Wrong (Spada Crime Family #2) (44 page)

“For saving my daughter’s life. I owe you big for that, son.”

I’m not sure what to make of the “son,” but I do know what to make of the money. “Keep it,” I tell him. “I didn’t do it for you to pay me off. I did it to keep her safe.” I pause. Yeah, I can say it. “I did it because I love her.”

Spada nods, though I see an eyelid twitch. He’s still not comfortable with the idea of me and Jess together, I can tell. “I didn’t mean to imply anything,” he says. “Just call it a thank-you gift. And maybe an investment in the future.”

I shake my head. “Nope. Keep it. I don’t need it. I don’t want it.”

Looking a bit defeated, Spada lets his hand fall to the table, still holding the bills. I’m relieved; he could have defaulted to his usual anger at me and had me done away with for not being on the same page as he is. He’s in a totally different place today, though, and his next words surprise me. “Is there anything I
can
do for you, Cain?”

I want to ask him exactly what he means. Does he want to make up for having me beat up—twice—or for making Jess’s life hell? For controlling my life and forcing me to throw fights I could have won? Just for being a general asshole? He has so many choices, after all.

“There’s one thing you can do,” I finally tell him. I don’t shrink from it; I don’t want him to think I’m kidding around, and if I’m reading the room right, this is exactly the right time to put all my cards on the table.

“What’s that?”

“You can get the fuck out of my life. Let me run things my own way. Leave Jess alone. Leave me alone. Let us live our lives. That’s what you can do.”

Spada is silent for a long moment. I know there’s no way he’ll ever meet my terms. He’s too addicted to the control to ever change. I watch his face, looking for any indication of how he’s going to respond. I see nothing. Then, finally, he says, “Let me think on it.”

I guess, for now, it’s the best I’m going to get.

CHAPTER TEN

Jessica

It’s amazing to me how much can change in such a short time. Only a year ago, I was sitting in that bar, watching Cain come up to me, all attitude, almost daring me not to pay attention to him.

And now here we are.

Cain’s in the bathroom, and the shower’s running; he just got home from his latest bout. I don’t know what kind of deal he made with my father, but I do know he’s happier. He’s not being told when to win and when to lose—he just gets to fight, do his best, and let the outcome fall where it may. And he’s good. Very good. Truth is, as hard as it is for me to understand, he loves what he does. How you can love doing something where you get the shit beat out of you for a living is beyond me, but I guess there are worse things.

Also, if you’re going to get beaten up for a living, having a budding physician’s assistant as a wife is an excellent choice. I get to practice stitching him up, getting the swelling down on his cuts and bruises, and making sure nothing gets infected. I’ve also monitored him a few times for concussion, although he’s been lucky in that regard.

It’s the concussions that worry me more than anything else. I’ve seen way too many people drift off into mental oblivion after one too many hits to the head. Which is why I’ve been encouraging him to look at something else he might be able to do. I know he loves fighting, but there are less dangerous jobs he could have without leaving the MMA world. Training, for instance. He seems amenable to the idea, so hopefully one day he’ll stop coming home bloody.

In the meantime I’m still studying, still taking my classes. I go to school at night; during the day I take care of the baby and do some freelance work. We’re doing okay. I’m not taking money from Pop and neither is Cain. Pop comes by from time to time to visit and to see the baby, but there’s no more ugliness, no more power plays. I can live with that.

Speaking of the baby, Annabelle has fallen asleep nursing in my lap while I study for a test I have coming up this week. I hear the shower turn off in the bathroom, so I make sure to get to a stopping place before Cain saunters out, shirtless, rubbing his hair with a towel. His face has taken a beating; he’s got a black eye and a big cut on his cheekbone. With the number of scars he’s got, it’s amazing he’s still pretty.

Scars or not, he grins at Annabelle, and she grins back, her smile gummy and full of drool. He laughs at her and reaches down to take her.

“There’s Daddy’s baby girl,” he says, settling her on his lap as he sits down. Her head’s still a little wobbly, and he’s careful to be sure it stays steady. He’s so good with the baby, so good with me. “Come sit on Daddy’s lap while Mommy fixes Daddy’s face.”

