You Are Mine (Bad Boy 9 Novel Collection)

by Amy Faye

  Thirty-Eight

  Wes

  Wes's warm-up on fights he thought might actually cause trouble for him wasn't exactly the stuff of legends. That being said, it was more complex than just walking over to the promoter and introducing himself. The sound of his feet pounding onto the pavement sounded through the parking structure as he turned back inside it, a light layer of sweat already worked up on his forehead. He took the sweatshirt off and threw it into the back seat of the Fiero, then went to see Bradley.

  He was sitting with Higa, who was all smiles. Bradley wasn't. "Wes, I don't know if this is a good idea."

  "What's wrong?"

  "Wes, you look like hell."

  "It's a little late to back out now, Mr. Bradley."

  The words came out of Wes's mouth, but from Higa's expression, he might have said them himself. The look of surprise on his face, on the other hand, told Wes that he hadn't expected not to have to say it.

  "Exactly so, Mr. Bradley. The fight's going to be starting in, what, ten minutes? Five? We're past the point of letting sleeping dogs lie."

  "I know, but— aw, hell." Bradley nodded to Wes, who went off to the little secluded area where the fighters kept to themselves, separated by a little thin card between them.

  If someone had a real vendetta against him, it wouldn't be all that hard to just come right on through with a knife or a gun, and make it happen. But they wouldn't, because it would be just as easy to bring a knife into the ring.

  You'd be disqualified from the fight, but nobody was going to jump in and save his neck. And you'd be able to show the world what happens to people you don't like.

  Wes started going through his stretches, just about enough space between the packed-in cars to lay out flat. He decided he was finished when he heard his name, jumped up, and headed into the ring.

  The place was packed. If this really was a last-minute thing, a fight they'd added to the calendar only a week or two ago, then Wes was God damned surprised. They'd advertised it well in that week.

  He slipped under the ring rope and raised his hand, turning to look around the crowd. For a moment, his wishful mind thought he saw Minami in that thick crowd, but he already knew better than to believe it, and when he looked again on the second turn, she wasn't there any more.

  The Japanese came next. This wasn't some big Sumo mother fucker like the last one. He might have been five-seven and a buck fifty, but you could count the muscle fibers in his shoulder if you had enough time on your hands.

  The crowd exploded when he hit. Wes didn't recognize his name, but then he never would. These guys were nobodies to him, and it didn't much matter how popular they were somewhere else. It wasn't as if he was going to study match footage beforehand.

  The guy bowed to him, and Wes bowed back, not wanting to be rude. Then they were separated to their corners, and the ring girl raised her hand, held it up for a long second, and then dropped it. Wes started moving immediately, circling around. His eyes and his feet were his most important weapons. Keep his hands up.

  Don't let the mother fucker hit his nose. Don't let him get behind, don't let him—Wes amended the long list of things he needed to make sure he didn't do to 'don't get hit bad.'

  The guy moved a little stiffly. Traditional martial arts had that problem, most of the time. They're not quite as used to someone who just circles. Well, that would work in his advantage, if he kept it up.

  Still, for the guy's stiff movements, he didn't move so stiffly that Wes could get more than a step or two ahead of him. Nowhere near to getting an unprotected side. Even as Wes turned, he waited for the little guy to fire off a shot, show what he was made of, but he seemed to be just as patient.

  The crowd usually got sick of that kind of fight fast, but these just kept themselves quiet. The entire atmosphere was electric. Wes stepped in, easily within range of a mid-kick from the guy, but darted out an instant later. No response.

  Wes was beginning to wonder what was up with this guy. He stepped in again, took a step to the side… stepped in, one of his hands tightening for a stiff jab right into the Japanese's eyebrow.

  The guy slipped the punch easily and shot his fist straight toward Wes's chest. Wes dropped his left hand and knocked the blow aside narrowly, the guy's big, pointed knuckles catching the edge of his ribcage and deflecting off harmlessly.

