Untamed (a Bad Boy Secret Baby - Emilia Kincade

Published on February 2017 | Categories: Documents | Downloads: 35 | Comments: 0 | Views: 337
of 1870
Download PDF   Embed   Report

Comments

Content

Untamed
A Bad Boy Secret Baby Romance
By
Emilia Kincade

***
Cover design by Kevin McGrath:
www.kevindoesart.com
***

Join my newsletter for updates on new
releases, and advanced review copy
opportunities!
Get in touch with me:
Email:
[email protected]
Facebook:
http://www.facebook.com/ekwrites
Follow me on Amazon!
Sign up for my newsletter: Click Here

All rights reserved. This book or any
portion thereof may not be reproduced
or used in any manner whatsoever
without the express written permission
of the author or publisher except for the
use of brief quotations in critical articles
or reviews.
***
This is a work of fiction. Names, places,
businesses, characters and incidents are
either the product of the author's
imagination or are used in a fictitious
manner. Any resemblance to actual
persons living or dead, actual events or
locales is purely coincidental. All

characters depicted in this work are
adults.
***
This ebook is licensed for your personal
enjoyment only. This ebook may not be
re-sold or given away to other people. If
you would like to share this book with
another person, please purchase an
additional copy for each person. If
you're reading this book and did not
purchase it, or it was not purchased for
your use only, then please purchase your
own copy. Thank you for respecting the
hard work of this author.

Table of Contents:
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty One
Chapter Twenty Two
Chapter Twenty Three
Chapter Twenty Four
Chapter Twenty Five
Chapter Twenty Six
Chapter Twenty Seven
Chapter Twenty Eight

Chapter Twenty Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty One
Chapter Thirty Two
Chapter Thirty Three
Chapter Thirty Four
Chapter Thirty Five
Chapter Thirty Six
Chapter Thirty Seven
Chapter Thirty Eight

Chapter Thirty Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty One
Chapter Forty Two
Chapter Forty Three
Chapter Forty Four
Chapter Forty Five
Chapter Forty Six
Epilogue
Bonus Book: Uncaged

Chapter One

The sharks think him a goldfish in
their tank. How wrong they are.
Clinking crystal and the hubbub of
chatter and laughs are the background
noises. Prideful chandeliers, and tuxedos
and formal dresses are the background
sights. Perfume, masculine and feminine,
peaty whiskey and acrid cigar smoke are
the background smells.
They circle him, lie in wait, their fins
above the surface without selfconsciousness. He’s the object of their
fawning affection, their fake friendships,
but he is also their target, and they’ll
sink their teeth into him the first moment

they get.
But he knows it. He’s no fool, even if
that’s what people think of him by virtue
of who he is, what he does.
He takes the compliments with a
subdued grace and easy charm that
endears him to the wicked people who
scramble over each other to talk to him.
It is a manner at odds with the visage of
him in a steel-mesh cage, tattoo-sheathed
arms laying punch after thunderous
punch into a bleeding, reeling, drooling
opponent.
I
see
scattered
looks
of
disappointment in those that want him to
beat his chest, here and now. That want
him to be the cocky and aggressive

creature that he is in the cage, the idiot
fighter who speaks with slurred words
and doesn’t know not to mangle the cap
of a cigar, or the difference between a
merlot and a cab-sav.
Those are the people that see him as
nothing but a pit bull, or a cock in a
fight, a chance to make money. They
want to watch the show, which is purple
bruises, red blood, and exposed white
bone.
Most of the men try to buddy up with
him, shake his hand, do the fighter’s
double-fist-tap as if the mere gesture
somehow extends the line of inclusion
around them, makes them one with the
fighters.

They clap him on the back, but in the
same breath test him with exclusive injokes, or a privileged wit that he does
not understand. They do their best to
show that they can one-up him whenever
they like, as if through words of
marginalization they can tease from him
some thread of insecurity, before
latching onto it and pulling.
It all rolls off his shoulders like rain
water.
The wives… well, they look at him
differently, in a way that I don’t like one
bit. But I try not to think about that. I
can’t control what other people do. And
without a doubt, I trust him.
I’m sitting at the bar in the most

dangerous room in the state. Politicians,
police captains, and fat cat businessmen
mill about, rubbing shoulders with the
bosses of every major crime family and
organization in the tri-state area. At the
head of it all is my father, Johnny ‘Glass’
Marino.
He booked out this whole hotel, a new
and modern all-glass eyesore that sits
like a reflective pimple on the
countryside. They had to relocate all the
guests at just a moment’s notice, and it
was only the out-of-towners who put up
a fuss. But they didn’t know any better.
Once they saw the cavalcade of
limousines spilling out bodyguards in
black, it became clear it was time to fall
in line.

Dad’s the man who took basementdwelling underground cage fighting and
made it the biggest money-maker in
town… and the biggest money loser, for
those who bet incorrectly. Dirt and
grime and dusty basements are a thing of
the past. Now… now it glitters.
Duncan ‘Creature’ Malone is the star
of the show, the man whom the sharks
circle. Dad’s always wanted to show off
his family ‘pedigree’, even if Duncan is
not real family. Heck, he didn’t even
take Dad’s last name.
Everybody else knows that he was
adopted and didn’t formally join the
family until he was twenty. But in the
interest of diplomacy, they never

mention it. Dad’s temper is legendary,
and they allow him the useless
indulgence of believing Duncan is
actually his son, and actually following
in his footsteps.
Wrong on both counts.
At twenty-two, Duncan handles the
hostile social atmosphere, all the snarls
behind smiles, surprisingly well. It’s his
own easy smile, those perfect teeth set
within that iron jaw, and his reticence to
speak too much that pulls people into the
orbit of his natural presence. And when
that fails to win hearts, his dark and
sharp good looks, and piercing blue eyes
do the rest.
There’s only one person who doesn’t

smile at him in this room, and that’s Dad.
He stands apart, watches Duncan out of
suspicious eyes and trembling lips
pulled tight across his teeth.
At once he wants to show Duncan off,
but keep him all to himself. At once he
wants everybody to meet and greet his
champion fighter, but his unending mobparanoia makes him see snakes and
shadows where there are none.
No, maybe that’s wrong. There
probably are snakes and shadows. I
wouldn’t trust a crook, even if he comes
clothed in a Brioni bespoke. And for
Dad… well, it takes one to know one.
But, even more than that, he wants to
be recognized as the man who

discovered Duncan, as the man who
groomed him into the fighter he is today.
As the man who tamed a feral street
boy.
But he’s kidding himself if he thinks
he’s tamed Duncan. If anything, Dad was
a handicap, and even if he won’t admit it
to himself, he knows the others see it.
He’s bitter. In his twisted thoughts, he
thinks that Duncan is stealing his
limelight. And it gets worse with each
fight won, with each two-to-five million
pocketed in betting profits every week.
He comes over to me at the bar. The
suit jacket he’s wearing strains at his
shoulders. It was cut for him when he
was a younger, slimmer man. His

dimpled bald head beads with sweat,
what I imagine a dinosaur egg in the
early morning might have looked like.
For a moment he looks at the glass in
my hand, as if weighing whether or not
to ask me if it’s alcohol, but decides not
to. His gaze wipes slowly over the
crowd, resting on each face for
sometimes seconds at a time, before
eventually returning to Duncan.
Dad grunts. “Think he’s spilling our
secrets? Saying things he shouldn’t be?”
“Of course not, Dad,” I say, not
bothering to hide the contempt in my
voice. How could he doubt Duncan now,
after all the money he’s made off the
fights? Duncan’s spilled red in the cage

so Dad could line his pockets with
green.
Dad fires an angry look at me, but I
know the public setting, in front of all
the other families especially, grants me
precious immunity to his wrath tonight. I
intend to take advantage of it.
“You should appreciate him more,” I
tell him. “You push him too far, and he
may just push back. You’ll lose your
goose if you’re not careful.”
“What the hell would you know?” he
snaps at me, before stalking back off into
the fray.
Despite being used to his cruel
outbursts toward me, I’m still stung by it
every single time. I can’t remember the

last time my father said a kind word to
me, and meant it.
I return my attention to Duncan. The
other mob bosses rattle off questions at
him: How do you do it? What’s your
secret? Will you train some of my guys?
Are you taking supplements? What’s
your training regimen?
Duncan sidesteps every question as
though he were dodging rookie jabs in
the cage, and continually, as if by
magnetic force, his eyes are pulled to
me.
I grin at him from the bar, offer him a
quick flash of my eyebrows, and sip
from my pear martini. I’m only twenty,
but no bartender who knows my father is

going to say ‘no’ to me.
And I actually kind of hate that.
Duncan shoots me a strained look. It
says, ‘rescue me’, but I just laugh at him,
shake my head. Hey, he wanted to be the
best fighter, he wanted to own the cage.
This is what he gets.
Mass murderers, drug suppliers, and
glorified pimps competing for mere
seconds of his time. Dissatisfied wives
eyelashing him. Everybody wanting a
piece of him, like he’s just some hunk of
meat to be carved up and doled out.
Be careful what you wish for.
I sigh. At least it’s better than the
hordes of girls who attend his fights and

throw themselves unendingly at him.
All Duncan cares about is the fighting,
not this bullshit, and I hate the
politicking even more. Mob politics are
about as tortuous as it gets.
I used to think it was cool, being a
mobster’s daughter, having a name that
‘rang out on the streets’, as Dad likes to
put it.
But I quickly realized that all it did
was erect walls between me and
everybody else. No friends, and until
Duncan came into my life, no lovers…
“Your brother looks in over his head,”
the bartender says to me. His voice is
shallow and wheezy. “I know a ‘save
me’ face when I see one.”

My brother.
I’ve never called Duncan that before.
He’s my adoptive brother, came into my
life when I was just eighteen like a
tornado ripping through a barn. He
carried me off with him.
I meet the old bartender’s eyes, then
tilt my head to the side. He looks…
familiar, but from a mental distance. I
know him from somewhere.
“You don’t remember me, do you,
Deidre?” he asks.
“No,” I say truthfully. “But your voice
is familiar.”
“I’ve worked for your old man before.
I ran the bar for him at a couple of his

birthday get-ups. You were just a little
girl, though. Oh, it must have been ten
years ago now.”
“I’m sorry, but I really can’t
remember,” I say, smiling politely. I do
vaguely recall my father having birthday
parties, but he stopped when I turned
about ten.
“It’s no problem, honey,” he says.
“You’ve grown up a lot.”
“Everybody’s been saying that to me.”
I look quickly around the large
function room. I met a lot of these people
when I was younger, when Dad would
take me to ‘work’ with him.
I used to love it when he brought me

along for a ride in his limousine, what he
called his ‘office’. It wasn’t until I found
out what he actually did that I stopped
asking if I could go.
Truth be told, I hate it here. I just wear
this sham smile, maintain this pretend
poise, so Dad doesn’t get on my case
about it later. Ironically, I’m just doing
what everybody else is.
The women, of course, do it best. It
takes an especially skilled woman to
survive a marriage to a gangster. These
are the kind of men who can go from
placid indifference to boiling rage in just
half a heartbeat. These are the kind of
men who are never wrong. These are the
kind of men who all keep girls on the
side.

The bartender clears his throat. “Why
don’t you rescue him? Duncan, I mean.”
I notice that some of Duncan’s easy
charm is starting to fade as his patience
frays. Soon he’ll get bored of this.
“Nah,” I say to the bartender. “He
looks fine.”
I stick my tongue out at Duncan, bring
a big grin to his face.
Eventually the crowd around him
disperses as they pick up on his signals,
and he swaggers over to me, his wide
shoulders swaying, and a sexy smirk
prying his lips to the side.
He’s got a soft but neat shadow on his
face tonight, lining the iron cut of his

jaw. His black, careless hair only serves
to emphasize his brilliant blue eyes, but
also brings out something of a boyish
quality in him, something that can’t be
quashed by the fighting scars.
He sits down beside me, and then
tucks his head my way conspiratorially.
“Never thought I’d fucking get rid of
them, Dee, Jesus Christ.”
“You wanted this,” I tell him, raising
my eyebrows.
“I never wanted this,” he says,
gesturing at everything in particular.
“Don’t lie to me, Duncan. You always
wanted to be the best.”
“In the cage,” he grunts. “None of this

sparkly shit. I don’t need it to fucking
sparkle.”
Idly he fiddles with his cufflinks; he’s
unused to them. For his first time
wearing a full three-piece suit, he looks
damn fine in it, though.
The suit slims his muscular body,
streamlines him, smoothes him out. It’s
the inversion of his usual, rougher, less
refined and more boxy dress sense: An
old leather jacket that highlights his
broad shoulders, jeans and boots.
“You look good,” I tell him.
“Seriously. You should wear a suit
more.”
“You look better,” he says, meeting
my eyes. I feel zapped by energy still,

every time our eyes connect. He leans
into me and whispers, “You look very
fuckable in purple.”
I roll my eyes. “I thought you’d been
working on your adjectives.”
“I’m a fighter, not a writer.”
“Yeah, well keep your voice down,
the bartender knows Dad.”
Duncan spins around, eyes the old
man who asks him if he’s having
anything.
“No,” Duncan says. “Nothing for me.”
“Don’t drink?”
“Got a fight coming up.”
“What, tonight?” the bartender jokes.

“Alcohol affects your body for days
after consumption,” Duncan tells him
matter-of-factly, his voice low and
uninterested. “I’ve got a fight in days.”
“Right,” the bartender says, moving
quickly up the other end of the bar.
“So, how are you liking your big
night?” I ask Duncan.
“I never fucking asked for this. This is
for your father.”
“I know.”
“He wants to trot me out like a fucking
show dog.”
“I know, Duncan,” I say. I touch his
arm briefly, quell the turbulent tide. “I
don’t want to be here, either.”

“He wants to show you off, too.”
“No he doesn’t,” I say, shaking my
head. “He only wants me to be here
because if I’m not, everybody will talk.
They’ll ask him where his daughter is,
and he’ll get embarrassed he doesn’t
know. Now, he knows. He can point at
me when they ask him that.”
“You’re the brightest fucking person
in this room, Dee, even if your father
doesn’t see it. I caught Falcone’s boy
looking at you.”
“Shut up,” I say. “Stop teasing me.”
“I’m not. He was staring, had a dirty
fucking look in his eyes, so I had a word
with him.”

“You what?” I ask in disbelief.
“Duncan! You can’t fuck around here.”
I scan the crowd, pick out Falcone’s
boy, a short man with his father’s cuboid
head, and a neck that swallows his chin
like quicksand. He meets my eyes, then
catches Duncan’s, and looks away
instantly, ears burning.
“What the hell did you say to get him
so rattled?”
“I told him not to fucking look at my
sister,” Duncan says in something of a
growl. “I didn’t need to say anything
more. But that’s not what I really
meant.”
“Then what did you really mean?”

“My girl,” he says, pride in his voice.
“Shush!” I hiss, looking up the bar.
Thankfully nobody is near us, and the
old bartender is milling about at the
other side.
“I like your dress tonight,” Duncan
says, looking me up and down. His
tongue darts out to wet his lips.
“It feels a little snug,” I say, my hand
coming across my waist unconsciously.
“I think I’ve put on a bit of weight
recently.”
“Don’t even think about getting selfconscious, Dee.” It’s spoken to me like
an order. “You look fucking amazing
tonight. Hell, in old sweats and that soysauce stained hoodie, you bring me up

with just a look, let alone this beautiful
dress.”
“Oh,
wow,
thanks,”
I
say
sarcastically, reaching out to flick his
chin, and not a moment’s too soon
snatching my hand back.
That was close.
He brings his face closer to mine, and
his full, soft lips are an invitation I have
to force myself to ignore.
I want to kiss him, want to feel him,
want to smell him.
But not here. Not now.
It’s our secret. If it ever got out…
“I want to kiss you,” he whispers, his
eyes on my lips. “I want to feel you.”

“Stop,” I say. It’s too big of a risk.
This is reckless, but Duncan always was
like a skydiver that assembles his
parachute on the way down.
“I want to smell you.”
“Duncan…”
“Taste you.”
“Shut up!”
“Don’t you?”
I don’t answer for a moment. “Not
here.”
“You’re lying,” he says, grinning. “I
can always tell when you lie. You
definitely want to here.”
“I’m not lying,” I say, making a face at

him. “And I wouldn’t want to do it
here.”
“You and I both know we’re not
talking about here here.”
“If not here here, then where here?”
But he just looks at me, those
supremely kissable lips pried to the
side, those azure eyes on mine.
“Seriously, Dad’s got a big stick up
his ass today. Meeting the other bosses
always makes him nervous.”
He ignores my warning, and says in a
low voice, “I’ve been thinking about you
all day.” His eyes travel up and down
my body, linger on my every curve in
hungry adulation. They settle on the skin

of my neck, and his breathing quickens,
and his pupils widen.
Despite my earlier protestation, I
indulge him: “What kind of thoughts,
exactly?”
“Oh, don’t worry, nothing pure.”
I shake my head and laugh.
“I haven’t seen you in twelve hours. I
counted.”
“You can count that high?”
That pulls a deep and quiet chuckle
from him.
“Why so long today, Dee?”
I sigh. “Classes ran late. And actually
it’s pretty normal for people to not see

each other for twelve hours.”
“Even couples?”
“Even couples.”
“Even secret couples?”
I roll my eyes. “Especially secret
couples.”
“But not you and me,” he says.
“No,” I say after a pause. He’s right.
“Not you and me. But when I don’t see
you, it can be for months at a time. Or in
one case, two years, though I guess that
doesn’t really count.”
“But you left me with something in
Thailand.”
“What’s that?”

“A reason to work my ass off.”
“Why’s that?”
“Did I ever tell you this before?”
“No.”
He hesitates for a moment, licks his
lips. “Because I knew it’d be the only
way to see you again.”
“So I made you a better fighter, huh?”
I ask through a smile.
He pauses.
“What?”
“No, Dee. You made me a better
person.”
Now I pause.
“Come on,” he says, getting up.

“I haven’t finished my drink yet.”
“Finish it, then.”
“Hold on,” I say, freely indignant.
Nobody, not even Duncan, is going to
rush me. “I’ll drink at my own pace, and
where exactly are we going?”
“The fuck out of here.”
“We can’t just leave. Dad will go
crazy.”
“Fuck your dad.”
Normally, I would agree. I had enough
of Dad’s shit a long time ago, but tonight
of all nights is not the night to test him.
“Fuck him,” Duncan says, and that
defiant smile and gorgeous, commanding
eyes are an inch away from winning me

over.
“You should be mingling with his
friends.”
“I don’t give a fuck about his friends.
I want to mingle with you.” He leans
forward, whispers, “Inside you.”
I suppress my groan. “They’re the
ones who keep you fighting, you know.”
“Exactly,” he growls. “If you don’t
come with me right now, I’m going to
pick you up and carry you out. Not like a
newlywed bride, but over my shoulder.”
“You can’t!” I hiss. “Everybody will
see and then everybody will know.”
He smirks. “Then let’s go.”
We

walk

together,

shoulder

to

shoulder, through the crowd. I want to
reach out and take his hand, and it’s a
battle not to do so. I realize, with a kind
of distant horror, how easy it would be
to slip up, to hold onto his arm, or run
my arm around his waist before dipping
lower to grab his tight ass.
I do these things all the time, but in
public, with people watching, with Dad
watching, I have to constantly remember
not to.
What if, one time, I forget? Or he
does? How quickly everything would
break apart!
People murmur things at us as we
wade through the sea of bodies, and we
reply politely, but we’re bee-lining

straight for the door.
I’m considering this entire hotel,
booked out, empty, and Duncan says to
me, as if reading my mind, “Time to go
exploring.”
Once we’re out of the doors of the
main function room, which doubles as a
ballroom or banquet hall, we grin at
each other.
He takes my hand then, leads me
quickly through the winding, empty
hallways until I’m sure we’re totally
lost, and then he backs me up against a
wall, pins my arms above my head, and
he just looks at me.
His gaze runs down the back of my
arms, and his lips part as he sweeps his

eyes over my armpit, along the line of
my shoulders, inward toward my chest.
He brings his lips close to my ear,
whispers, “I want you right fucking
now.”
I grip onto his fingers tight, and his hot
breath on my earlobe stirs up something
inside of me. I can smell him now that
he’s so close to me, really him, beneath
the cologne, and I love it.
His body is tense, hard, and I can feel
the electricity in his every breath. He
takes my earlobe into his mouth, bites it
gently with his teeth, and then he smells
my neck before laying a smoldering trail
of kisses all the way to my shoulder,
leaving me quivering.

“God, you look sexy with your hair
like this. What do you call it?”
“It’s just a braided bun,” I tell him.
“Don’t you know anything?”
“I know how to make you feel good.”
“That’s just biology.”
“I love it when I can see your neck,
Dee.” He traces a finger from my ear to
my collar bone, then runs along it to the
middle. “And here,” he says. “I love it
when I can see you here.”
He meets my eyes, and I see that
familiar demon in his. He takes my hand,
holds it against his thigh, and I gasp
when I feel him, hard as a steel bar,
straining against his suit pants.

“Just like that,” he tells me. “Just one
smell, just one touch.”
I hold onto him, rub him slowly, draw
a tortured look of lust from him. “Just
one man with a one-track mind,” I
whisper.
“No,” he tells me. He takes my face in
his huge hand, and I feel the heat in his
palms, press my cheek into it. “Only you
do this to me.”
After a moment I ask him, “You going
to kiss me or what?”
He smirks. “Do I really have to?”
“You assho—”
He kisses me, crushes his lips against
mine, brings me up to the tips of my toes.

I wrap my arms around him, heart
thumping wildly in my chest as I feel his
desire for me in the fervor of his kisses.
I run my hands through his hair, hold
onto him, press myself against his body,
as if suddenly a crack in the dam has
burst. I’m as desperate for him as he is
for me.
He gropes me hungrily, and I pull at
his hair, and our bodies are touching all
the way up and down, and I’m melting in
his arms, falling into him…
“Not here,” I whisper, breaking the
kiss. “We’re still too close.”
We look around, then start walking
down the hallway again. As if on cue a
staff member of the hotel walks past us

the other way, his eyes lingering on
Duncan’s crotch for a moment, a look of
embarrassment stretching out his face.
I lean forward, and when I see
Duncan’s tented pants I cover my mouth
and laugh.
“You look ridiculous.”
“It’s your fault.”
“We are we going, anyway?”
He points up at some signage as we
walk. I read it: Indoor swimming pool.
“Swimming?” I ask. “In what?”
“Use your imagination.”
“In our underwear?”
“If you want.”

“But I’m not wearing a bra.”
He smirks at me. “Neither am I.”
I slap his shoulder.
“Come on, Dee. Live a little.”
We arrive at the pool, open the glass
door, and find it completely empty. It’s a
heated pool, it steams, and the lighting is
dim, and the pool casts shards of wavy
light against the walls.
Duncan closes the door behind us, and
I hear the click of a lock. He opens a
digital keypad flap, touches a button, and
the glass door turns opaque instantly.
“How did you know it would do
that?”
“You mean because I’m just some

dumb fighter?” he asks, taking me into
his arms and pulling me against him.
“You are a fighter,” I tell him. “And
sometimes, you can be dumb.”
“The button said ‘privacy’. I took a
chance.”
“How brave of you.”
I grin, pull away from him, walk up
the side of the pool. It’s small, meant for
private parties.
I walk to a storage cupboard sitting
flush almost invisibly in the wall. It
slides into a recess, and I pull out a fresh
towel, and lay it down on one of the
deck chairs.
Duncan starts to approach me, but I

stop him with an outstretched hand.
“Uh-uh,” I say. I slowly take off my
heels, let him watch me, and then lie
down on the deck chair, get comfortable.
“Take off your clothes for me. Let me
watch.”
He licks his lips.
“Come on,” I say, daring him with my
eyes. “Show me what you got, champ.”
He pulls off his jacket without
hesitation, folds it in half lengthways,
tosses it at the deck chair next to me.
“Your turn,” he says.
I shake my head at him, and so he
starts at his vest, undoing the buttons one
by one, his eyes never leaving mine.

They’re bluer than the water in the pool.
He tosses the vest, too, then loosens
his tie, slides it off, his eyes ablaze with
a lustful, singular intensity.
“Your turn,” he says.
I take my left cap sleeve, pull it down
over my shoulder, and then return my
eyes to Duncan and flash my eyebrows
at him.
He laughs, and begins to undo the
buttons to his shirt. I watch, eyes wide,
as his muscular chest comes into view
first, darkened on his left side by the
solid tattoo of a house silhouetted – the
windows are squares of uninked skin –
and on the right side a leaping tiger.

Then I see his stomach, hard, flat, cut,
like any fighter’s body should be.
But it just looks so much hotter on
him.
He leaves his shirt still tucked in at
the bottom, but runs his hands slowly
down over his stomach, fingers dipping
below the line of his pants for just a
moment. As he pulls it down, I see the
buzz of his neatly trimmed pubic hair.
“More,” I tell him.
He pulls out his shirt, rolls it off his
shoulders then lets it drop down his
arms. His arms are sheathed in coiling
black tattoos, nothing defined, just
impressions, like inked emotion. Some
of those lines are sharp and severe,

others calm and curved.
When he catches his shirt behind him,
turns slightly to toss it onto the deck
chair, I get a glimpse of the lines and
lines of blessing script he has tattooed
on his back.
I soak up the sight of his body, broad
shoulders, narrow waist, an Adonis belt
at his hips that takes my breath away, the
kind that makes smart girls stupid.
God, he’s drop-dead gorgeous, and it
still gets me even now.
“More,” I say, humming a grin at him.
He doesn’t move, and so I crane my neck
to the side, rub a hand down it, bite my
lip at him.

“You are so fucking sexy,” he growls
in defeat, his hands going to his belt. He
unbuckles it deftly, pulls out the leather,
then wraps it around one open hand until
it’s a tight coil, tosses it at the deck
chair.
“Your turn,” he says. “I’m serious this
time.”
I grin, reach my hands behind me over
my head to pull the zip down to my
dress. His eyes linger on my underarms,
and he swallows, his Adam’s apple
jumping up and down.
“You look fucking hot in that dress,
especially when it’s coming off.”
I pull the zip down a little, then lower
my other sleeve over my other shoulder.

“Who said anything about coming off?
Your turn. I’m serious this time.”
The quick smudge of red-pink that is
his tongue wetting his lips steals my
attention, before I focus on his hands as
he unbuttons and unzips his pants, pulls
the flaps open to either side, and I can
see his black boxer briefs beneath, his
bulge.
He hooks a thumb into the elastic,
slowly teases it down, reveals the base
of his wide shaft. He stops, looks at me,
lips slightly parted so I can see the tips
of his teeth.
“More,” I whisper at him.
Millimeter by millimeter he pulls
down, and more of his manhood comes

into view. I gasp as he finally springs
out, as he tucks his underwear beneath
his smooth balls.
His eyes never leave mine, and he
begins to slowly stroke himself.
“Just looking at you is enough, Dee,”
he groans, his body tightening.
I breathe unsteadily, let the straps of
my dress fall lower.
“Show yourself to me now,” he says.
No, he orders.
I pull the dress lower down, and my
breasts come into view, and he sucks in
air, and his body goes tighter still, and
he begins to pump himself faster.
“God damn I love your breasts,” he

growls, stepping closer to me. “Now
pull your dress up.”
I reach for the sleeves hung down my
shoulders, but he stops me with a sharp
command.
“No, not there. Lower.”
“Oh, you meant there,” I tease.
I reach down, and begin to pull my
dress up, over my knees, and his cobalt
eyes eat up the sight of my skin. Just by
looking at me he makes me tingle, raises
my temperature, makes me feel so sexy.
I see nothing but desire for me in his
eyes.
Duncan strokes his manhood, leans
back a little, crunches his stomach.

“Higher,” he groans.
I pull the dress higher.
“Now spread those sexy thighs. Let
me see you.”
I open my legs for him, my dress now
bunched around my hips, and it’s like he
can’t take it anymore, like something
snaps.
He comes to me fast, takes my lips,
claims them, pulls moans from my mouth
while he kisses me fiercely, while he
massages my breasts and thumbs my
nipples.
I grab onto him with my legs and pull
his hips toward me, and I mewl when I
feel him at my entrance through my

underwear.
“You’re so hard,” I whisper at him,
reaching down and holding him.
“It’s you, Dee. Always.”
He kisses me again, this time just my
lower lip, and when I try to kiss him
back, try to taste him again, he pulls
away, that sexy-as-sin smirk bringing his
lips to one side.
“Don’t move,” he says, and I obey
him. He traces a finger down in between
my breasts, lower still, and a soft moan
escapes my mouth as I feel his hand on
my thigh, coming up to my center. He
cups my sex, and I gasp.
His fingers run up either side of me,

and when he brushes against my clit I
jolt on the deck chair. He pulls his hand
up farther still, over my mound, and then
slips it into my underwear, squeezes my
lips down there together.
Unconsciously, I lift my hips to him,
bite my lip, stare into his eyes, beg him
silently to make me feel good.
He traces a finger up my sex, makes
me sigh as ripples of sensation course
through me, and then starts to massage
my bud, rubs it in circles, makes me feel
like I’m in heaven.
“Mmm,” I moan. “I like that.”
“Put your arms up,” he tells me, and
so I obey, lift my hands over my head,
look him in his gorgeous eyes.

He inhales sharply, and I watch as his
eyes wander over me, eat up the sight of
me, from my underarms to my breasts, to
my neck, to my lips.
“Come and kiss me,” I whisper.
He leans into me, and just when he
touches his lips to mine he pushes his
finger all the way inside me, and I moan
out, unable to concentrate on kissing
him.
He takes my lower lip, sucks on it,
bites it while he fingers me, and when he
slides a second finger in, I feel stretched
around him, undulate my hips, rock
myself to his rhythm.
“You like that?” he asks, bringing his
thumb to my clit, making me feel all

kinds of bliss with just his one hand.
“I like it.”
“Say it again.”
“I like it,” I breathe, taking his lips
into mine again, pushing my tongue into
his mouth.
He fingers me so deftly, brings me
racing right to the edge so quickly, and I
feel so tight, a coiled spring waiting to
be sprung.
“Wait,” I pant, pulling up, shifting my
body. “Too fast. Not yet.”
“Tell me what you want.”
“I want to come at the same time as
you.”

He climbs onto the deck chair, bends
my knees then crosses one over the
other, and leans over me. He pulls my
underwear to the side, and his tip
touches my entrance, and with his arms
on either side of me, he waits there,
looks me in the eyes.
“Come on,” I breathe at him.
He leans his weight against my knees,
presses them to my chest, and then ever
so slowly he inches into me.
I grip at his shoulders, dig my nails
into his flesh as he stretches me, as he
pushes himself so gradually into me,
filling me up.
“Oh God,” I pant, clamping my eyes
shut, my body tensing up.

“Jesus, you’re tight, Dee,” he groans.
“You feel so fucking good.”
I reach out to his hips, run my hands
up his strong waist, pull him toward me.
“Come on,” I whisper, practically
beg.
“Ask me again,” he says, stopping.
“Come on!” I hiss, and he thrusts all
the way inside me, bottoms out, pulls a
cry of overwhelming pleasure from my
lips.
He drives himself into me again and
again, and it’s all I can do to keep myself
as silent as possible, God forbid
someone from the party wander by
outside.

With one hand, Duncan scoops up my
face, tilts it up to him, and my eyes
travel over his sexy lips, and I bite my
teeth together, arch my body as he fucks
me wildly.
He plucks strings of pleasure inside
me so deep, they thrum through my body,
shake me like the beat of a bass drum.
His eyes stay locked with mine, and
he tangles my hair into his hand, pulls
my head back, turns it to the side, and as
he leans lower, he drags his tongue from
my neck to my ear, an action so primal
and consuming it sends me quivering.
With rough hands he turns my knees to
the side, forces me to tuck them up
against my chest, and then I feel his hand

on my sex from behind, and he rubs my
clit, and all I can do is grip onto the edge
of the deck chair above me, close my
eyes, and let him take from me
everything he wants.
“Moan for me,” he says, and he
adjusts his position, and his cock rams
against my front wall, and I moan out my
pleasure loudly, no longer caring that
someone outside might hear.
“Fuck, I love your pussy,” he growls.
“I love your tight fucking pussy. I want to
fuck you forever.”
He speeds up somehow, and his cock
swells within me impossibly more, and
I’m lost in his grip, clutched by his
feverish desire for me, utterly and

completely his.
“Oh God!” I gasp, his fingers working
my pearl like magic, his cock stretching
me with each hard thrust, making me feel
so full.
“Like that!” I cry, my body tightening,
that ball of pressure inside me
expanding. Duncan doesn’t stop, doesn’t
slow, doesn’t change his rhythm.
My mouth falls open, my tongue
comes out, and I hold onto the chair with
a white-knuckled grip, my body a tense
snapshot of pleasure, right on the brink.
“Shit, shit, shit!” I breathe as I plunge
off the edge, come hard and long, and
Duncan’s hand cups my face, his thumb
rubs my lip, and I bite down on it as

white-hot bliss sears me.
I hear him grunt, feel his body tighten
as he lets go, and I swear I feel him
come inside me, not just the giant
swelling and twitch of his manhood.
I moan into his hand as he fucks me
even more manically, as he buries
himself to the hilt again and again, rubs
my clit, drives me through my own
blinding ecstasy, draws it out until I
can’t breathe anymore, until I’m tensed
up, crunched up, toes curled so tight they
might cramp.
And then he slows, and I’m panting,
coming down, the last touches of bliss
like feathers on my skin, ticklish almost.
His eyes are shut as he slowly pushes

himself in and out of me, his cock jolting
inside me seemingly at random. Sweat
glistens on his chest, his abs, and I reach
out and run my hand down his slick skin,
into his buzz of pubic hair, and I squeeze
the base of his shaft, still hard as if he
hadn’t just unloaded himself.
He climbs onto the deck chair beside
me, behind me, and our bodies form the
same shape as we stick to each other
from top to toe, and his arms wrap me
up, tell me I’m his, tell me that I’m all
that he wants.
I lie there, holding onto his hands,
playing with his fingers, his cock still
twitching inside me, his hot breaths
against my neck.

He leans up, and I take the opportunity
to smell his neck, kiss the line of his
jaw, and then take his lips into mine, and
we share a soft and passionate kiss that
sends me quaking.
Our tongues meet slowly, our lips
dance to the exact same rhythm. Our
heartbeats have aligned, and if I could
wish for a moment to never end, I would
wish it now, and it would not be the first
time I wished it.
And when our kiss breaks to the sound
of voices outside the opaque glass door,
we fix our clothing in unison, sharing
grinning glances, until I feel the sticky
sensation of all his essence globbing out
of me.

“Damn. Is there a changing room
here?” I ask. “You’ve made a big mess.”
“Here,” he says, leading me toward
the other side of the pool.
I go in, clean up as best as I’m able to,
and then together Duncan and I make our
way back to the function room. As we’re
walking down the corridor that leads
there, hand in hand, laughing and
chatting, I see the double doors down the
end open, and Dad sweeps out, furious
eyes glaring at us.

Chapter Two

Instantly, I let go of Duncan’s hand,
and watch as Dad storms up to us.
“Where the fuck have you been?” he
says, his voice trembling on a tightrope.
He didn’t notice!
“Relax, Glass,” Duncan says. “We’ve
just been getting some air.”
“Get the fuck back inside, now,” Dad
spits. He turns his angry eyes on me.
“Go! You’re making me look bad. They
ask me where my daughter is, and I have
no fucking idea. Why are you always so
difficult, damn it, Dei—”
Duncan steps forward, body tensing

up. I take his sleeve subtly, pull on it.
“Relax, Glass,” he says to Dad,
words low and spaced out. “It’s no big
deal. We just went for a walk.”
“Have you been drinking, too?”
Duncan just glowers at him.
“You two are always ganging up on
me,” Dad complains, before he turns
around and stalks off back toward the
function room, and Duncan and I walk
slowly in his fuming wake.
“What an asshole,” I say. “I really
don’t like him. God, I wish we could get
out of here.”
“Then let’s get the fuck out of here.”
“How?”

“Easy. I’ll do my rounds, and I’ve got
a fight in two days I need to prepare for.
You’ve got classes tomorrow, and
you’re my ride home tonight.”
“But I’m not your ride home tonight. I
didn’t even bring my car. Dad had Frank
pick me up in the limo. God, like I
needed his limo pulling up to my dorm
building with everyone watching.”
“Come on, just stick with me.”
“I can handle Dad myself, you know.”
“I know you can, Dee,” he says,
stopping me, taking my hand. He presses
it to his mouth, playfully bites one of my
fingers.
I cast a quick look down the hallway

to see Dad disappearing into the function
room, his jacket flapping behind him.
“And?”
“But if we make it about me, he won’t
crawl up your ass about it.”
“I don’t need you to take the fall for
me.”
“He’s afraid of me. I won’t be taking
any fall.”
I sigh, pull my hand from him slowly.
“I just shouldn’t have to live like this. I
thought moving out, leaving home, would
get me out from under his shadow, but
he’s always over me, Duncan. He just
never leaves me alone.”
“Dee,” he says. “Just a little bit

longer.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You’ll see. Now come on, follow my
lead.”
Duncan and I walk back into the
function room, and he immediately goes
to the bar.
“Scotch and soda.”
The old man does a double take. “I
thought you weren’t drinking?”
“Scotch… and… soda.”
The bartender pours the drink in a
hurry, puts it on the bar in front of
Duncan.
He turns around with the glass, and

walks into the crowd of people, and he’s
swaying as he walks, and he’s offbalance.
He downs the glass in front of
everybody, chats with a few people,
shares too-loud laughs, then wanders
back to the bar.
“Another scotch and soda!” he barks.
The bartender obliges.
The crowd of people part, and I see
Dad walking toward us, barely
concealed rage on his face.
“What the fuck are you doing,
Duncan? You know you shouldn’t be
drinking. You’ve got a fight in—”
“Hey, it’s a party!” Duncan shouts,

then almost trips, and spills the drink all
over himself. “Oh, fuck!” he bellows,
meeting my eyes for a moment but not
once losing character. He bursts out
laughing, grips onto his knees, then
stumbles forward, dropping the glass
onto the floor. It shatters.
I have to look away to keep from
laughing.
“God damn it,” Dad growls at
Duncan. “You’re a fucking hot-shot
MMA fighter and you can’t even hold
your fucking liquor.”
“Hell yes I fucking can!” Duncan says,
slurring his words.
Dad sighs. “Go home and sleep it off
before you embarrass me even more.”

“I c-can’t drive,” he says. “Well, I
probably could, but, you know, I-I don’t
think it’s a good idea—”
“I’ll have Frank drive you home.”
Frank Marsh, dad’s loyal protector of
twenty years, his number one. A large
man who keeps a sawn-off shotgun
dangling down his side, veiled by his
customary trench coat.
“No!” Duncan says, throwing two
clumsy hands onto Dad’s chest. “Frank’s
your bodyguard! He can’t leave you
unprotected, man.” He lowers his voice
into a conspiratorial whisper. “You’ve
got enemies here. Let Dee take me.”
Dad looks to me, and it’s the hardest
fucking thing to keep my face straight.

“Oh, to hell with it, take him to his
apartment, Deidre. Jesus H Christ!”
Dad retreats back into the crowd,
muttering
strained
apologies
to
everybody.
Duncan embellishes, throws his arm
around my shoulder, leans his weight on
me.
“Damn, you’re heavy,” I whisper at
him, walking him toward the door,
smiling politely at people who stare our
way.
“I think I’m going to puke!” he
announces to Frank as we pass him.
Once we get through the main doors,
Duncan’s gait returns immediately to

normal, with more than his usual amount
of cocky swagger.
We meet eyes and laugh as we go get
my checked coat and bag, exit the hotel.
The night is cool, the air chilly, and I
pull my coat tighter around me.
“Dad is going to be so pissed at you
tomorrow,” I tell him.
“Fuck him.”
“And you ruined your suit.”
“Fuck it. I hate this thing, anyway.”
“But you look damn good in it.”
“Not as good as you look in that
dress,” he says, picking me up. I yelp,
try to squirm from his grip but can’t.
He’s holding me above him, and he

lowers me slowly, and I find myself
astonished by his strength.
He dips me until my lips meet his, and
I know that I shouldn’t, that we shouldn’t
here, but I kiss him, and he me.
Anybody could see, it’s such a stupid
risk to take. I don’t know how he makes
me do these things.
“Come back to my place tonight,
Dee.”
I push my lips together. “I can’t,” I
whisper. “I’ve got to go into class early.
It’s just easier if I sleep in my dorm
room so I don’t have to deal with traffic
in the morning. I don’t even have my
car.”

“I’ll make it a night you’ll never
forget,” he says, smirking. “You know
I’m good for it. And I’ll take you to class
tomorrow.”
“I don’t think I’ll forget this night
already.”
“Of course you won’t.”
“Not because of that,” I say.
“Yes it was.”
“Don’t kid yourself. You’re not that
good.”
“Yes I am.”
But I shake my head slowly at him. “I
really need to go back to campus tonight.
I’m sorry, you know I’d rather come
home with you.”

“It’s alright,” he says.
“You could come by tomorrow. I have
a break at lunch?”
“Bet your fucking ass I will. Will your
roommate be out?”
“No!” I say, slapping his shoulder.
“We can’t do that anymore, either. I think
she suspects something already.”
“Just open a window.”
“Gross, it’s not because of the smell!
You left your watch last time.”
“I was wondering where that went.”
“Yeah,” I say, widening my eyes at
him. “See? You’re always getting me
into trouble.”

“That’s what bad boys do to good
girls.”
“Yeah, some good girl I am. Daughter
of the most powerful mob boss in town,
a man who kills people, sells drugs, and
prostitutes women for a living.”
“You are good,” he says. He taps my
chest. “Here. Right here. You’re a better
person than I’ve ever known, and you’re
not your father. His shit doesn’t roll
down onto you.”
“Unfortunately… it does.”
“No.” He just states it. I wonder if it
is naïve denial, or if he actually believes
Dad’s reputation doesn’t extend onto me.
“It doesn’t make you bad,” he says.

“Nobody should hold him against you.”
“They already do,” I whisper. “Come
on. Which car are you driving?”
“Same one.”
“Still my mother’s? Why?”
“It reminds me of you. Does it bother
you?”
“No,” I say truthfully. “It’s just not a
very manly car.”
“Like I need a fucking car for that.”
He takes my hand, and together we
walk away from the hotel.
“Wait, don’t you have a valet ticket?”
“I parked it myself.” He pulls out the
keys, jingles them.

I snort. “Why would you do that?
They valet park here.”
“I don’t need some special service to
park my own fucking car.”
“They must have looked at you funny.”
“Well, they didn’t look twice.”
“You can be so weird sometimes.”
We find my mother’s car – the one she
drove before she died – looking
extremely conspicuous beside all the
limos and Lambos. It’s just a two-door
Volvo hatchback that she brought over
with her from England when she moved
to the States to do her west-to-east road
trip.
I never knew Mom… never learned of

the sentimental significance of the car.
All I know is that she started in San
Francisco, but never made it to the other
coast. She met Dad in Chicago.
And, of course, Dad doesn’t talk
about her. He just clams up and shuts up
every time I bring her up. Or he gets
grumpy and yells at me. So I don’t bring
it up anymore. I’ve accepted that she’s
just going to remain a mystery.
The car just collected dust until
Duncan and I stole it one night from
Dad’s garage for what amounted to a
joyride.
“Why didn’t you want this car, Dee?”
“It’s got bad mileage,” I tell him
matter-of-factly as we climb in. “Hey,

I’m a college student, right?”
“Right. But really?”
“I don’t know. Just doesn’t feel right.
It’s okay though, you drive it. I mean, I
like the car… because it reminds me of
the idea of a mother… my mother. But,
you know, I can’t even remember what
she looks like, the sound of her voice. I
mean… I don’t know anything about
her.”
“Alright,” he says. “I wasn’t pushing.”
“It’s fine.”
He starts the car, pulls us out, and we
drive in silence for a while. Duncan was
left on a church’s doorstep, grew up in a
group home. He didn’t have parents…

the closest thing were the social workers
who went home at five. The live-in
workers at the house were more like
security guards than anything else,
offering nothing but a jaded, harsh
tongue, if even that.
And me… I never knew my mother,
and Dad… well… he’s never really
been a father, but that’s a long story.
So I forget about it, push the thoughts
away even though they try to push back,
try to invade my mind and threaten to
ruin my mood even more.
To distract myself, I rub Duncan’s
thigh as he drives me back to the college
campus, study his sharp side profile.
“Thanks for getting me out of there,

though. Seriously. You put on a real
scene.”
“Don’t worry about it, Dee.”
“What did you mean by ‘just a little
longer’?”
He looks at me. “Not yet, Dee. Soon,
okay?”
“You know I don’t like it when you’re
cryptic.”
“I know. Just… trust me.”
“Okay,” I say. “But I don’t like
surprises. You know that.”
“I thought all girls liked surprises.”
“Well, I’m not like all girls. Surprises
in my life have never been good.

Walking downstairs to find some poor
man gagged and getting beaten up by
Dad and Frank while blood leaks from
his eyes is not my idea of a fun
surprise.”
“Wasn’t I a surprise?”
“The only good one,” I say.
“Just trust me, Dee. We’ve got a
future, but it just needs a little more
time.”
I blink, not really understanding what
he means. It’s the first time I’ve ever
really heard Duncan talk about our
future. Together. Inclusive. A long-term
plan.
When we get to the campus security

checkpoint, I say bye to Duncan, give
him a kiss, and then watch as he drives
off.
And his words echo through my head:
We’ve got a future.
And I can’t help but to ask myself:
What future?
We’re a secret couple. He’s my foster
brother. Even if there’s nothing truly
wrong with our relationship – we’re not
blood relatives, and it started when we
were both adults – Dad would never
have it. He cares about his reputation too
much, about what the other families
might say.
So what future, exactly?

We can’t hide forever.
It’s got to end sooner or later. It’s a
train in the night bearing down on us,
and we won’t know it’s about to hit us
until we hear the blare of the horn, and
feel the shaking of the rails, and it’s all
too late.

A future.
That night, by the shimmering pool,
our child was conceived.
If only I’d known then that my future
would be keeping our baby a secret
from him.
If only I’d known then that my future
would be running away from him with
our baby.
If only I’d known then that my future
would force me to leave everything I
loved behind…

But I shouldn’t jump to the end.
I should start at the beginning.

Chapter Three

Thailand, five years ago…

The light breaks through the leafy
canopy overhead in bursts of brightness,
like a thousand camera flashes are going
off at once. I catch only scattered
glimpses of blue sky.
The air is thick with the smell of wet
soil and a dozen different flowers.
There’s a sourness on the air, and it
reminds me of the apple orchard back
home, except it hits the nose harder, has
a bitter bite.
Sweat beads on my upper lip, and my
t-shirt clings to my back. I should never
have worn black in this heat. Even the

air that rushes past us as Dad drives us
through the jungle isn’t enough to keep
me cool.
“Where are we going?” I ask Dad, but
my words are snatched away by the
wind. He doesn’t hear me, and he keeps
driving, winding us deeper and deeper
into a dark-green thicket of thin trees,
dangling vines, and dense underbrush.
The jeep takes it well – at least, I
imagine it does. The ride is not so
bumpy, but nevertheless Dad drives
slower than he does back home on the
street. The sound of plant life being
crushed to death beneath us fills the air,
and birds stop their calling as we trundle
through, only to resume when we’ve left
their trees behind.

This was supposed to be a holiday.
At least, that’s what Dad said when he
told me that he was taking me to
Thailand. I thought I’d get to ride an
elephant, see a tiger, try the non-spicy
Thai foods, and experience the land of a
thousand smiles.
Instead we went straight to the fivestar resort full of other foreign tourists,
rested and cleaned up, and then he told
me to get back into the jeep with him
because he had someone he wanted to
see.
That was when I knew that we
weren’t here for a holiday.
That was when I knew we were here
on business.

And even though I’m not an adult yet,
I’m smart enough to know what business
means. It’s what Dad does… he’s a
mobster. Business always means drugs,
women, or violence… and always dirty
money.
“Dad, are we there yet?”
This time he hears me, and he turns to
me briefly. “Almost, so stop asking me.”
“Why are we coming out here?”
“There’s somebody I need to see.”
“Did I have to come?” I ask him.
“Couldn’t I have stayed at the hotel?
They have a nice pool! Or I could have
gone for a walk around town?”
“You won’t be walking around town

all by yourself in a foreign country,” he
says. “You’re only fifteen.”
“I’m nearly sixteen, and I can take
care of myself. I’m not stupid.”
Dad laughs meanly… and I know he’s
laughing at me, as if I’ve just said the
most unwise thing in the world. I sink
into my seat and fold my arms.
“I thought you should meet him, too,”
he says.
I blink. Him? “Who are we meeting?”
“A boy.”
I shake my head. I don’t understand.
“Why?”
But he doesn’t reply.

The terrifying thought enters my head:
He’s marrying me off!
But, after a moment’s reflection, I
don’t really believe it.
He weaves the jeep around trees,
eventually finds a dirt road, then
breathes a sigh of relief and says to me,
“Good thing I found the path again.”
“You mean you were lost?”
“A little.”
Now on the dirt path, soft from the
daily rainfalls, he drives faster, and
before long we come to a clearing, and I
see a collection of huts on stilts. It’s a
small village bracketed by lush green
jungle on one side, and the sparkling

blue-green sea with its yellow beach on
the other. The beach looks like
somebody took a highlighter pen and
traced the shoreline.
In the center of the village sits a wide,
square wooden building without
windows. It’s suspended on stilts as
well, but the walls look older than the
houses that surround it. I see a golden
elephant outside, notice the incense
sticks. It must be a temple of some kind.
“Why couldn’t we just take a boat?” I
ask when I spot a small jetty extending
from the beach.
“I enjoy the drive.”
“I would have liked a boat ride.”

“Deidre,” he says, looking harshly at
me. “Can you just shut up for a
moment?”
I tighten my arms around my stomach
and crease my brow, pricked by his
impatience and rudeness. He’s always
like this, always treating me like I’m
some kind of burden. Why the hell did he
insist on bringing me here, then?
Damn it!
I half expect him to tell me about how
he always wanted a son. He’s said that
to me before many times, especially
when he’s drunk and angry.
He stops the car at the clearing,
orders me out with him with a sharp jerk
of his wrist. Together we walk into the

village, a wide gap in between us.
I see people working vegetable
patches, spy a rickety pen of pigs, hear
the hum of a generator. These people are
farmers, live a simple life.
Suddenly, I feel out of my element,
self-conscious. I’m here in my jeans, tshirt and branded sneakers, whereas
other kids I see are wearing hand-medown clothing, are running around
barefoot or in flip-flops that look a
decade old. Their feet are dirty.
“Wait here,” he says, walking off into
the village.
“Dad!” I call.
He turns around. “What?”

“Dad, don’t leave me alone. Please.”
“Grow up, would you?”
Someone approaches him, and they
talk. It’s clear the man is struggling to
understand him because he doesn’t speak
English. All Dad does is start yelling, as
if that’s going to help matters. Eventually
the man seems to get the idea, and points
toward the temple.
The other villagers pay me no mind,
except for the children. They watch me
from far away with wide, curious eyes. I
shove one hand into my back pocket, and
with the other fiddle with my wavy hair
held up in a ponytail. I don’t know what
to do, and become more and more
uncomfortable.

I go back to the jeep and get out my
backpack. I rummage through it, pull out
my bottle of water, but my small, pink
pocket-mirror slips out. The gleaming
reflection of the sun catches my eye for a
moment, and then the mirror lands facedown.
Bending my knees to pick it up, I
notice glass shards. I broke it.
“Shit,” I whisper, looking at it for a
moment before quickly picking up all the
pieces as fast as I can and dropping them
into my bag. I’m embarrassed… all
those kids just watched me break my
mirror.
I should never have come back for my
water bottle. My heart starts to race, and

I feel more nervous than ever. I wish
Dad hadn’t just left me here.
That’s when I see bare feet walking
toward me. The skin is tanned by the
sun. I look up and gasp. A boy is
approaching me, tall, topless, muscular
in a stringy way. His eyes seem to glow
blue in the bright sunlight, and I feel for
a moment as if I’m looking into the eyes
of a wolf.
Dark, jagged tattoos sheathe his arms,
shoulder to wrists, and they run down
the sides of his torso, too, ending at his
hips.
He’s smiling at me, more of a cocky
smile than a warm one, and I notice that
he’s really attractive. It makes me all the

more uncomfortable.
He looks a bit older than me, and he’s
definitely not from the village. His face
is nice, his jaw a sharp, straight line, and
his hair dark and messy, and a little too
long.
“Hey,” he says, his voice deeper than
I expect it to be.
I furrow my brow at his accent.
“You’re American?”
“Yeah.” He kneels down, picks up a
shard of glass. “You broke your mirror.”
“It’s fine,” I say quickly.
“Do you have another one?”
I shake my head, tell him that really,
it’s fine. It’s no big deal. It’s just a

mirror. I care more that I broke it in
front of everybody, rather than it being
broken itself.
My heart is surging – I don’t know
why I feel so nervous – but I do know
that I feel drawn to him. I meet his eyes
for a moment, and he smiles a warm
smile at me this time, and all at once his
face bursts with brightness, and cute
dimples dig into his cheeks, and I can’t
bear to keep my eyes on his any longer.
I look away.
“I’m Duncan,” he tells me. “Glass
told me to introduce myself to you.”
“Deidre,” I whisper. “You call my
Dad ‘Glass’?”

He shrugs. “That’s what he tells me to
call him.”
“Do you know
nickname?”

why that’s

his

“Like he’s made of glass, right?
Because he couldn’t stay healthy when
he was a boxer.”
I nod, feel his eyes burning into me.
“Who are you, exactly? I mean, how do
you know my dad?”
I’m too embarrassed to look anywhere
but his forehead now – feel too
awkward to meet his eyes, and definitely
don’t want to let my gaze fall down his
body.
That’s when I notice the scar just

beneath the line of his tousled hair. It’s
quite fresh, still red, still scabbed.
His reply is not what I expect. In fact,
I don’t know what I expected.
“I’m,” he says, before his voice trails
off. Then he shrugs. “I guess I’m your
stepbrother.”
“What?” I say, stepping backward. I
look past him toward the temple, and
there see Dad sweeping out of it having
a heated discussion with what looks like
a monk. The monk, dressed in an orange
garb and with a bald dome like Dad, is
busy shaking his head, and together they
gesture at Duncan.
“What do you mean my stepbrother?”

“Your father legally adopted me,” he
says. “Six months ago.”
I tilt my head to the side. “You mean
foster brother, then… I think. And I
don’t believe you. Dad would have told
me.”
His smile only disarms me further.
He’s got a perfect set of teeth. “I
wouldn’t lie to you.”
“Why wouldn’t he tell me?”
Duncan shrugs.
I look around. Why didn’t Dad tell
me?
“So what are you doing here?”
“Training,” he says.

“Training what?”
“Thai kickboxing.”
Again, I’m just even more confused.
My eyes fall down his lean, muscled
body, and that’s when I start to see the
bruises. He’s got green and purple
patches around his ribcage and on the
outsides of his strong, defined, arms.
“How old are you?” I ask.
“Seventeen. You?”
“Fifteen. But I turn sixteen in a couple
of weeks.”
“Oh, yeah? When?”
“Umm, two weeks…” I make a face,
surprised at the coincidence. “Exactly,
actually.”

He gestures at my t-shirt. “You like
cats?”
I look down, see the stenciled image
of two cats touching noses on my top.
“Yeah, but Dad doesn’t. He doesn’t let
me keep pets.”
“We have a cat,” Duncan says. He
looks around. “Somewhere.”
“We?”
“The village. The pets here are owned
by everybody.”
I grin, find that idea pleasant. “Can I
see it?”
Duncan looks at me a moment too
long.
“What?”

When he doesn’t reply, I grow
annoyed.
“Tell me!”
He laughs, and there’s a flash of
awkwardness in his features, a break in
the confidence. “I just think you’re a
really pretty girl.”
I flush, don’t know what to say, and so
try to ignore it altogether. “Where’s the
cat?”
“Come on,” he says, leading me. “It’s
fine, don’t worry, there’s nothing to be
afraid of here.”
“What about snakes and stuff?”
“I’ll keep you safe,” he tells me.
“Come on.”

We walk off toward the tree line
together, and Duncan starts calling out a
name. It sounds like ‘dye’ but with an ‘s’
instead of a ‘d’.
“Just hold on, she’s probably spying
us.”
“Spying?”
“She’ll climb a tree,” Duncan says,
shrugging. “Sit there and watch us in
secret.”
Sure enough, a few moments later, a
tabby cat comes bounding through the
jungle, it’s brown-and-black tail sticking
up through the underbrush.
The cat meows, rubs against Duncan’s
feet, and then turns to sniff my shoes. I

bend down, but the cat recoils, back
arched.
“She’s not good with newcomers,” he
says. He lifts her up gently, and then
holds her out to me.
It’s not exactly the world’s most
beautiful cat – her eyes are too small and
ears too big – but she’s cute nonetheless,
and I pat her, scratch the top of her head,
draw a purr from her.
He puts her back down, and after
staring at both of us in turn for some
inscrutable feline reason, she slinks off
back into the jungle.
“Why does she stay in the jungle?” I
ask. “Why not in the sun?” I think of all
the photos of cats I’ve seen stretching

out in sunlight.
“Oh, she’ll go into the sun later. It’s
still early.”
“Do you get wild cats here? Like
tigers and stuff?”
“Not here,” he says. “Not outside the
parks. All tigers here are endangered
and very rare.”
“Oh.”
We meet eyes, and I feel zapped by
electricity, look away instantly.
“Why are you training out here?” I ask
him, using the question as an excuse to
turn back to the village. “I mean, this
place specifically?”
“Glass told me that guy was one of the

best former kickboxers in Thailand.”
“You mean the monk?”
“Yes.”
I glimpse at the man, a little confused.
He’s short and small with a thin-frame.
He looks nothing like what I imagine a
fighter to look: Buff-as-hell and missing
teeth.
“He doesn’t look it,” Duncan says, as
if reading my mind. “But he fights like
the fucking devil. Quick as shit, too.
Very skilled.”
“Why do you have so many bruises?”
Duncan’s eyes don’t leave me. “We
spar,” he tells me, matter-of-factly.
Dad’s angry voice floats over to us,

and we both turn around. Duncan puts
his hands on his hips, and I find my eyes
going to his naked back. Beads of sweat
dot it, and they shine in the sunlight.
“What are they arguing about?”
“Payment, probably. For my training.”
“But what are you training for?”
“Glass says when I get back to the
States, I’ll work for him. I’ll fight for
him in underground MMA. Until then, I
need to train in different techniques. For
now, it’s Muay Thai. Later, I’ll learn
Judo, which is a defensive art, and
Taekwondo, which focuses on speed
kicking. When I get back to the States,
Glass’ll teach me to box and strike with
my fists.”

“You’re doing all of this just so you
can be a fighter?”
He turns back to me, squints against
the sunlight. “Yes.”
“That’s stupid.”
“Why?”
“Why risk yourself? You could get
hurt.”
With that, he surprises me with a long
exhale, almost a sigh. “I had nothing
before. Your father is giving me
something.”
“What do you mean you had nothing
before?”
“I…” he begins, but his voice trails
off. “Don’t have any family. I… don’t

have a home, really.”
“You’re an orphan?”
“Yeah.”
“So where did you live before? A
foster home?”
“No. Group home.”
“Oh. Like with other kids?”
“About thirty other boys, yeah. Some
nights more, some nights less.”
I regard Duncan, and think about what
he’s saying. Dad took him all the way to
Thailand to train? There must be good
trainers back home.
No, something else is going on. Dad is
up to something. I know him well

enough.
“I think my dad is using you for
something. You should watch out.”
To that, he says with a cocky smile,
“How do you know I’m not the one using
him?”
We fall into silence for a moment
before Duncan turns to me. He puts out a
hand. “It was nice meeting you.”
I hesitate, thinking how ridiculous he
is to be offering me a handshake, but
then shake his hand, feel the strength in
his grip, the heat in his palm. It gives me
a shiver.
“You’re going already?”
“Believe me, I don’t want to,” he

says, and he nods his head toward the
monk who’s beckoning him. “But my
break’s over.”
He walks away from me, hands on his
hips. But he turns around, walks
backward for a bit, his eyes on mine.
I give him a nervous, quick wave, and
when he returns it, I can’t stop the smile
that erupts onto my face, can’t stop my
heart from racing even quicker.
But Dad’s aggressive voice pulls my
attention to him, and I watch as he pulls
out his wallet, and he hands a folded
piece of paper to the monk.
Then he walks toward Duncan,
exchanges a few harsh words with him.
Duncan just gazes back stonily into

Dad’s eyes. I notice he never once looks
away from Dad, even though Dad’s
trying to physically intimidate him.
“Got it?” I hear Dad say as I approach
them slowly.
Duncan nods. “Don’t worry, Glass.”
“Of course I fucking worry, boy,” Dad
growls, clapping Duncan over the head
with an open palm.
Immediately, there’s a tension
between them, and they glare at each
other. At just seventeen, Duncan’s
already taller than Dad, but there’s no
way he’s stronger.
Duncan’s eyes flick toward me.
I shake my head at him, tell him

silently, No!
His eyes shine, and his tongue darts
out, wets his lips. He lets his eyes linger
on my own, and then seems to have to
drag them off me to look back at Dad
and nod.
“Good boy,” I hear Dad say before
approaching me, leaving Duncan
standing there. Dad makes a vicious
gesture with his hand, orders me back
into the jeep.
I fall into step with him and ask, “Did
you really adopt that guy?”
“Yes,” he says.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“It was business.”

“Business?” I ask. I knew he was up
to something. He didn’t adopt an orphan
boy from the goodness of his heart.
Dad never does anything from the
goodness of his heart.
“Since when
business?”

was

family

stuff

“Are you really going to ask me such
a stupid question?” he snarls.
I don’t reply. Dad’s looking like an
overhead storm that’s about to strike me
with lightning.
“He’s an investment, Deidre.”
“But why adopt him?”
“Easier to get him a passport, get him
out of the country.”

“I thought they did background checks
and stuff before they let you adopt
someone.”
“Is that supposed to mean something?”
Dad’s voice is a tripwire.
“Just… you know.”
“If I couldn’t lean on someone to get
just a fucking street urchin out of the
system, then nobody would know the
name Johnny Marino. Jesus Christ,
Deidre.”
I frown. “But why him?”
“He’s going to be the best, Deidre.
Look at him, look at that body. Perfect
fighting body. Long arms, great reach,
low base, lightning fast. All his muscles

are fast-twitch. Naturally low body-fat.
His metabolism blazes like a jet engine.
He’s going to make me a lot of money.”
“So you’re using him,” I say.
Dad stops in his tracks. “Don’t judge
me, young woman. He likes to fight. This
is a better life than he had back in
Rockford. There he was just some rat,
destined to become nothing but a gutter
punk. Nothing but some two-bit pissant
knocking off liquor stores to feed a bad
meth habit while his teeth rot out. Look
at what I’ve saved him from. Without
me, he’d live a short lifetime of despair
and drudgery. But because of me… look
at my work. He’s disciplined, sculpted,
a mind of metal. He’s going to be the
best fighter in America. Maybe the

world.”
I frown. Duncan doesn’t seem
sculpted by Dad… the impression I got,
in the brief time I spoke with him, was
that he was always tough. He just seems
that way.
Tougher than any of the boys at my
school, anyway.
“But why did you have to take him out
of the country?” I ask. “Why couldn’t he
train back home, live at home with us?”
“I don’t want anybody else catching
onto his scent,” Dad says. “They’ll try to
poach him, or they won’t bet against
him. I want to keep him a secret.”
“This is all for betting? All so you can

make money?”
“He’ll be an unknown,” Dad says,
baring his teeth at me with a nasty smile.
“Everyone’s going to bet against him.
The underdog.”
I shake my head, can’t even
understand why he’s doing this. I just
don’t get it. How can he just adopt
someone, ship them off somewhere, train
them, and then make them work for him?
How can he expect to control another
human being?
“He figures he owes me, getting him
off the streets, giving him resources,”
Dad mentions off-handedly. He jerks his
head at me, urges me to climb up into the
jeep.

“What do you mean?”
“I mean,” Dad says, “That he’ll be
easy to tame.” He looks at me with that
same nasty smile on his face, flashes his
eyebrows. “Heel.”
He starts the jeep, and we don’t talk
for a while.
Heel… the word echoes in my mind.
“Can you tell me how you met him,
Dad?”

Chapter Four

They say I have to be taught a lesson.
To them, that means they have to kick
the shit out of me.
This is how everything works in the
home. The older boys teach lessons.
Why they teach them, they don’t know.
They just use words like ‘disrespect’
and think that it means something.
I didn’t disrespect these guys, I just
didn’t let them take my money. I earned
that money working. It’s mine, and I
never let people take what’s mine.
But that’s not how they see it.
I don’t deny that I’m afraid. I don’t

deny that I’m nervous. These boys are
bigger than me, and they want to kick my
ass, give me a beating, put me down and
tell me to stay down.
They want to build their name, like a
brand. They want other people to know
not to mess with them, not to cross them,
to hand over everything without
hesitation.
They’re thieves and bullies, and they
think that because they’re cocky and
older, they have a right to do this to me.
I have no training, but I’m confident in
a fight. It’s not my first, and it won’t be
my last. I’ve lost before, many times, but
I’ve won many times more. I’ve taken
hits, kicks, and slaps. I’ve dished out

worse.
Back me into a corner and I know I’ll
stop at nothing to make sure I’m the one
leaving the corner walking, not
crawling.
The social workers tell me that I have
a violent streak. I tell them that the only
other option is to let people take what’s
rightfully mine.
I’ll never do that.
Anyway, if worst comes to worst, I
can run, and they’ll never catch up to me.
I can go for miles, whereas they’ll be out
of breath in minutes.
But that’s only a last resort. They’ll
call me names, say I’m a fucking coward

for not standing and fighting ‘like a
man’.
But it is three against one. Running
would be wisdom in the face of
danger… not cowardice. If it comes to
that.
I won’t run if I don’t have to.
You earn a name if you run.
One of the boys takes off his gloves.
He’s the tallest, the strongest, the oldest.
His knuckles are scarred and chapped
dry by winter, but his hands still shake a
little.
He’s scared. I guess we all are.
The difference is I like the fear. It gets
me feeling amped, gets the adrenaline

kicking through my body. I feel like my
engine is revving, that I’m ready to go
from zero to one-hundred instantly. My
heart hammers so hard in my chest.
I… I like this feeling. Really like it.
Distantly, I wonder if there’s something
wrong with me.
The older boy is eighteen, has got
nearly two years on me and maybe two
inches. He’s stocky, wide, strong. He’s
cocky, but not necessarily confident.
He’s already out. Once they turn
eighteen they’re on their own. That’s
how it is, kicked out the door. No
resources, nothing but a fucking guidance
counselor and a bunch of ready-made
emails and bare-as-fuck resumes that, if

you’re lucky, land you menial work.
Nothing wrong with menial work. I
clean up a tattoo parlor part time.
Mopping the floor is not above me if it
buys me a ticket to the movies, an hour at
the gym, maybe a seat at the game,
nosebleeds of course.
But these boys want glitz. They won’t
mop floors. They talk about fat stacks.
What little help they offered him, the
older boy now squaring up against me,
he threw it all aside, turned to recruiting
kids from the same group home he lived
in to work corners for him.
He calls himself a manager. Whitecollar, motherfucker. His words, not
mine.

His name is Danny, and he’s got a
reputation. He carries a gun, but he likes
to use a knife. He likes to carve people
up. It’s a butterfly knife, the kind that you
have to twirl open, the kind people learn
to do tricks with, and if they’re lucky,
not lose a finger as part of their
education.
That’s the one thing keeping me from
just wailing on him. I don’t know if he’s
got his weapons today. If he does, it
might be a short fight for me.
“You owe me,” he says. “Pay up,
bitch.” He pulls out his gun from the
front of his jeans. I tense up, but he puts
it on the lid of the dumpster beside us.
“Don’t worry,” he tells me. “I ain’t a

fucking coward. I’ll beat you with my
fists. Like a man.”
Like a man. What the fuck does he
know about being a man?
What the fuck do any of us know?
“I don’t owe you jack shit,” I tell him.
“You want my money, you come and take
it.”
It’s not much. It’s twenty-five bucks
crumpled up in my back pocket. He’s not
doing it for the money – he carries
around thousands, an inch-thick wad of
cash that he keeps in a gold money clip.
The bills are dirty, though, crumpled,
once clenched in the shaking fists of
addicts on their way down before they
make it to him.

He likes to take it out, wave it about.
Some of the boys grovel at his feet for a
handout.
I don’t blame them. We have nothing.
But I’ll never do it. I don’t fucking
beg.
So it’s not money he wants from me.
He wants me to bend. He wants me to
break. He wants to stand over me and
thump his chest and shout that he was the
one to beat me when nobody else before
him ever could.
He’s a bully. I’ve never backed down
from bullies, and I’m not going to start
now. As far as I’m concerned, the world
could use less bullies.

“You better give me that fucking
money,” he says. “You want to
disrespect me? Like Lucas did?”
He’s talking about another boy from
the home. Lucas disappeared after
saying he was going to get Danny, going
to fight back. Nobody ever found out
what happened to him. That was two
months ago.
Danny comes closer, and his two
friends do as well. They’re surrounding
me. It’s crazy, but I feel this thrill. It’s…
fun. It’s like energy is being pumped into
my body and I’m about to burst.
Down at the street, a limousine sidles
past. It takes forever to cross the gap
between the two walls of the dirty alley

we stand in. Once it’s past, we hear it
slow, then whine backward in reverse
before stopping at the mouth to the alley.
The limo has tinted windows. We all
stare at it for a moment. It’s an odd sight
in this part of town, but some rich fuck in
a suit isn’t going to bother with us
nobodies.
I return my attention back to Danny,
and he to me.
There’s a pause of time, the space of a
blink, and then he moves. Time remains
slow for me. I see his hand reaching
behind his back.
I grab his arm, run forward so I’ve got
it behind his body, and then wrap it
around his back. I yank upward, slap his

elbow, hear something pop, and he grabs
his shoulder, grunting, and drops to the
ground.
I spin with my arm outstretched,
anticipating someone getting close to me
from behind. My fist hits a nose, blood
spurts, the boy cries and runs away.
Just one left. I drop into a natural
stance, leading with my left. He tries to
punch me, a wild, aimless haymaker, I
slap the outside of his forearm with my
palm, redirect the punch away from me
across his own body.
He’s jailed by his own arm now, and
his side is exposed. I thump him twice in
the rib cage, hard hits, too. I feel the
bone against my knuckles.

The boy coughs, tries to throw another
crazy swing at me.
I duck it, kick his knee out, and then
when he’s on the ground I pull his head
up by his hair and hit him on the nose.
There are two places to hit somebody
on the face if you want to stop them. One
is the nose, the other the jaw. With the
nose, you don’t even need to hit hard to
send those nerve endings exploding, to
send a man reeling. With the jaw it’s a
little tougher, but if you hit hard enough,
the brain shuts off. It’s lights-out to
protect you from the pain.
I know what it feels like. It sucks. My
jaw didn’t break or unhinge that time,
but it throbbed for weeks. I came to with

my shoes missing.
The boy on the ground grabs at his
nose, scrambles to his feet, limps off,
doesn’t look back at me once.
I approach Danny, reach into his back
pocket and take out his knife. It’s thinner
and lighter than I expected, more
rectangular than I expected.
I open it up, unfold it carefully,
expose a glistening and sharp blade. He
obviously cleans it regularly.
“What were you going to do to me
with your fists?” I growl, bending down
onto one knee, holding the blade in front
of his face.
“No!” Danny cries, trying to scramble

away.
I put my heel on the small of his back,
and press down until he goes still.
“Don’t move anymore,” I warn.
“No, please!”
“What do I owe you?”
“What?”
I bring my foot down hard on his
tailbone. His wail of pain echoes down
the alley. “I said what the fuck do I owe
you?”
“Nothing!” he cries. “You owe me
nothing! You owe me noth—”
“Stop it, boy.”
I whip around, see a huge man

standing there. Instantly my heart stops.
I’ve been caught by an adult. The world
drains away.
I’m in deep fucking shit, now.
Behind the man, I glimpse the door to
the limousine standing open. He watched
the whole thing.
He’s big, stocky, with a bald head and
a glowing gold watch. He looks mean as
hell, and when he smiles I see gold teeth.
“Give me the knife, boy,” he says.
I fold the knife slowly, give it to him.
He takes it, holds it, tosses it to himself
in one hand.
“It’s good,
Balanced.”

nice

weight

to

it.

The man puts a hand on my shoulder,
pushes me up against the brick wall of
the alley. It’s wet, and my clothes are
getting dirty, but I don’t dare say
anything or push back.
You learn to tell who the mean fuckers
are, the ones who are not afraid to beat
up a kid… or worse. This guy is one of
’em. It’s in the eyes, the peeled and
snarling lips.
Then he kneels down by Danny, feels
around his shoulder. He grabs his wrist,
wrenches the arm, pops the shoulder
back into place.
Danny’s moan of pain is haunting.
“You better see a doctor,” he says to
Danny. “If anybody asks, you slipped on

ice. If not, I’m coming for you. Don’t
think I don’t know you and your crew
work the corner at Madison and Crow.
You already got eyes on you boy, some
of the bigger crews don’t like where
you’ve set up shop, so if I were you, I’d
relocate.”
Danny’s eyes fill with fear. He and I
both come to the realization quickly that
we’re dealing with a mobster, a proper
big-time gangster.
“Ice,” Danny says, nodding quickly. “I
slipped on ice!” He gets up, runs away,
one hand clamped to his shoulder.
Ice… it hasn’t been that cold for
weeks.
“You,” the man says, shifting his black

eyes toward me. “How old are you?”
“Sixteen,” I say.
“Where’d you learn to fight like that?”
I shrug. “I taught myself.”
“You knew that kid was going to try
and hit you from behind. How?”
I shrug again. “I don’t know. Instinct.”
“Huh,” the man sounds. He grabs me
by the back of my neck, yanks me toward
him. “Take off your jacket.”
My eyes widen, and I tense up. “Uhuh, you sick fucker,” I say. I turn to run,
but he catches the collar of my jacket,
jerks me toward him.
“Relax. It’s not like that.”

He rips my jacket from me, then starts
feeling around my shoulders, hard
presses of his thumb and forefinger.
“Good,” he says. “You wearing your
pants low?”
“No,” I say. “On my hips.”
He seems to be measuring me up.
“Show me your hands.”
I put them out, and he takes them into
his, turns them over. I notice his fingers
are thick, rough, and his palms are
calloused.
“You got good hands.”
“For what?”
“For fighting.”

He takes my arms, slaps them out.
“Hold them straight out. Yes, like that.”
He steps backward for a moment,
considers me.
“Good stock,” he murmurs to himself.
I don’t know what that means, or why he
would be talking about soup.
He throws my jacket back at me, and
as I put it on, he guides me into walking
with him. “Come on, we’re going.”
“Where?”
“To start your fighting training.”
“Why should I come with you?”
“You want to be a pathetic drug dealer
like Danny over there?” he asks me. “Or
do you want to do something with your

life? Be somebody?”
“I was never going to become a drug
dealer,” I say, turning to the man. I shake
his hand off my neck, stare up into his
eyes.
The man regards me. “You like to
fight?”
I think about it. “I’m good at it.”
“You want to make money fighting?”
I lick my lips. “I want to make money,
period.”
“Then get in the fucking car, boy,” he
says. “I’ll make you a fucking
champion.”
I don’t hesitate.

I get into the limousine.
“Name’s Johnny Marino,” he says
once he’s in, sticking out a hand. “But
you can call me Glass.”

Chapter Five

I finish my slice of cake – black forest
– and look longingly at the rest of it.
“Can I have another, Dad?”
He frowns at me, the corners of his
mouth drawn down impossibly low.
“No.”
“Why not?” I cry. “It’s my birthday.”
“It’ll make you fat.”
I wince, stung. “Thanks a lot.”
“You could stand to lose a few pounds
already.”
My teeth clash together, and I look
away. “You’re such an—”

“Such a what?” he shouts, glaring at
me. “It’s for your own good. Once you
gain weight, it’s impossible to lose, and
I’m not going to be like Falcone with his
fat daughter and son.”
I want to cry, but bite it back. Dad
hates it when I cry. He blames me for
crying.
“Oh, grow up,” he says. “You’re
going to have to take responsibility of
yourself sooner or later.”
“It’s just a piece of cake, Dad,” I say,
but my protestation has all the conviction
of a wilting flower.
“One is enough. Now, are you ready
to unwrap your gifts?”

“Yeah,” I say, sighing.
“What is it, Deidre?”
“Nothing.”
“What is it?”
“Nothing!”
He straightens up, wipes his mouth
with a napkin, and then helps himself to
another slice of cake.
“You will tell me what is on your
mind, Deidre, because I am your father
and I demand it.”
“Nothing!” I shout, tossing my cutlery
onto my plate. I regret it instantly when
Dad stands out of his chair, and I shrink
into myself, wishing I could disappear.

“What is it?” he asks, spacing out the
words through gritted teeth.
“I really wanted to have a birthday
party this year, Dad.”
He shakes his head, sits down again.
“Under no circumstances.”
“Why?”
“I’m not having a bunch of filthy
teenagers in my house.”
“Then what about the garden? What if
we all just went out and watched a
movie together? I wish you’d let me go
out with friends more.”
“I thought you said people stayed
away from you at school.” He digs into
his second slice of cake, munches it

down. I must get my sweet tooth from
him.
“Did Mom like cake?”
His whole body freezes at the mention
of Mom. He hates talking about her.
“Sometimes,” he says curtly. “The other
children at school stopped being afraid
of you?”
“We’re not children, Dad.”
“Like hell you’re not.”
“I don’t know, I’ve got a couple of
friends, I think. I would have invited
them. Maria and Teresa?”
Dad just levels a blank look at me. Of
course he wouldn’t know anything about
me or my friends.

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “I
don’t trust children.”
“Well, you could have been there,” I
say. “Or had Frank take us to the mall, or
something.”
“Frank!” Dad calls. He appears in the
doorway, wide and round. “Give your
present to Deidre.”
Frank grins, and says, “Let me just get
it, boss. It’s in the car.”
“Well hurry the fuck up.”
“Right, boss.”
Dad turns his eyes on me as Frank
disappears out of the doorway, and says
without an ounce of sympathy, “No
parties, Deidre. We’ve got to play it

safe.”
“What does that even mean?”
“A few years before you were born, I
was attending the eighteenth birthday
party of a young man. He was the son of
an associate of mine, was going to be
coming into the business soon. You
know, learning the ropes so he could one
day take over.”
“Yeah,” I say. I know what Dad’s
talking about. Some boss’ son was going
to get a high rank in the organization
once he came of age.
“He was shot in his own father’s back
garden. Blood squirted out of his chest.
There was so much of it. It was like
Yellowstone finally erupted. His heart

must have been really going. He died,
Deidre. I will not let anybody kill my
child in my house. Nobody comes into
my house and pulls shit like that.
Nobody disrespects me like that.”
I pause at the way he phrases it. My
voice is icy when I say, “I’m never
coming into your business.”
“It doesn’t matter, Deidre. They’ll use
you to get to me. I won’t take that risk.
Nobody gets the better of me.”
“Gee, thanks. I never asked for this
damn life.”
“Hey!” he barks, pointing a finger at
me. “You have a good life. You have a
nice house, you eat a good meal three
times a day, you have your own room,

Frank drives you everywhere. How dare
you complain? Do you know how many
children in this world have nothing?”
“I just want to be a normal kid. Not
‘Johnny Marino’s daughter’.”
“It’s not about being normal. It’s about
being a guppy, or being a shark. You’re
either one, or the other. We’re not
abnormal, we’re above normal. Better
than normal. Normal people are fucking
loser idiots that go through life just
waiting to die. Me? I made something of
my life, and continue to do so in order
for you to have a life. I expect you to
make something of your life, too. And
being ‘Johnny Marino’s daughter’ is a
good thing. People will respect you.
They will fear you. Your name rings

out.”
“But I don’t want people to respect
me because they fear me,” I say. “I am
not going to be involved in your
business.”
“That’s fine. It’s not a line of work for
women, anyway.”
I roll my eyes. “What a modern
attitude, Dad.”
“You’ll understand when you’re older,
Deidre. Where the hell is Frank? Frank!”
He appears in the doorway again.
He’s got a wrapped gift under his arm.
He hands it to me, and I take it, unwrap
it.
It’s

a

book

titled

Elizabeth

McCollum: An Autobiography.
Frank shuffles his feet nervously.
“You said you wanted to be a teacher,
right? Work with children?”
I look up at him. “Yeah,” I say. “You
remembered?”
“Oh, sure,” he says. “I don’t know
nothing about teaching, but I read in the
paper that this woman’s book here was a
New York Times bestseller. She taught in
schools all over the country, working
with all kinds of kids. Rich kids, poor
kids, immigrant kids, disabled kids. She
helped developed programs and stuff.
You know, plans for kids with special
needs. I don’t mean, like, retarded kids.”
“Frank,” I say, cutting him off softly.

“You shouldn’t say ‘retarded’ like that.”
“You know what I mean,” he says
hastily. “Anyway, you know, kids who
need special cur…” He trails off, unable
to find the word.
“Curriculums!” Dad barks. “Jesus
fucking Christ!”
“Sorry, boss.” Frank returns his eyes
to me. “Curriculums and stuff. Anyway, I
thought you’d like it.”
I smile at Frank. “It’s nice, I’ll
definitely read it. Thank you for
remembering, Frank.”
“Oh, it’s nothing ho—” He was about
to say ‘honey’, but cut himself off.
“It’s a good gift, Frank,” Dad says.

“Very thoughtful, very nice. Thank you
from me, too. From the bottom of my
heart.” He touches his chest.
Frank bows his head slightly.
Dad continues: “Though you know
with teenagers, they change their minds
all the time about what they want to do.”
“I won’t,” I say. “I want to work with
children. I want to be a teacher.”
“Oh, yeah?” Dad asks. “You sure
about that?”
“Pretty sure.”
Dad puts down his fork. “Why a
teacher?”
“It’s such a big responsibility,” I say.
“You help to shape the lives of people. I

want to do good.”
He scoffs. “Do good! When you grow
up, you’re going to be in for a shock.
Nobody does good. Everybody just
looks out for themselves.”
“You’re wrong, Dad,” I tell him.
“There are good people in this world.
People who care about others.”
“Like who?”
“Social workers,” I say. I think of
Duncan, growing up an orphan, being
raised by social workers in a group
home.
“Social workers?” Dad asks, making
a sneering face. “What do they get
paid?”

“It’s not about the money.”
“Everything is about the money,” he
says. “I really wish you’d learn that
lesson. Maybe you want to get
philosophical and all that bullshit, but
I’m telling you, it’s the money that makes
everything keep going around nicely. It’s
society’s lubricant.”
“You’re so negative.”
“The word you’re looking for is
cynical, Deidre, and yes, I am. It’s how I
got to where I am now.”
“Well, anyway, I want to teach kids.”
“You won’t once you have to deal
with them. Nightmares, all of them. You
were a handful when you were a child.

God, you wouldn’t ever stop crying.
Drove me crazy.”
I look between him and Frank. Frank’s
wearing a distant smile, like he’s
slipping back into a happy memory. Dad
is just scowling. One guess as to who
spent the most time raising me.
We sit in silence for a while, and then
Dad forces on a great big smile. “Here
you go, honey,” he says. He slips an
envelope over the table. I open it and
find two airplane tickets inside.
“What’s this?”
“Paris. You and me. We can go to the
Louvre. Do the war museum! What do
you say?”

“Another trip? But we just got back
from Thailand.”
“I have to go for a business meeting,
anyway, and I thought you’d like to join
me. I’d like the company.”
The way he says it, it’s not an
invitation. It’s an order. That’s Dad.
“Thanks,” I say, forcing a smile at
him.
“What, you don’t like it?”
“No, Paris will be great,” I say. It’s
not quite a lie… I imagine Paris is great.
But I don’t want to go with him. “I’ve
never been before.”
“Can you believe it? Neither have I!”
Dad says through a laugh, clapping his

hands together. “It’ll be a good time.
Frank will be joining us. Can never be
too careful.”
I sigh. I guess, all things considered, I
can’t truly mind. It will be nice to be a
tourist. I know I’m lucky, that I have a lot
of things that other girls… other people
don’t.
But I asked Dad if I could have my
own smartphone, or even just a gift
voucher so I could go shopping and get
myself something. Of course, he either
completely forgot, or didn’t care.
“Oh, there’s one more thing,” Dad
says. He goes to the kitchen counter,
picks up a brown envelope then brings it
back. “You got this in the mail.”

“Who is it from?”
“No idea,” he says. “The stamp must
have peeled off in the rain, and there is
no return address. My guess? Probably a
birthday card from the school or library
or something. You know, they automate
these things now. Have a computer print
out a card, send it to you. No personal
touch!”
I furrow my brow. I doubt it was from
the school or the library. I open it and
peer inside.
“Well?” Dad asks.
“It’s just an automated card,” I say.
“You were right.”
“Well, aren’t you going to read it?”

“No,” I say. “What’s the point?”
He laughs, gestures at Frank. “See,
she’s smart, isn’t she? Knows when not
to waste her time. That’s my daughter,
smart as a whip. Go on Deidre, it’s late.
Time for bed. You go get ready.”
I nod, take the envelope with me, and
climb up the stairs to my room. I feel
something hard in the envelope. It is
definitely not a card.
Once in my room I close the door, put
a chair up against the doorknob, and I
open the envelope. There’s something
thin inside, and I pull it out. It’s a pocket
mirror!
It’s circular, black on the back with a
cute cartoon drawing of a tabby cat. I

open the envelope farther and find a
letter and pull it out.
The letter is not really a letter, more
like a note scribbled messily onto the
top left corner of the piece of paper. It
reads:

Dear Deedra: Happy birthday. I
hope you still like cats.

I grin from ear to ear, almost can’t
believe he spelled my name wrong. I flip
the mirror over in my hand. That’s when
I notice that the image on the back is the
kind that moves when you change

perspective, a visual trick. The cat
waves.
I tilt it in my hand over and over, and
the cat keeps waving, paw pads shifting
left, then right, then left, then right.
It’s just a stupid mirror, but it’s far
and away the best gift tonight.
Stuffing the mirror into my jeans
pocket, I walk downstairs and find Dad
still at the kitchen table, on his third
slice of cake.
His tired eyes settle on me, and then
they go hard in an instant. “What is it?”
“Can I write a letter to Duncan?”
With a confused shake of his head, he
asks, “Why?”

“My English teacher has been
encouraging us to write more letters,” I
lie. “You know, pen pals.”
“No,” Dad says, tapping the table
with his fingers. “Get ready for bed like
I told you.”
“Why not?”
He heaves a great big sigh, and it’s at
once insulting and frightening. “There’s
no postal address there. It’s a village in
the middle of nowhere. And even if there
were, he couldn’t reply to you.”
“Why not?” I ask, ever wary of Dad’s
waning patience.
“I don’t even know if he can write,
first of all,” he says. “And second, he’d

have to get a boat into the nearest city
which is an hour away, or several hours
driving. Then he’d have to buy the
stationary, and then pay the postage.”
I shake my head. “So?”
“Money, Deidre!” Dad barks.
“Remember what I just told you? You
can’t do anything without money! He
doesn’t have any. Now stop asking me
stupid questions and go back upstairs.”
I’m hurt by his insult, but still I want
to ask him why he isn’t giving Duncan
any spending money. Though the look on
his face tells me his patience has come
to an end.

Chapter Six

Duncan is coming home today.
I’ve just turned eighteen. It’s been two
years since Thailand.
But even after so long, I feel this silly,
childish excitement. I’m eager to meet
him again, to talk to him again, even
though I don’t know him at all. I’ve only
ever met him once, and yet he’s been
almost all that I can think about.
I’m also nervous beyond belief. I
couldn’t decide what to wear, and in the
end I settled for being comfortable. My
favorite pair of dark jeans, a light-brown
bomber jacket, and my favorite ankle
boots.

I cast one last look in the mirror, and
don’t like what I see. The ankle boots
cut me off at the slimmest part of my
legs, and I know I’m not model-thin so
they just make me look short and chunky.
But they’re my favorite boots, and I’m
going to wear them.
Outside, it’s chilly. In Kenilworth, on
the north shore of the lake, we get cold
winds and the air is wetter. It makes me
shiver. I sit outside in the back garden,
look out at the huge plot of terraced land
with its apple orchard at the back.
People at school always joke that I
live in a mansion – I practically do. And
all of them know where the money
comes from. It’s mob money. It’s dirty
money. It’s blood money.

I hate that the suffering of others gives
me this luxury. I hate what Dad does, so
I try never to indulge. I reject as much of
the luxury as I can.
And yet, I still live here because I
have to. Sometimes, I wonder why I
force myself to pay a penance for Dad’s
crimes.
From the back garden I can see the
road, a winding, narrow path lined on
either side by tall trees that squawk with
birds.
I hear the limousine before I see it.
Steam and exhaust wafts upward from
behind green-brown hedges. My gut
tightens, and my heart starts to beat
quicker.

For the past two years, Dad has often
spoken of Duncan’s harsh training. He
was going to make Duncan the best
fighter ever, he would tell me.
Sure, he’d start a little later than some
of the other young men who got into
fighting. He’d be a little older, but his
body would be more mature. His mind
would be readier.
That’s what Dad says. Duncan’s being
incubated.
I spot the limousine making its way
slowly around the lazy bends. The
windows are tinted, but it’s not like I
could see inside from this distance.
Standing up, I draw in breath, release
it and it fogs in front of me. I straighten

my jacket, check my back, and then
wring my hands together. I watch the car
trundle slowly around to the front, walk
through the house to go and meet them.
The butterflies in my stomach are
starting to flap their wings. The
hurricane will hit me square in the gut.
Dad told me I had to meet them at the
door. Dad told me I had to welcome my
adoptive brother into our family.
But I am excited to see him, and I feel
bad about that. Feel guilty about it. I
shouldn’t… anticipate it so much.
After all, he’s my foster brother. He’s
part of the family now.
But I want to see his eyes… those

crystal eyes. So clear, so blue, and yet…
there’s turmoil in them. Anger.
Maybe I’m projecting. Maybe I’ve
just thought up this story in my head
these past two years. Spun a narrative
around him, built him up.
But I swear, when I saw him in
Thailand, there was something behind
those eyes.
I walk out of the front door, and watch
as the limousine crunches gravel all the
way up the driveway. It rounds the
fountain out front, which has two
cherubs with feathered wings squirting
water out of their mouths.
The limousine engine stops, and black
exhaust no longer belches out of the

back. I hold my breath, wait for the door
to open, but it doesn’t.
Frank steps out, waddles around the
front of the car. He smiles at me, gives
me a small wave, and I wave back, glad
to see him.
He goes to the passenger side door,
and opens it. Out steps Dad. He doesn’t
even look at me. Instead, he turns around
and continues talking into the car. I don’t
know what he’s saying, and I don’t care.
I’m eagerly trying to look past him,
trying to glimpse Duncan.
I see a head of neatly trimmed dark
hair. Then, from inside the car, I see
those eyes. They seem to shine, reflect
the waning sunlight. I’m taken aback.

They’re sharper than ever, and again I’m
reminded of a wolf’s eyes, and when he
climbs out of the car, I gasp.
He’s grown… so much. He towers
over Dad, and Dad is an even six-feet,
and his shoulders are so broad he makes
Dad look small. And I would never have
described Dad as being small.
Duncan looks at me, and as I drag my
eyes up his body to meet his again, I’m
jolted, shocked by electricity. It’s a zap
that forces me to instantly break eyecontact, look at a spot above his head
instead, and I feel that hurricane acutely
now.
He’s so good looking. His jaw looks
cut from steel, and his lips are full,

generous, untouched by the last of the
winter dryness. His cheek bones are
high, giving him an angled, almost pretty
look.
I see a smudge of pink. His tongue
darts out to wet his lips. I’m taken back
in time to Thailand. He did that then, too.
It must be a habit.
He’s wearing jeans like me, with
black boots, a white t-shirt, and a faded
leather jacket. He looks… great, if in a
timeless way.
“Deidre, come here,” Dad says,
beckoning me impatiently with his hand.
His gold watch catches the setting sun,
beams it straight into my eye. I feel like
it’s a spotlight. Everybody is watching.

I chew on my lower lip, walk toward
them, take my steps carefully. Knowing
me, I’ll probably trip on nothing and
make an ass of myself.
My eyes are on the ground, but
Duncan’s eyes are on me… I know it. I
feel it. They sear me.
“I think an introduction is in order.
This is Duncan Malone.”
I look up, and sure enough Duncan is
looking right at me, nowhere else. Not at
the big house behind him, probably
bigger than any he’s ever seen. Not at the
fountain, or the gardens that you can spy
from the front. He’s looking right at me.
“Hi,” I say. My voice is just a shaky
whisper.

He puts out a hand; I see the
beginnings of his tattoos on his wrists. I
slip my hand into his and shake it. He
makes me feel physically tiny. His palms
are soft, hot to the touch, as if he’s been
holding them against a fire.
It’s just like when we shook hands in
Thailand. I think it’s so absurd, that
we’re shaking hands again. I want to
grin, laugh even, but in front of Dad I’m
a nervous wreck. I don’t know how he
expects me to behave.
And Dad has many expectations for
me.
“Duncan,” he says. “This is Deidre
Marino, my daughter.”
“We’ve met,” Duncan says, not turning

to Dad. “I remember.”
“Oh, yes,” Dad murmurs. That
memory has obviously escaped him.
Now I smile at Duncan, and when he
returns it, it only makes mine grow
wider.
God, Thailand two years ago! We
stood together and watched Dad make an
ass of himself. Watched Dad bully the
village people, argue over money.
My smile fades.
“Yeah,” I whisper.
Duncan’s eyes don’t leave mine. I feel
like he’s looking straight through me,
like he can see exactly what I’m
thinking, see how attractive I find him…

how drawn to him I am. How nervous I
am.
“You look great, Dee.”
I laugh at the
out-of-place
compliment, but the tension only grows
thicker. I can feel my cheeks burning.
I only catch it a moment later that he
called me Dee. Nobody has called me
that, not even at school.
“Thanks.”
My heart is racing so quickly, and I
tug my hand from Duncan’s, watch as his
long fingers close around empty air.
Dad is oblivious to our exchange. He
claps Duncan on the back, grips his neck
and guides him around me. I watch as

they walk into the house.
Dad is announcing that he’ll give
Duncan the grand tour, that this is his
house now, too. I hear him saying
something about them leaving for a trip
tomorrow, but I can’t make it out.
But as they climb the steps up to the
front door, Duncan turns over his
shoulder and looks at me, and I look at
him. We don’t break eye-contact until he
disappears inside the house.
When he’s finally gone, I lean against
the side of the car, fold my arms across
my chest, and chew on my lower lip.
“Don’t worry, Deidre,” Frank says,
walking up to me with wide duck-steps.
“He hasn’t forgotten you.”

I blink, crease my brow. “What?”
“He’s just trying to be good to
Duncan, you know? Show him the ropes.
Welcome him into his home.”
I smile at Frank. He’s got some heart,
but I’m grateful that he’s missed the mark
by a mile.
“Thanks, Frank,” I tell him. “It’s cold
out. Come inside for a cup of coffee or
something?”
He purses his lips, shakes his head.
“Oh, no, I’ll wait out here.”
“You can come in, you know.”
“If your father wants me inside, then
I’ll come inside.”
“But it’s cold.”

“Deidre, you’re old enough to
understand.” He implores me with his
eyes not to make this any more difficult.
“Dad’s the boss,” I say.
“That’s right,” Frank replies. “And he
hasn’t invited me in.”
“Right,” I say, nodding my head.
“You go in, though, honey. Don’t catch
a cold.”
“See you, Frank,” I say, sighing.
I wonder what life is going to be like,
now, living with Duncan.

Chapter Seven

It’s the same limousine I first climbed
into two years ago.
It’s the smell I remember first. The
sticky leather… it makes me feel sick
instantly. It’s a wet smell, something that
coats itself to the inside of my throat.
Something I can almost taste.
I guess I’m just not used to luxury.
Glass hasn’t changed a bit. He’s still
got those crooked, smoke-stained teeth
bracketed by gold ones, the gold watch,
the completely bald head, the hard, mean
eyes.
I don’t let my guard down for an
instant, and I won’t ever around him. I

didn’t trust him as a kid, I just didn’t
know it at the time.
Now… now I understand the
trepidation I felt when I climbed into that
limousine. I was faced with the choice
of taking something given to me, and then
finding out how not to be controlled by
it. Glass is a serial controller.
Or I could have returned to my life as
it was… destined for nothingness.
I hate the idea of being nothing, of
being worthless. I have worth.
They used to say that every human
being, inherently, had worth. But even as
those words left the social worker’s
mouth, I could sense that they were
empty. She couldn’t hide her true, sad

thoughts behind that well-practiced
smile. A warm smile in the winter wind.
She may as well have said nothing.
But bless her. Bless all of them. They
stand in the way of the storm, try to
block it with words and compassion and
sometimes, in rare cases, even love.
It won’t work. It will never work…
not in this God damned world.
But rare is it that the cards you’re
dealt can be exchanged. That’s why I
climbed into that limousine. That’s why I
followed a man like Glass who just
stank of something rotten.
I got to turn my cards in, get dealt a
new hand. How many times can people
say that?

“I’ve set up a gym for you in the back
of the house. It’s my old one, but I’ve got
all-new and modern equipment. We’re
going to get you on a proper diet. I’ve
got the best supplements, some
experimental ones too, testosterone
boosters, everything.”
I nod at Glass, lick my lips.
“And I’ve got a trip set up, we leave
tomorrow. We’re going to talk to Jim
McNamara in Omaha. You ever heard of
him?”
I shake my head.
“Well, he trained some of the best
boxers this country has ever seen, and he
owes me a favor. He’s got a compound a
ways away from the city. You’ll live

there, train with him and the other boys.
I’ll stay with you, spar with you, show
you the ropes, show you my best
moves.”
“Got it,” I tell him. “For how long?”
“Around six months. You’re going to
be the best, boy,” he says, gripping my
shoulder, squeezing it tight. “A man like
you is welcome into my family.”
“Thank you,” I tell him.
The truth is, I do feel gratitude, but I
also recognize the tongue of a snake.
That was my education; learning how to
tell the good people from the bad. I
suppose that’s everybody’s education,
really, but in my life, when you see bad
people all the time, you start to notice

patterns.
It’s always the promises… the
promise of greatness, success, money,
whatever. You learn to tell that they
aren’t promising you these things…
they’re promising themselves these
things.
You’re just the tool, the instrument.
Well, I’m no tool, though I’ve been
called one before.
“We’re fighting strictly underground
in the beginning,” he says. “Nobody will
know you. They’ll think you’re easy
pickings, bet against you. I’ll sell it.
Don’t worry boy, I’ll play my part.”
“Your part?” I ask.

“Yes. We all have a part to play. Life
is a stage, don’t forget that, and we all
have roles. All my men understand this.
My daughter understands this. Play your
part, I’ll make you rich. I’ll make you the
underdog nobody wants to back. I’ll sell
you short.”
I don’t say anything.
“Does that bother you?”
“No,” I tell him truthfully.
“Good. You’ll be the guy who is
supposed to lose. You understand,
Duncan, you’ll need to sell it. Look like
you’re getting beat, then wham!” He
claps his hands together. “Then you
fucking take them down and submit
them.”