I laugh at him and scoot up next to the chair he’s settled into. “I think it’d take a miracle worker to fix your face, these days.”

He leans forward to kiss me. “Which is why I ask you to do it.”

Shaking my head, I start to examine his face. While I’m assessing whether anything needs stitches, he lets Annabelle squeeze his fingers while he makes baby-talk noises at her.

It’s all I can do to keep the tears from welling up. It’s so perfect, the three of us. I never dreamed it could be like this. Even when I was working so hard to get away from my father, I never dreamed it would really, actually happen.

But here we are. And here we’ll stay.

###

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The Bad Boy Arrangement

By Nora Flite

Chapter One

Abell

It had been three days and five hours since my last fuck.

Well, give or take.

I could be wrong about the hour.

Either way, I was antsy as hell. Going this long was like keeping water from a man in the desert. I could survive for awhile, sure, but I knew myself. If I didn't find a nice pair of thighs to dive between, I'd be useless to the world.

So, really, it was for everyone's benefit that I got laid.

I had a few places I liked to roam when I was scouting for a playmate. Bars are stereotypical, but they work—especially if you like the college crowd. Clubs? They were too sweaty for my mood.

Tonight, I'd gone a little out of the way.

The rock concert was in a park that had been strung up with Christmas lights along the fringes. An invigorating chill infused the night air. All in all, it wasn't a bad scene.
I just wish the damn speakers weren't numbing my ears,
I thought with a chuckle.

The band had been playing for twenty minutes, but I couldn't have repeated any of their lyrics. My attention was devoted to scouring the rolling bodies for my next prize.

There were women everywhere, thank fucking goodness. Skinny types in painted on jeans, curvy girls with their tits fluffing out... you name it, they were here in droves.

I was in Heaven.

As I swayed casually to the music, I moved with grace through the packed bodies. The smell of spilled beer weighed the air down, making me glad the venue was outdoors. The space—like every event in this city—was too small to hold everyone comfortably.

Speaking of too small.
To my left, a woman in a skirt that barely hid her ass was grinding at the air. Her hair was slicked back in a high tail, makeup clinging around her eyes like she was auditioning for a movie about Egypt.

She was trying way too hard.

I
love
the Try-Hards.

They were the kind of girl you knew was looking to get some cock. Their actions said, 'I'm right here, just insert tab A into slot B and let's go!' My type, entirely; women who knew what they wanted never failed to get my pants tight.

Grinning, I slid beside her, my hips rocking with the tempo. Wordlessly, not even meeting my eyes, Skirt-Girl humped the air until she was inches away from me. Her hips twisted, towering heels barely moving off the grass—maybe so she wouldn't fall and break an ankle.

In seconds we were swaying together, her round ass touching my zipper. That long length of hair brushed her neck, tempting me to reach out and grab it.

I hoped she liked having her hair pulled, because once I got her alone, I planned to yank it back so I could nibble her pale neck.
Just thinking about that has me getting stiff.
Carefully, I adjusted myself in my pants, never missing a beat.

The music suddenly exploded, turning into applause. Skirt-Girl slowed down, acting like she was watching the stage, but I knew better. This game and I were old friends.

Running a hand through my hair, I smiled at her until she glanced my way. It's funny, we hadn't said hello, but I'd had my erection on her ass for several minutes. “Hey,” I said, nodding at the band. “I think they're finishing their set. Come take a break with me, get some air.”

Cocking her head, Skirt made a show of toying with the top of her halter. “How about you buy me a drink first?”

I wasn't surprised by her request. Try-Hards sometimes want you to buy them something before they'll sleep with you. It's an exhausting ritual, but what did I care? Cash was never a problem for me, I'd had it in spades my whole life.

“Sure, I'll be right back, Sugar. What do you want?”

Her eyes darted down, fixing on the front of my jeans for a long second. Oh, she was good. “A beer is fine. For now.”

For now.

Jeez. Try-Hards are seriously the best.