  So that was how this was going to be played. The guy was quick, and he was waiting for Wes to make the first move. His entire game plan relied on it. Wes preferred counter-punching. Most of the American fight organizers like to get big brawlers for these things. Guys who end fights in one big sloppy punch.

  Well, the answer to that routine was always counters. Countering was in Wes's blood by this point. In his D.N.A. But now he was going to have to undo that.

  He took a step, and then the instant his weight was down on his right leg he darted back again and shot in close and tight to the little Japanese, wrapping a thick arm around the guy's chest and bringing his knees up and in, hard into the guy's ribs.

  The Japanese didn't panic for a moment, bringing his fist around in a wide arc to slam hard into Wes's side. The American groaned out his agony, swallowed his pride and his pain, and stepped back, moving his grip to the Japanese fighter's head and sending a knee up towards him, using all his might to pull that head so it was on a collision course with his knee, a hit that connected and sent the Japanese stumbling back a few steps.

  His nose poured out blood down his mouth and down his face, sending the signal to everyone who cared to see that he'd taken a hit that meant something.

  The blow in Wes's side ached already, an unpleasant sign of things to come. Still, he had to have come out at least equal from that encounter. The Japanese, however, didn't show any particular damage from the attack, taking his stance again.

  If it wasn't for the blood coming from his nose, Wes wouldn't have known that he'd been hit the entire fight, where Wes could already feel his breathing coming harder. How was he supposed to win this fight, anyways?

  The Japanese waited for him once again. An impassible wall that Wes had no way to defeat other than to figure out what was letting this guy kick his ass so completely. He took a deep breath, feeling the sharp, stabbing pain that came with the deepest part of that breath, and forced himself to slow down.

  He had to win this fight, but if the crowd didn't like it… well, it didn't matter. He wasn't going to be coming back here again. It didn't matter that the crowd didn't love the fight, as long as he got paid and kept his feet under him.

  Thirty-Nine

  Minami

  Minami watched the fight with her hands half in front of her eyes, and when Wes took the hard wallop in the side, she knew that she had made a mistake coming to the fight at all. He'd be alright if she just waited at his apartment.

  He was a fighter. This was normal for him, the same thing he did every day practically. But watching fights, really watching them, that wasn't her thing. Especially when the other guy was obviously a talented karateka.

  She took in a deep breath and forced her hands into her lap, stood up, and shouted out. "Wes! Kick his ass!"

  He must have heard her voice, because he turned just for an instant. She repeated the shout again. This time he didn't turn, but she could see the way that he reshaped his shoulders, forced himself back into good posture. He knew she was there, and that was all she'd hoped to accomplish by shouting out for him.

  He went back to circling, his legs less spritely than they had been. If he was going to win this, he'd have to figure something out.

  The karateka stepped in closer as well, daring Wes to attack. When he didn't, the Japanese formed up and waited for the attack that was sure to come in time.

  Wes went in with a low kick, which the karateka took on the thigh seemingly without noticing. The two continued their circling, watching each other, neither giving nor asking any quarter.

  Wes ducked his head, then and when he brought it back up he brought a hea
vy fist up with it. The Japanese weaved his head back and then suddenly spun and a high kick arced seemingly out of nowhere, clipping Wes hard on the ear. Minami shouted out her disapproval, a feeling under her skin making her feel as if she'd taken the blow herself.

  "Watch out!"

  The fight continued that way. Wes went in, tried to attack, and missed. The Karateka hit another hard blow, but not hard enough to knock Wes to the concrete.

  Wes swallowed down breaths hard, one of his eyes starting to swell shut from where the kick had been reinforced with a back-fist to the eye.

  "What are you doing! Kill him!"

  The shout coming from the crowd came loud and hot, and Minami found herself shouting along with them, words of encouragement and pleading, begging Wes to find something inside himself to win the fight that had gone so badly against him so far.

