Unleashed (A Bad Boy Stepbrother Romance) (120 page)

He sucks his upper lip, then nods. In what I can only describe as the most painfully awkward gesture I’ve ever seen somebody do, he steps toward Chance and grips his shoulder.

“Good fight, Chance.”

Chance doesn’t even look up, and when he speaks, he sounds tired and disgusted: “Don’t fucking touch me.”

I see a vein in Dad’s forehead wiggle, throb, but it fades. He just smiles politely, and leaves us in the changing room alone.

I’m still huffing, but he deserved it. I know that sooner or later I will forgive Dad, but it won’t be now. It won’t be for a long time.

Through the closing door I catch a glimpse of the doctor in the cage with Kaminski. He’s helping the brute to his feet, and then starts to put the arm into a sling.

“Thanks,” I say to Chance, squatting down in front of him. I can smell his sweat and the metallic tang of blood.

“Yeah.”

He puts out his hand, and I take it, feeling the coarse tape binding his wrist into a fairly static position. When he tries to pull me in to him, I resist.

“Yuck, no way,” I kid. “You’re covered in that other guy’s sweat, too.”

Chance smiles. His whole face just lights up. Despite the bloodied gums and teeth, the now shiny glued-shut cut, the bruised forehead that looks like somebody shoved an egg under his skin, and the busted lip, he still makes it look good.

I hug him, hold him tight, and he holds me tighter. We squeeze at each other, like we’re holding on for life.

My clothes are ruined, but I don’t care. It may be some of Kaminski’s blood and sweat, but I don’t care. I just want to be close with Chance.

“You still need to finish me off,” he whispers into my ear.

“After you’ve gone to hospital,” I tell him. “And had a shower.”

Dad pops his head in the door, and says sheepishly, “Money’s ready.”

“Go get a taxi,” Chance tells him. “Stay in it, feed the meter, whatever. We’re taking no chances. Stop it right outside. We’ll be outside in ten.”

“Chances? What do you mean?”

“He means people here lost money, Dad. Not all of them will be savory sorts.”

“Right,” Dad says, and he hurries out.

I help Chance to his feet. “Are you in pain?” I ask him.

“Fuck, my whole body hurts,” he laughs. “I’ve never taken such a beating in my life.”

“But you won.”

“Doesn’t mean I didn’t get my ass kicked.”

“You just kicked his ass harder.”

“Exactly.”

He turns around, looking for his t-shirt, and I see two bruises on his back, two thick purple trunks running downward from his armpits to his tailbone. It must have been when they were grappling on the mat. Kaminski’s legs had locked around him momentarily before Chance slipped out.

I help to get the t-shirt onto Chance, and when I go to prop him up by his arm, he softly declines me.

“I’m walking out of here.”

I groan, roll my eyes. “We’re not in a movie, Chance.”

“Just let me, okay?” he says.

So we leave the changing room, and outside are two small duffel bags.

“It’s all here?” Chance says to the bookie.

“All there. Count it if it would please you. We ran it through the machine, your old man saw.”

“He’s not my fucking old man,” Chance growls.

He picks up one of the bags, and I get the other. It’s heavy, I never realized money could be so heavy.

Together we make our way up the staircase, through the empty pub, and then into the cold, drizzling night outside.

Dad has a taxi waiting with the doors open, and we climb in.

“Take me to the hospital,” Chance says. “Wait, no, take me to a corner shop somewhere. I need a smoke.”

“Chance, I thought you stopped,” I begin, but he waves a hand at me.

“Just a victory cigar.”