“Beer. Not a problem, you just hang here.” My smile touched my eyes, then I was off. I knew where the nearest vendor selling alcohol was, I'd already chugged a bottle down when I'd first arrived. The problem was that they were as far from the stage as you could get.

Shoving around dancing groups and chatting people, I beat a path towards the drink stand. It was past ten, the sky a rich blue-black that would never be truly dark, not with all of the city's light pollution.

The edge of the park had a few tall lamps, the people thinning until I didn't feel like I was being crushed in a tuna can. Most folks wanted to be near the stage, so the fringe was almost empty in comparison.

There,
I thought, walking towards the small table in the distance.
Buy some beer and hurry the fuck back before little miss Skirt finds another cock to ride.

“Get the fuck away from her!” A voice shouted out from my right. On instinct, I turned to look.

Just down the grassy hill, away from the crowds, there was a woman. Reddish hair, black pants, a surprisingly demure cream colored top and appropriate jacket for the weather. Pretty. Normal. But the situation she was in wasn't normal at all.

She had her hands on a man's arm, yanking at him to get him away from...

Oh, shit.

There was another girl, and she was kneeling on the grass at the guy's feet, doubled over like she'd taken a punch. Had that guy actually
hit
her?

“I said
get away from her!
” The red head was pulling at the man. There was no hint of fear, even though he could easily break her damn skull. Her short black heels dug into the ground. She meant business.

What was going on? And why was no one else doing anything?

Not my problem,
I told myself, glancing at the drink stand. Visions of Skirt-Girl danced in my head. Her plump lips, her perky ass, her—

“I'm calling the cops, you son of a—
Aaah!”

Red was a damn ghost to me, I had no clue who she was. Regardless, when I heard her scream, I bolted down that hill at breakneck-speed.

His fingers were crushing her forearms, turning the skin bloodless. Seconds before I careened into the group, I saw Red's face. Instead of terrified about how he was ready to split her in two, she was pissed this guy had dared to touch her.

Who
was
this woman?

Grabbing the man's shoulders, I yanked him to me, forcing him to release Red. Then, before he could get his balance, I shoved him away violently. He stumbled, catching himself at the last second.

“Hey, Fuck-Head!” I shouted, cracking my knuckles. “What the hell are you doing to these two?”

I wasn't some breed of hero; this was none of my business. But no one else had stepped up.

How could I sit back and watch?

The big guy stomped forward, eyeballing me—sizing me up. “This isn't your problem, buddy. Why don't you get out of here before you get hurt?”

I knew he could see the muscles through my tight shirt and open jacket. I'd dressed to impress the ladies, but it also warned the world that I was no push-over.

If this guy thought I'd be an easy mark, he was dead wrong.

Standing taller, I flashed my best smile. “A lovely woman in a skimpy skirt is waiting for me to return, and you just cock-blocked that plan. Someone has to pay for that, might as well be the asshole beating on his girlfriend.”

To my left, Red made a face. “I'm
not
his girlfriend, and neither is she.”

“You're both single? Good to know.” I blessed her with a quick smirk. The way her eyes widened had my heart beating faster.

Unfortunately, I had other priorities.

The big asshole lifted his chin, chest puffed out like a rooster. “Last chance, get lost or get ready to collect your teeth off the grass. Hope you have a good dentist.”

“Holy shit,” I laughed. “Did you really just say that? Like, actually say that out loud?”

Lines crawled across the bridge of his nose, a snarl if I'd ever seen one. Talking this out was a failure. I'd already figured it would be. Any guy that'd attack a woman had to be short-tempered.

Ducking low, he ran right at me.

I'd taken some martial arts classes when I was a teen. Nothing serious, basic body-movement and leverage shit. My mother's idea, of course—she wanted me to know how to protect myself from the 'bad kids.' I don't think it occurred to her that
I
was one of those kids.

If she was still alive, I would have thanked her for those lessons now.

Anticipating his movements, light on my toes, I tensed up. When he got close, I darted to the side. It didn't take much momentum—he was the one rushing me—for my fist to slam into his guts.