  Minami watched in slow motion as the next attack coming from Wes sailed wide as the Japanese moved back at the last instant, another high, arcing kick catching Wes right in the face. Wes crumpled to his knees, like someone had cut the marionette's strings, and for a moment she thought the fight was over.

  The Japanese took a long, loping step and started to throw a wide, spinning kick that would ensure the ending, the first aggressive thing he'd done the entire fight. Wes slumped lower, sending the kick sailing high. The fight was over—

  Or, wait. At the last instant, Wes's arms wrapped around the pivot foot, and then he rolled himself over, sending the Japanese to the ground. Wes pulled himself back up to his feet, still clutching at that ankle and twisting.

  The Japanese kicked up his other foot, caught Wes with a hard heel to Wes's sternum, but he didn't let go. In fact, he wrenched hard, as if he was trying to snap the foot off, and the Japanese groaned out his pain and turned over to try to alleviate the pain.

  Wes let out a roar and brought a foot down heavy on the Japanese fighter's hip, adding insult to injury, and started wrenching harder. When he finally let go, the Japanese took a second to try to recover himself, and in that moment Wes moved over and took a firm two-handed grip on the Japanese fighter's hand, pulled up, and sat down.

  The sick cracking sound went through the crowd, deep down into Minami's bones. The screams of pain that followed weren't nearly so biting, nearly so deep inside her, didn't effect her nearly so much as that sound of the man's elbow shattering.

  His shouts of 'give, give' barely made a dent in her. Minami let out a long, unsteady breath, the violence before her an alarming display that she couldn't begin to understand or cope with. Minami pushed herself up from the folding chair and started to move toward the edge of the crowd. Wes could find her out in the parking lot, because she couldn't stay here, not one second longer.

  Minami gulped down air, trying to find the strength to stay standing, the sight of the smaller man's arm snapping, the way that the awful crack went through the crowd…

  Wes found her a while later, sitting on the floor and trying not to think about anything.

  "Are you okay?"

  She looked up at him, saw the way that even after several minutes he was breathing hard, the way that his arms hung limply at his sides—nothing like the way that he'd looked before.

  "You need to get to a hospital, Wes."

  "This?" He gestured with his eyes down at his broken and bruised body. "Nah. I'll be fine."

  "I'm serious—you look bad."

  "Not as bad as the other guy, though."

  Minami's eyes shot closed and she tried desperately not to think about it. "No, not as bad as him."

  Wes reached down to help her up, but Minami thought that he looked like if she blew on him too hard, he might fall over. She took his hand but didn't use it to support her on the way up.

  Minami guided him into the passenger seat of his car, took his keys and started driving him back to his apartment. They drove in silence a while, until finally Wes broke the silence.

  "What about your father?"

  "I told him."

  "Good for you." He laid his head back against the headrest and closed his eyes. "He's not coming after me again, is he?"

  "No."

  Wes smiled. "Good to know. I was serious, you know—about what I said. I want to marry you. I don't have a ring, yet, but…"

  "I know you were serious, Wes. And when you're ready to ask me to marry you, I will."

  She didn't have to look over to see the smile across his face, but when she did, it still felt good.

  "So you're out of the old man's house, huh?" Minami nodded without taking her eyes off the road. "Then you should know—I have trouble. My sister, back in New York. She's…"

  Minami nodded, reaching across the divider in the car and taking Wes's hand.

  New York, huh? She could do with a change of location. And if Wes was willing to go back, it would at least be nice to meet his family—just once.

  Hopefully it wouldn't be so bad as his meeting with hers had gone. She squeezed his hand again before putting both hands back on the wheel.

  "When do we leave?"

  Walking Disaster

  Bad Boy Romance

  Amy Faye

  Published by Heartthrob Publishing

  If you want news about new novel releases, you can sign up for my mailing list here: http://eepurl.com/cmQY05

  Here’s a preview of the sexy love story you’re about to read…

  Adam can feel the moment that she gives into him. Her body, suddenly pliable in his arms, like putty. And then she seems to find herself again, out of the blue. She stiffens and pushes back. Not to stop him, per se, but a fire lights inside and her mouth starts to move as well, wrestling for control of the kiss.

