over her belly.

Somehow I see the Wall’s fist swing toward my face, and I duck just in time. I drag my attention back to the fight. All I can see is Jess. Everything inside me is filled with Jess.

Just Jess.

And suddenly everything is thoroughly, utterly clear to me. Everything I am has become her. She’s all I care about. That woman and that baby inside her are all I’ve ever wanted, all I’ve ever looked for. Fuck freedom. If she needs me to fight for Spada, then that’s what I’ll do. If she needs me to
lose
for Spada, then…

The Wall draws his fist back. I see exactly which way I need to duck to keep him from pounding me right in the face. Will it knock me out? Probably. If it doesn’t, I know how to fake it. For a split second my body tries to overrule me, because my body is bent on self-preservation. But in the end I move just a split second too slow.

There’s a flash of pain then nothing but black.

#

Apparently that hit
was
hard enough to knock me out, but not for long. I’m basically conscious a few seconds after I hit the mat. I open my eyes to see the referee is bent over me, a hand on my back as he counts down.

“Three,” he says, then, “You okay, Cain? Four!”

I mutter something and push feebly against the mat. I could get back up again. I’m clearheaded enough, and when I lift my head it’s not spinning. The Wall put me down, but I’m not down for the count unless I want to be.

I don’t get up. I pretend to try, but I let myself collapse. I mumble inarticulate things, shake my head. There’s blood dripping down the side of my face; I can feel it. If I don’t get up, it’ll look good. It’ll look real.

The ref hits nine. I wait for ten, but it doesn’t come right away. I know he’s delaying, thinking I might go ahead and get up. I make a few more wiggling motions and then collapse back to the mat. With an obvious reluctance in his voice, the ref pronounces, “Ten!”

So the Wall is declared the winner. As he’s brought to the center of the ring, hand held high, Paul comes to help me back to my corner. I lean on him hard, letting him believe I was really knocked out, too. No point not making the best of the performance.

He leans in close. “You good, Cain?”

I nod. “I’m good. I’m bleeding.”

“Yeah, I know. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

“I’ll help with that.”