“So you want me to take a beating,” I
say.
“Precisely. I knew you were smart the
moment I saw you,” he says. “You got a
good head on your shoulders, Duncan.
You’ll go far in this business.”
“What happens when everybody
knows who I am? What happens when
you’re no longer taking bets against
me?”
“We shut it down. Nothing lasts
forever. You go pro.”
“Pro, huh?”
“UFC, whatever. Then we go big on a
national stage, international, even. The
money there will be amazing. But you

need a reputation first, and we’ll build it
in the underground cage. Your name will
echo.”
“You’ve got it all figured out, huh?”
“Damn right I do,” Glass says. “How
the fuck do you think I got to where I
am? How the fuck do you think I ride
around in a limousine all day? Drink
only the best whiskey? Own a house like
the one that I do?” He gives me a big
grin. “We’re going to make a lot of
fucking money. I know it.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “We?”
“You’ll get your cut, boy, don’t you
worry about that. Five-percent of the
pot, non-negotiable. I expect the pot will
climb to over ten million some fights, so

you’ll be good. Don’t ever say I wasn’t
a generous man. I take care of my own.
Just ask Frank. Frank! Frank!”
The intercom hisses to life. “Yes,
boss.” Frank’s hoarse voice is made
scratchier by the static.
“Don’t I take care of my own, Frank?”
“You do, Mr. Marino.”
“See?” Glass says, looking at me.
I swallow, nod again. Promises. But
maybe Glass will be good for them.
There’s more to me being a good fighter
than simply him making his quick buck.
I’ve been a years-long investment.
There’s emotion behind this whole
thing. This is more than just business,

even if he claims the contrary.
“You want me to be the fighter you
never were,” I tell him. “You want to
live through me.”
The words silence him, still him. I
call it how I see it.
“I won’t lie to you, Duncan. We’re
family, and family don’t lie to each
other, right?”
“Right.”
“I’ve treated you like my own son.
I’ve given you a life. I want you to carry
my torch.” He slaps my chest, holds his
hand there.
His torch. The one he never held.
Glass continues: “You don’t know

what it’s like having my body, being
robbed by my body. This piece of shit!”
He thumps his hand against his own
chest. “This stopped me from being the
best. Brittle bones and inelastic tendons.
Genetics.” He scrunches up his face in
disgust. “I hate my body. But you… you
have it all. You were blessed. Your
name may still be Malone – and I’m
really fine that you kept your own – but
legally you’re my son. You are Johnny
Marino’s son!”
He shouts it triumphantly, like a
trumpet blaring in victory.
I just nod at him.
“You’ll make me proud, won’t you?”
“If you mean that I’ll fight to the best

of my ability, yes.”
“Good, good.”
“I don’t like to lose,” I tell him.
“You and I are similar,” he says,
clasping me around the shoulder, pulling
me into him.
No we’re not, I think to myself. But
this is an opportunity, not one I’m going
to turn down.
Not to mention, I’ve got another
motive for being diffident toward Glass,
one that I’m sure he wouldn’t like.
“We’re nearly there,” he says. “Frank,
go a little faster would you?”
The speakers in the back of the limo
crackle to life again. “Right, boss.”

The car speeds up, and we take the
bends breezily.
“There,” Glass says, pointing out the
window. “That’s your home now.”
I see a huge house, three floors high
with a… I don’t know the word…
layered back garden. I see trees, like a
small forest, and sitting on a bench I see
a lone girl.
Dee.
My heart starts to quicken, and I
swallow. The last time I saw her she
was just a little girl, all of fifteen,
nervous, insecure.
But even then she was pretty. It was
plain as day that she was going to grow

up to be a beautiful young woman. Those
generous lips of her small mouth that sits
above a soft chin, those big, black eyes,
that voluminous, wavy hair, a light shade
of brown, pulled back tight into a
ponytail.
I blink myself out of the past, distantly
wondering if my thoughts are wrong. I’m
not insecure about what I think – I think
what I do and I won’t apologize for it –
but sometimes I still wonder. Was she
too young? Was I too old?
It doesn’t matter. We’re both adults
now.
“Your room will be upstairs, next to
Deidre’s,” Dad tells me. “The third floor
is off-limits, though. That’s where my

office and bedroom are.”
Fair enough, it’s his fucking house.
“Now, do you have any questions?”
I think about asking him if I should
stop wanting to fight, then what? But he
strikes me as the kind of person who
would inform me that I only stop fighting
when he tells me to.
It’s better not to ask the question.
When I’m ready to quit, I’ll do it and
leave. It doesn’t escape me that he’s
simply using me, and so I’ll use him in
return, leave on my own terms.
I think about Deidre in Thailand. She
said those exact words, that Glass was
just using me. I make a mental note that

she’s smart. She was right on the money.
She saw straight through her father. She
saw it before even I truly did.
Better play it straight with Dee.
I started calling her Dee in my head
the moment I tried to write her that letter
and realized I didn’t know how to spell
her name. I tried anyway, knowing fully
well I probably got it wrong.
There’s conflict in me, a kind of still
storm. I haven’t stopped thinking about
Dee, her face, her voice, her shy smile.
All this time, for every punch I took,
for every kick I skipped over, for every
jab I slapped away or took above the
eye, she was in my mind. Not always
consciously, not always right at the

forefront, but still there.
If I wasn’t consciously thinking about
her, I was definitely subconsciously
doing so. Sometimes I’d wake up at
night having dreamed about her.
I wondered what her life story was
like, tried to piece it together from just
the bits and bobs I had gleaned that day
we met. An overbearing, asshole father
who is a mob boss no doubt played a
huge influence in her life.
But no sight of her mother. I guessed
that that meant she didn’t have a mother,
because I can’t imagine a mother not
being there to protect her daughter from
Glass.
He’s a capable man, of that I have

little doubt. But his responsibilities do
not lie with his daughter… of that I have
even lesser doubt.
But in the end I realized I’d never be
able to put together her story. The only
way to ever truly know it was to meet
her again.
And the only thing standing in the way
of that was doing what Glass wanted. So
I wasn’t just training to be the best
fighter, I was training to ensure that I
didn’t let down Glass, that I got glowing
reports from my instructors.
Because I knew he would take me
back to the States.
I knew, through him, I would get to
see her again, learn more about her.

She’s become an obsession.
The limousine vibrates as we start
crunching over the gravel of the
driveway, and eventually we round a
fountain with winged baby angels
spitting water.
I can see her, standing there, hands in
her pockets, looking awkward. It makes
me smile. She’s grown more beautiful,
more mature. It’s the only way I know
how to describe it. She looks more like
a woman now.
And I just can’t take my eyes off her.
She makes me feel a kind of tense
anticipation in my gut, makes my
temperature rise. Just the brief glimpses
I get as the car rounds the fountain, and I

feel like I’m ready to burst.
We slow to a stop, Frank lumbers
around, and as Glass gets out I struggle
to look past him, to see Dee.
I finally catch a glimpse of her big,
black eyes. I’m lost in them in an instant,
swimming in her gaze, feel like I’m
pulled to them by some magnetic force.
She breaks eye-contact, looks down at
the ground, doesn’t look back up at me
until we’re reintroduced by Glass.
I can’t take my eyes off her, and my
heart hammers in my chest as we shake
hands. I don’t want to let hers go, but she
pulls her shy fingers from mine. She
leaves my skin tingling.

Glass guides me into the house, but I
keep looking at her over my shoulder. I
smile at her, and for a moment she
smiles back at me, and it’s like I’m
shocked by the electric paddles doctors
use to save lives. It hits me right in the
chest, takes my breath away.
She leaves my world reeling as we
walk inside the front door.
Glass takes me on the grand tour. I
don’t pay a lick of attention.
Then we get to the gym. It’s firstclass, better than anything I’ve ever
seen, even on gym advertisements on the
television.
I’m actually impressed, and when I
see Glass grinning at me I can’t help but

to smile back.
“It looks good,” I tell him.
He laughs, claps me on the back, then
puts an arm around my shoulder.
“We’re going to make a lot of money,”
he says. “And a legacy. You’re not my
real son, you’re not my blood, but
legally, you are my son. I expect, if you
have any children of your own, they will
carry the Marino name.”
I meet Glass’ eyes, and tell him
slowly, “Children are a long way off for
me.”
“Right, right,” he says, before
hastening to add, “But make sure they
are a consideration. Find yourself a

woman, someone who will listen to you
and not make trouble. Someone who’ll
be happy if you just give her a child.
This is important to me, Duncan, you
understand?”
I make sure not to show any
expression on my face, even if I find
what he says outdated and disturbing.
Slowly, I give him a non-committal
nod.
“Good, good.”
I keep my eyes level on his own. We
stay locked for a moment, like two
fighters measuring each other up before
sparring.
“Right, well, this is your home now.

Do as you please. But tomorrow we set
off, remember.”
“Yeah,” I say.
“We’ll teach you how to fight oldschool.”
“Got it, Glass.”
“You’re going to be the best, boy!” he
says. He can barely contain his
excitement again. I picture him rubbing
his hands together like some cartoon
villain staring at a stack of cash. “I’ve
got some business to attend to.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll take you out tomorrow and we’ll
get you some clothes before we set off.
It’ll be a long drive.”

I laugh. “Yeah,
everything I own.”

I’m

wearing

“You wear it better than me,” Glass
says, rubbing his belly. “See you
tomorrow morning.”
“Right.”
He walks off, and I stand in the gym
alone for a moment, gazing around. Free
weights, machines, treadmills, bikes,
punching bags, supports for calisthenics,
tires, medicine balls… it’s fully loaded.
It’s a God damn paradise for anyone
who needs to train.
I need to train.
I turn around, leave the gym.
Find a girl, he said.

So I’m going to find Dee.

Chapter Eight

“Hey.”
I’m startled, turn around and see
Duncan standing in the doorway. We
meet eyes, and when he smirks at me, I
can’t help but grin back.
“Dad give you the grand tour?” I ask,
not bothering to hide the sarcasm in my
voice.
He hooks his thumbs into his belt.
“Yup.”
“Well, he likes to show off.”
“I’ve noticed.”
We look at each other for a moment,
and once again my heart is sent into

overdrive. I feel a shiver, and try to
distract myself by offering him a cup of
tea.
“No thanks. No caffeine.”
I furrow my brow. “Why?”
“Messes with my rhythm.”
“Really?”
He nods, comes into the kitchen, rubs
a hand along the marble counter. “Yeah,
really.”
“Why?”
“Caffeine increases your heart rate
and blood pressure,” he says. “Even if
just a little bit. But timing is everything
in a fight. One heartbeat too late… and
you’re locked up.”

“But you’re not fighting now.”
“Wouldn’t want to like it, then have to
give it up.”
I consider that. He does seem like a
kind of spartan person… someone with
only a need for simple pleasures.
“You mean you’ve never had a cup of
tea before?”
“Not since I was young.”
“No coffee?”
“Not since I started training.”
“Huh,” I say. The gulf between us
seemingly has grown wider. There’s a
moment of silence, and I feel awkward
as hell. “Where did Dad go?”

“Said he had business to attend to.”
I roll my eyes. “Right. Business. You
know what he does, right?”
Duncan sits down beside me, looks
straight at me. His eyes catch me offguard again.
“Of course I know.”
“Then you know
means.”

what business

“And you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Are you… in business?”
“With Dad?” I ask, snorting. “God,
no. I’m still in school.”
“High school.”

“Yeah.”
He nods. “So it must be your last year
if you’re eighteen.”
“That’s right,” I say. “I graduate in a
few months, actually. What, you keeping
track?”
“You told me when your birthday
was.”
I suck on my bottom lip. “Thanks for
the mirror. I still have it.”
“Yeah?” His smile becomes more
genuinely joyous, and it brightens up his
whole face.
“Yeah. How did you even get my
address?”
“Took it off the back of the check

Glass gave my kickboxing instructor.”
“What about the cat? Um, Sai, was
it?”
“Oh, she’s still around somewhere,
I’m sure.”
“Do you miss her?”
“Yeah, a little. So what happens after
you graduate?”
I blink. “Well, then I go to college,” I
say. “Why?”
Duncan shrugs. “I don’t know,” he
starts, but doesn’t finish the sentence.
“Don’t know what?”
“Anything about your life, I guess.
About what people like you do.”

I frown. “People like me?”
“People not like me.”
“You could go to college if you
wanted. All you’d need to get is a GED.
I mean, you wouldn’t get into a top-rated
one, but it’s possible. Or there’s
community
colleges,
vocational
schools.”
“Never was much for school.” His
expression is almost mischievous, and at
once makes him look a little younger. It’s
infectious, makes me smile.
“Let me guess, you never went to
school. Truancy police ever come after
you?”
“They tried,” he says, then he laughs.

His Adam’s apple bobs up and down.
“They couldn’t keep up with me.”
“Bad boy, huh?”
“Just didn’t see the point.”
“Why?”
“What was I going to do?”
“Get good grades? Go to college? Get
a job? Isn’t that what we all do?”
“Well, not all. Besides, I was behind
already… and at the home, it’s not like
we had anybody to ask for help. If you
were caught doing homework…”
“What?” I ask, genuinely curious.
“Well, you made yourself a target for
bullying. Having a book open was an

invitation.”
“You don’t seem like somebody who
cares what other people think of you.”
“Everybody cares what somebody
thinks of them,” he tells me.
Somehow, I suspect he’s hinting that
he cares what I think of him.
“Well, don’t worry,” I say. “I won’t
judge you. Did Dad show you the
garden?”
“No.”
“Want to see?”
“You going to show it to me?”
“Yes,” I say a little slowly. “As long
as you want to.”

“I want you to.”
I’m puzzled by his weird phrasing of
it, but nevertheless take him outside, and
together we walk through the garden, all
the way down to the orchard.
Our shoulders rub now and then, and I
feel sparks of energy, nervous energy.
I’ve got my hands in my jacket pockets,
and he’s got his by his side.
“So you’re going to be some big-time
fighter, huh?” I ask.
“One day.”
“You want to fight?”
Duncan shrugs. “It’s all I’m good at.”
Somehow, I doubt that.

“What do you want to do?” he
suddenly asks me.
“I want to be a teacher.”
“Really?” he asks, his interest
obviously piqued. It seems curious to
me. Why would he give a shit?
“Yeah.”
“Like, high school?”
“No, younger. Kindergarten or maybe
elementary. I want to work with
children.”
“Why?”
I shrug. “I just like the idea. It’s
important.”
“I agree,” he says.

“You do?”
“Sure. Teachers shape the children
they teach. It’s a big responsibility.”
“That’s exactly what I said!” I blurt
out. “Dad thinks it’s not a good job,
though.”
“Why?”
“Well, you don’t earn much.”
“Depends on what it is you think
you’re earning.”
I grin at him. “Exactly. Dad doesn’t
understand that at all. But I guess it’s
hard for him, you know?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“All he’s got to measure himself by is

his empire. And that’s all about money.”
“He’s got you.”
I snort, wave off Duncan’s words with
my hand. “Please. You don’t even know
me.”
“You’re very attractive.”
“It’s not like Dad played any part in
that,” I say, blushing, looking unfailingly
at the ground before us. “And I don’t.”
“Brave as well.”
“How do you even figure that?” I
challenge. “You just, what, have a talent
for sensing people?”
He smirks. “Maybe. Just an instinct.”
“How do you know your instincts are

right?”
“Had to rely on them up until now.”
“Well, you guessed wrong with Dad,
you know, following him.”
“But following him led me to you.”
Now I really stop. “What are you
doing?”
“What do you think I’m doing?”
“Something you shouldn’t be,” I say,
but his grin is infectious, and I can’t help
but return it. “And whatever it is you’re
doing, you’re not very good at it.”
I suck in air as he steps a little closer
to me. Despite the brave face I put on, on
the inside I’m all wobbly and nervous.

Why would he do this? Drop hints that
he likes me like it doesn’t matter at all
that he’s technically my brother, that
we’re both living under the roof of an
insane and violent man.
“You seem like the kind of person
who gets into trouble a lot.”
He shrugs. “I do what I want.”
“Well, you can’t anymore, and that’s a
childish attitude anyway.”
“Why can’t I?”
“Well, for one, Dad will—”
“He’ll do nothing.”
I laugh softly. “You’re wrong. You are
so wrong. Trust me on this, I know better
than you.”

“Then we just won’t tell him.”
I put my hands on my hips. “Tell him
what, exactly?”
“Whatever it is you don’t want him to
know.”
“There is nothing I don’t want him to
know.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is!”
A third voice bursts in: “There you
are!”
I snap my head toward the house, see
Dad storming out into the garden.
Duncan just smirks at me, like this is all
a game.

“You really don’t want to be pissing
my Dad off,” I say to him quickly. “I
mean, about anything at all. He’s got a
temper.”
“I can handle your father.”
“Duncan!”
“Yes, Glass,” Duncan says, turning
toward Dad, his voice more than a little
bored.
“Get inside! Let’s spar.”
“I thought you had business to attend
to.”
“Well, it fell through. Come on, show
me what all my money has bought me.”
Duncan looks back at me for a
moment.

“You’d better go,” I whisper at him.
“I’ll see you tonight, Dee.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Good luck.”
“Don’t need it.”
He swaggers off toward Dad, who
glares at me for a moment – as if I’m
somehow responsible for his rotten
mood – and then walks with Duncan
back toward the house.
Again, I catch Duncan looking over
his shoulder at me, and I look at him.
And I’m terrified at how their
sparring session is going to go.
I know Dad hates to lose, and I have
no doubt that Duncan can win.

I just wonder if he’ll be smart enough
to not win so convincingly.

Chapter Nine

Someone I have never seen sets down
a bowl of steaming soup in front of me. I
turn to the woman, short, round, eyesdown.
“Thank you,” I say.
“Thank you, sir,” she says
immediately, her voice quiet, before
disappearing out of the door.
“Who is that?” I ask.
Glass clears his throat. I look at him,
see the bright purple welt on his
forehead, and the dark line of his split
lip. Unconsciously, my hand goes to my
own face, where I run over the slight
swelling at the side of my jaw.

It was a good sparring session. I won,
but he surprised me for an old man.
“That’s Susan,” Glass says irritably.
“She’s on my staff, forget about her.”
Forget about her.
He just treats people like disposable
things, even the people who work for
him.
I turn to Deidre, sitting opposite me
along the lengthy, narrow table. She
doesn’t meet my eyes, and instead looks
down at her soup.
“Well, what the fuck are you waiting
for?” Glass growls, and when I snap my
head to him, I notice he’s staring angrily
at Deidre.

“Glass,” I say, pulling his attention
away. “What was that move, you spun on
your heel, like a pivot, but it was a fake,
you bounced off and went the other
way.”
He grins at me, slurps soup off his
spoon. “I came up with that.”
“Yeah? It was good.” I rub my jaw,
sell it. “You got me good.”
“Damn right I did, boy. I’ll tell you
about it tomorrow, we don’t talk about
work at the table.”
But now his mood has lightened, and I
look at Deidre, and her eyes are on me.
We all drink our
uncomfortable silence.

soup

in

“Excuse me,” Glass says after a
moment, as if unable to bear it any
longer. “I have to make a telephone
call.”
He exits the dining room, and once the
door is closed, Dee says to me, “Oh my
God, did you do that to his face?”
I nod at her. “Yeah, but we were
wearing padded helmets. Is he always
like this at dinner?”
“Yeah.”
“Does he always get on you?”
She nods slowly.
Distantly, through the heavy wooden
doors we can hear his angry voice
shouting on the phone.

“Does he always do business during
dinner?”
“We haven’t had an uninterrupted
dinner in years,” Dee tells me. “Not that
I mind. It’s not like we talk.”
“Why not?”
She frowns, bristles almost. “How the
hell should I know? He’s just a prick.”
“You shouldn’t let him push you
around. He’s a bully.”
“He’s my father.”
“So?”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
I set down my spoon. “What do you
mean?”

“You didn’t have a father.”
“Yeah, but there were plenty of
bullies in my life.”
“You just joined this family,” she
says. “Don’t think you understand how it
works.”
“So how does it work?”
“Not the way you say it does. I can’t
just push back.”
“Why not?”
“He loses his temper.”
“Does he hit you?”
Her spoon clinks against her bowl.
“No.”
“But he shouts at you.”

“Yes. Can you stop asking me these
questions?”
I let out a slow breath, look briefly
toward the door, then back at Dee. She
looks haunted by these questions, and is
no longer meeting my eyes.
“Dee,” I say, and I tap her foot under
the table with mine. I see the flash of a
smile, but otherwise nothing. “Dee,” I
say, doing it again.
“What are you doing?” she asks,
failing to hide the same smile. She kicks
my foot back.
“There’s been something on my
mind.”
“What?”

“It’s going to sound weird.”
“Just as long as you don’t ask me
about Dad anymore. I’d rather not think
about him.”
“No, it’s not that.”
“Then what?”
“It’ll make me look stupid.”
“How do you know you don’t already
look stupid? After all, you climbed into
that car with Dad.”
“Ouch.”
She lifts her spoon, points it at me.
“Don’t play with fire, I’m your only ally
in this house.”
There’s a certain truth to that, I’m

sure.
“Well, go on, ask me.”
“How exactly do you spell your
name?”
There’s a space, just a pause of time
where we grin at each other, where our
eyes meet, and it’s like we’re
transported somewhere else.
At least, that’s what it feels like to me.
And then she looks down, laughing a
little, shaking her head. “I forgot about
that.”
“Did I get it wrong?”
“Very wrong. It’s D-E-I-D-R-E.”
“Huh,” I say. “I would never have

guessed.”
“That’s what you get for skipping
school.”
“It’s not exactly the most common
name.”
“Common enough,” she fires back,
“To know how to spell it.”
At that moment Glass bursts back into
the room, and at once blankets the mood
with his own.
“Get up, Duncan.”
I frown. “Why?”
“I’ve got some things to handle
tonight, so I need to get your
measurements and vitals down first. You
can have dinner later.”

I consider resisting, but when I see his
angry eyes flick to Dee, I immediately
say, “Okay, Glass.”
I get up, leave the room, cast one last
look at her.
“It’s okay,” she whispers, and she
starts to sip soup from her spoon, as if
eating alone in the large dining room is
completely normal for her.
Maybe it’s just me who is abnormal.
Back in the home, we never ate alone. It
was fifteen or twenty boys spread down
a long steel table, each guarding their
food, wolfing it down as fast as
possible. In Thailand the whole village
ate together in a communal dining hall.
I don’t think I can remember the last

time I ate alone.
That image of her, by herself,
somehow unnerves me.
I realize I’m standing in the doorway
looking at her. Glass has walked off
toward the gym, and Dee is paying me
no attention.
“Don’t keep him waiting,” she says.
“Trust me.”
“You eat alone a lot?”
She shrugs. “Pretty much every night.”
“What about Frank?”
“Dad doesn’t invite him in much.”
“You mean he waits outside in the
car?”

“Yeah.”
I lick my lips. “What are you doing
after dinner?”
“Homework, and then going to bed,”
she says, as if it’s the most obvious thing
ever.
I nod.
“You?”
“Probably get some weights in, then
go for a run.”
“So your own homework.”
I grin. “Yeah.”
Glass’ voice booms through the house:
“Duncan!”
“Go,” she says.

It’s so hard to drag myself away from
her, but I do, jog toward the gym.
When I get there, Glass is waiting.
He’s set up a bunch of testing equipment
and measuring equipment. Height,
wingspan, vertical jump, standing reach,
weight, body fat percentage by caliper –
which is unreliable – blood pressure,
heart rate, and some other machines I
don’t recognize.
“I’m going to need to take blood,” he
says.
“Why?”
“I want to see your resting oxygen
saturation.”
I realize there is a lot I have to learn,

and for now, I hate to just have to blindly
trust him. I don’t much like that.
“What do you need all this for?”
“You’ve got a great body but it’s not
mature yet,” he says, patting me on my
chest. “You’re hard, I know, low body
fat, that’s good. But we need to get more
weight on you, especially here,” he says,
and he slaps my ass, and then my thighs.
“You need lower body strength.”
“Right.”
“So these measurements will help me
determine how to train you. McNamara
will help us as well, he’s got a team of
doctors on his staff.”
He pauses for a while as he sets up

the equipment. “What do you think of my
daughter, Deidre?”
I’m caught off-guard by the question.
At first, I think he’s going to issue me a
warning, but the look in his eyes tells me
that is not the case.
“She’s seems smart.”
He smiles. “She is. Very smart.”
“Mature beyond her years.”
“She always was precocious.”
“Beautiful.”
“She takes after her mother, but she
could drop a few pounds.”
“She doesn’t need to,” I say.
Glass flicks his eyes up to me,

narrows them. “You don’t think so?”
“No, not that what I think is important.
What she thinks is important.”
“Learn a lesson from me, boy,” he
says, lifting a finger. “When you have
kids of your own, you got to teach them
how to think, or they’ll pick up all the
wrong shit.”
“You can’t force your ideas into
someone else’s head.”
“You can.”
“You shouldn’t.”
“That’s philosophy,” he says. “But if
you can guide them down the right path,
shouldn’t you?”
“Do you guide Deidre?”

“I try to, but she is resistant to me.
Always has been.”
“Do you know why?”
“How the hell should I know?” Glass
barks without an ounce of selfawareness.
I don’t emote. It was the answer I
expected.
“Now come here and stand against the
wall, I need to measure your height.”
“I’m six-three I say.”
“I need exact measurements.”
I shrug, do as he says, my mind on
Dee for the whole time.
But when we’re finally done, and I go

looking for her around the house, I see
that she’s already gone into her room,
already showered judging by the steam
on the mirrors in the bathroom, and the
lingering smell of shampoo and shower
gel in the air.
So I shower, too, clean up, realize I
have nothing to wear outside of a few
pairs of new compression shorts Glass
gave me to spar in. They were still in the
wrappers, to my relief.
With no other choice I put them on,
crawl into an unfamiliar bed, and
instantly feel uncomfortable.
It’s the softest fucking bed I’ve ever
been in.
I get out, throw the pillow onto the

carpeted floor, drag the sheets down
with me, and lie down there instead.
This is more like it.

Chapter Ten

The screams keep me awake.
It’s past midnight, and I have school in
the morning, but I keep hearing the
screams.
I hear shouting and crying. Dad’s
voice is shouting. Someone else’s voice
is crying. Someone’s voice I don’t
recognize, but I do know it’s a man’s.
Then it stops. Finally, my heart can
slow down. Finally, I can stop imagining
what’s going on downstairs.
But then I hear the footsteps. They
stomp up the stairs, and I wince when I
hear Dad’s harsh voice call my name.
Then he calls Duncan.

“Get down here, now! Both of you!”
I climb out of bed, put on a night robe,
slip my feet into warm slippers, and
open the door, squinting into the bright
hallway.
“What is it, Dad?” I mumble, rubbing
my eyes. I look down the hallway and
see Duncan standing in nothing but tight
spandex shorts, the kind cyclists wear,
but they have a built in, padded crotch.
On Duncan, it bulges.
I snap my eyes up from his center. The
lights cause dark shadows to form along
the lines of his muscles. He’s got a
really great—
“Put on some fucking clothes!” Dad
yells at Duncan. “Then you and Dee

come down to the living room.” He
storms off back downstairs.
I go toward Duncan. He looks
concerned. “This isn’t going to be
good,” I whisper, pulling my night robe
tighter around me. My eyes linger on his
chest for a moment before I force myself
to look up, to meet his eyes.
“You should stay up here.”
“No,” I tell him. “Dad will shout at
me. I don’t want to deal with his
bullshit.”
“I’ll deal with your father,” Duncan
says.
“Hey,” I say, growing indignant. “I
can handle myself. I don’t need you to

protect me. You’ve only been here one
day!”
Duncan regards me for a moment, then
disappears back inside his room. He
comes out wearing his t-shirt and jeans,
and together we walk toward the steps.
It’s all dark downstairs except for the
light pouring out of the corridor into the
living room. I can hear whimpering.
I slow down on the landing, and my
hand touches Duncan’s by accident. He
grips onto it, holds it, and it’s like
electricity shoots straight into my arm.
We look at each other. There’s no
more screaming anymore, there is only
sobbing.

I pull my hand out of his, and my skin
is left burning. “Come on, Duncan, we
have to go down. Stop trying to protect
me, I don’t need it.”
“He’s been drinking. I can smell it.”
“I know.”
“He just wants to use you to make a
point, Dee.”
“Isn’t that what he’s doing with you?”
I ask. A few seconds later I wish I
hadn’t. The bite was unnecessary, even
if he didn’t flinch. “Come on. Let’s get
this over with.”
Together we walk into the living
room. Dad is sitting in the sofa looking
toward the fireplace.

Just in front of the fireplace is a man
on his knees. He’s got his head bowed,
and there’s something dripping off his
chin.
It’s blood.
“Frank,” Dad says. Frank, behind the
man, lifts his head up by his hair. I gasp
when I see the bruised and broken face.
It’s completely misshapen, split open on
both his cheekbones, and his eyes are
swollen shut. I look away immediately.
My hands start to shake.
“This is my family, Mr. Jung,” Dad
says. “This is who you are hurting.”
“Please,” the man says, shaking his
head. “I didn’t hurt anybody.”

“When you don’t pay me what you
owe me, you hurt my livelihood. My
livelihood is my family’s livelihood.
Now, you’re an eastern fella, aren’t you?
Aren’t you all always talking about
family, tradition, all that? Isn’t it strong
in your culture over there? I trust you’ll
understand how important family is. My
family is important to me.”
“Please,” the man says.
I grit my teeth together. I hate my
father. I hate being in his family. I hate
all this bullshit.
I look up at Duncan, but all he’s doing
is staring blankly at the man. How can
this not affect him?
“You see my beautiful daughter,” Dad

says. “She’s going to be a teacher. And
my son, he’s going to be a champion
fighter. They are who I care about most
in this world.”
I roll my eyes. Dad only cares about
himself. Duncan only just got here. It’s
all a show. It’s all dramatics.
“Please,” the man says. “I’ll get your
money. I need more time.”
“When you come into my town,” Dad
continues, waving his hand. “And open
your fucking little shops, your laundries,
your fucking liquor stores, then I get to
tax you. This is how it’s always been.
This is how it always will be. If you
don’t pay your tax, then you don’t get to
run your God damned fucking business!

If you don’t pay your tax, my family
suffers!”
Dad’s breathing hard, snarling. He’s
rabid… I can almost imagine saliva
dripping from his mouth.
“I don’t have it yet!” the man cries,
his voice a dribbly slur. He can barely
enunciate anymore, his lips are so puffy.
“Business is not good.”
“That’s on you!” Dad roars. “Go to
business school! I don’t fucking care,
that’s not my problem. My problem is
you have not paid me what you owe me.
You are two weeks overdue. I expect it
by Friday.”
I grimace. Dad is just one big bully.

“That’s not enough time,” the man
says. “I can’t get it to you by then.”
Dad looks at Frank, who nods and
then thumps the man in the gut, drawing a
howling moan of pain from his lips. He
hauls him up to his feet, then slaps him
across the face, dropping him back down
to his knees.
“Look at my family,” Dad says. “Look
at them!”
The man looks up at me. My eyes are
red. I know I shouldn’t cry but I can’t
stop the tears from forming. I feel
nothing but compassion for him, and
wish I could make it end.
“I will be very angry if you hurt my
family’s livelihood again. Now get the

fuck out of my house. You’re getting my
carpet dirty.”
Frank hauls the man up, pushes him
out of the room. I hear the front door
open then shut.
“That is what fucking happens when
you don’t follow the rules in my fucking
town!” Dad belts out, casting angry
looks at us. He pours himself a big glass
of something brown, and drains it in one
gulp. Then his eyes settle on me.
I shrink as he approaches me. I don’t
miss that Duncan straightens his back,
steps a little forward and in front of me.
“Are you crying?” Dad asks me.
I shake my head.

“Are you crying, damn it?”
“No,” I say, my voice barely a
whisper.
“You’d better not fucking be, not in
front of anybody else, you got that? I
can’t have you crying in front of
anybody. It’s a bad look.”
“What you did to him looked worse,”
I say.
“Oh, now you’re going to get all
sanctimonious on me? How do you think
you have the life you do? Damn it,
Deidre, why are you always so
difficult?”
I shake my head. “You’re a monster.”
Dad opens his mouth to shout at me,

and I wince, shutting my eyes, recoiling,
taking a step back. I know it’s going to
be bad.
But the shouting never comes. I open
my eyes to see Duncan’s hand on Dad’s
shoulder. He’s not saying anything, just
staring at Dad.
Dad’s eyes flicker between us, and
then he fixes them on Duncan. “You
better watch and learn,” he says, his
voice lowering. “You need to know how
it works.”
“It’s late,” Duncan says. “Don’t we
have an early start tomorrow? Long
drive?”
Dad straightens his back, rubs a hand
rapidly over his dome. “You are

correct,” he says.
Duncan’s hand comes off Dad’s
shoulder.
I’m just shocked. I’ve never seen
something like this before. The whole
atmosphere changed. The air between us
three has gone ice-cold.
“Had a bit too much to drink tonight,”
Dad says, joking. “It’s the good stuff. It
was a gift from Mr. Jung.”
Dad holds up a bottle of what I can
now see is brandy. “Them Chinese fellas
love their brandy, don’t they?”
“Jung is a Korean name, Dad.”
“Whatever,” he slurs at me.
“You should go to bed,” Duncan says,

his voice even. “You don’t want to be
hung-over tomorrow.”
“I haven’t been hung-over in two
decades, boy,” Dad fires back, some of
his nastiness returning. He pushes past
Duncan, and starts climbing the steps,
hanging precariously onto the railing.
“Tell Frank to lock up on his way out. I
expect to see him at seven tomorrow
morning.”
“Right,” Duncan says.
We both watch Dad climb up the
steps, wait until he disappears up to the
third floor. We hear his bedroom door
slam shut.
I look at Duncan, and he meets my
eyes. I see… anger in his. He turns

around, begins to walk away.
“Where are you going?” I ask.
His steps stop. The features on his
face soften, and he comes back to me,
grabs my hand, and pulls me with him.
“Where are you taking me?”
But he doesn’t answer. He pulls me
through the house, and into the gym. A
hard slap against the light switch, and
the room buzzes into brightness.
Immediately, he’s setting something
up; the frame and the punching bag.
“You feel angry right now?” he asks
me when he’s finished setting it up. His
eyes, now a blazing blue, are hard on
mine.

“Yes,” I tell him. “Angry… and sad.”
“Do you feel powerless?”
I tilt my head to the side. That’s a
strange question. “I guess so.”
“Come here,” he says. I step toward
him, and his fingers go to the edge of my
robe.
“Hey.”
“You can’t wear this.”
“What if I’m not wearing anything
underneath,” I say, pulling away from
him.
“Aren’t you?”
“I am,” I say. I take off the robe.
Beneath it I’m wearing my pajama pants

and a t-shirt. “But you can’t just go
taking off my clothes like that.”
From the equipment cupboard, he
produces a pair of gloves. “These are a
bit big.”
“What are we doing, Duncan?”
“Trust me,” he says. “Okay? Will you
please trust me, Dee?”
I shrug. “Fine, okay.”
He takes my hands into his, and begins
to wrap a bandage around them,
delicately, but tight.
“What’s that for?”
“Prevents injuries. Keeps your fingers
from bending in ways they shouldn’t.
And your wrists.”

He wraps it around, precisely,
methodically, in a crisscrossing pattern
he’s obviously committed to memory.
When they’re tight, he motions for me
to ball my fists, and so I do. He slaps
each of them, grips onto them, shakes my
wrists.
“Good,” he says before fixing the
boxing gloves over my hands. They’re
bright blue, big, cushioned, surprisingly
snug on the inside. And very warm.
“You’re right handed,” he says. “So
you lead with your left hand and your
left foot. It may feel a little weird at
first, but you want your strong arm in the
back, not the front.”
He bends down and grabs onto my

thigh, and I yelp as he places it in
position.
“Your left foot here,” he says.
“Okay,” I say, nodding.
“Okay, like this. Jab, yeah? With your
left. Yes, just extend your arm quick,
straight out in front of you, then pull it
right back in.”
I do it.
“Faster.”
I do it faster.
“Watch,” he says. He demonstrates it
for me, lightning fast. He whacks the
punching bag, his arm is out and back in
an instant, like a snake striking. The thud
against the bag is so loud it shocks me,

and the chains rattle.
“Go on, you do it.”
I jab, and my fist hits the bag. It thuds.
“Like that?” I ask.
“Pretty much,” he says. “Do it again.”
“Why?”
“Trust me.”
I hit the bag again, listen to the thud,
the chains rattle.
I hit it again.
Thud.
Rattle.
Again.
Whack.

Thud.
Rattle.
Again.
My hits become harder, faster. I
become better at it in a matter of
moments.
“Okay. Now, use your left foot to
pivot.” He holds me by the waist, turns
me. I keep my left foot in place, but
rotate my right foot around until I’m
facing the other way. When his hands
leave me, my skin is left tingling.
“Good,” he says. “This is where you
get your power from. It’s not in the arms,
it’s in the hips and legs. This is a onetwo. See? I jab with my left.” He

extends his left arm straight out. “But it’s
a fake or a test. He’ll counter, dodge or
slap it. Then I cross with my right.” He
throws a punch across his body with his
right, at the same time pivoting on his
left foot, getting his body behind the
punch. “Your legs give you the power.
It’s a combo. Try it.”
I do it slowly first. I jab with my left,
straight out, then I pivot my weight,
cross with my right with more power.
“Again,” he says.
I do it again.
“Harder,” he says.
I hit harder.
“Faster.”

I hit faster.
Again.
Again.
I hit the bag, jab, pivot, cross, pivot,
jab, pivot, cross, pivot.
The chains rattle constantly. The bag
thuds with each of my hits. My hits get
harder, faster.
Jab, cross.
Jab, cross.
Jab, jab, jab, punch, punch punch,
punch…
I wail on the bag, hitting it as hard as I
can, throwing my whole weight into
every punch. I hit it and I hit it and I hit it

until I realize that my eyes are wet, that
tears are streaming down my face.
I keep hitting it, harder and harder.
I hit it so hard it shakes the bones in
my body.
I hit it so hard my hands ache.
And then I hit it some more.
And then I kick it.
I kick it, and I kick it, and I kick it,
and I scream as I beat on the bag, again,
again, again, again.
And then I’m spent. It’s over. I’m
sweating, heaving, panting. I’m no
longer crying. Somehow, I feel better.
I fall backward onto the mat, landing

on my bum, and I hold onto my knees,
sucking in oxygen. I glance up at the
clock and see that twenty minutes have
passed.
Twenty minutes!
I wipe my no-doubt red eyes, turn
them on Duncan. He sits down opposite
me, crosses his legs. He takes my right
hand and begins to undo the glove. He
takes them off one by one, then starts
unwrapping the bandages around my
fingers and wrists.
His fingers are so soft, so gentle with
me. I just watch as he tends to me.
“You’ve bruised your knuckles a
little,” he says quietly, holding my right
hand and running his fingers over the

knuckles. His touch sends sparklers
sizzling through me.
I close my fist in his hands, squeeze,
feel the pain of the bruise in my knuckles
as the blood rushes there.
His hands close around mine, and then
I unball my fist, and our fingers link at
their tips.
“Is this what you do?”
He nods. “It works.”
“I never knew.”
“The bag is designed to be
responsive. Your mind does the rest. I
find it therapeutic.”
“I hate living here,” I say. It just slips
out of me. “I hate everything about this

place. About my life. I hate seeing all
this shit. It’s not the first time I’ve
watched Dad ‘teach a lesson’, and I
know it won’t be the last. I can’t stand
how he treats people.”
“I know,” Duncan tells me. “You’ll be
able to move out soon. Once you go to
college, right?”
I take in a deep breath. “Yeah. But you
won’t.”

Chapter Eleven

Duncan shrugs.
“Before this, I had nothing. Now, I
have something.” He looks at me, holds
onto my hand tight. “I’ll get out
eventually. This won’t last forever.”
Our fingers entwine, and my breath
hitches, and I want nothing more than to
push myself into his arms. As if reading
my mind, he scoots forward, captures me
in his strong arms, and pulls me toward
him. His hand is huge on the back of my
neck, hot, and he tucks hair behind my
ears, presses his forehead to mine.
“Are you okay?” he whispers.
“I’m fine,” I say.

“You got a good workout in.”
“Yeah,” I say through a laugh.
I press myself into him more, and then
turn, let him wrap me up from behind.
I’m embarrassed that I’ve cried in front
of him, and I don’t want him to see my
puffy eyes.
He holds me tight, his chest against
my back, my fingers in his, and I’m
thinking to myself that this is insane.
What is going on? Why am I letting this
happen? Why do I want this?
It would be a big mistake. It could
never work, never! Not with Dad in the
picture…
I feel his breath on my neck, and I lean

back against him, growing more
comfortable by the second, yet my heart
only beats faster.
There’s a voice inside me screaming:
Don’t do this, Dee! You’re a smart girl.
What if Dad comes down?
But I want to do this. I’ve wanted to
be close to him since he first stepped out
of that limousine… or maybe it even
went back to Thailand.
“I never stopped thinking about you,
Dee,” he says quietly.
I don’t reply. I don’t know how to. All
I know is that I thought about him too…
often.
“You shouldn’t have come here,” I

whisper, playing with his fingers.
“You’re trapped now, like me.”
“Then I would never have seen you
again.”
“Dad will use you until you’re
broken, then throw you away.”
“No he won’t.”
“He will.”
“Dee, don’t think about that anymore.”
But I can’t help it. “I feel so alone
here.”
I hear him suck in a breath of air as if
my words somehow hurt him.
I pull his hands tighter around my
body, and that’s when I feel the tip of his

nose by my ear. Unconsciously, I press
myself to him, tilt my head to the side,
and when his lips touch my skin he sets
it on fire.
My breathing quickens, my heart starts
to thump in my chest, and I hold onto his
hands tighter as he kisses me again
beneath my ear, and then again.
I turn to him, look into his gorgeous
eyes, look at his soft lips set within that
granite jaw.
Now I say it: “I thought about you,
too. All the time.”
He kisses me, and I melt into his arms,
fall into him as he claims my lips. It’s
the first kiss I’ve ever had with a boy,
and I have no idea what I’m doing, but

he kisses me so softly, so gently, as if
guiding me with his own lips.
And I love the feeling of it, his lips on
mine. It makes me tingle, makes me feel
this building storm of anticipation in my
belly, and butterflies… so many
butterflies.
“Dee,” he breathes, holding onto my
face, kissing me harder. I fall into him
more still, turn myself around, clamber
on top of him so that I’m straddling him,
and I hold onto his face, run my hands
through his hair, kiss him harder, faster.
There’s an urgency coursing through
me, something I’ve not felt before. I
press my body against him, imagine our
heartbeats aligned as one, and his hands

hold onto me, touch my neck, my collar
bone, touch me lower still.
His fingers love my body, and in a
hurried flurry I take his t-shirt and pull it
up. He gets it up over his head, throws it
away, and I push against his shoulders,
guide him down onto the mat. I look
down his gorgeous, muscled, and tight
body, feel my temperature skyrocketing,
and then I’m on top of him, kissing his
lips, and I feel the touch of his tongue.
My heart surges, and I push my tongue
into his mouth, meet his, dance with his,
and I love it even more. I never
imagined it would feel this good, but
somehow it does, and I can barely
breathe, but I don’t care. I never want
him to stop kissing me.

I touch his hard chest, his tight body,
but a moment of panic seizes me, and I
break our kiss, lean up from him, my hair
falling down around his face.
“I…,” I begin, before trailing off.
“I’m all sweaty.”
Duncan smirks. “It’s really sexy.”
“I’ve never… you know.”
“Don’t be scared. I won’t do anything
you don’t want to.”
His tongue comes out, runs across his
lower lip for a moment, and I have the
sudden urge to lean back down and taste
him again, but instead I get off him.
“Come on,” I say. “We can’t stay
here.”

Together we go upstairs to my room,
and there he takes my hand, turns me,
presses me against the wall, and kisses
me again.
I latch onto him, link my arms behind
his neck, and then I feel his hands on my
thighs, and gasp when he lifts me up
easily. I quickly latch my ankles around
his waist.
Above him now, looking down on
him, I kiss him feverishly again, and he
carries me into my room, kicks the door
shut behind him.
Our teeth bang into each other, the kiss
is rough, not at all delicate, and I’m
panting, my heart is racing, blood is
thundering in my ears.

I’m so nervous, but so excited. I’m
scared, worried that I won’t know what
to do, or what we even will do.
Here I am, inexperienced, a virgin,
making out with my foster brother, and
my hands are on his hard chest, and it’s
like I can feel electricity arcing into my
body.
I moan onto his face, bite his lip, feel
this intense energy growing inside me. It
washes the world away, and it’s just
Duncan with me here, and nothing else
matters. Nothing else matters.
His hungry hands devour my body,
grope me, squeeze me, knead me. I feel
his palms on my ass, my thighs, run up
my sides into my armpits, making me

shiver, feel warm, then hot.
I can feel his desire for me pressing
through his pants, pressing against me,
and I hold onto his neck with just one
arm and send the other in between us,
down his sculpted body, to cup him
through his jeans.
His heated eyes tunnel into mine, flick
down to my lips, and he captures them
again, like he needs my lips to live.
I feel so wanted, so desired, it’s
nothing I’ve ever felt before.
He sets me down, turns me around,
then lifts my arms above my head. His
fingers hook beneath my t-shirt, and he
pulls it up over my head.

From behind me, he runs his hands
tantalizingly down my body, cups my
breasts, bites at the back of my neck and
shoulder. He squeezes me, rolls my
nipples softly, and I reach my hands over
and behind me, run them through his hair.
He comes around my body, holds my
hands behind my head, and he looks at
me, my bared breasts, my body on
display for him, and in his eyes I see a
growing storm of desire.
Slowly, on my right arm, he kisses me
from my elbow to my armpit, down my
side, the wet dab of his tongue now and
again setting my skin on fire.
He crouches down, and I lower my
arms, grab onto his hair, watch and laugh

as he takes the elastic of my pajama
pants into his mouth, and he pulls it
down slowly, his gorgeous eyes never
leaving mine.
When I see my underwear, I say
hastily, “Wait.”
He stands up, and I put my hands on
his chest, not knowing how to say it. I
figure I should just come out and say it.
“I’m… you know, it’s my first time
doing something like this.”
“I won’t hurt you,” he says.
“I know you won’t. But… I guess I
just don’t know what to do.” I feel so
awkward and embarrassed saying it, so
silly and stupid.

“Hey,” he says, taking my face into his
hand. “Only do what you want to do.”
I nod at him, bite my lip. “I do want
to.”
“Yeah?”
“But you should take charge.”
He grins. “I can do that.”
Duncan leans down, takes my lips in
his again. I find myself surprised all
over again at how soft they are, how
gentle and yet forceful.
He guides me with his kiss, teases my
tongue out, and our tongues dance and I
wrap myself around him, feel the fire
between us start to ignite again.
I love him holding me so close to him,

feeling his body heat, the warmth of his
breath, the touch of his fingers.
He moves me toward my bed, and I
fall into it, and him on top of me, and he
takes my arms and holds them above my
head, leans up and looks at me for a
moment.
My eyes travel down his body, sexy,
tight, back up to his lips, his eyes.
“You’re so fucking sexy,” he tells me,
and the way he looks at me makes me
believe it. He leans down, kisses my
neck, along the length of my collar bone,
and his hands sweep up my body to
knead my globes, before lowering
himself to my stiff nipple and taking it
into his mouth.

I grip the sheets behind me as he licks
my nipple, as he sends shivers of
sensation shooting up and down my
body.
I bring one arm down, hold onto his
head, run my hands through his hair, pull
it, pull him down harder on me.
His tongue teases, and then I feel the
press of his teeth and I suck in air. He
moves to the other, teases me there, rolls
my nipples in his finger, licks the skin in
between my breasts.
And then he’s moving down, his
hands, fingers working my body like I’m
an instrument, pulling soft sighs and
moans from my lips.
I arch my back, stretch out on the bed

as he kisses me around my navel. It
tickles a little, but only a little, but it
makes the hairs on the back of my neck
stand up, makes me quiver.
He teases my pants off, leans up to
look at me reverently, and then he’s
kissing around my navel, hooks his teeth
into the elastic of my underwear, and
pulls it down my legs.
And as I lie there, on the bed, looking
at him, I know I’m feeling lustier than I
ever have, and I know he can see it in
my eyes.
He opens my thighs gently, slowly, a
hand on each knee, bares me to him,
displays my most private place to him.
Of course I feel the sting of modesty.

I’m not clean-shaved – I don’t think I
should have to be – and I’m afraid he
won’t like me.
But he does. He leans down, buries
his nose on my mound, smells me, and
then I feel his warm tongue run up the
side of my sex, and he makes my body
tremble.
“I love that you don’t shave,” he
growls, and he teases me, plants soft
kisses around my center, every now and
then touching my clit with his tongue.
I press my head into the pillow, run
my hands over my breasts, down my
body, find his hair and I thread my
fingers through it, feel him, and then I
push him onto me slowly.

His tongue presses against my folds,
pulls up my sex, and I let my eyes fall
closed, raise my hips off the bed to meet
him.
He starts to lick me, settles on my clit,
flicks it left to right, and he goes so nice,
so fast, I’m almost instantly in heaven.
I stretch out, undulate my body, grasp
at him tighter, bring my hips up higher.
“Yes,” I whisper, and his finger goes
to my entrance, and he rings me, teases
me, and I angle my hips down so his
finger tip dips inside me.
I groan, tighten up at the sensation,
and when he pushes his finger all the
way inside me I can’t help but to moan
loudly at the sudden influx of feeling.

I feel like ink in water, coming apart,
twirling about, and he licks me like he
starves for me, thirsts for me, laps me
like there’s nothing else on Earth he’d
rather be doing.
He angles his finger upward, rubs my
front wall, and I grab hold of my breasts,
breathe out some incomprehensible
sound.
When I feel his lips wrap around my
clit, suck it while still flicking me with
his tongue, it’s all I can do not to cry out.
My temperature is rising, and he slides a
second finger into me, pulling a long
groan from my mouth.
He starts to finger me faster, lick me
to the same rhythm, and I’m his captive,

at his mercy, letting him drive me.
“Just like that,” I tell him, though I
know he needs no instruction. His
fingers and tongue play me like an
instrument.
“Fuck, like that,” I breathe, my voice
hoarser, deeper. “Like that, oh, God,
yes!”
I lift my whole lower body off the
bed, and I’m shaking and buzzing and
gone all electric.
“Don’t stop,” I beg, I mewl. “Don’t
stop!”
He brings me racing into orbit, sends
me soaring, and pleasure crashes over
me, radiates outward from my center,

sparkles down to my toes.
I grip at him hard, mash him into me,
moaning and trembling and writing and
squirming. I then squeeze, freeze,
muscles tight, stomach crunching, stuck
still in bliss.
And then I’m coming down, on the
other side, panting, seeing stars, dizzy,
and smiling.
“Fuck,” I whisper, putting my hand to
my head, staring up at the ceiling,
waiting for the world around us to
slowly fill back in.
I pull him up my body, bring his lips
to mine, kiss him, taste myself. I send my
hands down urgently between us,
unbutton his jeans and rip apart the flaps.

I stick my hand down his compression
shorts, grab onto his cock, start to pump
him wildly.
I reposition myself on the bed, sit up
against the headboard, with one hand
grab his ass and pull him forward over
me, his leg on either side of me, so that
is manhood is closer to me.
With some difficulty, I pull his
compression shorts down, and his jeans
with them, and I jerk him, a kind of feral
need to give him pleasure like he gave
me pleasure thrilling through me.
I take his tip into my mouth, and I suck
on it and swirl my tongue over it, taste
his pre-cum, a little bit salty, a little bit
sweet.

He leans back, groans, runs his fingers
through my hair, pulls my hair toward
him, makes me take him deeper down my
throat.
I’m urgent with lust, don’t even know
if I’m doing it right, but at this point all
that worry has all but drained away.
I work him as hard and as fast as I
can, run my tongue up the back of his tip,
bob my head to the movement of my
hand.
It takes me only a short while to
realize that he likes it when I press my
tongue against the back of his tip, and so
I focus on it, and I feel his thighs tighten,
feel his body tense, and his hands grip
my hair harder, and he groans hoarsely,

“Shit, Dee, you’re going to make me
come.”
I want to make him come, and so I go
faster still, and soon he lets out a sharp
sound of pleasure, and I feel his cock
twitch in my mouth, feel him fire down
my throat.
I struggle to swallow it all, but there’s
so much it dribbles out, runs down my
chin, but I keep pumping him, keep
milking him, keep wanting to make him
feel good.
And then his hands loosen their grip
of my hair, and his eyes, previously shut
tight in pleasure, open, and he looks at
me, and his blue orbs have turned a
darker shade, full of desire.

I let him out of my mouth, wipe my
chin, swallow the rest, thinking to myself
that it doesn’t taste nearly as strong as
I’d imagined it would.
His lips come hungrily to mine, and he
pushes his tongue into my mouth, kissing
me, and I reach out and point to the
bedroom drawer, tap on it.
Duncan leans over me, opens it, and
then looks at me. I nod at him, and he
pulls out a pack of condoms, tears one
open.
He starts to take off his jeans the rest
of the way, but I stop him, instead doing
it myself, and I work them off his feet
one at a time, my eyes never leaving his
unsoftening manhood.

“Can I put it on?” I ask him.
I’m curious, anyway, and so I take the
packet, pull out the slippery condom,
and pinch the tip, and unroll it down his
cock. It’s hard to, he’s so thick and long,
and it doesn’t reach all the way down to
the bottom.
“Is it okay like this?”
He nods at me, climbs back on top of
me. I love the way he kisses all over me.
It’s like he wants to take every inch of
flesh into his mouth, every last sliver of
my body. It’s like he wants to taste me
everywhere, as though there is nothing
else in the world he could ever want
more.
It seems naïve, thinking like that, but

it’s really what it feels like.
In between us, his manhood juts up,
and I reach down, hold on to him. He’s
so hard for me, and he squeezes some
muscle I never knew existed, and his
cock jumps in my hand, grows even
thicker, his tip swelling some more.
A drop of pre-cum oozes out – I can
see it through the condom, and I rub my
thumb over it, spread it over his tip
through the lubricated latex, massage the
back where I know he’s sensitive.
I see his face ripple with pleasure,
and his lips part, and his breathing
quickens, and it turns me on so much to
see him like this.
He strokes my thigh, guides it apart a

little father, and then he lowers himself
down to me. I look him in the eyes, and
then I suck in a breath of air, bite my lip.
“Okay,” I whisper.
I gasp when I feel his tip at
entrance, and I ring my arms around
neck, shutting my eyes, clenching
teeth as I feel him stretch me with
head of his manhood.

my
his
my
the

“Shit,” I hiss, throwing my eyes wide
open and groaning as he inches inside
me.
I’ve never felt anything like this
before. He stretches me, and for a
fleeting moment I feel a hint of a sting,
but then it dilutes in the overwhelming
sensation.

“Slower, slower,” I pant, and so he
goes slower, slides into me gently.
My breathing quickens, I look at his
lips, and he senses what I want, leans
down, his hard muscles not shaking at all
as he holds himself up while kissing me.
I pull his head harder on mine, lock
my lips with his, and groan into his
mouth as he inches inside me bit by bit.
He fills me up so completely, makes
me feel so full on the inside. It’s…
amazing. It’s overpowering.
I’m squeezing randomly around him,
my whole body is shaking, and already I
can feel that pressure again in my belly
building up.

I reach down with one hand, clamp
onto his hard ass, and I push him into
me. He slides in all the way, bottoms
out, draws a sharp moan from me.
“Wait,” I say breathlessly. “Just wait a
second.”
He kisses me slowly, licks my lips,
sucks on my tongue, and then when I run
my hand across the side of his ass, to his
hip, guide him up, he starts to pull out of
me.
All at once I’m blinded. My body
goes tight, and my mouth drops open,
and I clamp onto his skin with my nails
as he pulls himself all the way out of me.
It feels so damn good, so much more
than just fingers which is all I’ve ever

experienced before this.
As he pushes inside me again, I grow
used to the way it feels, and I wrap my
legs around his ass, push him down
harder.
“God, you’re so tight,” he growls.
“You make me feel so good.”
He starts to slowly thrust in and out of
me, and I control his speed with my legs,
push my hands against his chest, feel his
hard, tensing muscle.
I lean my head back, and his tongue
sets the skin of my throat on fire.
“Oooh,” I moan, overcome. I hold
onto the headboard behind me as he
fucks me, push down from it, raise my

hips to meet his thrusts, utterly lost in the
blissful sensation, in heaven.
“Faster,” I gasp, and he goes faster,
and in no time I’m writhing beneath him,
eyes clamped tight, at the mercy of the
pleasure he grants me.
I’m lost, so utterly lost, and as his lips
hungrily claim the skin on my neck, by
my ear, along the stretch that leads to my
shoulder, I shiver, hum, smile, moan.
He slows down, and I grip onto him
tight, feel his hard body, and then he
pulls himself out of me, gets up, takes me
by my hips and flips me over on the bed.
I try to get to my knees, but his hand
goes to the small of my back, guides me
back down.

“Lie flat,” he tells me, and so I do,
waiting, wondering what he’s going to
do.
I feel his fingers on my sex from
behind, and he rubs my clit, kisses me
down my back. Then I feel his tip at my
entrance again. He pushes my thighs
together, and then slowly enters me.
I gasp out loud, grip the bed sheets. I
feel so much more this way – he feels so
much bigger inside me – and I’m just
floating in oblivion.
He eases into me, slowly, gently,
giving me time to get used to it, and then
he takes my hair into his hand, twirls it
around, pulls it.
A groan slips from my lips, and then

he starts to fuck me from behind, and his
cock is right against my front wall, and I
feel better than I ever have before.
I feel fingers slip around my hip, in
between my body and the bed, on my
clit. He rubs me as he fucks me, and
every nerve ending inside me is on fire.
He leans down, I feel the bite of his
teeth on the back of my shoulder, and I
know that I’m all his.
“Shit,” I gasp, my breathing growing
faster. It feel so good like this, so
amazing, and his fingers working my clit
so well, it’s just too much.
I can feel that pressure inside me
again, the climb upward toward the
crest. His fingers are like magic, and the

sting from how he pulls my hair is so
hot, mixes in with all of it.
“Don’t stop,” I gasp at him, as I hear
his breathing quicken behind me.
“You feel so good, Dee,” he groans.
“God, I love your tight pussy.”
“Don’t stop!” I cry again, my body
pinching inward, the world draining
away. “Like that, like that!”
I’m right there, right at the edge,
already feel all my muscles crunching,
my toes curling, this ball of pleasure
inside me about to—
“Shit, shit, shit, oooohhh,” I cry,
pushed off the edge, for a moment in
between two worlds.

Then ecstasy comes crashing down
onto me, so intense it stops me breathing,
and I squeeze around him, quake in bliss,
and he drives me through it, keeps it
going, and I buck back against him to
each of his thrusts as I fly so high.
I’m
somewhere
somewhere perfect.

wonderful,

“Come for me,” I groan at him, the
only words I can get out.
His thrusts get faster, I feel him get
harder, feel him tense up. It’s even more
crazy, makes me feel even better, and
then I hear him groan behind me, and
feel his cock flex inside me again and
again.
He lets out a long sound of pleasure,

bottoms out one last time inside me, and
I know he’s emptied himself.
He lets go of my hair, lowers himself
onto me, kisses my back while I pant,
while my own pleasure ebbs away,
leaving me tingling and satisfied.
“Oh, God,” I whisper, lying my face
down flat against the mattress. He’s still
inside me, still so big, and every time I
feel his cock twitch I jump at the
sensation.
He begins to retreat, and pull himself
out of me, and I gasp, rolling over,
looking up at him. He positions himself
above me, leans down and kisses me.
I hold onto him, clamp my legs around
him, bring his body down to mine. I get

the covers, pull them up over us, and I
keep kissing him, our tongues keep
dancing, and I can’t get enough.
And then we lie together, under the
covers, and I’m grinning at him, thinking
about all the horror stories I’d ever read
about first times, and thinking how this
was nothing like that.
I lie with Duncan in bed, in his arms,
feeling his warmth beneath the covers.
He’s playing with my hair, stroking it,
smelling it.
I feel worshipped.
His fingers trace buzzing lines up and
down my body, still exploring me, as
though he wants to commit the curves of
my body to memory, so he can never

forget me.
We meet eyes, and he smirks at me,
and I smile back, push my face into his
neck, smell his smell, feel his heat.
His insatiable fingers roam over my
breasts, dip in between them, before
sidling down my body. I feel them thread
through my pubic hair, and then two
fingers slip down each side of my sex,
and he squeezes them together.
I’m not so sensitive anymore, and so I
let him touch me, let him touch me while
he kisses me. His body is hard, tight
against mine, and I feel like I’m in a safe
place.
His fingers move to my pearl, and
there he finds my stub still hard, and he

begins to rub me. At first, it’s almost
itchy, awkward because I’m still a little
sensitive, but he rubs me slowly, so
slowly, teases me, and I feel those
threads of anticipation again worm
through me.
I lie flat, open my legs for him, look
up at him and beg him with my eyes to
kiss me on the lips again. And he does,
claims my lips as his, and he kisses me
and rubs me until my body is hard and
tight, until I’m right at the edge again.
And then he pushes me off, and I jolt
and shudder at my orgasm, tense up and
grit my teeth, and then I suck on his
lower lip, bite it while I come, and then
I’m coming down again, exhausted,
utterly exhausted.

I hum into his mouth, grin, feel the wet
press of his tongue on my lips.
Without speaking about it, I know he’s
going to stay with me tonight. We get out
of bed together, and I watch as he pulls
off his condom, full of his essence. He
drops it into the waste paper basket in
my room, and together we go out into the
hallway, naked, shivering at the cool air,
rushing and laughing, the thrill of being
caught breathing a kind of excited,
playful energy into us.
He slaps my bum as we go to the
bathroom, pinches me, stops me and
gathers me up, presses me against him.
We brush our teeth together, take turns
peeing, and then we go to back the room

together. But even as I lay in his arms,
his huge, warm arms, his breathing slow
and steady on the back of my neck, his
nose pressed against my head, his thigh
over my legs like he thinks I belong to
him, I can’t fall asleep.
And neither can he.

Chapter Twelve

I lie with my head against Duncan’s
chest. I like listening to his breathing.
It’s so slow, controlled. I swear he
breathes slower than I do. There’s
something relaxing, hypnotic even, about
the movement of my head on his chest as
it rises… then falls.
“Your heart,” I whisper all of a
sudden, frowning. “What the hell?”
“What is it?”
I gaze at my clock, watch the seconds
hand tick by.
“It’s really slow.”
“Last time I measured, my resting rate

was forty-five.”
“Forty-five?” I echo in disbelief. I
think the last time I measured, my resting
was in the eighties.
Sometimes, as I listen, I think that his
heart has stopped, but then I’ll hear the
beat, that one huge thud in his chest.
His skin is so warm, like he’s got a
burning furnace inside of him. His body
heat radiates into me, and when he
wraps me up in his arms, I feel so safe,
so comfortable, like I’ve escaped from
everything I don’t like about my life,
from the world altogether.
It’s just me and him, together, alone,
without a worry in the world. I’ve got
school in the morning, but fuck it, I want

to stay up. We shouldn’t be in here
together, lying naked like this, but fuck it,
it’s what I want to do.
I feel immature thinking this way. I
feel like a caricature of a young adult
rebelling, but I can’t help it. It’s just the
way he makes me feel.
I run my hand over his stomach, feel
the bump of every abdominal muscle.
His body is so tight, so trained. I know it
can’t have been easy to get it like this.
The discipline… it’s attractive. He’s in
control of himself, and I like that.
“Duncan,” I say, trailing my finger up
his chest to where the deep black tattoo
of a house is on one side. “What is this
of?”

He shifts a little under me. “It’s from a
photograph,” he says.
“Of a house?”
“The group home I spent the most time
in.”
“Why did you get a tattoo of it?”
“Have to remember where you came
from.”
“Sometimes some of us want to
forget,” I murmur.
He strokes my hair, fiddles with it,
plays with it. I know he’s going to make
knots that I’ll have to brush out, but I like
that he does it.
“Was it like what you see on
television? Living in a group home I

mean.”
“I don’t know,” he says. “Our
television didn’t work half the time.”
“I mean, like, violence, drugs, kids
skipping school, that kind of thing?”
He laughs. “I didn’t go to school for
three-quarters of the year.”
“You didn’t get in trouble for that?”
“Who would get me in trouble? The
truancy officers didn’t really care, they
were just there for a quick buck. The
teachers at the school focused on what
they could: The kids who did turn up.
Sand always falls through the cracks in
your hand.”
“What about social workers at the

home?”
He delves into his memories. “There
were other boys who took up all their
time, constantly getting into fights,
getting into trouble with the police.
Shoplifting, usually, but some started
working corners real early. Or doing
drug runs on bicycles.”
“Did you ever shoplift?”
“Yeah, every winter for nice jackets.”
“How did you even get out of the shop
with a huge coat?”
“We’d run a whole system, you
know?” he says, a kind of half-guilty,
half-mischievous grin tugging at his lips.
“One boy distracts the staff, the other

pretends to fall over and knocks some
stuff over. A few of us walk in, grab, and
run.”
“Did you ever get caught?”
“Caught, no. Chased, yes.” He sighs.
“It’s not like I’m proud of it. Half the
time during winter we were never warm
enough to spend a long time outside, and
we always preferred to be outdoors than
in the house.”
“Why?”
“It was brighter. We’d fool around,
you know? Spit at cars from a bridge,
throw ice at people… that kind of thing.
It was better than being in a shitty house
that was barely warm enough and hardly
clean enough.”

“Was it tough?”
He shrugs. “I got used to it. There’s a
way things work like with anything in
life.”
“I read about it,” I say. “It was in a
book Frank gave me for my birthday
before, written by a teacher who worked
with kids like…” I trail off.
“Like me?”
“Yeah. Sorry, I don’t mean it in a bad
way.”
“What’s bad about it? I’m not
ashamed of who I am or how I grew up.”
“Anyway, the writer said violence is
a big problem.”
“Yeah, there are bullies. Nothing I

couldn’t handle, but some kids had it
bad.”
“How bad?”
“They just weren’t tough up here,” he
says, tapping his temple. “That’s what it
takes. You don’t have to be big or strong,
you just got to be tough, not back down,
not be afraid. They’re only other boys
just like you, you know? Other kids who
are also scared. We were all rejected,
unwanted. Kids take it out on each other,
that’s nothing new.”
“Yeah, I read about that, too, but the
teacher was writing from a girl’s
perspective. She said the toughest thing
to deal with was constantly being
reminded that you were unwanted,

almost forgotten, you know? Like, it’s
something that’s really easy to dwell
on.”
“When you’re younger, yeah,” Duncan
says, and I swear I hear a hitch in his
voice, just a momentary break in that
hard, outer shell. “You stop thinking
about that shit as you get older. And then
maybe, once you get older than that, you
start thinking about it again. But I’m not
there yet.”
“I read that in some group homes, the
staff aren’t even allowed to hug the kids.
Every kid needs hugs, right?”
“Hugs?” Duncan echoes.
“Yeah,” I say. “Affection. Otherwise
they never learn to show it themselves.

Group homes don’t prepare kids for
normal adult life. They…”
My voice trails off. I’m embarrassed
to have said that.
“I’m sorry.”
Duncan shrugs. “Like I said, I don’t
think about that shit.”
But I don’t believe him. Otherwise,
why would he get the tattoo of the
house? It doesn’t make sense.
“I got this just to remind me, you
know.”
I blink. It’s like he can read my mind.
“If you were wondering.”
“I was.” I decide to change the

subject. “What about this?” I say, tracing
the outline of his other big tattoo, a
leaping tiger. It’s not snarling
ferociously or anything, but it seems to
be leaping over the house. It takes up the
whole other side of his chest and
stomach.
“I got that in Thailand,” he says.
“Result of a drunken night out.”
“You went out drinking?”
“Yeah. Me and another kid from the
village would sneak out, go into town,
hit up the bars. It was always good for a
laugh, all the foreign tourists making
asses of themselves. Sure, I mean, I
wasn’t Thai, you know, so I still was not
one of them, but I mean, I caught on

quick. Some of these guys, just
embarrassing. They’d be falling off
barstools, getting cleaned out by all the
waitresses and dancers who knew an
easy mark when they saw one.”
“Sounds fun,” I lie, not bothering to
hide my distaste in my voice.
“You don’t like it.”
“I know the reputation Thailand has. I
mean, the red-light reputation.”
“It’s not all like that,” he says, gently
stroking my arm. “Actually, for the most
part it’s pretty straight forward these
days, but yes, there is a rep. Hey, it’s a
poor country, and tourists bring their
money in.”

“I don’t like it,” I say, knowing that
maybe I’m being harsh, maybe I’m being
judgmental. “Dad has pimps out here
working for him, and they force the girls,
give them no choice. I know it, and I hate
it, and I bet for a lot of those girls over
there, it’s the same.”
“I bet it is, too.”
“So why the tiger?” I say.
“Well, to be honest with you, it was
the kid’s idea.”
“The kid?”
“Yeah, the other boy from the village.
He was the closest one to my age,
younger than me by a year I think. He
said the tiger symbolized unconditional

confidence and discipline in Buddhism,
which was their faith… philosophy. He
said the bald white man – what they
called your Dad – was trying to make me
his pet, and only through unconditional
confidence in myself, and mental
discipline, could I resist being
enslaved.”
He shrugs.
“Why over the house?”
“I have to be confident about who I
am, and that includes where I came
from.”
“Huh,” I say. I didn’t actually expect
the tattoo to have that much sentimental
significance, though I don’t know why.
Dad’s always hated tattoos, but now that

I think about it, he hasn’t mentioned them
with regard to Duncan once.
“What about these?” I run my hand
over his shoulder, over the intricate
script that adorns it, stretches around
onto his back. It’s weird, because on his
arms, he’s got tribal-inspired lines as
well that run even on the underside his
arms and down his ribcage and waist.
It’s two totally different styles.
“The older ones, the tribal stuff, that
was when I was a kid. You can see it’s
all stretched because I didn’t hit my big
growth spurt until I was about
seventeen.”
“You got them before Thailand?”
“Oh, yeah. Worked for a tattoo artist

briefly, helped to clean up and watch the
shop when he was too blazed out of his
mind to come into work. He did these
for me for free.”
I trace the jagged, flowing lines, am
reminded of a serrated edge… maybe a
dragon’s tail.
“And this stuff? The script?”
He rolls over, shows me his back.
There I see lines upon lines of script,
with some illustrations inlaid, like a
magazine article or something. It covers
his entire back.
“That’s Thai, a blessing from a
Buddhist monk.”
I peer at the illustrations, try to make

them out. He’s got four animals on his
back, a tiger, a dragon, a fish, and
something that looks like a bird. They sit
at four points of a square, and inside is a
depiction of a temple, surrounded by
lines and lines of those flowing, liquid
words.
“What does it say?”
“I don’t know,” he says. “They don’t
tell you, and I never asked someone to
translate.”
“Why not?”
He pauses, seems to think about it for
a moment. “Because now it can say
anything I want it to, I guess.”
“Was it the same monk who trained

you to fight?”
“No. I had to go to a temple in the
hills. My instructor took me. It was
something he insisted on, and I saw no
real reason not to. He said the ink they
use is imbued with magic properties,
and contains venom of a snake.”
“Really?” I ask, doubtful.
He shrugs. “We had to line up for
three days, just waiting outside the
temple. I wasn’t too interested, but he
said it would protect me, make me
incorruptible.”
“Did it hurt?”
“A little.”
“I kind of want a tattoo.”

“Do you know what of?”
“No,” I say truthfully. “Not really.” I
laugh. “I don’t know, I like the idea, you
know? It makes me feel kind of bad.”
“Get one if you like. It’s your
decision.”
“It’s harder for girls to get tattoos.”
“How so?”
“We’re judged more.”
He turns a raised eyebrow at me,
shakes his head.
“Think about it. There’s no equivalent
for the word ‘tramp stamp’ for men’s
tattoos, right? It’s just not the same. It’s
cool when a guy has tattoos, but if a girl
has it, she’s ‘alternative’ or whatever. Or

going through a ‘phase’. Or people just
assume it was a product of a drunknight-out, you know? Or they think it’s
‘slutty’ or ‘skanky’.”
“Who cares what people think? You
can’t control that.”
“Easy for you to say.”
“If you ever decide you want a tattoo,
Dee, I’ll support you. I’ll come with
you.”
I smile. “Thanks, but I don’t think that
I ever will. Dad would hate it.”
“Don’t let him know.”
“Are you kidding me?” I cry. “God,
I’d get an earful. He’d never stop.”
Duncan’s tongue wets his lips. He

rolls onto his back again, and I lie in his
arms.
“I’m not tired,” I tell him.
“Neither.”
“I can’t stop thinking about that guy,
his swollen eyes… God, I hate living
here.”
“You want to get out of here?” Duncan
asks. “Tonight, I mean.”
“Go where?”
“Anywhere.”
“Why?”
“Well… we could just say good night
and go to sleep,” he says. “But I don’t
want tomorrow to come. Tomorrow, I

leave… and I don’t know for how long.”
“To train,” I whisper. “With one of
Dad’s old boxing buddies.”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t want tonight to end, either.”
“Come on, then. Let’s go.”
“But where?”
“Fuck it, we’ll go anywhere.”
He gets up, and I look at his naked,
athletic, strong body, and then see that
he’s caught me checking him out.
“Can’t a girl look?” I ask him.
“Look all you want. I want you to
look.”
He starts to pull on his clothes, then

extends an arm out to me. “Let’s go have
some fun.”
I pause, then shake my head. “We
shouldn’t. What if Dad catches us?”
“Fuck him, he’s out cold,” he says.
“Come on, Dee. Live a little.”
I look at him for a moment, and it’s
like a light switch just flips in my head.
Why not, right? Why not be bad for
once? Why not break the rules for once?
I get dressed with Duncan, ask him to
empty my trash can into a plastic bag so
we can take it out with us and chuck it. I
don’t want to leave a condom in my
room.
I tell him that I know a place we can

go, a mall I used to go to as a kid.
“A mall?” he asks, a look of
puzzlement on his face.
“We can go to the ice rink,” I tell him,
grinning.

Chapter Thirteen

I put on a jacket, wait for her in the
corridor, and she emerges wearing a
black hoodie and dark jeans. She’s got
her hood up, the cords pulled tight so
that it wrinkles in a circle around her
face.
“Why are you laughing?” she asks, as
if she’s accusing me of making fun of
her.
“Nothing,” I say.
“Tell me,” she says. “Or I won’t go
with you.”
I see the flicker of a smile on her face,
and say, “You just look like you’re about
to rob a store or something.”

She fingers the rippled edge of her
hood, grins. “Is there a dress code for
that?”
I shrug. “You tell me.”
We share a small silence, and I put my
hand out. She looks at it for a moment,
and there’s this… stoppage of time, as if
someone has pressed the pause button on
our lives.
We look at each other for what feels
like an eternity. When she takes my hand,
holds it, it fills me with some crazy kind
of feeling, like I’ve got bubbles inside of
me, floating me up.
I’ve never felt this before.
“You ready?”

She nods. “Sure.”
We creep down the hallway together,
even though we have no real need to.
Frank is long gone, the staff has left, and
Glass must be in a deep and drunken
sleep.
We slink to the garage, adjacent and
unconnected to the house, and open a
door with squeaky hinges. I spot the
silver key box on the wall, open it and
look through the sets of dangling car
keys.
“Which car is your favorite?” I ask,
looking out at the cars parked. There’s a
Ferrari, a BMW coupe, a Camaro, a
boxy SUV I don’t recognize, a… it
dawns on me that outside of the SUV,

there isn’t really a family car in here.
Just two-door sports cars.
“I always liked this one,” she says,
pointing to a small, old-ish hatchback
hiding behind the SUV. It looks like it
hasn’t been driven in a while.
I look for the corresponding key, take
it, and open the driver’s side.
“Wait, I thought I was driving,” she
says. “Do you even have a license?”
I blink. “Yeah, actually. We got
driving lessons at the home. They even
had somebody come down every day,
and if we were old enough we’d take
turns. Glass had me do a bunch of hours
in Thailand at the best school they have
there, then had my license converted for

here.”
“Oh,” she says. It’s this bizarre
moment, like we’ve just come face-toface with the fact of how little we
actually know each other.
As we get into the car, I’m suddenly
pulled back into an old memory, one that
makes me grin at the stupidity of it, but
also makes me cringe at the stupidity of
it.
“What’s so funny?”
“I was just remembering something.”
“What? Tell me.”
“Before I went to Thailand,
sometimes the boys at the home and I…
we’d, well, we’d go for joyrides. We

could boost a car in fifteen seconds.”
“You stole cars?”
“Borrowed them.”
“What do you mean?”
“We usually left them somewhere
nearby where we took them. We just did
it to drive around at night.”
“You never got caught?”
“Sure we did,” I say. “Squad car rolls
up, all flashing red and blue, and we
split in different directions. They never
get us. Half the time they weren’t even
up for a proper chase even in their cars,
let alone on foot.”
“I had no idea it was that easy to steal
a car.”

“Sure it is,” I say. “How many cars
are stolen per year? I’d bet fucking
loads. You think every car thief is a
genius?”
Dee puts out her hand, and I furrow
my brow, shake my head.
“The keys,” she says. “Give them to
me.”
“Why?”
I see a playful grin spread her lips.
“Prove to me what you just said was
true.”
“About boosting cars?”
“Yeah. In fifteen seconds.”
“Alright,” I say, returning her smile
and dropping the keys into her open

palm. “Are you going to time me?”
“Just do it already.”
I shrug, and say, “I’m going to need
the keys, though.”
She just tilts her head to the side.
“Actually,” I say, digging through my
pocket. I pull out my set of house keys
that Glass gave me. “It’s fine.”
I peel off the plastic seals covering
the screws on the steering column, use a
key to unscrew them. I crack it open,
find the wiring harness connector, and
pull out the battery, ignition and starter
bundle of wires. I use my key to strip
them, twirl the battery and ignition wires
together, and then spark them with the

starter wire.
The car rumbles to life, and I rev the
engine to prevent a stall.
All in all, it took about thirty seconds,
but I’m out of practice.
“Holy shit,” Deidre breathes. “I didn’t
think you’d actually do it.”
“Good thing you picked this car,” I
tell her with a smirk. “Only works on
older models.”
“Can you fix… it?” she asks. “So Dad
won’t know?”
“Don’t worry, I’ll deal with your
father if he finds out. I’ll just tell him I
borrowed the car, but didn’t know where
he kept the keys.”

“He won’t like that.”
“Seems like nobody has driven this
car in a while, though.”
“You’re right,” Dee says. “This was
Mom’s car.”
I lick my lips as realization oozes all
over me like lava. I just vandalized her
dead mother’s car!
I look at Dee. The atmosphere has
grown somber in just an instant.
“Oh, don’t worry,” she says quickly.
“I don’t care about the car.”
“What happened to your mother,
Dee?” I ask her gently.
“She died when I was young. That’s
all I know. I don’t know how or why.

Dad never talks about her.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Me, too. I can’t even remember what
she looks like, and Dad doesn’t keep
photos around the house. Sometimes that
bothers me, you know? But most of the
time, I just don’t think about it.” She
turns to me. “Do you know what your
mother looks like?”
I shake my head. “She left me on a
church doorstep as a baby. Never met
her, never seen her, never heard her.
Well, not literally never, just nothing that
I can remember.”
“Would you want to? See her I
mean… hear her?”

I suck in a breath of air. It’s a question
I’ve thought about for a long time.
“Sure,” I say eventually.
“But why? She just abandoned you.
She wasn’t there for you.”
“People do all kinds of shit,” I tell
her. I don’t know how to put my thoughts
into words. “I do what I want, and I
don’t want to hold a grudge against my
own mother. Even if her reasons were
stupid, or bad, or whatever… how can I
stay bitter?”
“But your life could have been so
different.”
“It could have been worse,” I say.
“She wasn’t a stable person, and had a
drug habit to boot.”

Dee fidgets. “Really?”
“That’s what I was told.”
“By whom?”
“She was seen leaving me. People
around the area knew her, everybody
knew what she was about. I found out
from a social worker who lived in the
area and worked in the home.”
“Is she still alive?”
I shrug. “I don’t know.”
Dee pauses for a moment, then asks
me, “But wouldn’t that mean that when
she was pregnant—”
“Obviously she stopped using during
that time,” I say. “That must have been
hell for her. But for that, I’ll always owe

her one.”
“Owe her one,” Dee echoes.
“Yeah,” I say. “My life, probably.”
“Come on, let’s go,” she says, looking
straight ahead. “And change the subject.
Let’s not talk about our parents.”
I put the car into gear and drive us out
of the garage. The doors are automatic,
don’t require a signal. Nobody breaks
into Johnny Marino’s house and steals
his cars. Not unless they want to end up
floating face-down in the river.
“Tell me where to go,” I say.
Dee gives me rough directions, and
after a bit of searching, we come to the
mall. I park the car beneath a tree, shield

it in the shadow, and together we climb
out and walk through the near-empty
parking lot.
“This way,” she says, taking my hand.
“There’s something eerie about walking
through an empty mall at night, don’t you
think?”
We pass by a guard post, and I spy
that he’s sleeping, slumped into his
chair, newspaper on his chest. I stop,
peer at him, measure how deep he’s
sleeping. His breaths are very slow; he’s
been out for a while. Coffee sits cool in
a paper cup, untouched, not steaming.
“What are you doing?” Dee hisses at
me, but I put a finger to my lips. I kneel
down, turn the doorknob carefully, pull

open the door, wincing as it creaks.
The guard doesn’t move. I reach out,
unclip his keys from his belt, clasp them
in my hand so they don’t jingle, and then
shut the door.
“Damn it, Duncan!” she breathes as
we walk away. “Tell me before you do
shit like that.”
At the main entrance to the mall, I
unlock the door inset into the steel
shutters that have been pulled down, and
we weave our way through dark
hallways.
“Here,” she says, leading me down a
set of steps until we come to a wide
double-door. I test the door, find it
unlocked, and we walk in, and instantly

feel the cold of the indoor ice rink.
Dee guides me to the seats that
surround the rink, and sits down, puts
her feet up on the chair in front, and
holds herself, shivering.
I sit down next to her, wrap my arm
around her, and ask her, “Why did we
come here?”
“Frank used to take me. I spent more
time with him growing up than with Dad.
He… well, he kind of raised me. I mean,
he wasn’t a surrogate father or
anything,” she says, scoffing at the
thought. “In fact, I’m not sure he should
ever be a father. But… he was there for
me more than Dad was.”
“Do you like him?”

“I used to… a lot. We got along, you
know? I found him funny, and he seemed
soft and less threatening than Dad.
Frank’s like a teddy bear, and compared
to Dad who is more like a… I don’t
know, a cannon ball or something, it was
just easier.”
“Frank may look soft, but I’d guess he
isn’t at all.”
“No,” she says. “He can handle
himself. Anyway, then I found out what
he did regularly… like what he did to
that poor man tonight.”
“And you stopped liking him.”
“Not really… I don’t know how to
explain it. I just like him less, but I still
like him. He’s always kind to me. He’s

pretty thoughtful, actually, for a man so
utterly devoted to my father.”
“Huh. I haven’t really had a chance to
speak with him.”
“He’s alright, but he’s a slave to Dad.
He’s super loyal, that’s why Dad keeps
him around. You need loyal people.”
“Especially if he’s your driver and
bodyguard.”
“Exactly.”
After a moment, I turn to Dee. “Let’s
go ice skating.”
“How? The ice is covered.”
“Come on, I’m sure we can get it off.”
I stand up, take her hand, and together

we amble toward the office and booking
area. I see the control panel, find the
corresponding key on the guard’s chain,
and unlock it.
There’s a bright green button with a
stenciled label beneath which reads
‘Cover’. I press it, and there’s a loud
humming, a grinding of gears, and then
the cover is pulled back across the ice,
and into a recess on the long, closest
side of the rink.
The ice glows in the darkness. I know
it’s just a reflection of the moonlight
streaming through the windows, but it
looks unreal. From here, it’s too dark to
see all the seats surrounding the rink. We
might as well be standing alone together
on an ice berg.

With Dee, I go to the shelves where
they stack the skates, pick out my size,
then help her find hers. We put them on,
waddle onto the ice, and skate for what
feels like hours.
We chat, hold hands, and she shows
off some kind of ballerina-style spin
which I could never hope to mimic. I try,
of course. I’m never above trying.
But I fail hard, and land on my ass.
We race, go as fast as we can, laugh,
and then eventually just start skating
around in circles, hand in hand, again
and again as if we were rehearsing for
NASCAR On Ice.
I never want this night to end.

But a bright beam of light washes
over us, and I jerk my head toward the
entrance, see the door open. A guard is
descending the steps, flashlight aimed at
us.
“Fuck,” Dee whispers.
“It’s fine,” I tell her. “Nothing will
happen.”
“You two!” the guard shouts. I can’t
see what he’s doing; the light is blinding.
“Off the God damn ice!”
We exit the rink, and then the guard
draws up close to us. I hear the click of
his radio, and know he’s thumbed the
transmit button. He’s going to call it in.
“Wait,” I say. “We were just messing

around.”
His flashlight beams at my face, then
moves to Dee’s, then lingers there for a
moment.
“You,” he murmurs at Dee, who just
frowns in response while shielding her
eyes. “I know you.”
He lowers the flashlight, and I have to
blink rapidly to adjust to the darkness. I
see the same guard I took the keys from.
He must be in his sixties, and he’s got a
white mustache and looks frail and
weak.
“Here,” I say, handing him his keys.
He chews on his mustache for a
moment, but doesn’t say anything to me.

That catches me off-guard. Something
feels off.
“Do you remember me, young lady?”
he asks after a moment, straightening up.
Dee shakes her head. “I’m sorry, sir, I
don’t.”
“Well, I remember you, from when
you were just a little girl… and I know
who you are.”
The guard looks caught between a
rock and a hard place. He shuffles on the
spot for a moment, then flaps his hand at
us.
“Oh, it’s not worth it. You two stay
here for however long you like.”
“Wait,” Dee says.

“Now, I don’t want any trouble,” he
says, recoiling from Dee. He steps
backward, palms up. “You do what you
like.”
“Who am I?” Dee asks.
“Why, you’re Johnny Marino’s
daughter,” he says, stumbling over his
words.
There’s a still silence, and then Dee
just sighs.
“It’s okay, we’re leaving.”
“You can stay as long as you like,
now. I won’t stop you.”
“We’re leaving,” Dee says, and she
steps forward, and touches the man’s
shoulder. “Don’t worry. Don’t be

afraid.”
“N-now, I’m not kicking you out. You
want to skate, you can—”
Deidre’s voice is soft, calming. “It’s
okay,” she says. “We were going
anyway. Don’t worry. I’m sorry we
snuck in here. We were wrong, and
you’re just doing your job. I won’t tell a
soul.”
The guard grumbles to himself, but
acquiesces.
I look at Dee, a new admiration for
her growing. She read him perfectly,
calmed him, reassured him when she
didn’t have to.
She could have brandished that power

her name gave her, wielded it, but she
didn’t.
She’s nothing like her father.
“I’m sorry if we’ve caused you
trouble,” Dee says, taking my hand.
“We’ll make sure everything is put back
properly.”
We’re true to her word, stack the
skates back, re-cover the ice, and then
she tugs my hand, says, “Come on, let’s
go.”
We leave the building, walk out of the
mall back to the car.
“Does that happen a lot?” I ask.
“Yeah,” she says with a sigh. “Can
you imagine how hard it is to make

friends when everybody around you
walks on eggshells?”
“It bothers you,” I say.
“Sure it does. I don’t want people to
be scared of me. I’m not scary!”
With a kind of imprisoned frustration,
she climbs into the car, shuts the door
hard. I get in after her, start the engine by
sparking the exposed wiring again, and
then drive us back toward her home.
The mood has changed, and she stares
out of the window, chewing her nails, so
I don’t talk. She doesn’t seem to want it.
“Sorry,” she says after a while. “I just
hate it when shit like that happens.”
“Don’t sweat it.”

“I wish you weren’t going tomorrow,”
she says. It’s a thump right in my gut, one
that is harder than any hit I ever took in a
fight.
“Same.”
“But you have to, don’t you?”
I grind my teeth together for a moment.
Now I feel caught between a rock and a
hard place. “Yeah,” I say. “I think I do.”
“I know you do,” she says, looking
away from me again out of the window.
We drive in silence the rest of the
way, and when we get back, park the car,
sneak inside, she tries to go to her room
without saying a word, but I ring her
wrist and tug her toward me.

“I’ll be back, though,” I say.
“Not for six months or however long
Dad wants to train you for.”
“But I’ll be back.”
She doesn’t reply, just slips herself
from my grip, and leaves me in the
hallway, so that all I have is her faint,
lingering scent, and her look of
disappointment burned into my mind.

Chapter Fourteen

It is surprising how quickly time flies
when you’re looking ahead to something.
I look ahead to seeing Dee, every
damn day.
McNamara and Glass train me
individually day after day, the former in
the morning, the latter in the evenings. In
the afternoons I work on my conditioning
with the other boys at the camp. We skip
rope, run sprints, and then do
calisthenics, the kind most people would
find extreme.
We fall down from a standing position
into a push up, and then push ourselves
up into that standing position. We do

handstands with no support, then dip
down until our heads touch the floor,
before straightening out our arms. Then
we do it again balancing weights on our
feet.
Even with the blood rushing into my
head, my face no doubt a swollen red,
and my shoulders and triceps shaking by
the time I get to my fiftieth repetition, all
I’m thinking about is Dee.
I think about how we went ice skating,
how when I looked back as Glass drove
me away I saw her in the window,
waving. That smile… those eyes.
I think about her lips, our kiss, the feel
of her hot breath on my face, being so
close to her, so intimate.

Glass thumps me in the gut, and I fall
over in a heap. I growl, get to my feet
quickly, angry at the unprovoked attack,
but he just stares at me.
“Look down.”
I look down, and am a little
embarrassed to find I have an erection.
Glass slaps my head, and I strike out
instantly, stop my fist at the last moment
hovering millimeters from his face. He’s
winced, leaned back, recoiled.
I pull back my fist. “Reflex,” I tell him
bluntly.
He points a finger at me, tells me to
focus. “I know what it’s like to be your
age, but focus. Stop thinking about girls.

You’re a fighter now, an athlete. Girls
will only unravel you. They will only
prevent you from becoming all you can
be.”
He walks stiffly on, and I become
aware of the other boys in the camp
gazing at me. I meet their eyes, and we
all share a cheeky, childish snicker, and
then I get myself into a handstand again,
and start dipping.
Girls. Glass wasn’t too far off the
mark, but he was wrong enough. I wasn’t
thinking about girls in the plural. I was
only thinking about one girl.
The days blur together. Glass and
McNamara teach me old-school moves,
and new-school ones, too. They teach

me how to feint, how to feint like I’m
going to feint, and then how to feint that
I’m going to feint that I’m going to feint.
Fighting’s not just two brutes wailing
on each other in a cage. If you’re a
moron, you’ll never be good at it.
I learn how to chain moves together.
You don’t reset after each punch, kick, or
block. Fighting is fluid, flows like water
taking bends in a creek. You read and
adapt. Read and adapt. You bend like
water. Obstacles don’t stop you, you just
go around them, over them, under them.
Opponent jabs, I dodge, use my
momentum, turn it into a kick. Opponent
ducks the head kick, I spin into an
elbow. Opponent slaps the elbow away,

I duck into fast gut punches. And so on.
All moves strung together, no pauses, no
stops, no resets. You think on the fly, and
you have to think.
People fancy that boxers, that MMA
fighters, that kickboxers are stupid,
fools, idiots. Just men who get hit in the
head too much that they slur their speech.
They don’t understand that fighting is
like chess – not that I’ve ever played it –
but you know what they say, always be
thinking so many moves ahead.
Before I know it, three months have
passed, and I know that I’m over the
hump, on the downside of the hill now.
Now, I see Dee in fewer days than I’ve
been away from her.

We’ve not been allowed any contact
with the outside world. In here, there is
one thing and one thing only: Training.
Sure, the other boys and I shoot the shit.
A lot of them are like me, just looking to
do something with their lives.
It burns me that I can’t contact Dee,
can’t even call her. No phones on the
camp, no computers, no internet. No kid
has a mobile phone. There is only a
payphone five miles away – I snuck out
there one night, ran the road, to call her.
The payphone was busted, looked like it
hadn’t been used in years.
So every day I wonder how she is. I
wonder if she does well at school… she
seems like she would. I don’t get the
impression she works her ass off, but I

think she’s a good and smart student.
I wonder what she does day to day.
How different are our daily schedules?
And then I think of her eating dinner
alone, every night. Heck, she probably
prefers it. She has a laptop, and there’s
the huge television, and then there’s the
library in the house, and all those
books…
Books. I don’t think I’ve ever finished
a book… at least not one that I can
remember.
The second half of my training
involves endurance. Not fitness, not
motor, not how long you can go for, but
how much you can take.
Fighting’s not about how hard you hit.

You don’t have to hit that hard to knock
someone out, to force the brain to fire
synapses that pull a person into
unconsciousness as a protective
mechanism.
No, fighting’s about how hard you can
get hit. Fighting’s about pain threshold,
toughness. These are things that can be
trained, and we train them.
I take hits from Glass and McNamara.
To the face, to the arms, to the shoulders,
to the chest, the trunk, the legs, the
calves.
They kick me and punch me, and I
come roaring back for more. I swear at
them, shout at them, unable to hit back. I
bellow curses at them, and when they

think I’ve had enough, I taunt them, ask
them if that’s all they’ve got.
But then I get used to it. Then I take it
silently. Kicks, punches, slaps. Every
night I have new bruises, and every day
we do it again.
Desensitization,
and
discipline. That’s all it is.

mental

It’s these last few weeks that pass by
quicker. For every punch I endure, I
think of Dee, and threaten to smile. If I
smile, Glass just hits me harder.
Sometimes I smile. I’ll take the hit.
By the end of it, we’re in full-on
sparring matches. Glass can’t keep up
with me, so I spar with McNamara. He’s

got that old-man strength you can never
underestimate. It’s not muscle mass at
that point, it’s central nervous system.
He’s got that old-man endurance, too.
He doesn’t even feel pain.
We spar twenty times in twenty days,
pure boxing, no MMA, no take-downs. I
win sixteen times, five times by
knockout, the rest concession. The four I
lost, McNamara surprised me with them
old-man tricks.
After our last fight, Glass comes to
me, grinning widely, his eyes shining.
“God damn it, boy,” he says, throwing an
arm around my shoulder and squeezing
me into him. “You’re fucking magic,
baby.”

I take off my gloves, unwrap my
hands, and then go to McNamara, still on
the ground, holding onto his eye. Blood
streams down the side of his face, but he
takes my arm and I help him up.
“Good fight,” I tell him, and we tap
fists.
“Wasn’t for me,” he jokes. “It’s been
good having you here, Duncan. You did
good. I’m sure fucking glad you’re done
here, because I don’t think I can take
anymore of this.”
“Sure you can,” I say, nodding toward
his trophy cabinet. “They once called
you champ.”
“You’ll earn that name soon,” he tells
me, slapping my shoulder affectionately.

We leave later that afternoon. During
the drive back – we take turns – he talks
about how much better I look. I’ve put
on weight, maybe twenty-five pounds of
lean mass in the last six months, without
losing any speed or agility.
They fed me five thousand calories a
day at McNamara’s fighting camp, and
when you’re not eating junk, you really
come to appreciate just how much food
that is.
Boiled chicken, brown rice, and
broccoli six times a day, basically. Fullsized meals. On top of that were the
multitude of supplements, and the postworkout protein milkshakes blended
with egg whites.

I stayed away from the stimulants,
though. Some of the other’s liked it,
yohimbine, caffeine, even just green tea
extract. But I can’t take it. It fucks with
my rhythm.
Glass slaps the steering wheel in
excitement, then looks and me and
laughs. “We’re going to give all those
fuckers a real surprise with you, boy.”
Those fuckers. The other mob
families and groups he hopes to swindle
by selling me as an underdog so they bet
against me.
It won’t last for long, but at the start,
he’ll make a killing.
And I’ll get my share.

And yet… all I can think about is what
Dee will think about that.
Will she begrudge my taking part in
her father’s plan?
I know that I am going to fight, and I
know that I am going to make money, and
I know that I am going to be the best.
But I haven’t thought past that. I could
go pro at some point like Glass will
want me to, but dealing with the politics
and intricacies on that stage doesn’t
particularly interest me.
No, the more appealing idea is to just
walk away when I’ve had enough, take
my money, and go.
But it’s only more appealing if I have

Dee going with me.
I suck on my lower lip for a moment,
then engage with Glass who’s chattering
animatedly about his plans.
I need to stop looking so far ahead
with Dee.
There’s no telling how much she may
have changed in these past six months,
whether our last night together will mean
as much to her as it still does to me.
And beyond that, there’s no telling
about our future, about how things will
play out.
Shit, everything could go to fucking
hell.
I try to imagine the worst situations,

the ones I hate the most, and find that in
all of them, Dee and I are not together.

Chapter Fifteen

It’s graduation, and of course Dad’s
not here. I don’t know when him and
Duncan are going to return home. He
hasn’t called once, and I’m sure that he’s
the reason Duncan hasn’t called, either. I
thought I’d at least get a postcard or
letter, but nothing turned up.
If I had to guess, it’d be that Dad’s
kept Duncan locked up like a princess in
a tower. I have to rely on that
assumption, because I don’t want to
think about the idea that maybe… maybe
Duncan just chose not to call.
For six months it’s just been Frank
and I at home. He tried to cook meals,

but it was usually some variation of eggs
on toast or tinned food. Not exactly
healthy. I ended up cooking for him.
I sit in my gown, watch on as several
people on stage make speeches, but I
don’t really listen to any of them.
I grow hot and bored, feel my dress
under my gown clinging to my back. The
sun is warm overhead, and I’m
frustrated, so that just makes me even
more uncomfortable.
I don’t care that Dad’s not here,
anyway. I’m still angry at him because
he specifically ordered Frank not to let
me go to prom. His reason? It was too
big of a risk.
Right, like a bunch of high school

students dressing up and dancing in a
rented ballroom of some three-star hotel
is too great of a risk. He’s just a control
freak, wants to control every aspect of
my life, even when he’s in a different
state.
It doesn’t matter that I heard prom
kind of sucked. The rumors were that
nobody spiked the punch bowl, that the
music was too quiet, that the room was
poorly ventilated, that the carpet wasn’t
washed, and that it smelled like old gym
socks… but I would still like to have
been there myself rather than learning
about it through the photos and comments
everybody else uploaded.
I sigh. This speech is dragging on.

I look around the football field. I’m
just one of a few hundred students
graduating, buried in a column of chairs.
All of us are wearing our gowns, all of
us look so uniform.
Parents and family are scattered about
in the stands, and as the valedictorian
finishes her speech, offering some cliché
remark about how bright our futures are
and about how much we’ve already
accomplished – it’s only high school,
geez – everyone bursts into applause and
cheering. Some people throw their hats
up, but I don’t. I don’t want to lose it or
have someone trample it.
I look around, see everybody chatting,
hugging, going to see their family
members, celebrate with them. Me? I’m

under orders from Frank to catch a cab
straight home. He couldn’t even be here
today, said he had business to attend to.
I continue scanning the crowd, and my
eyes dart past the dark mouth of the
tunnel that leads to the changing rooms. I
see a figure there, leaning against the
wall.
I squint against the sun, and then grin
from ear to ear. I feel this explosive
surge in my chest, a mixture of
happiness, confusion, relief.
He came! I can’t believe it. I’m not
alone at my graduation.
I rush toward him, beaming, put my
cap on, and when I see him open his
arms, I throw myself at him, and we hug

so tight, and I feel his huge, hard body,
his heat, and I’m in his arms.
Duncan pulls me back into the tunnel,
pins me against the wall, and he kisses
me. Soft at first, gentle, but his lips grow
hungry so fast, and I feel an
overwhelming urge to kiss him back
harder.
I run my fingers through his hair,
clamp his lips to mine, and I kiss him for
so, so long.
My heart is racing, my breath is quick,
and I don’t even care that everybody on
the football field… they could all just
walk past the tunnel and see us, see me,
like this.
Our kiss ends, and I hold onto him,

hug him, and he holds me tight, and I
bury my face in his neck and I smell him.
“I fucking missed you,” he tells me,
one hand on the back of my neck, the
other running down my back, making me
tingle.
I laugh. “Me, too. I can’t believe you
came!” I feel almost delirious with
happiness and relief. It strikes me how
much it means to me that he came. I’d
assumed that all day I’d be alone, and
graduating – even if I didn’t do so as an
ace student – means a lot to me.
Our embrace fades, and I look him up
and down. He’s wearing slacks and a
dress shirt, black shoes. He looks
amazing.

“Congratulations,” he says.
“Why are you so dressed up?”
He gives me a sheepish smirk. “I
thought it would be more formal.” When
I make a face, he says, “It’s not like I
ever graduated. I didn’t know if there
was a dress code. That girl just went on
and on, didn’t she?”
I roll my eyes. “Yeah. That’s Jenny
Halbrook. She’s so stuck up, thinks she’s
the smartest girl in the world.”
“Glad it’s over?”
I nod. “Yeah.”
“Want to get out of here?”
I grin. “Definitely! Where to?”

“You tell me.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “When did
you even get back?”
“We got in early this morning, but you
had already left.”
“I volunteered to help set up here. Did
Dad come back with you?”
“Yeah.”
“Figures,” I say, looking away. I’m
not even surprised he didn’t turn up.
“So, that’s it, all your training is over?”
“Pretty much. First fight is tonight.”
“Tonight?” I echo in surprise. “That
quick?”
“Yeah, Glass is busy setting it all up

now. He wants to get started as soon as
possible.”
“And you’re fine with that?”
“Got to start sometime, right?”
“Then aren’t you supposed to be
preparing for your fight?”
“I worked out this morning, got some
reps in, took a nap. Now I’ve got to eat a
little and hydrate, really. It’s nothing.”
“Hydrate, huh?”
“That’s right.”
I pull off my gown, and then nervously
smooth my dress. It’s a black, sleeved
midi-dress that I had altered so it ends
right above my knees, rather than halfway down my calves.