  He smiles a grin that's full of teeth and scrapes them against her neck, biting down hard enough to pull a gasp from her lips, close to his ears. He shivers hard, the threat of growing arousal that's already well past the point of creeping down his spine.

  It runs through him, his cock twitching painfully. He leans into her and his arms wrap around her hips, pulling her closer as his knee slips between her thighs and spreads them. She lets him, he knows. He can feel the heat, pooled at the place where her legs meet, as she presses herself down onto him, trying to take what she wants.

  Adam starts to lean, pressing her back into the sofa behind her. She acquiesces. The older man continues to press his advantage, his hand finding her breast and squeezing down on her sensitive nipple. Another gasp, hot and moist, inches from his ear. He lets his eyes close as another shiver of need runs down his spine.

  It's been far, far too long. He'd like to take his time, but the fire inside him is burning too hot. There will be time later, to take it slow. To explore every inch of her body with his lips, with his fingertips, with his teeth and his tongue and to show her exactly what he wants from her.

  For now, his fingers dig into the soft skin of her hips and pull her down, laying her out as flat as she can be laid out on the seat of the sofa.

  Her skirt rides up her hips easily when he pushes it. She's wearing tights that tear easily. He's got the money to replace them, and she doesn't fight him. Her hips press up to meet his exploring fingers. He pushes her panties aside. They're already moistened by her arousal.

  His fingers only probe her for a moment before he's working the zipper on his pants, freeing his hardness from the confines of his trousers. Her eyes go a little bit wide and her hips open a little wider, knowing what's going to come next.

  There's no gentleness in the way that he takes her, rough and fast in a single swift motion that pushes all the way inside. She gasps and her legs wrap around his hips before she can stop herself.

  He pulls back and thrusts again into her, the searing heat and tight grip forcing his eyes to flutter shut. His hands don't slacken, though. His hips move, hard and fast, his thumb between them working as fast as it can on her hard clit.

  Linda's hands grab at the air, trying to find something to grip on, until her hands land on the cushion of the sofa. It
wouldn't be the first time that a hole has been torn in it. If he works very hard, then it won't be the last.

  Adam can feel the edge approaching. Can feel the temptation building to take what he can, as fast as he can. To wrench every ounce of pleasure. His hips do the thinking for him, his rhythm speeding up, the teasing of his fingers between them moving to match.

  Her body tenses around him, her ankles crossed on the other side of his hips and locking him in as deeply as possible. He doesn't need any more permission than that, as his own orgasm rips through him. He can feel her milking him as he cums. His breath comes in short, sharp gasps as the need leaves him.

  He's not a teenager any more, he thinks. He may need twenty or thirty minutes before he can go again.

  But he's never let that stop him before.

  Chapter One

  Linda Owens sits at her desk and closes her eyes and tries to ignore the fullness of her bladder. This has always been a big job. There's nothing new about it. She shouldn't be letting herself get this worked up over it, but worked up is exactly what she's getting.

  Normally, her clients knew how to hide old girlfriends. They'd just go the hell away. Sure, sometimes they'd pop up as suicides—two bullets in the back of the head, classic suicide.

  But the one thing that they sure as hell didn't do, at least not usually, was have those girlfriends just show up on national television, hoping for their five minutes of fame as the woman who used to fuck Adam Quinn.

  Well, apparently, Adam Quinn was the exception. Sure, maybe Marilyn and John Kennedy had their thing, but nobody talked about it.

  Well, apparently, if Quinn had been in Kennedy's place, there wouldn't be much secret. It creates a bad image. It makes you look like a philanderer to have a thousand ex-girlfriends come out and say, well, sure, we used to play around. What's the big idea anyways?