I still feel frumpy, though, and I look
toward some of the other girls who wear
their tighter, shorter dresses so much
better than I wear mine.
“You look beautiful, Dee,” Duncan
says, pulling my eyes back from the
other girls and up to him.
“No I don’t.”
“You do. God fucking damn it, you do.
You’re hot as hell.”
Feeling awkward, my face going red,
I turn toward the columns of chairs. “My
bag.”
“Let’s go together.” He puts out his
arm. “Nobody knows who I am, right?”
I shake my head.

“Come on then,” he says.
“Somebody has a big head.”
He smirks. “I know I make an
impression.”
I take his arm, and together we walk
back toward the chairs. Some of the girls
notice us – or rather, they notice him –
and before long all eyes are on us.
God, this is so stupid, but as we pass
people I hear the whispers, and suddenly
I feel like I’m walking down the red
carpet. They’re all asking who this hot
guy is, is he a gangster like my father…
they’re all asking why he would be with
me.
Little do they know that Duncan and

I… well, there’s something going on
between us, that’s for sure.
Little do they know that he’s my
adoptive brother.
It’s all so… risky.
It’s kind of… exciting.
It’s also reckless, but I’m not in the
mood to care right now. I feel like I’ve
tossed my parachute out of the plane
first, and now I’m diving down to
collect it.
Live a little.
We get to my chair, he takes my gown
and hat and I pick up my bag. Together,
we walk off the football field, past
teachers who dare not speak to me

because of my dad, past students who
were never my friends because of who
my father was.
Finally, I wasn’t alone in school, even
if it was, for all intents and purposes, the
very last day.
Idly, Duncan rolls up his shirt sleeves.
He shows off his tattoos, and I can’t hold
back my laugh. He’s really putting on a
show, he’s really milking it.
The girls are all wondering who that
tall guy is, with the broad back and tight
body and the tattoos.
The boys are all wondering who’d
have the balls to date a mob boss’
daughter.

I feel like we’re in a cheesy high
school movie.
When we get outside the school, and
start walking toward Duncan’s car, I
laugh, slap his shoulder. “That was
bad,” I say.
“They’ll gossip for weeks,” he says.
“The whole summer, maybe.”
“No they won’t,” I tell him. “You’re
not that hot. Hey, thanks for coming. I…
I’m really glad you did.”
He turns to me, and then without
warning leans down, scoops my face
into his hand, and kisses me. It’s a gentle
kiss, lingering, on his hot lips the
promise of more, but we just can’t do
this in public! Not this level of affection,

and not out on the street.
“Duncan!” I say, pushing off him. “No,
Frank could be watching.”
He shakes his head. “He’s not here.
He went to meet your father.”
“Well anyone of Dad’s guys could be
watching now that we’re out here. No.”
He just smirks, and we climb into the
car together.
“So, where to?”
“I want to watch you fight tonight.”
“I’m down with that. I’d like you
there.”
“So, do you like, need to do any more
preparation?”

He licks his lips, thinks for a moment.
“I’ll need to warm up.”
“Let’s do that,” I tell him.
“You’re sure?” he asks. “You want to
come with me and watch me prepare?
It’ll be boring for you.”
“You’ve got to, anyway, and I’m going
to be there to support you. We may as
well get started. Maybe I can help
somehow.”
“Just being there will help me.”
“Why?”
“Motivation.”
“There’s just one thing, though…”
“What?”

“Frank told me Dad wants me to go
home straight away after graduation.”
“No offense, but fuck your father. Do
what you like, you’re your own person.
Do you really care what he’ll think?”
I shrug. “Not really. He’ll just shout at
me for not being the good girl or
whatever.”
“You want to be the good girl?”
“No,” I say with a shake of my head.
“Then…?”
“Let’s go,” I say. “Fuck what he says,
I’m not going straight home. It’s time I
stopped letting him push me around.”
“Fucking right,” Duncan says. It’s
almost a growl, catches me off-guard.

He starts the car, guns out of the
parking spot and around the bend. I’m
thrown into my seat by the acceleration,
love the feeling of it. Dad always has
Frank drive the limousine so slowly.
Duncan drives me to the location, a
restaurant that only exists as a front. As
we get out of the car, I see Dad
sweeping out of the door, and he’s
pointing at us.
“What the fuck are you doing here?”
he bellows at me.

Chapter Sixteen

“I want to watch Duncan,” I say,
folding my arms. “I’m here to support
family. Isn’t that the most important
thing, as you’re so fond of saying?”
Dad sighs, runs a hand over his
smooth head. He turns to Duncan, says,
“You brought her here?”
Duncan meets Dad’s eyes. “She
wanted to come.”
“You should have told her not to.”
“I’ll never tell her she can’t do
anything.”
“God damn it, don’t you two start
ganging up on me. Where the hell have

you been?”
“At your
Duncan says.

daughter’s

graduation,”

I wince when I see Dad’s expression.
Dad looks at me. “I had to prepare for
the fight tonight, sweet—”
“I know,” I say coldly. “Business. I’m
here to support Duncan, and you can’t
stop me.”
“Deidre, this is no place for a young
woman.”
I laugh, shake my head. “You really
want to have an argument with me in
front of all your friends?” I gesture with
my head at the restaurant. “Because of
my gender?”

Dad turns around, sees everybody
standing at the window, watching us.
Other families and organizations, all
dressed in their expensive suits, and all
wearing
glinting
gold
jewelry.
Frustration ripples across his face.
“We are going to talk about this when
we get home,” he says.
Duncan steps forward. “Deidre just
wants to support me,” he says, flashing a
charming smile.
Dad grumbles. “You really want to be
here?” he asks, looking at me.
I nod at him. “I do.” As the words
leave my mouth, I wonder if it’s the
truth, or if I’m just trying to stick it to
Dad. He doesn’t want me here because

he’s scared I’ll embarrass him.
I catch Duncan’s eye, and we
exchange a glance. With Dad in front of
us, I trail with Duncan. He’s got a cocky
gait, with his hands in his pockets, like
he hasn’t a worry in the world, and each
time he smiles at me, he injects me with
confidence.
“Don’t worry,” he says as we cross
the street and enter the restaurant. “But I
want you to stay with me.”
“Why?”
“Just stay with me every moment you
can.”
“Do you think something is going to
go down?” I ask, furrowing my brow.

“No,” he says. “But with people like
this, you never know. So just stick with
me, okay?”
“What, you going to protect me?” I
ask, teasing him.
“If I have to.”
We walk through the restaurant. All
the chairs are upside down and resting
on the tables. There are no table cloths,
no linen or cutlery. I’d guess the
restaurant hasn’t been used for its
apparent purpose in years.
Dad introduces me to all of his
friends, and then Duncan as his fighter. I
run the gamut of ‘haven’t seen you since
you were a little girl’ and ‘what a
beautiful young lady you’ve become’,

and I wear a fake smile, and pay
everybody the proper respect.
Even if I’m feeling rebellious toward
Dad, there’s a part of me that knows I
have a role to play in this little
gathering, and if I don’t play it, then I’m
only going to make things difficult for
him.
He leads us through a back door, past
the kitchen, and then down some steps
into a wide-open basement, spacious,
dusty, the smell of mildew on the air.
In the center of the room is a cage,
illuminated by some construction-site
lights. More men mill down here,
smoking cigars and cigarettes, sipping
from beer bottles or shot-glasses of

spirits.
I realize I’m the only woman here.
“Your private changing room is back
there, Duncan,” Dad says. “There’s
bikes for you to warm up on, treadmills,
free weights. Everything you need is in
your locker. It’s for you, only. The other
fighters have their own rooms.”
“Alright, Glass,” Duncan says. He
looks at me, and beneath Dad’s
suspicious eye, we both walk to the back
room. On the way there, I almost
instinctively grab Duncan’s hand, but
pull back at the last moment.
Close, I think to myself. Managing this
secret is only going to get harder and
harder.

The back room is larger than I
expected, and I realize the basement
expands to the building next to the
restaurant, and even the one after it.
The whole street is mob-owned, and
this whole block is one giant front. But
we’re not in Dad’s part of town, which
probably explains why he’s acting a
little nervous.
Duncan walks around, checks under
the benches, on top of the lockers.
“What are you doing?”
“Just being paranoid.”
“For what?”
He shrugs, then turns to me, grins.
“Is it everything you hoped for?” I

ask, laughing. Even though there’s lots of
equipment back here, it’s pretty dark and
dingy, not glamorous at all.
I wonder if this is what Duncan had in
mind when he envisioned becoming an
underground fighting star.
The glitz and glamor won’t come for a
while yet. When I tell him so, he just
nods, gives me a small grunt, like that
doesn’t really matter.
“I thought you wanted to be the best?”
“I don’t need it to sparkle.”
He begins to take off his clothes, and
immediately I look away without
knowing why. It’s just… awkward. It’s
been so long since he and I—

“You don’t have to turn around,” he
says.
So I don’t. I watch as he unbuttons his
shirt methodically, calmly, then peels it
off his muscular body.
In the dim light he looks more cut than
ever, and then his fingers go to his belt
buckle.
I swallow, feel my blood start to
surge, thunder in my ears. My face
grows hot.
He pulls off his underwear, and I gaze
at him, eyes wide as his naked body
comes into view. He catches my eye, and
says, “I’m glad you came,” while
approaching me. He takes my hands,
places my palms on his chest.

I start breathing quicker, feel a rush of
excitement, of thrill. His chest is so hot,
firm, and I swear I can feel his heartbeat
thumping underneath.
He holds my face in his hand now,
tucks my hair behind my ear, and then he
leans forward, puts his lips right below
my ear, and kisses a smoldering trail
down my neck.
“Oh, I want you right now, Dee. Right
fucking now.”
I suck in air, feel a tension in my
thighs that pulses right down to my toes,
and I shiver, goose bumps exploding all
over the tops of my arms, my hairs
standing on end.
“You smell amazing,” he tells me, and

I feel the press of his teeth against my
skin, and it only makes me shiver more.
His hard chest is inviting, and slowly
I run my hands down his torso, across
the undulation of his tight stomach.
I slide my hands around to grip his
strong waist right above where it dips
into his Adonis belt. He takes my hand,
sidles it around his front, through the
buzz of his pubic hair. I grip onto his
shaft, my breath hitching, a ball of desire
growing in my belly.
But then nervousness takes ahold of
me. We can’t do this here. What if Dad
walks in? What if someone else does?
It’s too dangerous… and I step
backward, flustered. “You know that

this… is impossible.”
“What is?”
“I don’t know,” I say, growing
frustrated. “Us?”
“Why?”
Without warning he rings my wrist,
tugs me toward him, catches my lips in
his, kisses me hard. I don’t push off him,
I let him kiss me, shut my eyes, run my
hands through his hair.
I feel his hardness against me,
instinctively press my body against it,
but then there’s a knock at the door and
we separate instantly.
“One minute,” Duncan says, pulling
on compression shorts and then his

fighting shorts.
Dad pokes his head in after a moment,
looks at both of us slowly.
“Let’s go, Duncan,” he says. “Round
one. You’re up. They want to kick off
early.”
“I haven’t warmed up properly yet,”
Duncan says, standing with his back to
Dad. I put my fingers to my lips, struggle
to keep my smile from forming. He’s
hiding his boner! At once it’s funny and
dangerous… a heady concoction.
“You’ll be fine, your first opponent is
a nobody.”
“Just give me a minute.”
Dad disappears, and Duncan turns

down to me, takes my lips in his again.
He kisses me urgently, his breaths quick,
his body-heat seemingly doubled.
He presses me up against the lockers,
pins my hands above my head, and
kisses and bites a swathe of skin down
my neck.
“We want what we want,” he tells me.
“So live a little.”
He takes my hand, pulls me toward
the door. Just as he opens it I pull my
fingers from his grip, and he walks out,
his gait all business, all swagger, his
shoulders swaying. He doesn’t even
look at Dad, but he looks at me once
more, smirks.
Our eyes meeting is like our own

private conversation. I’ve got tunnel
vision. All I can see is his crystal-blue
orbs.
Win this fight, I think to myself,
looking from Duncan toward his
opponent already in the cage. Beat his
ass.
Duncan climbs into the cage, puts his
mouth guard in, greets the referee then
taps fists with his opponent.
A bell dings. The fight starts. Duncan
lunges.

Chapter Seventeen

One charge, a flurry of punches, and
Duncan’s opponent is reeling. Each hit is
a loud thump that makes me wince. It’s
like the beat of a bass drum.
The aggression I suddenly see in
Duncan shocks me. He’s turned into a
creature in the cage. He’s right up on his
opponent, crowding him against the
chain-link barrier, landing punch after
super-quick punch into his gut, side of
his head, mouth, neck.
His opponent blocks one fist, Duncan
swings with the other. His opponent
flails wildly, and Duncan easily slaps
the errant hook, lands his own counter

straight at the man’s eye.
Finally, when his opponent drops to
his knees on the ground, Duncan wraps
his arms around his neck from behind,
pushes his knees into his lower back,
and bends him backward, using his own
bodyweight to choke him.
It’s not long before he’s tapped out.
Duncan gets up the winner, pulls the
loser to his feet, slaps his head with the
kind of affectionate camaraderie I only
expect fighters to have, and then is out of
the cage, storming past Dad, who looks
on in wide-eyed surprise.
The whole basement has fallen silent.
The aggression, the violence everybody
just witnessed has shocked them

speechless.
A bunch of fucking mobsters and
gangsters who kill and prostitute people
for a living are beyond words.
And so am I.
I turn toward the changing room, see
the door swing closed.
I go back there, see Duncan on a
stationary bike.
“Lock the door,” he tells me, and
without hesitation, I do.
He looks at me, almost as if he’s
worried I disapprove, but then starts
pedaling faster.
“That was insane,” I tell him.

“I saw it in his eyes.”
“What?”
“He was all about the show,” he says
between pants. Sweat drips off his chin.
“Expected us to test each other, dance
before we fight. Embellish. He’s a show
fighter.”
“And?”
“So I got up on him hard and fast.
Overwhelmed him.”
Duncan’s voice is completely neutral.
He explains it to me matter-of-factly, as
if recapping last night’s news.
How the hell can he divorce that kind
of aggression from his natural emotional
state?

He wipes blood off his knuckles, and
I go to him, brow pinched together, a
surging worry in me. “Are you
bleeding?”
“Yeah,” he says. He lifts his knuckle
up to me, shows me, and I gasp,
covering my mouth.
“Oh my God!” I cry, stepping back.
There’s a tooth lodged in between the
knuckles of his middle finger and
forefinger.
“Idiot didn’t wear a mouth guard,”
Duncan says, and he pries the tooth from
his flesh, pushes a towel against the
open wound that immediately bubbles
blood. The sound of the loose tooth
dropping against the floor is just a dull

clack.
“Does it hurt?” I ask, feeling stupid
the moment the words leave my mouth.
Of course it hurts.
“Yeah,” he says. “It’s fine, though.”
“Did that guy even get a hit on you?”
“No.”
I take a trembling breath of air, then
calm myself down. I guess I’d never
expected it to be that brutal. I guess I’d
expected it to be more of an artistic
dance, like martial-arts movies, than a
tooth embedded in a fist.
“How long before the next round?”
He glances up at the clock. “Fifteen
minutes.”

“Are you serious?” I ask. “You don’t
get to rest?”
“Better that way. Won’t cool down.”
He hops off the bike, digs into his
locker and pulls out a jump rope.
I feel so awkward just standing there,
watching him do his jumps, cross the
rope over effortlessly, reverse his swing
so he’s going backward.
His timing is damn-near perfect, and
he’s skipping faster than I ever could.
Better than I ever could in gym class.
When he’s out of breath he throws the
rope against the bench, almost violently,
puts his hands on his hips, sucks in huge
gulps of air.

There’s a knock at the door, and
Duncan walks toward it, slides open the
rusty deadbolt.
Dad’s head pops in again. “This guy
is Falcone’s fighter,” Dad says. “Quick
hands.”
“Right.”
Duncan shuts the door, turns to me,
wipes his face with a towel.
“Kiss for good luck?”
I frown at him, make a face. “Are you
serious?”
But just as I finish the sentence he’s
closed the distance, grabs me by my
waist and kisses me. I’m caught by
surprise, let out a yelp, and when he sets

me down I slap his sticky chest, a little
grossed-out by the thought of his
opponent’s sweat being there, too.
He looks into my eyes for a moment,
as if searching them.
“What are you doing?”
His tongue darts out to wet his lips,
and he tells me, “Wish me luck.”
“Good luck.”
He nods.
“Kick his ass.”
Duncan’s face hardens, all emotion
and softness drain from his features. He
becomes an iron statue, almost lifeless.
He turns around, leaves the changing

room a charging hurricane.
I watch from the doorway of the
changing room as he climbs into the
cage. The referee starts the fight, and this
time his opponent immediately gets up
on him, throws a quick punch and
Duncan takes one above the eye.
I see the spill of crimson, but the ref
doesn’t stop the fight. I turn my eyes to
Dad and he just shrugs.
They dance for a while, tip-toe around
each other, size each other up, but again,
in a flurry of fast and hard movement,
Duncan lands hit after hit, thumps the
wind out of his opponent before going
for a mid-waist takedown and locking
his knee.

The guy taps out just when I think his
lower leg is going to separate from his
upper leg.
Duncan stands, doesn’t gloat, doesn’t
show off. He just throws open the door
to the cage, storms back into the
changing room past a once-again
silenced crowd, and hops on the bike.
I lock the door behind him.
“I feel like your trainer or something,”
I say, offering him a smile.
He returns it, and warmth floods back
into his features.
It’s like he’s a different person in the
cage. I guess he has to be.
“Two down,” he grunts at me. “Three

to go.”
“Is this how you always fight?”
He stops, then, stops pedaling. I feel
like I’ve touched a nerve or something,
but I don’t know what.
“I’ve never fought like this before,”
he says slowly.
“What do you mean?”
“Organized, pitted against someone
like a fucking dog.”
I hear some anger in his voice, feel its
sting. Is he regretting this?
“You don’t have to fight, you know.”
Duncan shrugs. “What the fuck else
can I do?”

He lowers his eyes to the digital
readout on his stationary bike, and starts
pedaling harder.
Another knock at the door: Dad’s
voice floats through.
I slide open the deadbolt, and Dad
pushes in, looks at me. “Why the hell did
you come if you’re just going to spend
all night hiding in here?”
I’m taken aback, don’t know what to
say, but Duncan is off the bike, walking
toward us.
“Get out,” he says to Dad.
“You’re winning too quickly,” Dad
protests.
“Get the fuck out, Glass, I need to

concentrate.”
Dad looks between him and me.
“What about her?” he asks.
I’m surprised by the tone of his voice.
It was almost… petulant.
“She’s helping me.”
“How?”
“You want me to win these fucking
fights for you or not?”
“Yes, of course, but—”
“Then I do it my way. I’m not here to
put on a fucking show for you.”
“Yes, you are, boy,” Dad says, his
voice rising.
Duncan immediately starts to unwrap

his wrists. “Then I’m done.”
“Wait, wait, wait no. That’s not what I
meant.”
“I fight my way, or I don’t fight.”
There’s a standoff between them.
Duncan’s so deftly turned Dad’s anger
that was once originally aimed at me
straight onto him.
It’s not like I don’t know how to
handle Dad, but I appreciate it.
Dad puts on a stony front, but slowly
he retreats.
The only person I’ve ever seen Dad
retreat from is Duncan. It’s honestly
shocking, and a little confusing.
Duncan slams the door shut, slides the

deadbolt across, then looks at me. His
Adam’s apple jumps up and down as he
swallows.
“I don’t need you to protect me from
him,” I say to him. I add, “He’s such an
asshole, but I can handle him.”
“I don’t like the way he treats you.”
“Neither do I.”
“Then you and I are on the same
side.”
“I don’t want to take sides against my
Dad,” I tell him truthfully. “Not really,
anyway.”
“It’s too late for that, Dee. Protect
yourself, first and foremost.”
“You don’t need to get in between us.”

He shrugs. “I do what feels right.”
There’s a pause, and we look at each
other.
“We’re a team now, Dee.”
“What, like brother
Ganging up on Dad?”

and

sister?

“Maybe. You want to come outside
and watch the next round? Be where I
can see you.”
“I do,” I say truthfully. “It’s a little
exciting. But…”
“But?”
“Everyone else…”
“So?”
“I don’t know.”

“Show them what you’re made of.”
“They intimidate me.”
He spaces the words out, almost
savagely. “Shine brighter.”
A bell dings, he throws open the door
and goes toward the cage.
I watch him for a moment before
taking off my coat, and walking out as
well. I do as he says, walk my best
walk. I realize, belatedly, that as many
eyes are on me as they are on Duncan.
I go to Dad’s side. He regards me
with little more than a grunt, but I stand
there, and when Duncan looks at me
from inside the cage, I meet his eyes.
We share a look, and nobody in the

room misses it.
We’re a team.
In this big old fucking boy’s club, I’m
the one he looks at.
He beckons me to the cage, and so I
go toward it. He falls into a squat,
checks the wraps and tape on his hands
and wrists. Then he pushes his fingers
through the cage.
I take them quickly, give them a quick
squeeze. I don’t care who is watching
now.
“I prefer you out here,” he whispers.
“Why?”
“Because losing in front of you is
unthinkable.”

He jumps up quickly, and I step back,
falling in line with Dad again.
We watch, everybody, the whole
crowd in anticipatory silence. The ref
starts the fight.
Duncan and his third opponent begin
their dance.

Chapter Eighteen

Legs like tree trunks, short, low center
of gravity. He’s a kicker, but not a highkicker. He’ll go for torso-kicks and
thigh-kicks. He’ll try to tire me out then
take me down. On the mat, in between
those legs… that’s a position I must not
find myself in.
I look toward Dee. She’s absolutely
shining. She brightens up the whole
room. She fills me with a crazy
motivation. I don’t even want to take a
hit with her watching. And when you’re
a fighter, you’re expected to take hits.
The referee tonight is nothing but a
safety release. He’s short, too, but big,

strong, and he’s there to make sure the
fight doesn’t end in a death.
I have no intention of taking a life in
the cage, but I can’t say the same for the
man I’m about to trade blows with. He
looks at me out of wild, undisciplined
eyes. My guess? He out-violences
people in the cage.
It’s the wrong way to fight. You can
never rely on anger. So he won’t submit
me tonight.
Definitely not with Dee watching.
It’s odd to me, this feeling of not
wanting to lose in front of someone.
Before, it used to just be my own selfrespect, but all that buys you is immunity
against cowardice, and for some men,

not even then.
But with Dee looking on, her dark,
endless eyes on me, suddenly there’s
more to fight for. Now it’s no longer
appeasing whatever selfish instinct I
have to uphold a personal sense of
greatness or achievement or some
bullshit like that.
Now… now I feel like I’m fighting
for her.
And I’m not ashamed to admit… I
don’t want her to see me lose.
She doesn’t know it, but she gives me
a reserve of strength, determination. It’ll
make me work harder, faster, better.
Without realizing it, she makes me a
better fighter.

The ref starts the fight, and I extend
my fists. My stocky, square opponent –
‘Beefcake’ in my head – doesn’t tap my
fists.
I grin at him, wink as we back up. He
seems to take offense at that, and it riles
him up.
Good, got to get him off-balance to
make this easier.
The ref slices the air between us, and
we dance, circle each other, size each
other up. He’s a righty, strong base, can
push off hard and take you down midmass.
I glance to my left, see Dee’s face, see
her chewing on her lower lip. She looks
nervous.

Beefcake tries to use that moment,
lunges for me, goes straight for the takedown. I spin out of his way, a fast pivot
on the heel of my right foot, and he goes
sailing past me.
I catch him mid-move, wrap up his
neck into my arm, twirl him into me like
we’re doing some kind of fucking
modern dance, use it as leverage as I
pull my weight around, jump off the mat,
and latch onto his back.
I knee him in the thigh, send him offbalance, then kick him in the back of the
calf. He drops to one knee with a grunt,
and I launch myself higher up onto him
still, sit on his shoulders for the briefest
of moments before I coil my legs around
his neck and straighten out my body,

jerking backward.
Both our backs slap the mat hard, wet,
sweaty, sticky, and he’s gripping at his
neck. I twist him with my legs, bring his
neck into the pit of my knee, and grab
hold of my own foot, and pull.
He tries to punch above him, and I
catch his arm, twist it, use it to leverage
him against any movement.
It’s only a matter of time now.
He’s a fighter, that’s for sure.
Tap out motherfucker.
Tap the fuck out!
He doesn’t. He keeps going, face
beet-red, lips now blue. I’ve cut off his
windpipe, his major arteries. The split

second he loses consciousness I need to
let him go, or I risk permanently
damaging him.
“Tap out you dumb motherfucker!” I
growl, twisting his arm some more. He
lets out a strangled cry of pain, but still
he does not tap.
Slowly, his light fades. In maybe
fifteen seconds, he’s out, and I let his
limp body go. I scramble up to him, roll
him onto his side, check his throat.
He’s still breathing.
The ref races toward me, pushes me
away, inspects Beefcake, then declares
me the winner.
Another fight over in under five

minutes.
I leave the cage, pass Dee’s father
first. Glass’s expression is that of
something approaching arousal, but I
expect nothing less from him. And
nothing more.
I seek out Dee, and she just looks at
me wide-eyed.
I retreat to the changing rooms, go to
get back on the bike when I hear a rising
murmuring behind me. Dee quickly
comes in after me, shuts the door.
“They’ve cancelled the rest of the
fight,” she says.
I crease my brow, look at her, and
then rush to the door and slam shut the

deadbolt.
I press my ear to it, hear shouting,
arguments. Glass is defending himself
against accusations of bringing in an expro.
“Fuck,” I say, pinching the bridge of
my nose.
“We need to get out of here,” Dee
says.
She’s absolutely right.
I scour the changing rooms, past the
shower, past the toilets, past the workout
equipment, and see a fire escape.
Returning to her, I can already hear
the shouting escalating. She slips her
hand into mine, and together we weave

through the room, out the fire escape
which takes us to street level around the
back.
It’s fucking freezing, and I realize too
late that I’m still just in my fighting
shorts.
We rush around to the front of the
building, and there see Frank sitting on
the hood of the limousine.
“Frank!” Dee calls, pointing toward
the restaurant. “Dad needs your help!”
He flicks his cigarette, reaches behind
him and pulls out a large silver pistol.
“Get a cab, you two,” he tells us, waving
us off, and he waddles into the building,
his dark trench coat flapping in the wind
behind him.

Dee flags down a cab, and we climb
in together.
“Think my Dad will be okay?” she
asks.
I nod, but I’m angry with myself.
It had never even occurred to me, not
even once.
Why couldn’t I see that fighting at my
best would put Dee in danger?

Chapter Nineteen

“What the hell is the matter with
you?”
Duncan’s been broody and silent the
whole cab ride home, and when we
finally walk up the long driveway, he
refuses my coat, and instead wraps an
arm around my waist as if shielding me
from the cold wind.
And all he’s wearing his is fucking
fighting shorts. He looks ridiculous.
Boys. Always got to be the tough
guys.
We go inside, and Duncan climbs the
steps two at a time, and I hear the old
pipes shudder to life. I walk up after

him, see the bathroom light spilling out
into the hallway.
I hear the sound of splashing; a sink
full of water, then some of it splatters to
the floor.
I push the door open. Duncan is
washing his face, then peers at himself in
the mirror.
“Did you get hit?”
“Just here, above the eye,” he says.
“It’s stopped bleeding.”
I examine it in the mirror, see a thin
line of split skin.
“Damn,” I say. “It was close. I’m
surprised you didn’t get hit more.”
He growls at me, “That’s the fucking

problem.”
I’m taken aback by the tone of his
voice, step out of the bathroom. He tears
off his shorts, squeezes past me and goes
into his room. He comes out later
wearing jeans and a t-shirt, and then
walks past me without meeting my eye.
“Why the hell are you giving me the
cold shoulder?”
He stops at the top of the stairs, turns
around, tongue on his lips. He heaves out
a breath of air, and then frowns. It almost
looks like he’s struggling to find any
words.
“You can tell me,” I say, going to him.
He’s so wound-up, I want to help him
calm down, but I don’t know how. I

don’t know how! I wish I did, I wish I
could help him.
But I don’t even know what he’s so
fussed about! He won those fights only
taking a single hit. I don’t know anything
about fighting, but I don’t think that’s
typical. It sounds like a pretty good
showing to me.
“You fought really well,” I tell him.
“That last move, it looked like it was all
choreographed for how smooth it was.”
His eyes narrow a little. “Dee, I put
you in danger,” he says, not breaking
eye-contact with me. “I was stupid. It
won’t happen again.”
I push my lips together. “What are you
talking about?”

“God damn it,” he begins, running his
hands through his hair. He opens his
mouth to elaborate, but the front door
downstairs bursts open, and I hear Dad
walk in swearing with Frank.
“Deidre? Duncan?”
“Dad!” I call.
“Get the fuck down here now!”
Duncan and I meet eyes, then slowly
descend the stairs.
Dad’s huffing, looks at Duncan first,
then at me.
“Good job getting out of there,” he
says to both of us, and starts to calm
down. “That got close. They thought you
were a fucking ex-pro. Thought I was

playing dirty. They didn’t believe you’d
never fought a match in your life.”
I glance at Duncan, but his mouth is
just a thin, grim line.
“And you, Jesus Christ,” Dad says,
turning on me.
“Glass,” Duncan says, stealing back
his attention. “What did you offer them?”
“What?”
“They didn’t just let you walk out.”
“Do you know who the fuck I am,
boy?” Dad asks, his temper flaring
instantly.
“Don’t fucking do that,” Duncan
growls, silencing the outburst. “Don’t
you dare fucking start that shit up. Tell

me the truth.”
My eyes grow wide. I’ve never heard
anyone talk to Dad like that. He seems
totally checked by it.
“Those men in there thought you
cheated them tonight, and they put money
down. It might not have been much, but I
know what the fuck you all are like.
Can’t even stand to lose a dime if it
offends your warped sense of honor. So
you had better fucking tell me what
fucking deal you made.”
Dad starts stammering, and Duncan
pushes out a forearm against his neck,
backs Dad up against the wall.
“Duncan!” I cry, but he pays me no
attention.

“What deal did you make, Glass?”
“I said they could bring in anybody
they wanted to,” Dad says. “To fight you.
Double or nothing on all losses tonight.”
“Anybody,” Duncan says, shaking his
head with what seems to me to be
disgust.
“What do you mean?” I ask, looking at
Dad.
“Ex-pros, people with proper training
and experience is what I mean,” Dad
says. His eyes snap back to Duncan.
“But don’t worry, you’re fucking magic
in the cage, boy. I’m not afraid of
anybody they bring in. They couldn’t
find a fighter on this continent that could
match you. It’ll be a cakewalk, and we’ll

win our money fair and square.”
“Huh,” Duncan says, and he grits his
teeth together for a moment.
“Don’t act like you didn’t play a part
in this,” Dad says. “You could have
milked the fights a little longer!”
Duncan turns around, hands on his
hips, breathing quick.
“The other families are pissed at us?”
I ask Dad, and he nods slowly at me.
Duncan looks at me, and his eyes
grow sad. They lose their shine, their
blue energy.
“Fine,” he says to Dad. “For now.”
“You’ll have to put on a show,” Dad
warns.

Duncan just waves him off, and starts
climbing back up the stairs.
I turn to Dad. “Put on a show?”
“He’s going to have to take a beating.
Make the fights last.”
“What! Why?”
“It’s a cock-fight,” Dad says. “We
want to watch the cocks… fight. If
people think he has a chance of losing,
then they’ll put down money.”
I shake my head slowly. I don’t know
what to say to that.
“Frank and I will be gone for a
while,” Dad says. “Still some smoothing
out to be done. Congratulations,
Deidre.”

I blink, confused. “For what?”
Dad
looks
taken-aback.
graduating, of course.”

“For

I blink again.
What a long and crazy day it’s been.

Chapter Twenty

The walls rattle, and I hear the
familiar sound of the house’s old pipes
groaning to life.
“Duncan?” I call, walking upstairs.
The bathroom door is open, and a
straight column of light partially fills the
hallway.
I walk past the doorway, see him
standing behind the fogged up glass of
the shower. His body is blurred by all
the steam, but I can see that he is running
his hands through his hair, like he’s
stressed out to hell and back.
“You okay?” I say, feeling a little silly
for even asking it. It could very well be

that he is not okay after hearing what
Dad just told us, that he’s going to be
facing the best of the best as nothing but
a rookie fighter, even if he is exceptional
already.
But I have to ask it… I realize I
genuinely care. I want to know if he’s
not okay. I want him to tell me so.
I don’t get a reply, though, and so I
figure he probably wants to be alone. I
decide to leave him to himself for a bit,
let him shower in peace.
But as I turn to walk away, I feel wet
fingers on my hand, and he’s right there,
naked, dripping, and pulling me into the
bathroom. His fingers are on the zip of
my dress pulling down, and then he’s

slipping the dress over my shoulders,
and sliding it down my body until it’s
just a puddle of fabric around my feet on
the floor.
He flicks apart the clasp of my
strapless bra easily, lets it drop. His
eyes are on mine as he pushes his fingers
beneath the elastic of my underwear,
pulls it down my legs. I step out of them,
and for only the second time ever I’m
naked in front of him, bared to him.
His eyes travel slowly up and down
my body, and a moment longer I might
have gotten nervous or insecure, but he
doesn’t let it go that long. He wraps me
up into his arms, pulls me tight against
his slick body, his hard manhood
pressed up between us, and he whispers

into my ear, “I’ve missed you so fucking
much.”
I let him guide me into the shower,
and once we are both under the hot
stream of water, he worships me.
His lips run a fiery trail from my chin
to my ear, down my neck to my shoulder,
and across my collar bone. His hands
and fingers touch every inch of my body,
savor my curves, knead me and caress
me, get me all wound-up.
I find his lips, seek his kiss, and he
claims mine, a kiss somehow both tender
and powerful, as if he means to tell me
that he’ll treasure me, but that I’m also
his, and his alone.
His lips are so soft against me, but

every now and then I feel the press of his
teeth, just a teasing, gentle bite, and it
makes me smile, makes me hum.
But then he breaks the kiss, and he
does something really strange… strange
to me, at least. Something I would never
have expected.
He begins to wash my hair. He does it
with a kind of determined concentration
and care, making sure that no shampoo
gets into my eyes. It’s the most thorough
wash I can remember, and when he
conditions my hair, he rubs it into every
single strand of hair methodically, and I
am reminded of calculating way in
which he wrapped my hands with the
fighting tape.

I find it strange because it is so totally
at odds with what I know of him so far.
What I see on the outside is a hard,
tattooed body of someone who does
what he wants. I see a cage fighter,
someone who beats other people up
simply because he’s good at it.
I never expected that he could be like
this. I feel like something delicate in his
large, strong hands, something small, but
I feel safe. His hands are not rough with
me, they are only caring.
“It’ll all be okay,” he tells me, as if
I’m the one who just found out that all
the other bosses would be bringing in
their best fighters to try and break me.
As if I’m the one who has to climb into
that cage and fight a man who is going to

stop only two inches short of snapping
my neck.
He rinses my hair, and when I shut my
eyes to stop water from getting in them, I
feel his lips close around my lower lip,
and he bites it.
I grin, try to kiss him back but he pulls
away, and then when I’m not expecting it
he takes my lip again playfully, kisses
me again.
I fall into him, wrap my arms around
him, determined not to let him pull away
again, and his kiss grows hungry, urgent,
and our tongues dance, and the shower
washes away the taste of him to my
dismay.
We kiss for ages, holding onto each

other, and with my confidence growing, I
reach down in between us and grip onto
his manhood, start pumping him.
“What are you doing?” I breathe as he
turns me, wraps me up from behind. My
back is against his chest, and I can feel
his hard body, his heat, and I hold onto
his powerful arms, let him kiss the back
of my shoulder, right where it touches
my neck.
I feel a longing for him in my belly,
and when his hands run up my sides,
over my curves, roam my body, I arch
my back, turn my head up toward his
chin and neck.
In his arms, I let him touch me, run his
hands up and down my body, roll my

nipples and squeeze my breasts, bring
me to the tips of my toes.
“You’re so fucking sexy,” he says.
His hot breath on my neck makes me
feel so wobbly, and constantly in my
mind is the thought that I can’t believe
we’re doing this, here, now. Dad and
Frank could come home at any minute!
His hand runs over my belly, and my
longing for him grows, and I feel hot
beneath my skin, hot down there.
His fingers sidle slowly south until he
reaches the bulge of my pearl. I’m
breathing hard against him, and I reach
behind me, grip onto his hardness, hold
him, feel his desire for me. His breath
quickens, the movements of his chest

speed up.
“Fuck, Dee,” he growls. “I want you
so fucking much.”
His fingers dip into me for a moment,
and I feel how slick I am, how swollen I
am for him. It’s fleeting, a hint of
pleasure, and then he pulls his finger up,
pulls a moan from my mouth, and starts
to rub my clit.
My hand stops moving, I can’t
concentrate anymore on him. I relax
against his body, let him touch me, let
him own me, let him do what he wants to
me. I know he’s going to make me feel
so good.
But he just teases me, and somehow
it’s both sexy and frustrating. His finger

moves slowly, and I crane my neck to the
side, look at the side of his dripping
face.
“Come on,” I tell him breathlessly.
He leans forward, takes my lips in
his, kisses me, and at the same time he
rubs me faster, just the way he knows I
like it.
I moan into his mouth, shut my eyes
tight, stay lip-locked with him. I clutch
onto his thighs on either side of me
unconsciously, give in to him
completely. I open my legs wider, give
him more of me.
His kiss takes on a feverishness,
becomes aggressive, and I feel his
tongue in my mouth, and I meet it with

mine, but I can barely concentrate as he
rubs me, as he plays me like an
instrument.
I writhe in his grip, undulate, moan
and whimper. He makes me feel so
good, and already I can feel the pressure
inside my belly growing. Oh, God, I
want more, I want to come, it’s like a
blinding light on the horizon that I’m
racing toward.
I break the kiss, look into his beautiful
eyes, now darker with his desire.
“Make me come,” I practically beg,
and I feel his fingers speed up, feel his
press harden, and I groan, pushing my
head back onto his shoulder, my mouth
open.

So quickly he brings me right there,
right to the edge, and my body becomes
tight as a tripwire. I tense up, squeeze,
feel it in my belly, that growing pressure
that’s going to blow.
But then he pulls me back, and I turn
accusing eyes on him.
“Stop it,” I say, but then he’s bringing
me there again, and he pulls his other
hand down my body, rings my entrance.
I’m in bliss when he pushes his finger
inside me. I stretch around his thick
finger, moan as he presses my front wall,
makes me feel impossibly better.
I grip onto his legs like, and I feel his
cock twitch against my back, and his lips
and breath by my ear.

I’m his. He plays me. He controls me.
His rhythm speeds up, he fingers me
faster and harder, and I feel my crisis
racing toward me.
“Oh God,” I groan, eyes shut tight,
pleasure thrumming through me. The
spring inside me is so wound up, coiling
tighter and tighter.
I crunch my stomach, lean forward,
inching closer and closer.
“Shit!” I hiss, white-hot bliss crashing
over me as I come hard. I inhale deeply,
hold my breath, squeeze around his
finger. Pleasure explodes inside me,
radiates down to the tips of my curled
toes.

I’m soaring, in orbit, I feel so, so
good.
I keep squeezing, he keeps going, and
he makes it last, makes me feel this
sharp pleasure for so long, and then it’s
waning, ebbing, and I shiver and
shudder, the tsunami of ecstasy now
turning to slow, rolling waves that thrum
through my body.
I love every moment of this, being in
his arms, him making me feel so good,
being his.
I’m coming down, and my whole body
feels wobbly and weak, and I suddenly
feel so, so tired.
Duncan kisses my neck, pulls his
fingers from me, up to his mouth, and he

sucks on them, sucks all my pleasure off
them.
“I love how you taste,” he says, and
he claims my lips in his. I can taste
myself on him but I don’t care.
I’m a ragdoll, loose, panting, flushed,
hot.
I grin, rub his thighs, reach around my
back and feel his still-hard cock. I’m just
about to turn around, to pleasure him like
he pleasured me, when the pipes belch
and the water hitches for just a second.
The shower dumps freezing water on
us. The hot water tank has run out.
I scream, jump out of the shower
laughing, quickly dry myself off with a

towel. He seems unaffected by it, shuts
off the stream and steps out. I toss him
his towel, and we dry up in the steamy,
warm bathroom, before darting across
the hallway into my bedroom.

Chapter Twenty One

Dee leans back on the bed, and puts a
hand on my chest, pushes me back.
“I want to watch you.”
Those words send my heart surging.
She runs a finger down my chest,
leaves a trail of burning skin. Her finger
roams downward, over the bumps of my
tight abdominals.
I’m already beading pre-cum, so
turned on by her. I can see her cheeks
starting to flush red, and her breathing is
quickening.
I begin to jerk myself off in front of
her, slow at first, watch her as she

watches me, as her tongue wets her lips.
I never take my eyes off her as I
pleasure myself, work myself right to the
edge, then back myself off.
She sees it, the pleasure in my face,
the desire and lust I feel for her, and her
hand creeps down her body, and I watch
her as she touches herself.
God, it’s the hottest sight on Earth,
and my cock gets impossibly harder, so
hard it almost hurts.
“Come for me,” she breathes.
I work myself faster, harder, never
taking my eyes off her face. Her eyes
narrow at her own pleasure, her mouth
parts more, her breaths quicken more.

Her hand moves faster, and I hear a
soft moan escape her lips, and I’m right
there, right on the edge, and bliss thrills
through my body, and my lust for her is
like fire in my veins.
“Fuck, Dee,” I groan, my thighs
tensing. “Fuck.”
I come hard, and the pinpoint of
pleasure sears my senses, and I groan,
pump myself wildly. I fire my load, it
slaps the wall, and then my second,
third, fourth.
I go to her, and she falls into my arms,
looks up at me and I crush my lips
against hers, kiss her, love the feel of her
hot breath on my face, so close, so
intimate.

“God, you are sexy,” I tell her, still
hard, still ready. I can’t imagine ever
getting soft around her.
She kisses me again, bites my lip, then
with a palm on my chest guides me
around until I’m on the bed. She climbs
onto me, straddles me.
She takes a condom from her bedside
drawer, tears it open and rolls it down
my manhood, and then I feel her fingers
on my balls.
I put my hands on her hips, bring her
over me, and groan as she lowers herself
onto me slowly, as I feel myself enter
her. She’s so tight, makes me feel so
good.
Dee bites her lip, scrunches up her

face, eases into me slowly with a soft
moan.
“You feel bigger than last time,” she
tells me.
I run my hands up her side, but she
takes them and guides them above my
head.
“Keep them there,” she tells me, and
she runs her fingers down my body,
tracing the lines of my tattoos down my
sides. “I like it when you put your arms
above your head.”
She begins to ride me slowly, shuts
her eyes and she just looks all the more
sexy for it. Her fingers go to my nipples,
and she rings them, then puts her palms
on my chest, and leans forward.

Her wet hair falls around my face, she
lifts herself up slowly, brings me all the
way out of her, and I groan at the
sensation.
All I want to do is thrust my hips hard,
bury myself inside her, but I get the
feeling she’s calling the shots right now.
And that’s sexy to me. I like that.
A teasing smile parts her lips as she
lowers herself back onto me, but just to
my tip. She gyrates her hips, and God if
it doesn’t wind me up so completely.
I want to grip onto her, pull her hair
back, lick a swathe of skin up her neck
and bottom out inside her, fuck her
crazily.

I lower one hand, but she slaps my
arm.
“Don’t,” she says, continuing to tease
me.
Her face bunches up in pleasure as my
cockhead slides in and out of her, as I
stretch her.
And when I can take it no more I wrap
my arms around her, pull her toward me,
claim her lips in mine and thrust myself
all the way inside her.
She lets out a sharp moan into my
mouth, but I don’t let her go. I fuck her
hard, fast, bury myself inside her over
and over again.
Dee can’t concentrate, can’t kiss me,

but I don’t care, I just want her lips on
mine, her breath on my face, her moans.
I grip her ass, drive myself into her
recklessly, wildly, and the sticky slaps
of our skin are loud, seem to echo in the
room.
“Fuck,” she says, her body growing
tight in my arms, her back arching
upward, her eyes clamping shut.
I fuck her for all I’m worth, slap her
ass, grip her thighs. I reach in between
us, find her stiff pearl, rub it fast just
how I know she likes it.
“Ohhhh,” she moans, and her body
tightens more, and I know she’s nearly
there again.

I don’t stop, I keep the same rhythm,
and she drops her head onto my chest as
I pound into her over and over again.
“Oh shit!” she cries. “I’m going to
come!”
She opens her mouth, lets out a long
mewl of pleasure as she climaxes, as
ecstasy crashes over her like waves at a
beach.
She shudders and shivers, her body a
rigid snapshot of pleasure, and I feel her
squeezing around me, so tight around me.
I groan, let go, and climax myself,
emptying myself again, my balls
tightening, my cock jumping inside her.
And then it’s over, and she collapses

on top of me, and I hold her tight, and
our breathing is aligned, and it’s like our
hearts beat as one.
Her hand finds mine, and we interlock
fingers. Dee’s face is against my chest,
rising and falling with my quick
breathing, and I kiss her forehead, hold
her harder against me still, and wonder
at this feeling I now have inside my
chest.
It’s like a blooming, a firework
exploding in slow motion. It’s… I don’t
know how to put it into words, but I do
know one thing. I can’t imagine myself
being with anybody else. She’s all I
want, all I need.
I never want there to be a day where I

don’t have her, where I can’t see her
smile, smell her smell, taste her lips.
Where I can’t talk to her, laugh with her,
be with her.
We lie together on the bed for ages,
just her and I, alone in the universe, not
sleeping, not talking. Our fingers talk,
and our hands talk as we touch each
other’s bodies, and fuck if it isn’t the
best feeling in the world.
Eventually we fall asleep, her in my
arms.
And I’m the happiest I’ve ever fucking
been.

Chapter Twenty Two

I wake up at a sudden, sharp sound,
and rub my eyes. It was a door
slamming.
I think nothing of it, roll over and find
Duncan’s body next to mine. He’s
sleeping flat on his back, one arm behind
his head, and his eyeballs are twitching
rapidly. He must be in a dream.
A smile spreads my lips. He even
looks good when he sleeps, despite
having messy bed hair.
It’s odd how utterly still he is when he
sleeps. I’m a mover in the night. I
always wake up with the sheets tangled
in between my legs, half the duvet on the

floor, my pillow somehow vertical.
But he looks like he just crawled into
bed, then turned to stone.
I sidle up to him, rest my head on his
chest, and he stirs, pulled from his
dream, and brings his arm down over
me, holds me against him.
The blinking digital clock by the
bedside reads five-forty-five, and
internally I groan, wondering why the
hell someone was slamming the door so

Shit! Dad’s back!
I sit up straight like I’ve just poked my
finger in an outlet, and rub Duncan
awake.

“Duncan!” I hiss, covering my mouth
as I talk. “Duncan.”
He rouses, blinks, sits up and rubs his
eyes.
“Duncan, you have to go.”
His eyes go to me, then the clock, and
he gets out of bed, his naked body
looking tighter in the morning.
“Wait, why?”
“Dad’s home!” I say.
I don’t know why, but I start grinning
like an idiot. This is insane! My heart is
pounding just thinking about the
possibility of Dad knocking at my door,
of him finding Duncan and me in bed
together.

It’s not even funny, but it’s making me
laugh.
I catch a glint in his eye, and a smirk
pulls his mouth to the side. He presses
his ear to the door, then looks at me.
“He’s coming up.”
“Oh shit!” I say, quickly climbing out
of bed and rummaging for my pajamas.
I feel a hand on my hips, turn around
and see Duncan. He runs his hand over
my ass, dips lower, and I slap it away.
“Stop!”
I look down from his face, see that
he’s already got a boner. Jesus!
“You have to go,” I say, retreating
quickly from him, pouring myself a glass

of water and gulping from it. I offer it to
him afterward, and he takes a sip.
“Where? I don’t have any clothes.”
I spin around frantically, then my eyes
settle on the window. I open it, squint
down. It’s not a long drop to the roof of
the garage.
I look at him, flash my eyebrows.
Duncan laughs, then pinches the
bridge of his nose and sighs. “Wow.”
“Go,” I urge, unable to stop a laugh
from spilling out of my mouth. God, I
can’t believe he’s about to jump out of
my window naked.
He climbs up into the window frame.
It’s a tight fit, but he squeezes through.

“See you later,” I say to him.
He blows me a kiss, and hops out. I
hear him land before I reach the
window, see him looking back up at me,
wincing, rubbing the sole of his foot.
“You okay?”
“Landed on a fucking thumbtack!” he
whispers.
I watch as he pulls the metal from the
sole of his foot, chucks it away.
“You been throwing stuff out your
window, Dee?”
I widen my eyes guiltily, nod at him.
“Maybe! Hold on.” I race around the
bed, pick up his towel, and chuck it out
the window at him. It wraps itself

around his head.
I shut the window, pull across the
drapes, and then jump back in bed just in
time. Dad swings my door open without
knocking.
“Dad!” I cry, pulling the covers
around me. “You need to knock.”
He leans in the doorway, looks
around. “Everything is fine. Everything
is sorted.”
I blink, have no idea what he’s talking
about.
“With the other families!” he says
grumpily. “After last night. I smoothed
everything out. Just thought you’d like to
know.”

“Uh, okay.”
“Mm,” he hums, peering around my
room. “It’s been a long time since I’ve
been in here.”
I pull my blanket up higher around my
neck, say to him, “Dad, I’m not ready
yet.”
He looks at me for a moment, then
nods. “Of course, Deidre. You get up
now, let’s have breakfast together.”
I wince. “Now? It’s so early.”
“Yes. Come on, get ready.”
He disappears out of my doorway,
and I hear him bump into Duncan in the
hall.
They have a small chat, but only

murmurs make it through the door. Dad’s
footsteps going downstairs reach my
ears, and then there’s a knock at the
door.
I open it, and Duncan is standing
there, grinning at me, a toothbrush in his
mouth, towel wrapped around his waist.
“It’s pretty cold out,” he says, his
voice a toothpaste slur.
“That was close,” I tell him. I’m
shaking a little, but it was kind of… fun,
in a stupid, teenage way.
The condom!
It’s the only thing in my trash can.
Fuck, what if Dad had seen it?!
“You need to take the condom,” I tell

him. “I can’t have it in here. Dad would
go insane if he found it somehow.”
Duncan pauses mid-movement, looks
at me with a wrinkled nose.
“What, it’s all your stuff, anyway!”
He shrugs, reaches into the can and
pulls it out. And then he comes to me,
pulls out his toothbrush and presses his
nose against my ear. He smells me, and I
feel the cool tip of his nose on my lobe.
“Go on, go!” I urge, pushing him in the
butt. He swaggers out of the room, but at
the last moment turns and looks at me.
God, he looks so fucking hot in just a
towel.
“Go,” I say, laughing. “Come on, Dad

might come back.”
He disappears down the corridor, into
the bathroom, and I just shake my head,
still my racing heart, and slow my
breathing.
Too close.
Way too fucking close.

Things settled down after that.
Duncan started fighting, winning, and I
was there supporting him. They started
calling him ‘Creature’ because he was
so relentless in the cage.
I went to college, moved into
residence halls, and Duncan got his
own place using his winnings.
We no longer had to hide, and I split
my time between his apartment and my
room.
And time passed… and we were
happy.

Dad… well, I could almost ignore
him.
But it had to come to an end… a
train bearing down on us in the night.
The rails were rattling, the horn was
blaring, and we could feel the push of
air.
That night by the pool started us
down a path.
…The beginning of the end.

Chapter Twenty Three

Dad is happy and that
something is very, very wrong.

means

Duncan and I both share a mutual look
of confusion. We both know that if Dad
is this bubbly about something, it means
that it’s good for him.
What’s good for him is almost
invariably bad for us.
The dining room is dimly lit. Dad
brought out the candles, and their flames
fall upward almost in an exact straight
line, and I remember that he mentioned
something about having the windows in
the house resealed.
Dad’s wearing a suit, charcoal grey,

jacket open, tie a little too skinny for his
wide body. His white shirt beneath is
creased along the sides of his chest; it’s
too tight.
Duncan and I are dressed far more
casually, and I wonder if we’ve both
come underdressed for some big
announcement.
“Tonight we celebrate,” Dad says,
lifting his glass of red wine.
We lift our cups of water.
Dad drains half the glass in one sip,
then sets it down carefully, making sure
to place it in the exact center of the
square, cork coaster.
He smiles at each of us in turn. Well,

maybe smile is not the correct word. His
lips peel thinly up over his teeth, and his
eyes narrow, and creases push into the
leathered skin of his face, but there’s not
an ounce of warmth or even something
relatable in his expression.
“Duncan!” he booms from nowhere,
shocking me. I jump visibly in my chair,
and I shut my eyes for a moment, feeling
nothing but impatient frustration.
Duncan gives him a wry look. “Glass,
what are we celebrating?” he asks.
“You two,” Dad says, shaking his
head. “You both leave the nest, and
never return to even visit. I have to call
together a family dinner on a special
occasion to see you two together.”

I roll my eyes. I wish he would just
quit with the woe-is-me melodramatics.
“What’s the special occasion, Dad?
I’ve got work I need to do tonight, so I’d
like to get this over with as soon as
possible.”
Dad bristles, but, to my surprise, he
bites his tongue.
“You ever heard of Conrad Butler,
Duncan?”
I look across the table, see an
expression of recognition fade-in on
Duncan’s features.
“Yeah,” Duncan says slowly. “Fighter
up in Canada. Best in the country, from
what I’ve read. Very fast, very violent.

They call him ‘Manic’.”
“He’s agreed to fight you.” Dad
beams at both of us.
“And?”
“And he’s the favorite!” Dad says,
slapping the table with exhilaration.
“Damn it, Duncan, nobody is going to
bet against Manic Butler! Even you, no
offense, lose on paper. He’s taller,
faster, and stronger. He’s got more
experience on you, and he’s on a similar
win-streak to you. The physicals alone
make him the favorite, but when you take
in his extremely effective moves, not to
mention the fact that his trainer is a God
damned heavyweight ex-champion…
shit, we’re going to win big.”

Dad picks up a fork and knife,
squeezes them both in his hands until his
sausagey fingers go white. “We couldn’t
have asked for a better opponent.”
I look in mild horror at Dad’s gleeful
expression, the excitement he has at the
prospect of a fighter that not only
matches up well with Duncan, but could
beat him. Hurt him.
“I could lose, you know,” Duncan
says, his voice gravelly. “You’re the
bank, you take all the risk.”
Dad points his knife at Duncan. “But
you won’t lose. You’ll win. I know it, I
can feel it. You’re a better fighter,
Duncan. You’re tougher up here.” He
taps the sharp steak knife to his temple.

“We’ll get you ready for this one. The
fight is in four days, and tomorrow I
have some pro scouts flying in. They’ll
go over all of Manic’s favorite moves
with you, so you can learn to counter
them.”
I can see from Duncan’s disinterested
expression that he’s not particularly
impressed by this idea. How much he
has changed since the beginning. At first,
he wanted to fight, wanted to make a
name for himself. He was determined to
do something.
But now… now each fight feels
perfunctory. The passion is gone.
Duncan knows that to everybody, he’s
just a gladiator. Most gladiators were
forced to fight against their will.

He meets my eyes for a moment, and I
nod at him, telling him silently, I know.
“What, you afraid, boy?” Dad asks,
glowering. His whole demeanor has
changed, and his eyes might as well have
turned red, and he might as well have
sprouted horns from his forehead.
“I’m not afraid,” Duncan says. You’d
be hard-pressed not to believe him, the
way he says it so casually. “Once I beat
Manic, though—”
“There will be a few fights left, don’t
worry. I know for a fact Falcone is
scouring Mexico for a fighter, and one of
the other families has connections in
Russia and they are looking there. There
will be a few more big time guys they’ll

bring in, ex-pros and the like. You’ll still
have work. Then, once that well dries
up, we just move to another. The pros.
I’ll get you into the biggest legit
tournament and you’ll run the gauntlet
and come out on top. I’ll put down
numbers so large in just one event we’ll
make enough to live like kings for the
rest of our lives. With something like
UFC, it’s not just national betting. It’s
international betting. We’re playing with
money from all across the world. Think
about it, your children, their children
will be set for life!”
Duncan
remains
non-committal,
though, and I decide it’s my turn to
speak.
“How good is Manic?” I ask. When

Dad opens his mouth to speak, I silence
him with a wave of my hand. “I’m
talking to Duncan.”
My ears are burning, and I know Dad
is staring bullet holes through me, but
damn it, I get to speak at this table.
“I know him mostly by reputation,”
Duncan says. “I’ve watched a couple of
his fights, that’s it. He’s hard and fast,
likes to get dirty on the mat.”
“What do you mean ‘dirty’?”
“He’ll tap your balls.”
“Can’t you wear a cup?”
“He pulls other cheap shit, too. Stuck
his finger in a guy’s ass once.”
I frown in disbelief. “Are you

serious?”
“Oh, yeah,” Duncan says. “That’s part
of his reputation. It’s not that uncommon,
anyway. Just a moment’s distraction, he
locks you, submits you, and then doesn’t
stop. He’ll tear your arm from your
socket even after you tap-out. Manic’s a
little crazy.”
Dad butts in now: “When you’re on
the mat, anything can happen. Just submit
him fast. No need to draw this one out.
He’s too big of a name. He’s been the
top fighter in Canada for nearly a
decade. But you’ve got the younger
body! He may be strong, but he lacks
your sheer athleticism, something only I
know about. I’ve seen you squirm out of
leg holds in ways that would have

professional instructors asking for your
secrets.”
I watch Duncan as he seems to weigh
the idea in his head for a moment. Soup
is brought in, but none of us start eating.
“Fine,” he says. “Let’s do it.”
I narrow my eyes at him, kick his foot
under the table. “Duncan, are you sure?”
“I can beat him.”
“Yeah, you might win the fight, but
what could you lose in the cage?”
“An eye is always a possibility,
especially with Manic.” He grins at me,
as if doing so can make my worries just
evaporate away.
I fold my arms. “I don’t like it. If

people are already lining up to bet
against Duncan, despite every win he’s
notched, then there must be something
about this Manic guy. If he fights dirty,
they’ll no-doubt be whispering in his
ears to do so.”
“Of course they will, there’s no need
to state the obvious,” Dad snaps. He
turns to Duncan. “You may need to pull
out a few tricks.”
“I’m not fighting dirty,” Duncan says.
“Maybe you loaded your gloves, you
know, a little Plaster of Paris, but I
won’t.”
Dad is visibly taken aback, stammers,
“I-I never once—”
“Whatever, Glass,” Duncan says. “I’ll

fight him, but I’ll fight him clean.”
I can hear Dad’s teeth grinding against
each other. “Good,” he says through a
strained voice. “Well, this wasn’t a very
pleasant dinner, was it?”
He gets up, tosses his napkin into his
bowl of soup, extends a finger at
Duncan. “I want you to win that fight,
boy. Do whatever it takes. We’re going
to rinse these fucking fools who are
going to bet against you, we’re going to
take everything they’ve got. For this
fight, I’m bumping your share to ten
percent. Don’t say I never fucking took
care of you.”
Dad stomps out of the room, and we
hear a series of doors slamming in the

house.
“That was quick,” Duncan murmurs,
leaning on the table. He’s taken an extra
pleasure in getting a rise out of Dad
recently. I know he thinks he’s turning
Dad on him, and away from me, but
really all he’s doing is putting us both in
Dad’s sights.
“You shouldn’t have said he fought
with loaded gloves.”
Duncan shrugs, and so I get serious.
“You just make it worse for me when
you do that.”
He just looks at me for a moment, and
there is no contrition in his features, but I
know that he’s measuring what I’ve said

in his mind. After a moment, he agrees
with me.
“You’re right. I’ll stop.”
“Now, this fight.”
“It’ll be fine, Dee. I can beat Butler.”
“Are you sure?”
He nods. “I’m sure, Dee.”
“I want to study the film with you. I
might see things you don’t.”
“Good, I was going to ask you.”
“Is he dumb? Manic, I mean.”
“He’s no idiot, but he’s not good at
adapting from what I saw.”
“So you’ll have to surprise him, catch
him off-guard.”

“I was
southpaw.”

thinking

about

trying

I push my lips together. Fighting lefthanded? That’s not a bad idea, would
throw off the timing, make Duncan hard
to predict, difficult to counter.
“Think you’re good enough with your
left?” I ask. I know I don’t need to ask it
– he is almost completely ambidextrous
– but I want to know what his mindset is.
After all this time being with him, I
know that leading with your strong arm –
and while he can use both effectively,
his right is stronger – is very risky.
“Yeah, I am, but I need to watch him
fight a bit more first. He’s a grappler,
he’ll want to take me to the mat. Do I try

and grapple with him, use my angles, my
agility, hope I don’t get pinned? Or do I
play defensive striker, turtle up and trade
blows, try to wear him out?”
“I don’t know,” I tell him truthfully.
“But if he has trouble adapting, then you
need to be changing your style
constantly.
Don’t
let
him get
comfortable.”
“Yeah,” he says. “You’re right.”
I nod, and then lean forward over the
table, and sigh.
“What is it?” he asks, his eyes darting
toward the dining room door for a
moment before he reaches across the
table and takes my hand.

“I don’t want you fighting anymore.
I’m sorry, I know you don’t want to hear
that, but these last few fights…”
I trail off, thinking about all the
people he’s gone up against in the last
month, since that night at the pool in the
hotel. They’ve been tough opponents,
and even though he’s won all those
fights, he’s taking more hits. He’s
coming back home bruised, bleeding,
and in pain.
I find nothing good in the idea of my
man getting beaten up, even if he dishes
out a worse beating up in the process.
You should see the other guy is
something that doesn’t work when both
men get fucked up, no matter how much
he says it in jest.

And I don’t want my man fucked up.
“I won’t fight forever,” he tells me.
There’s a soft certainty in his voice, and
yet the pronouncement is vague.
“When?”
“Soon. Just a little more.”
“But why?”
“I’m planning something, Dee. Don’t
push me on this one. I know when to
stop.”
“Are you sure you do? What if you
leave this fight with a broken jaw? A
torn ligament? Brain damage!”
“Then Manic will be in much worse
condition.”

“But I don’t care about Manic!” I hiss
at him, my temper flaring unexpectedly.
“I care about you!”
That damn stupid tongue comes out of
his mouth and wets his lips, and
somehow it drains some of my anxiety
away.
“I’m not going to get hurt.”
“You got hurt last time.”
“Just bruises, Dee. How can a fighter
not pick up cuts and scrapes on the
way?”
“Some fighters pick up paralysis on
the way,” I say, knowing it’s unfair.
“Just a little more, Dee. Trust me.”
“But why can’t you just tell me why?

It’s clear you’re not interested in the
fighting anymore. It’s clear you loathe
Dad. I can see it in your body language.
Don’t think I can’t tell, Duncan. I know
you! You have to be honest with me, I
deserve that. So why can’t you tell me?”
“Because I’m not ready to, yet!” he
says, his voice rising a little. “I haven’t
figured it all out yet.”
I see now a kind of uncertainty in his
expression. Usually he’s so assured
about everything, like he knows the way
life is going to unfold, and that he’s
going to be able to bend the creases the
way he likes.
But this… this is something different.
This is something that’s scaring him.

“You can tell me, Duncan. Lean on
me.”
“I do, and I will,” he says. “I promise
you I will, but not now.”
“Why not now?”
“I can’t answer that.”
I blink, shake my head in frustration.
“What the hell kind of answer is that?
After everything we’ve been through,
now is when you stop trusting me?”
“I still trust you.”
“So, tell me!”
“I can’t,” he says, his voice lowering
to something guttural. I can see what’s
about to happen. I’ve been with him long
enough to know when he’s about to get

all broody and introspective; shut me
out.
“This is unfair to me.”
“Damn it, Dee, I don’t know how to
say it.”
“Just use the first words that come
into your head.”
“I already have. You need to just
believe me, okay? A few more fights,
I’ll have everything sorted.”
“Have what sorted?”
But he doesn’t reply. We just sit in
silence for a while, looking anywhere
but each other.
“Excuse me,” I say, and I get up and
go to the washroom to pee. There, I

check. Still nothing. I grip onto the edge
of the sink, and look into the mirror.
Shit.
My heart starts to beat quicker, and I
feel a nervous shiver run down my
spine. I’m late. It’s only been a few
days, but up until now I’ve always had
very regular periods.
I tease my phone from the back pocket
of my jeans and tap on the calendar app,
count the days for the umpteenth time
today. It should have come by now. It’s
been a little over two weeks since that
night at the hotel, but that was the only
night we had unprotected sex.
I tap my nails against ceramic, realize
that I can’t even keep a steady beat. My

fingers are trembling. I’ve researched it
all, looked it up online, but I only feel
one of the early warning signs of
pregnancy: My nipples tingle. Beyond
that, I haven’t been feeling unusually
tired, and I haven’t been feeling sick. I
don’t ache, and I’m not irritable. My
appetite hasn’t changed at all, either.
I sigh. They say morning sickness
won’t come for another two weeks. I’m
almost afraid to buy a test. In my mind,
maybe I can hold out a few more days.
Maybe I’m just late, maybe I’ve just
been too stressed at school. Maybe…
I can’t be pregnant. Not now.
Not with him!
I’ll wait. Just a few more days. I’ll

wait a week, and then I’ll buy a
pregnancy test. For a moment, just a
fleeting moment, I think about mentioning
this to Duncan.
But immediately I know I’m not going
to. I don’t know for sure, yet. I don’t
know anything, yet. I don’t want to scare
him.
I don’t know what he’ll think!
“What’s wrong?” he asks instantly as I
enter the dining room.
“Nothing,” I say. “I’m tired.”
He looks like he’s about to press, and
so I put up a hand, shake my head.
“Really, I’m fine. I just want to leave
this place.”

“Then let’s go.”
We leave the house without saying bye
to Dad, and I go back to his apartment
with him. Both our moods are subdued
as we no doubt consider the future.
Duncan likely wonders about his fight
with Manic. He’s probably going
through the moves in his head, over and
over. How to counter this, that, when to
strike, when to turtle.
And me… well, I’m only thinking
about one thing.
And it just goes round and round in
circles in my mind.
I have no idea what I’m going to do.

Chapter Twenty Four

Where the hell is she?
I imagine her walking through that
door, seeing those sexy lips smile. It’s
her smile and her deep, inky eyes that
will take me aback first – they always
do, even now. I get lost in them every
time. I feel pulled to them, magnetized,
and when she looks at me I can’t look
away, not even for a second.
My heart rate quickens, sends blood
rushing south. The image of her in my
mind is clear as day, every single detail.
Her lips are soft, generous, full.
Those lips pressed against my own…
she sets me on fire. Smiles come so

easily to her, a reflection of who she is
on the inside.
Somebody much better than me.
And with her standing in the doorway,
silhouetted by the spotlights from
behind, I’d let my gaze travel down her
body, to the peek of silky skin I see at
her collar bone that makes me lick my
lips and swallow hard. To the swell of
her breasts, the curve of her hips, those
thighs and that ass…
My throat tightens, my heart pumps
quicker still. My gut stirs, and I grow
impatient.
She’s late, and I need her.
I’m addicted to her, everything about

her. That curvy body, that ass I want to
hold and squeeze, kissing my way up the
inside of her thighs, making her shiver.
I think about tracing my fingertips
over the curves of her body, slowly,
teasing her, making her squirm in my
grip, making her look at me out of lustlaced eyes, her lips parted, panting.
She’s waiting for me to take every hot,
sexy inch of her, claim her as my own,
and I’m going to make her beg for it.
I swallow. Hard.
But as much as I love her body, I need
her mind with me. She stills the waves
in me, quiets the storm. She makes me
think about things from points of view
I’d never considered before. She’s

opened up my mind to new things, made
me, without realizing it, a better person.
But most of all she makes me feel
happy, and even beneath the shadow of
her father, even knowing… knowing that
what we have can’t last forever, it’s her
presence that makes me forget about all
that. It’s just so easy to lose myself in the
present with her.
Dee… well, she’s something else.
Stronger than me, braver than me… I
realize that I don’t just treasure her… I
admire her.
My imagination tricks my mind into
thinking I can actually smell her
wonderful scent, just behind her ears.
Not perfume, nothing artificial. Her.

I wake up with that smell, cherish it
every morning she’s with me. I can’t
imagine not being able to kiss her neck,
breathe in, feel her hair around my face,
tickling, soft.
My imagination tricks me into thinking
I can feel her warm breath against me,
see her lips parted, the peeking tips of
her teeth, her eyes shut tight, her body
tensed in my own, her moans in my ear.
She’s telling me not to stop. Never to
stop.
God, I haven’t seen her for just a day
and already it feels like a lifetime. I’m
hooked. She drives me crazy.
I shift my weight, feel a stirring in my
gut, anticipation, desire. It’s fight night,

my biggest one yet, and I need her with
me. It’s like I’m thirsty but don’t have
water, like I’m hungry but don’t have
food.
I grunt.
Too bad I’m stuck with this fucking
joker in front of me. He’s meek, mild,
and his back is curved instead of
straight. It’s like he’s trying to retreat
into himself, hide from me.
What the fuck for? It’s not like he’s
climbing into the cage with me.
This fucker was the one who
requested, over and over again, to get an
interview with me. Now he finally has
it, and he’s fucking shrinking.

I don’t have time for this shit. I have
time for her, and I have time for the
fighting. That’s it. Everybody else,
everything else, can go straight to hell.
Soon, the fighting will go straight to hell,
too.
Just a few more fights. I’ll retire at the
top, undefeated. I already know it’s
going to happen. I can’t fool myself into
thinking I haven’t made up my mind. But
I’m not there yet. Nearly, but not yet.
I have to make sure that she and I will
have everything we need.
I’m in nothing but a towel wrapped
around my waist, and I’m hoping the
short, stout man won’t see my bulge. I’ve
been sporting it this whole time, a rock-

hard boner that I’m hoping
voluminous fluffy fabric hides.

the

He’s a fucking reporter or something.
He’d have a field day writing about that
for his magazine or website or whatever.
Underground MMA fighter ‘Creature’
sits in his warm-up room, before the
biggest fight of his career, with a hardon…
But just thinking of Dee is all it takes
to bring me up. Just a stray thought, and
my mind goes from zero to one-hundred,
and I’m imagining her in my arms,
tasting her.
Since I started fighting, I’ve met a lot
of girls. They’re all batshit fucking
insane. They beg me to marry them –

I’ve been proposed to after a fight. I’m
there, blood dripping down my face,
sweat leaving shiny smears down my
body, and this chick is fucking holding a
ring out for me, asking if I’ll marry her.
She’s even down on one God damn knee.
People are fucking crazy.
The girls ask me all kinds of wild
shit. Every fight night at least half a
dozen ask me to have their children, to
give them a baby.
A baby is something I want. I want to
have a family, give my child something
that nobody ever gave me.
But not with any of them. I don’t want
any of them. I never have, and I never
will.

None of them compare to Dee.
Not a single one.
She is all I want.
“My name is Dan Peterson,” the meek
man opposite me says, sticking out a
hand. I shake it, feel his grip turn to
putty, and he seems mesmerized by how
my hand just utterly swallows his up.
“You have really big hands,” he blurts
out awkwardly.
I pull my hand from his, give him a
bored look.
“Mr. Marino said I could interview
you.”
“That’s fine,” I say, gesturing at him to
just fucking get on with it.

“Are you in a hurry?”
“I need to start pre-fight,” I say
evenly.
“You mean your warm-ups?” he asks.
I tilt my head to the side. “Yes, my
fucking warm-ups, stretching, etcetera.
Pre-fight. This your first fucking time
reporting on MMA?”
He grows flustered, his face goes red,
his breathing hitches, and his hands
shake. “No, I just wanted to make sure
we’re on the same proverbial page.”
“We’re not on the same fucking page,”
I tell him. “Use your knowledge, or
leave. Do your job, or leave. But don’t
ask me dumb fucking questions. I don’t

have time for this shit. If you are going to
ask me what fucking pre-fight is, then
you can fuck off.”
“O-okay.”
I’m sitting on a sofa, elbows on my
knees, and he’s on a stool opposite me.
The lighting is dim. For a few seconds, I
see his eyes linger on my body, the bulge
of my shoulders, the striations of muscle
on my chest and abdomen.
“Hey,” I say, snapping my fingers in
front of him. “Focus.”
I can see that he’s terrifically
uncomfortable, and I let out a slow
breath of air. I can’t believe this guy
needs to be babied.

Fucking hell, why did they send
someone so incompetent? Why the hell
did Glass okay this? He’s starting to live
vicariously through my publicity. It’s a
little pathetic.
“Peterson, why don’t you tell me who
you write for?”
“Um,” he says. “So, you know, I own
arguably the most visited underground
MMA website in the world, right?”
“I didn’t know,” I tell him. “But now I
do. What’s it called?”
“MMA-Underground?”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
I look over his shoulder toward the
door, praying that any moment now Dee

is going to walk in and I’m going to get
to end this stupid interview, scoop her
up in my arms, kiss her like it’s the last
kiss I’ll ever have.
I’m going to see the curve of her hips,
those thighs that I want to bite, her sexy,
beautiful body, and I’m going to…
God, I can’t get enough of her. I’ve
seen, smelled, touched and tasted every
gorgeous inch of her hundreds of times,
and yet all I want is more. Every time I
peel off her clothes, every time I run my
hands over her soft skin, I feel like it’s
all new again, the first time again.
I can’t imagine ever wanting anyone
else.
“Okay, so I’ve got some questions

here.” Peterson taps his pad with his
pencil. “But first I want to know if
there’s anything you consider, um, offlimits?”
“Fighting strategy,” I tell him straightup. “And my personal life.”
That gives him pause. “All of your
personal life?”
“Why don’t you just ask me the
questions,” I say. “And if I don’t answer,
I don’t answer.”
“And that’s the end of that?”
“You’re damn right it is.”
“Mr. Marino did say you would—”
“I don’t fucking care what Mr. Marino
said,” I say. “I’ll answer what I want to.

If you have a problem with that, you can
take it up with me. You want to take it up
with me?”
“Okay, okay,” he says, stammering a
little. “I don’t have a problem with that.
Really. Hey, we’re all entitled to
personal privacy, right?”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Was that
one of the questions you wanted to ask
me?”
“It was rhetorical,” he murmurs.
“Don’t waste my time. Get the
answers you need, then get out.”
“Hey, I’m just trying to form a
relationship with you, okay?”
“I am uninterested in forming a

relationship with you.”
“I don’t see why you have to cop an
attitude.”
Some backbone! Good.
“Let me fucking tell you something,” I
say, leaning forward. He sits back
almost instantly. “In about thirty minutes
I’m going to climb into a cage and fight a
guy six-three, two-hundred and forty
pounds of lean muscle mass. He’s fast as
hell, and is known for taking his
submission holds too far. We’re not just
throwing punches, and you should know
that. People have died in the cage, and
permanent injury is common.”
He whispers, “I know all of that.”

“So what kind of state of mind do you
fucking think you have to be in to get into
that cage?”
“Um, I don’t know?”
“Exactly. You fucking don’t. But
wasting my time beforehand is only
going to make it harder for me to prepare
that mindset. Stop fucking around. It’s
not personal. I don’t care about you
personally one way or the other. Take
your ego out of the equation and do your
fucking job so I can do mine.”
He wilts some more.
I look past him toward the door again,
wondering when Dee is going to arrive.
I think of her clawing at my back, her
legs wrapped around my waist in a vice

grip, her—
“So you, Duncan ‘Creature’ Malone,
are undefeated for thirty-three fights
now, right?”
“Correct.”
“Since you entered organized
underground fighting, you haven’t been
beaten. What is it, do you think, that
makes you a much better fighter than
your opponents?”
“That’s strategy.”
“Why do they call you ‘Creature’?”
“Read your own rag, I’m sure you’ve
written about it before.”
“But I want to get it from your
perspective.”

“I didn’t fucking come up with the
nickname,” I tell him, looking into his
small eyes. “I don’t refer to myself as
‘Creature’.”
“Fair enough,” he says, scribbling.
“Would you say, though, that it describes
your fighting style?”
“How the fuck would the word
‘creature’ describe my fighting style?”
“You know, you’re relentless in the
cage. Fast, aggressive, powerful. When
you fight, you give off the impression
that you’re only barely under control.”
I grin. “Barely under control, huh?
People who lose their minds in fights are
never good at fighting. You want barely
under control, go to a bar full of idiots

on a Friday night. Barely under control
does not describe what I, or any of my
opponents do. You should know that.”
Peterson frowns. “Would you share
with your fans any tips if they’re looking
to get into fighting?”
“Control, discipline, and mental
toughness. Technique. Leave the anger
out of it.”
“Not physical toughness? Strength?
Endurance?”
“You can have all the physical
attributes in the world, but if you’re not
good up here,” I say, tapping my temple.
“You’ll never be successful.”
“I guess that’s the same with anything

in life,” he says. “Why do you keep
looking over my shoulder?”
“None of your business.”
He raises his eyebrows for a moment,
then sighs and accepts my answer. I’m
controlling this interview and he should
know it. It’s high time he came around.
“You were raised in a group home,
weren’t you? In the poor city of—”
“Raised isn’t what I’d call it, but I
spent most of my childhood in the
system, yes. In more than one group
home.”
“Do you think that helped you with
your fighting?”
“Of course.”

“Could you explain how?”
“There are plenty of articles on what
life is like in the system,” I say. “Do
some research. Even the girls learn to
fight.”
“But what in particular?”
“Defending
myself,
obviously,
especially against older boys.”
“You were bullied by older boys?”
I meet his eyes again, and he
somehow shrinks a little more. “Not
bullied,” I tell him. “Like I said, I
defended myself.”
“Did it help the mental aspect?”
“Of course.”

“How so?”
“You’ve got to be tough or you won’t
make it.”
“Won’t make it?”
“You’ll just move from one system
into another.”
“Are you talking about prison?”
“Of course I fucking am.”
“But you were taken out of ‘the
system’ by Johnny Marino, yes? At the
age of sixteen?”
I nod. “That’s right.”
“He adopted you legally as his son.”
“Correct.”
“He

trained

you,

became

your

manager.”
“Yes.”
“To be a fighter.”
“Yes.”
“When did your training start?”
“Informally, from when I was about
eight years old. Formally, when I was
sixteen.”
“You mean Johnny Marino trained you
to fight as a teenager?”
I nod. “Yes.”
“You were sparring regularly as a
teenager against adults?”
“Yes.”
Peterson sits back, eyes-wide. “That

could be construed as child-abuse,
especially if he forced you to.”
“Nobody put a fucking gun to my
head,” I growl. “I chose it. But if you
want to write that about Johnny fucking
Marino, go right ahead. See what that
gets you. Gagged and tied to a cement
block at the bottom of the lake is one
possibility.”
“I don’t think I’ll put that in,” Peterson
says, offering a weak smile.
“I didn’t think you were that stupid.”
“You’re quite well-spoken, if I may
say so.”
“Is there a question hiding in there?”
“Just an observation.”

“And why is it a relevant one? Did
you expect me to be some fucking moron
because I’m a fighter? Or is it because
I’m an athlete?”
“N-no—”
“Maybe it’s my tattoos? Come on,
Dan. What did you really want to ask
me?”
“It’s just unexpected.”
“To who?”
“Everybody!”
“Then everybody can go to fucking
hell.”
He tacks in the wind.
“Um, there are rumors that you were

trained out of the country? Is that true?”
“No comment.”
“What about your love life? Any
girlfriends?”
“You write for TMZ now?”
“Your fans want to know.”
“I don’t care.”
“You don’t care about your fans?”
“You want to quote me, go ahead and
fucking quote me. I don’t give a shit, I
don’t owe them anything.”
“Arguably, you owe them your
career,” Peterson says. “After all, they
come to these fight nights and put money
into it, some of which reaches you. Are

you trying to say you don’t care about the
hand that feeds you?”
I consider Peterson. Maybe there’s
more to him than meets the eye. He’s got
a soft body but possibly a sharp mind.
Have I been lulled to sleep?
If so, I have more respect for this man
than before.
“I don’t control what other people do
or think,” I tell him, spacing my words.
“I fight, I win. That’s what I do, and
that’s all I worry about.”
“What about the ethics? We all know
underground fighting is illegal.”
“Funny that you should report on it,
make your advertising dollars or

whatever the fuck off it. Off the backs of
us fighters.”
“I’m press, it’s my duty to.”
“You basically run a blog, one that
champions the underground scene at
that.”
“The most popular blog,” he says.
“The readers belong to me. The fans.”
He tilts his head to the side, a challenge
in his eyes. “Your fans.”
“Dare to quote yourself?”
Peterson’s eyes twinkle. “You know,”
he says, his voice now instantly more
confident than it was before. “I can make
you out to be anyone I want.”
“Go on then,” I say. “But you have an

obligation to the truth. Compromise your
own integrity for all I give a shit. I can’t
help you, and what you write about me
will never matter to me.”
“So what does matter to you?”
“Fighting and family.”
“You mean Johnny Marino, your
adoptive father?”
I hesitate. “Sure.”
“Do you look up to him? Since he
used to be quite a well-known boxer?”
“Well-known how?” I ask Peterson.
“Why don’t you tell me what you know
of him?”
“He was considered talented, ahead
of his time. Fast and strong, a physical

specimen.”
“And what else?”
Peterson frowns. “He was often
injured, picked up the nickname
‘Glass’.”
I nod. At least he knows his fighting
history, and I suppose he deserves credit
for that.
“My career has already surpassed his.
‘Look up to’ is the wrong way to put it.”
It couldn’t be more wrong. I despise
the man.
Just a few more fights!
“Do you not care that he helped to
make you who you are?”

“I made me who I am. But of course
I’m gracious for the opportunities Glass
has helped to provide me.” I staple on
the standard answer.
“Doesn’t sound like the correct sort of
way to talk about your adoptive father?”
“We’re getting into personal territory
now.”
“You said that all that matters to you
is fighting and family?”
“Yes.”
“What about the other member of your
family, your foster sister?” He flips
through his note pad, bunches up his
brow. “Um, Deidre Marino?”
I regard the man. That was an act if

there ever was one. Everybody who
knows of Johnny Marino knows his
daughter by name.
“What about her?” I ask, instantly
feeling protective. What’s this guy
driving at?
“Is she in the business?”
“What business?”
“It’s an open secret that Johnny
Marino is a big-time mobster. Mafioso.
That he owns half this town, north of the
river. Do you also work for the mob,
Duncan? Are you an enforcer? You’d
make a good one, no doubt.”
I grin. “Interview’s over, Dan.”
“Just one more question, Duncan.”

“Get out or I throw you out.”
He chooses wisely.
I glare at him as he leaves, and then
lean back in the sofa.
I think about Dee, her beautiful face,
her soft skin.
Dee, legally my sister, but I’ve never
thought of her that way.
Dee, who means more to me than
anything else.
Dee, the only woman I can ever
imagine sharing my life with.

Chapter Twenty Five

“He’s so sexy.”
The words float through the black
speaker grill in the front of the
limousine. Beside me, Frank grins.
“I love his eyes. They’re so blue, like
water at the perfect beach.”
“Like sapphires!” another girl says.
I roll my eyes. Regular bunch of poets
back there.
“Who are these girls, anyway?” I ask,
jerking my thumb back toward the twoway partition glass that separates the
back of the limousine from the front.
They can’t see us or hear us up-front –

it’s just a mirror on their side – but we
can hear everything they say, see
everything they do. I peer back, and right
now they’re drinking champagne
liberally from the limo’s bar.
“And can we turn the speakers off?” I
add.
“Sorry, Deidre,” Frank says. He turns
his ruddy face and sleepy eyes toward
me, wears an apologetic expression.
“Your father’s orders.”
“You have to listen to them? That
would drive me nuts.”
“I listen to everything,” he tells me.
“Re-re… I don’t know the word.”
“Redundancy. So who are they,

anyway? Just some girls for Dad?”
Frank frowns, shakes his head
quickly. “Not your father, no. They’re for
his friends. But don’t worry, Deidre,
they’re here of their own choice.”
I make a face. Usually, you wouldn’t
need that qualification. Usually. Dad
swears he doesn’t do prostitution, but I
know that’s a lie. He only says it
because I’m a woman and he thinks I
can’t take it, thinks I’ll burst into
hysterics or something over it.
Like women haven’t been living in
this fucking world, too.
“You’d think they’d have something
better to do. God, they’re practically my
age. Why do they do this?”

All of Dad’s friends are his age… just
the thought of it icks me out. I wonder
again if these girls have a choice.
Nobody has a gun to their head, but life
is tough for a lot of people. The barrel is
not always made out of metal.
Dad preys
specifically.

on

those

people

I glance back, look through the mirror.
The girls, three of them, seem off.
They’re hyper, jittery, almost trembling,
but not from cold. The limo’s heated.
“They’re really here to see Duncan,
Deidre. You know that. They just
entertain some of your Dad’s associates,
that’s all. It’s a transaction.”
The girls in the back, three of them all

dressed up – impossibly-high heels, tiny
dresses, glittering jewelry – squeal with
laughter. I wince as the speakers erupt
into a static hiss.
“Damn it,” I whisper, rubbing my
ears, thankful I missed what they said.
No doubt it was something about
Duncan. No doubt it was something I
wouldn’t like to hear.
Words float through the speakers, but I
try to ignore them.
“I don’t think they’re talking about
anything important,” Frank says, and he
lowers the volume. He offers me a kind
smile.
“Thanks,” I tell him.

“They’re obsessed with Duncan,” he
says before briefly clearing his throat.
“All the girls are. Every fight now,
they’re all talking about him. More girls
turn up to fights than guys now. Can you
believe that? I shuttle more girls to these
fights than I do guys. It’s… I never
would have thought it, you know?”
I raise my eyebrows. “Yes, I know,” I
say. I hate that they all come to watch
him fight, call out his name, scream
‘marry me’ at him, flash their fucking tits
at him.
I hate that they can’t see me on his
arm. I’m his, and he’s mine. It’s petty…
but why can’t I indulge in a little
smallness every now and then?

“And yet,” Frank says. “I never see
Duncan bring one of them home. He’s
never cozying up with them, you know?
He could have any he pleased, all at the
same time if he wanted.”
My eyes narrow, and I turn them on
Frank.
“What?” he asks, shrugging, a guilty
and dirty smile prying his lips apart.
“What I would give to be his age again
with all them girls after me like that.”
“Frank, I really don’t need to hear
this.”
But the truth is he’s right. Duncan’s
practically a superstar. It’s not just
people clued in to underground fighting,
either. Even middle-class people from

the suburbs are starting to get wind of
him. Dad really took underground
fighting and blew it up big time.
Despite everything wrong with it – the
corruption, the betting, the dirty money,
the sheer violence of it all – it is the
sting of jealousy that I feel the most. I
can’t stand all these girls rubbing their
hands on Duncan’s body as he leaves the
cage after a win, walks back to his
private room. I can’t stand the thought of
any other girl getting to look at him, let
alone touch him.
They like to crowd around him, fancy
themselves groupies, cell-phone flashes
going off as each tries to get a selfie, as
each tries to strike a good pose and get a
non-blurry snap.

It’s completely ridiculous. They all
look so stupid doing it. The selfie-sticks
have only made it all worse.
I feel the indignation start to turn to
anger, and force myself to just forget
about it. There’s nothing I can do. What,
am I going to control what other people
think?
To his credit, Duncan never entertains
them. He never so much as looks at
them. Their hands grope him and he
ignores all of them, never lingers.
I got on him once about it before. I
was in a bad mood and looking to start a
fight. He asked me what he was
supposed to do… lay hands on them,
push them away?

He’s right of course. He could never
do that.
But sometimes I wish I could.
I take a flyer from my bag. Duncan’s
on it wearing nothing but his fighting
shorts. The lines of his body are cut
deep, and he’s staring straight into the
camera. His jaw is a sharp cut,
shadowed, and his lips full, endlessly
kissable. And then there are those
striking, blue eyes.
The girls in the back are right, of
course… his eyes are something else.
“Don’t tell me you fancy him,” Frank
says. “That would be wrong. He’s your
brother.”

Once again I look at Frank, now a
growing feeling of unease in my belly. I
correct him: “My adopted brother.”
Frank grunts. “You know, little
sisters… and he’s more like a cousin or
something, anyway.”
“Don’t tell me you’re opening up to
me about your own childhood fantasies,
Frank.”
He barks out a hoarse laugh. But little
does Frank realize he’s right on the
money… he’s always had a nose for
these things.
I rub my belly absent-mindedly.
I turn my eyes back down at the flyer.
They were handed out all around town

the last few days. The biggest
underground MMA cage fight of the year.
Duncan ‘Creature’ Malone versus
‘Manic’ Conrad Butler. Their nicknames
aren’t exactly oblique; they describe
their respective fighting styles perfectly.
I sigh, wipe my eyes over Duncan’s
almost-naked body. We’ve been joined
at the hip, inseparable, for so long. It’s
not been all good though, but what is?
Ups and downs are a part of life. It’s
like a heartbeat monitor. No ups and
downs means you’re dead inside.
But now… now I’ve got to break the
biggest news of his life to him… of my
life, too. Something I only just found out
for sure this morning. Something I only

just worked up the courage to go through
with.
Of course, I already knew. The body
doesn’t lie.
I fold up the flyer, put it back into my
bag. I’m just going to have to come out
and say it. It’s not going to be easy, but I
have to, no matter how worried I am
about what he might think. I keep
doubting myself. I keep telling myself,
Don’t think you know him that well.
Don’t think you can predict what he’ll
say.
I don’t know why. Maybe it’s just a
way to protect myself. Dim expectations
are a suit of emotional armor.
But I know what Duncan is like on

fight nights. He’s so amped-up, so
psychologically prepared to beat a man
to within inches of his life, to get him
into a choke hold and black him out, or
to take a twisted shoulder right to its
limit before it pops out of the joint, or
the same to a knee.
When he’s that way, it’s often hard to
get through to him. He puts up a mental
shield, becomes resistant to considering
anything but the fight. His face will drain
of emotion, become statuesque.
That’s his mental suit of armor.
“We’re here,” Frank says a few
minutes later. We drive toward a chainlink
fence
that
swings
open
automatically, and then we’re on a short

runway for small aircraft. We drive to
the end, where a narrow beam of light
splits the foggy night. The huge, sliding
doors to a plane hangar are slightly
open. Compared to the size of the
building, they look open only a sliver,
but I’ve little doubt the gap is wide
enough to fit an SUV through.
I pull out my mirror from my bag,
check my makeup quickly, rub smudged
eyeliner away under my eyes. I don’t
want Duncan to know I was crying
earlier. Panic got the better of me, but
only for a moment.
“You okay?” Frank asks. “You seem a
little down tonight.”
“I’m fine,” I whisper back at him.

“Don’t want to watch the fight?”
I shake my head. “Watch my… watch
Duncan take punches so Dad can earn
more money? Not really.”
Now there’s a stony silence, and I
look at Frank, that uneasy feeling in my
belly turning into nausea.
“What is it, Frank?”
“You been avoiding your old man for
a reason?” he asks.
I freeze. “What?”
“Forget it. Not my place.”
I swallow. Does he know? How
could he possibly?
“What is this about, Frank? Don’t

clam up on me.”
“Just you never come around the
house anymore. He’s worried about you,
Deidre.”
“No, he’s worried about himself.”
“Deidre, it’s not like that. I…”
Frank’s voice trails off. “It’s not my
place. You get going, now.”
I peer at him, decide not to push it so I
don’t look suspicious, and then my gaze
goes past him and out the driver’s side
window. The three girls are all walking
toward the hangar, their steps wobbly,
and likely not just from their insane
ankle-breakers.
“You let them do anything in the car?”

“Of course not!” Frank says, instantly
indignant. “Rules are rules. They just
drank the champagne. They’re on
something, though, but it was before they
got in.”
“Great,” I say, shaking my head. “Just
great. Thanks for the ride, Frank.”
“Don’t sweat it. Hey, can I ask you
something?”
“Sure.”
“Tell Duncan I wish him luck.”
“Sure.”
Frank grins. “I put fifty-large on him
tonight.”
“Alright, Frank,” I say.

I get out of the car, fix my bag over
one shoulder, and walk toward the
hangar in a perfume-drenched wake.

Chapter Twenty Six

Two guards wearing black suits and
earpieces approach me as I walk toward
the open hangar door.
“Excuse me, miss,” they say. “Do you
have the—”
“Flyer?” I ask, pulling it from my bag.
But they’ve already seen my face, and
they know who I am.
“Sorry, Ms. Marino,” they both
diffidently say in unison. They cast
quick, nervous glances at each other.
“It’s okay,” I tell them, smiling.
“Just doing our jobs.”
“Come on, it’s fine. Don’t worry

about it, I won’t bite. Where’s Duncan? I
need to speak to him.”
“There’s a closed-off area down in
the back,” the guard on the left informs
me. He’s got an accent I can’t place. Dad
always liked to hire new immigrants; he
says they’re easier to control. “There’s a
guard outside, too.”
“Okay,” I say, nodding. “Thank you.”
“Ms. Marino,” the guard says,
stepping in front of me when I move to
enter the hangar.
“Yes?”
He hesitates, seems to be trying to
figure out the most diplomatic words to
use. Eventually, he just spits it out.

“Are you carrying a weapon?” He
holds out a numbered tag. The number
reads eighty-six. “If you don’t mind.”
“No,” I tell him. I open my bag, let
him peer inside. “Satisfied?”
“Do you mind if I look inside myself,
Ms. Marino?”
I sigh, but give him my whole bag. He
rummages through it quickly, before
nodding and giving it back to me.
“I’m really sorry, but—”
“My father’s orders,” I say. “It’s okay,
I understand.”
No weapons allowed inside. A wise
decision, considering some people are
going to lose a lot of money tonight when

Duncan wins.
“Your father’s orders,” the guard
echoes, nodding.
“It’s okay. Really, you guys need to
relax.”
But I know they can’t. Dad hates
mistakes. Make one, and you are likely
to end up in hospital with a cast around
your leg.
Your second
underground.

mistake

puts

you

“One more thing, Ms. Marino.”
“What is it?”
“Your father wants to speak with
you.”

A pang hits me right in the gut. Why
would Dad want to see me?
“I’ll speak to him later.”
“He left specific instructions for you
to see him immediately.”
I sigh. “Thank you.”
I have no intention of seeing him
immediately. I’ll see him when I damn
well choose to.
I step into the hangar, and immediately
wince, shielding my eyes from the bright
spotlights. There is dust in the air, in the
beams, and it looks like dripping liquid
light.
The spotlights illuminate a steel-mesh
cage sitting in the center of the enormous

space. It’s elevated on a platform about
five-feet high, and facing each of its six
sides are bleachers that rise up at a steep
angle.
Already, the place is packed. I can
faintly smell booze on the air. I cast my
eyes around, studying the place. Toward
the right wall of the hangar is the
bookie’s station.
I lick my lips, shake my head.
I hate this. I hate that they bet on
Duncan like he’s some kind of dog. They
bet against him, want to see him beaten
up, broken, lose.
When I first started going to Duncan’s
fights, I used to think it was cool. He’d
be the winner, the star, and we’d

celebrate together.
We’d drink together afterward and
laugh and chat. And Duncan would never
want to talk about the fights, and I
always would. And Duncan would
always ask me questions about what I
was doing in college, as if it could
somehow be more interesting than
underground fighting with fucking
senators in attendance.
But now I feel differently. The glamor
has worn off. It’s been getting that way
for a while. The excitement has faded,
and I’m starting to see it for what it truly
is. Duncan is, to Dad, to the other mob
bosses and attendees, nothing but an
animal in a fight.

They all want to see blood and make
money.
Now… now the fights are different.
Now I see a man I care for with all of
my heart taking punches, and sometimes
it’s worse when he throws them.
I’ve watched Duncan snap a man’s leg
in two, choke a man blue, turn a face to
red and white mush in a flurry of
punches.
I worry what it does to him.
What it’s doing to me.
After thirty-three fights, after helping
to clean his wounds, after watching him
wince in pain just getting out of bed the
next day… now I hate it.

I blink myself out of reverie, look
around the hanger for where Duncan’s
private partition will be. Toward the left
wall is the bar. Drinks are sold liberally,
and you can even get a little something
else on the side if you know how to ask
for it. But guards walk through the area
regularly. Anybody getting too rowdy
gets thrown out.
I begin to make my way down toward
the back of the hangar. I can see large,
roofed partition, a building built inside
the hanger.
A screech of laughter snatches my
attention, and I see the same three girls
that were in the limousine walk past me,
arms linked. They’re still wobbly, and
they are moving in the same direction I

am, flicking their hair, drawing attention
to themselves.
I follow them slowly, all the way to
the back room where Duncan is. A guard
approaches them, and he puts his hands
out.
“I’m sorry,” he says, shaking his head.
“You can’t come back here.”
“But we just want to talk to Creature,”
one of the girls says, her voice a drawnout whine.
“Off limits,” the guard says.
The girls all look at each other, and
then turn big, puppy-eyes on the guard.
They blink eyelashes at him, pout their
lips.

“Please? We only want to wish him
good luck.”
“A kiss for luck!” one of the girls
blurts, and they all descend into giggling.
“Maybe something more.”
I roll my eyes.
“You can see him later,” the guard
says, his voice growing sterner. “When
he’s fighting.”
But the girls still don’t give up, and I
grow irritated. I walk around them with
a sigh, and meet the guard’s eye. He
nods at me, swings open the door. The
hinges grind.
“Why can she go in?” I hear one of the
girls complain.

Another one hisses at her to shut up.
“That’s Mr. Marino’s daughter!”
I turn around, meet her eyes. She gives
me the best bitch-look she can muster as
the door shuts.
And then I’m in darkness, and blink
rapidly, seeing spots while my eyes
adjust. A pair of strong arms wraps me
up from behind, shocking me, and I feel
warm breath against the back of my
neck, feel lips against my skin.
“I’ve been waiting for you all night,
Dee.”

Chapter Twenty Seven

I turn in Duncan’s arms, but before I
can speak he crushes his lips against
mine.
He’s on me all in an instant, hands
roaming, devouring. He lifts me up,
carries me deeper into the room, and
when I wrap my legs around his waist I
can feel his bulge pushing into me.
“God, you smell so good,” he growls
into my ear before capturing my lips
again and making them his, sending my
heart racing, my breath panting.
I melt in his arms, want to push off
him because I’ve got such big news to
tell him, but find myself unable to.

When he breaks our kiss, I finally
manage to say, “Wait.”
He sets me down, concern on his face.
“What’s wrong? Did anybody give you
trouble outside?”
“No,” I say, seeing the flare of
protectiveness in his eyes. “No, it’s
nothing like that.”
Every fight night he’s like this. Ultrapossessive, protective, as if the whole
world is out to get me and he’ll take
them all on… and win.
It’s silly, but I know it’s a product of
the mindset he has to get himself into. He
spends the whole day preparing his
mentality, so that when he’s in the cage,
the prospect of having bones broken

doesn’t scare him one bit.
It scares me, though. It always scares
me.
“I think I need to tell you something,”
I say to him quickly, but when I see the
look in his eyes I know he’s not in the
talking mood.
His tight body glistens in the dim
light, and in between us his manhood is
an iron bar pressed up against my
abdomen through his towel.
I touch his face, feel his heat. He takes
my finger into his mouth, bites it, and I
touch his soft, full lips, trace my finger
along the sharp line of his jaw, over his
cheek bones.

God, he always looks so good before
fights. I don’t know why I like it so
much, I just do. The sweat, the dim
lights, the way he’s so locked-in, the
desire I see in his eyes…
I can smell him, too, from his pre-fight
warm-ups. I love the way he smells,
especially when I can detect a hint of his
musk.
His eyes narrow, and there’s a break
in his expression.
“Nothing,” I say, quickly. I realize that
now is not the time to tell him. I realize
that doing so will shatter whatever stony
state he’s in, whatever mindset he needs
to be in to take a beating and win this
fight.

I can’t do that to him. I won’t. The
news will have to wait. He’ll still be
here after his fight, and so will I.
The fight won’t last that long.
It can wait.
I lean back, look at his bulge, the
outline of his need for me, and then back
into his eyes.
“You look hot,” I tell him.
A small grin parts his lips, and I see
the tops and bottoms of his straight teeth.
He pulls me close to him, wraps an arm
around my waist.
“I’ve missed you,” he whispers. “I
want you.”
I coil my arms around his neck, smile

back at him. My heart is racing, there’s
so much going on in my mind at once.
But what floats to the top is the
knowledge that I want him, too. That
I’ve also been thinking about him all
day. That after the first tears of panic,
and last tears of joy, that I wanted
nothing more than to be with him.
To be close to him.
God, why today, of all days? Why
fight night?
“How much do you want me?” I ask
him.
The lust for me that I see in his eyes
catches fire.
Duncan pulls me in tighter, and I fold

my arms around him, run my palms along
his hard, broad back.
But he turns me around in his arms so
he’s behind me again. He likes to be
behind me. He begins kissing the side of
my neck. The touch of his warm, soft
lips makes me hum, makes me crane my
neck to the side so he can kiss more of
me.
“More than anything,” he growls. “I
can’t stop thinking about the way you
smell, the way you taste, the way you
feel.”
The sensation of his warm breath
rushing against my neck is intoxicating,
and his body heat radiates into me.
His hands run up my sides, and I feel

a welling of anticipation inside me, a
pressure. His touch, even through my
clothing, is so electric, so possessive.
It’s like my body belongs to him.
“You’re only mine,” he says, his voice
quiet. “I’m never letting you go.”
He’s like this normally, but on fight
nights, it’s dialed up to eleven.
I press back into him, feel his
hardness against me, and reach behind
me and cup him through the fluffy towel
he’s got wrapped around his waist.
“You’re always so hard,” I tell him,
the thought turning to words effortlessly.
“You make me hard,” he says, taking a
fistful of my hair. He tugs it back, makes

me look up at the ceiling, and from
behind me he leaves a trail of hot kisses
along my jaw, my chin.
“I spent the whole day imagining you
moaning onto me,” he tells me. “With
your arms above your head, your breasts
against my chest.”
“Is that all you think about?” I ask,
letting a small smile creep across my
lips.
I want to turn toward him, want to kiss
him, let him claim my lips as his like he
is my body, but he doesn’t let me.
“Every fucking minute. It’s been hell
without you.”
“Even while you were training?”

“Especially while I was training.”
“Even while you were giving your
interview?”
“I think he noticed.”
I laugh at the thought, Duncan sitting
there with an erection while getting
asked inane questions.
“You must be frustrated, then,” I say,
gripping onto his manhood harder
through the towel. I find the edge of the
cloth, slip my hand inside, and there
wrap my fingers around him.
“You have no fucking idea,” he
breathes.
I start to slowly caress him, stroke his
cock. I can feel his pulse in my fingers…

or maybe it is my own racing heart? I
can’t tell.
I bring my hand up and over his tip,
feel a dab of wetness on my fingers.
Slowly I rub my thumb against the back
of it, and I hear him exhale slowly, know
that what I’m doing makes him feel
good. There’s one rule on fight nights:
He can’t come. He says it helps his
testosterone levels immediately before
the fight.
“Do you enjoy doing this?” I ask him.
“Even if you don’t get to—”
“Every fucking second.”
His hands move inward from my
sides, cup my breasts, and I sigh as he
massages them, kneads them hungrily. I

feel the press of his teeth against the skin
of my neck, the dab of his wet tongue.
“Some girls wanted to get in,” I say
slowly. “They said they wanted to give
you kisses for good luck.”
“Fuck those skanks,” he says, his
voice deep. “I only want you.”
“Just me?”
“Just you.”
“But for how long?” I tease. “What
about when I get older?”
“Then I’ll get old with you.”
I smile, push my head against his.
“What if I don’t want you anymore when
you’re older?”

“Well, tough shit because I’m not
leaving you.”
He’s more emotional today, I can pick
up on it. Maybe he senses the news,
somehow. Maybe, on some intuitive
level, he knows.
“You still don’t know what you do to
me, Dee.”
“I can feel what I do to you.”
I take his hand, push it down over my
belly, then lower, and he dips it below
my skirt, brings it up, cups me.
I gasp at the heat in his palm. I feel it
so acutely, and through my underwear he
starts to rub me slowly, pull sighs and
soft moans from my lips.

His body language, even just the aura
of lustful energy he has speaks only of
his desire for me, and it makes me feel
so attractive, so wanted, makes me want
him more in turn. He wants me bad…
it’s not just fight nights. It’s every single
night. Every waking moment.
I hear him inhale beside me. He
always likes to smell me, right by my
ear. I don’t wear perfume on fight nights
because he doesn’t like me to. He says
he loves the way I smell.
I know what he means. I love the way
he smells, unmasked, unaltered,
uncovered. I love to wear his gym
hoodies… he thinks its gross because he
sweats into them, but I like it. Maybe it
is gross, but I don’t care.

He starts to rub me faster, settles into
a rhythm, and he pulls back my hair
again, turns me so we’re facing the fullbody mirrors that line the wall.
With him behind me, his lips against
my neck, his hand beneath my skirt, and
all in clear view in the mirror… I never
expected watching myself and him to be
hot, but it is. It’s really hot.
“Do you want me to make you feel
good?” he asks.
I nod.
“Say it.”
“I want you to make me feel good,” I
say breathlessly.
Already I can feel my knees growing

weak. Already I’m starting to sag in his
arms as he plays me expertly, his chosen
instrument.
My
breathing
quickens,
my
temperature rises, and in his arms I feel
so safe, and in his arms I feel so wanted.
“Yes,” I hiss at him, letting my eyes
fall shut. He rubs me slowly, drags his
tongue up the skin of my neck, squeezes
my breasts, plays me so deftly, sends a
mild and budding pleasure thrumming
through my body.
I squirm in his arms, push my ass back
against him so I can feel his hardness.
I’m his willing captive, letting him touch
me, and he pulls soft moans from my
lips, makes me feel those hints of bliss,

behind which is the promise of so much
more.
“Mmm,” I moan, and he bites the back
of my shoulder, sends goose bumps
erupting all over my body, and sends
shivers shooting down to my toes.
I grin, lick my lips, grip onto him
tighter behind me and start to jerk him
off. He moves his body to the side, and I
pull his cock out from inside his towel,
and I can see him now in the mirror, see
his hardness, feel him.
“Damn, you are sexy, Dee,” he says,
meeting my eyes in the mirror. We look
at each other, him touching me, me
touching him, giving each other pleasure.
And then when he can’t take it

anymore, he picks me up, pulling a yelp
and a laugh from my lips, and he sets me
down on the sofa, and pulls off my flats
slowly.
He strokes my feet, makes me giggle
and squirm, and then in between my legs
he kisses each of my toes in turn, then the
tops of my feet, and then makes his way
up my inner thigh, leaves a trail of
tingling skin.
I’m so wound-up already I almost
want to hurry him on, but I know that on
fight nights, we go at his pace. He made
that clear the first time we ever did this
before a fight.
His crystal blue eyes gaze up at me,
and he lifts my skirt up, over my hips,

and then with his teeth he hooks the
elastic of my underwear and pulls down.
I grin at him, see him smirk back as he
pulls it off with his mouth, baring me to
him. He brings my panties to his nose,
smells me, and for a moment I feel a
flash of modesty, but the look in his eyes
quashes that instantly. It’s all hunger and
lust, all desire.
He guides my legs up, so my feet are
on the sofa, and presses his face closer
to my sex, kisses me around my outer
lips, teases me.
I feel his tongue dart out, touch my clit
for an instant, and I’m jolted by
sensation, a sharp hint of pleasure.
“You smell so good,” he says, voice

baritone, lust-laced. And then he pulls
his tongue up my sex, and I moan and
quake and tense my thighs as he starts
licking me just the way I like it.
He settles on my clit, flicks it
rhythmically with his tongue and I’m just
lost in sensation, in heaven, leaning back
against the sofa, wanting to stretch out
like a cat and let him pleasure me.
I grip onto his hair, pull him harder
against me, mash myself against him as
he laps at me like he needs it to live.
“Oh shit,” I hiss, feeling the
temperature in my core rising, feeling
that pressure in my belly. He works me
so expertly, knows exactly how to bring
me surging forward toward the edge.

“Yes!” I groan, gripping onto his hair
harder, pulling him tighter onto me. I feel
my body grow tight, lift myself off the
sofa, right up against the edge.
And then he backs me off.
I grin at him, tut, shake my head. “You
big tease. You always do that.”
He smirks, keeps licking me, and I fall
back into bliss as he rings a finger
around my entrance, groan and squeeze
as he pushes it inside me.
I moan as he slides in a second finger,
feel myself stretch around him, and then
he starts to finger me, pressing upward
with each thrust, making me feel so
good.

He groans onto me, and his laps grow
feverish like he’s starving for me, and
his fingers fuck me harder, and again I
feel that pressure inside me, feeling
myself coiling tighter and tighter, ready
to explode.
“Come on,” I pant, practically begging
him to make me come, to give me the
release I want. “Fuck, yes yes, yes…”
I throw my head into the sofa, arch my
back, grind myself against his face.
He brings me right there again, so
close, and at the precipice, right when
ecstasy is about to come crashing down
all over me, there’s a loud knock at the
door.
I freeze. A voice that comes booming

through the door: “Fifteen minutes.”
But Duncan doesn’t stop. He keeps
going, and remembering that the door is
locked, my body thrills with pleasure
again. I’m lost in it all again, climbing
higher and higher. The pressure is
building… I’m going to—
“Ooohhh,” I moan as he drives me off
the edge, as I crest. I’m soaring, in orbit,
and I moan at him, “Don’t stop!”
He doesn’t, and as ecstasy grips me I
squeeze around his fingers, and he makes
my orgasm last for so, so long, I don’t
even know how he does it.
I’m shaking, trembling, mouth
clamped tight so that I don’t moan too
loudly. I curl my toes, grip at his hair, tug

him hard, so hard I’m sure it hurts.
He just makes me feel so, so good.
And then I’m coming down, the waves
of pleasure no longer so intense. I’m
bathing in a pool of bliss, humming,
grinning.
I let out the long breath I was holding,
and shiver as I grow too sensitive.
Duncan pulls his fingers from me,
plunges my pleasure into his mouth,
sucks me off his fingers.
He tells me how good I taste, and his
towel has come apart, and looking down
at him in between my legs, I can see his
hard cock jutting out from his crotch.
He leans forward, drags his tongue up

my sex, and I shudder, pushing him off
me.
“Wait a minute, okay?” I mewl at him,
grinning. “I’m sensitive.”
He kisses me furiously, crushing his
lips against mine, and he takes my hand
and guides it to his cock, and I grip onto
him and jerk him fast and hard.
He climbs up over me, straddling me
almost, his back curved. I push him
backward, and once again I feel
overwhelmed by desire.
I kiss him down his chiseled stomach,
smell his musk, bury my nose in his
trimmed pubic hair and smell my man.
I kiss my way up his shaft, lick up the

droplets of pre-cum beading at his tip,
and then I take it into my mouth, bob up
and down on him fast, press my tongue
against the back of his cockhead and jerk
him to the same rhythm.
He leans back, his body tightening,
and he runs his fingers through my hair,
tells me how fucking sexy I am.
I love the way he tastes, love the
groans that leave his lips, love the way
he looks at me while I suck him off,
while I bring him closer and closer to
the edge.
His breaths grow ragged, his thighs
tense up, and when I get him almost there
I pop him out of my mouth, and look up
at him, grinning.

The look on his face is that of pure
torture.
“God damn it,” he growls, leaning
down, kissing me. I push my tongue into
his mouth, make him taste himself, and
he just kisses me harder for it.
He lifts me up with an easy strength,
one that makes me feel small in his arms,
and I wrap my legs around his waist. His
eyes bore into mine, and then flick down
to my lips, and he kisses me again, like
he can’t get enough of me.
His cock is pressing against my
entrance, and he lets me sidle down his
body, and I gasp as he enters me,
stretching me.
Slowly, his manhood inches into me,

and I grip onto him as if for dear life as
he fills me up, makes me feel so
unbelievably, fantastically full.
I moan into his ears, only for him to
hear because I know he loves it. He
bites my shoulder, licks a stretch of skin
up my neck, and then he pulls his hips
back and thrusts all the way into me.
I dig my nails into his skin, moan
louder into his ear, and he starts to fuck
me standing. Our bodies slaps wetly
together, and he guides my forehead to
his so he can look into my eyes.
It’s a struggle to be quiet – we have to
be discreet – and he’s making it so damn
difficult.
“Duncan,” I breathe, wrapping my

arms tighter around his neck, pushing his
face down against my breasts. I feel his
tongue in between, and then he bites me.
“Your fight’s starting soon,” I say.
“I don’t want to leave you.” He thrusts
more forcefully into me. I tighten up in
pleasure, grip onto his waist harder with
my legs.
“Lean back,” he says, and he supports
my weight with his arms, and I hold onto
his neck with just one arm, lean back in
his grip so that there’s space between us.
“Come for me,” he says. I know an
order when I hear one.
I send my free hand down in between
us, start rubbing my clit while he fucks

me.
“Moan for me.”
I moan for him, rub myself, bring
myself racing to the edge, love how he
makes me feel.
“You are so fucking sexy,” he growls
at me as I moan, let my eyes fall shut in
bliss. “I love how tight your little pussy
is around my cock. You make me feel so
good.”
He senses my nearness, thrusts harder
and faster into me, and my thighs tense
and that spring coils tighter and tighter,
and then I’m right on the edge again, so,
so, so close…
“Duncan,” I breathe, bunching up my

face.
He leans forward, takes my lips in his
just as I climax, and I moan into his
mouth, crest hard and tight and intense,
so intense it almost hurts.
I shake and tremble. White hot bliss
sears my senses, and I’m in heaven, and
I never want this feeling to end.
He drives me through it, makes it last,
and I’m limp in his arms, wracked by
pleasure, barely able to hold on
anymore.
I feel so damn good, so close to him,
so intimate with him. Just me and him,
alone.
And then I’m passed the peak, panting,

sweating, clinging onto him.
His thrusts slow, and we stop moving,
and he holds me tight against him, his
cock still hard inside me.
He holds me for ages, refuses to let
me go. His breathing slows, and he
smells me, kisses me beneath my ear.
His lips find mine again, but this time
the kiss is gentler. Our tongues dance,
and I wish this didn’t have to end.
I shudder as he slides himself out of
me, and sets me down onto my feet. My
knees are wobbly, weak, and I have to
stand against him, lean my bodyweight
onto him. He holds my face in his hands,
looks into my eyes.

“Are you okay?” I ask, panting,
stroking his face, feeling his stubble
against my hand. “You seem different
tonight.”
Duncan shrugs.
different tonight.”

“Something feels

Our intimacy seems to crack. We step
apart from each other. I smooth my skirt,
my top, fix my hair. Duncan pulls on his
compression shorts.
He’s still hard as an iron bar, and it’s
going to take quite a few minutes for that
to slowly go way.
There’s a silence between us. This
happens before every fight, but this
time… it feels more pronounced.

“Don’t get too beat up,” I tell him,
taking my phone out of my bag quickly
and checking it. “I can’t stand watching
you get hurt.”
“I promise,” he tells me. I go to him,
let him wrap me up in his arms, and I
hear him say to me, “I really want to
know what you were going to tell me.”
I feel a pang of guilt, but know I can’t
distract him during his fight with his
toughest opponent yet.
“It’s nothing,” I say. I know it’s a lie
but it’s the best thing to do. “I’ll tell you
afterward. I promise.”
He nods, accepts what I say, doesn’t
push it any further. I love that about
him… he knows when to push, and when

not to.
He presses his forehead to mine, runs
a thumb over my lip. “You are amazing,”
he tells me. There is only sincerity in his
voice. “The best thing that ever
happened to me.”
Then, as if unable to stand that
moment of gushiness, he separates from
me, and walks around the changing room
stretching. He begins his breathing
exercises, thumps his shoulders and
chest with closed fists, starts to psych
himself up for the fight.
I find my underwear on the sofa, pull
it on quickly, and then share one last
look with him. He nods at me.
Already I can see the fire in his eyes,

and that stony expression on his face.
He’s getting into his acute zone, that
mental realm where he can beat a man to
within inches of his life and not have it
affect him.
To this day, I don’t know how he does
it. Duncan’s never not returned from that
realm, even if he sometimes gets a little
punch-drunk.
“I’ll be watching,” I tell him.
“Then that means I’ll win.”
“Why’s that?”
“Can’t lose in front of the most
beautiful girl in the room.” He smirks
playfully.
“Groan,” I say, rolling my eyes. “But

you better win. Don’t get hurt, okay?”
“I won’t.”
I leave him then, pick up my bag, and
go back out into the fray.
The same three girls who were trying
to get in to see Duncan mill about, shoot
death-stares my way.
I ignore them, don’t have time for that
bullshit.
Duncan’s all mine, anyway, and that’s
never going to change.
He’ll now do his final warm-ups, and
take his electrolyte-cocktail drinks that
he mixes up himself. Fast-acting
supplements to prevent cramping, boost
overall oxygen uptake, get his balance of

minerals right so water isn’t pulled out
of his blood and muscles and into his
bladder.
He’ll do his stretches, put heating
strips on his major muscle groups to
dilate the blood vessels there. He’ll do
breathing
exercises,
controlled
hyperventilation to saturate his muscles
with as much oxygen as possible prior to
the fight, to prevent the initial burst of
lactic acid build-up that comes with the
start to every fight; they go zero-to-onehundred in under a second in the cage.
I know it all by heart. I’ve researched
the biochemistry, helped Duncan to
formulate his cocktails. We’ve consulted
with nutritionists, doctors, trying to find
the perfect balance for Duncan’s body.

His metabolism blazes, and he burns
through energy reserves quickly. At just
five-percent body-fat, he doesn’t have
enough free energy on his body to truly
last him through a fight without him
feeling fatigued, and we can’t let his
blood-sugar levels drop.
There’s no stoppage in underground
fighting unless there’s excessive blood.
There are no rounds, no breaks. It’s fight
until one falls, plain and simple. That
means no rehydration. That means no
fuel-uptake.
It’s more complicated than the pros, in
that respect. You have to get your body
more prepared. In the event of stoppage
because of too much blood, usually by

then it doesn’t matter anymore. If there’s
that much blood, somebody needs to go
to the hospital.
Duncan will take some slow-release
glucose pills to keep his sugar levels up.
He’ll take beta-alanine to keep his
muscles working efficiently and combat
natural fatigue.
But really, in the end, these are all just
the small bits that, from the outside, we
can control. Most of the work toward
winning a fight will be the physical
work, something that can’t be bandaided by supplements.
Duncan’s simply going to have to fight
better than Manic. I’ve seen the videos
of Manic with him, scouted Manic’s

fighting style with him.
It’s going to be Duncan’s toughest
fight yet. I hate to think it, but there is
some flicker of doubt in me that he’ll
win this fight.
It’s highly possible that this will be
his first loss.
Losing is part of it, he knows it and I
know it. This Cinderella run he’s been
on has been fantastic and entirely to his
credit, but he’s going to have to lose
someday.
I’m worried about how he’ll take it.
It will be a shock for him if he does. I
know, psychologically, he can weather
that storm. But to say he won’t be

bruised would be to say that he wasn’t
human.
And he’s very, very human.
I make my way through the stands, go
to the table where Dad and Frank sit
with the other mob bosses. He beckons
me to him, whispers into my ear, tells me
he needs to speak to me privately.
“The fight’s about to start,” I say to
him. Duncan’s already walking out of the
back, and the gaggle of girls are now
around him, screaming and screeching,
cellphone flashes blinding.
But Dad’s expression is hard. He
looks pissed about something. He gets
up, excuses himself from the table, and
pulls me by my elbow out of the

bleacher-stands.
I cast a look over my shoulder, see
Duncan walking around the cage. Any
moment now he’s going to look for me,
but he’s not going to find me.
God damn it, fighting is about routine!
Dad is going to fuck this all up. Every
fight has to be the same, same ritual.
That means Duncan has to find me in the
crowd. We have to meet eyes. He has to
see that I’m there supporting him.
Duncan needs me.
“Dad!” I cry, trying to shake my
elbow free of his grip, but he just holds
me harder, and pulls me roughly toward
an empty portion of the hangar, behind
the bookie’s table, and into a back room

where all the betting money is collected
and kept under-guard.
“Hey!” I cry, but his eyes shoots
daggers at me. He whistles at the two
guards, and they leave, shut the door
behind them.
Now that we have some privacy, I let
loose. “What the hell is wrong with you,
Dad? Why are you being such a fucking
prick tonight?” I rub my elbow. His grip
was hard. “You hurt me, you know!”
He ignores what I say. “Is there
something you want to tell me?” he asks,
hands on his hips. He’s huffing. His face
is red, and I know the look of anger in
his eyes when I see it. His gold teeth
seem to glint a darker shade.

Inside my head, bomb sirens start to
wail. I look around the room, see
briefcases tagged, ordered, stacked on
shelves. Duffel bags, paper envelopes. I
spy one brown envelope with Frank’s
messy scrawl on the outside. His fiftygrand bet on Duncan.
“No,” I tell Dad.
Dad pinches his brow, then rubs a
hand over his gleaming, sweating bald
dome. He’s really worked up.
“Deidre,” he says, his voice barely in
control. “Don’t lie to me.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “What are
you talking about?”
“Don’t lie to me, Deidre!” he snaps,

smacking his fist against the wall. I
wince, step backward reflexively.
“Dad,” I say, shaking my head. “What
the hell is wrong with you? You’re
scaring me.”
He takes a deep breath of air before
asking in a low voice, “Are you
pregnant?”
I swallow. I haven’t told anybody, not
even Duncan.
How the hell does he know?

Chapter Twenty Eight

Dad is scaring me.
“Sit down.”
His tone is frosty, and he gestures at a
stool in the room.
Great, I think to myself. I take the
seat. What choice do I have? Dad’s not
going to let me out of this room.
Dad is not going to let me out of this
room.
How fucked up is that?
The steel stool is uncomfortable,
moves a little when I shift my weight. He
puts his hand into his suit-jacket pocket
and pulls out a ziplock bag. It takes me a

moment to focus on what’s inside it.
But when I see the thin, white,
cylindrical object, panic sends my heart
racing.
“I don’t know what that is,” I lie.
“I said don’t lie to me, young
woman,” he barks. “It’s yours. Don’t try
to deny it. There were others, too.”
“How could you possibly know that’s
mine?” I ask a second before it dawns
on me. I widen my eyes in shock. “You
went through my trash? At my dorms?”
He throws the ziplock back onto the
metal table beside me. The plastic
pregnancy test pen rattles.
“I didn’t personally, no.”

“You made someone else do it?”
“Frank.”
I’m speechless. The world is
spinning. Frank? That’s what he was on
about in the limousine, acting all weird!
But I know he was just following Dad’s
orders. The good soldier.
God damn it, Frank!
“Why?” I nearly shout. It feels like the
ground is shaking beneath my feet. The
indignity… I’m… I can’t even put into
words how I feel. “For how long have
you been going through my stuff? My
fucking trash? Did you do it when I still
lived at home, too?”
I shake my head. I can’t even… I can’t

even—
“Since you were a teenager,” he says,
waving his hand at me. “Don’t act so
surprised. It’s for your own protection.”
“My protection?” I cry.
“All of our protection. To make sure
nothing sensitive gets out. You know
how dangerous it can be in our situation.
You know that we’re constantly
targets… the police, the other families.
Anything they can get their hands on,
they’ll use against us. Against you. They
will absolutely root through our garbage.
It was for your own protection.”
I shake my head at him in disbelief.
Everything I’ve thrown away since I was
thirteen was rooted through… seven

years of my privacy violated, maybe
more.
“Was it always Frank?”
Dad shakes his head. “Not always.
But most of the time.”
I bury my face in my hands. I can’t
believe it.
All these years.
It makes me sick!
“Get over it,” Dad says. “Your trash
is not that interesting. Nobody’s is.”
“You violated my privacy. Do you
have any idea how I feel right now?”
He sighs, folds his big arms over his
barrel-chest. He’s put on comfort weight

as he’s gotten older, but beneath that is
still a strong, ex-boxer’s body.
I am physically afraid of my father.
That just makes me even sicker.
“I’m not going to repeat myself more
than this last time, Deidre,” Dad warns.
“It was for our protection.”
“You should have told me.”
“Then you’d just hide things.”
“I have the right to!”
“Not from me!” he yells, shocking me
into silence. “Not from your father!” He
points at the pregnancy tester. “Explain
this now.”
“What’s to explain?”

“Who is the father?”
I lick my lips and lie: “Someone I met
at a party.”
Predictably, Dad’s face morphs into
shocked judgment. He’s so oldfashioned.
“I didn’t raise you that way.”
“You didn’t raise me at all.”
“Not this again.”
“You think you were a good father?
You never cared about me, especially
not once Duncan came into the picture.”
I know why I’m doing this, just to get
him off-balance… anything to drive him
off-topic. To not make it obvious that his
surrogate son, the one he thought he

could adopt and then shape into a better
version of himself, the one he tried – and
failed – to tame, is the father of my baby.
“What’s the boy’s name?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?” he cries in
disbelief. But then the expression on his
face flattens. I can see the cogs in his
mind whirring. He’s starting to suspect I
might be lying. He knows I wouldn’t
forget something like that.
“You’re lying to me, don’t think I
can’t tell.” He lifts his hands up, claps
them together, rubs them out of
frustration. “My own daughter, my own
flesh and blood, the daughter I raised,
gave a good life. I spilled blood for you,

and this is how you repay me?”
“You never once did anything for
me!” I fire back at him. “You only did it
for yourself, for your empire! You never
hid how disappointed you were to have
a daughter. You even went out and
adopted a fucking son!”
“You watch your fucking mouth,” he
snarls. “That’s not how a lady talks. And
you’re right,” he says. “I regret that your
mother couldn’t give me a son. But that
doesn’t mean I wasn’t happy to have
you.”
“Fuck you, Dad,” I say, pointing a
trembling finger at him. “You were never
happy to have me. Not once.”
“That hurts,” he says, comically

touching his chest. “You’d say that to
your own father.”
I shake my head, fold my arms. He’s
so fucking manipulative. “I’m not talking
to you anymore.”
“Why won’t you tell me who the
father is? If he’s just some boy you…
had relations with at a college party.”
He winces as he says the words. “Then
why do you care?”
“I know what you’ll do to him.”
“What is it you think I’ll do?”
“Have Frank pay him a visit, and then
I’ll be reading his obituary.”
Dad sighs over-dramatically. He
always was a bit of an actor. He always

did think of himself as playing some kind
of part in some kind of script.
Real life… never seems to be real to
him. Especially when others suffer at his
feet.
“I’ll raise the child as my own,” he
says, voice stone-cold and resolute. “If
it’s a boy, he’ll be my son.”
“What?” I cry. “Are you insane?”
“You’re not to tell anybody about this.
I’m sending you to live with Aunt Ger
—”
“You sure as fucking hell aren’t!” I
shout. “This is my baby, and my life.”
He takes a deep, shuddering breath.
“You will do as I say.”

“It’s my baby, and you have no right to
tell me what to do.”
Dad sighs, spaces his words. “You
will do as I say. This is the family way.”
“I don’t fucking want to be in your
family. I didn’t ask to be in your family!”
“You will do as I say,” he repeats.
“Nobody knocks up Johnny Marino’s
daughter without my permission, do you
hear me? If the other families get wind
of this… if they know that my daughter is
the type of girl to—”
“You care more about what they think
of you than what I think of you. How sad
is that?”
“Reputation is everything in this town.

You know that.”
I’m so disgusted. I want to hurl curse
words at him but know it won’t make
any difference.
“You will tell me who the father of the
baby is.”
“No, I won’t.”
“You will,” he says, and he steps
forward. I wince, but he takes my hand,
holds it. “You’re my daughter, and you
will because I love you, and I’m trying
to protect you.”
I tear my hand from his. “Don’t try
and manipulate me, Dad! I’m not a little
girl anymore. You can’t lie to me
anymore. We both know why you’re

doing this. You don’t want an
illegitimate baby in the family. You don’t
want anybody to know… your precious
reputation. God forbid your daughter
have a baby out of wedlock! Oh, what
will the other mob bosses think of me?”
I sneer at him. “What century are you
living in, anyway? Is a woman allowed
to even speak in your presence, or does
she need your permission, too, you
fucking bastard!”
Dad sighs with melodramatic
absurdity. “The father never sought my
permission. He is not marrying you. The
baby will be raised as my own. It is for
the good of the child. It is the only way,
Deidre.”
I laugh, get up off the stool and back

away from him. “You’re so oldfashioned. No, it’s not even oldfashioned, it goes beyond that, Dad.
You’re insane.”
“Is it a boy or a girl?”
I shake my head at him, incredulous.
“It’s too soon for that, obviously.”
“Well, then we can both pray that it
will be a boy.”
I freeze. The world comes grinding to
a halt.
Pray that it will be a boy!
I see it now, I see why he’s doing this.
The reputation, the face, the name… that
is all important to him.
But no, he sees this as a chance to

finally have that son he always said he
wanted. The son he wanted instead of
me. The son that Duncan was supposed
to be.
Of course he could never tame
Duncan.
But now… now he can take my baby,
and if it’s a boy, he’ll call it his own
son.
No!
NO!
He’s not going to get his dirty hands
on my child. He’s not going to steal my
baby and make it his own.
I don’t want my child growing up
anywhere near this life. I want something

better for my child than I ever had, than
Duncan ever had.
“Why is it you never had another
child, Dad?” I ask.
His face turns somehow harder. His
lip twitches.
“Something wrong with you?”
“You’ll not talk to me that way.”
“I’ll talk any way I damn well
please!” I say. “But you know, I never
stopped to think about it before. Why
didn’t you just remarry? Have another
kid? Have your own son?”
Emotions I can’t identify ripple across
his features. “You think I have to explain
myself to you?” he cries, laughing. “Tell

me who the father is.”
I mock-laugh back at him. “I won’t.”
I turn around, fling open the door. The
two guards block my way.
“Try and stop me!” I yell at them,
looking each of them in the eyes in turn. I
push past them, hear Dad speak to them
behind me.
“Let her go,” he says. “She’ll come
around.”
Like fucking hell I will.
I storm through the airplane hangar.
Frank sees me, waddles up to me.
“Deidre—”
I turn to him, shake my head at him. I

can’t keep the tears from my eyes now.
“I trusted you, Frank,” I say to him,
my voice sticky. His face drops. “You
were my friend! I liked you, you stupid,
little man.”
“Dei—”
I put up my hand. “Don’t talk to me. I
don’t want to see you ever again.”
I walk past him, past the cage. Duncan
is in there, fighting. He’s dancing,
skipping, so light on his feet, an artist on
the mat.
I can’t even watch. I can’t bear the
thought of meeting eyes with him right
now.
Out of the corner of my eye I see him

fake a jab, spin around on a pivot, elbow
Manic in the jaw. Manic goes down like
a sack of bricks, and Duncan clambers
on top of him, gets him into a Pace
choke; a submission hold that stops all
blood from going to the brain.
The crowd is erupting. Duncan drips
with blood; both his and Manic’s.
Tonight, they didn’t stop at the sight of
crimson.
Manic slips loose, though.
The fight will go on.
I start to run, push past people in my
way. I get to the exit of the hangar, slip
out through the crack of the two huge
doors, and I run off into the foggy night.

I know what I have to do.
I have to save my baby.
And I can’t let my mind linger on the
fact that it breaks my heart to break
another’s.
Duncan’s going to be looking for me
after the fight, after he wins.
He has no idea he’s the father of my
child, has no idea I’m even pregnant, and
now he can never know. I can’t tell
anybody. I can’t let it out.
If Dad ever finds out, he’ll send Frank
after Duncan. He’ll kill Duncan.
This is the only way to save us all.
I dry my eyes, walk out of the airfield
toward the road. I find a waiting cab,

climb in. There’s not much time.
This is the only way.
I have to leave everything behind.

Chapter Twenty Nine

Manic is on the mat clutching at his
shoulder. I felt the ball pop out of the
socket, followed by his labrum tearing.
His whole arm jumped out like a jackin-the-box.
He tapped out.
I spin around in the cage, look for
Dee’s face among the crowd.
I spot Glass at the table with the other
mob bosses. He’s looking at me proudly,
clapping his hands.
Blood drips into my eye, and I wipe it
away, ignoring the searing sting I feel
from the fresh cut on my forehead.

Where the hell is Dee?
There’s this feeling in the pit of my
gut, like something has gone horribly
wrong, like I’m about to fall through my
own body.
My heart starts to race, and as the ref
approaches me to declare me the winner,
to lift my arm up, I push past him, throw
open the gate to the fighting cage.
The crowd goes wild. Everybody gets
up, girls rush toward me, rub their hands
on me, try to clamber on top of me. Guys
call me ‘bro’ and try to high-five or dap
me. Men in suits just grin at me, counting
the money they’ve made off my blood.
And Conrad Butler’s blood.

I turn around, look back at him quickly
in the cage. He’s being tended to by the
doc.
Glass’ guards quickly come to me,
start shoving people off me, and I spin
around until I spot Frank, go to him.
“Frank, where’s Dee?” I ask.
He looks down at the ground.
“Frank!”
He starts to speak, but stammers.
“Fucking tell me!”
“I don’t know, Duncan. She left in a
hurry.”
“Was she upset about something?”
“Yes.”

“About what?”
“It’s not my place to say, Duncan.”
I narrow my eyes, tilt my head to the
side. Not his place to say? What the
fuck does that mean?
“Where did she go?”
“She just left.”
“The hangar? She left this building?”
He nods.
I weave myself around him, through
the rest of the crowd, and into the back
room. I throw on a t-shirt, pull up
sweats, check for my car keys, and as
I’m about to leave, I notice Dee’s phone
still on the table. She must have taken it
out and forgotten it.

I grab her phone, then rush outside
onto the airfield where all the cars are
parked down the runway.
I find the Volvo, gun the puttering
engine, speed as fast as the car can out
of the area, onto the highway. There’s
this feeling of dread I’ve got, like a hole
is inside me and sucking me into it.
It’s not like Dee to just leave a fight,
and with Frank saying she was upset
about something… it just feels off to me.
Something is off.
My phone starts ringing, and I answer
it.
“What?” I snarl. It’s Glass.
“Where are you?”

“I’m going home.”
“Why?”
“What do you want, Glass?”
“Why have you left? You need to get
back here now. I want to introduce you
to some of my associates. They’re new
in town.”
“Not now, Glass.”
I hear strain in his voice. “Get back
here now.”
I hang up, chuck the phone onto the
dash. It rattles about. I might have
broken it.
My heart is racing.
Nothing else matters.

I screech to a halt outside my
apartment building, just in time to
narrowly avoid a taxi pulling out. I take
the steps up two at a time, throw open
the door.
“Dee!”
There is no answer. I switch on the
lights, look around. The apartment is
empty.
I go to the bedroom, check the
bathroom, then go back to the bedroom.
Nothing seems out of pla—
The wardrobe is ajar!
I open it, and see half of Dee’s clothes
missing.
What the fuck?

I go back to the bathroom. Her
toothbrush is gone, her deodorant, her
bottles of cream and other toiletries.
The cabinet is missing band-aids,
antiseptic cream. That one makes me
really worry.
What the hell is going on? The first
thought that crosses my mind is that she’s
been kidnapped by one of Glass’
enemies, but there’s no way they’d take
her toothbrush or her clothes. They
wouldn’t care for her fucking oral
hygiene!
No… Dee took them. Dee was just
here.
I race back downstairs, get into my
car, drive to Glass’ house in Kenilworth.

There’s nobody home here as well. I
go into her room, but it’s been so long
since I’ve been in here, I don’t know if
anything is out of place.
Where the hell is she?
I run my hands through my hair,
feeling a growing fear and frustration.
It’s a ball inside me expanding. I’m
going to explode.
I sprint back out to the car, call Glass
on my phone. When he picks up, his tone
is frosty.
“What the fuck is going on with you
tonight, boy?”
“Where’s Dee, Glass?”
“She left.”

I blink. “Left?”
“I don’t know, she left the fight.”
“Why?”
There’s a pause. “I don’t know.”
He’s lying to me.
“Have you tried calling her, Duncan?”
“She forgot her phone.”
“She probably went back to the
college dorms.”
The college dorms!
I drive up there, but am turned away
by security at the entrance to campus.
“Can you please get a message
through to Caroline Edwards, Moore
Hall, third floor, room G,” I tell the

guard. Dee’s
emergency.”

roommate.

“It’s

an

The guard stares into my eyes for a
moment, considers me.
“Christ, I really need you to do this
for me.”
“I can’t, sir,” he says, his face stoic,
his voice emotionless. “Not until I know
who you are.”
“Look, someone I know is missing,
and was her friend and roommate. I need
to know if she’s seen her.”
The guard, an older man, bearded and
tough-looking, shakes his head.
“Not even a message?” I run my hand
through my hair, turn away from the

guard for a moment, collect myself.
“Can’t you just contact her residence
administrator or whoever, check if she’s
here? She can come here to the gate, talk
to me with you watching. I only need to
ask her one question.”
He considers me some more, and then
relents. “Alright, son. Just hold on.” He
goes back into his office, clicks onto the
radio.
I wait outside, pacing, and maybe ten
minutes later Caroline comes down.
“Duncan?”
“Is Dee here?”
“No,” she says. “Are you two
fighting?”

I lick my lips. “No. I just can’t find
her. She didn’t come by here?”
Caroline shakes her head, shrugs.
“Not that I know of, anyway. I’ve been
in our room all night studying. We’ve got
a mock quiz tomorrow.”
“If she turns up for it tomorrow, will
you text me? I just need to know if she’s
alright.”
“Sure.” She takes out her phone,
punches in my number.
I thank her, jump back in the car, drive
back to my apartment.
The lights are on!
Relief floods through my veins. God
damn it, Dee’s back home, and she gave

me one hell of a scare.
I run up the stairs, burst through the
door.
“Dee!” I cry. My voice almost breaks.
There’s no reply.
I frown, check the bedroom where the
light is on. I notice her underwear
drawer is open, and it was closed when
I left here just half an hour ago. Most of
her pairs of underwear are gone.
It hits me, a thump in the chest like
I’ve been slammed by a cannonball.
She’s left.
She came back because she forgot
something. Maybe a passport she hid in
that drawer? Fuck I wish I knew what it

was she came back for, but I never, ever
looked through her things.
God fucking damn it!
I suck in huge gulps of air, go back to
the living room, and there I notice a
small black object on the floor. I bend
down, pick it up.
It’s the mirror I gave Dee. It’s
cracked; she must have dropped it
unknowingly.
I turn it over in my hand, watch the
small cat wave.
“For fuck’s sake, Dee, where the hell
are you going?” I breathe.
…And why are you going?

Chapter Thirty

The windows are weeping.
The plane arrives in heavy fog, but
it’s hot and humid outside, sub-tropical
Hong Kong where I’m due for a severalday stop-over.
I can see the terminal building just
outside from my window, a few meters
beyond the extended arm of the gate.
They all drip with water; the airconditioning on the inside must be at
full-blast.
Getting off the plane is something of a
new experience to me. I haven’t been on
a plane since I was a child, going to
Thailand… with Dad. Since I first met

Duncan.
Dad and I never did end up going to
Paris.
Back then we were in first class…
and it was great. Not this time, though.
It’s not like I’m about to complain about
it. Sixteen hours cramped in a seat next
to a man with smelly breath is a price
I’m willing to pay if it means saving my
baby, if it means giving my child a good
life.
I’d gladly pay much, much more. I
guess, leaving Duncan, I already have.
But the way everybody rushes to get
off the plane… it just rubs me the wrong
way. Why the hell is everybody in such a
hurry?

I wait until I’m the last person — I
can’t be bothered to go at the same time
as everybody else. Most of them push
each other, hurry to get off the plane like
a few minutes are going to make any
difference.
I sigh, pinch the bridge of my nose and
then rub my eyes. Chicago to Hong Kong
was sixteen hours, and I had a seat right
by the toilets. I didn’t catch a wink of
sleep. Even if it was quiet, I might not
have slept at all. There was, and still is,
too much on my mind.
The flight was full, too. Beside me sat
a guy with death-breath, and next to him
his wife and young daughter. The poor
girl cried all flight because she couldn’t
equalize the pressure in her ears.

At least I had an aisle seat.
It made me think of my own child…
whether it will be a boy or a girl…
which I would prefer.
If I’m even allowed to have a
preference.
Right at this moment, I feel an odd
cross of emotions. I feel utterly alone,
but also stronger than ever. There’s a
steely resolve that runs through my
bones, vibrates inside me, keeps me oncourse.
I don’t know if leaving like that is the
right thing to do, but I sure as hell know
that it is the best thing to do for my child.
Distantly,

I

wonder

what

the

difference is between the two. If it’s best
for my baby, surely it’s right?
But I know I’ve wronged Duncan, and
thinking about it even briefly threatens to
unravel me.
The idea of being all alone, of not
having him by my side when he’s been
there for so long, supporting me…
…and then I think: What about him?
He’s had me there by his side,
supporting him.
He likes to think he’s some kind of
superhero who can take anything,
anything. But… I know him better than
that.
He’s human, even if he’s amazing to

me. He’s still human. I don’t know how
this is going to hit him. I don’t know how
it’s going to affect him.
I could sit for hours just thinking about
the possibilities, but I can’t descend into
that.
That’s… that’s a road that’s now been
wiped off the map.
Anyway, I can’t risk my child, can’t
risk letting Dad get his hands on my
baby. If it’s a boy, he’ll groom him into a
fighter, just like he did Duncan.
God damn it, everybody that falls into
Dad’s gravity ends up suffering!
I don’t want my child to suffer at his
hands.

I want my child to do what he or she
wants. I don’t want my child to be
brought up thinking there’s only one way
to live. I don’t want my child anywhere
near crime, the mob, the violence, like I
was as a kid.
I can’t stop Dad from doing what he
does. I’m not under any illusion here.
People might want to judge me, might
say that I should have turned my own
father in with the mountains of evidence
I had access to.
But… he’s still my father. Family.
The only true thing he’s ever said to me
is that family is everything.
In the end, what else do you have?
Me…? I don’t even have family

anymore. I have nothing!
Damn it, the thought makes me feel
weak.
I sigh. There’s so much I could testify
to. I’ve watched my father and Frank
beat a man to a bloody pulp for not
paying back a debt. His body was still,
unmoving by the end of it. I was in the
car with the inside lights on, maybe
eleven years old. Dad told me to keep
them on so I couldn’t see outside.
Of course, I just cupped my hands
around my eyes against the glass, and
watched them. It was by the river, right
in the middle of town, and before
midnight. Nobody who passed by
stopped. Dad’s limousine, the license

plate, M4R1-N0, was effective signage:
Stay Away.
The guy lay there, in the winter night,
out-cold, when Dad and Frank returned
to the car. I never found out what
happened to him.
He probably died by morning of
hypothermia.
My thoughts invariably come back to
Duncan. I wonder what he’s doing right
now.
I wonder if he’s with Dad. I know he
will have won the fight. He will have
looked for me, searched up and down
that hangar. He would have asked Dad
where I was, would have asked Frank if
he’d seen me.

He will have gone home to his — our
— apartment, and not found me there.
Dad would likely call him in for a
meeting the next day. He’d question
Duncan. That’s Dad, suspicious of
everybody.
When he learned that Duncan had no
idea where I was…well, that’s when the
hunt would begin.
I glance at my watch, it’s still on
home-time. Roughly twenty-two hours
have passed since I left the fight.
It’s only a minimal head-start, but I
have a plan.
That plan involves changing who I am
completely.

Chapter Thirty One

Glass whirls on me, jabs a finger in
my face. “God damn it, Duncan, is this
your fault? Did you make my daughter
run away?”
“No,” I say. “Get your fucking finger
out of my face.”
His finger lingers there for a moment
longer, but then he snaps it back and
steps away. We’re in the living room at
his house – I’ve never called it ‘home’ –
and perhaps he is remembering the time
he tried to shout at Dee, and I got in his
way, put a hand on his shoulder.
“You’ll talk to me with respect, boy,”
he says, starting to shake. “I made you.

Without me, you’d just be some rat on
the street, some fucking lowlife addicted
to meth. Don’t you forget that!”
I lick my lips, ball my fists, but
control myself. “Are you sure she’s run
away?”
“Her bank account has been emptied,
and her belongings from her room
packed. She also stole about thirtythousand in cash from my office safe.”
“How do you know she packed her
belongings? You went through her stuff?”
“When you have a child of your own,
you’ll understand,” Glass spits at me.
“Where the fuck did she go?”
“She can’t go where she wants?”

“Not without my permission!” he
barks, huffing, turning around and
starting to pace up and down the room.
“How do you think it’s going to look?
What about my reputation? Johnny
Marino doesn’t even know where his
own daughter is.”
“She’s an adult,” I tell him. “She can
do what she likes.” I say it because I’m
indignant on her behalf, but deep inside
it rips me apart that she left.
That she left me.
“That fucking girl stole what’s mine!”
Glass roars, slamming his fist down on
the dining table. He drains his glass of
brandy and with shaking hands pours
another.

I don’t know what he means by that…
stole what’s mine. Is he talking about the
money? No… thirty-grand is nothing to
him. This is more… personal.
“Did she say anything to you,” I ask
him. Glass’ behavior is unsettling, and
alarm sirens are wailing inside my mind.
There’s something else going on. It’s
time I fucking found out.
“No.” he says.
I know he’s lying right then and there.
“I saw you pull her aside just before the
fight.”
“Oh, that was nothing, just a talk.”
I raise an eyebrow. “About what,
Glass?”

“None of your God damn business is
what.”
We stew in silence for a moment. I
can hear Frank outside in the corridor
shifting his feet.
“Did I ever tell you the story of why
they call me ‘Glass’?”
I meet his eyes. He’s told me a
thousand times. He wants to tell it again.
“Yeah, you have.”
“I was going to be one of the best,” he
says, ignoring me. He mimes a one-two
jab-cross, ducks left then right. “I had
the best technique, was quick as a
fucking gazelle. But I could hit like a
fucking charging rhino, let me tell you.”

I put my hands on my hips, pace up
and down the room. I’m ignoring what
he’s saying, I know the story back-tofront.
My mind is on Dee. Where would she
go? Why would she leave? I’m certain
her father has something to do with it,
but I don’t know what.
I need to get him talking.
“I was going to go into the pros. Back
then, boxing was all mob-controlled, not
regulated like how it is now. You needed
to get in with the big boys, you know
what I mean? I started out as a scout for
Accardo’s outfit. Him, Giancarno, all
them boys ran everything here. This was
back in the sixties, you wouldn’t know.

They fixed the fucking election results
for Cook County! I mean, these were big
time gangsters. One day, he watches me
get into a fist fight, and I just destroyed
this guy. I was sixteen at the time, no
older then when I found you.”
Glass points a finger at me, and his
gold watch slides up his wrist.
“Remember when I found you? Plucked
you off the street, gave you a life?”
“Yeah,” I say.
“Accardo said I had what it took to be
a boxer. He had some men train me, and
I was going to be one of the best. By the
time I was eighteen I was getting ready
to enter the pros, to do my first real gig
when—” His voice trails off.

“When you broke your leg,” I say.
“Kicking a fucking football,” he says
with a sigh. “Toe hit turf, and the shock
fractured my tibia. After that, it was just
one injury after another. Tore my ACL
when I was nineteen, Achilles when I
was twenty-one. Ripped my shoulder out
three months later, then broke my left
femur clean in half on a fucking skiing
holiday. Skiing, Duncan! Fucking skiing.
“I was so broken up that by the time I
was twenty-four, I could no longer fight.
I never put a string of wins together long
enough to get me any notice. Accardo
left me by the wayside, turned his
attention to better, younger men in his
stable, ones who could fight, ones who
could earn him money. That’s why they

call me ‘Glass’. Like I’m made of glass,
you know?”
“I get it,” I say.
He sighs again. This is his torture.
This is all he cares about. “Fuck!” he
spits, slapping the table.
I regard him, think to myself why now,
of all times? Why did Dee choose now?
I only needed just a few more fights, a
bit more money, some wise investments,
and we’d be living the life.
We’d have gone away together.
I’d have taken her anywhere she
wanted to go.
But she left first. She left without me.
I ball my fist, dig my nails into my

palm.
“So what could I do?” Glass shrugs,
smacks his lips. “I went into business. I
became a businessman. And… and I met
Dee’s mother. Boxing… boxing became
boring after Tyson was done. The
underground scene dried up, too.”
But that coincided with the emergence
of MMA, mixed martial arts, what I
fight.
No… what I fought.
“I’m done fighting for you,” I say after
a moment. Just like that, there’s a switch
that’s been flicked in my mind. “I’m not
getting in that cage for you anymore.”
Glass turns hard eyes on me. “You

think so, huh?”
“I know so. I’m done, Glass.
Finished. I’ve made you millions of
dollars over the past two years. You got
your money’s worth out of me.”
“You didn’t fair too poorly yourself,”
he fires back.
“I fought for it. Spilled blood for it.
Broke bones for it. I earned my share.”
“I control you,” Glass hisses, leaning
forward. His tongue slithers out of his
mouth. “I control your bank account, I
control your life!”
“It’s over,” I tell him.
I’ve made up my mind. I’m done.
I’m finding Dee. I’m finding out just

what the fuck is going on.
He’s about to shout something back at
me, but he stops himself, peers at me.
“This is about Deidre, isn’t it?”
“No,” I lie. “I’m just done.”
“Are you and her up to something?
Are you running away together?”
I shake my head. I wish.
“You better not be fucking lying to me,
Duncan, you ungrateful little shit.
Because if you are I will hunt you down
and I will kill you. And I’ll fucking hunt
her down, too! Are you the father?”
There’s a pause. I blink. The father.
“What?”

“God damn it, Duncan, if you knocked
up my fucking daughter I swear I’ll—”
I lose it. I throw my chair backward.
It thuds loud on the carpet. I rush around
the table, faster than Glass can get to his
feet, and then I rip him from his chair,
pin him against the wall with my elbow
against his windpipe.
“Get out!” I shout at Frank now frozen
in the doorway. “Or I swear I’ll crush
his neck.”
Frank reaches for his gun, but Glass
yells hoarsely, “Don’t fucking shoot him
you idiot fuck, you’ll hit me, too!”
Frank lowers his weapon, and I turn
to look Glass in the eyes.

“What father?”
He doesn’t reply.
“What fucking father, Glass?” I roar,
picking him up and slamming him against
the bookcase. “Is Deidre pregnant?”
“Yes, you little shit,” Glass hisses.
I widen my eyes. “Dee is pregnant?”
“Yes!”
“Why did you say she took what’s
yours? Did she steal something from
you? Apart from the money?”
“My grandchild!” The words bubble
out of his mouth. “Nobody leaves my
family. Nobody takes my family away!”
I shake my head at him. He wants

Deidre’s kid? He wants… my kid.
“You were never the son I wanted,
Duncan,” he spits at me. “You were
never obedient enough.”
I throw him against the bookcase
again in disgust, step back panting, hands
on my hips.
That baby is my baby.
He wants to take my baby.
Why didn’t Dee tell me she had
missed her period? Was pregnant? Why
the fuck hadn’t I paid attention? I was
too focused on preparing for the
fighting… too…
Fuck!
“You’re the father, aren’t you,” Glass

says, pointing at me.
“No,” I lie.
“Then why do you care so much?”
“Dee was my best friend,” I say. This
time, it’s no lie. “But she never told me.”
“Women don’t tell men these things,”
Glass says, shaking his head. “She didn’t
tell me, either.”
I furrow my brow, cast an angry stare
at him. “Then how did you find out?”
He doesn’t answer me. Instead he
says, “I’m going to get my grandchild
back. And my daughter. I’ll expect you to
help me. She seemed to trust you.”
Obviously not enough, I think.

“I won’t help you, Glass,” I tell him.
“I should have left you in that alley
you rat fuck. You take my money, take my
hospitality, and now you turn on me?
Fucking typical.”
“You got
investment.”

your

return on your

I catch the eye-contact between Glass
and Frank, and whirl around, strike
Frank in the side of the head with the
back of my fist. He goes down, drops his
gun. I pick it up and unload it then place
it on the coffee table, scatter the bullets
across the carpet.
“Don’t send your boys after me,” I tell
Glass.

Frank groans on the ground, gets up.
“Damn it, Duncan! Why’d you have to
hit me so hard?”
I put my hand on Frank’s shoulder,
press on him. “I like you, Frank,” I say.
“But don’t make me put you out.”
Wisely, he sinks back down.
“You just signed your death warrant,
Duncan,” Glass spits impotently.
“You’re done for.”
I look at the gun again, then back at
him. “You want to threaten me now?”
“Fuck you.”
I pick up the gun, point it at him, pull
the trigger. An empty click, but he
winces, and his whole body jolts.

My heart is racing.
“Next time it’ll be loaded. Don’t
fucking come after me.”
“Where will you go?” he calls to my
back as I make my way out of the house.
“You can’t escape me! You hear me, you
fucking shit! You can’t escape Johnny
fucking Marino!”
I ignore him, take the Volvo and gun it
down the driveway.
I knew there would be a day when
Glass and I would face up against one
another… I knew it would be over Dee,
too.
But I never knew it would be like this.
Dee, pregnant with my child, all alone.

She took our baby, kept it a secret,
disappeared. Now she’s got her crazy
father after her, and he has the resources
to track her down.
I’ve got to get to her first. I’ve got to
keep her safe. I’ve got to protect my
family.
Maybe, just maybe, I’ll also find out
why she did this to me.
I tighten my grip around the steering
wheel, grit my teeth together.
Why did you take my baby, Dee?
Why didn’t you tell me?

Chapter Thirty Two

Chung King Mansions. I’ve been
outside the thirty-floor apartment
complex for no more than five minutes,
and already I’ve been offered weed,
coke, meth, and sex.
I grimace, and pull my backpack
tighter up on my shoulder.
The building in the Tsim Sha Tsui
district of Kowloon, Hong Kong, is well
known for being a hub of vice. Reading
about it on the plane ride over, murders
don’t just go unsolved, but sometimes
uninvestigated.
And here I am, a pregnant woman on
her first visit, and I’m about to go inside

the dark, maw-like opening, and begin
the climb up the escalators until they
stop, before waiting for an elevator.
I have no choice, but I’m not that
worried. This is also a tourist hot spot.
They say you can get the best curry in
Hong Kong here, according to my guidebook, anyway.
As long as I keep to myself, I’ll be
alright. I tell it to myself over and over.
I weave my way through mobile
phone stores selling knock-off or stolen
products, past clothing stores selling the
same. As I make my way higher into the
building, it becomes less crowded, and I
realize, to my astonishment, that I’m
already at a residential area. People live

amongst the markets, sleeping in the
back of their shop stalls on hammocks
tied between steel posts.
Cage houses adorn the walls; literally
men living in cages that would be
considered inhumane for a big dog.
I see the weary eyes of the
downtrodden. Kids younger than
teenagers smoke cigarettes in the
stairwells when they should be at
school.
I reach into my bag, and pull out my
mask with an air filter. They’re sold all
over, the only true way to ward off the
smog that blankets the southern coast of
China.
Once the escalators stop at the tenth

floor, I wait for an elevator. The doors
slide open, and I squeeze in. Surely
we’re above the weight capacity, but the
elevator moves on upward anyway. I get
off at the twenty-seventh floor.
It’s just apartment units up here. I hear
the cry of babies, the play of children,
the scolding of mothers. I hear four or
five distinct languages, maybe more. I
walk down the hallway, hazy with
smoke, looking for unit 2712, and
eventually find it.
The doorbell plays a tune. It’s the
British national anthem.
The door is buzzed open, and I step
inside an air-conditioned and carpeted
room. It’s a small office, and far, far

cleaner than the corridor outside.
“You can take off your mask,” a young
Hong Kong man says to me. He’s tall
and wire-thin. He speaks with an
English accent, but from where in
England I can’t hope to tell.
“We have an air filtration system.”
He offers me a seat after I take off my
mask, and so I sit.
“I read your email. I tried to reply, but
the email bounced.”
“I deleted the account,” I tell him.
“Very wise,” he says off-handedly.
“So you are looking for an Australian
passport?”
“Yes.”

“You are American?”
I nod at him.
“Very good, very good.” He flicks
through some sheets of paper on his
desk, then pecks away at his keyboard
for a moment. “Do you have a criminal
record in America?”
I furrow my brow. “Why do you ask?”
“Our service is a trade-in one,” he
tells me patiently. “I cannot issue you a
new identity without taking your old
one.”
“You want my American passport?”
“Yes,” he says. His manner is
perfunctory. “I need to know your
background so I can measure how

desirable your passport may be, and
price it accordingly.”
“Will you give it to someone else?”
He pauses, and slowly lifts his eyes to
meet mine. “What do you think?”
I purse my lips. “No, I don’t have a
criminal record.”
“But you want to change who you
are?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Why should I tell you?”
“I didn’t stay in this business for as
long as I have without accruing
information to trade. It is doubtful

anybody will track you to me, but if they
do, I intend to save my own life.” He
smiles. “I don’t care about yours.”
I sigh. “I’m running away from my
father.”
“Okay,” he says, completely unfazed
by that response. “And your father is a
powerful man? Government official?
Senator?”
“No. Mafia.”
“Gangster, huh,” the man says. He
thinks for a moment, chews on the end of
his pencil. “Okay,” he says eventually. “I
can work with this.” He puts out his
hand, but I shake my head at him, not
knowing what he wants. “Your passport,
please, and all other identity documents

you have.”
“No,” I tell him. “Not until I see the
passport I’m going to get.”
He sighs, and gets up. “You
foreigners… no trust. Wait a moment.”
He disappears into the back for barely a
minute, then comes out with four
passports in his hand. He drops them on
the table, and gestures at me. “Choose a
name.”
I open them all up. Lydia Johnson,
Yasmin Butani, Caroline Sax…
“This one,” I say. I like the sound of
the name Caroline Sax. It reminds me of
my roommate.
“Now,

your

passport,

driver’s

license, social security, everything,
please. Fee is ten-thousand US dollars,
cash only.”
I swallow, and begin to rummage
through my backpack. I take out
everything he asks for, including the
cash. I unroll the thick wad, count out ten
thousand one by one in front of him.
Calmly, he takes the money and puts it
through an electronic counter.
“Good,” he tells me. “I need to take
your photograph.”
He guides me to the wall, and the
flash blinds me for a moment.
“Wait here.”
“For how long?” I ask.

“As long as it takes me,” he throws
over his shoulder before retreating into
the back room.
I notice then that there are security
cameras pointed at me, one in each
corner. God, I hope this isn’t going to be
a bad idea.
Not thirty minutes later he comes out,
and hands me my new identity. “Ms.
Sax,” he says.
I flick through it to the back page, see
my photo inlaid perfectly. I run my finger
over it… it’s seamless.
“That was fast,” I say, impressed.
That’s when I feel the microchip. “Wait
a minute,” I say, looking up at him. “This
has a digital chip. It will bring up the

photo of the real Caroline Sax at
immigration.”
“Relax,” he tells me. “It’s a custom
chip, and will inject a virus into the
computer. It will show your picture, but I
don’t know for how long. One year,
maybe. The security protocols are
updated constantly.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes,” he tells me.
“And what if it doesn’t work? Do I
get my money back?”
He laughs. “If you’re not jailed, I’ll
happily return your money.”
Somehow, I doubt that. “Who will you
give my passport to?” I ask him.

“To whoever buys it.”
“Will you do me a favor?”
He leans back, touches the tips of his
fingers together. “I’ll consider it.”
“Give it to the first person looking for
an American passport who walks in
here.”
“Hoping to put your father on the
wrong track?”
“Something like that,” I tell him.
“Something like that.”
I leave the way I came in, down the
elevator, down the escalators. I politely
decline, for the second time, some of the
same people who tried to sell me drugs
on my way up.

Dad will be looking for me, and he
will be able to get my passport records.
He’ll know I came to Hong Kong, but
hopefully somebody using my name to
enter America will turn him back
around.
Hopefully.
But I don’t dare hope too much.
I pass the cage houses, see a man
curled up, knees pressed against his
chest, sleeping. He must be in his sixties,
and he’s thin as a rake.
The cages remind me of Duncan.
Have I left him trapped?

Chapter Thirty Three

Three fucking months… that’s how
long she’s been gone.
Three long fucking months… it feels
like three years, like a night that’s never
ended. I keep walking toward the
horizon, hoping that the moon will
disappear behind me, and that the sun
will rise up in front of me.
Only it hasn’t. Not yet.
She’s got my baby, she’s passed her
first trimester, and she’s all alone.
That fucking thought kills me. She’s
all alone!
I know she’s strong, and I know she

can do this, but she doesn’t have to. I
know what it’s like to feel alone, and I
wouldn’t wish it on anybody, least of all
her.
One way or another, I’m getting Dee
back, making her mine again. One way
or another. But in this time that I don’t
have her, in this time that I can’t reach
over and touch her, kiss her… it leaves
me embittered.
Every single fucking day I wake up
and reach over instinctively, expect to
feel her warm body, expect to hear her
steady breathing, expect to be able to
roll over, kiss her neck and smell her
hair, sometimes watch her for a while.
Treasure her, wonder at the chain of
events in our lives that brought us

together, like some kind of cosmic
magnetism… destiny?
Every single fucking day my hand hits
cold sheets, and I get out of bed with a
soured mood to start the day.
A day of searching for the mother of
my child.
It’s been futile. All my leads are gone.
There are no more breadcrumbs. Now…
now I want to say that it’s only a matter
of God damned time. I never doubt that
I’m going to find her, but what I do
worry about is how long it’ll take me to.
I’m faced with the idea of being
unable to do something I want to do. It’s
not an unfamiliar feeling, but I haven’t
felt it in a while.

I am going to find her. I am going to
get my family back.
But I can’t trust in anything other than
my own agency. I can’t believe that our
lives are drawn together the way our
eyes are. If we really were like magnets,
then what if, momentarily, we might have
flipped over? How do I know that with
each day I don’t get pushed farther apart
from her?
How do I know I’m even looking in
the right fucking place?
How do I know that if I ever find her,
that should the stars align and I find a
person who is trying to hide in a city I
don’t know, trying to go unnoticed, that
she’ll then even welcome me back into

her life?
Fuck, I don’t even want to think about
that. It’s a well of frustration inside me,
never-ending, like it digs down right
through the Earth and pops out the other
side, spilling my soul into the dark
emptiness of space.
It’s a black hole, sucking inward, right
in my chest. I feel it in my chest. Usually
all I feel in my chest is a good hit from
my opponent, and the swell of happiness
and anticipation whenever I saw or
thought about Dee.
Nothing like this.
“Fuck,” I whisper, rubbing my
forehead, pinching my brows together
between my forefinger and thumb. I

clench my fists, force myself to calm,
actually have to use the fucking breathing
techniques I use during fights to keep my
head screwed on straight.
Dee needs me. I tell myself that every
single day because it drives me, keeps
me going. I need her, too, but the thought
that she’s alone is what keeps shoveling
coal into my furnace.
Everything else can fucking wait. Life
is on pause. Nothing else matters.
Her old man is after her. Her old man
wants our baby. She ran away because
she was scared.
Why the fuck didn’t she tell me?
I thump the steering wheel of my

rental, gaze out of the window at the
traffic slowly creeping by. The afternoon
sun warms my arm, and I leave it
hanging out of the car. My dark tattoos
soak up all that heat.
“Dee,” I whisper to myself. “Where
the hell are you?”
I followed the breadcrumbs she
unknowingly left. I went to Hong Kong,
tracked down that slimy fucker who sold
her a new passport. I made him tell me
where she was going. His cries of pain
still sometimes echo in my head.
He sicced the triads onto me. I only
just got out in time. When I passed
through passport control on my way out,
I could see, out of the entrance of the

departures zone, a group of mean
looking men with dyed-red hair held up
in ponytails, tattoos creeping up their
necks, scanning the crowd.
It was a close call. They would have
chopped me up, put me in garbage bags,
and tossed me out to sea.
But after that it was a dead end. All I
know is that she came to Australia, so
all I can do is look where I think she
may have gone.
It took three months for her face to
surface on a camera in an identifiable
location. Melbourne. The shiny RMIT
college city campus behind her was like
the city’s fingerprint.
The

email

was

sent

to

me

anonymously from one of my fans. A
lone security image at an ATM. How this
fan hacked into that, I have no idea.
Some people are just wizards.
But I’m glad, now more than ever, that
I put out a call for help to my fans. That
guy who interviewed me the night Dee
left was right… if I didn’t then, anyway,
I owe my fans now.
All it took was one post to fan sites,
and I had thousands of people offering
me their skills. I was surprised to learn
how many people regularly did illegal
shit on the internet, and just how easy it
was to gain access to places you
shouldn’t.
And how many people were willing

to do it on my behalf, just some
underground fighter.
Glass fucking Marino may have
resources, he may have people in high
places, he may have an army of
enforcers on the payroll, but I realized
that I have a militia of people who can
hide behind IP addresses, who are able
to track anybody by the digital footprints
that they leave on the internet.
And everything is on the fucking
internet these days.
A post on a message board looking for
a job – young pregnant woman seeking
teaching position at a kindergarten – a
background check done on a Caroline
Sax, a new bank account opened to the

same name. A photograph of Ms. Sax at
an ATM, withdrawing money.
Separate events linked through the
network, time-stamped, recorded to exist
forever. Traceable.
That’s how I came to Melbourne.
Glass is old-fashioned. He’d never
think to scour the online world.
That gives me a head start. Not a large
one, but one nonetheless.
The sight of Dee’s face, grainy, black
and white and from a low angle, sent my
heart surging. It made me feel a great
longing for her, an ache that could not be
dulled. The embers inside me burned
brighter upon seeing her face, as if

someone had just blasted oxygen at them.
She looked well, had put on a bit of
weight, no doubt because of the
pregnancy.
And… she was so beautiful. Even in
that blurry footage she took my breath
away. Even just the fuzzy outline of her
lips, her eyes… it kicked me into sixthgear, because every single fucking day I
long to see her, long to be with her.
I stared at that image for hours. I still
do, every night. I boot up my laptop,
open the image file, and I just sit there, a
drink in my hand, and look at her.
Nothing in my life has ensnared me so
completely like she has.
When we were together, I never

imagined not having her in my life. I had
a vague plan, built on the resources I
would have.
Just a little longer.
I only needed a little longer, another
couple of wins, another few big payouts,
and we would have been golden. We’d
have had a way out, and could have
bought ourselves secrecy, could have
paid to drop off the grid. Nobody, not
even the best private investigators could
have found us.
We could have lived without Glass’
shadow over us. We could have been
happy somewhere together. I don’t know
if it was naïve to assume she’d say yes,
go somewhere with me, disappear with

me. All I know is that she ended up
disappearing alone.
It was always going to happen…
always. Glass would never let go of his
greasy grip on her. The only way she
could have freedom was to run, leave,
vanish.
I just thought that it would be with me.
But when she did leave, I was a little
surprised by how much it affected me.
Maybe I’m not in touch with my
emotions, maybe I don’t understand
exactly what I felt for her, how much I
cared for her… how much being with
her felt like plugging in the last piece of
a jigsaw puzzle.
I would remember the times I would

catch her staring off into the distance,
lost in her intelligent mind, cogs
whirring as she considered… well, I
never knew what she was considering,
but it was as if she was taking care of
the universe itself.
But nobody is meant to be alone.
Some like it, but they are selfdestructive. Dee needs me. And God
damn it I’m going to find her. She’s not
going to be a struggling single mother
without a man. Our child is not going to
grow up without a father.
She will not be alone.
I thump the steering wheel again, grip
it so hard my hands hurt. Why haven’t I
found her yet? It’s only a matter of time

before Glass catches up. He may not be
on the scent now like I am, but he’ll get
here sooner or later.
He wants that baby. He wants to take
my fucking baby.
She stole what’s mine! Glass’ words
echo in my head.
I didn’t understand at first. Why
would Glass call his daughter’s baby his
own? But it all pieced together, like a
distant shape in the fog slowly growing
sharper as it approached me.
I won’t let him hurt her like that. I
won’t let him take what’s not his.
That’s him in a nutshell; he takes what
he wants, thinks nothing of the

consequences. Hurting his own daughter
doesn’t seem to matter to him.
How does a man get like that?
What kind of life does a man have to
live to get like that?
I grew up with nothing, nothing but
older boys trying to beat on my ass and
steal my shit. I grew up with nothing but
well-meaning social workers who went
home at five. Us boys in the home, and
the girls in the system, too, we ceased to
exist after office hours.
It was a fucking free-for-all, and still I
don’t know how a man ends up like
Johnny fucking Marino.
The snaking traffic finally starts to

speed up, and I drive toward St. Kilda,
into the parking lot of the complex where
I’m renting a modest studio apartment.
I couldn’t take much cash with me
unless I wanted immigration to look at
me funny, and I don’t dare withdraw
money from my account back home. No
doubt Glass has eyes on that and he’ll
trace it. That ruled out setting up other
accounts under my name, too.
But it’s not like I need to live
luxuriously. I prefer not to, anyway.
I climb the steps two at a time, open
my door, and go straight to the corkboard
I have mounted on the wall.
There’s a map of Melbourne and
surrounding suburbs, towns, and cities. I

take a thumbtack and push into the map.
Another school scouted, and another
time there were no signs of Dee.
She would be a teaching assistant
perhaps, or work in a less official
capacity, but the timing of that message
board post asking about openings in
kindergartens, paired with the flight
records for a Caroline Sax… it was
always her dream to teach and work
with kids. This is the only thing I have to
go on.
I open the half-sized fridge and pull
out a beer, cradle it in my hands on the
balcony, watching life carry out on the
street below.
That’s seventeen schools I’ve looked

into, searched their staff listings, sat
outside of watching the faces of
teachers.
It doesn’t escape me, the risk I’m
taking, staking out schools everyday…
all it takes is one well-meaning person
to notice me and call the cops, and
they’ll take me in, put me under
investigation.
But what else can I do?
I feel a swell of anger, kick the
railing. The metal rings, shakes, thrums.
Why the fuck did she have to just up and
run?
Why couldn’t she wait? I would have
been at her side. I would have dropped
anything… everything then and there to

go with her.
She’s carrying my fucking baby and I
don’t know where she is. I can’t protect
her… I can’t protect our child. I can’t
help her, make it easier for her.
My family. The only family I’ve ever
had, or will ever have. Of that I’m sure.
She’s got nobody to turn to, nobody
who can guide her, no maternal figure in
her life to teach her what to expect. And
how quickly will she have made friends
she can trust here? Who can she rely on
here? The comforts of online chat rooms
populated by other expectant mothers
looking for guidance are always cold
and distant, squeezed through fiber
optics.

It’s nothing real.
I’ve sat in those chat rooms, too, even
messaged a couple of Carolines… no
dice.
But Dee’s always been a paranoid
person. She learned that from her father.
My bet is she doesn’t go online if she
can help it. My bet is that if she’s hiding,
she’s doing a damn good job of it, has
thought of everything. Everything. Dee
is too fucking smart to get caught, God
damn it!
The thought of what Glass is doing to
his own daughter makes my hands shake.
Sometimes, I wonder how stupid I’d
have to have fucking been to climb into
that limousine with him.

Sure, he gave me the opportunity to
get rich. I’ve got several million in the
bank, sitting there doing nothing.
But to rub shoulders with a man like
that… I’m glad I always kept a distance
between us, a gap. I wasn’t up to playing
some fucking role, being his fucking
surrogate son.
I got in it for the fights, for the chance
to make something of a life that would
have gone quickly nowhere. I’m not
stupid, I knew what my chances were. I
couldn’t even fucking spell ‘Deidre’.
No education, but I was no idiot.
I stayed in it because of Dee. There
were times I thought about striking out
on my own. I didn’t need some

motherfucker calling the shots for me. It
was useful, but I could have become a
straight mercenary, work for the highest
bidder.
Five percent of the pot? I could have
commanded ten, maybe fifteen. Unheard
of for an underground fighter. It would
force a change to the whole betting
structure.
I was that good. Could have gone pro
at a moment’s notice and dominated.
But I couldn’t leave Dee. There was
no way I was going to. She… she was
what I was fighting for. Those
millions… all that money… what the
fuck does a guy like me have to spend it
on? I eat, I train, I fight; it’s not

expensive.
No, that was for us.
Perhaps I wasn’t conscious of it at the
time, perhaps I didn’t understand it. But I
was saving all of that for us. For our
future. A future that only came to me in
fuzzy outlines. A future that I couldn’t
peer into, because I wasn’t sure how it
was going to play out.
If only I’d planned it better. If only I’d
talked to Dee, been honest with her
about what I thought. But I wanted to
wait until it was all there, ready for the
taking. I wanted her to know she could
leave, but not have to wait in order to do
so.
Maybe I was stupid. How many times

has she told me I didn’t need to protect
her?
God damn it, maybe I was stupid!
Maybe I got it wrong! Did I drive her
away? Did she leave because I never
committed as fully as I meant to?
Fuck.
That future evaporated, my last palmfull of water in a desert, when she took
my baby and ran.
I put the beer down not even having
taken a sip… I’m in no mood. I go back
inside, stare at my map. I’ve sat on
seventeen schools so far, each for
several days at a time in case she’s just
working part-time. I never saw her at
any of them.

There are plenty more to go,
especially out in the suburbs, nearby
places like Geelong. The schools, that
she wants to teach, it’s all I have to go
on.
I’m full to bursting with frustration,
recognize the need to burn it off before it
robs me of another night of sleep.
I can’t keep going on like this,
sleeping for barely two or three hours a
day. It’s going to wear me out, burn me
out, fuck with my mind. I don’t have the
body fat percentage to keep my energy
levels up forever, and I’m not eating like
I need to be. I’ve already dropped
weight, most of it lean mass. Throw me
in a cage now against the last guy I
fought, and I lose easily.

Fuck. I’m coming apart at the seams.
I change, leave the apartment, jog
toward the beach then turn left toward
Brighton. I take an aggressive pace,
force my heart to race, force my lungs to
burn. I’ve sweated through my t-shirt,
and I push harder, faster.
Maybe it’s some stupid attempt to tire
myself out so much that I forget about
Dee tonight. But I know that’s
impossible. I’ll look at that fuzzy ATM
picture again. I’ll stare at it until my eyes
blur out and I fall asleep on the couch.
I race by the marina, hear the metal
clangs of sail strings slapping masts. I
pass a hidden beach, tucked away in an
alcove of stone beneath a cliff face, and

there I see nesting miniature penguins, no
taller than a bowling pin. I heave past
the mansions that belong to celebrities
and the rich, with their swimming pools
and servants and rare pure-breed
accessory dogs.
And then I’m spent, panting, gasping. I
double over, grip onto my knees. My
white t-shirt has gone transparent, clings
to my skin. I go toward a bench
overlooking Brighton beach. Lining the
beach are multicolored boat huts.
They’re painted in a variety of ways.
One has a kangaroo on it, the other the
colors of the local Aussie-rules team.
One is painted in the colors of the Union
Jack. I spy another one… the American
flag.

My mind goes back to Dee. She’s a
foreigner all alone in this country. She’s
a woman carrying a baby who’ll have to
hold down a job to make enough money
to live.
I see somebody walking along the
beach in the distance. It takes a moment
for my eyes to adjust as I’m pulled from
my thoughts. Behind the person are two
dogs, casually following.
Dee liked cats. That was one of the
first things I ever learned about her. I
grin at the memory, that cat t-shirt in
Thailand. It was black, soaked up all the
heat, and in that sub-tropical climate, no
wonder she looked uncomfortable.
How it was Sai, that old village tabby

cat, that finally got Dee
comfortable, that got us talking.

more

How much Dee changed! She didn’t
just become a beautiful woman with
curves that make me swallow hard. But
she grew a hard skin, found a spring of
compassionate self-confidence that made
her the brightest person in any room,
pushed back at her asshole father, and
started to finally do what she wanted to
in life.
It was all getting better; we were on
the right path. We were going to get out
together!
I look away from the person with the
dogs, stare out to sea, to where the
world curves around. Hunting down Dee

often feels like chasing the horizon. I’ve
gotten nowhere in ninety days. Each day
seems to move at half-speed. Each night
slower still.
I hear the crinkle of a food wrapper.
It’s carried on the wind. I look toward
the person by the shore, see now that it’s
a woman. She kneels down, pours
something into her hands and then lets
the dogs eat out of it.
They’ve got to be strays. Nobody
feeds their dogs like that when taking
them for a walk. Maybe a snack or two,
but not a handful.
I wonder if Dee would have wanted
to own dogs. I don’t mind cats, but had
my ideal life for us played out, we might

have owned a dog, too. Maybe a rescued
pit bull.
The woman stands up, and one of her
hands goes to her belly. She rubs it. I
wonder at it for a moment, turn my eyes
away back toward the horizon and the
setting sun. It’s a huge lantern coming
back down to—
I snap my eyes back toward the
woman. She’s still got her hand on her
belly, and I see there a small bump.
My heart starts to race, blood thunders
in my ears. There is no chance in hell…
it could be anybody! How many
pregnant women are there? There must
be loads.
There’s no chance.

“Come on,” she says to the dogs. Her
voice is carried on the wind.
Dee’s voice.
I recognize it instantly.
Then I smell a hint of perfume.
Dee’s perfume.
I recognize it instantly.
I stand up, start walking toward her.
She hasn’t noticed me.
As I get closer, her features become
clearer.
I see her smile.
Dee’s smile.
I recognize it instantly.

“Dee!” I shout, but a passing car
drowns me out.
“Dee!”

Chapter Thirty Four

I spin around on the spot after hearing
my name called.
I recognize his voice instantly.
I see a huge man walking toward me,
his broad shoulders swaying.
I recognize his gait instantly.
He closes the distance between us, his
strides urgent, his hands outstretched.
Slowly his face comes into focus, and I
see the same face that stops people on
the streets, only harder. I see the same
eyes that could be mistaken for a wolf’s
in the night, only darker. I see the same
lips, perfect for kissing, only thinner.

He takes my face, a little frantic, a
little rough, cups it into his hot palms,
and I feel them calloused where they
once were smooth.
His kiss is nothing delicate, nothing
gentle. I’m lifted off my feet before I
even know what’s happening, and I’m
confused and wondering how he found
me, and only after moments do I gather
myself, find his lower lip, and kiss him
back.
I recognize his kiss instantly.
It hasn’t changed, but it’s rougher
around the edges, and his tongue seems
restless, as though he wants to explore
all of my mouth all at once.
He holds me tighter, breaks the kiss,

then moves his lips to my ear where I
feel him against my neck, where I hear
him smelling me.
I press myself into him, want to be
swallowed up by him. I don’t know what
I feel, but relief isn’t the word. It’s
confusing, a hurricane of conflicting
thoughts swirling around in my mind.
How did he find me?
Did he bring Dad with him?
The last one stings: How much have I
missed him?
His hands are hungry, run up my sides,
hold onto me. It’s like he never wants to
let me go. I don’t try to push back, I let
him just hold me, smell me. His body

shakes a little, not from tears, but from…
I don’t know what.
And then I find my strength. I feel my
own surge. I grip onto him, as if for dear
life, hold him tighter against me, cradle
the back of his head as I sense the weight
of his emotions from the drop of his
shoulders.
It’s my Duncan, and he’s here… he’s
found me.
I look into his eyes. They’ve changed.
He’s changed. He’s got new scars, but
they aren’t fighting scars. His hands are
just as rough on the knuckles as ever, but
now his palms are no longer so soft.
They’re harder; he’s stopped taking care
of them.

That means he’s stopped fighting.
He doesn’t say anything, he just looks
at me, and his eyes travel down my
body, to the bump of my belly.
He puts a hand there, kneels down,
presses his face to my belly, holds me
around the small of my back. His fingers
slip beneath my sweater and he lifts it
up, exposing my skin, and he kisses me
softly, making me shiver, sending goose
bumps erupting up and down the length
of my body.
And then he falls back onto the beach.
It’s like his body has no strength, and I
clasp a hand to my mouth, drop to my
knees with him.
I see in his eyes… anguish.

Accusation.
“Duncan,” I whisper, stroking his
face. “How did you find me? What are
you doing here?”
But he doesn’t reply. He looks at me,
his eyes darting everywhere, as if
checking to see that it is really me. He
turns my head to the side, studies me.
“What are you doing?” I ask, but still
he doesn’t reply.
His scent is strong, he’s obviously
been running. His t-shirt clings to him.
He’s lost a little weight; he’s not as
muscular as he was.
No longer training.
He’s left it all behind!

“Is my father with you?” I ask. I hate
to ask it, and I bunch my brow together
as I do, but I need to know.
He shakes his head. Now in his blue
eyes I see more than just accusation. I
see the flickers of anger, and pain.
“You sure he didn’t follow you,
Duncan?”
He folds his arms around his knees,
ducks his head down for a moment. His
chest swells as he draws in a huge
breath, and then he lets it out slowly.
“I’m sure, Dee.”
His voice even seems different.
Deeper. Meaner.
Without warning he gets to his feet,

holds out a hand. I take it, let him pull
me to my feet.
“We have a lot to talk about,” he says.
I nod, chew my lip. “We do. Do you
want to clean up first?”
His tongue comes out, wets his lips.
“No.”
“Okay,” I whisper. “My car’s parked
just over there. We should probably talk
somewhere private. You can come back
to my place? It’s not far.”
We walk in silence, shoulders
rubbing. His hands are buried in his
pockets, and he just stares straight
ahead, his brow a permanent crease.
We don’t talk the whole drive back…

and that makes me nervous.
It’s not fear I feel. Duncan has never
scared me a day in his life. He’s never
tried to, and he’s never done it by
accident.
But… but I feel trepidation.
It’s all still as much of a shock to me
as it must be to him.
How am I going to explain myself?
“You got a nice place,” he says. “How
can you afford this?”
I swallow. “The headmaster at the
school I teach at… he owns some
properties, he offered it to me for a good
price.”
Duncan’s eyes stay fixed on mine. His

voice is sticky… maybe a little afraid.
“Are you and him…?”
“God, no,” I say, shaking my head
quickly. “No. There’s nobody else.”
I glance around the apartment. It is
nice, though small. More expensive than
I could afford on my pay if it went at
market-price, though.
“That was good of him.” The words
leave Duncan’s mouth slowly, but they
are sincere.
“He knew I was pregnant, knew I
didn’t have anything to my name.”
Duncan nods. “And those dogs?”
“Just some strays I feed every day
after work.”

There’s just a flash of warmth in his
face. “You like cats.”
“Dogs are growing on me. Sit down,”
I tell him, gesturing at the sofa. “Cup of
coffee?”
“Water,” he says.
“That’s
caffeine.”

right,”

I

whisper.

“No

I feel so awkward around him. This is
not how I imagined our reunion – if we
ever had one – would be like. We look
at each other just a moment too long, and
I feel my ears burning.
I didn’t anticipate this gap between
us. It’s palpable, like I can feel and
touch the space between us, holding us

apart.
I suppose I only have myself to blame
for that. I did run away with his baby.
But it was my baby, too!
I set down the glass of water on the
coffee table, take a seat next to Duncan
on the sofa. There’s a space between us
on the sofa… that’s a first. Usually
we’re always in physical contact when
we sit together. Shoulder to shoulder, hip
to hip, connected.
Usually… that’s the wrong word now.
“You go first,” I tell him gently. “How
did you find me?”
He sips from the glass, sets it down,
then squeezes his hands together. “Why

didn’t you tell me, Dee?”
That’s him. Straight to the point.
I suck in air, don’t know what to say. I
shake my head.
The look in his eyes haunts me. When
he turns them on me, I break. It all bursts
out of me, a crack in a dam finally
caving.
“He was trying to take our baby!” I
cry, slapping the armrest before folding
my arms. I fight back the tears but now I
just feel so guilty. Now I feel like the
bad guy.
Why is he making me feel like the bad
guy?
Still, his hard eyes are on me.

“Dad said he would kill the father. He
would put Frank on him! You’d have
turned up face-down floating in the
lake.”
“You were trying to protect me?”
“Of course I was,” I hiss, wiping my
cheeks with a shaking hand. I collect
myself, take a deep breath. “I never
wanted this.”
I can hear the enamel grinding
together. Duncan’s gritting his teeth, and
the muscles in his jaw tense and relax.
“When did you find out you were
pregnant?”
“That morning! For certain, anyway.”
I look down. “I couldn’t tell you before

the fight. It would have distracted you,
you might have lost.”
“I would have cancelled!” Duncan
says, his voice rising a little. “We would
have celebrated.”
“No,” I tell him. “We would have
faced the reality. We were together in
secret. We had a secret baby. We were
legal brother and sister!”
“Were.”
“Are. Dad would never have accepted
it. He would have killed you, Duncan.
He would have stolen our baby! Shipped
me off into the countryside to live in the
middle of nowhere with some old
relative! Like they used to do with girls
who had illegitimate babies.”

“So you ran.”
“So I ran,” I say. “I couldn’t think of
anything else to do. I couldn’t wait for
you. I’m sorry. I didn’t know where
you’d stand. I didn’t want to put you in
that position. I didn’t want Dad to put
out a hit on you. Everybody back home
knows your face, Duncan. You would
have been dead before the next morning.
I would never have gotten out of the
country if you were there by my side.
Your face was on flyers, for God’s
sake!”
Silence drapes over us like a wet,
stifling blanket.
He doesn’t reply, and that just makes
me feel guiltier. He sits, broods, doesn’t

even sip from his water anymore.
“You need to see my point of view,” I
tell him. “Dad had just told me he was
going to send me away, and when the
baby was born, he said he would raise
my child as his own.”
Duncan’s voice cuts in, low, slow.
“Our child.”
“Then he tells me he’s going to kill the
father. What if he found out you and I…
all that time? You think he wouldn’t have
sent ten men after you? You know how
he is.”
He sighs, and again I see the muscles
in his jaw tense.
“I had to protect myself, our child…

and you. Don’t you see that? Don’t you
see that it was the only way?”
“It wasn’t the only way. There was
another way.”
“Tell you before the fight?”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t want to distract you!” I cry.
“If I had known Dad was going to pull
me aside during the fight, I would have
told you! But when I decided I had to
leave, you were still in the cage, still
fighting!”
“You didn’t tell me you missed your
period.”
“I thought I was just late. I wasn’t on
the pill, Duncan! God, you know this

shit. I know you’re not stupid. And it’s
not like you noticed, either. I know you
were busy preparing for your fight, but
you still didn’t notice.”
“I should have.”
“Damn right you should have!”
“I still don’t understand why.”
“What do you mean you don’t
understand? I just explained it to you.”
He shakes his head. “Doesn’t make
sense.”
“Why are you doing this to me? Do
you know how hard it’s been? On top of
my crazy hormones, feeling sick all the
time? Being stressed out of my mind all
this time? I did this all alone. I’ve been

all alone!”
“You didn’t have to be.”
I look away from him, start feeling
angry. Why is he doing this?
“I was afraid,” I tell him. “Afraid for
the future. I had to do something. Maybe
I didn’t think it through, but it kept my
baby safe, kept me out of Dad’s hands. I
don’t regret it. I’m not sorry! I’ve been
trying to do it all on my own, be strong.”
“I don’t expect you to be sorry.”
“What the hell is that supposed to
mean?” I ask. Was that some kind of
attack on my character? “You think I
can’t see how this is? You think it wasn’t
hard for me, too? You think I wanted to

leave you that night, knowing you’d
come home to an empty apartment? I
mean that, Duncan. You, in particular.
With your history, the way you grew up,
you think it never crossed my mind that I
was abandoning you? You think that I
don’t feel bad about that?”
When he doesn’t reply I grow fed up.
I get up, go to the door, open it.
“You need to go,” I tell him. “If you’re
not going to talk to me, with me, then go.
What the hell has happened to you,
anyway?”
His blue eyes pierce me. They shine a
little, they’re wet a little. He gets up,
comes to me, but then turns and walks
out the door, hands running through his

hair.
I slam the door shut behind him, fold
my arms, and lean against it.
I hear his footsteps disappear down
the hallway.
What the hell is going on?

Chapter Thirty Five

But I hear his footsteps returning, step
back from the door. He opens it, comes
to me, holds me in his arms and he
kisses me. He lifts me off the ground,
sits me on the kitchen counter.
“What are you doing?” I say, pushing
him off me. “We are not on the same
page.”
“No, we’re not.”
His eyes exude a lustful intensity, but
behind them is a fog of something else I
can’t identify.
“So what, you think you can just come
in here and have me?”

“Tell me to go again.”
I hesitate, and his eyes never leave
me, like he can’t bear to look away from
me.
“You’re mad at me still.”
“I am.”
“So why are you kissing me?”
“Because I’ve missed you, and I want
you.”
His fingers trail up my thigh, then
beneath my blouse. When I feel his hot
fingers on my belly, sidle slowly up to
my breasts, I suck in a breath of air.
“But we haven’t finished talking.”
“No, we haven’t.”

He pulls me toward him, jams his
hard cock up against my sex, and despite
myself I wrap my legs around his waist.
It occurs to me that this counter is the
perfect height—
“And we’re not going to be finished
talking in just one day,” he growls,
scooping up my face and bringing it to
him.
He kisses me hard again, almost
angrily, and pushes his tongue into my
mouth. I pull back, bite his lip, and stare
into his eyes.
“You think we can just sort this about
by fucking?”
“Don’t treat me like an idiot, Dee.”

He claims my lips again, holds me
against him, and with my hands against
his muscular chest, I know I have no
hope of pushing him off me.
“So what are you going to do?” I say,
my breathing quick, my eyes unable to
leave his amazing lips. “Just take what
you want from me?”
“Tell me you don’t want me to.”
“If I did would you leave?”
“Yes. So tell me,” he says, tugging me
closer again, a little rougher. His hands
travel up my sides, make me shiver,
make me pulse.
I can feel his heat, smell him, and I
know that in the blink of an eye I could

just melt into his arms.
“Come on,” he says. “Say it. Tell me
to go again.”
“Shut up,” I say, leaning forward and
taking his lips. His fingers come around
to my blouse, and he rips it open,
sending the plastic buttons spraying.
My whole body is jolted by the force,
and he pulls it roughly over my
shoulders.
“That was my favorite blouse,” I say.
But he doesn’t reply. He kisses my
neck, leaves a smoking trail from my ear
to my shoulders, makes me hold my
breath as he nibbles on my skin, sets it
afire with his tongue.

He unhooks my bra, pulls it off my
arms, and then grabs each of my breasts
hungrily, kneads my globes and thumbs
my nipples.
“Hey,” I say, grabbing onto his wrists.
“Be gentle. They’re tender.”
I pull him into me tighter with my
legs, weave my fingers through his hair
and hold him close to me, my heart
pounding, my temperature rising, at the
same time both not wanting to do this
and wanting to.
“You need to tell me how you feel,” I
pant, as he licks a swathe of skin down
in between my breasts, takes my nipple
into his mouth and sucks on it. “We can’t
just forget about it.”

“Who says I’m going to forget?” he
says, working lower still. He reaches my
jeans, pulls open the button with his
teeth, then pulls the flaps apart, forcing
the zip down.
“You can’t blame me for this.”
“Who says I’m blaming you?’
His whole body is tense, and I see that
lustful fire in his eyes.
“We can’t just fuck it away!” I cry.
“We’re not fucking anything away.”
He steps back, rips my jeans down my
leg, throws it carelessly behind him. His
chest rises and falls rapidly.
“Duncan, just hold on,” I say.

He pulls down my underwear, presses
it against his nose, smells me, then jerks
me forward on the counter so that I’m
right on the edge.
He slaps my thighs open, spreads me,
bares me to him. “God, I’ve missed your
sweet pussy.” He runs his tongue hard up
my center, and I shiver, lean back, clutch
at the edge of the counter behind me.
“Duncan, wait—”
He licks me again, up one side of my
clit and down the other, and I’m feeling
flushed, and I’m feeling it inside me, the
anticipation building up, the pressure.
“God, you smell so good.”
His tongue circles my pearl just the

way I like it, and I moan and squeeze
when I feel him slide a finger into me
quickly, then a second.
“Oh my God,” I pant, unconsciously
bucking my hips forward to him,
pressing against him.
Instantly he’s sending hints of pleasure
through me, making me feel so good, and
he laps at me like a starving animal, like
he’s never needed to lick my sex more
than he does right now.
“I’ve missed you,” he groans. “The
way you taste, the way you smell. God,
why’d you run away?”
“I had to!” I say, taking his head,
pressing it against me. I mash myself
against him, gyrate against his face, lost

in bliss, my eyes shut.
His tongue is fast and strong, and he
knows just how to get me off. I’m
surging forward, tightening up, feel so
good and I’m getting closer and closer.
“Like that,” I gasp as he rubs my front
wall, massages it to the rhythm of his
tongue. “Oh, shit, Duncan.”
I squeeze, tighten, my whole body
tense. I haven’t felt this good in so long,
since the night I left him. I’ve been so
alone.
But he makes me feel sexy, now. He
serves me as if that’s the only thing he
ever wants to do. He pleasures me like
only he knows how, presses all my
buttons, and I’m inches away from

exploding in ecstasy when he pulls his
fingers from me, sucks on them.
I sigh, feel myself backed off the edge,
my whole body buzzing with electricity,
every nerve ending inside me on fire, on
the verge of going off, now cooling
down.
“Are you punishing me?” I ask him,
but again he doesn’t reply, just looks at
me.
My hands shoot to the elastic of his
pants, but he pulls away from me. He
removes his shirt, and his sexy body
comes into view. He has lost a bit of
weight, and it just makes him look leaner
than ever.
He steps forward, takes my hand, runs

it down his body.
“Tell me you don’t want me,” he
growls.
“It’s not about that,” I say through
quick breaths.
He lowers my hand still, into his
underwear, and there I feel him, grip
onto him, squeeze him.
“I never stopped wanting you,” he
says, closing the distance fast. He takes
a fist of my hair into his hands and jerks
my head back, and then he licks up my
neck to my chin, aggressively,
possessively.
His lips find mine, and he kisses me,
sucking on my lower lip for a moment,

before meeting my tongue with his.
I jerk him in his pants, feel his
manhood, so thick and hard for me.
“You really want to know what I
think?”
“Yes.”
“I think you should have told me,” he
breathes.
“I wanted to tell you.”
“I had a right to know.”
“I know, Duncan!”
“Every single fucking day I searched
for you.”
He pulls in closer to me, still holding
my hair, takes my lip again and bites it. I

feel the sting, and it makes me shiver.
“And yes, I’m mad.” He pauses, looks
into my eyes. His blue orbs are
magnetic, draw me into them. “But I’m
still in love with you, and I’m never
letting you go again.”
Before I can reply he kisses me, and I
wrap my legs around him frantically,
pull myself to him. He lifts me up off the
counter effortlessly with one hand, pulls
his cock out with the other, buries
himself all the way inside me in one
motion.
I shut my eyes, rake his skin as he fills
me up, makes me see white. He starts to
fuck me hard and fast, buries himself in
me to the hilt again and again.

All I can do is hold onto him hard,
bite onto his shoulder, and as he thrusts
into me ever harder, ever faster, I’m
blinded, in the clouds, in oblivion.
His cock is so hard inside me, so
thick, he makes me feel so full, so good.
“Oh God,” I pant onto him, coiling my
arms tighter around his neck. His frantic
thrusting is slapping his pubic bone
against my clit again and again and
again, bringing me closer and closer to
the edge.
“Don’t stop,” I say, gripping onto his
hair, pulling it. He presses his forehead
against me, looks into my eyes.
“Don’t stop,” I hiss.

I feel my body tighten up, feel my
world turn white-hot, and just at the edge
of my climax he claims my lips, and I
moan into his mouth, squeezing and
spasming inside me as my orgasm rocks
my body, sets me on fire.
I cum hard, fast, shiver and shudder,
moan onto his shoulder. I’m in heaven,
feeling so damn fucking good, and then
I’m passed the peak, coming down.
“Slow down,” I say quickly, stopping
him with hands on his chest.
He lifts me up higher on him, and I
tremble as I feel him slide out of me a
little. He takes me into the bed room,
and then pulls himself all the way out of
me, leaving me quivering and feeling

empty.
“Lie down,” he says, his cock jutting
out hard as an iron bar, my pleasure all
over him. I climb onto the bed, lie down,
but he tells me, “On your side.”
So I do, and I feel the weight of the
bed shift as Duncan lies behind me, and
then I feel his wide tip at my entrance.
“Hold on,” I say, then gasp as he
thrusts into me. “Wait!” I breathe, but he
starts to fuck me wildly, and he takes my
hair into his hands and yanks it, pulling
my head back toward him.
He brings his face close to me while
he fucks me, whispers into my ear,
“Cross your legs.”

So I do, put one foot behind the other,
instantly making myself tighter, instantly
feeling him so much more.
He fucks me ferociously, bottoms out
inside me again and again, and I’m lost,
can’t even make a sound, as he licks and
bites my neck and shoulder, as he takes
the side of my lips into his, kisses me.
I feel his hand over my hip, and he
finds my swollen bud, and starts to rub
me.
I’m just overwhelmed. It’s too soon!
I’m not ready.
But he doesn’t stop, and I find myself
back on the runway, knowing he’s going
to make me take off again.

“Oh God,” I groan, my voice a slur,
my eyes shut tight, my mind lost in the
wind.
I feel his body heat, hear his sweat at
each slap of his pubis against my ass, at
each powerful thrust.
He’s making me feel so good again, so
full, like he’s touching me everywhere,
like every nerve ending in my body is
firing off at once.
“Come for me,” he growls into my
ear. “Squeeze your tight pussy around my
cock, come all over me, Dee.”
“Keep going,” I hiss desperately, the
agony of pleasure in my voice.
He pulls my hair tighter, and the

stinging merges in with everything else
I’m feeling. It’s a heady mix. “Harder,” I
beg him, and he drills himself into me,
tightens his grip on me, bends my head
back farther.
“Come on,” I say through gritted teeth.
“Fuck, Dee,” I hear him groan.
“Don’t you dare come yet,” I order
him.
“Your pussy is so fucking tight, Dee,”
he says, voice husky. “God, you feel so
good.”
He doesn’t stop, goes harder and
faster, and I’m nearly there, climbing, so,
so close…
“Ooohhh,” I cry as climax crashes

over me, wracks my body. I’m frozen, a
tense snapshot of pleasure, and my
senses sear, and I’m electric with bliss.
He drives me through it, and then I
hear him groan, and I feel him tense up,
and then his cock expands inside me
impossibly more.
“Jesus,” he grunts, emptying himself
inside me, shooting his seed again and
again into me.
We stay locked, stuck, spasming in
pleasure. He’s breathing hard, his chest
slick on my back, and he wraps an arm
under my neck, and holds me against
him, kisses the side of my face.
“God damn I’ve fucking missed you,”
he says. “Every day has been like torture

for me.”
I’m still coming down, am acutely
aware of how hard he still is inside me.
I buck my hips back, push him a little
deeper, shut my eyes, savor him.
He stays inside me, and he forms his
body perfectly to the shape of mine,
holds me tight against him, smells my
hair, behind my ear, kisses me, touches
me.
His hands run up and down my body,
grope every inch of flesh I have, run
down to my sex and when he touches my
clit I jolt, grin and hum, move his hand
away.
He holds my thighs, traces the shape
of my hip, pinches my nipples, kneads

my breasts.
“I can’t get enough of you,” he says,
taking my earlobe into his mouth, biting
it.
I turn in his arms then, shudder as he
slips out of me, and I climb on top of
him, my hair falling down the sides of
both our faces.
He kisses me, this time softly,
lovingly, and we stay lip locked, and I
realize just how much I’ve missed the
feel of his lips, the taste of his tongue,
everything about him.
“Duncan,” I say. “We really can’t just
not talk about this.”
“Okay,” he says. “Let’s talk.”

“I know you’ve got questions.”
“I do,” he says. “Is it a boy or a girl?”

Chapter Thirty Six

He lies on my belly, ear pressed
against my skin while I run my fingers
through his hair.
“It’s a boy.”
Duncan looks up at me, and he beams
me the most joyous smile. “Really?”
“Yeah,” I say, laughing. “I found out a
while ago.”
“Wow,” he breathes, running a warm
hand over my belly. “A boy.”
“Yeah.”
“You thought about what to name
him?”
“I was thinking Thom… with an ‘h’.

What do you think?”
“I like it, Dee.”
He starts moving his ear around my
belly.
“What are you doing?” I ask. “I don’t
think the baby has started kicking yet. At
least, I haven’t felt it.”
“You’re
right?”

at

about

twenty-weeks,

“Yeah,” I say.
“I read that sometimes you can feel
the baby as early as thirteen weeks. The
article said that you’re more likely to
notice it if you’ve been pregnant
before.”
“You been reading what it’s like to be

a pregnant woman?”
He nods. “Yeah, a bit here and there
the last few weeks.”
“Well I haven’t felt a kick or even a
movement yet.”
He presses his ear harder against my
belly, and suddenly I wish I could do
that, too.
“What do you hear?”
“Squelching.”
“Squelching?” I cry, slapping his
head. “It doesn’t sound that disgusting.”
“Sounds liquid.”
“That’s the amniotic fluid.”
“I’m listening for his heartbeat.”

“You won’t hear it this early. I can’t
even hear it through the fetal
stethoscope.”
“Turn over,” he says, getting up and
rolling me onto my side.
“What?”
He presses his ear to the small of my
back, right next to my spine. “I read
sometimes you can hear it from this
position.”
A few moments pass, and he sighs.
“No, nothing.”
“Try the stethoscope,” I say. “It’s in
the drawer.”
He stretches, opens the drawer and
then pulls it out and places the

diaphragm against my back.
“I just hear liquid sloshing.
Sometimes there’s a dull thud, I guess
that could be Thom moving?”
“Could be,” I say. “I hear thuds
sometimes through that.”
He sidles up the bed with me and
holds me from behind, his hand on my
belly, rubbing it.
“I wish I was there when you found
out it was a boy.”
I hold onto his hand, interlock my
fingers with his.
“Do you want to see the ultrasound
picture?”
“Of course I do.”

I reach over to the bedside table,
ruffle through some papers until I find
the envelope. I open it, and slip out the
small, post-card sized picture.
“Here,” I say, handing it to him.
“I,” Duncan begins, before his voice
trails off. He turns it around, then back
around, and then finally admits to not
knowing what he’s seeing.
“Here’s the head,” I say gently, tracing
it with my finger. “See? Thom’s little
nose?”
“Yeah,” he breathes. “I see it now.”
His lips pull into a broad beaming smile
that makes me feel a pang in my gut.
“That’s our son, Dee.” His hands are

shaking a little, and so I hold them in
mine.
“That’s our son.”
“The doctor could tell it was a boy
from this?”
“Here,” I say. “That’s his penis.”
Duncan frowns. “Really?”
“That’s what the doctor said.”
“It doesn’t look like one.”
He stares at the picture for a while,
tracing the outline with the tip of his
finger, utterly mesmerized.
“Are you mad at me? Honestly?”
Duncan sighs. “Yes, but no. It’s… I
don’t know. How can I be mad at you?

You did what you thought was right. You
were trying to protect our baby.”
“And you,” I say.
“And me.”
“But you’re still mad about something.
I can feel it, Duncan.”
“I’m mad I’ve missed this much.”
“Do you blame me?”
“I wanted to,” he tells me. The truth
hurts, but I didn’t expect a different
answer. “But the more I thought about it,
the more I trusted that you had a reason.”
“But it bothers you.”
“Dee,” he says, leaning up onto an
elbow and looking down at me. “Every

day of my life I look forward. It was no
different when I met you, and it’s no
different now. I’m here with you now,
and I’m not letting you go again. I’m just
looking forward.”
“You can’t just bury your feelings.”
“I’m not burying anything. I’ll work it
out. We’ll talk, don’t worry. It’s just… I
can’t just open all the doors and
windows now, you know? I’ve kept it all
shut. I’m not good at putting this shit into
words.”
“How did you find me, anyway?”
“I contacted my fans.”
I blink. “What?”
“Some of them are magic with

computers. They found out that you’d
boarded a flight to Hong Kong, so I
followed the next flight I could get out.”
“You were in Hong Kong? When?”
“Two days after you left.”
“Gosh, I was still there.”
“I went to see the man you got your
new passport from.”
“He told you? That bastard. He
warned me he’d talk, said he’d only do
it to save his own skin.”
“He didn’t at first,” Duncan says. “I
had to make him.”
“Was it bad?”
He sighs. “Yeah.”

I nod, suck on my upper lip. “So what
happened after Hong Kong?”
“I learned you came to Australia, but
the guys who I had searching for you
online couldn’t get the flight records this
time. So, I went to Sydney first. I figured
you’d go there.”
“I thought about it,” I whisper.
“Thought you’d try to get to a big city,
so it was a toss-up between here and
there. I picked there and you went here.”
“Then what?”
“One of my guys got a photograph of
you through an ATM camera. He had
some kind of algorithm running,
searching through all the branches one

by one. Everybody has to visit an ATM
at some point, so it was only a matter of
time. I figured out you were in
Melbourne, came here, and started
looking at the schools.”
“But how did you know? I could have
started waitressing or something.”
“Figured you’d chase your dream,
first. I mean, you needed something good
after leaving everything behind. Plus
there was a message board post from a
Caroline Sax that my guy dug up. So I
just sat on schools, just watched from my
car. Most of them didn’t keep updated
staff records on their websites.”
I frown. “That’s dangerous.”
“I know, but what else was I going to

do? I didn’t like doing it either.”
“So how long have you been here?”
“Almost a month.”
“A month,” I echo quietly. “God.”
“You know what the hardest thing
was, Dee? The thought that I might
overtake you on the road. Or that I might
be walking down the aisle of a
supermarket with you on the other side
of the shelves. Or that I might be walking
down the street, turn around at a sound,
and then you’d sweep right past me,
and…”
His voice trails off.
“Fuck all of that,” he growls.
I hold him against me, rub the back of

his head. “I thought about contacting you
back home,” I say. “But I knew Dad
would be listening, too.”
“He was,” Duncan says. “For sure. I
ditched my phone straight away. I told
him not to follow me, but I was sure I
was being tailed when I drove to the
airport. I had to leave your mother’s car
somewhere else, duck through some
alleys to lose them, and catch a cab the
rest of the way.”
“You took the car?”
“I didn’t part with Glass on good
terms.”
“What happened?”
“I found out you were pregnant.”

I grit my teeth together. That’s not how
I would have wanted him to find out…
from fucking Dad.
We lie together in silence for a while,
our bodies connected. Eventually, I sigh.
I have to say it. There’s no point
avoiding it.
“If you found me, then Dad will, too.
It’s only a matter of time.”
“I agree,” he says.
“He won’t stop.”
“So, we need to be ready. What?” he
asks, reading the look on my face. “Yes,
we. I’m not fucking letting you go again,
Dee. How much money do you have?”
“I took some from Dad’s safe,” I say. I

don’t much like that I stole money, but it
was the only way. “But most of that is
gone.”
“Then we need money.”
“I’m working
moment.”

part-time

at

the

“It’s not enough, Dee. We need an
emergency fund, something that will buy
us a quick exit.”
“I don’t want to run anymore. I’m
tired, and I’m pregnant. It’s already
difficult physically for me, and it’s only
going to get harder.”
“I don’t want to run, either, but if your
Dad is coming, he’s coming with
muscle.”

“Frank.”
“Maybe more. So if worst comes to
worst, we have to be able to at least
afford to leave. That means cash. I can’t
withdraw money, he’ll trace it here. So,
I’ll fight.”
I lean up, rest my head on my elbow.
“What, underground?”
“There’s got to be a gig somewhere.”
“Duncan,” I say softly, not knowing
how exactly to broach it. “You’re not in
fighting shape anymore. You’ve lost
weight, you’re thinner now. You melted
through all your muscle once you
stopped training. I know you’ve
stopped.”

“I know,” he says, licking his lips.
“But I won’t be coming up against
seasoned guys.”
“How do you know?”
“Come on.”
“Come on, what? How do you know
you won’t face somebody who just
wants to clean up with easy opponents?
Somebody just like you, with
experience? If you’re thinking about
doing it, isn’t it possible others are? It’s
not just going to be inexperienced boys
looking for their moment of dirty glory.”
“Can you think of a faster way?” he
asks me. “Because if you can, let’s do
that.”

I shake my head slowly. “No, I can’t.”
“Then I’m fucking doing it. We need
the money. Just in case.”
“Yeah but what use is it to me if you
get hurt?”
“I won’t.”
I think about it. It really is the best
option we have, and I know he’s deadset on doing it. I’m not going to be able
to change his mind.
“Then I’ll be with you there at the
fight,” I say.
“Good, because I’ll need you there.”
“Did you beat Manic? In the end?”
He sighs. “Yeah, just. I looked for you

after… I… I just knew something was
wrong. We’re going to need something
else, Dee. We’re going to need a way to
protect ourselves.”
“What are you talking about?”
“We just need resources. Now I need
to know since you know him better than
me. Are you sure Glass is coming?”
I nod. “Want to hear something
scary?”
“Shoot.”
“Last night, I got a text message from
my email provider telling me someone
had tried to re-open my account. I shut it
down when I left. Dad’s looking online
for me, now. If that’s how you found me,

that’s how he’s going to find me.”
“Can we move?”
“Where?”
“Into the country.”
“And do what? It’s easier to hide in a
city.”
“Okay,” Duncan breathes. “So he’s
coming, and we have to be ready. We
need a plan. I know a guy here,
somebody who may be able to help us.”
“A guy?”
“A fighter. I’ll ask him for help.”
I pinch my brow together in confusion.
“How’s he going to help?”
“That’s what I’m going to find out. I

don’t want to get him involved, but I
don’t see it as us having much choice.
Any help we can get, we take.”
“Who is this guy, anyway?”
“He used to fight underground here.
Stopped a while ago, I think he got tied
up with the mob and had to retire.”
“Is he a good guy?”
Duncan nods. “I think so. His name’s
Fletcher. We used to email back and
forth, talk strategy. Fighter’s stick up for
each other, Dee. I think he can be
trusted.”
“Are you sure?”
“No, but I will be in a bit.”
“Okay,” I whisper. Then, I remember.

“Oh, damn it, I was meant to go grocery
shopping after feeding Lisa and Tammy.”
“You named stray dogs?”
I nod, defiant. “So what if I did? I
thought about taking them home once or
twice, but I knew I’d never be able to
afford all the vet’s fees. Also, they don’t
allow dogs in this building.”
“What do you need?”
“For what?”
“Groceries.”
“Just something for dinner. Why, are
you going out?”
“I have no clothes, Dee. I’ll go by my
place, pick some up, then do the
shopping.”

“No, don’t worry about that, I’ve got
some tinned spagh—”
“Damn it, Dee, don’t eat that crap.
Not now, not with… Thom. I’ll go, it’s
no trouble. I’ll talk to Fletcher as well,
see what he says.”
“Will you be long?”
“No. Be fast as I can. Trust me, I don’t
want to leave you.”
“Why? Think that when you get back
I’ll be gone?”
“I don’t think that’s what is going to
happen,” he says, his face crunching up
for a moment as if he’s struggling to find
the words for what he wants to say. “But
it’s a nightmare that plays in the

background.”
“I’ll be here.”
“You better fucking be here,” he says,
getting out of bed. “Because I’ll never
stop looking for you.”
“I wasn’t running from you.”
“I know.”
I watch him as he gets dressed, and I
fold a robe around myself, take him
through the apartment.
“One last thing, Dee,” he says at the
door.
“What?”
“If you haven’t yet, forgive yourself.”
I suck on my upper lip, whisper,

“Hurry back, okay?”

Chapter Thirty Seven

“Motherfucker!”
The man swaggering toward me is
huge, obviously takes care of his body,
trains a lot. His long arms are perfect for
fighting, and his low waist gives him a
great center of gravity; right in the midpoint.
“Duncan motherfuckin’ Malone,” the
man says, clapping his hands together,
shaking his head in disbelief. “What the
hell are you doing in my gym?”
Everybody training – and I mean
everyone, from the young teenagers at
the punching bags to the young men
hitting the weights – turn their heads to

us. I see the looks of recognition on their
faces.
Damn it, Pierce Fletcher always did
like to make a scene.
“Hey,” I say, sticking out two fists. He
bumps them with his own, before taking
my hand into his, gripping it tight and
giving it a shake.
I see him check me out, the way a
fighter sizes someone up. Traps,
shoulders, neck, arms. Legs, feet, stance.
Distribution of weight, balance, hands.
Righty-or-lefty? Knuckles, how worn?
Scars, demeanor. Confidence?
“I never thought I’d ever get to meet
you.” He pauses, cocks an eyebrow, then
turns around to face all the members in

his gym. “What the heck are you all
looking at?” he barks.
They all go back to training.
“Come on, come in the back,” he says,
gesturing for me to walk with him.
“Nice set up,” I tell him.
The gym is great, modern, spacious,
and brightly lit. It looks totally legit, and
most of the people working out are just
boys, young teenagers.
Some of them look like they’ve seen
some shit. I know the type. It’s in the
eyes. When they get older, they’ll learn
to recognize one of their own, too.
“Thanks. Most of it is quite new.”
“You got a lot of kids in here.”

He nods. “They need somewhere to
be.”
“All of them?”
“No,” Fletcher says. “But a lot do.”
“It’s good of you.”
“The training gives them selfconfidence. You know, most won’t keep
at it forever, but for now it helps.”
“I know first-hand.”
Fletcher regards me out of the corner
of his eyes. “I heard that it was rough for
you growing up.”
“Could have been worse.”
He shakes his head. “Bad home?”
“Not good.”

“But then Johnny Marino took you out,
right? I read about that in an article.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Trained me.”
“Good man?”
“No. I heard you retired from the
underground, but didn’t believe it. You
were a force. Why’d you quit?”
“Shit got crazy in a real way.”
“Bad enough to make you stop
fighting?” I ask. It doesn’t matter that
he’s not being specific. Being an
underground fighter always seems to
attract trouble… not that that’s
unexpected.
He regards me for a moment. “I
wasn’t alone anymore. I had—”

“Someone to protect.”
He nods. “Yeah.”
I lick my lips, wondering at the
strange coincidence between us. Two
underground fighters now both out of the
game. Two with something to lose…
something to save.
I notice then the fresh scar above
Fletcher’s eye. It’s a fighting scar; he
took a hit or a kick, and skin stretched
and split on bone.
Then I pick up his slight limp. It’s
barely perceptible, but there.
It’s part of my training to notice these
things, the physical aspects of people,
that it becomes second nature. I do it

when I’m not in the cage. Everybody is
measured up.
Fighters do it all the time, and they
never miss it when someone does it to
them.
“I got shot,” he tells me,
understanding that I’ve caught on to the
slight unevenness in his steps.
We meet eyes for a moment, and I
wonder distantly what he got involved
in.
“Any nerve damage? Ligament?”
“No. Went straight through, nicked
nothing serious. Had to fucking fight on
it straight after.”
“Jesus,” I say, frowning. Whatever

trouble he got into was big if they shot
him, then made him fight. But if there’s
anybody in the world who could do it,
it’s him.
Well, him and me.
We first started talking when I
stumbled across one of his underground
fight videos. His fighting style was
haphazard and undisciplined, but fuck
his natural talent was off the charts good.
After that, I started researching him,
interested in what I could learn from his
style. His first fight he danced around a
man named Crazy Carl for twenty-two
minutes, but beat him eventually.
A rook coming up against a seasoned
fighter… the odds of winning are near

nil.
Word quickly spread about him, and
soon it was clear he was the best
underground fighter in Australia, and one
of the best in the world.
And if he ever decided to go pro, he’d
be one of the best there, too.
But the pros aren’t for everybody.
There’s too much bullshit to wade
through.
Some people just like to fight.
From what I know, Fletcher liked to
fight and fuck. Can’t say I blame him; the
girls are always everywhere, fawning,
inviting.
In a different life, it might have been

me. But Deidre always had me snared,
from the first moment I saw her.
We go into his office at the back, shut
the door. He opens his mini-fridge, pulls
out a small plastic cup, unmarked, plain
white.
“Here.”
I smell it. “Homemade?” I ask him.
“Lipoic acid for glucose uptake,
ginger root for focus and energy, sesamin
for energy expenditure efficiency, and
the usual shit, electrolytes, minerals,
vitamins. Been using it for years. Give it
a try, tell me what you think.”
I take a sip. It tastes bitter, and spicy
from the ginger.

“Sesamin?” I ask.
“A sesame oil extract, supposed to aid
in more efficient energy utilization; the
metabolism
of
glucose.
Trials
inconclusive, but I tried a month on and
a month off and found a difference.”
“Tastes like shit,” I tell him.
There’s a pause. Though Fletcher and
I have conversed over email about fight
tactics, and the evolution of MMA, we
never really small-talked. It was always
business.
“What brings you to Australia,
Duncan? Specifically, to my gym?”
“A girl,” I tell him.
“Fuck, it was a girl I got shot for.”

“You know Johnny Marino, right?”
“By reputation. Both as a boxer ahead
of his time, and also as a mob boss.”
“He once told me,” I say,
remembering it vividly for some reason.
“That girls unravel athletes.”
Pierce shakes his head.
“Anyway,” I say. “Something’s come
up.”
“How can I help?”
“Marino is after me, after my girl, and
after my baby.”
Fletcher’s eyes ice over. “Your girl
and your baby?”
“Yes.”

“Who is your girl?”
“His daughter.”
“Your foster sister?” Fletcher asks
without pause. It’s curious to me that
there’s no surprise or disbelief in his
voice.
“That’s right.”
“What does Marino want with your
kid?”
“Does it matter?”
Fletcher pushes his lips together. “No.
When’s he coming?”
“I don’t know. He could already be
here in Melbourne.”
“Has he got a crew?”

“What do you think?”
“Can you go to the police?”
“Absolutely not. Dee’s here on a fake
passport.”
“Shit,” Fletcher says.
“It’ll get ugly. Storm’s coming, I can
feel it. And even if I’m wrong, and it’s
not, I still need to be prepared.”
“Tell me what you need.”
“A safe house in case we need it.”
“I got a nice place, out of the way.”
I nod my thanks at him. “Resources.”
Fletcher shifts in his seat. “Like
what?”
“I need a gun.”

“Fuck, Duncan, I don’t know if I can
get you a gun here. This is Australia, not
America.”
“Can you try? Look, I’ll be poking
around myself, but I figure you know
people, more than me. I just got here,
man, and if I’m going to protect my
family against Marino, I’m going to need
one.”
He takes a slow breath, and his brows
pinch together. “Yeah. I think I got a
couple of people who might be able to
help you out. But I can’t risk anything.
You meet them on your own.”
“That’s how I would have it,” I tell
him.
“Do you want me to ask some of my

boys to keep a lookout for Marino? They
know the streets here, and if you give us
a photo—”
“No!” I say. “Not the boys, leave them
out of it.”
“Hey, I wouldn’t be telling them to go
hunting, just if they see him.”
“Trust me, Pierce,” I say, leaning
forward. “If these boys are growing up
how I did, they’ll want to go looking.
They’ll think it’s fun and cool. Don’t get
them involved.”
Fletcher nods. “You’re right.”
There’s a moment of silence between
us.
“He wants to take my boy, call him his

own.”
“That’s fucked up.”
“You’re telling me.”
There’s a camaraderie between
fighters, even the ones you fight. In the
cage, you’re pit bulls trying to tear each
other’s throats out. Shit, even right
before the fight, before you even step
into the cage, you’re enemies to the core.
But if one of us gets in trouble outside
of the fight, it’s the other fighters you can
count on more than anyone else.
Not your agents, your managers, your
handlers, your whatever-the-fucks.
It’s the other men like you who take a
beating for a living, who can come

within inches of taking a life every
single time they win a fight… who can
come within heartbeats of losing their
lives every time they lose a fight. Who
risk permanent injury or brain damage
every time they climb into the cage.
When you live on the edge, the only
people who really understand are others
who do, too.
Make no mistake, fighting is a
controlled sport, not just a science but
also an art. But when you’ve got your
opponent in a Pace choke, and you’ve
cut off all the blood to his brain, you’re
a hair’s breadth away from taking a life.
The life of a man with a mother and
father, siblings, a wife, kids, friends. A

whole network of people you could steal
him from if you lose your cool, go too
far… miscalculate.
No fighter ever forgets that. It’s a
weight on all our shoulders, something
we try not to think about, like race car
drivers try not to think about crashing.
Fletcher pulls a card from his desk,
scribbles a number on the back.
“Get a prepaid, don’t use your
roaming as anybody can track that. This
is my number, it’s on twenty-four-seven.
I’ll keep it off silent, call me if you need
anything. Write down where you’re
staying, I’ll have somebody leave a
location in your mailbox to get the gun.
Text me in a couple of days, let me know

if it all worked out.”
“I appreciate it,” I tell him.
“Is there anything else?”
“One more thing,” I say. I sigh, pinch
the bridge of my nose. “I need a gig.”
“You’re not out?” Fletcher gestures
vaguely at my body. “You look like you
haven’t been training.”
“I’ve lost some weight, yeah,” I say.
“But I need the money. Can you put me in
touch?”
“I know there’s an underground
tournament coming up. Multiple rounds,
some pretty seasoned guys but I think
you’ll have a good shot. Winnings for
second and third placers, too.

Interested?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay,” he says. “You call me on this
number tomorrow, I’ll have the details
for you.”
“Thank you,” I say.
“Don’t worry about it.”
I start to get up when the door opens,
and a pretty face appears in the crack.
“Oh, sorry!” she says, closing the
door.
“Pen!” Fletcher calls.
She opens the door again and steps in.
She does a double take at me, and then
sticks out a hand. On her arm is tattooed

a full sleeve; gnarled beanstalks
disappear up beneath the sleeve of her tshirt. I notice the same pattern on the top
of her foot – she’s wearing flip flops.
It’s intricate work, very impressive.
“You’re
Creature,”
she
says
excitedly, as if she’s announcing it to me.
“Pierce has shown me loads of your
videos. He’s a huge fan.”
I grin at her, then look back at
Fletcher.
“A fan, huh?”
“Wouldn’t go that far, pal. This is
Penelope Wordsworth.”
I exchange greetings with her, then
glance back at Fletcher.

So this is the girl he got shot for.
“Talk later, yeah?” he says to me.
“Yeah.”
“If you catch some time in the future,
come around the gym and spar with the
kids. They’d love it.”
“Shown them my videos, too?”
Fletcher shrugs. “It’s an education.”
“When I get everything sorted, I’ll
make it a point to.”
As I leave, I hear Penelope’s voice
through the closing door.
“What was he doing here? You should
have gotten his autograph to put up on
the wall.”

Chapter Thirty Eight

It feels unreal.
I take the steps down from Fletcher’s
gym two at a time. As I sweep out onto
the street, I see a white Mercedes pull
out of a parking space. The bright, white
LED lights blind me for a moment, and
then it rumbles off, obviously a sport
model.
I go to my rental, just a cheap and
functional thing, and climb in, and sit in
the car for a moment.
Unreal really is the word, and I’m
afraid that at any moment I’m going to
wake up, and this is all going to be a
dream.

What are the chances? How… I shake
my head. I can’t even wrap my mind
around it.
All I know is that seeing Dee… it
didn’t make me feel the way I expected
to. I felt a surge of relief, and I wanted
her, God, I wanted her. To be close to
her, feel her against me.
But I thought I’d be crying tears of joy,
and while I feel that, genuine joy, there
is conflict. It’s not over! Finding her
wasn’t just the end of the road. All this
time, all this God damn fucking time I’d
been thinking only up until the point that
I found her.
I never thought about what we’d do
after that.

But now I have her again, now she’s
mine again, and it’s still not over.
Glass is still coming for us.
Fuck!
I do a quick grocery shop, pick up
some chicken breasts to bake, some
mushrooms and garlic to sautee quickly
together as a side, and then some brown
rice and broccoli. It may not be the most
interesting meal, but it’s healthy,
nutritious, and that’s the only way I know
how to cook.
Dee greets me at the door, and I start
setting up in the kitchen. She sits at the
table, a basic wooden one, and asks me,
“So what did this Fletcher guy say?”

“He’s got a safe house,” I say, filling
up the sink and soaking the broccoli.
“That we can use if we need to.”
“That’s good.”
“And he said he’ll send me the details
for a gig. Just a small one,” I say,
shaking my head when I see her
expression. “Nothing big or fancy.
Small-ish payout, maybe thirty to fifty
grand if I win all the rounds.”
“A tournament?”
“I think it’ll be five rounds with a
bye.”
“I can’t talk you out of fighting, can
I?”
“Why would you want to?”

“I just can’t help but think you’re out
of practice, out of shape. You’re not at
peak conditioning.”
“I don’t need to be. I’ll still win. I’ve
got more to lose, anyway.”
“Like that’s a comfort to me.”
“Anyway, I asked Fletcher about
getting a gun.”
There’s a pause, and I start washing
the broccoli heads.
“A gun?” Dee echoes slowly. “You’re
not supposed to have guns here.”
“I know,” I tell her, meeting her eyes
in the reflection of the kitchen window.
“Aren’t we taking a risk, then?”

“We’ll keep it here. It’s just a
precaution. Look, would you rather need
it and not have it?”
“No,” she says, her voice quiet. “But
I’d rather not need it at all.”
“So would I, but your father’s still
looking, which means that we have to
still be prepared. I’ve thought about it.
I’ll get the cash from the fights, we’ll
hide it here in the apartment, along with
the gun. We pack a couple of small
suitcases, park them by the door. We fill
the trunk of the car with non-perishables.
Canned food, that kind of thing.”
“Sounds like a fallout shelter.”
“Well, if we get wind of Glass, we’re
out of here straight away. Grab the bags,

the money, the gun, and we hit the road
to Fletcher’s safe house where we lay
low for a while.”
“Why does he have one?”
“Leftover from his fighting days,
probably,” I say.
“And so, what, we just wait?”
“We can go now,” I tell her. “You and
me. I can transfer all my money out of
the States. We risk Glass tracking it here,
but we think he’s coming here, anyway.
We take it, and go.”
“And then what?”
I shrug. “The world’s a big place,
Dee. We could get lost, anywhere. All
that money… all that fighting, that was

for you, even if I didn’t know it back
then.”
“What do you mean for me?”
“I think I was saving it all to buy you
out.”
“Buy me out of what?”
“Your father’s grip. Remember? Just
a few more fights? I figured we could go
get lost. Who knows where… Asia if we
want. Europe. We could just go
traveling, move from place to place. Or
we could find a place to settle down,
change our names, leave no trail.”
“We can’t do that now,” she says,
rubbing her belly. “Not with Thom on
the way. I trust my doctor here, and

traveling would just put stress on my
body.”
“I agree,” I say. “Things have
changed, now. Now, you haven’t just left
home. Now you’ve left home with a
baby, and that’s what Glass wants. The
stakes are higher for him, too.”
“I can’t believe he wants to raise the
child as his own.”
“I can.”
“What do you think?”
“We don’t know for sure Glass is
coming here, not yet. If I access any of
my accounts back home, he’ll know from
where exactly, and he’s probably got
connections out here.”

“Probably.”
“So,” I say, leaning back against the
kitchen counter, gazing down at the pack
of chicken breasts. “I say we start
exploring ways to get that money through
a middle man if we want to use it to buy
ourselves privacy. Or… or we just make
do, say goodbye to it for now. I get a
job, we try to do it here and hope Glass
doesn’t find us, but always have an exit
strategy.”
“Those
choices.”

don’t

sound

like

great

“I don’t want to live like that, either.”
“I’m not letting Dad take my… take
our baby.”

“Then I’ll get to work on the money.
In the meantime, we go as usual, just
together. Always together.”
Dee nods at me. “Okay. If we get that
money, then what?”
“Then we go anywhere we want. We
just can’t tip your father off.”
“It’s not that easy to hide, anymore.
You found me through the internet and I
changed my passport, my identity.”
“Then we go somewhere where that
kind of digital landscape is less robust.
Where we’re not going to be tracked by
CCTV, by credit card receipts, by—”
“So, what, the third world?”
“Not exactly, Dee,” I say. “But

America, England, here… if you’re
worried about being tracked down, these
are the places where it is most easy to
be.”
“So you’re suggesting Thailand or
something.”
“Or something, yes.”
“And what about Thom’s education?
What about his quality of life?”
“I don’t have all the answers, Dee. I
just know what we can do. We have one
option we haven’t explored.”
“What’s that?”
“Put a hit on your father.”
She freezes. “No,” she says after a
moment. “And you don’t have that kind

of sway.”
“I have several million dollars, and
there are a lot of desperate people.”
“Nobody would get close enough.”
“We know your father’s routine.”
“No!” she cries, slapping the table. “I
am not going to put a hit on my fucking
father.”
I lick my lips, meet her eyes. “I didn’t
think you would go for that.”
“So why even bring it up?”
“Everything has to be on the table
right now. We are working under the
assumption that he is coming for you
right this very minute. I won’t ignore an
option. In the cage, you—”

“Quit it with the damn fighting
analogies, Duncan, I’m not an idiot. I get
it. Try get the money through a middle
man. See what you turn up, I’ll talk to
some people at work.”
“Fine.”
“If you get it, then we split, plain and
simple. We go somewhere, change our
names again, change everything, use all
of that money to buy a secure future for
our son. I don’t need luxury, but I need
security.”
“I agree.”
There’s a drawn out pause, a moment
of quiet where we both reflect, and
where the tension between us is
unusually high.

“You got any white wine?” I ask,
knowing it’s probably a long shot. Dee
won’t be drinking while she’s pregnant,
even if doctors say it’s okay every now
and then. She’s thorough like that.
“You drinking now?”
“Sometimes, but it’s a sauce for the
chicken. I’m going to bake it.”
“Yeah, I’ve got a bottle my boss gave
me a while back. Hold on, I’ll dig it
out.”
“The alcohol will boil off.”
“I know.”
She hands me a bottle of Oyster Bay,
probably a little too good to use as just a
cooking wine, but if it’s all we have…

I season the chicken, salt, pepper,
some diced garlic, whisk together the
wine with a tiny bit of olive oil and then
pour it over the chicken, cover it in
aluminum foil, and pop it into the oven.
“We’ll have a late dinner tonight,” I
say, looking at the clock. It’s already
half-past eight.
“You were really saving all that
money for us?”
I meet Dee’s eyes. They’re wide,
black, inky, and like the first time I
climbed out of that limo and saw her
outside her house, I feel like I’m falling
into them.
“Yes.”

“Why?”
“You were the only important part of
my life. What the hell else did I have to
spend it on?”
“Yourself?”
“I’m a simple person. I don’t need to
buy myself shit.”
“So you thought I’d just run away with
you, huh?” She grins. “We’d go traveling
the world together? Go get lost
together?”
“Yes.”
“How did you even know if I would
say yes? I was in college… I wanted a
career.”
“I didn’t know.”

“I might have,” she whispers. “It was
clear Dad wasn’t going to loosen his
grip.”
“No,” I agree.
“I never would have guessed it.”
“I didn’t talk about it.”
“No, you didn’t. You should have.”
“Why?”
“We might have been able to go
before all of… this. Before Dad found
out about the baby.”
“I wasn’t ready yet.”
“Ready for what? A few more fights
gets you, what, a little bit more?”
“Ready to risk you saying ‘no’.” I grip

the edge of the counter, for the first time
admitting it to not just Dee, but to
myself.
“You were scared?”
“Yeah,” I say, voice low. I turn
around, start washing the mushrooms,
but feel Dee’s hands snake around my
waist. She rests her head on my back,
and I wash and slice the mushrooms with
her holding me in silence.

Chapter Thirty Nine

There’s blood in his teeth, but it
doesn’t stop his smile from being so
utterly infectious.
“Good job,” I say, nodding, rubbing
his shoulders. I look at him in the mirror.
We’re in a private room at the back of
the basement. Everyone has filtered out
now, and a lone man comes in and drops
a duffel bag on the ground.
“Your payment,” he says. “Stay down
here as long as you like.”
Duncan laughs. “Like hell we’re going
to stay down here.”
“Suit yourself, mate. We got showers
around the corner, fridge over there, take

anything you like. Good fights tonight.
You kicked arse, mate.”
“Thanks,” Duncan says, his eyes
returning to me in the mirror.
“You enjoyed that, didn’t you?” I ask
him. The fights were hard for him in his
relatively untrained state, but he still
ended up winning through sheer heart
and skill.
He took his lumps, though. This fight
was far more organized than I had
expected… they had a doctor on site in
case of injury, not the sort of thing you
find usually in a dusty basement cage
tournament.
“I did,” he says. I appreciate his
immediate honesty. “But not enough.”

“No? You sure?”
“I’m sure, Dee.”
“You were slow.”
He rubs his jaw. “I know.”
“Here as well,” I say, pointing to the
blotchy black-and-green bruise he’s got
on his ribcage where he took a violent
knee.
“Yeah.”
“And here,” I say, bending over him to
slap open his thighs. He winces, but as
his legs come apart from each other, I
see the bruise there, above his knee,
from where he had to worm himself out
of a leg lock. “These guys weren’t just
nobodies. Some of them obviously had

training.”
“Well, I won.”
“You did,” I say. “You did good.”
“Come on, let’s get the fuck out of
here.”
“You don’t want to shower first?
You’ve got blood all over you.”
Duncan looks down at himself as if
noticing it for the first time. “Damn,” he
says.
“Go on,” I tell him, guiding him down
the room toward the back. There are just
a few showers side-by-side, nothing
luxurious but they’re clean at least.
I watch him as he stands beneath the
faucet, water pouring down his muscled

body. There’s a weight to his shoulders,
something that didn’t used to be there.
He finishes, and I help him get
dressed, pull a complaint from his lips:
I’m not a fucking cripple, Dee. It makes
me laugh.
Then we count the money. It’s all
there, fifty-thousand. It’s not going to last
forever, but it’s certainly enough for an
emergency fund.
“I’ll take you out for dinner,” I tell
him. “Anything you want.”
He smirks. “We living large now, are
we?”
“You earned it.”
Together we take the steps slowly up

the basement. I can see that Duncan’s in
pain, even if it would take a two-hour
interrogation session for him to admit it.
He tells me he wants a steak, which is
pretty much what I expect, and so I take
him to a nice place I know nearby my
apartment.
The staff look at us funny, of course.
Duncan’s bruised visibly on his face, but
nobody asks us anything out of
politeness, which is good.
After an entirely too-large dinner –
Duncan wolfed down his steak, and I
settled for a bite of his and some soup
and a salad – we leave the restaurant
hand-in-hand. It’s almost like we’ve
forgotten that we’re not yet at the end of

it all. It’s a nice moment of respite,
though, just going out for dinner together.
It’s something we couldn’t really do
very often back home, lest one of Dad’s
men be watching us.
The night is chilly, and Duncan draws
me into him as we walk toward the car.
“Sometimes,” I say, looking up at him. In
the harsh yellow street light, the cut of
his jaw creates a straight-line shadow on
his neck.
“Yeah?”
“Sometimes I feel like I could forget it
all, you know?”
“I know.”
I rub my belly, then pull my jacket

closed over it. “Have you heard anything
from your… fans?”
“No,” he says, shaking his head. “I’ve
got a guy trying to hack into your father’s
email right now, but he says it’ll take
time. Called it ‘brute force’ or
something.”
“Dad is good with numbers. He’ll
have a long password. It’ll take forever
to crack.”
“Other than that, nothing. I don’t really
talk to them much because I don’t want
to be too active, you know? Draw
attention.”
“I can’t believe I looked at your fan
page on Facebook. I hated reading it.”

“Why?”
“So many girls just… I don’t even
know how they get the photos they have
of you.”
“They’re photos from my fights,”
Duncan says. “Don’t worry, I haven’t
been posing for private shoots in
secret.”
“I should hope not.”
“Are you jealous?” he asks, teasing
me.
“Wouldn’t it make you jealous?”
“If some guy had pictures of you
topless, I’d kick his fucking ass.”
“Exactly.”

“And then have a conversation with
you.”
“Ha. Don’t worry, I don’t take nude
selfies and I never will.”
“You could for me.”
“Yeah… maybe not. I don’t want my
photos to live forever in the ‘cloud’ or
whatever.”
A loud shout pulls our attention
forward, and we see a group of drunk
boys walking toward us. They’re
swearing and laughing, just having a
good time, but Duncan’s grip on my hand
tightens.
“Relax,” I say. “It’s a Friday night.
You’re still on-edge after the fights.”

He sighs, eases the tension in his
shoulders. “You never know, Dee.”
“I hardly think they’re goons my Dad
sent. They look like they’re sixteen!”
The boys pass us by uneventfully,
spitting out a stream of swear words but
otherwise doing nothing much of
anything at all.
“See? You need to relax, Duncan.”
“Trust me, I’m working on it. Hard
habit to shake.”
“Did you get the uh, you know…?”
“I pick up the gun tomorrow,” he says.
“Will you be careful when you go?”
“It’s all done pretty sophisticatedly. I

drop money in a postbox, wait for the
postman who is not really a postman. He
‘collects the mail’, then as he climbs
back into his truck he drops a parcel. I
pick it up, chase after the truck for a bit,
and that’s it.”
“That much of a show, huh? Couldn’t
you just do it in a dark alley like most
people do?”
“Fuck, this way I have deniability. I
prefer it this way.”
“Did you thank Fletcher?”
“Of course.”
“Well, the next time you see him,
thank him for me, too,” I say.
“Maybe we can all go on a double

date sometime.”
He looks at me, and for a moment I
think he’s serious but then I see that
corner of his lip creep up.
“Yuck, never a double date.”
I hold onto his arm, and together we
walk, and he’s lost in thought about
something now, but I don’t know what.
A man stumbles out in front of us from
around the corner. His eyes are glazedover, and he almost falls forward toward
us. His shoulder knocks mine, pulls a cry
from my mouth.
“Watch where you’re going, bitch!” he
slurs.
Duncan steadies me, holds me up,

looks me in the eyes. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I say. I turn and look at the
drunk man still stumbling down the
street. “Asshole.”
I take Duncan’s hand, squeeze it. I can
see the expression on his face, and am
desperately hoping he’s not going to go
there.
“I’m okay, really,” I say. “He’s just a
prick.”
But before I can stop him, Duncan’s
fingers have left mine. He charges down
the street, a whirlwind, each step
thunderous, and grabs the man by his
collar and yanks him into an alley.
“Wait!” I cry, walking after him,

shaking my head. I come to the alley and
see Duncan has the man pinned against
the wall.
He leans forward, says into the man’s
ear: “You just knocked into a pregnant
woman.”
“Fuck off, cunt,” the man says, and I
cover my mouth as Duncan winds up a
punch and thumps him in the gut.
I rush forward, shouting “Stop!” and
clawing at Duncan’s arms.
But he doesn’t let go of the man. He
just keeps him pinned to the wall by the
neck, and I swear he is actually
growling, like some kind of feral beast.
I go to his side, try to pull his hand off

the guy’s neck, but I simply don’t have
enough strength.
“Duncan!” I cry, grabbing his face and
wrenching it to the side so he faces me.
His eyes are wide with a crazy anger.
“Stop,” I say, and I stroke his face softly.
“You’re overreacting. You’re too onedge. You need to go home and sleep it
off. You get like this after fights
sometimes, remember? You’re punchdrunk.”
There’s a moment where he realizes
it, seems to be in between two places,
and then he lets the man go, his eyes lose
their threat, and he’s finally not seeing
red anymore.
“Are you okay,” I say to the man.

“Fuck off me!” he croaks, his voice a
hoarse whisper. He rubs his neck.
“Let me see your neck,” I say. I pull
down his collar, see a bruise forming.
“Can you breathe?”
“Yeah, Jesus,” he gasps. “You need to
control your fucking dog, lady.”
Duncan is on him again in an instant,
and I get in between them and push him
off. I point at him. “Stop.”
This time he listens. He ceases his
advance, walks away with his hands on
his hips, breathing hard.
I return my attention to the man who
bumped me.
“What the fuck is wrong with him?”

He tilts his head at Duncan.
“You knocked into me with your
shoulder,” I say, “And you then called
me a bitch, and you’re asking what’s
wrong with him?”
He doesn’t reply.
“He could have sent you to hospital,”
I say, narrowing my eyes at the man.
“You owe me one.”
Distantly, I hate myself for saying that.
I feel like my father, collecting favors so
I can call them in later.
The man snorts, slides against the
wall out from under my now-hard stare.
He disappears down the alley.
I turn to Duncan, and fold my arms.

“What the hell was that?”
“He deserved worse,” Duncan grunts
at me.
“You just way overreacted, do you
know that? What if there had been
police? What if you were arrested for
assault? You don’t even know criminal
procedure here, your rights. You’re
basically a tourist, for crying out loud!”
I lift my palms up, exasperated,
shaking my head.
“You can’t be acting this way! If you
get arrested, then word might get back to
Dad. Then what? Then he’ll know where
we are!”
But Duncan doesn’t reply. He just

stares off after the
occasionally flaring.

man,

nostrils

“For God’s sake!” I shout, taking his
arm and shaking him. “Are you listening
to me?”
He turns to me slowly, and puts his
hand on my shoulder. “Are you sure
you’re not hurt? What about the baby?”
“I’m fine! He hit my shoulder, that’s
all. And you need to control yourself
better.”
“Come on,” he says, taking my hand
again. “Let’s go.”
“I know you’re just trying to protect
me, but you don’t need to get revenge.
What made you so angry?”

“That I missed it.”
“Missed what?”
“A few months ago I would have
reacted to that before he hit you. My
reflexes are shot. I haven’t been training.
I…”
“You’re not a fighter anymore, you
mean?”
“I’m distracted. I was thinking about
babysitters.”
I blink, shake my head. “Babysitters?”
“When we want to go out on a date,
we’re going to need to find a babysitter.”
“And?”
“And so I missed him.”

“He caught us both by surprise.”
“That would never have happened
before.”
“Things aren’t the same as before.
What is with you?”
But he doesn’t reply again, so we just
walk to the car in silence, get in. Before
he starts the car, I put a hand on his.
“Talk to me, Duncan. I know there’s
something more going on. Even before
you wouldn’t have just wailed on a guy
in the street. What is it? Just come out
and say it.”
“I don’t know, Dee.”
“Are you still angry?”
“Not at you.”

“Then what?”
Bright lights wipe over us, and I
squint as a white Mercedes pulls out
from the space behind us.
“Then what?”
“I’ve felt powerless before, when I
was a kid. Then… then I had some
power, control over my life. I could
control my training. I could control your
father, even, to an extent. I could win the
fights. I could make you… happy, feel
good, feel beautiful. Now… It’s just
difficult for me, this uncertainty.”
“I know how you feel,” I tell him.
“But we need to take no risks. Nothing
we don’t have to. I know it’s not ideal,
but it’s the way it is. You shouldn’t be

fighting people on the street, anyway.
That’s not you, Duncan. You’re not just
some street thug. Isn’t that what you told
my dad?”
“Something like that.”
“Come on, it’s fine,” I say, slapping
his arm. “Let’s go. It’s fine.”

Chapter Forty

The days blur by. Every day we grow
happier together, find our groove again.
Before we know it, a month has passed.
We’ve grown comfortable with each
other, settled into a rhythm. I went with
Dee to a pre-natal appointment, got to
see Thom myself on the ultrasound
monitor. It took my breath away, seeing
that tiny head move ever so slightly, that
little nose. It honestly surprised me even
more than when I looked at the printout,
just how formed the baby is at such a
young age.
I fought a couple more times, too, just
quick gigs, three or five rounds, always

aiming to submit my opponent as fast as
possible. Dee told me no bruises, don’t
get beat up, don’t get hurt.
So every fight was technical. Takedown, submit. After those two gigs,
people were trying to book me for
bigger fights. They wanted to bring big
boys in for me to fight, ex-pros, other
underground fighters with some real
training.
I declined. We had our cash, enough to
make a good run for it if we ever had to,
a nice emergency fund. I walked away
with one-hundred grand, and promised
Dee I wouldn’t fight anymore. It would
only draw attention to myself, anyway.
I look over at her in the car. She’s

staring out of the window, hand on her
chin idly scratching. She’s so beautiful
when she’s lost in thought, in a different
place. I love everything about her, and I
can’t believe that, for a moment, it all
hung in the balance.
What if I never tracked her down?
What if we never reunited?
She would be dealing with all of this
on her own.
In fact, that was her plan all along.
She took on all the responsibility, all the
burden.
But I know she’s no shrinking violet.
She’s as strong as they come, and our
son… Thom… he’s only given her a

greater reserve of strength.
Dee can dig deep, deeper than even I
can, I suspect. Her spring of conviction
is unmatched by any opponent I’ve ever
fought in the cage, and that’s saying
something.
“We need to go for a shop,” she says.
The glass fogs up on her side. “We’ve
got no greens at home.”
I nod, pull us into the nearest
supermarket to home, and park the car in
the outdoor parking lot.
“You want to wait in the car?” I ask.
It’s cool outside, and a longish walk to
the supermarket entrance.
“No,” she says, undoing her seatbelt

and getting out faster than me. “I’ve been
sitting down all day.”
“The kids don’t make you run
around?”
“Well, they make the teacher run
around. As the assistant, I don’t actually
do all that much.” She pats her belly.
“Plus, they take it easy on me.”
“The kids?”
Dee laughs, shakes her head. “No
silly. The other teachers. Kids that age
never take it easy on anybody.”
Together we walk to the supermarket,
hand-in-hand. I’ve spent a lot of time
thinking about what Dee said when we
were still living in Glass’ house

together, about how growing up in a
group home or even in an inadequate
foster-care situation doesn’t prepare a
child for life.
It certainly doesn’t prepare them to
one day be parents themselves.
Part of that makes me nervous. Most
men probably start out with the sole
intention of being a good father.
No, that’s not the case. The fathers
and husbands who left... the fathers like
Glass… they don’t care or don’t know
to.
But I care. I want to be a good father,
but, deep down, I’m afraid that I don’t
know how.

She will give birth to this little,
innocent life, one who will be shaped by
us, will take from each of us a part.
She’ll form a bond with it instantly,
something closer than any man can ever
achieve.
But I just hope I’ll form a bond, too.
I have to be able to protect my family
when Glass comes calling.
And he’s going to, that much is sure.
We both know it, even if we don’t
vocalize those thoughts as much
anymore. We’re both as mentally
prepared as we’re ever going to be.
We’ve got the emergency equipment
all set up. We’ve got supplies loaded in
the trunk of the car, cash packed away in

a duffel bag, the gun – even if we only
have a single loaded clip. We’re ready
to leave at the drop of a hat, at a
moment’s notice.
But… this is no way to live.
I can’t stand the thought of living like
this, of Dee having to live like this. I put
out some feelers to try and get a hold of
Glass’ location, to see if anyone can tap
into his emails or his phone.
So far, nothing has turned up. If there’s
one thing a mob boss is good at doing,
it’s keeping under the radar.
Only, I’ve got this sensation that he’s
headed right for us… maybe not today,
maybe not this month or the next, but my
radar is pinging like mad.

I need to protect my family.
“What are you thinking about?” Dee
asks me. I tell her the truth. “Of course
you’ll be a good father,” she says,
slapping my arm. “You just need to…
adjust yourself a little bit.”
“How so?”
“Well, you can’t beat up another kid’s
dad because their kid bullies our kid, for
example.”
“Thom won’t be bullied,” I say.
“That was just an example. And,
actually, he might be. You never know
these things ahead of time. At the school
I see kids bully each other all the time.
They’re horrible to each other.

Sometimes, I think kids are more
capable of cruelty to each other than
adults are.”
“It’s innocent, though. They don’t
know better. That’s what separates us.”
“Are you worried about something in
particular? I mean, all first-time parents
worry. That’s what all the women at
school tell me, anyway. Everybody
reads the books, wonders how to raise a
child. You’ve got to feel through the dark
your first time.”
“I wonder if growing up without
parents will make me a bad parent,” I
say outright. I have a feeling that Dee is
going to keep probing, and she’s the type
of woman who when she wants

something, she gets it eventually.
“You don’t need to have had good
parents to become a good parent,” she
says. “I’m going to be a good mother,
and I can’t even remember Mom. And
Dad…”
“Bad parents have to come from
somewhere. There’s enough of them
around.”
“Don’t be so cynical, Duncan,” she
chides. “Come on, let’s change the
subject.”
“We can’t get complacent,” I tell her
as we walk through the sliding glass
doors to the supermarket.
“I know,” she whispers back. “He

won’t stop.”
Bright
headlights
momentarily
illuminate us from behind, and I turn
over my shoulder, see LED headlights of
some expensive car.
The car’s red brake lights are now all
I can see, and it drives out of the parking
lot. I wonder if I’m starting to get too
paranoid.
“What is it?” she asks.
“Nothing,” I say. “Just… feel like
we’re being followed sometimes.”
“You’re as bad as I am.”
I grin at her. Together, we shop, load
up a trolley. The fighting money has
allowed us to buy better foods, allowed

Dee to stick to a healthier diet. For the
baby.
I eat the same things she does, prettymuch, though a lot more protein. It helps
her stick to it, and eating healthy is
something I’d do anyway to keep my
body in fighting-form.
But even so, I don’t have access to the
facilities, the supplements I used to.
Already I can feel that I’m losing some
of that razor-sharp edge, that my quicktwitch muscle fibers are less springy
than they were.
It’s amazing how quickly the body
strives to achieve homeostasis; the
tendency to return to a stable, efficient
baseline.

I’ve had to adjust my eating, limit my
energy intake, since I’m not burning
three-thousand calories a day training
anymore.
It’s been an
everything else.

adjustment,

like

We do our shop, get Dee a treat that
she’s earned, some vegan tofu ice cream.
She says she’s had it before, that it’s not
as nice as the real thing, but in a pinch as
a healthier alternative that is as good as
it gets.
We leave, load the car, and even if
only for a moment, Glass becomes just a
distant worry. We are getting
comfortable. We’re settling in to life
together.

I always wanted this, a life alone with
Dee where we could both be happy,
where we could both be, in a way, out
from under the shadows of our pasts.
But when I spot a white SUV, I’m only
reminded of the Mercedes. The feeling
of comfort, this time, is short-lived. I
continuously check the rear-view mirror
until Dee asks me what’s up.
“Remember a white Mercedes?” I ask
her. “Those LED headlights? The really
bright ones?”
She shrugs. “Kind of, I guess. It’s
familiar, anyway.”
“Yeah,” I say, nodding slowly. “I’ve
seen that car a couple of times already. I
think I saw it tonight.”

Dee tenses up. “Are you sure?”
I grind my teeth together, shake my
head. “No, it was dark, and before I got
a good look it was driving away.”
“Damn,” she says, looking over her
shoulder out of the rear windshield.
“I can’t see if we’re being followed,”
I say. “There’s too much traffic on the
road.”
“I wondered why you took this route.
It’s quicker to go around the park the
other way.”
“I wanted to hit a four-way crossing,”
I say, slowing down for a red light. But I
see a break, gun the engine, and take the
turn across traffic. It’s reckless, I know,

but it’s one way to be sure.
“Jesus,” Dee says, clutching onto her
seat in between her legs. “Tell me you’re
going to do that next time!”
“Sorry,” I say to her. “I only just saw
the gap.”
She turns around. “No other car
followed.”
“Think we left them behind?”
“I don’t know. You really think we’re
being tailed?”
“This is your father we’re talking
about, right?”
She nods.
“Then it’s possible.”

I drive us back to her apartment, but
steal another resident’s parking space,
one that’s covered under shelter.
“Why are you parking here?”
“Just want to hide the car more. They
can’t see it from the road from here.”
“You’re pretty spooked.”
“It’s just a feeling,” I say. “You
know… You go on up first, I’ll get the
shopping.”
“Geez, I can carry a bag, Duncan.
Don’t forget, I have to carry kids at
work.”
“No, go get changed, get comfortable.
I won’t be a minute. I want to look up
and down the street anyway.”

“Okay,” she says, getting out of the
car. I watch her from my seat. She’s got
a habit of rubbing her belly as she
walks, almost as if she’s trying to soothe
baby Thom. I wonder if he is aware of
it.
I reach into the back seats, pull out the
shopping bags, and start walking toward
the gate of the complex.
It’s not that I expect to glean anything
looking up and down the street. If
anything, it’s an attempt to calm myself
so I don’t project my paranoia, so it
doesn’t stress out Dee.
But I notice a white convertible
parked on the street outside the complex.
Tinted windows, and some custom work

done to the body, the three-pronged star
on the hood.
I can’t be sure if it’s the same car, and
digging into my memories I can’t get a
picture if the previous cars I saw had
four doors or two.
But nevertheless, I’ve never seen that
car parked on this street before, and it’s
already dark. I set the bags down onto
the ground, move out of line of sight of
the gate, and then jump and pull myself
up the brick wall surrounding the
complex.
I see the bright orange burn of a
cigarette through the front windshield.
I watch the car, alert, a sixth sense
inside me going off like mad. It’s

definitely the same car.
A moment later, the car pulls out,
drives off down the street, it’s sleek
visage at odds with the deep rumble of
its powerful engine.
Shit! He must have seen me.
I drop down from the wall, sprint up
the steps.
I burst through the door. Dee is
standing at the kitchen counter, rolling
some rice that she’s taken out of the
fridge.
“I thought we could make some sushi
with the left-over rice,” she says over
her shoulder. “Just add some white
vinegar to it, and—”

“Dee!”
She spins around. “What’s wrong?”
“Get your suitcase.”
Her eyes widen, and without saying a
word, she drops everything she’s doing,
goes straight to the bedroom.
I reach under the sofa, pull out the
pistol. It’s loaded, safety on. I push it
through my belt at the small of my back.
I take two four-liter bottles of water
and line them up at the door, then open
my duffel bag to check the cash briefly. I
throw in a change of clothes, and Dee
comes out of her room, small twowheeled luggage in tow.
“He’s here? My father?” Dee asks.

“I don’t know,” I say. “I saw that
fucking car again.”
“Are you sure?”
“They drove off when they spotted me
watching them.” There’s this moment
where a ripple of panic crosses her face,
and I go to her wrap her up, kiss her
head. “We’re getting out of here tonight,
okay?”
“I’ll call Pierce,” she says. “Give me
your phone.”
I toss it to her. “Keep him on the line.”
I shoulder the duffel bag, take Dee’s
suitcase, and scoop up the bottles of
water into my arm.
Together we’re out of the house, and I

haul the suitcase up and take the steps
down two at a time. I throw it all into the
back of the car, wait for Dee to catch up.
“It’s ringing out!” she says.
“Try again.”
We get in, I gun the engine, leave the
complex.
“I need directions!” I say to Dee.
“He’s not picking up.”
“Dial again!”
“Pierce!” Dee says urgently into the
phone. “Duncan needs directions to the
safe place. No, we’re not being
followed.”
Bright white headlights blind us from

in front of us, and I swerve the car into
an alley.
“Actually, yes we are! Navigate us.
How can we lose them?”

Chapter Forty One

“Left,” I say to Duncan, my voice an
urgent whisper. I listen to Pierce on the
phone. “Then right at Fitzroy Street.
Blow through the lights, he says traffic is
slow there and it’s not a patrol route.”
Duncan obeys, takes the left. We come
to a set of lights, he accelerates, pushes
us through the intersection onto the far
left. We cut across traffic, but it’s slow
enough for Duncan to weave us neatly
through.
“We’re going to Geelong,” she says.
“That’s a city north-west of Melbourne,
a bit of a drive, but he says if we take
the back roads we can lose our tail. It’ll

take longer, though.”
“Okay,” Duncan says, his voice a
rumble. “But this shitty car is not going
to outrun that one.”
I turn around, see the Mercedes right
on us. Damn it.
“What do we do?” I ask him.
“How many people in the car?”
I turn around again. “I think it’s just
one. I can’t really see.”
He reaches behind him, pulls out the
gun.
“What?” I cry. “No! We’re not going
to fucking shoot him! We don’t even
know who he is.”

Duncan just emits a low growl. He
jerks the car over, pulls us into a multistory parking garage. We take the u-turns
hard, and I’m thrown against the side.
“Careful,” I shout, holding onto my
belly. “The baby, Duncan!”
He stops the car, looks over at me.
“Get out, run, hide somewhere. I’ll get
him.”
I exit the vehicle, run as fast as my
feet will take me down the parking lot,
sticking to the shadows.
I hear the roar of the Mercedes’
engine, and I duck down behind a parked
truck, look through the windows to
where Duncan is.

The parking garage is mostly empty,
and there are only a few cars dotted
about, occupying spaces.
Duncan is still parked, and I can see
his silhouette sitting in the car. The
Mercedes
stops
behind
him,
perpendicular to his car so he can’t
reverse out, and stays put with the engine
chugging.
What the fuck is he doing?
I hear a door open, and from the
Mercedes a huge man steps out. He’s
easily taller than Duncan, wide as a
mountain, and the suit jacket he’s
wearing can’t be closed around his
barrel-chest.
Another car door opens, Duncan steps

out, gun drawn.
“Uh-uh, big guy,” he says. His voice
echoes down to me. “Keep your hands
where I can see them.”
The big man doesn’t move. I look
around wildly, see nobody else, and then
come out from my hiding spot, start
walking toward Duncan. A crack of
thunder jolts me, and outside I hear it
begin to rain.
“Who are you?” Duncan asks.
The man doesn’t respond.
“Why are you following us? Who sent
you?”
I approach Duncan, and he guides me
behind him. He’s gripping the gun tight,

and his finger is on the trigger.
“Duncan,” I say, touching his
shoulder. He’s angry, I know he is, but
he can’t squeeze that trigger by accident.
I don’t even know if he can squeeze
the trigger at all. We can’t become
fugitives here!
The sound of tires turning pulls all our
eyes toward the entrance ramp to this
floor. The front end of a limousine
appears, makes the tight turn. Duncan
puts his gun down by his side, glares at
the huge man.
We all wait for the limousine to
slowly roll by around the corner, before
Duncan raises the gun again.

“Is Johnny Marino here?” he asks.
“Did he send you?”
The big man still doesn’t speak, but
he’s starting to look uncomfortable. His
hand veers toward his waist, but Duncan
steps forward, shouts, “Don’t!”
The big man stops his hand.
“Do you understand me?” Duncan
asks. “Can you understand me?”
Finally, the big man gives us a
response: He nods his head.
“Is Johnny Marino here in
Melbourne?” Duncan barks, stepping
forward again, pushing the gun out
farther.
“Maybe he can’t speak English,” I say

to Duncan. “Or maybe he can’t say.
Maybe Dad’s holding something over
him.” He looks, to me anyway, like he’s
stuck. “He could be afraid.”
“Afraid?” Duncan spits. “I’ve got a
fucking gun pointed at him, Dee.”
“You!” I call to the man, get his
attention. “Is my father forcing you to do
this?”
His expression changes for an instant,
and his brows furrow quickly before
flattening out.
“He didn’t tell you I was his
daughter? He’s trying to take my baby.” I
pat my stomach. “He wants to steal my
baby.”

Now the big man speaks. I can barely
understand him through his thick accent –
he’s from somewhere in Eastern Europe.
He says, “I have family.”
I turn to Duncan, meet his eyes for a
moment, realization like a wind blowing
away a fog of confusion.
“He’s got your family, doesn’t he?” I
ask him. “He’s holding them hostage
somehow.”
The man doesn’t respond.
“What is it? Money? Do you owe
him? Are you doing this because my
father threatened your family?”
He doesn’t move an inch, but his eyes
flick to me for an instant.

“I’m trying to protect my family,” I
say. “My baby.”
I hear the sound of a car engine, turn
around. Down the empty parking space
behind me, I see the same limousine,
headlights off.
“Duncan,” I whisper as it dawns on
me. Why the hell didn’t I look twice at a
fucking limousine? It’s totally Dad’s
style.
“What?”
I try to tell him, but a big hand wraps
around my mouth, jerks me back. The
limousine screeches forward.
Duncan turns, sees it, jumps out of the
way but the front bumper catches his

legs, sends him spinning head-over-foot
in the air, and he lands with a sickening
thud against a concrete pillar, before
falling down toward the floor.
I struggle against my captor, throw an
elbow behind me, hear a grunt, feel a
heavy body. But the hand doesn’t leave
my mouth, and he wraps an arm above
my belly, lifts me up off the ground.
I slap at his hand, horrified that he’s
hurting the baby. Teeth clamped around
his finger, I bite down hard, taste bitter
metal, and then his hand is free of me,
and I scream, “Not so hard! I’m
pregnant!”
The man drops me, I turn around and
see Frank.

“Frank, you asshole!” I shout, trying to
slap him, but he grabs my wrist, spins
me around so that my arm is wrapped
around my front, and then pulls me back
toward him. He grips onto my hair, and
when I open my mouth to scream he
shoves something inside it, a cloth.
I try to breathe, but in my panicked
state barely can.
“Calm down, honey,” he says into my
ear. “Breathe through your nose, and
stop struggling. Don’t hurt yourself.
Don’t hurt your baby.”
You fucking asshole!
The limousine door opens, the
driver’s door, and I see a bald dome.
Dad steps out, looks angrily at the huge

man who gets back into his car.
Those angry eyes swivel straight to
me, and he shakes his head as he
approaches me.
“You thought you could get away from
me?” he asks, slapping his chest. He tilts
his head to the side. “You’re family,
Deidre. Family don’t abandon family. I
would have hunted you down to the end
of the Earth.”
Hunted.
I throw a heel at his shin, but he just
steps backward, deceptively light on his
feet. His old instincts never vanished.
He touches my face, and I try to
recoil, retreat from his hands, but I can’t.

“I’ve missed you, Deidre. My own
daughter ran away from me.” He shakes
his head. “I’ve obviously done a bad job
raising you.”
You’re damn right you have!
“You never did understand,” he says,
now turning around and walking toward
Duncan.
My eyes go to his body, limp on the
floor, chest rising and falling quickly.
“Good, you’re still alive,” Dad says.
“I’ve got something special planned for
you. Put her in the car, Frank.”
I try to push back against the huge bulk
urging me forward, but I can’t. A hand
shoves my head down, forces me into the

back of the limousine.
“Take her to the school,” Dad shouts.
Frank gets in the limousine, starts the
engine, takes us carefully around the uturns down the exit ramps until we reach
the ground floor.
Pellets of rain pelt the windows as he
drives us into the night.
The last image I have of Duncan is
Dad leaning over his body, grinning, his
gold teeth flashing.

Chapter Forty Two

Dull pain throbs through my back, my
legs. I hear the limousine drive off, but
my head is spinning from hitting the
ground. Blood drips off my chin.
The hardest hits I’ve ever taken in the
cage don’t compare to this, but I’ve got
to get up. I’ve got to find a way to get
back to Dee.
I roll over, see Glass kneeling beside
me. He takes the gun out of my hand,
unloads it in front of me, then pulls back
the slide. The bullet in the chamber is
spit out, clinks on the concrete floor.
Then he smiles nastily at me, flashing
gold teeth.

“Is this the first time you’ve ever been
on the ground with your opponent above
you, Duncan?” he asks. “I don’t recall
ever seeing you in this position. It’s sad.
Such a short fighting prime.”
I try to get up, wince, rub my rib cage.
“I wouldn’t move,” he says. “Don’t
know if you’ve broken any bones.
Broken rib might pierce your lung, kill
you right here.”
I control my anger, and instead focus
on my body. I shut my eyes, listen to the
pings of pain pulsing up my nervous
system.
I wiggle my toes, move my legs.
Nothing feels wobbly, out of place. Then
I suck in a breath of air, rub my hands

down one side of my ribs and count. I do
the other side, count. Nothing broken.
Nothing misaligned. Everything is there
where it should be.
I touch my head, feel the cut, my hand
comes away sticky and red.
“Don’t worry, it’s not deep,” Glass
says, taking a fistful of my hair and
jerking my head to the side. He reaches
into his pocket, pulls out a handkerchief,
and presses it against the wound. “But
we should stop the bleeding.”
“Where did you take Dee?” I ask.
“Don’t worry. She’ll be safe. She’s
my daughter, Duncan. Family is
everything. I would never hurt my own
daughter.”

I grimace, push back from him, sit up
against the pillar. I see the glint of
gunmetal. He’s taken out his own gun.
It’s a huge revolver.
“This’ll take your head clean off,” he
says, jamming the barrel under my chin.
“Your neck will just be a bloody stump
if I pull this trigger. I’ll keep your head,
too, put it in a jar of that preserving
liquid, keep it in my office, you fucking
prick.”
I look into his eyes, force my racing
heart to calm, then give him a big,
bloody-mouthed grin. “You said you had
something special planned for me,
Glass?”
“Oh, yes,” he says, sneering at me.

“After all I did for you, Duncan. Look at
what you’ve become. I should have
known it would all be a waste. But now
I’m going to have a grandson. I don’t
need you anymore.”
I widen my eyes.
“Of course I know it’s a boy, you
dumb fuck. You think we couldn’t get to
a fucking obstetrician? I also know
you’re the father, as if that wasn’t
obvious. You defiled my daughter under
my own roof after I rescued you, you
fucking mongrel,” he says, venom in his
voice. “You fucking dog, you fucking
dirty piece of shit. You put shame on my
family; you gave me no choice.”
“You shame yourself,” I say.

“There is one consolation. With my
genes in the bloodline, and yours? My
grandson will be a champion fighter. I’ll
make him the best there ever was.”
“You can’t outrun your history,” I tell
him. “You’ll always be the prize-fighter
who couldn’t. Your legacy can never
change.”
“Youth!” Glass barks, looking toward
the white Mercedes. “So fucking stupid.
Come on, get up.”
He steps backward, gestures at me to
get to my feet with the gun. I climb up
slowly, back against the pillar. My chest
feels like it is on fire, like I’ve been
drowning in boiling water.
“Good, good,” Glass says. “You’re

still in fighting shape.”
I narrow my eyes at him. Fighting
shape?
It clicks. The huge man, something
special planned.
Glass is going to make me fight the
brute, and in this condition, I’ll probably
lose.
“One last fight, eh?” Glass says. “For
old time’s sake.”
“Nobody betting on this one.”
“Oh, it’s not for me. Well, that’s a lie.
It is for me. But it’s for Deidre, too.”
I nod, calm myself down even more.
Good. If he’s going to take me to her,
then that just simplifies things. It’s a long

shot, but I have to play it.
“You’re going to make her watch?”
“Bullock over here is from Ukraine.
He’s something of a legend over there. I
can’t pronounce his real name so I gave
him that nickname. I was going to call
him Bruticus, but then I realized he kind
of looks like a fucking bull, doesn’t he?”
“He probably prefers his own name,
Glass.”
“Big fucking head, might as well have
horns. Bullock.” He nods, sucks on his
upper lip for a moment. “What a good
name. I’m proud of that one. And his
balls! This man has some big fucking
balls on him. He ain’t afraid of nothing.”

I turn to the huge man now sitting in
the Mercedes. The two-door sports car
looks comically small around him.
“He’ll break you,” Glass says. “He’ll
snap every bone in your fucking body.
He’ll tear your vertebrae from each
other. Then, while you’re still barely
alive, I’ll fucking kill you. The last thing
you see will be my face before you go to
hell for what you’ve done to my
daughter.”
I lick my lips, grin at him. “The devil
will be a welcome sight compared to
your ugly mug.”
Glass bursts out laughing. “You
always were a little crazy, you know
that, Duncan? I liked that about you.” He

points toward the Mercedes. “In the
back.”
I walk around, wary of the huge
revolver pointed straight at my head, and
open the passenger side door. I move the
seat forward, climb into the tiny back
seats, and Glass gets in after. I’ve got to
lift my legs up onto the seat.
“To the school, Bullock,” he says.
“We have an audience waiting.”
The drive is short. Glass takes me to
some high school in the suburbs. Once
we stop, he meets my eyes in the
rearview mirror, and a flash of lightning
makes his shine like a demon’s.
“It’s so hard to find a good fighting
surface in the streets,” he says, sneering.

“We’re going to do this right.”
I’m ripped from the car by Glass, and
I hold onto my chest, each breath sending
throbbing pain right down to my toes.
The cold rain is refreshing, and I look up
for a moment, let some of it wet my eyes.
I shake free of his hand, and he raises
the gun and points it at me. Rainwater
pours off the tip of the barrel. “Walk.”
“Where?”
“Inside the school.”
I look at the front entrance, and there
see the glass inlaid in the door shattered.
Frank. I push open the unlocked door,
and we walk down a school corridor –
something only distantly familiar to me –

past lockers and classrooms.
“Find the gym,” Glass orders. “We’ll
need some space.”
I look up at the hanging signage, take a
right turn, and then we step outside
briefly before coming to the gymnasium.
It’s two indoor basketball courts sideby-side, with bleachers surrounding
them.
Where is Dee? I blink my eyes
rapidly, adjusting to the darkness, before
I spot her at the far end, sitting on the
bleachers, Frank right behind her. He’s
got a gun pressed into her back.
I grit my teeth, feel my blood boil.
“Move!” Glass barks.

Dee meets my eyes. They’re wide,
shiny, scared. Her eyes go from me to
Bullock, and it dawns on her what is
about to happen. I stare into her eyes,
shake my head a little. I hope she knows
the message I’m trying to convey to her.
Don’t do anything stupid! Protect the
baby!
Glass gestures at me with the gun to
walk into the middle of the nearest
basketball court. So I do, stand at halfcourt.
Bullock starts to remove his jacket,
unbuttons his shirt and takes it off. He’s
wearing nothing underneath, and when I
see the disciplined lines of his body, I
realize he’s built like a tank.

There’s no fucking outmuscling this
guy.
“Fight,” Glass says to me, gesturing at
Bullock. The huge man drops into a
stance, starts to circle me. I watch him,
then look back at Glass.
“I said fight!” Glass shouts, and he
pulls the trigger on his gun. The bang is
deafening, bounces around the gym, and
the bullet splinters wood three feet from
me.
“Damn it, Glass!” I roar, advancing on
him, but he lifts the gun to my head. I
stop in my tracks.
“Fight,” he says. “I’m eager to see you
lose for once.”

I turn around, see Bullock approach
me, skipping lightly on his feet. He’s
leading with his right – he’s a southpaw.
A left-hander. I’ve only fought two really
good left-handers before, and they were
tough. The timing is different, the
positioning, everything.
I’m in no fucking state to fight.
I take off my jacket and pull off my
shirt, throw it all onto the hardwood.
The last thing I need is to give him
something to grab onto, to tug me around
by, to strangle me with.
“Come on you big bastard,” I growl at
him, lifting my hands, getting into my
stance. I can’t think of anything else to
do at the moment. I’ll beat this fucking

brute into the ground and then I’ll get
after Glass. At least it’ll be one less man
to deal with.
“You come,” he says to me.
He curls his fingers in front of me,
beckons me. I straighten up, get out of
my stance, laugh at his cockiness.
Bullock takes the bait. He lunges, a
double hop, left foot out like a cobra
ready to strike. I slap his foot, use my
upright stance – my body-weight
imbalance – to lead my spin around him.
I almost fall, my body at forty-five
degrees as I pivot, but regain my balance
and throw an elbow into the back of his
head.
That’s a big no-no in the cage, even in

underground, but fuck fighter’s etiquette.
He stumbles forward, holding onto his
head, turning his neck left and right. I
hear his vertebrae click as pockets of air
between his bones are released.
“You come,” I say to him, beckon with
my fingers, flash him a grin.
“Get him, Bullock!” Glass shouts.
He’s circling us manically, baring his
teeth. The prospect of a beat down
obviously gets him excited.
Bullock approaches me more
carefully now. He’s dancing on his feet,
shifting his weight back and forth in
quick rhythm. He does it so he can easily
switch pivot foots to dodge or counter,
but I turtle up, lift my hands protectively,

gaze at him from the gap between my
two arms like a boxer.
Glass should recognize this, the
fucking bastard.
“Get him!” Glass yells again, forcing
Bullock to charge.
Bullock tests a jab, I sidestep it. He
tries again, again, this time feints but I
see it coming. His right jabs, his left
swings wide for a hook. I dodge the jab,
duck the hook, thump him in the gut with
a quick one-two, then send a heel right
onto his kneecap.
He drops to one knee, and I lift my
own, trying to catch him on the chin,
knock him out. But he sees it coming,
forms a net with his interlocked fingers

to catch my knee, then twists.
I slap against hardwood, my whole
body pivoted like I was a mere fucking
garden rake. Fuck, this guy is strong.
He tries to clamber on top of me, tries
to get his arm around my neck, but I twist
out, roll backward over my head onto
my feet, and I’m up faster than he is.
I swing a kick at his head; he takes the
full impact. Any other fighter and he’d
be out, but Bullock just grunts, gets to his
feet, rubs blood from his mouth.
I mimic his move, double-hop, except
this time I go southpaw. I hop with my
right, kick with my left, he doesn’t
anticipate it.

He takes it on the other side of his
head, right against his ear, and his
brain’s automatic response to the impact
is to relax every muscle in his body. His
legs give out, he falls back down, and I
clamber on top of him, get his neck into
the nook of my arm, hold on to my fist,
and pull.
Bullock throws elbows wildly behind
him, catching me in the ribs again and
again. I wince, hold on, and when he
tries to get up I stab my heel into his calf
over and over, numbing the muscle so he
can no longer use it.
“You lost this one, you big fuck,” I
growl into his ear. I heel-kick his other
calf muscle, then aim for his ankle on the
one leg he’s carrying both of our weight.

It gives, bends grotesquely to the side,
and he flops over. I wrap up his legs in
my own, pull his legs back, stretch him
out, leverage his own bodyweight
against him, tightening my chokehold.
I choke him with all the motherfucking
strength I have left in my body. He’s
gasping for air, his eyes are bloodshot,
his lips are turning blue.
He’s tapping the hardwood rapidly
out of habit, but this isn’t a fucking cage
fight, and I’m not going to let go of this
fucking beast.
“Fuck you,” I breathe. “I’m going to
fucking kill you.”
The world is white-hot around me.
My skin feels on fire. Something

distantly is telling me to let go or he’s
going to die, but all I want is to choke
this motherfucking cunt, choke the
fucking life out of him for threatening my
family, for—
His words echo through my head: I
have family.
I let go, throw him away from me in
disgust. He lies, curled up on the floor,
sucking in lungfulls of air.
He’s not the one I should be fighting.
He’s only being made to do this, just like
me. Glass is holding his family above
his head, just like me.
I get up, rub my side. I’m sure he
cracked a rib with one of those
thunderous elbows.

“There,” I say to Glass, who looks
astonished. His eyes are wide and his
mouth open. His gold teeth glint. “One
last fight, right?”
I start moving toward him slowly,
knowing that I have to close the distance
between me and him, knowing that I
need to get myself to within arm’s reach
of that fucking gun.
I glance up at Dee, meet her eyes.
She’s signing me something with her
fingers. She lifts her thumb up, extends
her forefinger, then darts her eyes
toward her side.
No! I shake my head at her, hope to
God she can see my eyes, see what I
mean: Do not try to get Frank’s gun!

“Stay, boy,” Glass says, lifting his
revolver again, pointing it at me.
I freeze on the spot, not having come
close enough to him yet to even attempt
to reach for the weapon. I know I’m
quicker than Glass, and I know I could
do it, hold it down, if I was just a few
feet closer.
“You thought you could find someone
better than me, Glass?” I taunt him. “You
thought, what, that I wouldn’t fight the
best I ever fucking fought when you’ve
got a gun to the mother of my child?” I
bellow the last words at him, and I see
his whole body jolt.
He looks past me at Bullock, and I
turn to follow his line of sight. The huge

man is getting up, rubbing the deeppurple bruise on his neck. He is one
tough son of a bitch.
I hear the sound of metal, snap my
head back to Glass to see him holding a
butterfly knife. He lifts it up in front of
me. “Remember this, Duncan?”
It was the knife I took from Danny,
which Glass then took from me. It was
the very first time I met Johnny fucking
Marino.
It was the day that changed my life,
that led to me meeting Dee.
He tosses it to Bullock, who catches it
mid-air, then carefully opens it up.
“Fight,” Glass says.

“You dirty fuck!” I bark. “This ain’t
no fucking fight anymore.”
“Fight,” he tells me, pointing the gun
at my left leg. “Before I decide to
handicap you even more.”

Chapter Forty Three

The hard metal barrel jabs painfully
into the small of my back. I wince, shift
my weight, but Frank’s strong hand grips
my shoulder.
He leans forward, whispers into my
ear: “Sit still, Deidre. Don’t make this
difficult.”
Rain slaps against the windows, and
the crack of thunder booms, echoes in
the room. Dad is pacing around Duncan
and the huge man. He’s jittery, screaming
at them.
“Get him, Bullock! Tear him up!” His
voice is shrill, excited. He gets off on
this stuff. He’s sick.

“Frank,” I whisper. “Frank, don’t do
this.”
“Deidre,” he says. “I always liked
you. I always treated you like my own
niece. But you need to shut up right
now.”
“Frank, listen to me,” I hiss hurriedly.
The words are rushing out of my mouth. I
can’t keep up with my thoughts.
“Dei—”
“Frank!” I say, turning around,
catching his eye out of the corner of my
own. “How long was my father making
you go through my trash?”
He doesn’t reply.
“How long, Frank? Years? Did that

make you feel good? Did it?”
“Of course not,” he says quietly.
Duncan grunts as Bullock thumps him
in the gut, doubles over. The knife sings
through the air, but Duncan spins out of
the way at the last minute, but fails to
dodge the cutting counter-swipe. He
grabs his face, backs away from
Bullock, and his hand comes away
stained red.
“God damn it, Frank!” I growl,
breathing hard. “He’s going to kill
Duncan. Damn it, Frank, Dad is trying to
steal our baby! Do you know why?”
“I said shut up!” Frank snarls into my
ear. He pushes the gun harder into my
back.

“I know you won’t shoot me, Frank. I
know you can’t. You know I’m pregnant.
Isn’t this breaking your heart, pointing a
gun at a pregnant girl? At someone you
thought of as your own family? I always
trusted you, Frank. Whenever Dad had it
out at me, I always came to you to talk.
Don’t you remember? We used to sit in
the garden, you’d tell me all about your
day. Don’t you feel responsible? Don’t I
matter to you?”
He meets me with silence.
Duncan dodges another swing of the
shimmering knife, spins, pivots on his
heel and lands a thunderous elbow into
Bullock’s sternum. The huge man
staggers backward, winded, gripping
onto his chest and struggling to breathe.

“Frank, this baby is mine. Dad only
came out here when he found out it was
a boy, right? Am I wrong?”
No reply, which means I’m right.
“He wants the son he never had! He
wants someone he can train, someone he
can tame! He wants to make my boy into
the fighter he could never be! Don’t you
understand? All he cares about is
legacy!”
“He’s the boss,” Frank says stonily.
“So you’re just following orders? The
good dog you’ve always been?”
“I’m no dog,” Frank growls.
Finally! Some pride! Some backbone!
God damn it, how deep had he buried it?

How long had it been missing? I need to
take that thread, and I need to pull on it. I
need to do so without snapping it.
“Damn it, Frank, then don’t let him do
this. You know this is wrong. This is too
much, even for my father. He can’t steal
my kid from me! You’re not his dog,
right? You have a conscience, right? Are
you going to blindly follow Dad
everywhere, do whatever he says?
Aren’t you your own man?”
I feel the press of the barrel in my
back weaken.
“Save us, Frank. Save Duncan. You
always liked him, didn’t you? He always
had time for you. He was never rude to
you. He’s a good man. You’re a good

man, too. Somewhere inside, there’s
good in you. Save us.”
“Shut up,” he says, but his voice
cracks.
“My son’s name is Thom,” I say.
“Thom. You hear me? Thom!” I repeat
the name, over and over. “He has a
name. He’s innocent. He should be able
to choose his own life. Would you want
your child to grow up like me? Like
you? Do what Duncan does? Do you
want him to suffer like all of us, Frank?
Look at Dad, he’s lost. He can’t be
saved. He’s fucking crazy. But you! You
can do this. You can save us!”
“Please stop talking, Deidre. Please.”
“For fuck’s sake, Frank!” I growl,

shaking my head. “My son’s name is
Thom. He is innocent. Don’t let Dad take
him away from me. Don’t let Dad ruin
him!”
“Deidre,” he whispers. “He’ll kill
me.”
“Not if you kill him first.”
Still silence.
“Fucking hell, Frank!” I whisper
hoarsely, gripping tight onto the metal
bleachers. “He’s going to take my
fucking baby!”
The gun barrel leaves my back. I feel
Frank stand behind me.
“Enough!” he bellows.
Dad, Duncan, and Bullock all turn

their heads to us.
I take my chance, and run toward the
exit, flail open the door before closing it
behind me. I find the fire alarm switch I
noticed on the way in, slam my palm
against it, break the glass.
Sprinklers spray, emergency lights
flash red, and bells ring.
I poke my head up through the
window in the door to the gymnasium.
Bullock is now on the ground, knife
sticking out of his thigh and arm broken,
bent disgustingly between wrist and
elbow. Duncan only needed a second’s
distraction.
Dad hasn’t moved. Duncan stands,
looking at me, blood dripping from the

slice on his face.
I inch the door open.
“It’s over, Dad!”
“Like fucking hell it is, you ungrateful
bitch!”
I calmly approach Frank, touch his
shoulder. “You’re doing the right thing,”
I tell him.
He’s panting, and he’s sweating, and
I’m worried he’s going to give himself a
heart attack for how nervous he is.
He says to Dad, “You shouldn’t be
doing this to your own daughter.”
“It’s for her good!” Dad yells back,
but Frank just shakes his head.

“Put down the gun.”
Slowly, behind Dad, Duncan creeps
forward, each step as silent as a cat’s.
“Never.”
“Put it down, boss,” Frank says, his
voice rising.
To my astonishment, Dad raises his
gun, points it at Frank. Frank flinches a
little, but keeps his weapon trained on
Dad.
“I can’t shoot him, Dee,” Frank
whispers to me.
I summon up the courage to bring
myself to say it: “You have to, Frank.
You have to kill my father.”
But Frank doesn’t move. His finger is

down the side of the barrel, not on the
trigger.
“Damn it, Frank!” I shout, grabbing
hold of the gun, trying to get my finger on
the trigger.
The loud bang pierces my ears, sends
pain throbbing into my skull. I jump
back, look toward Dad, see his revolver
smoking.
Frank drops to the ground, his body
limp, his eyes open but dead. There’s a
hole clean through his chest.
Dad turns the gun on me.

Chapter Forty Four

Duncan floats in slow-motion.
He grabs the gun, holds the hammer,
and then kicks Dad’s knee. It’s the
hardest kick I’ve ever seen, and I watch
as Dad’s knee gives, bends out to the
side.
Dad wails, falls to the ground,
clutches at his lower leg that hangs
limply from the knee, foot facing out the
side instead of the front.
Duncan snatches the gun, points it at
Dad, and then brings his foot down on
Dad’s thigh. I hear the loud crack of
bone, and Dad’s scream echoes in the
gym.

It just took two seconds, and I’m still
frozen to the spot. I look down at Frank’s
still body, see the gun, and immediately
bend down and pick it up.
“You motherfucker,” Duncan growls,
pushing the barrel under Dad’s chin.
“Give me one reason not to blow your
fucking head off. You threaten the
woman I love, my family? You piece of
shit.”
“I should have never rescued you off
the street you rat fuck,” Dad says, his
words labored. “You were never any
good for her. You turned my daughter
against me!”
“You did that yourself!” Duncan roars,
jamming the gun deeper into Dad’s neck.

“Don’t kill him,” I say quickly, staring
at my broken father on the floor, then
flicking my eyes up to Duncan. “Please.”
Duncan throws a wild look my way.
“Please. I need you. You can’t kill
him. The police are on their way.”
He pulls back the gun, throws Dad to
the ground. Dad just holds onto his leg
and whimpers.
And… and I’m surprised that I feel
the way I do. I never expected that I
would. I thought that seeing Dad
stopped, knowing that my baby is now
safe, would flood me with relief.
Instead, I’m more heartbroken than I
ever have been. The sight of my

fractured father on the floor tears at me. I
never wanted it to come to this. I never
wanted it to end this way.
Duncan rushes to me, holds my face,
asks me if I’m okay.
I barely hear the words. I feel shellshocked. I’m just looking straight at Dad,
the man who was supposed to be my
protector in life, the man I was supposed
to be able to look up to, admire, moaning
on the ground, his legs broken by the
man that I’m in love with, the father of
my child, Dad’s adoptive son.
I touch Duncan’s hand, nod at him. He
puts his arm around me, holds me and
kisses my head. “I was right on the
edge.”

I tap him on the chest. “I know. You
okay?” I pull his head toward me, see a
gash along the side of his jaw where
Bullock got him with the knife. The
wound on his forehead has opened up as
well. “Damn it.”
“It’s fine.”
“You ungrateful little shits,” I hear
Dad groan from the ground.
I step around Duncan, go to him, kneel
down beside him. His face is contorted
by the pain, but he looks up at me out of
savage eyes.
“Why, Dad? Why couldn’t you just
love me and take care of me? Why
couldn’t you support me?”

He doesn’t reply, just lets out a snarl.
“Why?” I ask, raising my voice. “Tell
me why!” I slap him hard across the
face, hear his head thump against the
hardwood.
“Why?” I cry, slapping him again and
again. I hit him harder, faster, and each
slap stings my palm.
He just takes them, doesn’t say a
thing, and then I feel Duncan’s arms
around me, and he lifts me up, pulls me
away.
“I hate you!” I scream at Dad. “I
fucking hate you!”
“I wish your mother had never died,”
he says, his voice slurry. He spits out a

wad of blood. “So she could have given
me a son.”
Duncan turns on Dad, points the gun at
him. “You shut your fucking mouth right
now.”
“You were always a disappointment,
Deidre.”
“Shut up!”
“I needed an heir, not a fucking—”
Duncan kicks Dad in the mouth. I look
away, but too late, and the image of
Dad’s flying, bloody gold teeth is seared
into my mind.
I go to the bleachers, sit down, and
Duncan comes toward me, his whole
body tense like some kind of tornado,

and he holds me, and I want to cry, I feel
like I’m so pent up, like I just need to
burst, but I can’t.
Nothing comes out.
I just look at Dad, can barely feel
Duncan stroking my hair, can barely hear
him telling me it’s over.
But after a moment I tell him, “It’s not
over. It’s in my mind.” I touch my
temple, then lie against his shoulder. “I
hope I don’t lose you. The police are
coming.”
The fire alarm bells have stopped,
and the sprinklers peter out. I can hear
their sirens now, wailing in the distance,
growing louder by the second.

“You won’t. We’ll be fine. We just
have to tell the truth.”
“How does it look?” I ask, nodding at
Duncan’s hand. He lifts up the revolver,
then drops it to the floor in disgust.
“Your prints are on the gun that killed
Frank.”
He sighs, pinches his eyebrows
together in his fingers. “Fuck. I had to
take it.”
“I know.”
“God damn it.”
I peer into my own hand, realize I’m
still holding Frank's gun. I look at Dad,
then Bullock, then Frank’s limp body.
We can’t count on Bullock, and I

realize, my mind whirring at a million
miles an hour, that I have to take this into
my own hands.
“It’s cold,” I tell Duncan. “Go put on
your top.”
He listens to me, gets up, picks up his
shirt and jacket off the floor. He
squeezes into his t-shirt, and then looks
at me and asks me the question I was
waiting for.
“Are you cold?”
“Yes.”
He gives me his jacket, and I worm
my arms into it, then find the inside
jacket pocket.
“Go check on Bullock,” I say.

“Why?”
“You need to see if he’s dead. We
need to know what to expect when the
police get here.”
Duncan goes to Bullock, kneels down
by him, and when his back is to me I
shove Frank’s gun into the jacket’s
inside pocket.
Duncan returns to me, and looks down
at the revolver on the ground. He opens
his mouth to speak, but at that moment
the door to the gym opens, and we see a
yellow fire helmet.
The fireman steps into the gym, looks
at Duncan and I in turn, then sees the
bodies and the gun on the ground, and he
throws himself back out of the door.

“Be ready,” I say.
Duncan bends down, picks up the gun.
“What are you doing?” I ask,
widening my eyes. “Put it down, don’t
hold it.”
It’s too late. The cops come in,
weapons raised, shouting at Duncan to
get to his knees. He holds the gun out,
lets it hang off his finger, and then falls
to his knees.
He looks at me, says, “The gun had to
be in my hands, Dee.”
The police circle Duncan, handle him
roughly, and I shout at them, tell them
that he was just protecting me, that I’m
pregnant, that we were held at gunpoint.

But they clear out, carry out Bullock
and Dad, and then I see a lone detective
walk into the gym. He’s old, wiry, but
his eyes shine. He sits down beside me,
and asks me one question: “Are you the
daughter of Johnny Marino?”
“Yes,” I say.
“I’m going to have to take you down
to the station.”
“Am I under arrest?”
“Yes.”
“I want to be read my rights.”
“You will be.”
“But I need to see a paramedic first.
I’m pregnant, and they weren’t gentle
with me.” I rub my belly, and the

detective’s eyes go to it, fill with
compassion for a moment.
“There’s an ambulance outside. Come
on.”
I get up slowly, shake off his helping
hand.
“I can do it myself.”
We go outside, and there I see Duncan
being forced into the back of a police
car. He’s cuffed, and he swings his head
over his shoulder, and I meet his eyes for
a moment before he disappears.
“This way,” the detective says,
guiding me with a hand on the small of
my back. He’s holding an umbrella out
for me, and rainwater wets his long

trench coat.
“How did you know to come?” I ask,
looking around, seeing just one fire truck
but a barrage of police vehicles.
“We got a tip from someone out of
Hong Kong,” he tells me. “That a man on
the FBI’s most wanted list was entering
Australia. We maintain a cooperative
relationship. We’ve been following your
father.”
“You could have fucking got here
sooner,” I say.
“He lost us in the rain.”
I shake my head, watch as Duncan is
driven off.
“What’s going to happen to him?”

“He’s under arrest.”
“Charges?”
The detective shrugs. “We’ll hold him
while we analyze the crime scene.”
We reach the ambulance, but the
paramedics are busy dealing with Dad’s
knee and Bullock’s knife wound.
“I think there may be someone else,” I
say. “A fourth man, the driver of the
limousine.”
The detective stiffens, pulls out his
weapon.
“Here? At the school?”
“Yes, one of my father’s men.”
The detective rounds up the officers to

sweep the area. In the commotion I take
the gun from Duncan’s jacket and throw
it down a sewer grate.
It’s been raining so heavily all night, I
can hear the water surging.
The cogs in my mind are whirring,
and I’m hoping I’m not making a terrible
mistake.
When the detective returns, panting,
he tells me that they searched the school
but found nobody, asks me if I’m sure.
“I don’t know,” I say. “I think I’m in
shock. Are you going to handcuff me?”
“Not if you don’t resist.”
“Then I’ll come willingly,” I tell him.
I just hid a piece of evidence. I’ve

got to get this exactly right!

Chapter Forty Five

The man who walks into the room is
not the media stereotype of a cop. He’s
well-dressed, clean-shaven, in good
health for a man in his fifties.
The detective has cleaned up after
getting wet in the rain. He obviously
keeps a change of clothes at the office.
He smiles warmly at me as he closes
the door to the interview room behind
him.
I’ve been sitting in this room for four
hours, but they’ve put the radio on in the
room to keep me awake. It’s now nearly
five in the morning, and I haven’t been
able to catch a wink. I know they do it

for a reason, to get you tired so you
might blurt something.
There’s water and food on the table,
and I’ve helped myself liberally. If
they’re going to keep me up, then I need
to keep my strength up.
“Ms. Marino,” he says, looking down
at his file and then back up at me.
“Deidre Marino?”
I nod.
“We found an image of the real
Caroline Sax.”
“Am I being charged?” I ask.
“Not yet.”
“Am I being detained?”

He pauses briefly. “Yes.”
“For how long?”
“Eight hours, but we can get that
extended to twelve.”
“And how long can you question me
for, legally?”
The man sits down opposite me, and
gives me a curt smile. “Four hours.”
“You’re required to give me your
identity.”
“Detective Inspector Mike Grayson,”
he says. “Would you like to see my
identification, Ms. Marino?”
I nod. “Yes.”
He sighs, reaches into his back pocket

and pulls out a worn leather wallet. He
flips it open, and there I see his badge.
He pulls out his identification card and
slides it over the desk to me.
I look at it – it’s him.
“I have the right to be told what I’ve
been arrested for, Detective Grayson.”
“Ms. Marino, you should know that
being hostile is only going to make this
last longer.”
“My right to know what I’ve been
arrested for, please,” I say. I try to keep
my face as calm as possible on the
outside, but inside my heart is racing,
and my nerves are threatening to undo
me.

I remember reading about the process
of events when you’re arrested in
Australia when I first got to Melbourne,
but four months later, my memory is hazy
at best.
“Accessory to murder before the
fact.”
I swallow. Murder. They must mean
Frank.
“What is the maximum sentence?”
“Life imprisonment,” he says. “In
Australia.”
“Will I be extradited?”
“You haven’t even been charged yet.”
“So I’m being interviewed as a
suspect?”

“Yes,” he says. Then, almost
awkwardly, he adds, “Formally.”
I ponder the addition. What’s his
angle?
“Then I have the right to be given a
reasonable chance to communicate with
a lawyer.”
“You do,” he tells me. “But Ms.
Marino, I think you should let me speak
for a moment.”
I nod slowly. I don’t have to say
anything if I don’t want to.
“You, Duncan Malone, a man who we
cannot yet identify, and Johnny Marino
were all arrested tonight. We’ve got
video surveillance from the school

sports hall, however, that will be
entered as evidence should any one of
you be charged with a crime.”
I blink. Video evidence. The gym had
cameras!
“Nobody has been charged yet?”
“No.”
“Not even my father?”
Grayson raises an eyebrow. “Why are
you concerned with him in particular?”
I shrug. “He’s my dad. What daughter
wouldn’t be?”
“Look,” he says, clasping his hands
together on the table in front of me. He
wears a silver wedding ring. His hands
have the texture of weathered leather.

“The truth is I don’t think you had
anything to do with this. I think you were
the victim here.”
“Oh yeah?” I ask.
“Yes. We have you entering Australia
with a false identity presumably under
duress. You are pregnant, obviously, and
soon after Duncan Malone entered the
country, followed by your father and the
big bloke, who we learned about after a
tip-off. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist
to figure out you were running away. The
question is, from whom?”
My eyes widen. Do they suspect
Duncan of anything?
“Did you watch the tape?” I ask.

He nods. “Of course.”
“Then you know Duncan and I were
both the victims.”
“Let’s talk about you,” he says. He
gets up, walks to the door, and then
pokes his head outside. A few moments
later a television is wheeled in. He
thanks the man who brought it in, then
shuts the door.
He empties his pockets then, onto the
table.
“What are you doing?”
“In my pockets I have my wallet, a
stick of gum, and my mobile phone.” He
picks up his phone, unlocks it, then holds
it out in front of me. “Please turn it off.”

I would think that he’s just trying to
get my fingerprints, but they already
printed me. I’m too on-edge, too
paranoid. My mind is racing through
every possibility, but I can’t figure out
why he wants me to touch his phone.
I reach out, turn off the phone.
“As you can see around the room, you
are not being watched, listened to, or
recorded. There are no cameras in here
as this is just an interview room. No
two-way mirrors. It’s not like the cop
shows on telly.”
“So?” I ask.
“In my pockets I have no recording
devices, and my phone is off.”

“You could be wearing a wire,” I say,
but it sounds stupid even as I say it.
He doesn’t laugh at me, to his credit.
“You’re right. I can take off my shirt if
you’d like.”
“Just get to the point,” I say.
“Right now what you say to me can be
admitted as evidence. However, I am not
recording you, as a gesture of good faith
because I believe you are a victim.”
“You can still testify against me.”
“Which is why I’m going to ask you a
series of yes-or-no questions. You
simply nod your head or shake it. That
testimony would not stand.”
“Why are you doing this?” I ask.

“I’m only interested in catching the
bad guys, Ms. Marino. I have no desire
to see innocent people charged
incorrectly.” He gestures at my belly. “I
have three children myself, and I can
remember the first pregnancy like it was
yesterday. I know how tough it’s been
for you. I’m only interested in the truth.”
I let his words roll off me. I don’t
trust him.
He flicks on the television, and the
recording of the gym buzzes to life. It’s
black-and-white, more blurred than
sharp, but it is unmistakably the events
which occurred just earlier tonight.
The camera is obviously positioned
behind us. I can see Frank… and myself

sitting just in front of him. I can see Dad,
too, his pistol gleaming with reflected
light. Farther out in the image are
Duncan and Bullock, standing opposite
each other at the half-court line of the
basketball court.
“Is this you?” he says, pointing at me.
I nod.
“And this is your father? Yes? Okay.
Frank, Duncan, and the big guy, right?
Good.”
I take in a breath. There’s no harm in
identifying them.
He plays the video. I watch Duncan
and Bullock fight, and wince at the
narrow misses as Bullock swipes his

knife at Duncan.
Grayson pauses it. “Does this man, the
big guy, have a weapon?”
I nod.
“Is it a knife?”
Nod.
“And is Duncan being forced to
fight?”
I nod again.
“By your father?”
Nod.
“Are you being threatened?”
Nod.
Detective Inspector Grayson scribbles

down some notes in a pad. “These are
just for me, personally, to remember
your responses. They will be
inadmissible.”
He plays the video again. I watch as
Duncan and Bullock fight, as Dad paces
the floor, gripping onto his gun, eagerly
watching.
Then Frank stands up. The camera,
from its position, only shows Frank’s
back. There’s no way to see what is in
his hands.
Grayson pauses the video. “Is Frank
telling your father to stop the fight?”
I nod.
“Does he have a gun pointed at your

father?”
I meet Grayson’s eyes, but don’t give
a response.
“Did he have a gun pointed at you
when he was still sitting?”
I… shake my head.
Grayson plays the video again. I
watch Dad’s arm twitch. I watch Frank
hit the floor dead. I watch myself sprint
away. Duncan whirls on Bullock, takes
him down, stabs him in the leg then
breaks his arm.
Frank’s body is lying away from the
camera, and we can only see him
lengthways. Still his gun isn’t visible.
My sigh of relief exits through my nose.

The sprinklers start, muddy up the
image, but I see that I come back into the
gym, and then Duncan moves on Dad,
and I kneel down beside Frank.
Grayson pauses it again. “At this
moment, are you feeling for Frank’s
pulse?”
I nod.
“And did you do anything else?”
I shake my head.
“Did he have a weapon?”
I shake my head.
Grayson leans back in his chair and
regards me. I struggle to keep myself as
calm as possible.

I just lied to the police… I lied to get
Dad locked up. If I tell them that Frank
had a gun, then Dad will have been
under duress, self-defense, whatever.
Dad’s going to go to prison for a long
time because of me.
“So are you telling me that as soon as
Frank stood up and asked your father to
stop – I presume that’s what he’s doing –
your
father
shot
him without
provocation?”
I nod.
“He murdered Frank Marsh in cold
blood?”
I take a deep breath, and nod again. A
tear leaves my eye, and I wipe it away

quickly, but I’m unable to stop my lips
from trembling.
I don’t want to cry right now, but it all
seems to be trying to come out right now.
I don’t want to give myself away first
and foremost, but I also don’t want to
regret this decision.
I had to do it. I had to.
“Will you testify to this?”
I consider it, then shake my head.
Grayson sighs. “Let me tell you how
this will go down in court. The jury will
see this video, will see your father shoot
Frank. In the absence of any mitigating
factors, your father will be convicted for
murder charges, and will be sentenced to

life imprisonment as per sentencing rules
in Victoria. Or, if he is extradited, he
will likely serve a similar term in the
United States.”
I nod, showing my understanding.
“If Frank had a gun,” Grayson says,
leaning forward. “And if you took it,
then you are liable to charges of
obstruction of justice. You can go to jail
for that. If you lie under oath, you risk
yourself to charges of perjury, which you
can also be jailed for.”
I nod.
“If Frank had a gun, your father will
have been acting under provocation, and
possibly self-defense. You understand
that he can be acquitted of all charges in

that event?”
I nod.
Grayson pinches his brow, sighs, then
taps his pad idly with his pen. “You’re
free to go, Ms. Marino. Stay in
Melbourne, please. We’ll contact you if
we need to.”
I blink. “I can go?”
“We won’t be pressing charges.” He
rubs his brow. “I see no reason to.”
“You believe me?”
“I believe you were a victim. As for
the events that transpired tonight…” He
shakes his head. “I don’t know.”
“What about Duncan?”

“He’s free to go as well,” the
detective says. “All he’s guilty of is
trespassing, but that was under mortal
threat.” Grayson walks to the door and
opens it. “We’ll be in touch.”
I get up, walk past him, and in the
hallway see Duncan. I rush to him, and
he to me, and he wraps me up in his
arms, kisses my forehead.
“Are you okay?” I ask him, my voice
wavering.
“Yeah,” he says. “They stitched me
up. Come on, let’s talk outside.”
Together we leave the police station,
and Grayson watches us all the way out,
chewing on the end of his pen.

Chapter Forty Six

We walk outside into the cool morning
air. The sun is rising on the horizon,
casting an orange glow across the
waking city.
Duncan pulls me along with him,
throwing glances over his shoulder.
“I don’t think they’re following us.”
“Did he ask you about the gun?”
I look up at him, and nod.
“Did you take it?”
I nod again.
“Why?”
“It was the only way to put Dad

away,” I say. “He had it coming. It was
eventually going to catch up to him,
anyway.”
I say it with conviction. I believe it.
“It was the only we to protect our
son.” I take his hand, put it on my belly.
“But you could have been caught.”
“But I wasn’t,” I say. “Was I?”
“That was a huge risk, Dee.”
“I know.”
“What if they had found out?”
“Then I could just say I was in shock,
didn’t know what I was doing.”
“Would that even hold up?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know,

Duncan. It’s over now, okay?”
“Okay,” he says. “Remind me never to
mess with you.”
“I know what I’m doing,” I tell him.
“Most of the time, anyway.”
“Where did you put it?”
“I just dropped it into the sewer. It
had been raining all night, right? It’ll
have washed away somewhere.”
“Did you wipe the handle?”
“No,” I say. “But in the sewer? With
that much rain?”
“It’s a risk,” he whispers.
“I don’t think they’re going to be
pulling any CSI shit on us, Duncan.

They’ve got all the evidence they need to
put Dad away… that video is enough!
The detective seemed to want to help
me, too. What did you tell them about the
gun?”
“I said I didn’t know if he had one, it
was too dark to see.”
“But you did know, right?”
He nods.
“How did you know to lie?”
“I saw you holding it, and then you
weren’t. At first I thought you had just
put it down somewhere, until they asked
me about it.”
He pulls me around a corner, then he
pins me up against the wall, kisses me

hard. I wrap my arms around his neck,
hold onto him, and he kisses my neck,
my shoulders, and we hug each other
tight.
We don’t let go. We hold each other,
breathe slowly together.
“We’re a
“Always.”

team,”

Duncan

says.

It’s dawning on me now that I’m
finally free of Dad. He’ll go away, and
Frank – who is the only other person
who knew about my pregnancy – is
dead. If Bullock was going to say
something, he would have already, but
they’ll have nothing on him. He was
forced to fight, and he’s obviously not
pressing charges against Duncan for

sticking that knife into his leg.
Duncan and I can disappear, live the
life we want to in peace. “I can’t believe
everything that’s happened,” I whisper
into his ear. I bury my face in his neck,
inhale his smell, and even though it’s
sharp after a long night, I love every bit
of it.
“You’re okay, right?” he asks. “Did
you get hurt in any way?”
“No.”
“The stress levels can’t have been
good. All that adrenaline running through
your body, it will have made its way into
the fetus, right?”
I blink, then shake my head. “I don’t

know, Duncan.”
“We need to make an appointment
with your doctor. I saw the way Frank
held you.”
“Will you come with me?”
Duncan’s whole face creases up for a
moment, bunches together. “Of course,”
he whispers. “I wouldn’t miss it for the
fucking world. I’ll be with you every
God damn step of the way, Dee. Every
moment, every second, I’ll be at your
side.” He smirks. “Even when you don’t
want me around.”
“You can get a bit much sometimes,” I
say, grinning.
He looks worn, frayed at the edges.

I’m not surprised, either, since he took a
good beating. The bandaging on the side
of his head that covers the slice up his
jawline is already starting to show
blood through it, and the white gauze on
his arms are also spotting crimson.
“Damn, you got fucked up,” I say. I
don’t know why, but this great big grin
spreads on my face, and then I’m
laughing with him, and we’re laughing
together.
And then I’m crying, and I don’t even
know why. It’s just a flash of emotion,
there one moment, gone the next, but it
leaves me teary-eyed in its wake.
“I’m so tired and so hungry,” I say.
“Let’s go get some breakfast.”

Duncan wipes the tears from my
cheeks, and his own eyes shine red.
“Now let me see,” I say, turning on the
spot, wiping my nose quickly. “We’re in
St. Kilda, I know a good place where
we can get some delicious oatmeal. It’s
all organic stuff and they put cinnamon
on it and—”
Duncan makes a face.
“What?”
“Oatmeal?”
“It’s healthy. For the baby.”
“I think you’ve earned a treat.”
“Full-fat breakfast?”
He nods. “Yeah. It’ll be alright.”

I don’t even need to think it over. A
full breakfast sounds great, something I
haven’t had in ages… since before I
found out I was pregnant. I’ve been
sticking to all the healthy foods, trying to
give my baby the best nutrition… but I
can’t think of a better time to get some
food for my own soul.
“I know a cute café in Brighton,” I
say. “They do the best scrambled eggs. I
don’t know what they put in it, but it’s
magical.”
“Maybe opiates.”
“Stop it,” I say, slapping his shoulder.
“I read about it. Some noodle shop
somewhere in China. They were putting
opium in their broth to keep people

coming back.”
“I doubt that’s the case here.”
Duncan waves down a taxi, and we
get in. He turns to me, wipes smudged
eye-liner from under my eyes.
“It’s going to look like we had one
hell of a night out,” he says.

Epilogue One

Fletcher’s.
I take the steps up to Pierce’s gym two
at a time – it’s on the second floor – and
push open the heavy, wooden doubledoors.
There I see a group of young boys
huddled in a semi-circle on the floor. In
front of them is a large flat-screen
television. They’re watching an MMA
match, and Pierce is standing next to the
television, explaining the moves.
He catches my eye for a moment,
ignores me, and keeps instructing. As I
get closer, I realize that he’s playing one
of my matches.

I’m not doing too well in this one. I
remember the fight, it was tough, and I
almost got pinned when I let my
opponent get on my back and get a hold
of my leg.
“You roll your body,” Pierce says,
pausing the video. “Like Creature does
here. Use your forearm for leverage,
twist, then pull.”
He’s teaching them how to get out of a
leg lock. You have to get your opponent
off-balance, so that they can’t exert force
in the proper direction. It’s all about
angles and leverage. Get the right angle,
get leverage, and you can outmaneuver a
man twice your strength.
“Watch how he uses the movement as

momentum, to spin himself up to his
feet.”
One of the boys says, “It’s like a kungfu movie.”
Pierce waits until the sparse laughs
die down. “This move requires a lot of
core strength. That’s why I’m always
telling you boys, work your core.” He
slaps a flat palm against his stomach.
“Here. Where else?”
“Back,” one of the boys says.
“Correct. Where else?”
“Obliques.”
“Good,” he says, pointing at the boy
who answered. “Now, where else?
You’re all missing a big one.”

The boys don’t answer. They look at
each other, confused. And then one of
them spies me, does a double-take, and I
hear him whisper to the closest next to
him, “Holy shit, it’s Creature.”
All the boys start murmuring, and as
they turn on me, I see familiar looks in
their eyes. These are at-risk kids.
Some will live in group homes, others
in foster care, and most are likely
latchkey kids at low income households.
Some are older, already out of the
system, already young men, looking for
something to work toward in their lives,
something to help them build selfconfidence.
“Hey!” Pierce cries, clapping his

hands together, snapping their attention
all back to him. He’s got a natural
authority over these kids, and they listen
to him. He’s doing good for these kids.
They all don’t look at me even once
more. They’re well disciplined.
“Where else constitutes your core?”
he asks. “Which major muscle group?”
“Your butt!” one of the kids shouts.
Everybody snickers.
I see a smile on Pierce’s face.
“Correct. Your glutes are very important
for stabilizing your body. They are one
of the most important muscle groups in
your body. Stretch them for twice as long
as any other muscle, got it? Ever wonder
why so many people have back pain? It’s

because they have tight asses.”
Again, everybody snickers.
“I’m telling you the truth,” Pierce
says. “Ask any physiotherapist. If
everybody just stretched their ass a bit
more, they wouldn’t get so much back
pain. You see, the tight glute muscles
will pull against your lower back.” He
turns around and rubs a hand just above
his tailbone. “This worsens your
posture, and you are forced to use other
muscles to compensate. Remember,
every muscle in the body affects every
other. That is why we emphasize core
strength, and conditioning of the major
muscle groups. Having big guns…” He
lifts up his arm, flexes his strong bicep.
“Is useless. You need strength here.” He

motions at the trunk of his body. “Got
it?”
Some of the boys nod.
“Got it?” Pierce says, raising his
voice.
“Yes,” all the boys say together.
“Now go on, split off into pairs. Get
into this leg lock,” he says, tapping the
screen. “No strength, this is just
practice. Work the angles, see how you
can slip it. I’ll come by in a bit to check
on you.”
He jerks his head, and the boys
immediately get up, pair off, and then he
walks toward me, his brow creased.
“Everything alright? I didn’t hear from

you for a while.”
I nod at him. “Yeah, things got a bit
crazy. Just been cooling down.”
He sticks two fists out, and I tap them.
Fighter’s tradition.
“This fight got pretty hairy, eh?” he
asks, looking back at the television.
“You know, I honestly thought I might
lose that fight. I was a little off that night.
When he got on my back… Where’d you
get that video, anyway?”
“MMA-Underground dot com,” he
says.
I grin. “Dan Peterson’s website.”
“Yeah, you know him?”

“Nah,” I say, shaking my head.
“Bullshit. I read the interview.”
“What did it say?”
“Usual fluff piece. Oversold you.”
I laugh, look around the gym, see
brand new punching bags. “Doing
well?”
“We just got a donation, actually.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Anonymous, but it was enough
to buy some new equipment for the
boys.”
“It really helps them?” I look at the
boys now all lying on mats, practicing –
and mostly failing – to properly get out

of a leg-lock. It’s a technique that takes
weeks of practice to even perform semicompetently. Pierce is setting up longterm goals for these boys.
“They have a ways to come,” Pierce
says, noticing their form with me. “But
yes, it really does. Most of these boys
came in scared, bullied at school. They
didn’t know how to stand up for
themselves. They didn’t believe that they
had inherent worth. This helps them to
build their confidence, and teach them
the value of hard work. I’m sure your
training helped you. It did me.”
I nod. “Yeah, of course.”
“So,” Pierce says. He looks me up
and down. “Damn, you got pretty beat

up. What’s that?” He points at my jaw.
“Got sliced by a knife. Stitches just
came out a few days ago.”
“Fucking hell.”
“At least I wasn’t shot.”
He laughs. “I got a tattoo around that
scar on my foot.”
“Yeah?”
“Only time I’ve ever had something
go right through my body.”
I push my lips together. That’s
definitely one way of looking at it.
“Scratch that off the bucket list, I
guess,” I say.
“What is it, Duncan?” he asks after a

moment. “Just tell me.”
“I came to say thanks, for helping
out.”
“Didn’t do much.”
“Thanks, anyway. I appreciate it.”
I hear the sound of drilling, frown,
look around.
“We’re expanding,” he says. “Onto the
floor above.” He looks up. “Penny wants
to get some girls in the gym, you know,
girls like these boys.”
“Yeah?”
“Teach them fitness, good health, get
them exercising, maybe even have me do
some light fighting training with them.
It’s going to be really cheap, she’s

managed to get some sponsors, women’s
organizations who will help out. We’ve
got physical trainers who have
volunteered to work with the girls for
free, all women of course.”
“That sounds… really fucking good,
Pierce.”
“We’re starting to make waves, man.
People are donating in small amounts
regularly. We’re doing a little light
merchandising, selling sports drinks that
aren’t all loaded with sugary crap, or
stimulants like caffeine or yohimbine.”
“Fletcherade, huh?”
“That’s right.”
“Seems like you’re doing well. I’m

glad.”
“You know, with the extra space
upstairs, I’d love to take on more boys.”
“Yeah?”
I see the look in his eye, the smirk at
his lips, return it.
“Guy like Duncan ‘Creature’ Malone
would be a real attraction.”
“You think so?”
“Can’t pay you much, but I’m pretty
sure you’ve got a lot tucked away from
that thirty-three-to-nil streak you went
on.”
“Good guess.”
“Interested?”

I look around. I could work with these
boys. Help them, guide them. Give them
something I never had enough of in my
youth.
“It’s not just the fighting or the
training,” Pierce says. “It’s more….
What’s the word Penny used?
Wholesome?”
“Holistic.”
“That’s the one. Damn, Creature, so
you’re not just a dumb fighter after all?”
“Wouldn’t go that far. It was a buzz
word for a while for the social workers
at my group home.”
“Anyway, we tell these kids straight
up that most of them aren’t ever going to

make a living fighting. We discourage
underground stuff. This is just so they
can be good at something, take that
mental discipline to whatever else they
choose to do. We do picnics, outings,
activities, things to build their sense of
self-worth, to improve their social
skills, allow them to see a little more of
the world. We take them to fancy
restaurants, teach them how to use the
cutlery properly, how to order, how to
address service staff. All kinds of things.
You know, social worker stuff, but
unburdened by bureaucracy.
“We’re not trying to help everybody,
just everybody we possibly can, so
we’re not stretched too thin. I even have
a university professor on the payroll as a

consultant. She’s all clued up on the
social work research, helps design
programs for these boys.”
“Yeah, that sounds good,” I say. “Real
good. Your speech was good, too.”
“Hey, fuck, I got to be a salesman half
the time now. We don’t charge these kids
anything. So, you interested? I could use
another partner. Penny and I are starting
to get overloaded, and her tattoo shop is
getting big, you know. She’s picking up a
new client every day almost.”
I think about it, even though I don’t
really need to. “Count me in,” I say.
A broad smile erupts on his face.
“Great. How about all that stuff with
your girl’s old man?”

“That’s all done,” I say. “He’s back in
the States, awaiting trial, no bail. Police
received a tip on financial records kept
at his house in a hidden safe. His crew is
getting picked up one by one.”
“Bet they’re all flipping upward, now,
aren’t they?”
“Of course they fucking are,” I growl.
“Bunch of spineless fucks, all of them.
When the dust settles, I wouldn’t be
surprised if he goes away for
consecutive life sentences. He has a lot
of fucking skeletons buried and they are
going to get dug up.”
“Nothing will follow you back here?”
I shake my head. “Shouldn’t, but if it
ever does, I’ll be out of here.” I pause.

“You know, for the boys.”
“Okay, good. Hate to make a point of
it, but they’re my priority.”
“It’s fine,” I tell him, waving a hand.
“Hey, I got to get back to it. You come
by Monday morning, half-seven, I’ll
show you where everything is. Going to
need all your tax info and that stuff as
well if you have it. Say ‘hi’ to your girl
for me.”
“Yeah, thanks.”
Pierce mimes a pregnant belly.
“Everything going well?”
I grin. “So far so good. We’re going
for an ultrasound next week.”
“That’s fantastic. It’s a boy, right?”

I laugh, can’t keep myself from
beaming. “That’s right.”
“Got a name?”
“We’re naming him Thom. With an
‘h’.”
“It’s a good name, man. I’m happy for
you.” He leans into me, and is now
wearing a smile that’s more pride and
joy than anything else. “We just found
out. Penny’s pregnant, too.”
“No shit,” I say, clapping him on the
shoulder. “That’s fantastic. Were you
trying?”
He shakes his head. “But we’re going
to roll with it.”
“Get a chance to fall in love all over

again,” I murmur.
“I don’t know why they call you
Creature,” Pierce says. “You’re all
sentiment.”
We shake hands, I leave.
I went to Pierce’s gym to ask for a job
to work with the kids, figured he’d do a
fighter a favor. Just as well he was
looking to hire, anyway.
Dee will be pleased.
I climb into my car, receive a text, and
pull out my phone. The bank transfer
went through. The several million I had
earned with literal blood and sweat are
now in Australia. Going to have to find
someone to help me invest that, look into

getting a bigger place.
The clock in the dash reads half-past
three, which means I’ve got thirty
minutes to get across town.
Plenty of time for just one more thing.

Epilogue Two

All the kids have been picked up, and
together with the other staff I check all
the rooms, tidy up, make sure nothing has
been left behind.
“Caro— sorry, Deidre, go home.”
I look at the headmaster of the school,
an older man with white hair and thick
glasses and the sort of kind smile you
only ever see in movies.
“It’s fine, Jack.”
“I keep calling you Caroline.”
“You’ll get used to my real name,” I
say, winking at him.
“But, really now, go home,” he says.

“I’ll stay to tidy up. Your belly is getting
bigger than mine!” He rubs his beer
belly, looks at it forlornly. “Except mine
won’t ever go away.”
I smile. “You know, they say losing
the pregnancy weight is pretty tough as
well.”
“You’re young, you’ll manage. Go on,
see you on Monday.”
“Thanks, Jack,” I say, climbing up
from my knees slowly, my hand
instinctively going to my belly. I’m
nearly at six months, and due to start
maternity leave fairly soon.
“And thanks again,” I say. “For giving
me a contract.”

“I’ve seen you with the kids. You’re a
natural. We’ll get you some more
specific training after things settle down.
But I think it’s good for the school to
have a young, American teacher,
anyway. To be exposed to different
cultural elements at a young age.”
“You really think so?”
He shrugs. “I try to hire not just
Australian teachers, in case you hadn’t
noticed.”
“I had.”
“I think it’s good for them. Attitudes
towards people that are different from us
is something I believe kids pick up at a
young age, and it just gets progressively
harder to correct. The kids here at the

school will have a head-start, in that
regard, even if it’s an unconscious one.”
“I hadn’t considered that before,” I
tell him. “I was going to do a module on
diversity education and exposure for
children… back at college before I was
forced to leave.”
“Well, if you’re ever interested, I’m
subscribed to all the journals. I could
talk your head off.”
“Thanks,” I tell him.
“How will everything be, if I might
ask? To take care of the baby?”
I sigh. “To be honest with you, Jack, I
haven’t even begun thinking that far
ahead.
After
everything
that’s

happened…”
“It’s okay, Deidre. I didn’t mean to
pry.”
“When I figure it out, I’ll let you
know?”
“No worries,” he says. He nods at me,
shuffles his feet for a moment, then
continues down the hallway outside.
I gather my things, say bye to
everybody, receive no less than four
rubs of my belly, and then go outside. It’s
warm, the sun is shining, and I soak it all
up in my black sweater, feeling a little
like a cat.
With a hand over my eyes, I look
around for the car, see it parked a small

ways up, and start walking. Duncan’s
leaning against it, reading a book.
A book.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen him read a
book.
“Hey,” I call, smiling. He snaps the
book shut, comes to me, holds me and
kisses me.
“I missed you.”
“Yeah right,” I say. “I saw you eight
hours ago. What are you reading?”
He opens the door for me, and I climb
into the car, and then he hands me the
book.
The Happiest Baby on the Block.

I turn around, look in the back seat,
and see piles of books on parenting, on
what it’s like being pregnant, on giving
birth.
He gets into the car beside me, and I
say to him, “Someone went on a
shopping spree today.”
“Well, we’re getting closer,” he says.
“Things have calmed down now. I’ve
got some catching up to do.”
“I’ve got some books at home,
Duncan.”
“I know,” he says. “I’ve read them
all.”
For some reason, that makes me laugh.
“What, were you reading in secret?”

“Just while you were at work.”
“I don’t think it’s going to be that
complicated. I mean, we’ll manage.”
“I want to give our son everything I
never had, Dee. Everything you never
had. I grew up without parents. How can
I possibly know how to be one? Now is
the time to learn whatever I can.”
“You’re over-thinking it,” I tell him.
“Nobody knows how to be a parent the
first time. People manage by following
their hearts. Parenting is instinct, you
can’t just read a book and then follow
some sort of blueprint.”
“I know it’s not a blueprint, Dee. I’m
not treating this like fighting training.”

“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure. But in my mind, overthinking it is probably better than underthinking it. At least I’ve read about other
people’s experiences. I mean, Dee, I
never had parents. I was never once told
off by my mother, never kissed goodnight
by someone I cared for, never been
shouted at by someone I didn’t want to
let down. I never had a father to look up
to, to learn from. I never felt a soft touch
when I was upset. These are experiences
people draw on when they become
parents, and it influences how they
behave to their children.”
I suppose I can’t really disagree with
that.

“It’s not just the baby stuff, changing
diapers and all that. I’m worried about
discipline, communication, all that stuff.
How to form a bond.” He shakes his
head, and his voice trails off.
I pat his arm. “It’s fine, I was only
teasing you. Read everything you want
to.”
“Fuck if it hasn’t just made things
more confusing, though, I’ll fucking tell
you. Competing theories, contradictory
advice. Fuck me…”
“I can tell you one thing for sure.”
“What?”
“You’ll need to start swearing less.”
He laughs, but agrees with me, then

pulls us out into the lazy afternoon
traffic.
“The money came through.”
“Good,” I say. “That’s one less thing
to worry about now.”
“I figure we should find someone to
invest it. Someone we can trust.”
“I’ll speak to my colleagues at work,”
I say. “You can talk to Pierce about it?
Surely he’s had to have someone moneywise around him to start that gym.”
“I went to see Pierce today, actually,”
he tells me. “He offered me a job
working with the boys.”
“What did you say?”
Duncan looks at me briefly. “I said

yes.”
I smile. “That’s really great. I’m
happy for you. What will the hours be
like?”
“Mostly after school to early evening.
You know, that’s the time to keep them
occupied so they don’t get up to things.
A lot of them are latchkey kids, and
some of them live in homes.”
“That’s perfect,” I say. “It means
you’re free when I’m at work. To take
care of Thom.”
“Means I’ll see you less.”
“Like I said, we’ll manage.”
We drive in silence for a while. I
consider everything he’s said. The

money coming in is great, we’re going to
need it. It’s a lot, something I’m happy
for if only because it provides stability
for the future as long as we use it right.
I was surprised to find out how much
he had saved up from all those fights. It
had simply never occurred to me that it
was sitting in a bank account all this
time, collecting practically no interest,
or at best, something equivalent to a fine
layer of dust.
“Do you want to work for Pierce?” I
ask.
Duncan chews his lip for a moment.
“Yeah. You know, I think, if there was a
place like that I could have gone. One
that wasn’t overloaded, one that wasn’t

so lacking in funding… things would
have been different.”
“We might not have met.”
He shoots a look at me. “Nah, we still
would have met.”
“Why do you say that?”
“It’s what I choose to believe.”
“What, like destiny?”
“Do you believe in fate?”
I shake my head. “No.”
“Me neither,” he says.
“So how can you choose to believe
it?”
“The alternative is worse.”

“Isn’t that like sticking your head in
the sand?”
“Yeah, but doing so about some fake
alternate reality doesn’t bother me so
much.”
“Well, as long as working at the gym
is something you want to do, Duncan,
then I’m all for it. You’ll need to keep
yourself occupied, anyway.”
“I agree. There’s something else.”
“What?”
He pauses for a moment.
“Just say it,” I say.
“I got a call from the district attorney
back home. He wanted to know if you’d
changed your mind on testifying. He said

if you don’t want to, he won’t pursue it,
but he’s eager to get everything he can on
Glass.”
I shake my head. Damn it, why does
the DA keep bothering me with this? “I
already said ‘no’,” I tell Duncan. “And I
meant it. I still mean it. What’s his name,
Windhorst? Windham?”
“The second one.”
“I don’t see why he doesn’t just leave
it alone.”
“He could get a court summons.”
“How does
internationally?”

that

even

work

Duncan shrugs. “Something to look
up, I guess.”

“Well, anyway, I’m not testifying
against my father.”
“After all he did to you?”
“He’s my father, Duncan. I… you
know I can’t. That whole business with
the gun… I’ve done as much as I can
already. I don’t want to be there in court
to put the final nail in his coffin. It’s not
about him… it’s about me. I don’t want
to do it.”
“That’s fine, Dee. You know I’ll
support any decision you make.”
“They’ve got enough on him to put
him away until he dies of old age,
anyway. They don’t need my testimony.
I’m not going to add needless years to
his sentence. Anyway, speaking of Dad, I

got a letter from his lawyer.”
“Yeah? When?”
“This morning.”
“I thought they weren’t supposed to be
in contact with you.”
“It’s not related to the trial.”
“What did it say?”
“Dad wants me to come and visit him
some time. I mean, in prison. He knows
he’s not going to get out of this, and I’m
sure none of the other families are
willing to lend a hand. They all hated
him. Dad rubbed people like that.”
“Are you going to?”
I sigh, shrug. “I don’t know. Not yet,

anyway. I won’t ever forgive him, but
he’s going to be an old man alone in
prison, with enemies on the inside. With
all his henchmen giving him up for their
own deals… snakes, all of them. But
he’s going to need somebody.”
“If you ever go, I’ll come with you,”
he says. “If you want me there, I’ll be
there.”
“Thanks. Honestly, I don’t think it’s
going to come to that.”
“But you considered it.”
“Of course. He’s my dad. Let’s change
the subject. How was Pierce?”
“Penelope and him are going to have a
baby.”

I scrunch up my face. “What, really?”
“Yeah, he told me today. They just
found out.”
“Huh. We can be new mothers
together.”
“She’ll probably look to you for
advice, since you’ve got a head start.”
“Fair enough,” I murmur, and put my
hand on Duncan’s thigh. We don’t talk
much more on the way home, and I just
watch the world go by outside the car.
It’s oddly calm, and I’d be lying if a
small part of me didn’t almost… almost
miss the thrill. My whole life, I’ve been
a mob boss’ daughter. I’ve had a
bodyguard shadow me, I’ve had people

cower when they found out who I was.
I ran away, lived life for several
months constantly looking over my
shoulder. It was draining, tiring,
consumed every last ounce of strength I
had.
And we almost lost it all… Duncan
almost died. I came so close to certainly
having my baby taken from me.
It’s crazy, now, that everything is so
still. I feel like there needs to be some
wind, some rustle.
The therapist tells me that’s normal,
that there’s an adjustment period. I was
glad when Duncan said he’d absolutely
go with me to therapy. I almost expected
him to scoff at the idea, or act all macho

about it, but he was receptive at once.
When I asked him why, he said it’s
because he trusted me. If I thought it was
a good idea, then he did, too.
I’m glad because there are a lot of
things that have happened, and it’s
affected us in ways we don’t realize. I
don’t want to be carrying around any
emotional baggage… for the baby. I need
to get it all out, get it all sorted out in my
mind, and he does as well, before we
start raising a child.
Duncan was never great at examining
his own emotions. I don’t blame him,
he’s had to keep them locked up tight for
most of his life.
But now is the time to figure all of that

out. We need to put everything behind us,
and look only onward. We can’t be
distracted by the past when the future
weighs on us heavily.
We’ve got a kid to raise, and we’ve
got to raise him right. We’ve got to give
him a good life, but not spoil him. He’s
got to be our total focus. One-hundred
percent.
How could we do that if we were still
battling our own issues? I know it’s not
impossible, but we don’t need a
handicap. I personally feel it’s vital for
the health of our family.
The therapist says we’ll need to stay
in therapy together for at least a year,
and likely more. She says that it’s

important we work through it together.
She says, in Duncan’s particular case,
that he needs to let me know if he still
feels anything residual… about me
running away like that.
It’s a process, the therapist says, but a
good and necessary one.
When we get home, Duncan pampers
me. It’s sweet, and makes me laugh,
because the baby, the prospect of family
has changed him so much.
Truth be told, if you took me back in
time to when he walked through our front
door, didn’t take his eyes off me, told me
he was going to be the best fighter ever,
kissed me in the gym room, then talked
back to Dad… I would have never

thought he could be tamed, least of all by
me.
We are both still so young, and yet it
feels like we’ve lived a lifetime. I’ve
seen things in my youth that people don’t
ever see in their lives, and for him it’s
the same.
He brings me a hot cup of lemon
water, my book, and a blanket. I lie on
the sofa, read for a while in the
afternoon. He’s said he’ll cook dinner
tonight; he’s going to try making
homemade sushi. No raw fish, just
cucumber, egg, teriyaki chicken, and
smoked salmon sushi.
Not only is it not exactly authentic, but
it’s going to be disastrous… I’m fairly

certain of that. He’s still working on his
cooking skills – all he knows how to do
is brown rice, broccoli, and chicken. But
even I tried it once myself, and it didn’t
taste like the real thing at all.
And after dinner, we watch television
together. It’s something so banal, so
domestic, and yet it is something that
makes me surprisingly happy. And when
the episode of Game of Thrones
finishes, we turn the television off, and
Duncan still kisses me like he used to.
He tells me how gorgeous I am, and with
soft dabs of his lips on my neck and
shoulder, he makes me shiver and hum,
and then he climbs under the blanket and
he makes me shudder and moan.
We go to bed together, and we make

love, and then he holds me tight, and I
know that he’s never going to let me go.
It’s like this every night. I’ve never felt
so secure, and yet that is not enough to
stop me from sometimes second guessing
myself.
Did I do the right thing, running away,
taking the baby, keeping it a secret? If I
hadn’t have done that, then Duncan might
not be here with me now. Dad would
have had him killed.
Before bed my mind kicks into
overdrive, like it does most nights now,
and I consider how at one point, not so
long ago, I thought that I’d have to live
out the rest of my life on my own. That
I’d have to be a single mother, and that
I’d have nobody to turn to.

That I’d have to be endlessly strong,
that I wouldn’t have somebody to rely
on, to let my guard down around, to
protect me and my child in the warm
embrace of his arms when I wasn’t
feeling up to it, when I wanted a break.
When I couldn’t be that iron woman,
forged in fire, that somehow I feel I’m
expected to be.
Duncan falls asleep first, unburdened
at night in the same way that I am. He’s
so well-trained to sleep as soon as he
shuts his eyes, from all the naps he used
to take throughout the day after heavy
training sessions so that his body could
recuperate. I sometimes envy him.
But his slow breathing, his arm

around me, and knowing that he’ll be
there for me, really knowing… I
couldn’t ask for anything more, I guess.
It all sort of worked out. We saved
our baby, saved our relationship. We’ve
got money, lots of it, and we’ve got jobs.
Duncan’s not fighting anymore, and
Dad’s not in the picture anymore.
It’s crazy, insane, really. It could have
so easily not worked out.
But it did work out in the end.
Duncan rolls over, half-asleep, and
murmurs, “Stop thinking so much.”
“Go to sleep,” I tell him softly.
“Don’t worry,” he says. “Things are
only going to get better.”

“I know,” I tell him.
He wraps a leg around me, as if
somehow trying to make even more of
me his. “I love you more than anything,
Dee. I think we’re going to be fine.”
And like that he falls asleep again,
and when he sleeps his body is perfectly
still.
I slip my fingers in between his, force
myself to stop thinking, to shut my eyes.
I think we’re going to be fine, too.

Thank you for reading Untamed.
**Coming up is the included bonus
book Uncaged, which tells the story of
Pierce and Penelope, who we have met
briefly. To read Uncaged, flick to the
next page!**

Uncaged
A Bad Boy Stepbrother Romance
By
Emilia Kincade

***

Join my newsletter for updates on new
releases, and advanced review copy
opportunities!
Get in touch with me:

Email:
[email protected]
Facebook:
http://www.facebook.com/ekwrites
Follow me on Amazon!
Sign up for my newsletter: Click Here

All rights reserved. This book or any
portion thereof may not be reproduced
or used in any manner whatsoever
without the express written permission
of the author or publisher except for the

use of brief quotations in critical articles
or reviews.
***
This is a work of fiction. Names, places,
businesses, characters and incidents are
either the product of the author's
imagination or are used in a fictitious
manner. Any resemblance to actual
persons living or dead, actual events or
locales is purely coincidental. All
characters depicted in this work are
adults.
***

This ebook is licensed for your personal
enjoyment only. This ebook may not be
re-sold or given away to other people. If
you would like to share this book with
another person, please purchase an
additional copy for each person. If
you're reading this book and did not
purchase it, or it was not purchased for
your use only, then please purchase your
own copy. Thank you for respecting the
hard work of this author.

Table of Contents:
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty One
Chapter Twenty Two
Chapter Twenty Three
Chapter Twenty Four
Chapter Twenty Five
Chapter Twenty Six
Chapter Twenty Seven
Chapter Twenty Eight

Chapter Twenty Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty One
Chapter Thirty Two
Chapter Thirty Three
Chapter Thirty Four
Chapter Thirty Five
Chapter Thirty Six
Chapter Thirty Seven

Chapter One

He’s talking about his dick. Again.
What can I say? I’m not even a little
bit surprised.
“What is it?” I ask, tattoo machine in
my hand. I’m going over the shadowing
of a fluffy white rabbit tattoo on my
client’s arm, but already he’s screwing
up my concentration.
“I want a Prince Albert.”
I lift the compact needle off her skin,
watch as her reddened flesh depresses
slowly. I don’t bother looking up at him.
I know the expression he’s got on his
face without needing to see it. A cocky
smirk, as though he thinks he’s so funny,

so clever.
He’s already got me completely
annoyed.
A Prince Albert? Is he serious? He
can’t just come to my place of work and
mess with me like this. But it’s not the
first time he’s done it, and I’m certain it
won’t be the last.
I push my lips together. My temper
frays. “Please don’t disturb me while
I’m working.”
But he doesn’t move. He just stands
by the leather-bound reclined chair my
client is sat in. He shouldn’t even be in
the back room where we administer the
tattoos. But things like regulations,
closed doorways, heck, even mere

manners don’t stop him.
At the bottom of my vision I can see
his lower legs up to his knees. He’s
wearing jeans, but I see straight through
the dark denim.
Tribal-inspired lines coil around his
shins and calves. On his left knee he’s
got a ram’s head with huge, gnarled
horns, and on his right knee he’s got an
owl with ram’s horns. The two look
scary, unreal in a monster-in-the-dark
kind of way. The first time I saw them, I
was extremely impressed by the artistry.
The eyes on each beast look straight into
you, no matter which angle you look at
them from.
Of course, I should know about all his

tattoos. I’m his new favorite tattoo artist,
apparently.
“Sorry,” I mouth to the girl in the
chair, scrunching up my face with an
apologetic look. This is unprofessional,
and she, the client, shouldn’t have to
deal with Pierce’s uncontrollable and
childish impulses.
She says no problem with her eyes,
and then offers me a quick but confused
smile. I’m not sure if she knows what a
Prince Albert is.
“Can you do it?” Pierce asks me. In
his baritone voice I can hear just a hint
of playfulness. He’s definitely trying to
rile me up, trying to get under my skin.
And if there’s one thing he’s good at, it’s

being a splinter.
With deliberate slowness I pull my
eyes up his body. I don’t see his clothing
or his skin, but instead see his tattoos. I
know them all because I’ve worked on
them all.
I filled in the trawling tentacles of the
jellyfish on his leg, redid the outline of
the coiled serpent-slash-dragon on his
chest and stomach. I darkened some of
the fading ink on the snarling, salivating
white wolf he has on his right shoulder. I
added a line to the tally he keeps on his
wrist – his fighting wins – and I did the
fifth numeral on his fifth knuckle. I have
no idea what the numerals mean.
“No,” I say, finally meeting his eyes

with as stony a stare as I can muster. He
doesn’t blink, doesn’t shift his focus,
doesn’t grow uncomfortable in the
slightest. He looks right at me with a
sparkle of amusement. I hate that he
always seems at ease, confident,
unburdened
by
awkwardness,
embarrassment, or shame. I hate that he
still messes with me.
Truth be told, we’ve been through too
much together. I thought he had grown
up.
“I can’t, and I won’t. Please leave,” I
tell him curtly. The last thing I want to
do is make a scene in front of this client.
His eyes seem to flash, grow hot not
with anger but with... competitiveness.
It’s the only way to describe it. He thinks

everything is a competition. He thinks
every situation has winners and losers,
and God forbid he ever lose.
Pierce’s eyes are this shade of light
grey that always surprise me. Looking
into his eyes is like looking into a
shaken-up snow globe. They almost
seem to glow. Sometimes, his eyes
remind me of a wolf’s in the night. They
have a shine to them, something intense.
“You sure?” he asks. His thumb slides
beneath the waist of his jeans, and he
adjusts it, showing a flash of trimmed
pubic buzz.
I roll
percent.”

my

eyes.

“One-hundred

“You don’t want to… pierce my

dick?” He’s in full-on smug mode now,
and he has an eyebrow raised as though
he just made the witticism of the century.
“I’m not trained,” I tell him in a
matter-of-fact manner. I do my best to
sound bored. “I’m sure you can
appreciate the… dangers involved if I
were to attempt to give you a Prince
Albert.”
His lips curl to the side, a little offcenter within his granite jaw. “Amen to
that! Don’t want to damage my junk, do
you?” He pauses for a moment. “Go get
training, then.”
I wear my annoyance freely on my
face. “Go get training?”
“Yeah.”

“Just go away, Pierce. I don’t want to
see your dick.”
His full, endlessly kissable lips pull
farther to the side in what I can only
describe as the most smug and conceited
smirk ever. He’s so full of himself. Why
have I gotten myself into this mess? He’s
a walking whirlwind of trouble… it
seems to seek him out.
“You know,” he says, voice dripping
with sarcasm. “That’s not what you said
last ni—”
“No!” I bark, glancing quickly toward
my client. I pinch the bridge of my nose,
and lower my voice, steady it. My client
is stewing in the awkwardness. “We
don’t do piercings here.”

“You could do this Pierce.”
He grins, I glare.
“I only trust you to do it,” he says.
“Besides, you and I both know you
wouldn’t mind getting your fingers
wrapped ’round my junk again.”
I groan and look away. Why does he
insist on calling it his junk? It’s
disgusting.
“No, okay? I can refer you to someone
who is qualified, though.”
“I don’t want anybody else touching
my cock, Penny. Just you. You know it’s
all yours.”
The girl on the chair clears her throat.
“Maybe I’d better go into the waiting

room.”
I nod at her. “Sorry, Maya. This will
only take a minute.”
“Take your time, honey,” she says, and
she gets up. She looks Pierce up and
down. He licks his lips and flashes his
eyes at her, and I’m certain I see her
knees wobble.
I feel it in my chest: The white-hot
burn of unwanted jealousy.
Even worse? He sees it in my eyes.
“Oh, don’t worry, Pen, she’s not my
type. You are.”
“Please go away.”
“Come on, sis,”
conspiratorially.

he

whispers

“Don’t call me that. It’s Penny. And
I’m not your sister.”
“Stepsister.”
“No! Not yet I’m not.”
Pierce grins. “I read up about it on the
internet, the cock piercing, I mean. They
say there can be complications, but that
it’s unlikely.”
“There can,” I tell him. I’m leaning
back on my stool now, and clasping my
hands in front of me, elbows on my
knees, hoping I look as irritated as I feel.
“But it’s unlikely as long as you take
good care of it.”
“What happens if I don’t?”
“Infection is most likely, but a

relatively low risk. Urine cleans the cut
somewhat.”
“How big is the risk?” he asks. His
face grows serious. I can’t tell if he’s
still messing around or not. Sometimes
he’s so hard to read.
“What do you think, idiot? You’re
sticking a ten-gauge metal ring through
the skin on the base of your penis, and
passing it into your urethra. It’s not
exactly something the body is used to, so
of course there’s a risk.”
“Ah.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “With as
much as you like to talk about and use
your prick, are you sure it’s one you’re
willing to take?”

“That’s why I want you to do it. I trust
you. I know you and Tina run a clean
shop.” He grins. “Also, you know how
to handle my ju—”
“This is Tina’s shop, not mine.” I
focus on my vials of ink instead of him.
“And she doesn’t do piercings here.”
“What’s the difference? Your shop,
her shop… why not branch out? Attract a
new clientele.”
Now my patience has officially been
torn to tatters. “What is this really about,
huh? Do you really want a Prince
Albert, or are you just trying to find
some new way to annoy me? Especially
after everything that happened? You’re
going to do this to me now?”

I’m huffing, really on the verge of just
losing it, but he just laughs it off. It’s
insanely infuriating. He flops down into
the reclined chair, let’s out a sigh, and
puts his arms up, gripping onto the top
edge. It creaks beneath his weight.
His tight t-shirt strains against his
body. He’s a heavy guy; all muscle,
whipcord tight. He said he was close to
two-hundred pounds at six-two.
“You can’t just come into my place of
work and harass me like this, Pierce. I
thought we moved past this immature
posturing.”
“Hey,” he says, feigning innocence.
“I’m a client.”
“You’re not booked for today.”

“I want an unscheduled consultation.”
“On dick piercings?” I cry, slapping
my thighs with frustration. “You’re
really annoying the shit out of me, and
Tina is going to be back from lunch at
any moment. You’re going to get me in
trouble!”
Pierce levels his eyes at me, except
now they’ve gone hard. “You left this
morning without saying bye. You were
cold and distant all night last night.”
“And this is how you address that, is
it?” I ask, scowling at him. I throw the
tattoo machine down onto my equipment
tray, and fold my arms across my chest.
“You said we’d talk about it last night.
You said we’d talk about what

happened. Don’t you think we need to
talk about it?”
He raises his eyebrows, challenging
me. “It takes two to fuck, which is all
you seemed to want to do.”
I feel my temperature rising. “I told
you not to do that fight. I told you that
you were getting mixed up with the
wrong people. It was too close!”
Unbelievably, he just shrugs. He’s
silently saying whatever.
“It would be nice if you took
responsibility for once.”
“Responsibility?” he asks, eyes
narrowing. “You know why I had to do
that fight!”

“Right, of course. How could I forget?
Look at you! You’re all fucked up.” I
point at the eight stitches in the cut above
his eye. I then look down at his foot.
“They fucking shot you in the foot,
Pierce. What the hell are you even doing
walking around?”
“I’m fine.”
“Oh? Didn’t the doctor tell you to stay
off your foot?”
“Fuck the doctors.”
“What about your fractured rib? All
the bruises on your body? The black one
on your thigh?”
“It’s not like you were worried about
that last night.” He licks his lips. “While

you were screaming
scratching my back.”

my

name…

The image of his hot, sweaty body
pressed up against mine, his hips
thrusting into me, flashes through my
mind. I scowl at him.
“You’re losing me, Pierce. I’m telling
you, I’ve had it up to here. I’m ready to
walk away.”
“No you’re not,” he says, and he gets
up off the chair. It creaks and cracks
again. He’s comes to me, closes the
distance fast in just two hard strides.
I put my hands out, but he moves them
aside, turns me around, and wraps me up
from behind. He buries his nose into my
neck and inhales.

“God, you smell sexy.”
I feel a pang of self-consciousness.
The last time I showered was yesterday
morning, and we got very sweaty the
night before. If only I hadn’t overslept!
“Pierce…”
“Pen,” he says, and I don’t fail to
notice his right hand sidling ever lower
over my belly.
“Pierce,” I hiss. “Not here, not now!”
He takes my earlobe into his mouth,
gives it a nibble. Goosebumps explode
all over my body, and still his hand is
creeping ever lower.
“Why not?” he asks. “There’s
construction on the road. Traffic is bad.

Tina won’t be back for a while.”
“Tina walks,” I say, my voice barely a
whisper. “And she’ll fire me if she
catches us. This is unhygienic.”
“Well, you can be pretty dirty.”
Before I can reply, he lowers his voice,
and says: “I need to taste you.”
“Pierce.”
“Right now. I’m going to make you
come.”

Chapter Two

“No,” I say, but I find myself
wrapping my hands behind me, around
his ass. I squeeze, feeling firm, compact
muscle.
He starts to plant soft kisses on the
back of my neck. I can feel his warm
breath, smell the leftover of a mint
candy. It’s intimate, heady, and a part of
me hates myself for not stopping this
right now, right this moment.
I crane my neck to the side, let him
kiss me more, let my eyes fall shut.
“Why do you do this?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer, but just keeps
kissing me. I feel the dab of his tongue

on my shoulder, then feel the press of his
teeth.
“You smell so good,” he whispers.
“Get up on that chair.”
“We can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Pierce…”
His finger dips beneath the elastic of
my underwear. His huge hand is so
warm, it leaves my skin aching and hot.
Fingers thread through my pubic hair,
and a ball of energy, pure longing, starts
to grow in my gut.
“Really,” I say, half-heartedly trying
to pry his hand out. “Not here.” My
voice is barely a whisper.

“You want it,” he tells me. He turns
me slightly, makes me look at him. I
stare into his light, ashy eyes. They’re
determined, full of lust, full of wanting.
I go to shake my head, try to say ‘no’,
but as I part my lips he claims them in
his, and he kisses me with crushing
force. His tongue is in my mouth, and
he’s taking from me what he wants. His
finger dips into my folds, and I moan
softly at the fleeting hints of pleasure.
“You do want me,” he says as he
breaks the kiss. He presses his forehead
against my own, pulls his finger up to my
clit. It’s already a hard stub. “I can feel
it.”
I open my mouth again, let him kiss

me, let him bite my lower lip, let him
send his tongue inside to dance with my
own.
“Oh,” I breathe, turning in his arms,
wrapping my own around his neck. He
lifts me off the floor easily, pushes me
up against the wall. Photographs of
tattoos previously pinned to the
corkboard scatter onto the floor. His
arms aren’t shaking, and his hands are
groping my ass.
The press of his bulge is against my
inner thigh, and I look down his body to
see it, prominent through his jeans. I
send a hand down, cup him, feel his
hardness, rigid as steel. Longing, lust, it
blooms inside me.

No, more like it booms inside me, a
firework going off. Oh, God, I want to
pull him out, wrap my fingers around
him.
No! I can’t believe I’m letting this
happen. I can’t believe I’m unraveling
like this. At my place of work! This is so
unprofessional.
That’s when it clicks. He’s no good
for me. I’m supposed to be here trying to
make a name for myself, trying to start
my career as an artist, and I’m being
derailed by him. He’s already gotten me
into enough trouble!
Jesus, we both almost lost our lives!
But fuck if he isn’t sexy. Fuck if I
don’t want him, every inch of his hot-as-

hell body. Fuck if he doesn’t make me
feel like the most beautiful, most desired
girl on this planet, the way he devours
me, plays me like an instrument. He
knows my every button, and he wants to
push them all. He wants to pluck every
single string.
Somehow, he knows how to uncage
my desire. He only needs to draw me
close to him, promise me the pleasure I
know he’s good for, to pick that lock.
I hate that, to him, I’m so seemingly
easy to conquer. I hate that it seems like I
have no defenses, no walls or
barricades. He melts through them all,
sees straight through me.
Why do I always let him get what he

wants?
Pierce sets me down, spins me
around, and holds my hips and pulls
them into his own. I feel his hardness on
my ass, and his other hand goes to my
breast and squeezes hard.
In a flash he’s undoing the button to
my jeans, and he pulls down the zip
before I can stop him, and his whole
hand is inside my underwear, and I’m
throwing my head back against his
shoulder while he kisses the top of mine.
I feel his fingers slide down my sex,
and my whole body buzzes with
anticipation, a heady thrum, and I know
in my heart that I’m ready to give in, to
let him take from me every single thing

he wants… right here and right now.
He plays with my pearl, rubs it in
circles, teases me. He pulls strands of
bliss from my core. He winds up my
spring, tighter and tighter, and that ball
of energy inside me keeps expanding, a
pressure in my abdomen.
My heart races faster, my breaths
draw quicker, and our bodies writhe
together synchronously as one. He
pushes a thick finger inside me, and I
clench my jaw to stop from moaning. He
rubs my front wall, turns my legs to jelly,
and then his lips are at my ear again.
“I need you,” he tells me.
I press my ear into his lips, want him
to kiss it, want to feel the bite of his

teeth on my lobe.
He’s guiding me to the chair, the one
my client was just seated in. He pushes
me into it, I flop down into the cotton
cushioning, and hear the crackle of the
sterile wrap that gets replaced for each
customer.
My eyes go toward the doorway that
adjoins the tattooing room to the waiting
room. It’s just a curtain, a sheet of fabric
that hangs down from wooden rings set
into the frame.
“Wait,” I gargle, trying to push him off
me, but his hungry hands are having their
way with me. I realize that he’s in
control. I realize this is all about him
today.

He pulls up my tank, rolls it over my
breasts, and with one finger tugs my bra
cup to one side.
“Pierce,” I whimper, but I find myself
lifting my breasts to meet his lips. He
sucks on my nipple, gives me a small
bite, and then grins playfully up at me,
my hardened bud in between his teeth.
Anticipation… urgency… longing…
it’s all coursing through me, all egging
me on, all telling me that I have to let
him do this to me, here, now, because I
can’t possibly resist.
Because I don’t want him to stop.
“Damn it,” I hiss, and I hold his head
against me, savor the feel of his wet,
insatiable tongue ringing my nipple. I

yelp when he bites me again, and I push
him off me, finger on his forehead, and
wag it at him.
“Not so hard.”
His eyes bore into mine, and I can see
his lust for me playing out in every
feature on his face. From the way the
muscles in his jaw twitch, to the way his
eyes won’t ever leave my body. He
wants me. No, he needs me.
“You are so fuckable,” he growls,
dipping his head to smell me behind my
ear. Expecting a compliment that isn’t
crass from Pierce is like expecting
diamonds to rain from the sky.
He’s back at my jeans, and now he’s
tugging them down my legs. I know I

shouldn’t be doing this, but I help him by
wiggling out of them. Now I’m in the
seat, just in my underwear. All thoughts
of modesty evaporate when I see the
look in his eyes.
He settles in between my legs, tugs my
underwear to one side, and before I can
protest he drapes his hot, wet tongue
over my sex.
I jolt in the seat, already so sensitive,
and then he’s licking me wildly, like
some kind of starving dog. All I can see
is his head bobbing slightly in between
my legs.
I throw my head back, clamp my
mouth shut. Making a sound is something
I just don’t dare to do. My client is right

outside. She could walk in at any minute.
Not to mention my boss…
“Jesus,” I mewl softly. He’s settled
into a rhythm on my clit, flicking it left
and right with his tongue. He’s going fast
and hard, trying to make me peak, trying
to bring me racing toward oblivion.
And I’ve no doubt he can do it in
under a minute.
He’s holding onto my thighs, gripping
them hard. I can see his fingers digging
into my flesh as he feasts on me, as he
plucks strings of pleasure deep within
my core.
I’m panting, heaving, and I’m mentally
begging him to bring me there, faster,

sooner, harder.
Pierce puts a finger at my entrance,
rings it slowly, teases me while he laps
at my pearl. I pull at my nipples, and my
eyes are shut tight. I lift my hips to meet
him, press my sex into his face, grind
myself into him. The sounds of him
pleasuring me are all I can hear.
He pushes his finger inside me, rubs
my front wall, right there, right at the
spot. I’m drowning in bliss, waiting for
him to take me there.
I’m climbing, ever higher, getting
closer to the edge, waiting for him to
heave me off.
I’m waiting to soar.

“Yes,” I whisper, holding his head
against me, pushing myself harder into
his mouth. His deft tongue works me so
expertly. He pushes in another finger,
draws a quiet but extended moan from
my throat.
“You taste so good,” he groans. The
vibrations of his voice thrum through me.
“I could eat your pussy forever.”
“Make me come,” I beg. I’m so close.
The ball of pressure in my belly is so
big. I feel like I’m going to explode.
It grows and grows, gets tighter,
tauter.
“Oh, shit,” I gasp. “Oh, yes… oh,
yes!”

I’m nearly there. So, so close.
But then he backs me off!
“What?” I say a little too loudly,
exasperated, panting. My face is flushed,
and my eyes are wide, accusing. Why
did he do that? Don’t tell me he came
here just to tease me!
He grins at me, pulls his two fingers
from me and sucks on them. “You taste
good, Pen.” He walks around to the side
of the chair. His bulge is visible through
his jeans.
“Unzip me,” he commands. I reach out
my hands, but he stops me with two
fingers on my head. “With your teeth.”
There’s a pause, just the space

between two heartbeats. But then my
teeth are around the metal zip, and I’m
pulling it down. His hands weave
through my hair, and when I’ve unzipped
him, he tips my head up so I meet his
eyes.
“Together,” he tells me.
I gulp and nod. He pulls out his cock
from his boxer briefs. Even though
we’ve been together before, I’m still
surprised by how big he is.
He guides me to his manhood, and I
take it into my mouth. Still gripping onto
my hair, he pushes himself into me, and I
struggle for a moment to open my throat
for him.
That’s when I feel his fingers on my

folds again. They dip inside me, and he
uses his thumb to rub my clit.
He begins to finger me hard and fast,
rub my pearl in just the perfect way. I’m
instantly overwhelmed, thrust back onto
the runway, pushed back toward the
precipice.
I can’t concentrate on his cock, can’t
focus on pleasing him. I notice his hand
go to his shaft, and he begins to pump
himself, jerking off into my mouth.
“Come for me, Pen,” he growls,
leaning over and taking the top of my ear
in between his teeth.
He’s got me right there, so close
again. I feel the pressure. I let my eyes
flutter shut, focus on his fingers, squeeze

around them. I’m so, so, so fucking
close…
It explodes, white-hot, blinding. I
groan loudly onto his cock, feel my body
thrown off the edge. I come hard. It’s
intense, so intense, and he drives me
through it, keeps it going, doesn’t let up
with his dancing fingers.
Pleasure overwhelms me, and I clench
tight around him, cresting so hard. My
body is a rigid snapshot of ecstasy.
“Fuck,” he says hoarsely. I feel his
body stiffen, see him get to his toes, and
then he’s emptying himself into my
mouth, firing his hot seed into me over
and over again. I only barely manage to
swallow it all.

“Damn, Pen,” he says, winding down.
“You are good.”
I’ve become too sensitive, and I jolt
as he pulls his fingers from me. He
examines them, and I see my pleasure on
them. He sucks off each finger, pulls his
cock from my mouth, and then his hand is
cupping my chin.
Pierce guides my face up to his, and
he kisses me hard, pushing his tongue
into my mouth. I can smell and taste
myself mixed with the smell and taste of
him.
It’s… gross and sexy at the same time.
He breaks the kiss, pulls away, and
tucks himself back into his trousers with
some difficulty. He brings me a box of

sanitized wipes from the counter, and
watches, lips at a slight curl, while I
wipe my mouth and chin.
“Damn it, Pierce,” I say after a
moment, breathing hard. “We could have
been caught.” But I feel so good, so
relaxed. I needed that.
I quickly yank my jeans back up my
legs, and get out of the chair. My tank top
is sticking to my back. I notice that
Pierce’s neck is shining.
He always looks so good when he
sweats.
I sigh, and shake my head. “You really
should go.”
But he doesn’t. He smirks at me and

asks, “So, will you pierce my cock?”

Chapter Three

If a pin dropped, we’d hear it.
I push off him, flustered and
frustrated, and quickly zip up my jeans
and do up the button.
“Go!” I say with venom, pointing
toward the curtained doorway. “Leave.
God, do you ever stop messing around?”
“I’ll pick you up after work,” he says.
He grabs his crotch and adjusts it to
exaggerated effect, and I can only look
away, shake my head.
“No you won’t.”
“We can talk more about my cock
piercing then.”

“I’ll cut it off,” I say. I make a pair of
scissors out of my index and middle
finger.
He winces. “Ouch. See you at six.”
Before I can reply, he’s left the curtain
flapping in his wake, his finger in his
mouth, and a cocky swagger in his step.
I part the curtain, and catch him wink
at Maya in the waiting room. I clench my
jaw.
When comes into the back, sidling
past me, she stops, seems to sniff the air.
Dread fills me. Can she… smell it?
“I like his cologne,” she tells me a
moment later.
“Mm,” I sound, turning around and

taking a moment to collect myself.
“Not too strong.”
“Yeah.”
“Smells expensive.”
“Sure.”
“I’ve smelled it before. I think it’s—”
I cut her off. “You ready?”
Maya looks stung. I’m being too short
with her, and it’s unfair. She has no idea,
and she’s also my client. Wrong. She’s
Tina’s client, and damned if I’m going to
lose her because I couldn’t put on a
better bedside manner.
“Sorry,” I say.
Maya sits in the chair slowly,

lowering herself onto the crinkling wrap.
I wipe a hand across my sticky forehead,
wonder if she can feel how warm the
chair still is.
“Are you okay, Penelope?”
“Yes,” I say, tucking hair behind my
ears and taking a deep breath. I touch my
cheeks with the backs of my hands.
They’re boiling. I’m sure Maya will
notice.
“Trouble?”
“You could call it that.”
“Is he a client?”
I sigh, and give her a polite smile.
“Yes. Hold out your arm again, please.”
I pick up the tattoo machine, but my

fingers are still trembling a little, so I
put it down and shake them a bit. I’ve
still got Pierce’s taste in my mouth, and
so I go to the sink and run myself a glass
of water.
“What’s a Prince Albert?”
I almost spit the water out, but play it
off like a cough.
“You don’t know?”
“Well, from what I gather, it’s a
piercing on a, uh, man’s…?”
“Yup. It’s a piercing on the underside
of the penis, beneath the glans, and into
the urethra. The ring is pushed through
one of the thinnest membranes on a
male’s body, into the urethral passage,

and actually comes out of the urethral
opening. It’s relatively simple as far as
male genital piercings go, and is one of
the most popular.”
I recite it off the top of my head. It’s a
way to distract myself, and hopefully
Maya. I know a lot about body art and
piercings.
She scrunches up her face. “That’s
kind of disgusting. Doesn’t that hurt?”
“Typically people say it hurts more
than an ear piercing and less than a
nipple piercing,” I tell her. “Some guys
say it doesn’t hurt at all, but I don’t
believe that. Four-to-six weeks healing
time.”
“Why do they do it?”

I shrug, and then sit down on my stool
next to her. “It’s not like I have a penis.
People report they have heightened
sexual pleasure. Some say they like the
sensation when they urinate. Some
women say that, in certain positions, the
piercing can actually enhance sex for
them.”
“Really?” she asks. “Huh. I wonder
what positions?”
“Use your imagination,” I deadpan.
“Why does that guy want one?
Doesn’t he know you don’t do piercings
here?”
I laugh. “Oh God, to tell you the truth,
I don’t know. I don’t think he even
knows why he wants one, or if he truly

does, or if he’s just winding me up.”
“He’s hot, though.”
I push my lips together, stare daggers
into her arm. I try not to squeeze it too
tightly. “Yeah, he is.”
“Great body.”
“Yeah,” I say, contemplating pushing
the needle into her arm a little deeper
than I should.
“Who is he, anyway? Your ex or
something?”
I shake my head slowly. “No, not my
ex. He’s Pierce Fletcher.”
“Pierce Fletcher,” she echoes. “I’ve
heard that somewhere before.”

“He’s an underground cage fighter.”
“Yeah, my brother talked about him.
Something like one of the best ever in
the scene.”
“That’s what they say.” My tone lacks
any semblance of enthusiasm. “He’s also
about to become my stepbrother.”
“Oh,” she says. I see it on her face. At
first, there’s polite acknowledgement,
and then confusion: Weren’t they just
talking about his cock?
“And,” I say, sighing, drawing out the
word. “We’re sleeping together.”
She covers her mouth.
Silence swallows us.

Chapter Four

One month earlier...

“I’m moving to Melbourne.”
It is a statement of fact.
My father looks up from his paper,
and his cornflake-filled spoon hovers in
between the bowl and his mouth. His
sea-green eyes narrow and his crow’s
feet deepen.
“Are you telling me or asking me?”
I flash him a quick smile. “We’ve
talked about it before, and I’ve made up
my mind. I’m moving to Melbourne, and
I’m going to apprentice for Tina Azume.
She’s already granted me an interview.”

Dad gives me a slow blink. Out of
nowhere, he looks like he’s aged ten
years. “Oh.”
“Rose lives out there and she’s got a
spare room and says that I can move in
with her. Tina Azume is my favorite
artist and one of the best on the planet.” I
offer a small shrug. “It’s what I want to
do.”
“You’re serious about becoming a
tattooist?”
I hold my breath, wait for that hint of
passive-aggressive judgment to rear its
ugly head, but it doesn’t, so I nod at him.
I should give him some credit this time.
“Yeah, Dad. I really am. And actually,
we prefer to be called tattoo artists.”

“We?” he asks.
“I’m going to become one, Dad, and
I’m going to be good. And I’ll be honest,
nothing you say will stop me from
chasing this.”
His bushy brows bunch, and he looks
hurt for a moment. “I can see you’re on
the offensive.”
I lick my lips. I won’t lie, I’m
nervous. Butterflies are raging in my
stomach, and I’m desperately hoping he
doesn’t say no. I want to go with his
blessing. I don’t want to disappoint him.
“You’re confident you can do this,
Penelope?”
“You’ve seen how well I can draw.

I’m going to be good, Dad. I really am. I
have a good hand, and a better eye.”
“I know you do. I’ve seen your
drawings. You’ve got great perspective
and lines.”
I feel a blush in my cheeks. “Thanks.
That means a lot coming from an
architect. And from you, Dad.”
“But, Penelope, body art, really?”
“Do you have any idea how hard it is
to draw well on skin?”
“I can’t say I do,” he admits.
“It’d be really great if I could get my
father’s support on this.”
He sighs. “You know, you get that
manipulative streak from your mother.”

“I’m not being manipulative. I’m just
being honest.”
“Your mother was appalled to find out
you got another tattoo.” He gestures at
my wrist. I have a silhouette of the
Chicago city skyline there. I did it
myself with my left hand. I am a little
ambidextrous, and so I’ve been training
it.
“Well, frankly, I don’t really give a
shit what Mom thinks,” I tell him. She
burnt her bridges with me long ago. It’s
just me and Dad now.
He grows cross in an instant. His tone
is deep and disapproving. “Penelope.”
“What, Dad? Come on, we don’t get
along. Heck, even you couldn’t bear to

be with her. And after what she did to
you? I can’t—”
“She’s still your mother, and I don’t
want you using that language at the
table.”
“Yeah, well I chose you. And sorry
for swearing.”
He can’t help but smile. “You know, I
always thought it was fathers and sons
that had troubled relationships. Not
mothers and daughters.”
“Shows how much you know.”
“Evelyn and her daughter have a good
relationship.”
“Not everybody is the same, Dad.
Besides, did Evelyn break her

daughter’s father’s heart?”
He frowns. “You shouldn’t hold on to
that, darling. It’s not healthy. I’m past it,
and I don’t blame your mother, either.”
“Any time you cheat, you deserve to
be blamed.”
“It’s not always that simple.”
I fold my arms. “I know, I know, you
grow distant, the passion fades,
whatever. You still don’t do it. You
either sit down and talk like responsible
adults, or you break it off. It may be
black and white, but that’s how I see it.”
He sucks on his upper lip for a
moment. “Just, consider not throwing
away your relationship with your

mother, okay? You’ll regret it when
you’re older.”
“Fine,” I say. “I’ll consider it. So,
will you give me your blessing? To go to
Melbourne?”
He sighs. “I guess it’s not like I can
stop you, huh? You always did do your
own thing.”
“No, you can’t stop me. This is my
dream, Dad. I’ve got the money grandpa
left me, and I can afford to buy the ticket.
I’ve already got my interview set up, my
appointment to get my visiting tattoo
artist apprentice license, and a meeting
set up for my visa.”
“I see that you’ve planned it all
without me.”

I frown. “Dad, you were the one who
told me to give this serious thought, and
to get the legwork done. I’ve done my
due diligence. This is not some wishywashy idea. I’m serious.”
“Forgive me for not being overly
thrilled.”
“Hey, all the other kids who just
graduated are all going to Hawaii or
Mexico to get drunk, do drugs, and have
sex. I’m going to Melbourne to start my
career. As an artist.”
“Okay, fine, I’ll concede that point,”
he says. “Penelope, I admire your
ambition, I really do. But why don’t you
try it out here first? In Chicago?”
“It’s Tina Azume, and she’s looking

for an apprentice!”
“I really don’t know who that is.”
“Only one of the most famous tattoo
artists in the world! She’s got this
amazing style, and she’s extremely
humble. She’s not super exclusive or a
snob or anything. She’s really cool, Dad.
She’s, like, a role model. I’ve got
posters of her work up in my room.”
“Those? They just look like normal
tattoos.”
“And the Mona Lisa just looks like a
normal painting.”
He pushes up his lower lip with a
finger. “Okay, but I don’t like the Mona
Lisa, anyway.”

“But you see where I’m coming from,
right? I’ve already made up my mind.”
“You’re only nineteen.”
“And that makes me an adult.”
“I’d be an irresponsible father if I just
let you waltz off for God knows how
long.”
“Would it be any different than if I
was going to Australia for college?” I
ask.
“Yes,” he says. “You’d be getting an
education. There would be responsible
adults around you. You would be in an
academic community focused on
learning, self-betterment.”
“I will still be getting an education,” I

cry, throwing my arms up, exasperated.
“I’ll apprentice and learn more about
body art and techniques. And as for your
slight on the community, tattoo artists
and people that get tattoos are just as
human as anybody else, and believe it or
not, shock horror, are for the most part
responsible adults, too. They also,
believe it or not, value learning and selfbetterment. Don’t go stereotyping them
because of your own narrowmindedness. Just because someone’s got
a full-sleeve doesn’t mean he’s a bad
person, just like how not having tattoos
doesn’t automatically make you a good
person.”
He blinks, rubs his red eyes. I notice
then that his hair seems to have grayed

more in the last week alone, and he’s
looking a little thinner.
“You’re right, Penelope. I’m being
judgmental.”
I wince. Somehow it almost hurts to
hear Dad admit that he’s wrong to me.
“You’re looking tired, Dad.”
“Things have been crazy at work. The
Dubai project of course came to a stall
once the economy flat lined, and we’re
in a legal battle to get our owed fees.”
“That sounds boring.”
“It is.”
“But you know what I’m chasing,
right? What if somebody told you that
you couldn’t be an architect?”

“My father wanted me to work at the
bakery.”
“Grandpa? Really?”
“Yeah. Said I had great hands, but
bread wasn’t my thing.”
“See, so you still went off on your
own! You chased your dream.”
“It involved seven years of
architecture school, sweetheart, in an
ultra-competitive environment.”
“And I’ll likely be apprenticing for
years as well, and it’s just as
competitive. Come on, don’t patronize
me.”
He lets out a deep, shuddering exhale,
and I know he’s relenting.

“I’m going to miss you,” he says.
I won’t lie. It hits me right in the gut.
It’s just been me and him for a few years
now, and since he works so much, we’re
like a team. He takes care of me in some
ways, I take care of him in other ways.
“Will you be okay alone?”
He laughs. “Come on, Penelope. Of
course I will. I’m only a fifty-two year
old man.”
“Really? Because I’ve seen the way
you eat when I don’t prepare dinner. It’s
unhealthy.”
He clears his throat, and sidesteps the
issue. “How long are you planning on
staying there for?”

“Oh, jeez, Dad, it’s not like I’m
leaving forever. I’ll be back! I think my
visa only gives me one year, anyway,
with the option for a second.”
“And it’ll be legal for you to work
there?”
“Yes.”
“And it’ll make you happy?”
“Yes!”
He puts the spoon down, and it clinks
against his bowl. “Fine. But I expect you
to email me at least twice a week. And
call me once a week. A proper
telephone call, not just the hi-dad-byedad bullshit that kids do these days.
Actually, I want it over Skype as well. I

want to be able to see your face.
Anyway, I need to put the new laptop to
good use. I haven’t even used it once,
you know?”
I grin. “Okay.”
“And I want the telephone number of
Rose and her mother or father or
guardian. I’ll want to have a talk with
both of them first.”
“No problem.”
“And I want you to write me out a
plan. I want you to list out exactly what
you’re going to be doing, how you’re
going to do it, and anything else that
entails. I want to know how you’ll get a
license to tattoo, where this Tina person
is. I want to know how you’ll sort out

your taxes, driving license, everything. I
want you to be on top of everything, and
I expect it by tonight when I get home
from work.”
I nod rapidly. “I can do that.” I’ve got
this broad smile on my face, and I reach
across the table and take his hand.
“Thanks, Dad.”
“You know,” he says, giving my hand
a squeeze. “I never thought my beautiful
daughter would become a tattooist.
Sorry, tattoo artist.”
“What did you think I’d be?”
“I don’t know. Graphic designer?
Something safe.”
“Try and be a little more open-

minded.”
“Wait until you get to be my age with
children of your own, and let’s see how
open-minded you’ll be then when they
ask you if they can do insane things.”
“It’s not insane.”
“Well, maybe it’s just because I’m
your father, but the idea of letting my
nineteen year-old daughter live alone in
a different country without any real
supervision sounds insane to me.”
“You can trust me. I’m not a partier.
I’m not interested in that stuff. Heck, I’ve
never even tried a cigarette.”
His expression hardens. “I should
expect not.”

“You have to trust me, Dad.”
“I do trust you. But if you disappoint
me—”
“I won’t,” I promise him. “I swear it.”
“Okay.”
“Hey!” I say after a moment of
silence. “You can use this as an
opportunity to see… what’s-her-name
more!”
“Her name is Isabelle,” he says
sternly. “Isabelle Fletcher.” Then his
face lights up. “Hang on a minute.” He
pulls out his phone, and starts going
through his messages.
“What is it?”
“Melbourne, right?”

“Yeah.”
“Well, Isabelle has a son, and he spent
his teenage years in a boarding school in
Melbourne. I think he’s still there.”
“Really?”
coincidence.”

I

ask.

“That’s

a

“Indeed. His name is, um, Pierce.”
“Oh. Like the James Bond actor?”
“Different spelling, I think. I’ve got a
photo of him somewhere. Isabelle sent it
to me.”
I watch as he manhandles his phone,
punching the on-screen buttons the way
he pecks at his keyboard.
“Ah, here we go,” he says.

He turns the phone around and shows
it to me. There’s a photograph of
Isabelle. She’s looking uptight and welldressed as usual. And standing next to
her is…
“That’s him?” I ask.
“Yeah. Why?”
I say nothing, just shake my head.
The guy is hot as hell.

Chapter Five

I’ve been invited to an illegal
underground cage fight, and it’s only my
first night in Melbourne.
Some might say I was off to a good
start.
I look at Rose, one eyebrow raised.
“You can’t be serious?”
She’s distracted, examining her nails.
“Still not dry,” she says, looking up at
me. “Yes, I’m serious.”
Rose, an old high school friend, has
picked up some of the Australian accent
since moving out here when she was
fifteen. I like her… for the most part, but
we’re quite different. Her idea of a fun

night is certainly not the same as mine.
“Could we get into trouble?”
“Babe,” she says, rolling her eyes.
“They’re not going to arrest fivehundred people.”
“Five-hundred?” I say in surprise.
“That many?”
“Oh, for sure. It’s only the biggest
fight this month.”
“Are there many fights?”
“Oh, every week. This is the biggest.”
“I don’t know,” I say, rubbing the tops
of my thighs. “To be honest, Rose, I’m
really not looking to get into trouble
while I’m here. I mean, if I get arrested,
I have to deal with the embassy, my dad

will find—”
“Jesus Christ, girl!” Rose says,
charging into the room and sitting on my
bed. She crosses her legs. “You won’t be
arrested. They’ll just tell everybody to
leave, you know? They want the
organizers and fighters, not the
watchers.”
“Is it just one fight?”
“Yeah, one fight.”
“That’s it? All these people are
turning up for one fight?”
“It’s the fight of the month. People are
betting big bucks. It’s business.”
“Okay, this is starting to sound shadier
and shadier by the minute. I think I’m

out.”
She shrugs, and gets up. “Suit
yourself. I was just asking if you wanted
to come is all, not trying to put pressure
on you.”
Rose is about to leave when I call her
name, and say, “There’s more, isn’t
there? I saw that look. There’s something
you’re not telling me.”
She grins. “How could you tell?”
“I can always tell with you.”
“Fine, fine, there is something.”
“What?” I ask, shaking my head. “I
mean, it’s just a couple of beefcake
jocks beating each other up, right?”
“Well, not just any beefcake jock.”

I blink. “Well?”
“One of them is fine,” she says,
drawing out the word.
I laugh, but shake my head. “I’ll need
more of a reason than that to go down
and risk getting arrested.”
“Okay,” Rose chirps. She turns around
again.
“Rose,” I say, sighing. “What else is
there?”
“Oh, right,” she says with a smirk,
exaggeratedly pointing a finger at me.
“You can always tell.”
“I can.”
“Well, it just so happens that you
know one of the fighters.”

“I do?” I ask. My brows knit as I think
about it, but I can’t imagine knowing any
underground fighter. “I don’t think so.”
“Well, you don’t know him know him,
but you do know him.”
I stare at Rose. Does she actually
expect me to decipher that? “Why don’t
you just tell me?”
“Pierce Fletcher.”
I’m about to say I don’t know who that
is, and then it hits me.
Fletcher.
Isabelle Fletcher.
She’s dating my dad, and it’s her son.
I flashback to the picture that dad
showed me. He is fine, that’s for sure.

“You’re not serious,” I say through a
half-laugh, half-scoff. I can’t believe it.
She’s pulling my leg.
“I am.”
“Why didn’t you tell me about him
before?”
“I wanted to surprise you.”
“Surprise me?” I ask. “I don’t even
know him.”
“Well, technically you have some sort
of relationship. After all, when you
wrote that your dad’s girlfriend had a
son out here named ‘Pearce’ – and you
got the spelling wrong—”
“Will you ever forgive me?”
Rose raises her eyebrows at me.

“Anyway, I knew it had to be him.
Maybe you can introduce me to him.”
I roll my eyes. “You’ve got a
boyfriend. And besides, how would he
even know who I am?”
“Well, you know who he is.”
“Yeah, because my dad showed me a
picture. I never actually met him!”
Rose shrugs. “Seriously, you should
come. It’s going to be fun.”
I suck on my lower lip, thinking about
it.
“There’s nothing
tonight,” she says.

on

“Will it be just us two?”

television

“Jason’s coming, too.”
Her boyfriend. That’ll cramp her style
if she gets to meet this fighter.
“He’ll drive,” she says.
“Well, okay,” I say after a moment,
grinning. “Why not, right? I’ve never
seen a fight before.”

It’s dark, it’s cold, and as far as I can
tell, we’re in some unremarkable lowermiddle-class suburb.
“We’re here,” Jason says, and he
meets my eyes in the rearview mirror.
“I thought you said this was a big
event. I don’t see anybody around.”
“No parking on premises,” Rose says.
I can hear the smacking of her lips as she
chews her bubblegum. “Since it’s illegal
and all. Five hundred cars would
definitely look out of place at midnight
on a Tuesday.”
“What is the, uh, premises?”
“Oh, just an old train depot that

doesn’t get used anymore. It looks totally
low-key on the outside, but they’ve done
it all up real nice on the inside.”
“You mean like they used to keep
trains inside?”
“The engine carriages, yeah,” Jason
says. “That’s how there’s enough indoor
space.”
“Ah.”
“We’ve got to walk there, maybe a ten
minute walk?”
We all get out of the car, and I fall into
step next to Rose. She’s holding Jason’s
hand, and seems completely amped. I
see goosebumps on her arms. She’s
wearing leather pants she’ll have to peel

off to get out of, and paired it with a
tribal print crop top.
“You look like you’ve just stepped out
of a Spice Girls music video,” I say.
“Nineties is the new retro,” she tells
me. “Spice Girls were my favorite,
anyway.” She blows a bubble and pops
it with a bite. Rose definitely knows
how to put on a show. She’s so
confident.
We round a corner, and that’s when I
see it, streetlamps glinting off train
tracks and chain-link fencing. So we
must be nearby.
There’s a scream of laughter behind
us, and I see a pack of girls. They walk
quickly by us, and we’re left in their

perfume-soaked wake. Mini-skirts,
platforms, skinny jeans, heels… they’re
all dressed as if they’re going to a club.
“I thought we were going to a fight?” I
say, looking at Rose. Suddenly I’m
feeling a little insecure. I mean, I’m
wearing loose jeans, a black Pink Floyd
pullover, and a cardigan.
“We are,” she says. “Like I said, it’s
the biggest fight. It’s going to be a huge
party.”
“You could have told me what it was
going to be like.” I fiddle with the
buttons on my cardigan. “I’m going to
stand out so bad. I thought it was going
to be like, I don’t know, in a dusty
basement or something.”

“Oh, don’t worry so much,” she says,
waving a hand at me. But she doesn’t
look at me. Her eyes are fixed on the big
building in front of us. I can see that the
windows are blacked-out, and from the
outside it looks a little like an airline
hangar. Huge, boxy, a real eyesore.
But I can hear it. The hubbub of
excited people. It’s like a vibration in
the air, a signal, and Rose is already
tuned in to it.
She speeds up, excited, and I fall
behind.
As we close in on the crowds, I
realize that I don’t really want to be here
anymore.

Chapter Six

They fucking love me.
I don’t just hear the crowd, I feel
them. Their collective voices, the
screeching and cheering, and all their
clapping, it shakes the air. I feel it on the
beads of sweat that sit on my skin, this
buzz, this vibration. I’ve just been
warming up in the back on the bike, but
now, beneath the bright lights, with the
audience chanting my name, I’m heating
up.
I throw off my robe. I don’t do any
bullshit showy poses. I don’t flex my
biceps or my lats. I don’t howl or growl
or woof or bark.
I just walk around the cage.
Tonight is fight night.

Illegal, underground, unlicensed,
whatever you want to call it. You walk
in, and you don’t win anything unless
you’re the one walking out. It’s just one
fight, and the winner takes the pot. That’s
always me.
People in the front rows have their
hands out. They want to touch me. They
want to feel the slick sweat on my skin,
the heat in my flesh, the hard muscle
packed tight on my body.
Who the fuck am I?
I’m motherfucking Pierce Fletcher,
and I’m the best underground fighter in
Australia. Probably the world, too.
“Pierce! Pierce!”

The women are screaming my name.
They’re everywhere, bikini tops and
micro-shorts, crop tops and miniskirts,
deep-Vs and backless dresses. Everyone
from everywhere is here to watch me.
They’ve got their arms up, they’re
dancing, sweating, oozing sex, with full
lips or fake lips, and full tits or fake tits.
They’re writhing and wriggling, shaking
their hips, giving me the look.
I know that look. I’ve seen it a
hundred times before. They all want me
to make them scream.
“I love you, Pierce!” someone shouts,
and I turn to her and wink. Her knees hit
each other, and she drops into her seat.
She might as well have had an orgasm.

There are six stands of people
arranged in a hexagon around each face
of the six-sided, steel-wire cage. The
wire is sharp; get thrown into it hard
enough, and it’ll slice into your flesh.
You’ll walk away with a crimson stamp.
I’ve got a ritual. Fighters have rituals.
People like to say we’re superstitious,
that athletes are superstitious, but it’s not
some
bullshit
belief
in
the
uncontrollable, or the unpredictable, or
the unknowable.
Ritual is rhythm, and rhythm is
consistency, and consistency is king.
You dance in the cage consistently.
You have to pick up and put down your
feet each time the same way. You can’t

be slower one time, and you can’t be too
fast the next. You have to know your
body, know its timing. Each move is
practiced the same way every time.
Sure, improvisation is essential, but if
you’re not consistent with the basics,
well, then you’re going to get messed up
real bad.
Especially if you’re fighting me. God
help you then.
I stare up into the stands, soak up the
adulation. I scan the faces, look for
anybody interesting. I pick out drug
dealers and mobsters and mafia crime
families. I pick out a couple of
politicians
and
high-ranking
businessmen, trying to dress down, look
inconspicuous, but the dipshits have still

got fucking
shoulders.

sweaters

over

their

I see a group of college girls and each
has a letter of my name painted on her
stomach. Only, they’ve gotten the order
wrong. ‘I’-before-‘E’… get it right, for
Christ’s sake.
But it never stops being amazing. An
adrenal experience.
I’ve got millions riding on me tonight.
All the gangs and crews are here.
Everybody is betting. Some of them
actually think this punk I’m going to fight
has a chance. They’re the fish. They’re
the idiots.
The guy I’m fighting doesn’t have any
chance at all. He’s good, but he’s not

good enough. Shit, I put down a cool
mil’ on myself without even blinking.
He’ll be lucky if he lands a hit.
I walk to the next stand, and there I
see a pretty blonde. I flash her a smirk,
and she screeches and covers her mouth,
before waving back frantically at me.
She lifts up her top, shows me her tits.
She’s got implants and nipple rings.
Whatever.
I’m about to go to the door to the cage,
I’m about to turn around, when I see this
face. The noise is silenced. I hear the
ding of a bell, and know I need to get
into the cage, but I just can’t stop looking
at her.
This girl is the most beautiful girl in

the room, and she doesn’t even know it.
It’s a thump in my chest, a pang in my
gut, an energy racing into my cock.
Oh, I want her.
And I’m fucking Pierce Fletcher.
I’ll have her.
That’s when I realize she looks…
bored. I lock my eyes on hers; they are a
dark brown like dark chocolate, but
she’s not looking at me. She’s not
watching me. She’s… pecking at her
phone!
What the hell? I think to myself.
The crowd stays quiet as I peer at her.
She’s got bushy eyebrows, and her
coffee-colored hair looks carelessly tied

back. Its shoulder-length, a little wavy,
shines in the light. Her button-nose is
slightly upturned, and she’s got full lips
above a chin that’s just a little too
strong.
This girl is striking. She’s got my
attention. She’s not caked in makeup, nor
is she showing off her tits or trying to be
sexy or anything. She’s just sitting there,
uninterested.
She’s taking my breath away.
She finally looks up, and she meets
my eyes. I know what’s coming now. At
first, she’s going to break eye-contact
because she’s nervous, because she’s
looking at me.
Motherfucking Pierce Fletcher.

And she’s going to think to herself: Oh
my God I just made eye-contact with
motherfucking Pierce Fletcher!
But then she’s going to realize that I’m
looking back at her, and she’s going to
realize she has my attention.
What can I say? I’ll be the best lay she
ever has, and she’ll know it then and
there.
She’s going to look back up at my
eyes, and she’s going to smile, do
something cute with her hair, shoot me
the look, and then I’m going to take her
home with me tonight, and I’m going to
screw her fucking brains out, make her
scream my name over and over again.
I’m going to make her claw my back, her

throat go hoarse begging for more. And
then when I leave, she’ll send me text
messages that I won’t reply to.
I never do the same chick twice, even
if she’s smokin’. What can I say? It just
gets boring. I’ve got more than enough
experience to know that.
So I wait. The fight will wait for me.
I’m the star of the show, the biggest
name, the sole reason there are fivehundred people in this place.
I wait.
She looks up.
She looks into my eyes.
Her stare is utterly blank.
I keep looking at her, and she starts to

get visibly irritated.
“What?” she says, shaking her head,
now awkward and embarrassed. It’s
cute. Her voice is lost in the rising
murmuring.
I smirk.
I really like this girl. I don’t know
why, but I’ve learned to trust my body,
my instincts, my cock. Everything is
telling me to go after her, and by the end
of the night, I’ll have her. She’ll be mine.
It’s time for a little flourish. I make a
fist with my right hand, and bring it up to
my mouth and kiss it. Then, slowly,
milking the moment while the whole
crowd is watching expectantly, I extend
my lean, muscular arm outward, and

point at her with two fingers, knucklesup.
She fiddles with her cardigan. The
crowd erupts into ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’.
I turn around, and I step into the cage.

Chapter Seven

“What the hell was that about?” I ask
nobody in particular, blinking a few
times.
Rose and her boyfriend look at me,
grinning. “He’s claimed you.”
I shake my head. “Claimed me?”
“I don’t know,” she says, biting her
lip. “He’s never done that before. He’s
definitely interested in you.”
“You’ve watched him before?”
“Yeah, heaps,” Jason says. “His fights
are always a good show.”
I laugh, incredulous. “Don’t I get a say
in any of this? How can he just claim

me? What does that even mean?”
“Oh, come on, don’t tell me you don’t
think he’s hot stuff.”
“Hey,” her boyfriend says, but Rose
ignores him.
“He’s alright,” I lie.
“You’re lying,” Rose says. “I always
know when people are lying.”
“That’s one of those things people
say,” I tell her, “That’s not true and
really annoying.”
“Fine, I know when you’re lying.
Besides, you’re blushing.”
“I am not!” I say, but I know it’s
pointless to check. She’s right. I realize
then that my ears are burning too. I look

around at all the people who came to
watch fight night, and their eyes are all
on me.
Some girl is shooting me a death
stare. Another winks at me, and blows a
kiss.
What the hell is this?
“Babe, if Pierce wants you, he’s
gonna—”
“Going to what?” I say, cutting her off.
“Going to ask me out on a date?”
She snorts. “Please.”
“It’s not like anything can happen,
anyway.”
“Why?” Jason interjects. “You on
your period?”

I glare at him.
“Oh relax,” she says, slapping my
knee.
“Nothing can happen because his
mother is dating my father.”
The small group of people around us
all fall silent, and Rose bursts out
laughing.
“What’s so funny?”
“You really think that’s going to stop
him?”
I scrunch up my face in disbelief. “It’s
going to stop me. And,” I say, realizing
that I need to recover. “It’s not like I’m
interested, anyway.”
“Yeah. Right.”

“Just shut up.”
“This is going to be interesting,” Rose
says with an ultra-annoying grin.
“Where’s the popcorn?”
We sit in silence for a while, and then
I see a young couple walking up the
steps in the stand. They enter our row,
and Rose gets up and hugs them.
“Hey Cassie, hey Chance!”
I realize the two empty seats beside
me are for them. I’m unhappy. Rose
didn’t tell me she was bringing friends.
It’s not like I came out prepared to really
socialize with anyone else but her and
her boyfriend.
I smile and introduce myself.

The guy, Chance sits beside me with
Cassie, and he pulls out his zippo and
clinks it open. “Relax,” he tells me when
he sees my expression. “I don’t smoke.
Just an old habit.”
The bell dings again, and a second
fighter steps into the cage with Pierce.
The crowd goes silent, but the air is
charged.
The man is smaller than Pierce, but
he’s stocky and obviously strong. Pierce
is leaner, with longer arms and a lighter
step.
I groan to myself. I’m really not
having a good time, and the fight hasn’t
even started yet.
The two meet in the middle of the

cage, and they tap fists. I notice they’re
not wearing gloves, but instead have
some kind of tape or wrapping around
their hands.
If they don’t wear gloves, then each
punch is going to really hurt.
The referee motions for them to step
back. Already Pierce is putting on a
show, strutting about, and the light plays
off the deep lines cut into his stunning
body. His shorts are tight, hug his ass.
He turns around, shows his back to his
opponent – who I’ve already dubbed
‘Stocky’ in my head – and looks at me.
He smirks, winks, and again a sea of
heads turn to face me, as if they’re
expecting me to… respond.

I lick my lips, nod my head slightly at
his opponent. Pierce shrugs, like he
hasn’t got a worry in the world. But
Stocky is already moving in, charging at
him.
“Turn around!” I mouth, shaking my
head at Pierce in disbelief. He’s going to
get punched in the back of the head.
At the last moment, Pierce twists on
his heels, and brings an elbow around.
Stocky ducks it, but already Pierce is on
him, aggressively closing the distance.
Beside me, I hear Chance say, “He
always was a showoff.”
Stocky is backing up quick, and
Pierce is dancing toward him. He stops
suddenly, and puts out his hands,

beckons, taunts.
It seems to have an effect. The body
language of Stocky changes, becomes
angry, and he stomps toward Pierce, fists
up, ready to block a blow.
Pierce feints a step to his left, and
throws Stocky’s weight off-center. He
then kicks out Stocky’s unbalanced foot.
Stocky goes down hard onto his back.
Pierce is on him in an instant, rolling
around, and I can’t even make out what’s
happening. But before long he’s got
Stocky’s head in the nook of his knee,
and he’s squeezing.
“Holy shit,” Rose whispers. “That
was fast.”

Stocky is on the ground, his face is
red as a beetroot, and he’s in a
chokehold. Pierce, still putting on a
show, points at the crowd, and they
erupt.
“Jesus,” I say, looking at Chance and
Cassie. She’s got her face bunched up,
and I agree with her. Watching Stocky
being choked like that is so immediate
and visceral. It’s… a little sickening.
“Pierce has him in what’s called a
submission hold,” I overhear Chance tell
her. She doesn’t reply.
Stocky’s losing strength in his body
now. He’s trying uselessly to grab Pierce
behind him, but can’t get any good hold.
Pierce twists his leg again, rolling

Stocky’s body over so that he’s face
down, neck still being held in between
Pierce’s calf and thigh.
“He’s going to kill him,” I whisper in
disbelief. “What the hell? Don’t they
stop the fight?”
But, to my surprise, Stocky twists his
body again, and lays a thunderous punch
against Pierce’s thigh. The leg instantly
goes dead, and Stocky rolls out,
wincing, holding onto his throat and
rubbing it.
Pierce gets to his feet, tests his leg,
and I can almost feel the numbness he
must be feeling, the pins and needles
from the heavy blow.
He just grins, and beckons Stocky

again.
The noise has all but died. There’s an
eerie silence, as if suddenly the audience
no longer cares for Pierce’s taunting. Or
maybe they’re shocked by the purple
bruise that’s already forming on Stocky’s
neck.
Stocky is pissed, though. That much is
for sure. He’s losing his composure, but
still Pierce keeps taunting him.
“Why does he do that?” I say. “Isn’t
there sportsmanship?”
“It’s a strategy,” Chance informs me.
“Getting into his head, getting him
uneven mentally.”
“Isn’t that cheap?”

He shrugs. “Anything to win.”
Stocky lunges, but Pierce dodges him
easily. He captures Stocky’s arm, twists
it behind his back, and then kicks out his
legs again, sending him face-first to the
floor. The sound is a deep, loud, single
thump, and I’m reminded of the time I
once dropped a bowling ball in the lane.
Pierce rolls over the body, hooks
Stocky’s neck with his leg again, and this
time grabs his own foot with his hand,
and pulls.
Stocky’s body flails for a second, then
I see the shoulders drop. He’s trying to
get out from under it, but gets stuck on
Pierce’s hip bone.
It’s only a few seconds before

Stocky’s body goes limp.
“That’s the Pace choke,” I overhear
Chance say to Cassie. “Lights-out in
seconds. No blood to the brain.”
The fight is over. Pierce gets up, and
somebody rushes to Stocky. I assume
he’s a doctor.
The crowd bursts into manic cheering
and applause, and Pierce trots about the
cage, arms up, grinning.
He’s barely even broken a sweat.

Chapter Eight

“Did you see how fast he was?” Rose
asks me. “God, he’s good.”
“I saw it,” I say as we leave the
warehouse. The entire audience is
filtering out at once, and it’s slow
progress. The hubbub of excited chatter
is thunderous. I can barely hear myself
speak.
Everybody’s talking about how fast
Pierce won. They’re saying that if this
was a scored match, Stocky would have
only received points for getting out of
the first hold with that single blow onto
his thigh.
I have to admit to myself that Pierce

was impressive. Deceptively light on his
feet despite all that muscle… it was
graceful. Incredibly athletic.
“What are we going to do now?” I ask
Rose.
“Well,” she says, grinning at me.
“Now we see if we can talk to Pierce.”
“Really?” I ask.
“Yeah. I’m going to tell him your dad
is dating his mom.”
“Damn Rose, why?”
“So we get a chance to meet him.”
“Rose, I don’t want to do this. You
can’t tell him that.”
“Why not? You’re free to leave.”

I frown. “God, you can be such a bitch
sometimes.”
“Hey, I want to meet him.”
“And what about Jason?”
“Oh, he’s not the jealous type.”
“I’m not?” Jason says, appearing from
behind us. He was supposed to be using
one of the porta-potties, but apparently
the line was too long.
“It was going to be a hazmat zone in
there once it got to my turn,” he explains,
grinning.
“Gross.”
“Anyway,” Rose says, “Now you’ll
get a chance to meet him. See what all
that pointing was about.”

“I don’t really care,” I say. “To be
honest, I might just head off early.”
“No!” she says, gripping onto my arm.
“No, stay. Come on!”
“Rose…”
“They say Pierce’s nights out are
legendary.”
“He drinks?”
She snorts. “What do you mean he
drinks?”
“Well, aren’t athletes supposed to take
care of their bodies?”
“Aren’t you adorable,” Rose says,
laughing. “Anyway, if we can’t meet
Pierce, Jason and I are going to go out
anyway. Want to join us?”

“Where are you going?”
“Oh, probably a club or two.”
I pause. “I, uh, I’ve never been to a
—”
“A club?”
“Well, no, back home you gotta be
twenty-one.”
“You never used a fake ID?”
“No!”
She waves her hand. “Don’t worry
about it, there’s nothing to it. Have a
drink, feel the music, do what you want.
Dance, sit, whatever. You only have to
be eighteen here, anyway.”
“I don’t know, Rose,” I say. I’m

starting to feel nervous now. I can’t
dance! I’m not dressed for it at all.
“Oh, come on, Pen—” Rose’s eyes
widen, and she looks past my shoulder. I
turn around, and see Pierce Fletcher
walking out of the train depot. He’s
wearing a maroon dress shirt tucked into
black slacks, and it all fits his body
almost too perfectly.
“Pierce!” she screams, waving her
hands. He’s already got a crowd of
people around him. Everybody’s trying
to get a selfie with him. Mobile phone
cameras are going off left and right.
If I didn’t know better, I’d think we
were at some red carpet event in
Hollywood.

But Pierce isn’t paying attention to
any of it. His eyes have found me, and
he’s making a beeline straight toward us.
Each of his steps is a long confident
stride. He’s got a sway to him.
If I didn’t know better, I’d swear he
was filming a commercial. The way
each camera light flashes in seeming
slow motion… it’s almost cinematic.
“Great fight, Pierce,” Rose says as he
comes toward us. He doesn’t even
acknowledge her. His eyes stay on me.
“You kicked arse tonight, mate,” Jason
says. Pierce ignores him, too.
He closes the distance between us. I
almost want to laugh. This whole scene
has been so surreal. I feel like I’m in the

commercial now.
His cologne is subtle, takes a moment
to reach my senses. On his face he’s
wearing an amused smirk, as if he’s
finding something funny.
“Hey, beautiful,” he says. Apparently
he just can’t help the grin that parts his
lips. He’s got a mix between an
American and Australian accent. It’s
weird, like nothing I’ve ever heard
before.
This time I really do laugh. “Jesus,” I
whisper, tucking hair behind my ears.
“That’s the best you could do?” I don’t
even know why I say it. What was I
expecting him to do?
“You’re joining me tonight,” he says.

“You and your friends.”
Rose grips my arm, and I can almost
hear her mentally pressuring me to
accept.
“I, uh—”
“Hey, it’s the best club in town.”
“Juice?” Rose asks.
Pierce’s eyes don’t leave mine.
“Yeah. We’ll get our own section.” His
face grows serious. It’s all hard lines
and angles. He’s a looker, but it’s better
when he smiles. “Shall we go?”
I bunch my brow together. “You can’t
be for real.”
Rose cuts in excitedly. “You know
your parents are dating, right?”

Pierce levels a curious look at me. “Is
that right? So you’re Penelope?”
“Yeah,” I say.
He only smiles. He just keeps looking
at me, as if he’s measuring me,
somehow, adding up everything he sees
of me and labeling me, categorizing me,
figuring me out.
I feel put on the spot; I feel hot, and I
feel flushed.
I’m at a loss for words. Whereas in
the cage he was all aggression and
showboating, somehow now he’s no
longer just a brute with a penchant for
violence and lifting weights. His
personality is intense. I can’t place it,
can’t describe it.

I feel off-balance. I feel like I’m in the
cage with him, and that I’ve got to hold
my own.
“Well, nice fight,” I say. “Sans the
showing off.”
Somehow – it’s subtle, but I don’t
miss it – he uses his body language to
guide me into walking with him. An arm
out, a gentle gesture, and we’re walking
down the street. Someone calls out his
name, but he ignores them. Rose and
Jason fall into step behind us. She’s
positively giddy.
“First fight, Penelope?”
“Yeah.”
“Like it?”

I shake my head. “Not really.”
“It’s not for everyone.”
Feeling on an island, I look behind
me. Rose and Jason urge me on with
their looks. Behind them are Chance and
Cassie. I guess we’re all going to the
club together.
Rose winks at me.
“I noticed you tonight,” Pierce says,
and I snap my head back around and
look up at him.
“I could tell,” I say. “The pointing
wasn’t exactly subtle.”
“It’s part of the personality.”
I shrug. Somehow, I don’t believe he
compartmentalizes his fighting from his

everyday life that much.
Our shoulders touch, and I feel this
current of electricity shoot through me,
right into my belly.
“You’re not comfortable.”
I blanch. “Sorry?”
“You’re not comfortable, are you?”
“Um, no, I guess?”
“First time to a fight, and going by the
way you’re dressed, I’d say your friend
didn’t tell you what the atmosphere was
going to be like.”
My cheeks burn. “You know, I’m not
really feeling this. I’m going to go
home.”

“Don’t,” he says. “I want you to join
me.”
“Don’t I get a say in this?”
He stops, turns and looks at me. “You
can leave any time you like.”
Again, I’m put on the spot. I hear Rose
hiss my name, only this time she’s getting
impatient.
“I get the feeling you do this after
every fight, right?” I ask.
“Go celebrating?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re right. I do always win.” He
grins.
“I meant pick out some girl you think

you’re going to get with.”
“Think?”
“Wow,” I say. “And just before you
said it was all an act.”
“That’s not what I said.” He turns
around and says to Jason, “Alright, see
you guys there. Wait for me at the front
door, or they won’t let you in.”
I do a double take, and then look
behind me, but Rose and Jason are
already crossing the street.
“Hey!” I yell. “Where are you going?”
“To the car.”
They keep going, and I turn back to
Pierce, and he’s just regarding me. I feel
like I’m on display or something. Being

tested.
Is this some kind of setup?
“I won’t bite,” he says.
“Where are we going?”
“To my car.”
“Oh.”
We round a corner, and there I see a
black sports car. It’s a Porsche.
“That’s your car?”
“Yup. 911 GT3.”
“I didn’t realize fighting paid so
well.”
“It pays well – I won twenty-five
grand tonight – but not this well.”

“So where do you get your money?”
“I bet on myself in the fights. Usually
it doesn’t amount to much, but sometimes
I’m the underdog.”
“Is that legal?”
His expression says: Are you serious?
He opens the passenger side door for
me. “It’s low,” he says.
“So?”
“Never mind,” he says casually.
“Usually they’re wearing heels.”
“Um,” I say, climbing into the car.
What the hell was that?
He’s right, the car is low. “Why did
you say that?” I ask as he climbs into the
car.

But he doesn’t reply. He buckles up,
starts the car, and I grip instinctively
onto my seat as I feel the thunderous
vibration rattle in my bum.
He pulls out of the parking space, and
the car accelerates so fast I can barely
breathe, and even though the windows
are closed, it’s so loud I can hardly hear
anything but the roar of the engine.
“Wow,” I whisper, grinning. I can feel
adrenaline coursing through my body as
he weaves us through the quiet suburb.
The seat beneath me shakes violently
beneath my bum. It’s like every crack
and crevice in the road is transplanted
straight through the car and into my ass.
“The suspension is too hard,” I say,

and he just laughs. “What?”
“There’s no switch or anything. This
is a track car.” He points up with his
finger, and for the first time, I notice the
roll cage. It was practically invisible in
the dark. Not exactly my preferred
choice for a daily driver.
“So why is it so hard?”
“Soft suspension transfers momentum
to absorb shock and centrifugal force,”
he says. “Slows you down, wasted
energy. You can’t take corners as
aggressively.”
“Oh,” I say. “But we’re not racing.”
“I like to feel the road.”
“An underground fighter and an

amateur race car driver, huh? You’re just
full of surprises.” Now it’s me who is
grinning at him, and he takes it on the
chin.
“You know me better than I know
myself, Penelope.”
“Women’s intuition,” I joke.
We laugh, and for the first time, I’m
starting to feel comfortable. No longer in
the presence of Rose’s urgent stares, and
the others’ silent observation, I feel less
awkward.
“Could you drive a bit slower?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t want to.”

“But we’re right up on the limit.”
“That’s why it’s called a limit. What’s
the problem?”
“I barely know you, and you’re
driving in a car with way too much
power. I’m a cautious person. Your
insurance must cost you loads, but I’m
guessing they don’t know you fight for a
living and then drive your own car to
clubs.”
“Relax,” he says. “I won’t be driving
back.”
“So who will drive you?”
“Nobody. The club’s in downtown
Melbourne, near Southern Cross station.
I live in a block of apartments nearby.

We’ll walk.”
Apartments in the city center? He
must really be rolling in it.
Wait a minute, what did he mean by
we’ll—
“What’s that supposed to be?” He
nods at my wrist.
“It’s a tattoo.”
“I know it’s a tattoo, Pen. What’s it
of?”
“Oh, so this is the part where you
come up with a nickname for me?”
“I didn’t exactly come up with it.
Penelope… Penny… Pen… P.”
“How

about

we

just

stick

to

Penelope?”
“What’s it of? Your tattoo? I can’t see
from here.”
“It’s Chicago’s skyline. From the
lake.”
“When did you get it done?”
“Why?”
“I want to know.”
Sighing, I tell him. “Just last month. I
didn’t get it done. I did it myself.”
“No shit,” he says. “That’s on your
right hand, and I noticed you were a
righty.”
“You notice these things, do you?”
“Got to when you’re in the cage. So,

you did it with your left hand?”
“Yeah. I’m a little ambidextrous.”
“So am I,” he says, and he smiles at
me. “That’s really impressive.”
“So is this the part where you flatter
me? Say nice things, do your little
routine?”
“I really couldn’t give a fuck about
flattering you, Pen. I’m just making
conversation.”
“Oh, just making conversation, huh?”
“Yes, trying to loosen you up.”
He looks at me, and I feel my
indignation flare up.
“Ten minutes ago you were shaking

like a wet puppy. I know I’m hot, but
there’s no need to be nervous.”
I roll my eyes. “Oh my God.”
But he just smirks.
I’m beginning to dislike him intensely.

Chapter Nine

I want Penny more and more by the
second.
The vision of her naked flashes
through my mind. I imagine her skin,
licking it, tasting her, salty and sweet.
She’s got her arms above her head. I’m
holding them there, pinning them against
the wall. She couldn’t move even if she
wanted to. Her legs are closed but I push
my knee in between them, force them
open, bring it up, make her gasp, make
her long for my kiss again, long for
every bit of me she can get.
I run my fingers through the buzz of
her pubic hair. I hear her breathing, fast
and shallow. I see her cheeks, flushed
and hot. I look into her eyes, desperate,
yearning.

She tells me she wants me to make her
come. She tells me she wants me to fuck
her until she screams. She doesn’t use
words… she doesn’t need to. I know it.
I shake myself out of my imagination.
Penny and I walk to the elevator that
will take us to Juice, one of the most
exclusive clubs in Melbourne. As the
doors slide open, and as she walks into
it with me behind her, I devour her ass
with my eyes, and catch her scent on the
air. She smells great. It’s not perfume or
deodorant – I don’t even think she’s
wearing any – it’s her.
It was hot in that warehouse, with so
many people sitting shoulder-toshoulder, and all those bright lights. No

doubt she was sweating. Being able to
smell her is turning me on.
I feel blood pumping into my cock,
and when I look in the reflective doors
of the elevator, I can see the hint of an
outline of myself through my slacks.
And I’m thinking to myself, I hope she
notices.
“God, you can feel the bass even in
here,” she says. She’s got her patched
messenger bag over one shoulder, and is
fiddling with the zip nervously.
I meet her eyes in our reflection, but
she looks away. I wish she wouldn’t,
because looking into her eyes is like
opening a channel of energy; it zaps me,
makes my heart beat fast, makes me

anticipate. Usually I can tell what I’m
anticipating, but not with her.
She’s different.
She’s not just falling into my arms.
She’s not pressing herself up against me
in the lift, grinding her hips against my
groin. She’s not biting at my lower lip or
sucking on my ear lobe or whispering
the things she wants me to do to her in
bed. She’s not breathing onto my face, or
doing her best to look seductive.
She’s just standing there, closed-off,
shoulders drooped, and unenthusiastic.
She won’t meet my eyes. She acts like
she doesn’t like me, that she doesn’t like
what she sees.
It’s clear that isn’t true.

Penelope is nervous, uncomfortable.
This is not just her first fight, but her
first club. I’d also bet money she’s never
been with a boy before.
Odd for a tattoo artist, going by the
stereotypes. But then again, she doesn’t
seem to fit any. I wonder idly what she’d
have to say on that topic.
The elevator doors open, the booming
bass greets us, and the flashing lights
strobe over us.
She’s out of her element, instantly and
impossibly more uncomfortable. She
stiffens up. She grips her bag. She picks
at the skin of her thumb with her
forefinger.
I’m a fighter. I notice people’s hands.

As she steps out of the lift, I place my
hand on the small of her back, curl my
fingers around her hip. That makes her
feel better, I can sense it, but already her
eyes are wandering to the dance floor.
The girls dancing are sexy, confident,
and know how to work their bodies.
They’re barely wearing anything at all.
Their skin shines.
Her eyes flash to the bar, and she sees
half a dozen guys doing shots; they’re
loud, boisterous, shouting ‘bro’ at each
other and pumping fists and slapping
asses. They’re barking and woofing, and
Penelope… she is wilting.
Then she turns around, and doesn’t
meet my eyes.

“I need to—”
“There’s a balcony on the thirtieth
floor of this building,” I say. “It’s
private, but I know the security guard
and he’ll let us out there.”
She looks into my eyes.
“Tell me what you’d like to drink, and
we can go up there, sit down, just you
and me. Get away from the music, the
crowd.”
After a moment’s consideration, she
nods. “Do they have any champagne?”
I grin. “Let me check.”
I walk up to the bar and order a bottle
of Verve Cliquot, and come back with
two glasses hanging from my fingers.

She presses the elevator button, the
doors slide open, and I notice a distinct
bounce in her step as we walk in.
“Hey, Pierce!”
A guy holds the doors open. It’s
somebody who thinks he’s my friend.
“Who let you in here?” I ask. I don’t
even smile.
He sidles up to me, lowers his voice.
“Up for some Charlie?”
“No,” I tell him.
“Come on, mate. I got my boys here
and they’d really like to meet you. Big
fans.”
I lean closer to him, beckon his ear.
He points it toward me. “I don’t give a

fuck,” I say. I turn around to leave, but he
grips my arm, stops me.
“Where are you going, bro?”
I look down at his hand. He lets go
instantly.
“Fucking touch me again,” I growl.
“Look man, I don’t want any trouble.”
He’s backing up now. “Just thought you
might be up for a bump or two. It’s on
me, mate. Really, I’d be honored.”
“Leave,” I tell him.
“Alright, I’m going.”
“No,” I say. “This club. Leave it.”
Now his expression changes. He’s
getting amped. “What?”

I look toward the bouncer by the lift.
The bouncer nods, and within seconds
has the guy locked up with his arms
behind him. The prick is forced out the
fire exit.
The elevator doors slide shut. I catch
Penny smiling in the reflection, and there
is an unmistakable look of relief on her
face.
“Who was that?”
“Nobody I know.”
“What, the bouncer owe you a favor
or something?”
“No,” I tell her. “I’m one of the
owners of this club. Bought in last year.”
The expression on her face is that of

slight puzzlement.
“I’m getting into business now so that
when I’m too old to fight, I’ll have
something.” I explain. “And in the
underground, you get old fast and hard.”
“Good for you.”
“You don’t approve?”
“Clubs just aren’t my thing.”
“Well, that’s why we’re leaving it.”

Pierce pops off the champagne bottle
cork, and lets the froth spill off the edge
of the balcony.
“There could be someone down there,
you know.”
“Oh, there probably is.” He peers
over. “Yup, there’s people down there.”
I go to the balcony, and look over. The
line to his club is right below us. Some
people are looking up now. They put
their palms out, checking if it’s raining.
I hold back a laugh, and say to Pierce,
“It’s like you can’t help but to be a
prick.”

“That’s called charm, Pen.”
He pours me a glass and hands it to
me.
“You drink much?” he asks.
“No. And I don’t need babying,” I tell
him, frowning. “It’s just a glass of
champagne.”
He shrugs. “So, what are you in
Melbourne for?”
“How do you know I’m in Melbourne
for anything?”
“You’re American. You’re here for a
reason.”
I lick my lips. “I’m here to do an
apprenticeship.”

“So you’re not yet a tattoo artist.”
“No, not technically. I’m here to train
to be one.”
“You like tattoos?”
“I like the art, the meaning. I like the
idea of people wearing their skin as an
expression of themselves.”
“Are you any good?”
“Yeah,” I say, grinning. I take a liberal
sip from my glass. It actually tastes far
better than I thought it would. It’s my
first time having champagne. I don’t
know the brand, but Veuve Clicquot
sounds pretty fancy.
“I think I’m pretty talented. I’m not
being stuck-up or anything, just that I

know how to analyze my own talent. I’ve
spent a lot of time studying drawing
technique and all that.”
“So, what, you opening your own
shop?”
“No, it doesn’t work like that. I’ve got
to apprentice for an established artist,
first. They need to vouch for me to get
my license. Then I can open my own
shop.”
“When do you start?”
“I’ve got an interview tomorrow,” I
say.
“Think you’ll get it?”
“I hope so.”
He grins. “What did you think of my

tattoos?”
“I didn’t notice them,” I lie.
“Bullshit. Let me tell you something.”
He gestures at me to sit in one of the
expensive-looking chairs on the balcony.
I do, and he sits after.
“Tell me what?”
“When I first step into the cage, I
instantly notice certain things.”
“Like fighting is similar to art.
Please.”
“Fighting is an art, Pen. I notice
whether he’s a lefty or a righty. I notice
which leg he puts his weight on. I notice
if he’s strong in the thighs, or strong in
the calves.”

“How can you even tell that?”
“The way he stands. Is he putting his
weight on the balls of his feet – which
suggests calf strength, which means he
can change direction quickly – or does
he rest more on his heels? That suggests
he’s got upper-leg strength. He can push,
bully, kick.”
“You notice all of that, huh?”
“Fucking right I do. I notice if he
watches my eyes, or if he watches my
fists. I notice if he inhales through his
mouth, or through his nose.”
“What’s your point, Pierce? The
intricacies of fighting technique are
boring.” I flash him a quick smile.

He grins. “My point is that this is
what I do. I notice it. So, if tattooing is
what you do – or what you want to do –
then you’ll notice it, for sure. So, don’t
lie to me. Tell me what you thought of
my tattoos.”
I hold my breath, leave him hanging.
He’s got this small smile, but I can’t tell
what he’s thinking. I relent. “The wolf on
your shoulder is detailed, intricate. It’s
not a stencil, but a personal design. The
ears are slightly out of line – I’m talking
perspective here. The eyes may be a
little close to each other, but I’m
guessing that effect fades the closer you
get. The shading on the fur is imperfect;
with wolf’s fur, or any animal, really,
you can definitely achieve more depth

and volume with better technique.” I
pause, look into his bright eyes. “Did
you design it?”
He laughs. “I did.”
“You should have let your artist make
some corrections.”
“She tried to,” Pierce says.
“But you didn’t want her to?”
“No.”
“And the serpent on your chest and
stomach… that looked like it started out
as a snake, but turned into a dragon.”
“Yeah.”
“That was also too poor to be a
design from an artist. You drew that,

too?”
Pierce is wearing a broad smile.
“Hell yes, I did.”
“Well, no offense, but you’re not very
good. Also, the perspective is off once
the body of the serpent starts to turn into
that of a dragon. You’re style changes,
too. It’s inconsistent. The snake is quite
realistic, with scales visible, and the
dragon is more symbolic, artistic, with
only hints of shape and texture. Why the
snake-dragon?”
“Got bitten once.”
I recoil a little. That’s not something
you hear every day. “Where?”
“I was backpacking through Indonesia

one summer. It was a king cobra. I had a
fever dream where the snake turned into
a dragon.”
“I meant on your body.”
“My thigh. Too fucking close to my
balls, I’ll tell you that.”
I move swiftly on. “The ram and owl
you have on your knees are actually
really good,” I say. “I’m guessing those
were pro designs.”
“They were.”
“No story behind them?”
“No. They don’t all have meaning.”
“They should,” I say. “In my opinion.”
“Not a good attitude for an aspiring

tattoo artist.”
“Ha!”
“You’ve got a good eye, then,
considering you were ten meters away
from me. I mean, if you can tell the
quality of a tattoo on my skin at that
distance.”
I shrug. “Like you said: We artists
notice these things.”
“Fucking right we do.”
“I also saw that you’ve also got an
incomplete tattoo. I’m guessing it
extends from your pubic region down to
your thigh.”
“Inside thigh,” he says, patting his left
leg.

“I couldn’t figure out what it was.”
“Well, I’m not going to tell you what it
is. I’m sure that’ll eat you up.”
I wave it off. “I really don’t care what
it is. So, why a wolf on your shoulder?
You didn’t tell me about that one.”
For a moment, the expression on his
face changes. But then the same smug
self-satisfaction returns. I’m positive
I’ve just witnessed a momentary break in
the façade. Maybe it is an act, after all…
“The wolf was my father’s favorite
animal.”
I swallow. “And?” I ask gently.
“He died when I was young.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. Walked into that

one…
“It’s not a big deal,” he says.
I reach over to the bottle, and pour
myself another full glass of champagne. I
take a big sip, grinning. I’m feeling it,
the buzz. It feels good. I like this
sensation.
“So you got daddy issues, then?” I
tease. I’m feeling a bit prickly now.
“Just to remember him.”
“I wouldn’t have pegged a person
who fights for a living to be
sentimental.”
“The best fighters have the strongest
emotions. It’s where the strength, the
drive, comes from.”

“I didn’t know that,” I say, nodding.
I’m feeling good. I’m feeling confident.
Maybe it’s the champagne. Maybe it’s
the fact that, for the first time tonight, I
seem to have the upper hand… I seem to
be in control of this conversation.
“My mother and father divorced a few
years ago,” I say. I feel like I’m
balancing the scales, making the
conversation fairer. After all, he told me
that his dad died.
“I know,” he says.
I blink. “How?”
“My mother told me.”
Inside me, I feel a kind of irritation
begin to bubble like the champagne is in

the glass I’m holding. Am I wrong to feel
that this is too personal information for
him to have known via my father’s
girlfriend?
“She told you that?”
“Yeah. You’re uncomfortable with
that.”
I don’t miss that it’s a statement. “It’s
personal,” I tell him.
“I also know you don’t have a good
relationship with your mother.”
“So?” My voice betrays my tension. I
don’t like that he knows these things
about me. I don’t like that I didn’t know
he knew.
He shrugs. “Nothing. Just want you to

know what I know about you.”
“Oh, you’re doing me a favor are you?
So I don’t tell a lie or something?”
He shrugs again, and it pisses me off.
“No,” he says. “But I’d want to know
what you know about me. I never want to
be at a disadvantage. Isn’t it the same for
you?”
“There’s a thing called discretion.”
“Discretion is fucking overrated,” he
says. “So, what has your dad said about
my mom or me?”
“Nothing!”
He frowns. “Really?”
“Disappointed?” I fire. I’m biting

back now. But he doesn’t react the way I
expect him to. Instead, he just looks at
me for a while. His eyes go to my lips,
then to my neck.
He leans forward, and he presses his
forehead against mine. I don’t know
what to do. I’m at a loss for words. I’ve
never been this close to a boy before.
Not like this, anyway.
“Have you always got your claws
out?” he asks, his voice low. I can smell
the champagne on his breath. It’s so
intimate, so close.
“I don’t have my cl—”
He presses his lips against mine, and I
melt. My whole body falls limp and I let
him kiss me. I let him claim my mouth,

my lips. I let him taste me with his
tongue, give my lower lip a soft bite
with his teeth.
Eventually, feeling returns to my arms,
and I wind them around his neck. It’s my
first kiss ever, and I don’t know what to
do, but all I want to do is press my body
into him, get closer, feel his heat on me.
I get up and try to straddle him, but he
stands, too, and pushes me against the
glass window. I know there’s a security
guard in there somewhere, and he’s
probably watching – or awkwardly
trying not to – but I don’t care.
The only way to describe his hands is
hungry. They’re running up and down my
sides, over my hips, my ass. He gives it

a squeeze lifts me up to my toes, and
breaks the kiss.
I try to capture his lips again, try to
give myself to him again. I want him. Oh,
God, I want him.
“Pen,” he says, pulling his head back
a little.
I gaze into his eyes, brow furrowed,
feeling self-conscious and rejected.
“What?” I ask, now pulling my own
head back. He cups my face in his hand,
and brings my head forward, and slowly,
ever so slowly, he runs the tip of his
tongue around my ear.
Then he whispers, “You’re drunk.”
“So?” I say defiantly. But I notice now

that I’m standing, I’m feeling offbalance, wobbly. I can’t focus on his
eyes properly.
“I can see it,” he tells me. “You eat
dinner tonight?”
“No,” I tell him. “So what?”
He backs up, leaves me standing
alone pressed up against the window. He
picks up the empty champagne bottle and
the two glasses. He empties one glass
over the edge of the balcony.
“Come on,” he says. “I’ll drive you
home.”
“I don’t want to go home,” I tell him. I
feel… compromised, now. I feel like
he’s seen my cards. I feel at a

disadvantage.
I hate it.
“Besides, you can’t drive.”
“I didn’t finish my glass.”
I can’t help but look at his lips. I want
them again. I want to taste him again,
smell him up close. Beneath his cologne
was something manly, musky. He
smelled so wonderful. I want to push my
nose into his neck and inhale.
“Pierce,” I tell him, but a nervous
laugh betrays me. “You brought me all
the way down here. I mean, we only just
got here.”
“We’ve been here for over two
hours.”

I blink. Has it really been that long?
“It’s nearly four.”
I go to my bag and pull out my phone.
Jesus, it really is.
But I don’t want to go yet. I go to
Pierce, slither my arms around his waist
and look up at him. “Come on, let’s
drink a little longer.”
“No.”
“Why?”
His face is hard now, all serious.
“Because if I stay here with you any
longer, you’ll come home with me
tonight.”
I chew my lower lip. “So?”

He pulls away without replying.
“What is this, some kind of honor
thing?” I ask angrily. “If a girl gets drunk
it’s no longer a challenge?”
He shrugs, pours the contents of the
second glass over the balcony. “Let’s
go.”
I don’t know where it comes from. It
just explodes out of me. “You pussy!
You’re all talk.”
Something changes in him. He drops
the bottle and champagne glasses. I
watch as the neck of one of them breaks
against the tiled floor.
Pierce steps toward me, grabs my
hands and pins them above my head, and

lifts me into the glass window, presses
his body right up on mine.
His face is in mine, eyes boring into
mine, lips hovering millimeters away.
“Is this what you want?” he says, and he
kisses me hard, forces his tongue into my
mouth. It’s rough.
“Is it?” he asks, tearing his lips from
mine. He presses his hips into me, and I
feel his hardness. “Like this?” he pushes,
taking my lips again, biting me until it
hurts. I feel his hard cock against my
pubic bone.
I don’t know how to respond. My
heart is beating furiously. I want to say
both ‘yes’ and ‘no’.
“Well?” he asks, and his hand goes to

my jaw. He rubs a thumb along my lower
lip. He pulls it down, leans in and takes
it in between his lips and sucks on it.
This time I kiss him back, but he pulls
away again, and I let out a mewl of
frustration.
“You want your first time to be like
this?”
The world drowns away. I can’t hear
anything but a dull whine. It’s like a
bomb has just gone off.
“What?” I whisper.
“Do you,” he says, spacing out the
words. He bucks his hips again. This
time his hardness hits my clit, and even
through my jeans, the sudden sensation

pulls a small sound from my throat, a jolt
from my body. “Want your first time to
be like this?”
My voice is scratchy now. “Who says
it’s my first time?”
“Christ,” he whispers, letting go of my
hands and letting me down onto the
ground. He shows his back to me, leans
over the balcony.
Again, I find myself feeling undone,
unraveled, bared. Why is he doing this to
me? An anger starts to bubble. I’m
embarrassed.
He turns around, and he takes my
hand. “Pen.”
“What?” I say, looking away.

He brings himself close, and again I
can smell him. I want to fall into his
arms.
“I want to be with you,” he says.
“God, I’d fuck you straight through to
lunch.” There’s a flicker of his lips, an
almost-smile. “But not like this. I’m not
into this.”
“Not into what?” I say. “You think it’s
no longer a conquest if the girl is drunk,
ain’t that right? Your ego needs me to be
sober.”
“Drunk girls are a sloppy lay.” He
shrugs. “It wouldn’t be worth my time.”
“Fuck you, Pierce.”
“Time to go, Pen.”

“I don’t need you to parent me.”
“Parenting you,” he says, “Is the last
thing I’ll ever do. But you’re still going
home.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m going home.”
“So? I’ll stay here!”
“We close in thirty minutes.”
“Then I’ll stay the thirty minutes.”
“With who? Do what? Go back down
to the club?”
I don’t reply. That’s exactly what I
don’t want to do.
He coils an arm around my waist and
pulls me forward. “We’re going.”

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

My head hurts. I’m hung over, and I
can’t believe I got that drunk last night.
We only shared a bottle of champagne.
Though, in retrospect, I had most of it.
But even more, I can’t believe I let
Pierce kiss me, and touch me…
humiliate me.
The woman before me clears her
throat. Tina Azume. She’s way more
intimidating than she looks on her
website. Her face is all sharp angles,
and her black eyes tunnel hard into my
own. She’s studying me. I haven’t seen
her smile yet. From the way she looks, I
wonder if she’s ever smiled before.

It’s definitely not what I expected.
Then again, I don’t know what I was
expecting from one of the best tattoo
artists in the world.
“You got your visiting artist visa?”
she asks me. Her thin lips barely move
as she speaks. Her voice is monotone,
uninterested, unenthused.
Already, my stomach is crunching up
tight. Already, I’m worrying that I’m not
going to get this apprenticeship
placement, that I will have come all the
way out here for nothing!
My confidence falls out from under
me. Why should I get it? Who is to say
I’m better than the dozens of other
people who have surely already

interviewed for this position?
Oh God! I’m starting to panic.
I take a deep breath, calm my nerves.
I’ve got to get through the interview. I
can’t let my nerves show.
I clear my throat, and tell Ms. Azume,
“I can’t yet, as I need a current tattoo
artist to vouch for me.”
She purses her lips. They are a dull
pink, but even so manage to stand out
against her chalky-white complexion.
“I’m unfamiliar with the visa
requirements for visitors. How long
does it last?”
“Thirty-one days, to allow me to
apprentice, and then you can vouch for

me to get a different visa that lasts for
longer if you want to keep me on.”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” she
says. She’s flicking through my black,
leather-bound portfolio. Tina Azume is
my favorite artist. She’s got such an
idiosyncratic style, and I fell in love
with it the moment I saw it.
Like her face, the lines she draws are
full of sharp angles, and yet have this
wistful, flowing quality to them. It’s
almost like if water was geometric.
I can hardly believe I’m sitting in her
office, talking with her! I’m star-struck. I
burp, and taste stomach acid mixed with
champagne.
“You did the tattoo on your foot

yourself?”
I look down at my right foot
instinctively. I’m wearing my favorite
blue-and-white pinstripe flats, so I can’t
see the whole web of intricate and
interwoven beanstalks that I designed
myself. But I do see a bit of it.
“Yes,” I say.
“How?”
“W-what do you mean?”
“How were you able to? I mean, with
what instruments? Where?”
“I was friends with a local artist back
home in Chicago. She said that if I
wanted to practice on myself, she’d let
me and watch me.”

“And you weren’t her apprentice?”
“No.”
“So she just let a unlicensed friend
use her tattoo equipment?”
I swallow. My heart stops dead.
Should I have lied?
“Yes,” I whisper.
“Quite a risk for her to take.” Tina
Azume is eyeballing me now, and her
face has gone from mere indifference to
something approaching hostility. “I don’t
do that in my shop.”
“I understand.”
“Take off your shoe.”
I blink, and then immediately slip it

off. She extends a hand, and I’m not sure
what she wants me to do.
“Your foot, please.”
A little embarrassed, I lift my foot into
her hand, and she holds it and pulls my
toes down flat, and then peers at my
tattoo.
“Your hand must be steady, especially
since it hurts on the foot, and since you
did this upside-down.”
I don’t know what to say, so I don’t
reply.
“You are skilled with curved lines –
they are smooth. These are vines?”
“Well, in my mind they were kind of
like beanstalks.”

“But they are not straight?”
I shrug. “I started off with them
straight, but after drawing and redrawing
the design, realized I liked them more
vine-like, tangled.”
She sets my foot down, and I slip it
back into my shoe.
“It’s impressive for someone so
young. Most people don’t start getting
into practicing body art until their midtwenties, sometimes older. You’ve got a
good hand, and a good eye. I can see that
from your drawings.” She gestures
gently at my portfolio that’s in her hands.
“Thank you,” I whisper. I feel my
heart
quicken
with
excitement,
anticipation.

“But being a tattoo artist is not the
same as being, simply, good at drawing.
Tell me, what other skills are vital?”
“An excellent knowledge of the
health-related ramifications of getting
and giving tattoos,” I say. “And also
effective communication. Nothing is
worse than a tattoo artist who cannot
communicate with her client.”
She just stares at me, as though she’s
expecting more.
“Um,” I stall, buying time. “Mental
discipline. Tattoo sessions can often go
on for hours, and an artist must not only
know how to concentrate and not get
distracted, but must also know her own
limits.”

“And that’s just the tip of the iceberg,”
Tina says, slapping my portfolio shut. “I
like your style, but I must say I see a
little of my own in it.”
“I’ve been following your work since
I was fifteen,” I say. “On your website,
on tattoo message boards, and social
network groups.”
“I see. And where are you living
now?”
“Near St. Kilda.”
“Ah, so just down the road?”
“Yeah,” I say, grinning. “I walked
here today.”
“Don’t walk home at night if you can
avoid it,” she says. “Especially on

weekends.”
I hold my breath. “Does this mean
that, I, uh—”
“Yes, Penelope. Bring the license
form tomorrow morning so I can sign it.
I’m normally in the shop at eight, but
you’ll now be opening up for me, so I
expect you to be here at seven-thirty.”
I nod enthusiastically, but she sees the
confusion on my face. Tattoo shops don’t
usually open so early.
“I run an online business,” she says. “I
sell temporary tattoos, and various
paraphernalia. Some accessories, too,
like rings, earrings, broaches, pins,
badges, that kind of thing.” She waves
her hand carelessly, but I’m just even

more impressed.
“That’s amazing,” I say. “So you’re
like a total one-woman show.”
For the first time, she smiles. “Not
anymore, I guess. I’ll be handing off
some of those duties to you. Pay will be
minimum wage, and I expect to only give
you two days off a week. Also, you must
work weekends and all holidays.”
“That’s fine with me.” I’m squeeing
on the inside, but trying to keep my
composure on the outside.
“Good. See you tomorrow then.”
“Thank you so much, Ms. Azume.”
“It’s just Tina.”
“Thanks, Tina.”

“I have a client coming tomorrow,”
she says as I’m about to leave. “It’s a
work in progress. I’ll be doing some
filling in, going over some outlining. It’s
quite expansive on the lower half of his
body. He will be nude from the waistdown. I expect you to study me as I
administer the tattoo. Will that be a
problem?”
“I can handle that,” I say.
“He can be a bit… rude. I’ll try and
control him, but really, I don’t think I’ll
be very successful.”
“What do you mean ‘rude’?”
“I mean,” she says. “That sometimes
women find him difficult. I expect, since
you’ll be at my side and watching me,

he’ll make a crude joke or two.”
I swallow. “I can handle it.”
She considers me for a moment, but
then smiles. “Okay, then,” she says.
“Seven-thirty tomorrow morning. Here’s
a key, open up the shutters, and let
yourself in. There’s no alarm.” She
waves her hand. “Nothing to steal, and
I’d rather not pay the fee. Once you’re in
here, I want you to walk around, get a
feel for the table, the chair, everything.
Otherwise, simply amuse yourself
without touching anything, and wait for
me to arrive. Understood, Penelope?”
“Yes!” I say, taking the set of keys.
Despite Tina’s somewhat harsh tone, I’m
over the moon. If I wasn’t so hung-over,

I’d be bouncing on my toes right now.
When I get outside, I try to shake the
trembling out of my hands, and I bite on
my finger so as not to scream.
I can’t believe I’m going to be
apprenticing for my favorite artist!
Everything is just going so perfectly
so far.
I just took the first step toward my
dream career. How many people can
honestly say that?

Chapter Twelve

“Well, well, well…”
I whip around, recognizing the voice,
and see Pierce strutting into the shop.
“Oh my God,” I groan to myself. This
was the client who was going to be halfnude? This was the guy Tina said women
found difficult?
Tina looks between me and him, and
then frowns. She opens her mouth to say
something, but then stops herself.
“You’re apprenticing for Tina?” he
asks. “Looks like I just found my new
favorite tattoo artist.”
“Evidently,” I say, forcing a polite

smile. It’s my first day – I need to
impress Tina, but obviously Pierce isn’t
going to make it easy at all. But he’s not
going to rattle me, no matter how hard he
tries. And I know he’s going to try.
“Come on Pierce,” Tina says. “Let’s
go into the back.”
I follow behind him and he follows
behind Tina. He turns around and winks
at me. I shoot him a glare. He’d better
not mess this up for me!
He goes to the chair that’s in its
reclined position, and hops onto it, and
immediately begins undoing his belt.
It all comes back to me: The
unfinished tattoo! Oh God, why did it
have to be him?

He pulls his trousers and boxers down
in one go to his knees. I instantly snap
my eyes away, but I do not fail to miss
his neatly trimmed pubic hair. Also…
he’s… really big.
“Looking won’t kill you,” he says, and
I feel my face burning.
“Pierce,” Tina warns, her voice stern.
I force myself to look, focus on the
half-finished tattoo. Tentacles from a
jellyfish coil around his thigh – I had
caught a glimpse of that at the fight, but
couldn’t make them out as they were
mostly covered by his shorts. The body
of the sea creature was only outlined,
and still needed to be filled in and
shaded. That bit lay across his Adonis

belt and hip bone.
The body of the jellyfish looks
strange. It is a banana-shaped hollow
bubble with what looks like the outline
of a dorsal fin.
He lies back and puts his arms above
his head and grips on to the edge of the
reclined chair. He actually looks really
sexy with his arms up like that. He’s
smirking at me.
Tina takes a seat at his side, and starts
to prepare the tattoo machine. She fills it
with black ink, and explains to Pierce
that she’s going to do shadows first, to
make the jellyfish appear more real,
make it pop.
And I’m just standing, trying my best

not to stare at his cock.
“I want her to fill it in,” Pierce says,
nodding his head at me.
I look from him to Tina, and then back
at him. “I—”
“She can’t,” Tina says. “This is her
first day apprenticing. I am not even
confident of her skills. I have never seen
her administer a—”
“Well, nothing like a bit of hands-on
experience to sharpen the skills, am I
right?” he says in a cocky way. He’s so
smug that I just want to punch him on the
nose. “Unless she thinks she’s not up to
scratch.”
“She’s not up to scratch,” Tina says.

“I have the skills to do it,” I say,
eyeing them both with some hostility.
“But Tina’s right. It would be
inappropriate.”
I look away from him, from his groin,
and focus on the vials of ink and the
tattoo machine sitting on the tray by Tina.
“Never seen a cock before?” Pierce
asks. “Don’t worry, it won’t bite.”
My face grows even hotter. But he’s
right. This is the first time I’ve seen a
man’s penis in real life.
“Hey!” Tina barks. “You will respect
her, or you will leave.”
I turn to face them, and give him a
glare, flashing my eyebrows. But he

doesn’t seem checked.
“Don’t worry, I’m only playing. But I
know what the real reason is.”
God, I’m losing my temper. “What?” I
snap. “What’s this ‘real’ reason?”
“That you’re scared you’ll fuck it up
because you’ll be distracted.”
I snort, and roll my eyes. “Please,
Pierce. You’re such a pig.”
“Hey, just calling it like it is.”
“Right.”
“You are scared, aren’t you?” he asks.
His eyes tunnel into mine, and I find I
have to look away. My heart is beating
fast, and I try to look anywhere else but
his naked lower half, but I can’t.

“It would be unethical for Tina to let
someone as inexperienced as me fill in
your whole tattoo,” I say, voice level.
“But, in order to get some hands-on
experience, perhaps she would let me
fill in only a portion of the tattoo.”
I look up at Tina, and she just presses
her lips together and nods. To me, it
looks like she’s just accepting that this
tide won’t recede.
She steps back, and I sit on her stool,
snap on latex gloves, and take the coiled
tattoo machine.
“Ah, so the rook’s going to be
wielding the tattoo gun this morning,
eh?”
“We don’t refer to it as a gun,” Tina

says. “It’s a machine.”
“Okay, Tina.”
“Pierce, you know that if she makes a
mistake—”
“I know. I’m willing to risk it. No skin
off my leg.” He grins.
“I won’t make a mistake,” I say
through gritted teeth. “This will hurt.”
“No it won’t.”
“Yes it will. The skin on the inside of
the thigh has shallow nerve endings.
That’s why it’s so painful when we chafe
there, or if you get cut there. That’s also
why it’s so painful to get a tattoo there.”
I still my hands, place one on his knee
to steady it. His flesh feels burning hot.

Just touching him is making my heartbeat
quicken.
His smell, just faint, reaches my
senses. I try to ignore it.
Carefully, I trace the inside line of the
jellyfish’s main outline with the
machine. I’m holding it about an inch
above his skin, but getting a feel for the
device, how long the needle extends, the
weight in my hands, the balance. There
are a great many models of tattoo
machines, and little standardization
because of the industry’s taboo nature.
Understanding the weight and balance is
crucial.
It’s a good machine, well-made, and
light-weight. It pulls a little up – the

back is heavier than the front – but that’s
the way you want it to be. Better for the
machine to fall out of your hands
backwards away from the client’s skin,
rather than forward into it.
“Okay,” I say, and look at Tina.
“Where’s the reference design.”
She nods her head at the corkboard
behind Pierce, and I notice it for the first
time. There’s a cocktail napkin pinned to
it.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I say
to Pierce. “You designed this on a
napkin?”
“And only during my date’s bathroom
trips,” he says.

“What jellyfish is that?”
“Portuguese Man of War.” He smiles
at me. “Tentacles go back dozens of feet,
like the net cast off by a trawler. The finlike thing you see? At distance, if you
see it, it just looks like the fin of a dead
fish. Difficult to notice if you’re in the
water with it.”
“You go on a Discovery Channel
binge, or something?”
I notice that Tina stiffens, but still she
says nothing.
“Best guy I ever fought got tangled up
in one while surfing.”
I suck in a breath of air, and feel
instantly embarrassed and terrible. “I’m

sorry.”
“He didn’t die. But he’ll never fight
again. Too much nerve and muscle
damage.”
Behind me I hear Tina sigh.
“Why are you getting this tattoo?”
“Because I haven’t fought a guy who
challenged me as much. I miss it.” The
tone of his voice has changed. He’s
become less… well, posturing.
“Alright. Tina, what are we doing
first?”
She traces the outline of the fin that
sits on top of the jellyfish’s body, and
then tells me that the fin actually
undulates – like a seashell. I know

exactly what she means, and take another
look at the drawing on the napkin, and
figure out what Pierce was trying to do.
He got the angles of the shadowing
wrong. The guy can’t draw for the life of
him.
“Alright,” I say. I look at him one last
time, and when I meet his snowy eyes,
it’s like I’ve been injected with
adrenaline. I’ve suddenly got a buzz. I’m
bordering on shaking.
I never expected this kind of
exhilaration when giving a tattoo. I hope
it never fades.
“Are you sure about this? You want
me to try?”
“Getting cold feet?”

“No. But I’m not so full of myself that
I can’t admit I might make a mistake…
unlike you.”
“What can I say? I’m a risk taker.”
I sigh. “Fine. But seriously, this will
hurt.”
“Nah. It won’t.”
A moment later I press it into his skin.
He doesn’t even flinch, and despite
knowing I shouldn’t, I press it in a little
harder.
“Woah, Pen, take it easy!”
“Relax,” I say. “It’s not your first
time.”
“But it is yours… among other
things.”

“Not so hard,” Tina interjects. She
puts her hands on mine, guides me. “Just
like this. The skin here is very delicate,
very easy to mark. Not like a hand or top
of the arm.”
“I understand, Tina.”
I begin shadowing on the fin, and to
my great satisfaction, I feel his body
temperature begin to rise through my
palm steadying his knee.
“Sure it doesn’t hurt?” I say, sneering,
but not breaking concentration. “Your
body temperature is increasing; this is
typically a sign of physical distress, or
pain.” I say it in as smug a voice I can.
“Nah,” he says. I know he’s grinning. I
can hear it in his voice. “I just think you

look really hot like this, head down in
my lap.”
Appalled, I turn my eyes to him, and
that’s when I notice that his penis is
starting to get hard.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I cry, slapping
the tattoo machine down on the metal
tray and pushing my chair back. I get up,
and walk away, and stand at the window,
shaking my head. “You’re such an
asshole, Pierce.”
“Hey!” he says, voice all don’tblame-me. “It’s you. You do it to me.”
“This session is over now, Pierce,” I
hear Tina say. Her voice is calm, but
there’s venom in it. “Please leave and
come back tomorrow when you can

control yourself. If you can’t control
yourself, you’ll never be welcome here
again.”
I watch as she sticks a plastic
covering over his tattoo, adhesive on all
sides to cover it.
“Don’t get this wet,” she says.
“I know the drill, Tina.”
“Really?” she says, eyes flashing
anger. “Because just now it seemed you
didn’t.”
“Hey,” he says. “I can’t fucking
control my body. Your apprentice is hot.
I like her.”
Despite myself, I feel a tightening in
my belly. I don’t know exactly if it’s

because I like hearing that, or because I
hate him for saying that, for using that.
At this point, it doesn’t really matter.
“See you tomorrow,”
swaggering out of the shop.

he

says,

I turn to Tina, and she just sighs,
eyeing me.
“This going to be a problem?” she
asks. “Because if it is, take a day
tomorrow.”
I balk. “That wasn’t my fault!”
“Penelope.” She’s shorter than me,
way smaller in frame than I am, and yet
somehow I’m terrified of her. I shrink
completely.
“In our line of work, we sometimes

encounter troublesome clients. Perhaps,
some might say, more often than in other
lines of work.”
I nod.
“You have no idea how many men
I’ve tattooed who became tumescent
during the process.”
“Any who were naked?” I counter.
“Yes,” she says, nodding. “Very many.
I’ve also tattooed women on their inner
thighs, pubic region, even labia, who
became very obviously aroused, too.
This is an awkward setting for
everybody involved. You can’t react the
way you did, no matter how
uncomfortable you find it. Now, I know
it’s not the case with Pierce, but if you

make a client uncomfortable for an
involuntary reaction, then we may lose
them as a customer. There is a certain
level of trust and intimacy between artist
and client, Penelope. You need to make
them feel free from judgment.”
“He was doing it on purpose!”
“No,” she says, “He wasn’t. All that
joking was just a cover for a reaction he
couldn’t control. And that’s not the point.
Look, I’m not trying to get you in trouble
or lecture you, but you really can’t freak
out like that. When nurses do prostate
exams, men can get erections, even
ejaculate. Some women are aroused
when they see their gynecologist, and
even achieve orgasm. Most of it is just a
result of physical stimulation, paired

with an intensely awkward situation.
The brain processes things in strange
ways, and stress can often be displaced
into arousal.”
I bunch my brow. “How do you know
this?”
“I read a book by a psychologist who
became a tattoo artist. Plus, twenty years
of industry experience. Anyway, if those
doctors or nurses were to freak out in
those situations—”
“I didn’t freak out.”
“You did,” she says. “You totally did.
You shattered the ink vial.”
I look toward the metal tray, and there
I see the tattoo machine sitting in a

puddle of black ink.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’ll pay for that.”
“It’s fine,” Tina says, putting up a
hand. “Listen, you and him got a
history?”
“No!”
She eyes me hard, and I wilt.
“We kissed last night. I don’t know. I
don’t like him at all. He’s just so…
irritating.”
“Look, if he’s too close—”
“For a tattoo?” I blurt.
“For this tattoo, Penelope.”
I swallow. “If he can control himself
tomorrow, I can do it.”

“Fine, but you’re not doing the
shadowing. That was a mistake on my
part.”
“Tina,” I say, holding my voice
steady. “I can do the shadowing. I have
the skills. You’ve seen the tattoos I
administered to myself.”
“No. Tomorrow you’ll just be
watching me. I’m sorry, but I can’t
ethically allow you to do even a portion
of the tattoo. That was wrong of me.”
“Tina—”
“He had us both going in there,
Penelope. Played you like a fiddle,
goaded you into doing the tattoo, and me
into letting you. No, you can just watch.”

“Okay,” I say.
She pauses for a moment. It seems
like she’s hesitating to say something. A
moment later I find out what it is.
“Do you like him?”
I take my time. I wonder if I should
react with false indignation. I decide to
just be honest with her.
“I don’t know. I know that I dislike
him.”
“Sometimes the two are hard to
separate.”
At first I think that she may be
patronizing me, but from her expression,
I know that she’s not.
“He likes you,” she says.

“No he doesn’t.”
“Judging from what just happened, I’d
say he definitely does.”
“His erection?” I say, shaking my
head. “No, he’s just a dog.”
“Not his erection,” she says. “His
eyes. He couldn’t take them off you.”

Chapter Thirteen

My phone rattles against the glass
coffee table, and both Rose and I look
down at it. I’m curled up on the sofa
trying my best not to think about how
disastrous my first day apprenticing was.
“Who even has your number?” she
asks.
I shrug. “I gave it to Tina.”
“Why would she be texting you at
half-twelve?”
My eyes flick to the clock on the wall
above the television, and she’s right. It is
way too late, and I somewhat doubt it’s
an emergency. Playing on the television
is a nature documentary about
jellyfishes…

I squirm out from under the blanket
and reach for the phone, unlocking it.
“Unknown number,” I say, and then I
read the text. My eyes go wide.
“What is it?” Rose asks, concerned.
“You won’t believe this,” I say,
shaking my head. “How the hell did he
get my number?”
“What is it?” Rose asks again,
reaching over and grabbing the phone
from me. She reads the text.

Drinks and dinner, tomorrow after
my tattoo.

“Who is this?”
I look at Rose. “Guess.”
She shakes her head. “I have no idea.
Someone from the tattoo shop?”
“Yeah. Someone you know.”
“Someone I know?” she says,
pondering with a finger to her lip. “I
can’t think of anybody.”
“It’s Pierce.”
She balks. “Pierce Fletcher? He gets
his tattoos from your boss?”
I nod, and I rub my forehead. I’m
trying to hide it as best as I can, this
heady concoction of mixed emotions I
feel. On the one hand, there’s annoyance,

irritation, even anger. How could he just
be asking me out like this?
On the other, excitement, anticipation,
a physical response. Personally, I think
Rose sees right through it, judging by her
smile, but she’s holding back from
saying anything.
Which is totally unlike her.
“You going to go?” she asks.
“Probably not,” I say.
She just shrugs and makes a ‘huh’
noise.
“I’m not!” I say. “He really is an
asshole, Rose. You should have seen him
today at the shop. Plus, like I told you
before, my dad is dating his mom. No

way!”
That’s when she starts laughing.
“Well, damn, Penny, it’s not like they’re
getting married! It’s not like he’s your
stepbrother or anything! You should go.
See what he wants.”
“I know what he wants.”
“You obviously made an impression
on him the other night, not to mention the
fact that you saw him this morning in the
tattoo parlor.”
“So what? He was a dick. I don’t
want to go. Plus, we don’t like to call
them ‘parlors’.”
Rose peers at me, and then grins. “Did
something happen today?”

“No.”
“Yes it did!” she says, wagging a
finger at me. “What haven’t you told me,
Penelope?”
“He’s in the middle of getting a
tattoo.”
“Oh? And it just so happens that Tina
is his tattoo artist, right? Now that’s a
coincidence.”
“Yeah.” I bury my face in my hands.
“What are the chances?”
“Well, it’s a big city, but it’s not
huge.”
“He was getting a tattoo near his
groin.”
Her eyes widen, and she gets this

really mischievous grin. She lowers her
voice and narrows her eyes. “Tell me
more.”
“He had to be naked from the waist
down.”
She covers her mouth and lets out a
high-pitched laugh. “So you saw…?”
“Yeah.”
“Everything?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“Was it weird?”
“What do you think?”
“Because
before?”

you

had

kissed

him

“That,” I say, nodding. “And just the

general fact that he was naked from the
waist down.”
“Oh come on. Think about nurses who
have to do that prostate stuff.” She
shudders. “Yuck.”
“Tina said the same thing. She got me
in trouble for not being very
professional today.”
Rose eyes me. I can see the cogs in
her brain turning. Though she hasn’t got
much self-awareness, she’s very in-tune
with what other people are thinking.
“Was it your first time seeing a man’s
penis in real life?”
“Uh…” My voice fades.
“No!”

Rose

cries,

slapping the

armrest of the sofa. “You’re kidding,
girl!”
“I’m not.”
“So you’re still…?”
“Yes.” I frown, and close my eyes,
placing my finger and thumb on my
eyelids. “Is that weird?”
“No!” she says, quickly rubbing my
leg. “There’s nothing wrong with being a
virgin.”
“Don’t say it like that,” I groan.
“But I just find it hard to believe.”
“Why?” I say, my voice raising. This
indignation is a convenient outlet for my
embarrassment.

“Because of your tattoos and stuff.”
“Well, that’s a stereotype.”
Rose sucks in a breath of air. I can see
she’s thinking about how to word her
next sentence.
“I don’t mean that all girls with
tattoos—”
“Yes you do.”
“No, I really don’t! I mean, you just
got one pretty early, you were hanging
out with all those older kids before I
came here to Australia. You know, I just
assumed you would have dated an older
guy. One of the guys from that tattoo
parlor you always hung out at.”
“Well, I didn’t,” I say. “I cared about

the art. And, again, we don’t like calling
it a parlor. It’s a shop, or studio.”
“Okay,” Rose says, putting her hands
up. “It’s not like I meant anything by it.
What is it with you and this shop-parlor
business?”
“Ever heard of a massage parlor?”
She nods slowly. “Yeah.”
“What’s the first thing you think?”
“Prostitution,” she says flatly.
“There we go. It’s about connotation.
No tattoo artist calls their shop a parlor.
It’s either a shop, or studio, okay?”
“Okay,” Rose says with a sigh.
“Please try and remember.”

“I will, I will. So,” she says, drawing
out the word. “What was he like?”
“Who?”
“Pierce!”
“What do you mean?”
She drops her voice to a very low
whisper. “Was he big?”
I swallow, and nod. There’s a twinkle
in Rose’s eye, as if she’s thinking:
Unsurprising.
“Did he shave?”
I shake my head.
“Trimmed?”
“Yeah.”
“What about his balls?”

I blink. “I didn’t notice,” I say slowly,
staring hard at her.
“Has he got lots of tattoos?”
“You saw him fight.”
“I mean, under his shorts.”
“No, not really. He had this jellyfish,
and the tentacles wrapped around his
thigh.”
We both turn to look at the television.
The narrator, in a posh and sticky British
accent, is talking about the Portuguese
Man of War – one of the deadliest
jellyfish in the world.
What are the chances?
“You should go,” she says.

“Why? I don’t want to.”
“You don’t think he’s hot?”
“He’s a dick. He’s so full of himself.
He’s probably got, like, three STDs. So
what if he’s hot?”
“He’s a fighter, but he’s not stupid.”
“How would you know?”
“You can always tell when somebody
is a dumb-dumb.”
“What do I want with a rude man-slut,
anyway?”
“I know you’re attracted to him. I saw
how awkward you were when you met
him. Not to mention that whole drivingyou-home scene after the club. I’m still
pissed off at you, by the way. We never

got into Juice. You just left us waiting in
the line outside.”
I sigh. “I was awkward because he
was being a dick.”
“Yeah, he was, but you were also
awkward because you liked him. Which
is why you hit the sauce hard.”
“I didn’t. I don’t.”
“Okay, babe.” She says it in this
really condescending way, and it pricks
my temper.
“I don’t want to talk about this
anymore. I’m going to bed.”
“Okay,” she says, flicking her head to
the side. She watches me out of amused
eyes.

“Stop that, Rose.”
“Stop what?”
“Just stop it!”
I go into my bedroom, cheeks feeling
warm, and flop down on my bed and
stare at the screen of my phone.
Maybe fifteen minutes pass by, before
I finally tap out a reply:

Only if you’re not an asshole
tomorrow during your appointment.

I put the phone on my bedside table,
and turn out the light, but moments later I

hear it vibrate.

I thought girls liked assholes.

Chapter Fourteen

“Told you I’d behave.”
She smiles, and actually it’s one of the
few times she’s not being hostile to me.
I… I like it. She’s beautiful when she
smiles. Her whole face just lights up.
It makes my heart race and my cock
throb. Even just a quick glance at her
bare neck – she’s got her hair tied up –
brings me up. I want to bite her there,
lick her, taste her. God, my lust for her is
carnal, almost savage. I want to bite her
until it hurts, and then a little more.
“You did behave,” she says. “To my
great surprise.” She gives me an
accusing stare, as if to ask, ‘What’s your
angle?’. I just play it off as nothing. I got
no angle. She knows I want her.

Penny clears her throat. “Tina did a
good job with the shading, didn’t she?”
“She did,” I agree.
“Does it hurt?”
“No. Tingles.” I pull the Porsche over.
“We’re going to Lou’s.”
“Lou’s?” she says. “That sounds like
an American pizza restaurant, or
something.”
“That’s because it is,” he says. “Deep
dish, Chicago style. Thought you’d like
something from home.”
There it is again, that smile. God, she
looks amazing when she smiles.
I lick my lower lip, and bunch my
brows together for a moment. I don’t

think I’ve ever thought something like
that before.
“Thanks, but it’s not really just a
Chicago thing anymore. I had no idea
they had something like that over here?”
“American themed restaurants are
popular here,” he says. “Mexican, too.”
I get out, and then help her out of the
car on her side. It’s so low that she
practically has to climb up onto the curb.
As we step into the bar-andrestaurant, a smattering of American
accents reach us. I see Penny looking
around, perhaps a little surprised that
there’s such a large American enclave in
the form of a restaurant. The place is
heaving, and the television above the bar

is playing one of yesterday’s college
basketball games.
“This feels pretty authentic,” she says.
“How’s that?”
“I don’t know. Just the decorations,
the atmosphere.”
“Well, it’s popular.”
“With Aussies, too?”
“Oh, yeah, sure,” I say, flagging down
a waitress. “They love this shit over
here. They pretend to hate the ‘yanks’,
but really they’re enamored with us.”
We get seated in our own booth, pick
out a spinach and mushroom mix, and
then order drinks. To my surprise, she
gets a vodka-martini.

Penny shrugs when she sees my
expression. “Dad and I have this thing
where we watch a James Bond movie
every other weekend together. I don’t
really like them, but he does. Anyway,
I’ve always wanted to try one.”
“The old ones are the best ones.”
She snorts. “More like the most
misogynistic ones.”
“So, what made you want to become a
tattoo artist?”
Penelope grins, and peers at me.
“What is this? You pretending not to be a
dick?”
“Got a bite, do you?”
“Seriously, Pierce. Why are we

here?”
“Why do you need a reason for
everything? It’s like you’re always
suspicious, always need to know every
detail. Don’t be so insecure.”
“I’m not being insecure,” she says. “I
just don’t believe this whole act you’re
putting on.”
“What act is that?”
“The whole dinner date thing.”
“We’re on a date?” I ask, smirking.
“You just can’t say no to me, can you?”
“I’m going to leave,” she tells me.
“Really. I only agreed to come because I
was curious as to what you might want.”
“You’re so prickly all the time. It’s

like defusing a bomb trying to get to
know you.”
“Well, get used to it, because I’m not
letting my guard down.”
I lean back. “You going to tell me?”
“Tell you what?”
“What made you want to become a
tattoo artist.”
“You tell me what made you want to
become a fighter first.”
I shrug. “Fair enough. My dad’s
brother, Uncle James. He was a boxer
when he was young. He was pro, but not
very well ranked. Before—”
“I don’t need a retelling of your life
story.”

“Are you going to let me tell you or
not, Pen?”
“Fine.”
“Before my dad died, he showed me
an old black and white recording of
Uncle James boxing. He wasn’t a hard
hitter, and he had a bit of a glass jaw, but
fuck me he could dance in the ring. He
was so springy, always moving, like a
rabbit on amphetamines. I was just
mesmerized by it. He could dodge and
evade like no other. I wasn’t a big kid
growing up. It wasn’t until I was about
sixteen that I hit a second growth spurt,
so his style was attractive to me. I mean,
half the time he wore his opponents out,
and when their guard was down, that’s
how he scored his points.”

She frowns. “There are points in
boxing?”
“Oh, yeah, for sure. It’s a technical
sport. You get rewarded for good
technique, and you can win off points,
even if you’re outclassed physically.”
“But in your illegal cage fighting, no
points?”
“That’s right,” I say.
“Why didn’t you go into boxing?”
“Uncle James trained me, starting
from when I was ten. Mom kind of
checked-out after Dad died.”
Penny’s beautiful features turn
cautious, awkward. “How, um did—”

“Car accident.
someone.”

He

was

hit by

The atmosphere grows somber
quickly. It’s like grey clouds have
collected above us.
“Sorry, Pierce.”
I smile at her. “It was a long time ago.
Anyway, so Uncle James took care of
me, raised me, and eventually sent me to
boarding school out here.”
“Why Australia?”
“He was moving here because he got
offered a training gig. Anyway, I was
good at boxing, but I wanted to try more
styles. He was a traditionalist, didn’t
believe in all the new fighting

approaches, especially with the
emergence of MMA. We had a bit of a
falling out. He died of a heart attack
when we weren’t talking. It was my own
damn fault, anyway. I pushed him away.”
“Color me unsurprised.”
“So I stopped boxing.”
“But you could have gone pro?”
“Maybe, maybe not. I’m not as good
at boxing as I am in the cage. There are a
lot of rules, a lot of technicalities. It
feels stiff to me. But I mean, it’s not stiff
at all. Watch Ali, and there you see a
fluidity that’s just amazing. Even Tyson
was a really fluid athlete, and he had all
that power.”

“You like fighting,” she says, thanking
the waitress politely as she sets down
our drinks.
“I do. Now it’s your turn. Why a tattoo
artist?”
She relents. “Fine. My story is nothing
so dramatic. I just saw a tattoo one day –
one of my high school classmates got
one – and I started researching it. I was
always good at drawing, but I liked the
idea of drawing on skin. It all just sort of
continued to grow out of there.
“Before I realized it, I was obsessed,
reading magazines, talking to owners of
tattoo shops around the city, making new
friends in the industry. I found Tina’s
work online, and loved her style. She

makes such great use out of lines. Like,
she’s got this style that’s hard and soft at
the same time, you know? It reminds me
of a strong woman.”
“What do you mean?”
“Hard and soft,” she says. “We can be
all sharp lines, or we can be smooth
curves.
You
know,
flexibility.
Unburdened by ego? We can fulfill
multiple roles where men typically are
singular. Anyway, I’ve never seen
someone draw so well on skin before. I
mean, her proportions are just perfect.”
“Technically perfect? Like, if you
measured them they would add up
mathematically?”
“See, that’s just the kind of thing I was

talking about with regard to men and
women. It’s not about technical
perfection all the time. Anyway, I
followed everything about her, started
planning how to meet her.”
“And it all just fell into place?”
“Yeah,” she says, and she laughs
softly. “I’m a little amazed, to be
honest.”
“Your dad just let you go?”
“No, I had to push him a bit, but
eventually he did.”
“Do you miss him?”
“Yeah,” she says. “Even though it’s
been so little time. We’ve been like a
team, you know? After mom left, it was

just me and him. I looked after him. He
never cooks well on his own. He eats
unhealthily.”
“You’d think a fifty year-old man
would know how to manage his diet.”
“He’s busy,” she says. “He works
really hard.”
“So does everybody,” I say. “Not
eating well is a conscious choice.”
“Not everybody lives in the gym like I
assume you do. Not everybody wants to
be an athlete.”
“I’m not talking about being
physically fit. I’m talking about eating
right. With all the information out there
about healthy eating, anybody who

doesn’t is making the choice not to.
Frankly, if it’s not idiotic, it’s lazy.”
“Don’t talk about my dad like that.
And don’t be so judgmental. Like you
never had a fucking pizza.”
I look at her, and she at me. We both
turn to our neighboring table, and see a
family tucking into a big pizza. Our
spinach and mushroom one is on the
way. We are, after all, in a pizza
restaurant.
“You know what I mean,” she says.
“I’m just calling it like it is.”
“You don’t know his situation. He
works sixteen-hour days sometimes. He
worked hard for me.”

“What does he do?”
“He’s an architect.”
“An architect?” I echo. “Fuck, that’s a
job for people with passion and pride.”
“So?”
“So he didn’t just work for you.”
Penelope tenses up. “What the hell is
that supposed to mean?”
“I mean, he does it for himself, too.
Don’t tell me that if you had a child,
you’d say you tattooed people for her!
You do it for yourself. It’s your own
reward as well.”
“You know, Pierce, you have this
talent for pissing people off. Everything
you say is just so typical.”

“What, you think I’m wrong?”
“I think you don’t know half as much
as you think you do about my dad’s life.”
“People are the same. Seems to me
like you’re just being sensitive.”
“I’m not being sensitive. You’re being
a jerk.”
“Well, trust me, he doesn’t need you
looking after him. He’ll have to change
his diet on his own, especially when he
starts feeling it. At his age? That’ll catch
up to him fast.”
“He does need me,” she says. “You
don’t understand.”
“Why are you guilting yourself for
coming out here?” I ask. “Why are you

under the delusion that you somehow left
him worse-off for going after your own
career? You’d think a parent would be
proud.”
“Is your mother proud of you?”
I pause. That was a good counter. “I
wouldn’t know,” I say. “We don’t talk
much.”
“Well isn’t that the surprise of the
fucking century.” She’s huffing now.
“For someone with apparently so much
life wisdom to dole out, you sure set a
poor example, don’t you?”
“Don’t get upset, Pen. We’re just
talking.”
“Upset? Well, obviously you have a

talent for reading people,” she says, eyes
narrowing. “You should become a
therapist, put those amazing skills to
good use.”
“Admit it,” I say. “You enjoy being
miserable. You like to guilt yourself.”
“You know what, Pierce? I’m done.
You want to know why I think that about
Dad? Because I have to make sure that I
coming out here was worth it. I have to
hold my feet to the flame. Because if I
don’t accomplish what I set out to, then
it will all be for nothing. How would he
feel about that?”
“You use it for motivation?” I ask,
impressed. It’s something athletes do all
the time. Find something – guilt, an

imaginary slight, an imaginary debt –
and use it to push harder and faster, to be
stronger.
“I don’t use it for myself,” she says.
“I’m done. I don’t know why I agreed to
come here in the first place.”
She gets up, and I watch her as she
leaves.
I don’t know why, but I don’t try and
stop her. I don’t even know why I kept
pushing. I sigh, and rub my forehead,
looking out at her through the window.
Penelope is making me lose my grip.
She goes to the tram stop outside and
waits, wrapping her arms around herself
in the cool night time wind.

Chapter Fifteen

“Hey, beautiful.”
Tight in front of me are two guys,
maybe in their late thirties. They look
drunk. They’re ruddy-faced, and have
that glaze over them. They’re walking all
wobbly.
I’ve got a really bad feeling about
this. Alarms are wailing in my head.
They’re practically bomb sirens.
I don’t reply, slip my hand into my bag
and fold my fingers around my phone.
“You looking for some company? You
look sad,” the one on the left says. He’s
wearing a red baseball cap on
backwards, and he’s grinning, baring

yellowed teeth at me.
“I’m just waiting for the tram,” I say. I
don’t want to tell them to leave me alone
or to go away, because I suspect they’d
react badly to that.
“It’s been a really long day,” I
continue. “I work with old people, and
one of them threw up all over me today.”
They just look at each other and smile.
Damn it. They’re not taking the bait.
“There’s no nursing homes around
here. You lost, honey?”
“No. I came here to grab a bite to
eat.”
“You mean, while in your clothes that
someone puked on?”

“No,” I say, my voice dropping. “I
mean, I changed.”
“Well since you’ve had such a bad
day,” the man with the baseball cap says,
“Why don’t you let me and my mate here
buy you a drink. You know, take the edge
off.”
“No thank you,” I say, taking a step
back. I can feel adrenaline pumping
through my body, and I’ve got to admit to
myself that I’m scared. I flash a look
quickly back at the restaurant, but it’s too
dark and I can’t see if anybody is coming
my way or not.
“Come on, sweetheart. Let’s go ’ave a
drink, shall we?” the second man says.
“Don’t worry, we’ll be heaps of fun.”

He licks his chapped lips.
“I said no,” I say. “No means no.”
“Well, unless no means yes. And you
know how it is with women,” he says,
sneering at his friend.
“Isn’t that right, mate?” his friend
says. “They’re always sending us
confusing signals.”
I’m holding my breath. I don’t know
what to do. I think about running back to
the restaurant, back to… back to him.
And I really don’t want to do that!
“Hey, fuckhead!” The voice is an
angry growl, and I turn around to see
Pierce walking up to us. He’s got anger
in his strides, and his fists are balled.

His whole body is like this charging
tank, hard, with a promise of hurt.
“No, wait,” I say, trying to grab him,
but he just walks past me. “Wait, Pierce.
They’re drunk!”
“I don’t fucking care.”
The two drunk men stand stupidly,
stare at the behemoth of a man bearing
down on them. Pierce grabs the man
with the baseball cap and throws him
down onto the tram stop bench. One of
the armrests bends his back unnaturally,
and I wince.
The other tries to run, but Pierce grabs
him by the collar and yanks him down,
kicking out his feet at the same time in
what I’m sure is a move you only learn

when you train to fight.
I hear the drunk slam against the
ground. His bones must be rattling in his
body.
Pierce kneels down, points the guy’s
face at him, and then punches him right
in the cheek. His body goes limp.
“Your turn,” he says, standing up and
going to the man with the red hat
groaning on the bench and clasping onto
the small of his back.
“No, wait!” the man gasps.
Pierce hauls him up to his feet, and
pins him against the scuffed-up plastic of
the tram stop shelter.
“What are you?” Pierce asks.

The man just shakes his head.
“What?”
“What are you?” Pierce barks. His
voice is savage, full of promised malice.
When the man doesn’t answer, he sighs.
“Repeat after me: I am a lowlife shit
stain with a small cock.”
The man just shakes his head.
“Repeat it you cunt, or God help me I
will bash your fucking head in.”
“Okay, okay!” the man says. “I’m…
uh… a lowlife, shitstain… with a small
cock.” He says the last words quietly.
Pierce pushes down on his shoulders
and the man falls into a squat. “Stay,” he
growls. “Until morning.”

“Pierce,” I say, exhaling. “Come on.
You’re being a dick.”
“Say it again!” Pierce shouts, slapping
the man on the top of the head.
He repeats it, this time quieter. He’s
speaking at the floor, head buried
between his knees. He looks pathetic.
I just shake my head. “You don’t have
to stay here until morning, just wait until
we’re gone.”
Pierce shoots me an angry glare, and
then he walks over to me and grips my
arm.
“Hey!” I cry, shaking free. “Don’t
fucking touch me!”
He’s panting, but I slowly see his

body relax. Then his hand comes up
slowly, and he touches my face.
“Would you have come back to the
restaurant? If these two assholes were
chasing you?”
“You shouldn’t have let me go!”
I hear the man with the red baseball
cap get up, and start running. Pierce’s
eyes don’t even go to him.
He takes my hand, and he presses it to
his mouth, and he kisses it. I can feel his
hot breath against my palm, feel how
quick it is.
That’s when I notice something. His
eye shave gone shiny, and the expression
on his face isn’t the anger I thought it

was.
It’s
worry…
protectiveness.

possessiveness…

“I would have been fine,” I say. “They
were just a couple of drunk creeps. I can
handle that.”
“Would you,” he says through gritted
teeth. “Have come back to the
restaurant?”
“Of course I would!” I say. “I’m not
stupid.”
His mouth flickers into a smile ever
so briefly.
“I would have gone back to the
restaurant not because you were there,
but because other people were there. It’s

a public place. They would have called
the cops.”
We look at each other for a moment,
and I know he hasn’t bought my lie. I
would have run straight back to him,
because I knew that he, more than
anyone else, would protect me.
I try to pull my hand from his, but he
grips it tighter. “I’m not letting you go.
Let’s finish dinner.”
“I don’t want to,” I tell him. “I
stormed out, we made a scene. I don’t
want to go back in there.”
“Fine, I’ll settle-up, get the pizza takeaway. We can eat it at my apartment.
What do you think?”

“Your apartment? What was that,
some kind of move?”
“No.”
“What if I just want to go home?”
“Do you?”
I look into his hard, grey eyes.

Chapter Sixteen

It’s tense as we walk through the
lobby of his apartment building. The
guard is sleeping in his chair, and we
walk past silently.
In my mind, there’s just this single
thought repeating over and over again
What is about to happen?
I can’t deny to myself that I’m
nervous, even a little afraid. For some
reason, I feel like I’m walking down a
path of no return. There is trepidation.
But, as I walk with my hand clasped
in Pierce’s, I realize I want this. I want
to go to his apartment with him. I want
him to do to me whatever he wants.

I want to give in to him.
We wait for the elevator, and the
tension is as thick as butter. I steal a
sidelong glance at him, look at the lines
of his sharp, handsome side profile. My
eyes travel down his arm, to where his
sleeve is folded at the elbow, to the
muscular forearm, the wriggling veins,
and then down to his enormous hand as it
completely swallows mine up.
The elevator dings, and the doors
slide open.
I gulp as we step in.
The doors shut, and he turns to me. I
don’t know what I expect to happen – I
don’t even know what is going to happen
– but I feel like I’m waiting for

something.
I don’t want to be the one to make the
first move.
His hand leaves mine, and begins to
sidle up the inside of my arm. The touch
is ticklish, but it leaves a fiery trail of
buzzing nerves. Goose bumps erupt all
over me, the hairs on the back of my
neck stand up. I’m breathing quickly, lips
open, looking into his eyes. I feel like I
can’t look away.
I’m waiting for him to kiss me.
It’s like he reads my mind. He pulls in
close to me, fast and hard, but then
gently takes my lips in his. It’s as if, all
of a sudden, the dam of inhibition within
me has cracked and burst open, and all

my
desires
are
spilling
out
uncontrollably like so much reservoir
water.
I press my body into his, he corrals
me tight in his arms, and I suck on his
lip, kiss it sloppily. It’s only my second
kiss, but I don’t care. I’ve become
immune to modesty, to shyness.
His mouth moves, I feel it move into a
grin, and he pushes me up against the
inside of the elevator, clamps my hands
above my head, and he breaks the kiss. I
try to move forward, but he pins me
there, and just watches me for a moment.
I’m panting, nervous, excited, scared,
sweating, flushed, hot and yearning. I’m
everything I can feel all at once.

“Kiss me,” I beg.
He presses his body against mine, and
I can feel his hardness pressing through
his pants right at my belly. I have this
uncontrollable urge to reach down and
cup his crotch, to feel his excitement, his
desire for me.
But he doesn’t let my hands down.
Instead, he takes my lower lip and bites
it, before kissing across the side of my
face toward my ear, then down my neck.
I’m shivering at the delicate sensations,
his soft and deft lips teasing my skin,
encouraging my growing lust.
His hands run down my arms, down
my sides, setting my hands free. I wrap
them around his wide back, pull him

tighter on to me, love that I can smell
him, that I can feel his heat radiating into
my body.
A loud ding sounds, and the doors
slide open, and I make to pretend we
weren’t doing anything in case someone
is on the other side, but he doesn’t care.
He just keeps kissing me.
And then he’s got my hand in his, and
he’s pulling me down the corridor to his
apartment. It feels like forever as we
walk, and then he’s unlocking the door,
yanks me inside, shuts the door hard,
drops the pizza box, and then pushes me
up against the wall, claiming my lips in
his again.
I’m whimpering, moaning, sighing,

panting. I feel like an animal. I feel out
of control.
And… and I like it.
“Come on,” he says, his voice deep
and gravelly. He pulls me through his
apartment in the dark, kicking off his
shoes as he does so. I do the same.
He takes me to the bathroom, and
there blasts the shower, filling it with
steam. Then he’s on me again, taking off
my clothes, pulling up my top. He throws
it outside onto the floor, and his hot
hands are roaming up and down my
body, devouring every inch of my skin.
I take his shirt off, undo the buttons as
fast as I can, and then run my hands
inside the open sides, feeling the hard

ridges of his muscle, the fleshy firmness
of his chest. I feel his hard nipples on my
palms, and all the while I’ve got my
tongue in his mouth, dancing with his.
We’re mashing mouths, sharing saliva,
breathing into each other.
I feel my bra unclip, and let it fall off
my arms, baring my breasts to him. His
pupils grow larger, and the expression
on his face becomes hungrier. He cups
my breasts in his hands, squeezing them,
kneading them, before lowering his head
and taking one of my stiff nipples into
his mouth.
I groan as he sucks on it, bites it, rolls
it around, tongues it. I run my hands
through his hair, grip onto it, pull at it,
pull him against me so that he sucks on

my nipple harder.
His fingers make their way down over
my stomach, and then they’re at the
button to my jeans. He gets down to his
knees, kisses me down my belly, and
then he uses his mouth to undo the button
to my jeans.
I laugh. That was unexpected.
With his teeth, he pulls my jeans
down, and with his hands he helps me
step out of them. Then he brings his face
back up, just in front of my sex, hovering
just an inch away.
He looks up my body, and his piercing
eyes meet mine. He is so utterly into me,
there’s no mistaking that. Feeling desired
gives me confidence, and I bite my lip,

nod at him. He takes the elastic of my
panties by his teeth and begins to pull it
down my legs.
“You dog,” I say. I watch as he does
it, study his face as he looks at my sex
while I step out of my underwear. He is
starving for it, starving for me.
He needs me.

Chapter Seventeen

God, she smells and tastes so fucking
good. I pull my tongue up through her
folds, circling around the top of her clit,
and she lets out a soft moan, and leans
against the bathroom tiles.
It must be cold, but she doesn’t even
notice.
“Pierce,” she says, breath ragged.
“Wait, we should shower.”
But I ignore her. Shower for what? I
love the way she tastes and smells. I
could eat this pussy forever.
My cock is already so hard it aches. I
wrap my hands around Pen, grab onto
her ass, mash her cheeks with my
fingers. I want to taste every inch of her
body, lick her, bite her, kiss her, make

her scream.
In my chest my heart thumps wildly,
and I realize I’ve never been so into a
girl before. I’ve never wanted someone
as much as I do her. It’s weird, heady,
but God damn if it isn’t the best feeling
in the world.
I begin to lick her clit, and she opens
her legs wider for me. She gives in. She
knows what she wants, and she’s going
to let me give it to her. The thought turns
me on, makes my cock throb impossibly
harder, makes me feel that great big ball
of insatiable desire in my gut.
This is her first time with a guy. I
know it. I’m going to make it the best
fucking first time ever. I’m going to make

her feel the best she’s ever had, because
that’s what I want, and that’s what she
wants.
She’s got her fingers in my hair, and
she’s pulling me onto her, and so I lick
her like it’s the last pussy I’m ever going
to eat. Fuck, I could eat her out every
single day of my life. I could listen to
her moans of pleasure forever. She’s the
hottest thing and she doesn’t even
fucking know it. How crazy is that? She
could coil me ’round her finger, drive
me crazy, and she doesn’t even know it.
I’ve never felt this way about a girl
before. It really hammers me, hits me
hard, a thump in the gut, and so I eat her
out with every inch of my being, for all
I’m worth.

I know how to make a girl come, but
I’m not going to take her there yet. I’m
going to build it slow, pull from her
throat those hoarse groans and sharp
cries. Her whole body writhes against
me, and she’s pushing her hips forward,
rubbing my hair, sucking in air every
chance she has. She loving every second
of it.
I pluck desperate moans and
whimpers from her throat. I make her
body go tight with longing and
anticipation. Her hands can’t stop
moving, can’t stop pulling at my hair
then pushing me back onto her. She’s on
her toes, raising herself, and her knees
and thighs are trembling as I gorge
myself on her nectar.

I keep my rhythm steady, work her clit
with my tongue, pull her higher and
higher before I sense that she’s getting
too close. Every time I feel her body
start to tighten that way, grow more
rigid, more desperate, every time I pull
her a little closer to that crest, I back her
off, and she grins and hums and laughs
and cusses.
“Shit, Pierce,” she says, voice
scratchy. She grabs my face and angles it
up to her. “Stop fucking teasing me,
okay?”
I suck on a finger and ring her
entrance with it, and her whole body
shakes and shudders as I do just that –
tease her. I dip the tip of my finger

inside, rub her slowly, pull my tongue up
her whole sex and ring her clit. I look up
at her quickly, see that her eye are
closed and that she’s lost in it all.
I rub her front wall, work her clit
rhythmically, and I can feel her body
getting hotter, feel her writhing against
the tiled wall. She’s moaning more and
louder, and her hands are gripping at my
hair harder.
“Come in my mouth,” I tell her,
pausing only to say the words before I
dive right back into her sex. God, she’s
got such a great pussy. She tastes so
good. I greedily suck her juices off my
fingers.
“Ooohh,” she whispers. She’s lolling

her head back now, and I can feel her
body tightening, and so I redouble my
efforts, eat her like a hungry dog, eat her
like it’s what I need to survive.
She moans louder, sucks in air
sharper.
“Fuck,” she hisses. Her hips push
forward, her legs tense up, she gets right
to her toes. “No, no,” she mewls, and
then her whole body jolts, and I drive
her through her climax.
Her cry of pleasure bounces off the
bathroom tiles, and I keep going, extend
it, pull her through it. She’s clenching
around my fingers, shaking and
shuddering, eyes shut tight in ecstasy.
She’s holding her breath, scrunching

up her face, coming hard in my mouth.
I taste her sweet pleasure, lap it up,
want more of it, want to drink from her.
And then she’s coming down, and she
shakes, too sensitive, grabs my hand and
hums. I slip my fingers from her, suck on
them, suck every last bit of her sexy
fucking honey off them. I drag my tongue
up her sex one last time, and she jolts
against the wall.
“No,” she says.
I grin at her, lick her clit again, and
again she jolts.
“Stop!”
Penny takes my hands, guides me to
my feet, and then she drops down my

legs, and grabs my dick, still panting.
She looks at me out of lust-laced, heavylidded eyes.
“It’s my first time,” she whispers.
I touch her face, run my fingers
through her hair, guide her onto my cock.
Gingerly, she takes it into her mouth,
begins to suck me off, run her tongue
around my tip.
Leaning back, I groan, resist the
temptation to start bucking my hips into
her mouth. “Fuck, Pen, you look so sexy
like this.”
She tilts her eyes up to me. She can
barely get my cock in her mouth. I reach
down, take her hand, guide it to jerk me
off in time with her blowjob.

Penny catches on quick. In just
seconds she’s found her rhythm, is
edging me closer and closer, is making
me feel amazing. She gets wilder, faster,
notices that when she pushes her tongue
against the back of my tip, it makes me
tighten up.
“Fuck, yes,” I groan, leaning back.
Penny runs her spare hand over my
abdomen, fingers dipping into the ridges
of my hard body. They leave trails of
fire, wind me up.
But all of a sudden she pops me out of
her mouth, and says urgently, “Where are
your condoms? Bedroom?”

Chapter Eighteen

I tear open the condom packet and
pull it out. The strong smell of latex
reaches my nostrils.
“You’re pretty big,” I say. We’re on
his bed, and Pierce is lying beneath me,
arms above his head, body looking hot
as fuck.
“I am.”
“Is it going to hurt?”
His expression softens, and he puts
his hands on my thighs. “Maybe a little
at first.”
“Be gentle with me.”
My heart feels like it’s going to

explode out of my chest, and my belly is
on fire with anticipation. He cups my
face, kisses me.
“Trust me, Pen.”
I grip his cock – I can’t even get my
fingertips to touch my thumb – and begin
to jerk him. He leans back and his eyes
half-close, as I pump him. I don’t know
even know if I’m doing it right, but it’s
obvious he likes it and so I just keep
going.
I can smell his musk, and I love it. It’s
so intimate, so him. I don’t know if that’s
weird or gross or whatever. All I know
is that I like it. I lean over him as I jerk
his cock, kiss him down his abs, inhaling
his scent as I move toward his cock.

He gets onto his elbows, and his
stomach muscles crunch. His snowy eyes
look into mine. “Put the condom on.” I
don’t miss that it’s a command.
I roll the condom down his cock, and
am surprised to see it doesn’t reach all
the way to the base. “Is that going to
come off?” I ask.
“No, he says, and he reaches out and
takes my hands, and I straddle him. The
running shower has turned the luxurious
bathroom into a steam bath. I can feel my
sweat dripping down between my
breasts, can feel the slickness on
Pierce’s skin.
He puts a hand in between my legs
and begins to touch me, and I moan as a

finger dips into me, shiver as he brushes
my clit. He’s smearing my wetness
around, and then he grabs his dick and
holds it upright by the base, and looks at
me.
I swallow, and begin to lower myself
onto him. He’s really wide, and when
he’s at my entrance I gasp, because I
realize I’m going to need to push down
pretty hard to get him in.
“Fuck,” he groans as I lower myself
more, and I feel his head slip inside me.
I moan as my nerves are set on fire. He’s
stretching me already, and in amongst the
tantalizing sensation I feel is a hint of
pain.
I lower myself farther onto him, and

tremble as I feel him fill me up
completely. I feel so full inside, it’s like
I’m being
touched
everywhere,
stretched.
“Shit,” I breathe, lowering myself
until I’m sitting on him. He’s really deep
inside me. I brush my hair from my eyes,
and then put my hands on his chest. I can
feel his hard muscle.
“God, Pen, you are tight,” he says,
rubbing my thighs. “You feel amazing.”
I lean forward, and he pulls me down
onto him, and he crushes his lips on
mine. I kiss him back hard, and I moan
loudly into his mouth as he begins to pull
himself out of me.
“Oooh,” I sound, digging my nails into

his chest. “Slower, Pierce.”
He withdraws his cock gradually,
until it’s all the way out of me, and I feel
this sudden emptiness so I press back on
him. He slides into me easier this time,
but I queef, and cover my mouth. He just
grins, pulls my lips to his again.
He starts to fuck me, gently, slowly,
and God if it isn’t the best feeling ever.
But I want to be in control, and so I sit
up, put my hands on his hard, muscular
chest, and begin to ride him. It takes me
a little while to figure out the best way
to do it, but then I’m rocking back and
forth on him, plunging his manhood deep
inside me while grinding my clit on his
pubic bone, and fuck it’s amazing.

I’m just in heaven. I let my eyes flutter
closed, let my mouth hang open, and I
just focus on riding him, chasing the
climax I know is coming.
“Oh,” I moan, biting my lip. I look
down at him, and he’s just looking at me
like I’m the only girl he’ll ever want
again. It’s an intense stare. His hands are
gripping me tight, he’s pulling me with
each of my gyrations.
I begin to ride him faster, harder. I
start to really mash my clit into his
pubis, gyrate my hips, get lost in it all. It
feels so good, pleasure thrills through
my every nerve ending. His cock is so
big inside me.
Really, I never want this to end.

He holds my hips and begins to thrust
into me, and all I can do is let him take
the reins. He pulls me back down to him,
buries his nose in my neck, and he
smells me while he fucks me hard. The
slapping sounds of our sex are all that I
can hear.
But then he stops. He pushes me off
him, growls, “On your knees,” and turns
me around roughly, slaps my thighs hard
so that I shut them, and then presses his
throbbing tip against my yearning
entrance.
He begins to push in, and in this
position, with my legs closed, I’m so
much tighter, and I can feel so much
more. I feel like I’m blinded by pleasure
as he inches into me bit by bit until he

bottoms out.
He’s rubbing the small of my back,
grabbing my ass, slapping it, running his
hands over the tops of my thighs, my
hips. His fingertips leave my skin
buzzing with hot energy, and I think to
myself that I could be touched by him
forever.
“No, no!” I moan as he starts to fuck
me hard, as he clamps onto my hips and
begins to bury himself inside me over
and over. My whole body is shaking; the
whole bed is rocking, and the headboard
is slamming against the wall again and
again and again.
“Pierce!” I cry as he speeds up, as he
fucks me with wild abandon. He coils

my hair in his hands and yanks my head
back, and I feel his hot breath on my
neck as he kisses me there.
“You fucking love this, don’t you?” he
growls into my ear. “You are so fucking
hot.”
His
pistoning
becomes
more
aggressive, more forceful. He lifts up my
hands by my wrists and places them on
the wall.
I feel a hand on my stomach, and he’s
guiding it upward. “Curve your back,”
he says into my ear. “Yeah, like that.
You’ll feel me more now.”
So I curve my back like a cat, upward,
and he’s right; with my hips angled
down, I can feel each of his thrusts

grinding against my front wall, against
my G-spot, and it’s just fucking mindblowing.
“Come on,” I beg, licking my lips
unconsciously, making faces and sounds
I never thought possible. It’s like he’s
reached into the very depths of my soul,
and now he’s playing me like an
instrument.
He’s going to make me come, and
God, he’s going to make me come hard.
“Come on, Pierce!” I beg, throwing
my hips back at him, using my hands
against the walls to push back at his
every thrust. The slapping of our bodies
becomes sticky, wet, and I know it’s our
sweat. I can feel the heat in the room; the

temperature feels like it has doubled.
“Oh God,” I moan, feeling the
pressure inside me growing. It’s right in
my belly, a force of blissful energy I
know is going to be released. I’m
climbing, ascending, getting closer and
closer and closer.
“Don’t stop!” I wail, reaching behind
me with one hand and grabbing onto his
hand. He grips mine tight, fucks me
harder.
“Touch me!” I beg.
I feel him snake a hand around my
hips, and then his fingers find my
swollen pearl and instantly it’s like a
light is switched on. I’m climbing, the
pressure is building, and he fingers my

clit deftly as he fucks me, as he slaps my
ass with his other hand, as he coils it in
my hair and yanks my head back.
“Oh shit,” I pan, punching my hips
backward to meet his every thrust. My
eyes are shut tight and I’m just feeling so
good everywhere right now.
Sex is the best thing ever.
He begins to finger my clit faster,
drive into me harder, and soon my moans
are snatched away, and all I can do is
leave my mouth open in a silent scream
until I find my voice again.
“Oh fuck, Pierce, fuck, fuck, no, no,
no!”
I’m panting the words, but he

continues to drive himself into me, drive
me toward oblivion. His fingers work
magic on my clit, dance above my
nubbin, and I’m just helpless, powerless,
as he plucks strings of pleasure I never
knew existed.
“Come for me, Pen,” he groans.
“Come all over my cock. I want to feel
you come.”
“Don’t stop,” I gasp.
“I can smell your pussy. You smell so
fucking good.”
“Don’t stop!”
“Yeah,” he groans, slamming into me
over and over. “Yeah, you fucking love
this don’t you?”

“Oh God,” I gurgle.
“Come for me, Pen. I want to hear it!”
I make some kind of sound as he
thrusts into me again and again, fingers
my clit perfectly. I’m right there, on the
edge, on the precipice, about to dive into
oblivion. The spring I feel coiled inside
me is going to explode. I feel it in my
belly, a pressure, and I’m right at the
limit.
He drives himself into me, and it’s
just what I need. I orgasm, hard, and I’m
soaring in orbit, and I’m bathed in bliss.
Ecstasy crashes over my body like
waves at the sea.
“Fuuuuuuuck!” I cry as my whole
body tightens, as I feel a pleasure the

likes of which I’ve never felt before. It’s
so intense, so white hot.
“Oooooooohh,” I moan at the top of
my lungs as he drives me through it, as
he makes it last impossibly long. My
whole body is on the verge of cramping,
and I’m gripping at the sheets, my toes
are curling hard around nothing, and I’m
shaking and trembling and writhing and
wriggling.
And I’m in heaven.
I hear him groan, feel his whole body
tighten behind me, and as my canal
clenches around his cock, I feel it swell
inside me, grow thicker.
It twitches inside me, and he lets out a
deep, rumbling sound of pleasure as his

cock fires again and again, as he empties
himself into the condom, as bliss of his
own wracks his body, sends him
spiraling into a vortex of pleasure.
And then it’s over, and I’m coming
down the other side, panting, heaving,
sweating, dizzy. My elbows shake,
buckle, and I fall onto the bed face first.
He’s taken his fingers off my clit and he
thrusts into me one more time before
stopping.
He falls onto me, wraps me up with
his arms, and he kisses the back of my
neck and shoulders, making me break out
in goosebumps.
“Oh, that felt good,” I pant. I wipe
sweat from my forehead and upper lip.

Our bodies are clammy,
together, hot with sex sweat.

sticking

He begins to pull out of me, and I
shiver as he does so, once again feeling
that gaping emptiness. And then he lies
down on the bed next to me, and I turn to
face him. He holds me in his arms, tight
against his body, and he kisses me.
We stay lip-locked for long, kissing,
tonguing, and the he leans up, looks at
me out of hungry eyes.
“Again.”
I look at his cock, and notice that it’s
still rock hard.
“You need to change your condom.”

Chapter Nineteen

Penny’s body is so sexy. I trace her
soft skin with a finger, running it over the
curve of her hips, her generous ass. She
wiggles it playfully, and so I slap her ass
cheek.
That’s when I notice the tattoo. It’s the
first time I’ve seen it. It’s in the nook of
her knee. I can’t believe I didn’t notice it
before.
“This one must have hurt,” I say,
rubbing my index finger over the tattoo.
The skin is completely smooth and untextured; the tattoo is not new.
It’s of a penguin, except it has a bright
orange bill, almost like a cartoon. “I
thought you said you did them all
yourself? How could you reach this?”

“This one I didn’t,” she says, looking
over her shoulder at me. Her hair is
pulled to one side. With her lips parted
just a little bit, I feel a surge of blood to
my cock. Penny is sexy as fuck. I could
mount her again right now.
The bare skin of her back pulls me
like a magnet, and I sidle up her body,
press my teeth into the skin of her
shoulder.
“Who did it?”
“Why?”
“Well, fuck Pen, because I want to
know. Why else?”
“I used to hang out at a shop,” she
explains. “They did apprenticeships and

courses regularly. So, I let someone do
their first tattoo on me.”
It impresses me, the fact that she’d
take that kind of risk. One slip, one fuck
up, and she’s got a bad tattoo forever…
maybe we’re not so different after all.
“Isn’t it a bit crazy to let someone
unskilled give you a tattoo?”
“It’s crazier that you earn buckets of
money to trade punches in a cage. It’s
just a man-sized cock-fight.”
“I like it when you’re nasty.”
“She did a great job, though. The
shape of the penguin is spot on.”
I look at the tattoo again. I can’t see
anything wrong with it. The proportions

are perfect, and while the style is a little
cuter than I’d like, it’s good body art.
“She must have had a good hand.”
“She did.”
“As good as yours?”
Penny snorts. “No.”
“How long ago was this?” I’ve
noticed that the black ink is starting to
fade a little.
“Few years ago now. I was still in
high school. I don’t think the ink took
really well there on the back of my knee.
The skin there is delicate.”
“What did your dad say?”
“He never noticed.”

“Never?”
Penny shrugs, and rolls over. I lie
down next to her and wrap her up in my
arms and hold her body tight against
mine. I love the feel of her soft skin
against me, her naked body touching me.
“We didn’t, like, go to the pool
together or anything,” she says,
shrugging.
“So, what, you’ve never worn a skirt
or shorts?”
“Not around Dad,” Penny says. She
smirks when she sees my expression.
“He’s… conservative.”
“He dictates what you wear?”
She sits up now, face serious.

“Nobody tells me what to wear.” The
brief moment of indignation passes. “At
least, not for a long time. No, he doesn’t
stop me. He wouldn’t. But I know he
doesn’t like it.”
“So you do it for his benefit.”
Penny sighs. “When Mom left, he
was… well, I was still young, a
teenager, and I wasn’t easy. Come to
think of it, you must have been a
nightmare to raise.”
“I boarded, Pen. No parents to speak
of since I was thirteen. Anyway, girls
are always worse than guys.”
She rolls her eyes. “Like you would
know anything about that. Anyway, I
tried to make it easy on him, you know? I

decided to stay with Dad because Mom
cheated, but, I mean, he’s oblivious.
He’s clueless. This one time I was out
with him at a zoo, I was like nine or
ten… this was even before the divorce.
Anyway, he tried to insist I go into the
male bathroom with him when I had to
use it. At that age! I mean, I was a
precocious kid, don’t get me wrong, but
he was just so clueless. He just never
grew out of me being a kid. I’m always
his, well, little girl.”
“You decided not to make him worry.”
“Well, it wasn’t all that,” she says,
looking away. “I was more of a rippedjeans and Converse girl, anyway.”
“Why a penguin?”

“Are you kidding? They’re the cutest
animal.”
“You ever seen one?”
“At the zoo, yeah.”
“I mean in the wild.”
“No,” she says. “I was planning on
visiting Phillip Island sometime to watch
them come in and nest. You know, the
miniature penguins. I thought I’d join a
tour.”
“It’s shit there,” I tell her, shaking my
head. “You sit up in these stands, ages
away from the beach, and you can barely
make them out in the dark. Plus you’re
with about two thousand other people
and everybody’s got their cameras

flashing uselessly, fucking idiots. Nah,
don’t bother.”
“Oh.”
“But I know a better place. Just a little
ways down the coast. You want to go
tonight?”
“What do you mean ‘a better place’?”
“You know there’s a colony in St.
Kilda, right? At the beach?”
“I read about it, but didn’t have the
chance to go yet.”
“Well, in between St. Kilda and
Brighton, there’s a little hidden beach
that nobody knows about in a small
cove. There’s another colony there. I’ll
take you there. You’d be right on the

shore with them. Heaps of the little
fuckers.”
Her eyes light up, and she beams me
the broadest grin. Seeing it makes my
heart race, gives me butterflies.
Fucking butterflies!
“Tonight?”
“Yeah, tonight,” I say. “They’re all
already in, but you’ll be able to see them
sleeping and nesting in the rocks.”
Penny rolls on top of me, and she
gives me a kiss. She tastes so sweet, and
the feel of her warm breath on my face is
so intimate, it just thumps me in the
chest.
Jesus, this girl is something else.

“Okay,” she says. “Take me there.”
“You can’t touch them, though.”
“I know,” she says.
I kiss her again, savoring the sensation
of her soft lips on my own. Her hair has
fallen down around my face. I can see
nothing else but hers. I look at her lips
first, sexy, seductive, before meeting her
eyes.
I flex my pelvic muscle, squeeze
blood into my cock so that it jumps up.
She grins when she feels it, but then
climbs off me. As her thighs part, I catch
a glimpse of her sex, and all I want to do
is bury my face into it, make her come
into my mouth again.

“Come on, let’s go!”
I run my hand up the inside of my
thigh, but she slaps it away and eyeballs
me.
“I said, let’s go.”

Chapter Twenty

“They’re so cute.”
I beam a smile at Pierce. He’s
perched on a rock, leaning back, staring
out to sea. The moon is full tonight, and
it’s so bright that you can see all the way
to the horizon.
I’m crouched, peering into a small
hole in the rocks. There, I see a momma
miniature penguin staring out at me. She
doesn’t look hostile or aggressive, and
I’m not surprised. The penguins around
this area have no doubt seen humans
before.
Nestled beneath her is an even
smaller penguin, her baby. It’s not black

like it’s mother, but instead grey. It’s
tiny, basically just a ball of fur with
webbed flipper-feet.
These penguins are the most adorable
things. Barely longer head-to-foot than
my forearm, they appear at once to be so
small and vulnerable, and yet so
resilient. Atop the cliff face that we
climbed down are signs warning people
not to touch them or feed them.
Pierce told me that drunk people are
always fucking around with them,
kicking them or even taking them to keep
as pets.
I feel my stomach tighten. The image
of someone kicking one of these tiny,
helpless penguins makes me sick.

“Thanks for bringing me here,” I say,
walking toward him. I climb up onto the
large, flat rock and sit down next to him.
The stone is still warm from the day’s
sun. “How did you find this place?”
“Oh, people around here know about
it.”
“You like the penguins?”
“Sure.”
We sit in silence for a while, listen to
the gentle sound of the sea slapping
sand.
“You know, you can be pretty nice
when you’re not being a dick.”
He grins.
“What are you thinking about?”

Pierce looks at me, but just shakes his
head. “Nothing.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“What’s your shop going to be
called?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t thought that
far ahead.”
“Isn’t Tina worried about introducing
new competition into the market? By
training you, I mean.”
“She’s a bit more romantic than that.
She believes in the artistry. She says she
appreciates talent.”
“And you’ve got talent.”
“I guess so, yeah.”

“I think you do. That plant thing on
your foot is great.”
“Thanks.”
I take a deep breath, and ask a
question that’s been on my mind.
“Pierce, what’s going on with us?”
“There’s an ‘us’?”
“Are you just fucking around?”
“I never fuck around.”
“That’s a big fat lie.”
“Don’t think so much,” he says.
“Thinking never fixed anything.”
I snort, shake my head at him. “Let’s
go. I should get home. I’ve got to work
tomorrow. You know where I live.”

“Uh-uh,” he says, getting up and
offering me a hand. “We’re going back to
mine.”
“Pierce.”
“Your phone’s at my house.”
“Shit. It is.”
“Oh well,” Pierce says, shrugging.
“Tough luck.”
“Wait,” I say after a moment. “You
knew? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Isn’t it obvious? You wanted to stay.
Psychologists say there’s no such thing
as mistakes.”
“There you go, being a dick again. For
a moment you were tolerable.”

“You’ll live.”
When we get back to his apartment, he
pulls me into the shower with him. He
holds me, kisses me, and even helps me
to wash and rinse my hair.
It’s weird, the feeling of somebody
else’s fingers in my hair. I’ve never
liked it. I’ve always hated going to the
hairdresser. But when he does it, it’s
okay.
And when we go to bed, alarm set to
ring in three hours. He holds me tight,
kisses the back of my neck. I can feel his
hardness.
At the edge of wakefulness, as sleep
is about to pull him under, I hear him
say, “You’re mine now, Pen. I’m never

letting you go.”
All night he stays true to his word. I’m
in his arms, feeling warm, safe… loved.
It takes me a while to fall asleep – I’m
not used to the height of his pillows –
but he nods off quickly, and he lies still
as a doorstop. The rhythm of his
breathing – so slow and steady – is
comforting, somehow. With his lips
against the skin of my shoulder, I can
feel his warm exhales.
Eventually, the world fades away, the
sound of the ceiling fan drowns out, and
I fall into a dreamless sleep, only to be
woken by a piercing ray of sunlight
making its way through a crack in the
curtains.

It’s half-past five, thirty minutes
before I had set my alarm. It’s the second
time in two weeks I’ve barely gotten a
couple of hours sleep, and I feel it now.
I’m slow, groggy, tired… a little
irritable.
I pull my phone to me, see the
notification light blinking, and slowly
pry Pierce’s arm off my body. He rolls
onto his back.
Unlocking the phone, I see that I’ve
got an email from dad.
Fuck, I think to myself. Last night I
was supposed to call him on Skype. I
had completely forgotten.
I tap through the screens until I bring
up his email. My heart stops dead.

It reads:

I proposed to Isabelle and she said
yes! We’re thinking of having the
wedding in Melbourne so you and
Pierce can attend. Hope you’re well.
Love, Dad.

Chapter Twenty One

I stare at the email on my phone. The
blood in my veins has gone cold. All my
hairs are standing up on end.
I’m so angry at myself that all I can
think about is how this affects me. I
should be happy for Dad! But all I can
think about is myself.
And Pierce.
He is beside me, still asleep in bed.
He’s thrown all the sheets off, and he’s
just lying flat on his back, naked,
sleeping. His hard muscle looks oddly
relaxed, completely lacking in any kind
of tension.
I take a moment to look down his

body, and that’s when I notice he’s got a
fucking erection.
“Oh my God,” I groan, rolling over.
Even in his sleep!
I refocus on the email, and
again, and again, and again.
believe it. This has got to be
Pierce and I are going to
stepbrother and stepsister?

read it
I can’t
a joke.
become

That’s so messed up. I don’t want to
deal with that. The phone slips out of my
hand and lands loudly on the floor,
thudding on the wooden tiles… and
waking Pierce.
He rolls over, looks at me, looks
down at his naked body, and his

erection, and then back at me.
He grins, sliding a hand over to my
breast. I slap it away, irritated.
“Okay,” he says in a quiet voice,
sitting up and rubbing his eyes. He gets
out of bed, and walks to the bathroom
without looking at me. His dick bobs
with every step.
I hear him running a glass of water, he
downs it in one go, and then starts
brushing his teeth.
“Whas yerr pwobwem dis marning?”
he asks, dribbling toothpaste onto the
floor. He grins and shrugs, and picks it
up with a finger and flicks it into the
sink.

I grimace. “Pierce, check your email.”
Some minutes later I hear him spitting
out his toothpaste and rinsing his mouth.
“For what?” he asks, emerging at the
door to the bathroom, toweling off his
face. His hair is a little wet in front, and
it sticks to his forehead. He brushes it to
the side, giving him a goofy side-parting.
“Would you do something about that?”
I ask, pointing at his erection.
“Nothing to do,” he says. “Got to
wait.”
“For what?”
“It to go down?”
“Why?”

He shrugs. “Morning wood. Just a guy
thing.”
“You mean there’s no way you can get
rid of it?”
“There’s one way,” he says, grinning
and winking at me.
“Oh, please.”
“But I wouldn’t recommend it.”
“Why?” I ask, curious.
“Because I really need to fucking piss,
not sure it would even work if you
tried.”
“I’m not trying anything,” I say,
frowning. “Can you check your email
please?”

“For what, Penny?” he asks, sitting at
his computer.
“You sit on your chairs naked? That’s
so disgusting.”
He turns to look at me, an annoying
look on his face. “You’re a bit bitchy
this morning. Let me guess, you hate
waking up. You’re one of those kinds of
people.”
“Oh would you just fucking check it,
Pierce? Please?”
“Jesus Christ, okay,” he says,
frowning. “What the fuck is the email
about anyway? Why can’t you just tell
me?” He shakes his mouse and the
screen comes alive.

“You have to read it yourself.”
“Well, I don’t have any new fucking
emails, Pen.”
“What?” I ask. “Doesn’t your mother
email you?”
“No. She prefers to write, even over
calling.”
“Write?”
“Yeah. I think they call it a letter. It’s
something from ye olde days.”
“She writes you snail mail?” I gasp.
“The wedding will happen before it
even gets here!”
His eyes open wide, and he cocks his
head to the side. “What wedding?”

I groan, and bury my face in my hands.
“You’re not going to believe it.”
“My mother?”
“Yeah.”
“And who?”
I shut my eyes and just shake my head.
“No,” he says. “You’re not serious.”
“I got an email from Dad this
morning.”
“Don’t fuck with me, Penny.”
“I’m not fucking with you, Pierce.”
He starts to laugh. At first it’s a
chuckle, but then he’s slapping his
stomach and holding onto his chest, and
tears are streaming from his eyes.

“Oh, God, I’m cramping,
cramping,” he wails as he laughs.

I’m

I am beside myself.
“This is not funny, Pierce.”
“It is! Oh, it fucking is. Don’t you see
what that means?”
“Yeah,” I say, rolling my eyes, waiting
from something crude to come out of his
mouth.
“It means you’re fucking your
stepbrother!” He bursts out laughing
again. “This is unreal. This is only shit
that you read about. It’s always
something that happens to somebody
else.”
“You’re not my stepbrother yet, you

idiot.” I fold my arms, and sit up in bed.
“And we’re not fucking.”
“Right,” he says, walking over to me.
His erection is half-gone now, and he
stands right next to my face.
“Go away,” I say, making a face.
He leans down, tilts my head up, and
kisses me quickly.
“Eugh!” I say, pushing him off me. I
turn away from him and put a hand over
my mouth. “I haven’t brushed my teeth
yet.”
“Pen,” he says. His cock throbs as he
pinches his pelvic muscle. “I really
don’t care.”
I get out of bed, rush past him into the

bathroom. “We’re not doing this again,”
I throw at him on my way in.
“Yeah we will,” he says.
I catch a flash of his arrogant smirk as
I slam the door shut.
My head is spinning. Our parents are
getting married!
Oh, God, how awkward is this going
to be?
I brush my teeth, gargle mouthwash,
and then examine my hair.
Sigh.
That’s when I remember that I’ve got
my hat in my bag. Perfect.
Rushing out of the bathroom, I get

dressed, sling my bag over my shoulder,
and walk toward the door. Pierce
watches me from the kitchen counter.
He’s drinking something thick and brown
– probably a protein shake – and
watching me with an amused grin.
“Where are you going?”
“Out,” I say. “I’m leaving. I’m have to
get to work.”
“Shouldn’t we talk about this?”
It’s always surprised me how fast
irritation can lead to lashing out. I fire an
angry glance at him. I feel… foolish. The
news that our parents will be getting
married has totally shaken me.
I mean, this is something I’ve got to

get out of early. There’s no way I want to
start forming any attachment toward my
soon-to-be stepbrother.
Because once you dig that hole,
climbing out involves a whole lot of
awkwardness and embarrassment. I hate
both of those.
And I have to admit to myself that I
hate the idea of heartache even more.
“Pen,” he says. “What’s gotten you so
worked up? We’re only going to be
stepbrother and stepsister.” He laughs as
he says it, apparently unable to contain
himself. I don’t know what he finds so
funny. It would only be funny if I were
watching it happen to somebody else. It
would only be funny if this was part of

some television show.
But it’s not. It’s real. It’s happening.
It’s weird, icky. It’s not something
people should do.
“Come on,” he says, as if reading my
mind. He’s got a frothy protein-shake
mustache, and wipes it off on the back of
his hand. “It’s not like we’re actually
related.”
“Officially we’re going to be.”
“So? We’ll keep it a secret.”
“Keep what a secret?”
“Keep fucking,” he says, shrugging.
“I’m going, Pierce.”
I make a beeline for the door, glancing

at the clock. I’ll make it on time if I can
get a taxi. Just as I’m about to open it,
the doorbell rings, and then a gruff voice
booms through the wood: “Pierce
Fletcher!”
I freeze, and look at Pierce. The voice
sounds… off. It’s bad, sounds like an
order rather than a question.
“Who is that?” I whisper. “You’re
expecting somebody? And you didn’t tell
me?”
He shakes his head, and already I can
see his expression has changed. He very
definitely wasn’t expecting somebody.
“Nobody knows where I live.”
“Well, obviously somebody does!”

Chapter Twenty Two

Pierce’s expression has lost all its
buoyancy. He actually looks concerned,
and it’s freaking me out.
Quickly, he moves toward me, and
guides me back from the door. He places
his ear against it. The atmosphere has
switched
from
awkward
and
argumentative to extremely tense in just
two seconds flat.
Why doesn’t the door in his place
have a fucking peephole?
My heart is racing. Something very
definitely feels wrong.
I shadow him, watch as he unlocks
and opens the door. In the hallway

outside are two men in suits. I don’t fail
to notice that they both sport the same
tattoo on their necks, the left side just
below the jawline. It’s a symbol of some
kind, but I can’t make it out. One of them
has his hands behind his back, and I see
that they are beneath his jacket.
It dawns on me a second later: That
man must be gripping onto a gun!
“Who the fuck are you?” Pierce asks,
standing in the doorway. The men try to
enter the apartment, but Pierce puts a
hand out. “Uh-uh. Talk here, or fuck off.”
The two men look at each other. One
of them is about five-eight, bald, with
the build of a 1920’s Chicago gangster
caricature, the other Pierce’s height,

skinnier, and with a scar running down
the side of his face. It joins his eye to his
chin.
I touch Pierce’s elbow. These guys
are definitely not door-to-door vacuum
salesmen.
The stocky bald guy steps forward.
“We work for Lev Fallon. You know of
him, I presume?”
“Yeah, I heard of him,” Pierce replies.
“He’s setting up a fight.”
“First I’ve heard of it.”
“Next week, Friday. One fight only.”
“Against who?”
“Anton Vasilev.”

I see Pierce’s fist clench. “Never
heard of him.”
“Fallon has arranged this fight in
cooperation with the Mogilovich family.
I take it you know who I refer to.”
Pierce’s body stiffens a little. He
obviously knows, but the name means
nothing to me. It doesn’t take a genius to
figure out that these names are those of
mobsters, though. Or the mafia…
whatever they’re called.
I don’t like this one bit.
“Why me?” Pierce asks.
“He’s been a long-time fan, mate.”
“I’m not interested.”
“You stand to earn two million

bucks.”
Pierce, in the process of closing the
door, opens it. “Two mil? For one fight?
You’re shitting me.”
“Pierce!” I hiss, but he ignores me.
“That’s right. Two percent of the
forecasted winnings.”
“Don’t tell me your boss is placing a
fifty mil bet on me.”
“He represents a conglomerate.”
“Other fans,” Pierce sneers.
The stocky man straightens his tie.
“He believes you can win.”
There’s a stony silence. The air
between them turns thick as treacle.

“I won’t talk to some fucking goon.”
He waves them off with his hand. “If
your boss has something to ask me, then
he can talk to me personally. Until then,
you’re wasting my time.”
The man with the scar pulls out a
radio, and when he clicks the button on
the side, it bursts to life with a static
hiss. “Boss, he says he’ll only talk to
you.”
There’s a pause. A voice comes
through with a thick Australian accent.
“Be right up, mate.”
“He’s here now?” I ask. I pull Pierce
to the side, press the door shut, and
shoot him an angry glare. “Who is this
guy that’s coming up?”

“Lev Fallon, one of the local mob
bosses.”
I blink. “Pierce, you asshole. You
can’t involve me in this. How the hell
did they get your address?”
But he doesn’t reply. It’s clear to me
that he doesn’t know. Suddenly, I’m
feeling overwhelmingly disappointed.
“Jesus, Pierce!
anywhere?”

Are

you

listed

“No,” he says. “I got this place under
a friend’s name.”
“Why? Why would you do that?”
“Fuck’s
sake,
Pen,
I
fight
underground. You can make an enemy or
two that way.”

“Well, they found it, so obviously you
weren’t careful enough. Or they got to
your friend.”
“Doubt it,” Pierce said. “He’s in
Rio.”
“As in Brazil?”
“Yeah. He owns a few bars out there.”
“Well, you certainly involve yourself
with stand-up people, don’t you?”
Pierce leans into me, eyes hard.
“Climb down, Pen.”
“I’m going.”
“No, don’t. I don’t want them
following you.”
I suck on my lower lip. Fuck. He’s

right. That asshole!
“You gotta stay with me right now,
Pen. I can protect you if you’re with
me.”
“Against the mob? I doubt that.”
“Stay here.”
“What do they want?”
“You heard them,” Pierce says. “They
just want to set up a fight. It’s just
business.”
“Just business?” I hiss. “At your
fucking house?”
“It’s the fucking mob, Pen. This is
how they do business.”
I fold my arms. “Well, I don’t like it.”

Chapter Twenty Three

My blood is boiling. I can’t believe
these cocksuckers came to my fucking
house. I can’t believe that Penny was
here when they did.
The only thing I can think about right
now is whether or not they’re interested
in using her to bargain with me. These
fucks are above nothing.
That, and the huge fifty mil wager
they’ve put on me. I have a feeling that
this isn’t exactly an offer. More like a
request… and the mob requesting
something typically means they have
something on you, something they can
use.
I open the door again, and watch the
two goons while they stand. Neither of

them look uncomfortable. Two pairs of
neutral eyes are fixed on me. That they
are so comfortable speaks to their
confidence, and that tells me a lot about
this Lev Fallon, who up until this
moment I only knew vaguely of by name.
Down the hallway, the elevator dings,
and the man who steps out is one I
recognize from my last fight. He was in
the stands. He’s even wearing the same
clothes.
Imagine the cliché of a mob boss.
Impeccably dressed, expensive suit,
gold rings, the works, neat hair. Well,
he’s the opposite of that. He’s wearing a
Hawaiian shirt, khaki shorts, sandals,
and his hair is pulled messily back into a
pony tail.

My mind reels for a moment before I
am able to fully appreciate that though he
looks like a fucking dork, he kills
people, runs prostitution rings, and deals
drugs for a living.
I could take all three of them, but I’m
no fucking idiot.
“Pierce,” he says. His voice drips
with congeniality. “Pierce, my boy.
Good to finally meet you, mate. I’m a
huge bloody fan of yours.” He takes a
moment to look up and down my topless
body. “Fuck me, you have the body of a
Greek god. I’m part-Greek you know, on
my mother’s side.” He pats his paunch.
“No Godly genes in me, though.”
I level steely eyes at him. “I’m not

your boy. How did you find out where I
live?”
“Oh, I have connections,” Fallon says,
gesturing ambiguously into the air. “May
I come in?”
“No.”
“Do you know who I am?”
“Yes.”
“So I think you should invite me in.”
I step outside, and shut the door
behind me. “I think not, asshole. You
think your fucking intimidation tactics
scare me? Like I told your shit-heel
meathead, I’m not interested.”
Fallon sucks in a long breath of air
before he pushes his lips together. “I like

you, Pierce,” he says. “You’ve got fire.”
“More than enough to burn you right
now.”
“Oh, I don’t doubt it. Wouldn’t want
anything to happen to your sweet little
girlfriend, though, now would we,
mate?”
I want to explode, wail on him, crack
his fucking skull against the fire
extinguisher.
“Have at her,” I say. “She’s nothing
but a fucking lay. A shitty one, too.”
“Nice try,” Fallon says. He’s got this
smile on his face that I want to punch off.
“But I don’t buy it, considering you
drove her home after your last fight. You

don’t strike me as the gentlemanly sort of
bloke.”
I narrow my eyes. They’ve been
following me.
“Ah, he understands,” Fallon says,
leering at me, and then exchanging
grinning glances with his two goons.
“Now, you ready to talk business? Or do
I need to prove myself to you even
further?”
“Why are you keeping tabs on me?”
“Like I said, I’m a longtime fan. Seen
every one of your fights for two years
straight. But if I’m going into business
with somebody, I need to know what
they’re about. I need to know that they’re
reliable. I need to know they don’t have

a bad habit or two on the side. As it
stands, up until now your habit has been
girls. That’s fine.”
“I’m not interested in fighting for
you,” I say.
Fallon sighs, and pinches the bridge
of his nose. “Do we need to go over the
girlfriend thing again?”
With difficulty, I force myself to calm.
“You want me to fight in your own little
grudge match with some Russian mafia
family and his boy. The thing is, I don’t
give a fuck about your cock-measuring.”
“And?”
“And I ain’t fighting for you. I don’t
fight for anybody but me.”

Fallon rocks on his feet, before he
claps his hands together in front of him.
“Penelope Wordsworth, father Michael
Wordsworth, engaged to… Isabelle
Fletcher, mother of Pierce Fletcher. She
may be a shitty lay, but you and I both
know she’s not just some nobody.”
“Fuck you,” I growl.
“This bloke I know, he runs a travel
agency. It’s a front, naturally, but he’s
some kind of hacking wizard. I’ve had
the equivalent of an APB out on your
name in the digital world for a while,
now.”
“You’ve been tapping my fucking
internet?”
“You’ve got good taste in porn, mate.

Surprised you need it with all the chicks
you screw.”
I lick my lips. “Get to the point.”
Fallon drops his voice, and points
two fingers at me. “We can get to you,
mate. We can get to everyone you love,
everyone you care about. Now, you said
you’re not my boy. But you are my boy. I
own you now, because I know you. I
know everything about you. I know that
this bad boy bullshit you put on isn’t
you. You care. You’re a decent bloke. I
can respect that. I even know about
Ricky.”
I clench my fists, do everything I can
to stop from breaking him in two.
“I know what you do for him and his

mother. I know what you did to him.
Like I said, I know everything. Like I
said, you’re a decent bloke. I like that.
The world needs more decent blokes.
Me, though, I’m not decent. I’m not a
good guy. Some might even say I was a
bad guy. Maybe… you can respect that,
or at least understand what it means.”
I calm my racing heart, force the anger
to evaporate out of every pore on my
body. They’ve got Penny in their
sights… as much as I want to drop this
prick right now, I can’t.
It takes every ounce of willpower I’ve
got not to separate his lower jaw.
“Maybe you need a financial
incentive. Two million is nothing to

scoff at, but let’s say we up it to five
percent of the pot. That’s at least five
million, easy. That’s retirement money,
Pierce. You can disappear with your girl
on your arm. You can start a family, give
your children good lives. You can spoil
the fuck out of ’em, for all I care, turn
them into fat little cunts.”
I grit my teeth together. I can hear the
grinding enamel ringing in my skull.
“We’ll set up a private location, and
tickets will be sold discretely. There
will be a minimum bet to ensure we
keep the undesirables out. This is all
business.”
I’ve heard of these kinds of fights
before. Rich gangsters betting on fighters

like dogs. I never thought my success
would make me a target…
…would make her a target.
“Attendance roughly one thousand,
give or take,” Fallon continues. “Sound
good?”
I grunt at him.
“You can put money in on yourself,
since I know you like to do that. No
limit, if you’ve got the stomach for
something big.”
I glower at him. “I always win.”
“I know, my boy. That’s why I picked
you.”
“I’m not your fucking boy. I want
tapes, if you got any, of this Russian

fighter. Anton whatever the fuck.”
Fallon clicks his fingers at
Baldilocks, and the man puts a hand into
his inside jacket pocket, and pulls out a
brown paper envelope and hands it to
me. It’s got a VCR cassette tape in it,
judging by the weight and size.
Where the fuck am I going to find a
player for this?
“Sorry about the tape,” Fallon says,
shrugging.
“You couldn’t get a fucking DVD?”
“That’s all I could get. He’s a power
fighter, uses his legs—”
I cut him off. “Don’t tell me how to
analyze my opponent.”

“Just trying to help. It is in my best
interest that you win this fight. And
what’s in my best interest is also in your
best interest.”
“Why don’t you just hop in the cage
yourself with this Mogilovich cunt, you
fucking wuss? Not man enough?”
Fallon blasts out a hoarse laugh.
“You’ve picked up the Aussie
vocabulary. You not seen Sergei
Mogilovich, then?”
I shake my head.
“All of five-foot-five, and thin as a
noodle. He’d never get in the ring with
anybody.”
Great, I think to myself. A Chihuahua

mobster with insecurities.
“Anyway,” Fallon says. “Enjoy your
brekkie.”
“I never want you ’round my fucking
house again, got it?”
“Hold up your end of the deal, Pierce,
and you’ll never have to. I expect you to
win.”
“I will win.”
“And if you don’t, then you’ll owe
me.” Fallon steps closer. “And trust me,
mate, that’s not something you want.
Especially since you’re a bloody yank.”
I grin at Fallon. “Must eat you up,
huh? An American being the best fighter
in your town.”

“I just want to make some money. I’ll
send you a text to let you know the
details.”
“You have my number?”
He sneers. “Of course I fucking do.”
Fallon gestures at his goons and they
walk off. Baldilocks shoots me a glare.
“Asshole,” I say, going back inside.
“Penny?” I call.
“What?” she says, appearing from the
bedroom. She’s put on some eyeliner,
and has corralled her hair.
“We need to talk.”
“We’re not talking.” She spits the
words at me, all venom.
“Why?”

“Because you just made a deal with
fucking mobsters.”
“It’s only a fight.”
She points a finger at me. “You’re an
idiot Pierce, if you believe it’s only
going to be one time.”
“Pen,
money.”

it’s

practically

retirement

“Oh,” she challenges, hands on her
hips. “That’s what this is about, is it?
Retirement?”
I grit my teeth, but say nothing.
“I thought so. Retirement. Fuck you,
Pierce. Don’t get me involved in this.”
“The fight is next Friday. I need you
there, Pen.”

“I don’t care.”
“Pen,” I say. I walk up to her, but she
pushes me violently away. “Pen, I need
you there. I’ll fight better if you’re
watching.” What I tell her is partly true.
But the other part of it is that I want her
where I can see her. I don’t want them
getting their hands on her.
“Well, this is a fight I’m not
watching.”
“Why?”
“Because you didn’t listen to me. You
didn’t even consult me before accepting
whatever shady deal they gave you. I
don’t care how much money it is, it’s all
dirty.”

“Consult you?” I ask. I can feel my
temper starting to flare. “Why the fuck
should I consult you?”
Penny stops her exit, and turns around.
“Because you want me there. Because
you want me.”
She leaves, and slams the door.
And God fucking damn it if she isn’t
fucking right about that.
I do want her.
It might just be that I need her.

Chapter Twenty Four

The whirlwind enters my tattoo shop.
All swagger, smug cockiness. But it
means nothing to me, now. He’s just a
whirlwind of trouble, scooping up all
the shit he can into the eye of his storm.
Like I need that fucking turbulence in
my life. Like I need all that damn
collateral.
It’s been one day since I found out our
parents are getting married. It’s been a
day since he agreed to fight in some
shady mob setup that is sure to land him
– and anyone connected to him – in
trouble.
There is no way I want to see him,

and I already told him that.
But, still, there he is, pissing me off.
“We need to talk,” he says.
“About what?” I ask, pushing him into
the small supply room in the back so
Tina won’t hear us. Vials of ink, spare
tattoo machines, books, and medical
supplies sit on shelves. There’s a
vacuum and a mop and bucket, too. We
barely fit in.
“You already know what I think about
this. You and I are over.”
This annoying grin parts his lips.
“It’s not funny.”
“It is funny.”

“It’s not,” I say. “Plus, now you’re
involved with the mob.”
“Christ, Pen, I’m not involved. It’s
one fight and I’ll win it.”
“Oh, you’re sure of that, are you?”
“I watched the tape. The guy’s
powerful but slow. I’ll dance with him
until he’s gassed, and then hold him.
Easy.”
“You’ve got it all figured out, haven’t
you?”
“All of it.”
He steps closer toward me, I notice
that the veins on his arms are sticking out
more, and that I can see muscle fibers
under his skin.

“What’s wrong with you? Are you
sick?”
“No. Just getting ready for the fight.”
I wait for him to say more, but he
doesn’t. Growing exasperated, I shake
my head at him. “So? What are you here
for? What do you want to talk about?”
“I need you at the fight, Pen.”
“Why?”
“Because you’ll get to see me in tiny
shorts.”
Despite myself, I laugh.
“Hey, it’s me. You’ll take what you
can get.”
“No,” I say. He has a great way of

ruining a joke. “No. We can’t do this.”
“Yes we can.”
“On top of the fact that I don’t want to
watch you fight, it’s too weird. We can’t
keep being together. It’s too awkward.
We’ll be family soon.”
“So? Cross that bridge when we get
there.”
“No,” I say firmly.
He steps closer to me, takes my hand
in his and pulls it up over my head. He
begins to kiss the underside of my arm,
moves to my neck. I don’t want to, but I
turn my head to the side, let him kiss me,
let him smell me.
“Don’t tell me it wasn’t fucking

unbelievable. I heard you.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Don’t tell me you don’t still want it.”
He presses my hand hard against the
wall, pushes his body into mine. I can
feel his hardness against my stomach.
“Pierce—”
“What good would it be for you to
sacrifice something you want for the
sake of your father?”
“It’s not about that?”
“Oh? Because I could swear you’ve
got a guilt complex about it. About
leaving him.”
“Shut up,” I say.

“Isn’t that what you told me at
dinner?”
“Shut up, Pierce,” I say.
I’m angry, but he’s too strong; I can’t
pull my arm down, can’t get out from
under him. He pushes his forehead
against mine, stares into my eyes. I see
his wolf eyes.
“You’re telling me you want this to
end?”
“Yes.”
“Bullshit. I make you feel alive. I
make you feel dirty. I make you feel
good.”
His hand is sliding down the front of
my body, and when I feel his fingers

touch the skin beneath the button of my
jeans, I jolt.
“I want you, Pen.”
“Why?” I ask.
He pushes his hand inside my
underwear, plays with me, teases me. He
squeezes my lips together, then spreads
me. I feel it all, and I’m already so
sensitive that when he rubs my clit, I let
out a soft moan. Appalled with myself, I
try to get out, try to get away, but his
whole body is against me.
“Stop it, Pierce,” I whisper, but he
doesn’t. He rubs my clit so deftly, and
it’s only moments before I feel my own
wetness pressing back against me. I can
smell his musk, feel his heat, feel his

desperation for me. He wants me… he
needs me. He’ll never let me go.
I know it all. It’s not just that he told
me. I simply know it.
“Tell me you want me out of your
life.”
“I want you—”
“Tell me you never want to see me
again. Tell me you never want to scream
again, feel the best you’ve ever fucking
felt.”
He forces me to kiss him, claims my
lips, rubs my clit exactly how I need it. I
can’t concentrate anymore. I’m losing
myself in it. I’m losing my grip.
I moan, my eyes fall shut. He rubs me

so well, so fast, I’m right at the edge so
quickly, too quickly.
“No,” I say uselessly. He doesn’t
stop. I feel his finger at my entrance, and
he pushes it in, and I shut my jaw tight so
I don’t make a sound.
I hate myself for opening my legs a
little wider. I hate myself for gyrating my
hips to the rhythm of his fingering.
He drives me racing forward, brings
me to oblivion so quickly. I climax hard
onto his hand, bury my face in his chest,
and then I’m coming down, panting,
shaken, fogged-up.
“Why don’t you care?” I snarl.
“I do care.”

“Then tell me why you want me.”
He pulls back, like he’s confused, or
like he’s contemplating something for the
first time. I’m left standing against the
wall, my arm still above my head,
breathless, panting, my sex still
quivering.
“Tell me!” I cry. My voice breaks.
His eyes meet mine, and this time
there’s something else there. More than
just base lust. More than just Pierce
Fletcher getting his way.
He turns around and leaves.
“Why?” I shout at his back. The
door’s bell ding as it closes behind him.
“Coward!”

I’m shaking with a heady mix of anger
and disappointment.
Why couldn’t he just tell me?

Chapter Twenty Five

The days blend together, one smudged
aching blur.
I’ve never felt this way before.
Penelope isn’t talking to me, and it’s
eating me up. I’m not some clingy dick
with low self-esteem, but she and I
really had something. I’ve never felt
more comfortable around a girl before,
more attracted to one.
I’ve never wanted to please a girl
more than I do Pen.
I’ve never felt the sting of
disappointing a girl more than I do Pen.
And I’ve disappointed a metric
fuckton of girls.
Usually I just get mine, and I’m fine

with that. I fuck them, and leave them. I
don’t need any attachments. For fuck’s
sake, I fight underground. Attachments
get you burned one way or another.
Distractions take your mind off the prize,
the win.
But now I’m doubting that philosophy.
Now Pen has got me going back on my
own beliefs, on the way I’ve lived my
life.
Because now she’s the prize, she’s
what I want to win… need to win. But I
need to protect her, too, and that makes
my mind go somewhere it doesn’t want
to.
Do I need to protect her from me?
She is pissed at me, and rightfully so.

I didn’t fucking know that I’d get
involved with the mob. They basically
gave me no choice but to fight in this
pathetic little dick-measuring match.
Some local mobster cunt and some
Russian mafia cunt want to settle a bet,
and they’re using me to do it, and some
foreign beefcake fighter.
They’re not just using me, either.
They’re using Pen, too. I wonder idly
what this Anton fuckhead was threatened
with. I wonder how they could make him
fly half way around the world just to do
one single fight. Maybe they got to him,
too.
Nothing is worse than being a pawn.
I’m going to find a fucking way out of
this one way or another, and then I’m

going to make sure Lev Fallon, the
cocksucker, goes down.
But five million is retirement money.
Five million on top of what I already got
saved and invested? Shit, I don’t
consider myself motivated by money, but
damn, that’s a good life for me and my
kids. And, it keeps Pen safe. If I don’t do
the fight, they’ll get to her. That much is
clear as day.
Wait a minute… My kids? I blink,
surprised at myself for the thought.
I’ve never, ever considered having
kids before. I’ve never considered
settling down before. To me, that was
always phony bullshit. Nobody wants to
settle down. Nobody wants some boring

fucking suburban life with picket fences
and flower beds and shitty fake dinner
parties filled by passive-aggressive
small talk.
Well, imagine it with Penelope, and it
doesn’t sound too bad. Waking up next to
her every single morning? Making love
to her every single morning? Every
single night?
Tasting her, smelling her… having her
every single day? Seeing her smile,
making her laugh… pissing her off?
That’s fucking heaven.
That’s what I want. I want her. I want
her to be mine. She is mine… she just
doesn’t know it yet.
Fuck.

Of course, we wouldn’t just be some
asshole couple with rich-guilt and fake
smiles. We’d be cool, do things our way.
She’d run her tattoo shop, pick her
clients, succeed in her life. She’d do
whatever she wanted, because she can.
I recognize the fire in people. The
burning will to win, to succeed.
My stomach crunches as I realize that
I might just be derailing that.
But Fallon’s threat was clear. I’ll do
this fight, win, and walk away with
Penelope in my arms. If I listen to her, if
I don’t fight, then he’s going after her.
Shit, Fallon goes after both of us.
I can beat a man half to death in seven
seconds, but I can’t take on the mob, no

matter how much I want to. At least, not
without a plan.
I need a plan.
All my winning, all my showboating,
all my fame, and it just made me a target.
Not just me, but Penelope, too.
Fuck them. Fuck them all.
I down a bottle of Gatorade, shake off
the brain-freeze, and then start skipping
again. I need to get my conditioning to
peak level, and I’ve got less than a week
to do so.
I’ve got to get Penny out of my mind…
for now. Because if I don’t, I might just
lose this fight.

Chapter Twenty Six

Tina Azume is beaming at me, and I
feel the welcome flutter of pride in my
chest and belly.
Before me, she holds up the imitation
skin, a bespoke fabric designed to
emulate real skin for tattoo artists to
practice on.
Of course, nothing is the same as real
skin. Nothing is the same as inking a
living, breathing human who bleeds,
whose temperature changes, who
sweats, who feels pain.
But damn it if I haven’t done a good
job. Tina had me draw that optical
illusion where everybody is walking up

and down steps, but there’s no way to
tell which way is the right way up. It’s a
visual trick; the lines are dishonest, but
that we can’t make total sense of that
reveals the brain’s willingness to try and
interpret anything, and to mold
information
into
something
understandable.
Like with spelling errors, the brain
can
usually
skip
over
them,
automatically fill in the blanks. The
same is true for perspective.
The point of the exercise was to
evaluate my feel for perspective, to see
if I easily confuse, or if I can orient
myself quickly. The optical illusion is,
of course, a cheat. But at first glance, it
looks like a window into some weird

dimension.
“It’s perfect,” Tina says, grinning.
“Even on my first go I couldn’t emulate
it right.”
“The needle sometimes stuck a little,”
I tell her. “There was some, I don’t
know, drag?”
“Well, if people clam up you’ll
definitely experience some of that.
Different people have different skin, too.
You wouldn’t know it on the outside, but
I’ve tattooed two people who looked
basically the same in terms of their skin,
but one was far more difficult than the
other.”
Tina gestures for me to sit down, and
she comes over to the small sofa we’ve

got. When she sits next to me, she
doesn’t fall into it like I do. Even the
way she sits is precise, practiced, and,
fittingly, severe. She crosses a leg, her
back is straight as can be, and her
shoulders are pulled back.
Tina looks like the kind of woman
who never, ever is unprepared. She’s
confident, not because she’s cocky, but
because she understands… well,
everything.
I want to be like that. I want to be in
charge of my own domain, successful,
judgers be damned. The tattoo industry,
like most others, is still dominated by
men. Women are only just finding their
foothold, only just reclaiming back
territory that should have been theirs for

the taking.
Tina is the top female artist, and one
of the top overall artists in the world,
and she knows it. More than that, she has
the respect of all the male artists. They
fawn over her, defer to her. She’s a
fucking superstar.
I want that. My ambition won’t let me
settle for anything less.
“Look,” she says, showing me one of
her tattoo books. It’s so clients can see
tattoos she’s done on others, or
otherwise reference designs. Tina flicks
through to a girl with a shaved head.
There’s a tattoo of a tribal-ish dragon on
the back of her neck.
“For some reason, with Claire here

—”
“You remembered her name? This
photo is four years ago.” I point at the
small date stamp.
“I expect you to remember all our
clients’ names, too.”
“Right.”
“Anyway,” Tina explains. “The ink
just wouldn’t take to the back of her
neck. It was the skin type. It took me
forever just to get the outline.”
“But she’s so pale,” I say. “And her
skin looks really soft.”
“Exactly.” Tina quickly flips through
the book. “Now this was another client I
worked on. Her skin looks practically

identical, right?”
I study the photo, and for all I know it
might just be the same woman with hair.
Her skin looks the same, her shoulder
shape is the same.
“The ink took exceptionally well here.
I scheduled myself twice as much time
as I needed to do this piece.”
This time it’s a black eight-ball on the
back of her neck. I’m fairly astonished,
as that requires a lot of ink. To do it in
half the expected time…
“I didn’t realize skin could vary so
much.”
“It can, and certain inks do well on
some skin types.”

“Has this been studied?”
Tina shakes her head. “Not
exhaustively, no. Most tricks and tips
you learn are anecdotal, from
experience. There is no scientific
journal measuring the differences
between skin types, and how they pertain
to ease of tattooing.”
“Why not?”
“Who would fund such a study? We’re
already stigmatized as it is, though it is
much better now than ten years ago.”
I nod, and hum. “The imitation skin
took the ink well, but it felt sticky.”
“That’s because it’s not real skin.
Tomorrow we’ll do another exercise, on

imitation skin that doesn’t take ink well.
It’s deliberately made more fragile, so
you can see how you can damage the
skin if you try too hard.”
“That happens to people?”
“Of course it does. If you damage the
skin too much, your tattoo may not take
at all, you may scar the client, and
they’ll certainly feel it for a long time
while it heals. Tattooing is not just about
being a good artist, it’s about
understanding the technique, and the
technique is what I would call very
technical. It will take a lot of training.”
“I’m ready to train, Tina. I’ll put in all
the work I can.”
“Working hard

is

important,

of

course,” she says. “Having talent and
innate understanding is vital, too. I think
you’ve got it.”
I hold back a smile. “Thanks.”
“But we need to turn you into more of
a people person.”
I grimace. “Really?”
“Oh, yes. Trust is very important. You
are marking somebody for life, and
tattoos often have immense sentimental
value. How can you get people to trust
you if you are not skilled at
socializing?”
“I’m just not really a social person.”
“Think about all the women in history
who were forced to socialize – likely

against their will – hanging onto the
arms of men. Are you going to sit here
and tell me that being socialable is not a
skill that can be honed, like drawing?”
I shake my head. “No.”
“Tomorrow we have three clients
booked for the afternoon. I want you to
sit down with each of them and talk to
them.”
“Really? Do I have to?”
“Yes. Talk, get to know them. Ask
about their tattoos. Show interest. Don’t
be awkward or combative. At least, try
not to be. You’ll meet people from all
walks of life. Different ages, races,
classes, and religions. I hate to say it,
but some of our clients are genuinely

slow. Some are very smart, quick. Some
are sensitive and take offense easily,
others can take jokes all day long. It’s
imperative you understand how to
connect with them all. Especially if you
want to run your own shop one day.”
I nod, but stay silent.
“Did you have many friends in
school?”
“Not really,” I whisper. “I wasn’t one
of the cool girls if that’s what you mean.
People thought I was ‘punk’ or whatever
because I painted my nails black and had
tattoos and wore black t-shirts.”
“What about that tattoo artist you said
you were friends with?”

“Well, she was more of an oldersister, I guess? We weren’t really, like,
you know, real friends. I liked her
because she could teach me.”
Tina smiles warmly. “Okay, well,
listen, it may not come easily, but it’ll
come with practice, like most things in
life. Anyway, I wanted to ask you, how
are you doing? Settling in fine?”
“Yeah, it’s okay,” I say. “Still not used
to all the slang, and in America you’d
never hear the c-word as much as you do
here.” I give her a sheepish grin.
“And Pierce?”
I stiffen up. “What… what about
him?”

“Is he bothering you still?”
“Not… exactly.”
“Be careful with him,” Tina warns
me. “Do you understand?”
I furrow my brow, attempting to shrug
it off. “Come on, Tina.”
“No, really Penelope. Be careful with
him. He’s a heartbreaker.”
The words come out of my mouth in a
whisper. “Right.”
“I assume you know what he does,
right?”
“He’s a fighter… underground.”
“As in illegal.” Tina sees how
uncomfortable I’m getting, and puts a

hand on my knee. “I’m just looking out
for you. If you ever need to talk, you can
call me, okay?”
“Thanks,” I say.
“Now go on, get out of here. You want
a lift home?”
“No, I’m going to walk.”
Tina’s voice grows stern. “Penelope.”
“Okay, I’ll take the tram.”
“Good enough. See you tomorrow.”
I smile, get up and leave the shop
wondering at Tina’s slightly maternal
behavior. As far as I know, she’s single,
and if I had to guess I’d say she was in
her late thirties. I’ve never seen her with
a guy, and I’ve never failed to notice

how she dotes on the children that
clients sometimes bring in.
But then my mind moves to Pierce.
It’s like I can only get a few seconds
of time to think about something else
before my thoughts go back to him.
I wonder what he’s up to.
I’m… I hate to admit it, but I’m
worried.

Chapter Twenty Seven

Three days left. Just three days until
the fight.
I’m eating brown rice, broccoli and
chicken breasts, followed by an
electrolyte and mineral cocktail I made
up myself.
The worst thing that can happen to a
fighter in the cage is to get a cramp.
You’ve got to prepare your body for
many days before the fight. You’ve got to
get everything just perfect. Hydration is
key, and good food is, too.
You’d never guess it, because, fuck,
calories are calories, right? But there’s a
world of difference in the way you feel
consuming one-thousand calories of junk
versus one-thousand calories of good

food. I eat four one-thousand calorie
meals per day. It’s actually really hard
work.
When I was younger, I paid diet no
mind. Now, with the big three-zero
coming up faster than I’d like, I live by
it.
There’s a knock on the door. I haven’t
showered yet – I stink of sweat from
working out – but it’s probably just one
of Fallon’s goons come around the house
again, maybe to give me the details for
the fight location.
After I specifically told them not to.
My blood boils. I walk angrily to the
door, fling it open, ready to grab
Baldilocks or whoever the fuck by the

collar, hoist him up against the wall, and
pummel him.
But it’s not him. It’s Penelope.
“Pen,” I say, unclenching my fist. Her
eyes roam up and down my body. I’m
wearing nothing but compression shorts.
When I notice her eyes linger on the
bulge in my crotch, I smirk at her. “I
knew you’d be back.”
“Oh Christ,” she says, turning around.
“Wait, wait,” I tell her. I take her
hand, turn her back toward me. “I’m
sorry. It’s… I don’t know.”
“Just the way you are?”
“A lifetime of bad habits,” I concede.
“Come in.”

I guide her into my apartment, roll a
weighted medicine ball out of her way.
“Anything to drink?”
“You got something alcoholic?” she
asks. I peer at her, and she shrugs. “Hey,
I didn’t want to come here.”
“Anything in mind?”
“Vodka orange?”
“Sure. I won’t be joining you. I can’t
drink at the moment.”
“It’s fine,” she says, flopping into my
sofa. I watch her while I make her drink.
She looks stressed out. She also looks
sexy as fuck. She’s just dressed casually,
black jeans, flats, and a white blouse,
and she looks fucking fantastic in it.

She fiddles with her hair, coils a lock
around a finger. I hand her the drink.
“Pierce,” she says. “I talked with my
dad this morning.”
“Oh?”
“He says that your mother and him are
really serious about having the wedding
down here.”
I nod. “Is that right?”
“He says it’s because both of us have
no extended family to speak of. So you
and I are their only family, and they want
to get married with family.”
“Cool,” I say. “When?”
“It’s not cool.”

I sit down, and resume eating my
dinner. “Just say what you want to say.”
She looks frustrated, fiddles with the
edge of her blouse. “We need to decide
what to… do.”
“About what?”
“About what happened between us.”
“You mean since we fucked?”
Penny lets out a long, drawn-out sigh.
“Yes.”
I get up from the sofa I’m on, and
walk toward the one she’s on. I wrap her
up. She resists at first, but then quits.
“Pen, how about we just tell each
other what we want, okay?”

“Okay. You go first.”
“I want you. I want to be with you, I
want to fuck you, I want to smell you. I
want to see you smile. What do you
want?”
She hesitates. “I don’t know what I
want.”
“Way to play fair, Pen.”
“It’s not as simple as all that.”
“Then let me ask you something?
Have you stopped thinking about me
ever since you stopped talking to me?”
She doesn’t reply, but she knows that
her silence is an admission.
“And you think that our parents getting
married means we can’t be together?”

“Of course that’s what it means.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s wrong.”
“How?”
“It’s just weird, okay.”
“So you have a hang-up.”
“I do.”
“Sounds like it’s your problem to get
over, then.”
“Oh, fuck you, Pierce.”
“What?” I say. “I know what I want.
You know what you want. I’m going to
take what I want.”
“Not without my consent, you won’t.”

“Then you’re not taking what you
want.”
“You know what else I want?” she
asks, getting heated. “I want you to not
do this fight for the mob.”
I lick my lips. “Well, now that is not
that simple.”
“Why? Why can’t you just say no? Is
it the money?”
“No, it’s not the money. They… didn’t
give me a choice.”
“How?”
“They just didn’t.”
“Did they threaten you?”
I think about telling her the truth, that

they threatened her. Her family, too…
my family, too. But I don’t want to scare
her. I know that it’s selfish, I know I’m
only appeasing my own guilt, but I can’t
help it.
“Yes.”
“See!” she belts out, slapping my arm.
“I fucking told you not to get mixed up
with them.”
“It was already too late when they
rang my doorbell.”
“So you have to fight?”
“Yes.”
“Because two mob bosses have their
favorite pit bulls and want to see who
wins?”

“It’s a dick-measuring contest, yes.”
“And you’re going to do it.”
I nod. “Yes.”
“What happens after?”
“Well, I’ve made my terms clear to
them,” I say. “Only this one time. After
that, I might just retire.”
“From fighting?”
“Yes.”
“Really?” she asks accusingly. “I
don’t believe you.”
“Don’t believe me, then.”
There’s a slight pause, and then, to my
surprise, she asks me, “Can you
remember your first fight?”

I laugh. “Oh yeah, perfectly like it
was yesterday.”
“Tell me about it.”
I shrug, hold Penny a little tighter
against me. I can smell the vodka orange
on her breath, and all it makes me want
to do is lean in and kiss her. She holds
her lips apart just slightly, and I can see
the tops of her teeth.
“Jesus Christ, pen, you’re turning me
on.”
“I’m not doing anything.”
“I can’t explain it.”
“Don’t dodge my question,” she says.
“Tell me about your first fight.”
“Why?”

“It’s important to me.”
“I don’t see how.”
“Pierce, if I can’t understand you, then
I can’t be with you. Would you just tell
me?”
I sigh. “Fine. But I wasn’t as good as I
am now.”
Penny laughs. “I really don’t care.”

Chapter Twenty Eight

It’s like a drug.
I know, cliché as fuck, right? But it’s
the truth, and I’m not going to fuck
around trying to find a better metaphor.
At first, it’s the adrenaline. My first
fight, the crowd wasn’t wild when I
stepped into that cage. My first fight,
nobody knew who the fuck I was.
But my opponent, Crazy Carl, they
knew him. They called him that for a
reason…
Dude was built like a freight train, the
kind that carries coal. His thighs were
thicker than my waist. I knew then and
there, even if I’d never seen him fight
before, that he was a leg-lock man. He
had a heavy base, low to the ground, and

he was no doubt going to try and get me
on the floor, try and lock me up, pull my
shoulder from its socket, make me tap
out.
Well, I knew then and there I wasn’t
going to be the one tapping out. But that
didn’t mean I wasn’t nervous. That
didn’t mean I didn’t feel that adrenaline
surge, born of a little bit of fear and a lot
of concern. Concern not just that I was
likely going to sustain an injury during
this fight, but for how the hell I was
going to even beat this guy.
I knew I wasn’t going to lose, I just
didn’t quite know how to win.
My thing’s always been a combination
of power, speed, and endurance. I hit

hard, but not the hardest. I’m fast, but not
the fastest. I can go for long, but not the
longest. I’m a bit of everything, and that
makes me a nightmare matchup. No
strategy works against me. If some dick
thinks he can out-dance me, then I can
out-hit him. If some brick of a man can
out-hit me, I can out-quick him.
It’s just a big battle of rock-paperscissors. Except I have all three.
And the adrenaline… that adrenaline
just feels so fucking good. Time slows
down. I react faster, want to draw blood.
Fight or flight, and in the cage, nobody
runs.
For some people, that adrenal buzz,
that heightened plane of senses, it never

comes back. Sure, the first few fights
you get it, but then it becomes routine.
You know what you’re going to do, what
your opponent is going to do to you.
You know it’s going to hurt, and it
doesn’t worry you anymore. But not me.
I always felt that adrenaline. I trained
myself to, learned to psyche myself up,
learned to trick my brain into releasing
the necessary neurotransmitters, firing
the necessary synapses, so that my
adrenal glands would kick into
overdrive, and I’d get that edge.
That glorious, sparkling,
thirsty, win-at-all-costs edge.

blood-

I fight like my fucking life depends on
it. I fight like the devil.

I’ve hurt my opponents in bad, bad
ways. I’ve heard blood-curdling
screams of pain erupt from my
opponent’s mouths, and I still didn’t
stop. I pushed, and pushed, and
pushed… until I won.
I beat Crazy Carl. I beat him in
twenty-two minutes, sixteen seconds. To
this day it is the longest fight I’ve ever
fought.
He got tired, I didn’t. He got me onto
the mat a couple of times, but I wormed
out. He almost tore the ligaments in my
knee at one stage, but I slipped it out
with just a bit of bruising, just a bit of
swelling.
He was heavy, stomped like an

elephant. It’s not like I could knock him
off his base. I tried to kick him out from
behind but he just swung me around and
threw me at the cage. The pattern of the
steel wire was printed in blood on my
back.
But I danced, skipped, hit him when I
could. He lunged for me, tried to take me
down to the mat again. I feinted with a
right hook, hit him with a left cross right
in the jaw. I thought he was lights out the
way his body went limp and fell.
But he got back up. If there was one
thing about Crazy Carl, it was that he
was persistent.
So we did the dance. I got him again,
and again. He was huffing, gassed. I’m

not saying it was fucking poetry or
anything. I’m not saying it was a pretty
fight.
But in the end I fucking won, so who
gives a shit how it looks? All I care
about is winning. I ain’t out to humiliate
a guy. I know my strengths and my
weaknesses.
I got him with a spinning back fist, hit
him right in the temple. This time he
went down hard, a sack of bricks, and I
clambered on top of him. I was going to
make sure he stayed down.
I had to stay on top of him. No way
was I letting myself get under that hulk of
a man. I was a buck-ninety and fivepercent body fat, and he made me look

tiny.
I got him into a rear choke hold, and
he tried to roll me, so I used a little trick
I learned watching the old underground
guys back when I was a kid.
I kicked his kneecap with my heel
over, and over again. Finally I felt it
dislocate. It just popped out. His whole
body jolted with pain.
I knew he’d never walk without pain
again.
Fuck it. Whatever it takes to win the
fight.
He couldn’t roll me anymore. He had
no leverage. I choked him out. He didn’t
tap out, the tough fucker… He passed

out.
Like I said, fucking persistent. A real
dog. When I think back to him, I can’t
help but smile. I… I admire him. Knee
ruined, and I’m there choking the
motherfucking life out of him, and he
kept going. He just kept going.
That stocky fucker
something that day.

taught

me

I got to my feet, blood streaming down
my face, missing a tooth, and a lump the
size of a tennis ball on the back of my
head.
My left ankle was sprained; I had a
torn ligament that would take weeks to
mend. I would ache and hurt all over my
fucking body for equally as long, if not

longer.
But I fucking won.
The ref came and held my hand up,
and I winced. The bruise on my rib cage
was already a deep purple.
But I fucking won.
The crowd loved it. I was the
underdog, and I’d taken down Crazy
Carl.
The doc came into the cage. He was a
wiry man, white-maned, beak-nosed. He
knelt down and examined Crazy Carl,
gave him a smelling salt. Carl came to,
saw that he had lost. The expression on
his ruddy face…
He knew he had lost to me. Just some

nobody. Just some newbie. Just some
fucking out-of-town punk.
The doc walked over to me. He said,
“What’s your name, son?”
I spat out my mouth guard, along with
a long stream of sticky blood. “Pierce
Fletcher.”
He said, “Well, shit, son, that might
just be the best debut I’ve ever seen.”
I glared at the doc. “Don’t fucking call
me ‘son’.”

Chapter Twenty Nine

“Do you like it? Fighting, I mean.”
He doesn’t reply immediately. Instead
he eyes me like he thinks I’ve got some
hidden motive for asking the question.
Mostly, I’m just curious. But then
again, maybe I do. I don’t know where
this is going to go, yet.
“Yes,” he eventually says. “I like the
thrill.”
“Do you
Winning?”

like

beating

people?

“Yes.”
I nod, suck on my lower lip. “Have
you ever sent anybody to hospital?”

This time his expression changes. The
corners of his lips curl down. “Yes. Of
course. It’s part of fighting.”
“Did you like that?”
“I didn’t force him to get into the
cage.”
“You ever nearly kill someone?”
Now his face darkens. I can tell I’m
wading into sensitive territory, but for
some reason, I just want to keep going.
Keep pushing. Like he does to me.
“Yes.”
“Who was he?”
“Just some guy.”
“What happened to him?”

“I crushed his windpipe. I wasn’t
trying to hit him in the neck, but his
dodge was too slow. I got him right on
his Adam’s apple. He couldn’t breathe.
The doc had to perform a tracheotomy
right there. Cut his throat right open and
shoved a fucking straw down it.”
“But he lived?”
“Yes.”
“Does he still fight?”
“Yes. He’s in Brisbane now.”
“Did that make you feel good?”
Pierce now flashes angry eyes at me.
“What do you think?”
“Did you ever wonder about what if it
happens to you? Something similar?

Some fluke, some accident?”
“Even in pro regulated fighting people
have died before,” he says. “I don’t think
about it.”
“Never?”
“You think race car drivers think
about crashing?”
I nod my head. “I would bet all my
money that they think about it all the
time.”
“Pen, you’re not going to make me
second-guess myself.”
“I’m not trying to,” I tell him
truthfully. “I’m just trying to understand
you.”
“What’s so hard to understand? I’m

good at fighting. I like fighting. I like
underground fighting. I do what I like.
It’s simple.”
“You like risking your life?”
“That’s an exaggeration.”
“Fine, but what about permanent
injury? Brain damage?”
“Like I said,” he says, looking away.
“I don’t think about it. I’ve got a fight to
prepare for. If you came here to bullshit
me, you can leave.”
I’m stung by it… and even though I try
not to show it, I’m certain he can tell.
“Have you ever thought,” I ask,
raising my voice. “About the people you
beat up? What if they have families?

What about their parents?”
He doesn’t reply.
“Or what about some kid who thinks
he can fight to make a bit of money, and
doesn’t know what it takes? You ever
fight someone like that? Someone
inexperienced?”
“Of course I have.”
“And let me guess: You messed him
up bad, right?”
“He shouldn’t have gotten in the
cage.”
“So, what, you beat up some eighteen
year old kid, where do you think he
goes? He goes back to his mother, that’s
where.”

“I don’t give a fuck about them once
they leave the cage.”
“Is that all it is to you, Pierce? What
goes on in the cage? You think the
consequences of what you do don’t
extend outside of it? What about me? Do
they extend to me?”
“Like I said, Pen, if you came here to
bullshit me, you can fucking leave.”
“You really never think about the
people you beat up? What happens to
them after you snap their arm or pull
their shoulder out? It never occurs to—”
“Hey!” he barks, jabbing a finger into
the air. “I step into that fucking cage, and
I fight. And I win. I get the fucking win, I
get my fucking money, and then I leave.

It’s what I do.”
“Yeah, you get your money and then
you fuck some girl and leave before she
wakes up, right? Yeah, Pierce, playboy
badass. You’re just a big fucking man,
aren’t you?”
A stony silence settles between us. I
sigh.
“Pierce,” I say, and I make sure my
voice is gentle. “I really don’t think you
should do this fight for the mob. You and
I both know that if you win, they’ll want
you back for another fight because you’ll
become an investment. If you lose,
they’ll want you to pay them back for
their losses. It’s not like the movies,
Pierce. These guys don’t honor

agreements… not if they can make
money from it.”
He grits his teeth together. I can hear
the enamel grinding through his jaw.
“Fine,” I say. “I can tell you’re getting
mad.”
“I have to fight this fight, Pen,” he
says. “No matter what you say, I have to
fight it. You’re only going to make things
worse if you’re here to shake my
confidence.”
“Shake your confidence?” I scoff.
“Well, you’ve definitely got enough of
that to go around for two or ten.”
“You think so?” he asks. His eyes are
wolf-like, savage.

“Yeah. As if I could shake your
confidence. Get real.”
But he doesn’t reply. He just gets up,
picks up the bright blue medicine ball,
and begins bouncing it against the wall
near the front door. He catches and
throws, catches and throws, rapidly,
while dropped down into a half-squat.
It’s some kind of total body exercise.
The muscles on his back bulge each
time he catches the ball. Beads of sweat
glisten on his skin. He continues the
same exercise, but now balancing only
on his right foot. He throws and catches
ten times, then switches to his left.
I watch him repeat the whole process
six times, and still he hasn’t turned

around, hasn’t talked to me. I can hear
him breathing hard from the exertion,
and now those beads of sweat are
dripping, leaving shiny tracks down his
back.
“Screw it,” I say, getting my stuff and
walking to the door.
But as I’m about to open it he rings my
wrist with his fingers, yanks me around.
The medicine ball drops to the floor
with a thud, and then he’s on me, lips
against mine, his hand guiding my fingers
down to his crotch.
I feel his hot hardness through his
compression shorts. His cock is like a
curled bar of steel. Frantically, I pull
him out, can smell his musk, and then

he’s undoing my jeans. It’s all so quick,
a heady rush. I step out of the puddled
denim, and he lifts me up, turns me
around and presses me against the wall.
I curl my legs around him, at his waist.
I grip onto his cock hard, pump him in
between us, but he holds me up with just
one arm, and with his spare hand he
wrenches my underwear to the side.
In one powerful movement he thrusts
himself all the way inside me, and I
wince and groan, overtaken by sensation
and a fleeting hint of pain. I feel so full
with him inside me.
He starts to fuck me hard. His thrusts
are aggressive. He bangs me into the
wall. I bite onto his shoulder to keep

from screaming as he fucks me with
abandon, wildly bucking into me.
I hold onto his neck, grab at the
sweat-slick hair on the back of his head,
relish the feel of his hot breath streaming
down in between us.
His eyes are hard, full of determined
lust, and he licks a swathe of skin from
my ear to my collar bone, like he’s some
kind of savage animal ready to eat me.
“Fuck you, Pierce,”
breathlessly. “I hate you.”

I

moan

“You like this, don’t you?” he asks,
and again he holds me with just one hand
so he can pull my head away from his
shoulder, so he can look into my eyes.
“You wanted this, didn’t you? That’s

why you came here, isn’t it, Pen?”
“No,” I hiss, my eyes falling shut as
he fucks me somehow harder.
He pulls my head to him, mashes his
lips against mine, and then he’s holding
my ass with two hands again, lifting me
outward in time so that each of his
thrusts buries so deep inside me.
I’m totally overwhelmed. I can’t do
anything but hold onto him and let him
have his way with me.
He carries me to the sofa, throws me
down onto it, grabs me by the hips and
spins me around so that my back is to
him.
“Wait,” I say, but he closes my thighs

together and then pushes himself inside
me. I’m blinded by pleasure, scrunch up
my face and clench my teeth and make
sounds I’ve never made before.
He fucks me harder, faster. His arm
snakes around my hip and he starts to
play with my clit. He drives himself into
me over and over again, fingers my bud
so well he’s got me right at the edge in
an instant.
“Fuck,” I groan loudly, lifting my hips
slightly to meet each of his thrusts.
“You want to come, don’t you?” he
growls.
I hate to say it, but I do: “Yes!”
His thrusts rock my body. My face

grinds into the cushion on the sofa. He
twirls my hair in his other hand, pulls my
head back, turns me to look at him.
And he looks at me while he fucks me,
while he fingers me. It takes just
seconds, but that pressure inside me
explodes, and I crest hard, moan harder,
clench tighter.
Pleasure cascades over me, wracks
my body, and still he keeps going, keeps
bottoming out inside me. Then I hear him
grunt, feel his cock swell, and he comes
inside me again and again, emptying
himself right into me.
And then it’s over. We’re panting,
sweating, heaving. He falls down on top
of me, stays hard inside me, and kisses

me on the back of my neck, on the back
of my shoulder.
We don’t even say anything. We just
lie together on the sofa for so long… I
don’t even know how long.
“I hate you,” I eventually say.
“No you don’t,” he tells me.
I wriggle out from under him, rush to
the bathroom to clean up.
And then I leave without saying
goodbye, leave him naked on the sofa,
somehow feeling even worse than
before.

Chapter Thirty

She’s not here!
It’s midway through the fight, and I’m
bleeding from a cut above my brow.
There’s a doctor on site, and he dabs
away at it.
“I can see your bone,” he says. “I
need to close this cut.”
“Fine. No shots.” My voice is hoarse.
I took an upper cut that missed my jaw,
but got me in the throat. My vocal chords
feel bruised.
“You hung over, Pierce?”
I stare at the doctor. “No.”
“You sure? You coming down? You
pop some pills last night?”
“No. I don’t do fucking pills.”

“If you have, I’m going to have to
disqualify you. Fallon and that Russian
gave me specific instructions. I can’t let
the fight go on if it’s not a fair fight. If
you’re not all there—”
“I’m all there,” I tell him frostily.
“You’re lucky they’re letting me patch
you up. You wouldn’t be able to see
otherwise.”
I glare at the doc and bark, “Close the
fucking cut!”
Breath comes rushing out of my
mouth, a frustrated exhale. She didn’t
come!
I look around the stands again, scan
the faces. I recognize a lot of people, but

I can’t find Penny anywhere. I honestly
thought she’d come to this fight. I
honestly believed she’d fucking come.
The crowd is silent, a far cry from the
usual atmosphere of one of my fights.
They’re silent because I’m getting beat.
They’ve
never
seen
Pierce
motherfucking Fletcher bleed like this
before.
And I can’t even feel the pain in my
head, nor do I even notice the worried or
even disappointed looks of the people
who came here to see me win.
All I can think about is whether or not
Penny will turn up.
God fucking damn it, she’s shaken me.

“You’re not doing too well tonight,
Pierce.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Then why am I looking at a cut that
will need eight stitches, a half-dozen bad
bruises, and a busted lip?”
“Just off my game.”
“Off your game? I’ve watched you
fight two dozen times, mate. Off is an
understatement.”
“Great,” I say. “A fucking fan.”
“Never seen you like this. Talk to me,
son. What’s up?”
I glare into the forty-something man’s
eyes. Son. That’s when I notice his body;
wiry-thin. That’s when I notice his hair;

all-white. That’s when I notice his nose;
he looks like a fucking toucan.
“What are you?” I spit. “My fucking
therapist?”
“You’re getting your arse kicked out
there, buddy, and you don’t even realize
it.”
“I realize it.”
“So if you don’t want to talk to me
about it, then you better damn well sort it
the fuck out. If you agreed to this fight,
then you better belt up and fucking
fight!”
“Save your shitty speech,” I tell him.
“And do your fucking job.”
He sighs, lifts up the surgical suture

needle, and presses it against my skin.
“This will hurt. Are you sure you don’t
want a shot? Listen, I can’t stick this
closed. I have to sew it.”
“Just hurry the fuck up,” I growl at
him.
He pushes it through my skin. It’s like
I feel it, but I don’t. The skin tightens,
each prick pulls. But it’s not painful. It’s
the adrenaline… it’s… my distraction.
The pain is delayed, comes when he’s
nearly finished. But my body kick-starts
its own internal process to numb the
pain. Soon it no longer stings. Soon, it’s
just a dull ache that throbs to my
heartbeat.
“All done.”

“Good,” I say, getting up off the stool.
“Don’t fucking call me ‘son’.”
I step into the cage. The crowd grows
tense, electric. They’re not used to
seeing me struggle. They are not used to
seeing blood on my face.
But I’m going to win this fucking fight.
Sure, I took a punch, a knee, and a kick,
but I’m still standing, still ready to fight,
still ready to dance until this
motherfucking Russian beast goes down.
Anton Vasilev has been walking
around the steel cage while I got stitched
up. The fucking beefcake of a man trod
in my blood, smeared it all over the mat.
Now he watches with a grin as two men
run in quickly and wipe the floor down.

Red turns to pink, and then all my blood
is gone, staining white, fluffy towels
instead.
A bell dings, we tap taped fists, and
then I’m dancing around him, bouncing
forward and backward. The fucker’s got
thighs like thunder, he wants to leg lock
me, get me down onto the mat. He’s
going to kick, try to get me retreating,
off-balance. He knows I’ll dodge it; the
kick is a feint. I anticipate he’ll spin into
me, try to lock my arm, get on my back.
The kick comes, aimed at my ribs. I
side-step out of its path, slapping his leg
away. I see his spin before he starts. He
spins on his heel, brings his arms out to
catch my still-outstretched hand. For
such a huge man, he’s deceptively fast.

But I know what he’s going to do,
maybe even before he does. I grab his
leading arm, and punch his elbow. It
doesn’t dislocate, but his body jolts, and
he retreats a little, shaking his hand. I’ve
probably numbed it.
The noise-level rises. Girls begin
chanting my name. Everybody who has
money on me suddenly looks a little less
worried. They start seeing dollar signs.
I grin at Anton, sucking on my mouth
guard. “Come on,” I say, beckoning him
with my fingers. “Use your fucking
fists.”
He doesn’t take the bait; but I don’t
expect him to, either. I want him to think
I’m a talker. I’ve been nattering at him

all night. People usually talk when
they’re scared. I want him to think I’m
scared, to think that I don’t believe I can
win this fight.
The worst thing that can happen to a
fighter – to any athlete – is to lose
confidence. The second worst thing? To
get overconfident.
“Come on,” I say, spreading my arms,
taunting him as he misses another kick.
“You afraid to get a little closer?”
Sweat-diluted blood drips down into
my eyes. The bright white lights turn
pink for a moment. I blink it out, feel the
sting of salt.
“Let’s go, motherfucker,” I say. He
bends down, sweeps a leg toward me,

but I hop over it easily enough.
I shake my head, tut at him. “Don’t
worry, Anton, I won’t fucking kiss you.”
His face goes red, and he makes his
move, a righty-feint, a low kick to my
shin, followed by a lightning-fast leftyhook. I ignore the feint, skip the kick,
bend backward for the hook, ready to
throw my weight forward into a counter.
But not quick enough.
The hook grazes my chin. My mouth is
all crimson metal. Damn it. I really am
slow tonight.
My turn!
I jab with my right; he dodges left, but
I know he will. I lean forward, try to

grab his neck and spin him into a hold,
but he catches me off balance on one leg.
He grabs my arm, pulls it into his, closes
the distance between us, ready to hold
me. But I spin at the last moment, pivot
around so my back is to him, and land an
elbow right between his second and
third ribs.
He lets go of me and backs up,
wincing and winded, rubbing his side.
I fake a kick, hop forward twice on
my left leg, kick him with my heel right
on the front of his thigh. He clutches at it;
I swear I see his knee wobble. His
quadriceps must be numb. I can already
see the dark bruise forming.
My heel tingles with pain.

Sweat pours from my body.
The crowd chants my name. Over and
over again.
I’m feeling it now. This shitheel is
going down.
I take three quick skips toward him,
spin around him like I’m holding a
football. I expect him to turn and follow
me, but he doesn’t. He pivots the other
way, and throws a kick right into my
side. I don’t block it in time, and I fall
backward, wheezing.
I didn’t expect that.
I climb to my feet, hand on my side,
and grin at him. Then my eyes focus on
something familiar, just above his right

shoulder. It’s the face of a beautiful girl,
a face I recognize, a face that makes my
heart surge.
Penny looks pissed.
I laugh. I’ve never been happier to see
anyone in my life.
A new energy thrills through me,
ignites me. I take two quick steps toward
him, wait for his kick. It comes, I
sidestep it, grab his leg mid-kick, twist
him around, and throw him down. He
lands face first, palms out. The sweaty
wet slap is so loud it echoes. I turn him
over again, grip his leg in between my
thighs, and hold onto his ankle, and
twist.
He’s in a leg lock, and each time he

throws a punch toward my leg I twist his
body so he misses, so his hits lose
strength.
I stare into his eyes. Penny’s
watching, and this fucker isn’t going to
beat me.
I pull the leg, twist the leg, and I feel
the stress in his knee. It’s going to pop at
any moment. I’m going to tear his
anterior cruciate ligament, his medial
cruciate ligament.
I’m going to dislocate his fucking knee
cap.
Tap out, I think to myself. The ref is
circling us, waiting for that moment.
But Anton’s got a reserve of strength.

The fucking bear of a man screams, sits
up, and lands a hit square on my thigh,
sending it immediately limp and numb.
Dull, blunted pins and needles shoot
through it. He wriggles his leg out from
me, gets up, but I get up faster.
I hit him hard in the jaw. He stumbles
backward.
I jump toward him, hit him again, and
again, and again. Each crack seems to
echo. I’m sure I’ve broken a knuckle. He
falls backward, failing to block every
hit.
I hit him again in the temple, again in
the neck, again in the jaw. My fist hurts
to hell, but I have to keep hitting.
He’s still standing, but he won’t be

soon. This fucker is tough, but soon it’ll
be lights-out, the body’s automatic
reaction to head trauma.
Just one more hit. I feint, he moves to
block, and I wind up an upper-cut.
Time slows. The crowd is now
exploding. The sound is now deafening.
I’m going to win. He’s mistimed his
block; I’ll get him in the gap between his
two closing, protective forearms.
I glance up at the last moment, go to
meet Penny’s eyes. I’m going to fucking
win, and she’s going to see me do it.
But she’s not there.
I don’t hit Anton. My fist stops inches
from his jaw. I back up, scanning the

crowd. I look toward the exits, see a
fire-escape door shutting.
Anton charges for me, but I duck him,
run for the door to the cage and kick it
open. The metal hook-latch breaks
easily.
“Where you going?” Anton bellows
behind me, arms spread. I ignore him,
and head straight for the fire door.
“Pierce!” Fallon calls to me as I pass
him. “You can’t leave. You haven’t
won.”
“Fuck you,” I shout back.
I’m going to get my girl.

Chapter Thirty One

“Wait!”
I turn around, and see Pierce jogging
out of the building. He’s in nothing but
his fighting shorts. There’s a trickle of
blood running down the side of his face,
and as he approaches me, passing
beneath a street lamp, I see that the
stitches above his eye have split.
“What, Pierce?”
“Why are you leaving?”
I put my hands on my hips. “I told you
not to do this fight.”
“I had to.”
“I knew you would,” I say, venom in

my voice. “I knew you wouldn’t fucking
listen to me.”
“Then why did you come? If you knew
I’d be here, but you didn’t want to be
here?”
“I don’t know!”
We stand in silence for a moment.
“Well, you sure got fucked up
tonight,” I say.
“I couldn’t concentrate.”
“Why?”
“I’m falling for you, Pen.”
He just says it, and it catches me offguard. I can’t say that it’s not what I
wanted to hear. But still…

Sensing that I’m on higher ground, I
ask him, “Why didn’t you listen to me?”
“Pen,” he says, and he steps toward
me, grabs my arm.
“Hey! Don’t hold me like that.”
“Come with me,” he growls, yanking
me with him. There’s a plane taking off
nearby; the fight was held in a private
hangar at the airport.
Pierce walks me quickly toward the
gate in the fencing that lines the hangar. I
can see him shivering.
“Damn it, Pierce,” I say, taking off my
cardigan. I go to wrap it around his neck
but he holds his hand out.
“I’m not cold. It’s just the adrenaline

wearing off.”
“Where are we going?”
“Where’s your car?”
“I came here by taxi.”
“Fuck, I’m parked a mile from here.
Can you run?”
I blink. “What the hell do you mean?”
“Can you run?”
“Yes, of course I can fucking run!” I
cry, exasperated.
“Run with me,” he says.
We begin jogging toward the fence in
the distance. Red lights blink
intermittently on top of it. The access
gate is unlocked.

“Fuck,” he says, and I follow his eyes.
There’s somebody walking toward the
gate. It’s hard to tell if he’s airport
security or not.
We duck into the shadow between two
hangars, and he turns me to face him.
“We need to get out of here, Pen.”
“What the hell is going on?”
He puts his finger to his lips, and
cranes his neck behind us. Blood is
dripping down his face, mixed with
sweat, but he doesn’t seem to notice.
“What are you looking for?”
“Fallon’s goons.”
That’s when it clicks for me. Fuck. He
ducked out of the fight, didn’t complete

his end of the deal. They’re going to be
after him now.
“You idiot!” I hiss. “Why didn’t you
finish the fight?”
“Because you left!” he whispers
angrily. Then his expression softens. “I
wasn’t going to let you get away.”
I shake my head, wondering just what
the hell we’ve gotten ourselves into. But
something feels off. He’s acting too
skittish.
“What aren’t you telling me?”
He looks me dead in the eye. “They
didn’t threaten me. They threatened
you.”
The sound of that plane taking off

fades into nothingness. All I hear is a
dull metallic sound, like a bomb has just
gone off. I struggle to wrap my mind
around it.
“They said they’d hurt me?”
“They implied it.”
“If you didn’t fight.”
“Yes.”
“You fucking idiot!” I say again,
slapping his arm. “I can’t believe you
left the fight!”
He puts a finger in front of his lips.
“Come on, we have to get out of here.”
“They’re looking for you,” I say. I
point to the man now standing guard by
the gate. “Is there another way out of

here?”
“No.” He takes a deep breath. “Just
stay behind me.”
He goes running off into the night, and
I struggle to keep up. He’s keeping low,
sticking to shadows formed by the
enormous hanger, by parked airport
vehicles.
In his tiny fighting shorts, he looks a
bit ridiculous.
Without any warning to me he speeds
up into a sprint, charges at the man by
the gate and lands a punch so hard I
swear I hear bone break. The man’s
body goes limp immediately. He’s out
cold.

“Hurry the fuck up!” he says,
beckoning me urgently. I run through the
gate, and he follows behind me.
“We need to get to my car, Pen.”
He takes me hand and we run next to
the road. There are potted trees and tall
plants, as well as a hedge that obscure
us from passing traffic.
I hear the crunch of stones and twigs
beneath my shoes, and know that he must
be feeling it on his bare feet.
Some minutes later, I’m panting,
holding onto my side. I’ve got a stitch,
and I’m regretting eating that lasagna
before coming.
We get to his car, and he throws the

door open, pushes me inside. He climbs
in after me, guns the engine, and we
scream off down the road, racing for the
on-ramp to the highway.
“I don’t think they’re following us,” I
say, laughing with relief. “Holy shit.” I
pull my hair to the side, follow it with
my gaze, and that’s when I see the
headlights.
All I hear is thunderous, screeching
metal.
All I feel is my body being thrown
into Pierce, his arms wrapping around
me.
All I see is sprinkles of shattered
glass glimmering.

Our car flips, rolls, hits a tree. Pierce
is beneath me, calling my name, but his
words are only a blur, a smudge in my
brain.
The passenger door above me is
yanked open, and two hands reach in and
pull me out. My hair catches on the
seatbelt, rips out of my head.
I’m too stunned to feel pain.
I’m being held from behind. Some
man is lifting me up. My legs don’t touch
the ground.
A man walks up to me with a roll of
silver tape. He snaps out a length, tapes
my mouth. The smell of plastic and
pungent adhesive floods my nostrils.

A bag is shoved over my head.
Everything goes black.
I’m forced into a car, and there feel a
zip tie tightened around my wrists,
binding them together.
“Take her to the chemical plant,” I
hear. The voice is familiar. I’ve heard it
before. “We’ll finish this there.”

Chapter Thirty Two

The black bag smells like sweat and
saliva.
It grosses me out to think that this bag
has been over someone else’s head
before.
It terrifies me to think that that person,
in all likelihood, is no longer alive.
Swimming with the fishes. Sleeping with
the daisies. Whatever the hell it is they
say.
The car slows, and I hear a metal
shutter gate pulled up and open. It’s rusty
and squeaky… and that man’s words
ring through my head again.
Chemical plant.

What are they going to do to me?
All I can think is that they’re going to
kill us, but not before they torture us.
Pierce ducked out of the fight, the
Russian won by forfeit, and all these
people who bet on Pierce lost their
money.
They want their payback now, and if
they can’t get it in greenbacks, they’ll get
it in red blood.
I want to hate him, want to call him a
fucking idiot, want to blame it all on
him, but it’s not all his fault. I know it’s
not all his fault.
God damn it, why didn’t he just tell
me they’d threatened me? Would I have
left? I think about it for a moment before

coming to my senses.
Of course I would have fucking left!
I would never risk my life for a boy I
just met. Even one I might be falling
for… even one about to become my
stepbrother.
I hear the car door open, and cool
night air floods in. I shiver, and then one
of the men grabs me by the wrists and
pulls me out of the car. I keep my head
low. I’ve got that image in my head
where a policeman is pushing someone
he’s arrested into a cop car, and he’s got
his hand on top of the perp’s head.
I don’t want to hit my head. It’s so
absurd to be worrying about this, but I
can’t help myself.

“Over ’ere, darlin’,” one of the men
says.
I feel his arms around my shoulders as
he guides me, and I shiver again. I shake
him off me.
“Suit yourself, love,” he says. He
gives me a small push in the back. I feel
my blood begin to boil. God, I wish I
could punch this asshole.
“Stop,” he says. I do, and turn around,
heaving a sigh. He pulls the bag from my
head, and I’m blinded momentarily by a
single bright light hanging from the
ceiling.
As my vision adjusts, I notice that I’m
in some kind of office. There’s supposed
to be glass in the window in front of us,

but the panes have long since been
broken. Controls, buttons, knobs, and
levers all lie rusty and dead. Everything
is old-iron-brown and filthy, covered
with a layer of dust.
Out of the glassless window I can see
massive vats, and on top of them are
what appear to me to be gigantic whisks.
They mix chemicals in those vats.
I swallow. I’m trying my best not to
acknowledge how scared I am. I don’t
want to start panicking.
“Turn around,” the man says. He
sneers at me. I stare angrily at him.
“Turn around, love,” he says, this time
stepping closer. I shake my head at him.

“Darlin’, behind you there’s a chair
where you can sit. Either sit in it or
don’t, I don’t care. But no matter what,
you’re stuck in ’ere.”
Fuck you, I think to him. I flash a
quick glance behind me and do see a
chair, but I don’t sit. Instead, I wait for
him to leave the small office. I can hear
him locking the door with a deadbolt
from the outside.
I immediately go to the window, and
look down. It’s a long drop into some
kind of pit. Maybe they used to keep a
neutralizing agent in there, or maybe just
water. All I know is that I’d never make
it without breaking my leg.
Damn it!

I’m not even thinking about what
they’re going to do to me. I’m wondering
what they’re doing to Pierce.
I hear a gunshot, and my whole body
jolts. The bang was so loud, my ears
hurt, and I’m in a closed room. It came
from somewhere nearby, somewhere in
the same building I’m in.
Following the gunshot is a cry of pain.
I recognize the voice.
It’s Pierce.

Chapter Thirty Three

“Fuck you!” I bellow. “Fuck all of
you!”
I wince, stare down at my foot. It’s
bubbling blood out of a gunshot wound. I
move my foot to the side, see the bullet
lodged in the ground, the concrete all
around it cracked. It went straight
through me.
“That’s a handicap,” Fallon says.
“Because you fucking walked out of that
fight, the only bloody way I could get
that Russian cunt to agree to a rematch –
double or nothing – is to handicap you.
This is your fault, you stupid American
cunt.”
“Fuck you,” I growl. “I swear to God,
Fallon, I’m going to fucking kill you.”

“Listen to yourself, you idiot,” Fallon
barks, pointing a finger at me. “You still
think there’s a way out of this? If that
Anton gets you, he’s under instructions to
break you. You embarrassed us back
there. You know how many people bet
big money on you? You embarrassed me
back there by walking out. I vouched for
you. In my world, there’s this thing
called face.”
“Fuck your face.”
“So if you can’t win, you’ll be
broken, Pierce, and we will leave you
here to die. We’re in the middle of
fucking nowhere. There’s no working
phones. You will die.”
“Fuck you, you old motherfucker.”

“Well let me tell you something. I’ve
got your pretty little thing locked up in
the office. If you don’t fight, we…
encourage you to.” He grins nastily at
me. I imagine myself cracking his skull
with a rusty pipe.
But I know I’ve got no choice. It
fucking kills me that they’ve got Pen, that
they’re using her, that it’s my fault she’s
in this position.
“You better bandage up my fucking
foot, then,” I tell him. “Because I can’t
fight if I lose all my blood.”
I look down, and see a puddle of
crimson beneath my foot. It hurts like
hell, but damn if I’m going to show it.
“Micky,” Fallon says to his goon.

“You got some medical training, right?”
“Served in the army as a medic,
boss.”
“Ah, that’s right,”
clicking his fingers.

Fallon

says,

Micky leaves and comes back with a
first aid bag, and says, “This might hurt a
little.”
He lifts my foot. I grit my teeth
together, but otherwise don’t show my
pain.
“Through-and-through,” he says to
himself. “Small fracture of the third
metatarsal. Surprisingly, the ligament is
still attached, I think. Bullet slipped
straight through. Basically a flesh

wound.”
“Thanks for the medical,” I growl.
“Boss?” Micky says, turning around.
“What is it?”
“Give him some morphine?”
“No!” I say, pulling his attention back
to me. “Don’t give me anything.”
“It’ll hurt when you put pressure on
it.”
“Fuck off.”
He grins. “Tough cunt, are ya?”
“Tougher than you.”
“That right?”
“Why don’t you untie me and find

out?”
Micky the medic laughs. “Alright,
alright. You’ll get your chance to show
off soon.”
He pours iodine on my foot, and then
begins to bandage it up. I do my best not
to show that it hurts, but fuck if it doesn’t
burn to hell and back. Fuck if it isn’t a
shock to see the orange iodine fall
through a hole in my foot.
When he’s done, he looks to Fallon,
who gives him a nod, and then he cuts
my binds. I stand up, test the foot. I can
barely put any weight on it.
“I’ll fight that Russian fucker,” I say at
Fallon. “On one condition.”

“I don’t think you’re in any position to
be making—”
“Fuck you!” I shout. “You put a
fucking hole in my foot.”
“And you lost me fifty million dollars!
And it might be more if you don’t
fucking 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?”
“Damn right I do.”
He grins. “You bloody showoff.
Fine.”

“And when I win—”
“If you win.”
“She leaves
unharmed.”
“That was
agreement.”

here
always

with

me…

part of the

“Well you make sure none of your
fucking 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 fucking

reason, that Mogilovich is even
considering doing a second round, is
because he’s a greedy little fucking
bastard, and double-or-nothing on a
handicapped fighter was too good to
pass 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
fucking back and leave you here to rot.
Nobody will ever find your stinking
carcass until it’s nothing but bones after
the rats are done with you. They won’t
even be able to tell your identity by your
dental records because I’ll have Micky
here stomp your teeth out of your lifeless
fucking mouth, and I will fucking keep

them on a necklace, and then I’ll go find
your mother, Penny’s father, and
whoever the fuck else you have that you
care about, and I’ll show them your teeth
before I do the same to them. You
fucking got that, you fucking cunt?”
I give Fallon a bland look. “Done
barking yet?”
Fallon grows flustered. His face goes
beet-red. “And your little fucking
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 fucking
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 fucking 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 fucking school?”
“We’re not exactly near a corner shop,
Pierce.”
“We came here in a fucking
limousine!” I yell. “You dumb fuck,
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.
“Fuck that,” I tell him. “I don’t need
caffeine or yohimbine or whatever the
fuck 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 fucking 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 colabottle 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 shit.”
“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 space 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 tetanus 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 spaced, 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 fucking mobsters are nothing but

scum.
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?
Damn 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.
Damn 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.
Fuck! 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?”
“You and him don’t go at all.”
I swallow. “Bullshit,” I say.
He steps closer to me, and I can smell
his cheap cologne. “Hey, love,” he says,
voice low, conspiratorial. “I’m serious
now. Your boy better win, or it’s the end
of the line for you. You go to
Mogilovich. You want to know what
he’d do with a young girl like yourself?”

I grimace. “Get me out of here,” I tell
him. “Get me out and I’ll make it worth
your while. My Dad’s got money,
we’re… we’re really rich back home.
We can pay you. We can cover the lost
debt.”
He grins. “Don’t think so, but I don’t
blame you for trying.”
“So when’s the fight?”
“Now.” He gestures for me to get up.
“What was that sound I heard? Was it
a gunshot?”
“Yes.”
“Who was shot?”
He looks at me, but doesn’t tell me.
“Get up, let’s go.”

We leave the small office, and he
marches me down a steel hallway until
we reach a large opening. The lighting
here is bright, strong, and I blink rapidly,
struggling with my eyesight as it adjusts.
I see glowing hexagons and floating
blobs, but then it all comes into focus.
I see a steel cage sitting in the middle
of what might have been some kind of
assembly or bottling floor. Conveyer
belts still lie bolted to the floor, lifeless
and unmoving.
I can’t see Pierce anywhere. I look
around, and then see his opponent. He
looks like a pissed off grizzly bear. He’s
hairy, huge, and looks mean as hell.
He looks like he can snap a tree trunk

over his knee.

Chapter Thirty Five

Pierce is limping. The bandage
around his foot, what must have been
once white, is now completely red, and
in his wake he’s leaving crimson
footsteps.
“Fuck,” I whisper beneath my breath.
The cage they’re approaching looks
like it’s been used for fights before, but
not for a long time. There are dried
blood stains on the floor, splatter marks.
The steel cage is rusty. It’s insane that
I’m wondering if Pierce has had his
shots…
Pierce’s torso has got a shine to it.
The lines of his muscles seem to cut

deeper. He’s sweaty already, and I
wonder if that’s because he’s in pain,
because he’s nervous, or both.
I’m fairly certain they haven’t been
letting him warm-up on a bike or
treadmill.
Pierce steps into the cage, and they
close it behind him. I see a deadbolt
lock, but there’s no padlock. Fallon and
the guard approach me, stand in front of
me. I can see the black grip of a pistol
sticking out of the back of the guard’s
pants.
I can work with that. I don’t know
how yet, but I’m going to get the fuck out
of here. I know it. These bastards aren’t
going to keep me.

Pierce does his customary intro
routine; he walks around the cage. I
don’t know why he’s putting on a show.
Nobody is watching. The burly Russian,
standing in the center, simply eyes him
with amusement.
I can see Pierce talking to himself. He
thumps his chest twice. I know he’s
trying to psyche himself up.
Then he looks around. But there is no
crowd here, no stands. He looks around
until he finds me.
We lock eyes. He closes his right fist,
kisses where his thumb meets his
forefinger. He extends his arm, straight
out, and with knuckles facing upward,
points his index and middle finger at me.

I’m taken back in time to when I first
saw him fight.
The girls, once screaming, fell quiet.
The crowd, once
deafening silence.

booming,

left

All eyes were on me.
I groaned to myself, and adjusted my
cardigan.
I blink, dragged back into the present.
I’m not wearing a cardigan, but I know
he’s sending me a message, and so I
make the same gesture. I fiddle with my
invisible buttons, but this time with both
hands.
That’s when I show him, briefly, just a
flash. I separate my wrists, break the last

thread of plastic binding them together.
And then it’s over.
Nobody noticed.
But Pierce noticed.
I see the smirk on his lips, the glint in
his eye.
We’re going to get out of this yet.
I know it.
“Ready?” Fallon calls, and he
motions at the two fighters in the cage.
There’s Pierce, body tight, lean, not
an ounce of fat on him. His veins bulge.
His eyes blaze.
Across from stands the Russian, big,
burly, a gigantic redwood of a man with

enough heft to break through a solid
concrete wall.
“Are you?” Pierce asks, looking at
Fallon, but I know that he’s talking to
me. His eyes flick to me for an instant,
and I nod at him.
“Jesus Christ, mate,” Fallon says,
laughing. “You’re bloody unbelievable.”
Pierce levels his eyes at his opponent.
“Ready, Anton?”
The Russian gives Pierce a single,
deep nod, and that’s when I see it on the
top of his head, a huge scar running right
down the center.
“What happened to his head?” I ask
Fallon.

“He split it open in a fight. His skull.”
“Holy shit.”
“He finished the fight, too. Won.”
“Are you serious?”
Fallon turns around. “Dead serious.
Blood was squirting out his head like a
fucking fountain. It was one of the best
fights I’ve ever seen. It was on the tape.
Didn’t Pierce show you?”
I don’t answer him.
“Not looking good for your boy.”
I meet Fallon’s eyes. “Even with his
foot he’s still the better fighter.”
“Get the fuck on with it already!”
Fallon yells. He gestures at the Russian

mobster, a tiny man, standing on the
other side of the cage. He’s got goons
with him, too, men in suits and
sunglasses.
Pierce moves forward, and I notice
his limp is gone. He’s not showing his
weakness, even though it’s obvious.
He’s not going to give his opponent any
perceived upper hand.
He taps fists with Anton, and then they
back up, and begin circling each other. I
notice there is no ref, no doctor. This
seems like a fucking cock fight… to the
death.
Anton lunges first, covering enormous
ground with massive strides. He kicks
Pierce in the shin, sends Pierce

stumbling backward, crashing into the
cage.
But he pushes off the steel mesh,
jumps off his hurt foot and punches
Anton on the top of his head. Anton
reels, shaking off the hit, rubbing his
head and grinning.
This doesn’t seem like a disciplined
fight. They look one moment away from
just wailing on each other.
The Russian lunges again, and he
wraps Pierce up, lifts him off the ground
and squeezes. They’re wrestling, not
fighting.
Pierce back-heels Anton’s knee, again
and again, until he can squirm free of the
barrel grip. He spins, throws an elbow

into Anton’s chin.
And then he’s right up in Anton’s face,
landing blow after blow into the burly
man’s gut. He’s punching faster than I’ve
ever seen him, hitting harder than I’ve
ever seen him.
He roars, something primal, full of
fury. He bends Anton over and knees him
in the face, again and again. It’s six shots
to the cheek before Anton pushes Pierce
off him, and falls backward. His face is
a bloodied, mangled mess.
But Pierce just goes even harder. He
jumps onto Anton, rolls him over, tries
to get him into a lock. He’s got his leg
around Anton’s neck, and he’s holding
onto his foot, pulling, pulling so hard it

looks like he’ll choke the life out of
Anton.
“Get him, Pierce!” Fallon yells. “Get
that bastard!”
But Anton winds up his entire arm,
stretched out, and lands a closed fist on
Pierce’s hip. In an instant Pierce loses
strength in his leg, can’t hold the lock,
and Anton slips out.
“Come on,” I whisper, shaking my
hands. My breathing is quick, my heart
hammering. I can feel the adrenaline
coursing through my veins, making my
fingers tingle, making me feel like I’ve
got all the energy in the world, like I
could run like a sprinter or fight like a
devil. Like I could get into that cage with

Pierce and help him.
Pierce rolls the Russian over, and
that’s when I see it, the leg lock. Pierce
rolls again, grappling for position, and
he finally slips his own leg beneath the
Russian’s, and hooks it, twisting.
The Russian hits the floor with a
closed fist. The thump is so loud I’m
convinced that he’s left a dent in it.
Pierce twists, and he thumps the
ground again.
“Do it,” I hiss, clenching my jaw and
grinding my teeth. “Do it, Pierce.”
Pierce pulls and twists, and I see the
moment it happens, the exact second
ligament disconnects from bone. The

kneecap twists to the side, along with the
entire lower leg, and I instantly look
away, feeling sick to my stomach.
It takes the Russian a moment to
realize what’s happened, and then he lets
out a droning moan of pain. It bounces
off the steel walls, echoes for what feels
like minutes. It’s a howl so long and
loud that I tremble at hearing it. It’s
haunting.
Pierce lets him go, and the Russian
sits up, and looks down at his own
dislocated knee. His whole lower leg is
turned the wrong way around. Already
his knee – what’s left of it – is turning
blue and swelling.
He’ll be lucky if he can ever walk

properly again.
Pierce, still on the ground, whirls a
kick at the side of Anton’s head. The
smack echoes. Anton is thrown onto his
side, unmoving.
“Shit, he did it,” Fallon says in front
of me. He turns around and grins at me.
“Damn, your boy’s good.”
Pierce staggers backward, hands on
his hips. His torso is drenched with
blood and sweat.
He looks at me, and bellows,
“Penny!”
Time slows. Sounds blur. My hair is
floating.
I reach forward, grab the gun from the

goon in front of me. I flick the safety
with my thumb, aim it up at the ceiling,
and pull the trigger.
Bang!
The kick hurts, throws my arms up. I
pull them down, squeeze the trigger
again, and again, and again.
Bang!
Bang!
Bang!
I hear the screech of metal, the ping of
impacts, and the high-pitched bouncing
of ricocheting bullets.
Everybody drops to the ground.
I sprint toward the cage.

“Pierce!” I cry. I slap open the
deadbolt, wrench open the hinged door.
Pierce grabs my hand. I feel the
moisture between our skin. It’s blood.
“Come on,” he says, and he pulls me.
I’m in his wake, and I can smell his
sweat. I can smell metal. I think he’s
going to run away, but instead he runs
straight to Fallon. He grabs the gun from
my hand, and points it at him, and before
I know what’s happening, he’s got his
knee up by his chest.
“No!” Fallon yells, but it’s too late.
Pierce brings his leg down hard on
Fallon’s thigh. I see the leg bend
grotesquely before I hear the fleshdulled snap of his femur.

Fallon mewls out in agony, grips onto
his leg with wide, terrified eyes.
“Fucking told you I’d break it,” Pierce
snarls. He shoots toward the Russians on
the other side. They hit the deck again.
He rubs the grip of the gun hastily on my
shirt, then tosses it, and grabs my hand
again.
We run toward the large shutter-doors,
but on the way Pierce pulls me to the
side.
“Look away,” he says, and I do, and
moments later I hear the sound of
shattering glass.
Fire alarms scream to life.
There’s screeching grinding, metal on

metal. The whole building rumbles.
Heavy steel doors begin to lower from
the roof. I look at them, confused.
“Come on,” Pierce huffs, and he tugs
me forward again. The doors closing
from the ceiling seem like blast-doors.
They’re obviously designed not just to
keep everything out, but to keep
everything in.
It clicks in my head. This is a
chemical plant! These are security
measures
to
prevent
outside
contamination. It’s containment.
“Faster!” he roars, tugging me harder.
I run as fast as my feet will take me, but
we’re still so far away from the big
doors.

“Come on, Pen!” he yells, and I try,
but I’m at the edge, and if I attempt to go
faster I might just fall.
The blast doors are shutting down
fast, and I will myself, force myself to
run faster. I was never a quick runner, I
was never good at sports, but I push, I
push, fuck if I push.
“Yes!” I cry as I clear the doors
ducking. Just milliseconds later, and
we’d have been crushed at the hip. They
slam shut hard, shaking the ground
beneath my feet. The whole plant must
be in lockdown. Fallon, the Russian
mobsters, they’re stuck inside.
I turn to Pierce, look up at him, and
that’s when I see his face is completely

red. The cut on his head has opened even
wider, and it’s just pouring a torrent of
blood out.
“Oh no,” I groan, and I want to tell
him, but he looks away, tugs me again,
and we’re running again, this time
toward the collection of parked cars.
They’re all expensive, all completely
conspicuous.
Mobsters.
“Which one?” I say, breathless.
“They wrecked my car,” Pierce
growls. “Take the best one.”

Chapter Thirty Six

Mercedes…
BMW…
Jaguar…
Maserati… it’s a tough choice.
“Come on!” Penny screams. “Who
fucking cares which car we take?”
In the distance, red lights flash. No
doubt they are fire engines.
“The Jag!” I say, and run to the door. I
look inside. “Fuck, no keys.”
“Here!” Penny yells. “This one has
keys.” She’s standing by the BMW, and I
run to her, climb in. She gets in with me.
I start the car, tear out onto the road.
We pass fire trucks that wail past us.
They are followed by ambulances and…
police cars.
“Why are the police going?” she asks.

“That was an old fight site. They must
have been watching it. Fire alarms go
off, they think a fight is going down and
someone started a fire by accident.”
“We’re lucky they didn’t stop us.”
“Penny, are you hurt?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Check! Those bullets you fired
ricocheted.”
She pats down her body, then shakes
her head. “No.”
Thank fuck.
Blood is streaming into both of my
eyes.
I try to blink it out, but it’s no use.

“Pen,” I say. “I have to stop. Hold on.” I
pull the car over, and then lift my foot up
and tear a small piece of tape from my
ankle. It’s still sticky as fuck; the heat
from my body has melted the glue.
“Here,” I say, handing her the piece of
tape. I lean forward, wishing I could see
her more clearly. But she’s just a
blurred, red outline.
“You want me to tape your cut?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Wipe the blood away
with your sleeve, and then put the tape
over the cut.”
“My sleeve is not clean. You might get
an infection.”
“I need to stop the bleeding,” I say.

“Hurry up.”
She nods, and moments later my
forehead is burning as she wipes across
the split skin.
“Oh my God,” she says, swallowing.
“I think I can see your bone.”
“Tape it!’
She places the tape over the cut, and I
whip my head back, lean it on the car
seat. I press the tape into the cut as hard
as I can with my palm, wincing.
I turn to her, and grin. “Good, because
the last mile I drove I couldn’t see shit.”
“You’re pretty messed up.”
I grunt. “Figured out where we are?”

“What?” she cries, putting up her
hands. “How would I know, I barely just
got to Australia!”
“Alright, alright,” I say, looking
around. To the right there’s cliff faces,
and no doubt beyond is the sea. It’s flat
blackness is unmistakable.
“So?”
“I think we’re a little past Geelong.”
“Where’s that?”
“City nearby Melbourne.”
“Is it far?”
“No,” I say. I turn to her, take her
hand. There are deep scratches on her
palms. “What happened?”

“I had to cut my hands to cut the zip
tie.”
That’s when it happens, that’s when
there’s a crack, a breach. It’s not loud,
it’s not dramatic, but for a fleeting
moment her face is bunched up in a
perfect split, simultaneously laughing
and crying.
And then it’s over, seconds later, and
she’s sobbing into her hands. I grip her,
pull her toward me, hold her against me,
and smell her hair and kiss her head.
“Fuck you, Pierce,” she cries. “I hate
you.”
“I know,” I say.
“I really do!” she says, leaning up and

smacking me on my chest. “God damn it.
You need a doctor. Where’s the nearest
hospital, I’ll drive us there.”
“You don’t have a license here. If we
get pulled over in a stolen car, then—”
“Do you have a fucking license on
you?” she cries, and gestures at me. I
realize I’m just wearing my shorts.
We swap sides, and as she’s about to
put the car into gear I say, “No, wait. We
can’t go to a hospital. They’ll report us.
They have to report these kinds of
things.”
“Then where?”
“Hold on.” I look around, spot the car
phone, and pick it up. “Yes! We have

signal.” I punch in a number, and
moments later a familiar voice floods
the receiver.
“Ricky,” I say. “It’s Pierce. Don’t talk,
just listen. Remember that doc, the one
with the big nose? Didn’t he help patch
you up? Yeah? What’s his number?
Don’t ask me why, just tell me. You
sure? Alright, thanks. No, can’t talk
about it.”
I hang up, and dial the number.
“Doc, it’s Pierce. I need your help,
where can I go? Where’s that, Caroline
Springs? Okay. No, it’s close. When I
get there, don’t fucking call me ‘son’.”
I throw the phone down, and tell
Penny to take the next exit. “And stick to

the left,” I say. “We drive on the left
here.”
“Who is Ricky?” she asks a moment
later.
I sigh, and pinch the bridge of my
nose. Blood is beginning to pool beneath
my foot. My whole body hurts to hell.
“He was eighteen, needed money.
Good body, strong, athletic, but no
fighter. You’re right, he went crying to
his mother. He was raising money for
her. She’s disabled.”
“What?” Penny asks.
I grimace at the memory. “Four
fractures in his face. Edema in his ear
canal that was pushing into his brain. He

almost died.”
“Jesus.”
“He stepped into the cage.”
“You do care, don’t you?”
I lick my lips. “He stepped into the
cage.”
“But you keep in touch with him?”
“Yeah,” I say. I look at Pen. She’s
looking at me different, like she’s
surprised.
“So all your bullshit what goes on in
the cage stays in the cage crap was a
lie. The consequences do matter.”
“I don’t want to get into this, Pen.”
“Fine,” she says. “But is that all you

do? Keep in touch?”
“No,” I tell her. “I help out
financially, pay for his mother’s rehab.
She’s learning to walk again.”
I see just the tiniest glimmer of a
smile on her lips. She almost looks…
relieved.
Who the hell did she think I was? The
devil?

Chapter Thirty Seven

Three weeks later...

“Where the hell is he?” Dad asks.
He’s nervous. There are beads of sweat
on his forehead, and he wipes his upper
lip. “Damn it, he’s late. Everybody is
seated.”
“I don’t know!” I hiss. I suddenly feel
awkward and defensive. Does Dad…
know?
“You haven’t been in touch with him
at all?”
“No!” I lie. “Why would I?”
The truth is that I left Pierce naked in
bed this morning. He was still sleeping,
utterly still on his back, while I watched

the news. Fallon and the Russian
gangster Mogilovich were sentenced to
jail for possession of illegal firearms as
well as drugs. There was also blood in
the trunk of the Jaguar that matched the
DNA of a murder victim.
Thank God that Jag was locked…
I had left Pierce to go get my hair
done. Now I’ve got my hair smooth and
straight and looking the best it ever has,
and Pierce is nowhere in sight. I left him
a note reminding him not to be late… I
don’t know what I expected, honestly.
“Damn it,” Dad says, fidgeting. He
looks around at the small gathering,
mostly just some friends. He was right
when he said that neither him nor

Isabelle had large extended families.
This would be a modest wedding
turnout by any standard. That’s not a bad
thing, either. I’ve always hated the idea
of having a huge wedding. All that
excess for what? Love isn’t about putting
on a show for the extended family. It’s
about a promise to one person. That’s all
it should ever be about.
Isabelle looks beautiful and elegant
today, but as severe as ever. Sometimes,
I wonder if she ever smiles. Of all the
times I met her back home in Chicago, it
never seemed like she was having much
fun.
There’s a small prick of guilt in me,
and it reminds me that this is a woman

Dad loves. I should at least try my
hardest to approve.
But after what Mom did to him… how
can I expect this to turn out any better?
She doesn’t strike me as the overly
affectionate or loving type, and if I know
Dad, I know that’s what he needs…
“Where is that boy?” Isabelle snarls,
before giving me a polite smile. “I’m
sorry. He’s always been like this.
Impossible.”
“It’s fine, Issy,” Dad says. Again, he
looks out at the small crowd. Everyone
is seated, ready for the ceremony. We’re
back inside the cottage that Dad rented –
along with its lush back garden. The
seating is arranged in two narrow

columns outside, and there’s a runner
leading up to an altar on a raised
platform.
“For heaven’s sake,” Isabelle says.
“We’re not going to wait for him.”
I turn wide eyes on Pierce’s mother.
“Are you sure? I’m sure he won’t be
much longer.”
“Oh?” she asks, lip curling. “How can
you be sure? You hardly know him. I
do.”
My voice fades. The irony of it all? I
do know him. And him being late is just
the sort of Pierce thing to do.
“Yes,” she says, nodding at Dad. “I’d
like to marry you now.”

Dad’s mouth pulls into a broad grin,
and I swear I see his eyes go liquid. He
nods, and takes her hand. “Okay.”
“I thought the groom wasn’t supposed
to see the bride before the actual
wedding,” I tease.
“At my age, Penelope,” Isabelle tells
me. “You just don’t give a crap about
arbitrary tradition.”
She motions for me to go outside and
take my seat, and when I’m seated, I still
can’t believe that Pierce is late to his
own mother’s wedding.
He’s never going to change…
The hushed whispering around me is
quieted when the ceremony starts, and

Isabelle begins to walk up the aisle. It’s
a white runner, and on both sides rose
petals have been sprinkled.
Dad seems genuinely happy, and
definitely nervous. He’s already done
this once before, but I guess you just
never, ever get used to it.
That’s when I see him, Pierce. He
strutting out of the house, leaving the
French doors open behind him. He’s got
a cigar in his mouth, a swagger in his
step, and his tie loosened and top button
undone.
Unbelievably, his sleeves are rolled
up, and he’s got his jacket slung over his
shoulder as if he was posing for a
freaking modeling shoot.

I can only shake my head and grin.
Pierce joins his mother on the aisle,
and she gives him a disapproving look.
He holds his arm out, and she slips hers
into it, and together they walk up, his
cigar still smoking, leaving a grey trail
behind them like a coal train.
When they get to the altar, I hear him
say, “I give you away, Mother.”
And then I hear her say, “I’m a
woman. Nobody is going to give me
away for dowry.”
Pierce laughs, and kisses his mother
on the cheek. “Tradition be damned,
right?”
“Right.”

“Then I wish you happiness.”
“Thank you for showing up,” she says.
I swear, for a second, I see a smile.
Pierce sits down in the empty seat
next to me, and gives me an innocent
‘what?’ look.
“Did you have to be late?” I hiss,
bunching my brow.
He doesn’t reply. He looks me up and
down, and then sucks in a deep breath of
air.
“God, you look fuckable in that
dress,” he says.
“You’ve got cigar breath.”
“I’m going to fuck you in every room
of that house,” he says, jerking his head

behind us.
I cover the smile on my mouth with a
hand. “We’ll be eating in there later.”
“We’ll find a way to do it in the
dining room.”
The only thing I can do is shake my
head.
At the altar, Isabelle says, “I do.”
The priest says, “You may kiss the
bride.”
My father and my new stepmother
kiss.
My new stepbrother’s fingers sidle
over my thigh, leaving tingles and
buzzing in their wake.

“Stop it!” I whisper, slapping his hand
away.
He just grins, gets up, and swaggers
off.
I watch him over my shoulder. The
ceremony is not even fully finished, and
already he’s disappeared into the
cottage. Moments later his figure
appears in one of the upstairs windows.
He beckons me through the glass.
Everybody is starting to chat and mill
about now, and so I use the opportunity
to sneak away. Nobody notices me as I
recede slowly from the congratulating
crowd.
I enter the cottage, walk up the creaky
steps, and into the room that Pierce is in.

It’s a small bedroom, fully furnished,
though no doubt it’s all for show. A fourposter bed lies against the wall; it looks
old, a little too grand for this small
cottage. A folded card sits on top, and it
reads: Do not sit.
“What do you want?” I ask. Pierce is
standing at the window, leaning out of it,
smoking cigar clasped between his
thumb and index finger. “Why did you
come up here?”
He turns around, a smirk prying his
lips apart. “Why do you think?”
“Gross,” I say, grimacing. “God
knows when this place was last properly
cleaned. God knows who last… you
know, did it in this bed. I’m sure

somebody has.”
“I’m sure, too.”
“What did you really ask me up here
for?” My eyes go to his cigar. “What
does it taste like, anyway?”
“It’s difficult to describe. I don’t think
you’d like it.”
“Can I try?”
“Sure, but don’t inhale.”
He holds the cigar out, and I take a
puff, let it out of my mouth, and make a
face. “It’s so bitter.”
“Truth be told,” he says, and he stubs
it out on the windowsill. “I don’t know
why people even smoke these things.”

“Pierce!” I hiss, going to the window.
The wooden sill has been burned, and
black ash is smudged in a faint circle.
Some of the old off-white paint is now
chipping.
“I think we should tell them.”
I spin around, blinking. “No, we
shouldn’t.”
“Why not?” he asks. “Don’t you think
it would be fun, Pen?”
“They’ll be gone from Melbourne in a
couple of days for their honeymoon, and
then they’ll be gone from this country in
two weeks.”
“So you just want to let them leave
without knowing? And we continue our

little forbidden tryst in secret?”
I sigh. “Yes.”
He leans against the wall at an angle,
and puts his hands into his pockets.
“Sounds like a plan, Pen.”
We don’t speak for a moment. He’s
staring off into the middle distance.
“What are you thinking about?”
“I was serious, you know.”
“About what?”
“Getting a Prince Albert.”
“Oh for God’s sake,” I say, heaving a
dramatic sigh. “No you weren’t. You
were just trying to annoy me.”
“I was,” he admits. “But I’ve thought

about it a little more. Could be fun, you
know?”
“I can’t believe we’re talking about
this again.”
“Think you’d like it?”
I widen my eyes in disbelief. “I
honestly haven’t thought about it before.”
“Well, think about it.”
I give him a shrug and a head-shake.
“I don’t think that I care.”
“Think Tina will branch out into
piercings? Hire someone good?”
“Ew, no,” I say. “And besides, I don’t
think I’d be comfortable with you getting
it done at our shop.”

“Our shop?”
“Tina’s letting me take on more clients
now,” I say, grinning. “In fact, I’m
starting to bring in business!”
For a moment, Pierce almost beams at
me. “That’s great, Pen. I knew you’d
make it.”
“I haven’t made it yet. But I’m getting
there.”
“How long will you apprentice for
her?”
“The full year, if I can.”
“And then?”
“Then I’ll talk to her about starting my
own shop. Or I’ll work for her for a
little longer, you know? Get more

experience.”
“I was thinking about getting a new
tattoo,” he says.
“Oh, yeah?” I ask, grinning. I go to
him, take his hand. “So was I, actually.”
“Where?”
“I want a half-sleeve. I’ve been
sketching up some designs.”
“In your top-secret sketchbook you
never let me look at?”
“I’ve got it with me now,” I tell him.
“It’s in the car. Want to see them?”
“Hell fucking yes, I do.”
“Then come on. We’ll get them and go
sit in the garden. It’s a nice day today.

We’ll let all the adults mingle.”
We leave the room together, hand-inhand.
“You know, I’m glad you’re not
fighting anymore. When is the grand
opening for the gym?”
“Not set yet. There’s still some work
that needs to be done, and I need to get a
practice cage in.”
“Ballpark?”
“Sometime next month.”
“So you’re really going to teach,
huh?”
Pierce shrugs. “Why not? Man’s got to
earn a living.”

“Well, just as long as you don’t teach
them how to get into underground fights.
Have you got students yet?”
“They’re lined up twice ’round the
block. What can I say?” he asks, smugly.
“They’re learning from a legend.”
“Oh, shut up.”
As we’re walking down the steps, he
leans into me and smells my hair. Then
he whispers, “I’m still going to fuck you
in every room in this house, you know.
We’ve got all afternoon.”
“No you’re not,” I tell him. “You
couldn’t do it that many times in one day,
anyway.”
In his eyes I see a blaze of

competitiveness.
“Want to bet?”

Thank you for reading Uncaged.

Sponsor Documents

Or use your account on DocShare.tips

Hide

Forgot your password?

Or register your new account on DocShare.tips

Hide

Lost your password? Please enter your email address. You will receive a link to create a new password.

Back to log-in

Close