Mean Boy: Bad Boy Romance

by Amy Faye

  He came without warning, his cock pressed right into the back of her mouth, deep enough to bypass her swallowing completely. She did her best to swallow it anyway and came up coughing, every inch of her skin swollen and sensitive and aroused.

  "God fucking damn it, girl," he growled.

  "Did I do okay?"

  "Fucking Christ," he said, and turned around, his cock still half-hard and hanging out of his pants. He opened the door to the fridge and pulled out a beer, opening it with a twist. "You always that good?"

  Minami didn't like how much she wanted to do it again.

  One

  Minami

  Minami Shimizu pulled her coat around her tighter and waited a minute longer before going back inside. Her father wouldn't stand for it if she were more than a few seconds, not now that Higa had arrived. Whether they took it badly or not, Father would see it as an insult to the guests, and one that could end very badly for both families.

  She turned back inside. They were still stuck in the same mentality they'd had back in Japan. There might have been some hope that an American wife would calm her father down, but it seems that her mother had only rubbed off on Minami, not changed Father one bit.

  She pulled the coat off and took off her shoes as she entered. Takuya was sitting on one side, with his parents on either side, and her parents were similarly flanking an empty space on the opposite sofa. She put herself in the space she knew was there specifically for her.

  She wondered if, perhaps, they could have done without all this ceremony, but when you were dealing with families with this much pride at stake, apparently you didn't. Minami wasn't even interested in the man, who looked small and sickly even by Higa standards, and both of his parents were willowy and growing willowier in their age.

  She didn't say anything, and no doubt she would have been punished if she had. They started the ceremonies off with what amounted to little speeches about how they were going to merge their two families and it would be to everyone's benefit—Minami wasn't past marriageable age yet, so the entire idea that an arranged marriage would be to her benefit rang untrue.

  But she wasn't in a position to refuse her father, so she'd at least go out on a date or two. When the time came to make apologies for her, he would do it if she made the effort, the same as he had the previous times.

  By the time they were finished talking the sun had already set and Higa was visibly agitated. As annoyed as she felt, it seemed. Finally they were allowed to leave. He opened her door for her, then took the seat beside hers. A driver in the front, another holdover from their previous life in Japan, looked into the mirror for direction.

  Takuya gave the directions to a place downtown that she hadn't been before. It might have been rude, she thought. Part of her knew that Father would want her to be on the lookout for things like disrespect to the Shimizu family. If the marriage went through, and the families merged, everyone knew that it would essentially be a favor to the Higa family.

  Their business would quintuple in size, while the Shimizus would gain a little bit of new territory. It was clear who was the real winner here, especially with the only son of the Higa marrying the only daughter of the Shimizu family. They drove a little way, and then Higa started giving turn-by-turn directions, finally leading them into an underground Parking structure underneath a tall building.

  She hadn't lived in America long, but it didn't seem like the usual place for a date. Higa stepped out of the car, opened the door for Minami again.

  "Where are we?"

  "My family's doing a little bit of business with the Americans while we're in town."

  "So you're taking me out to do business?"

  "No," Takuya said, his face splitting into a boyish grin that made him look like he might topple over with the weight of it. "We're here to watch."

  "Watch what?"

  "You'll see."

  Minami saw the crowd pressed together first. Then, she saw the stand where they were selling long-neck beer bottles. They almost certainly didn't have a liquor license, but it didn't seem to stop them.

  Takuya led her through the crowd, and all the way up to the front. She could see a roped-off section, currently empty. The concrete floor was bare and unchanged from the usual, except that the parking blocks had been removed seemingly especially for this occasion, leaving a large, flat empty space perhaps ten feet to a side.

  The first few rows of people actually had folding chairs set up. Higa took her to where one chair was left conspicuously empty. A big American smiled when they approached.

  "Higa-san! Glad you could make it!"

  "Mr. Bradley. I'm glad I could make it, as well."

  "Who's this?"

  "I brought a date," he said, still smiling broadly.

  "Oh yeah?" The American turned and made a face and waved his hand, and the seat beside the empty one opened up to become two empty seats. Higa motioned for her to take the seat that had just opened, from where a man who looked as if he could eat her whole in a single bite. She hesitated a moment, but when the big man raised his hands and told her to take it, she did.

  "What are we here to see? Takuya?"

  "Just wait up a minute, you'll see. But don't blink these move quick."

  A minute later, someone came into the circle. A woman in surprisingly little clothing, for the number of powerful-looking men who looked like they could and frequently did take what they wanted.

  "Next fight! In the red corner,"—she gestured broadly to one side of the ring, where a red wooden post was holding up the ropes—"Wesley Park!"

  A man stepped into the ring and waved vaguely. If anything he looked tired. Lazy, even. Not anything like she expected from a fighter, but clearly he was.

  "Blue corner! All the way from Fukuoka, Japan—Akira Fuji!" A big man came in. Japanese, tall by any standard, and built like a bull. He'd have had an impressive career in sumo, and perhaps he did have one, back in Japan. He raised his hand to the crowd, and she didn't miss the expression he gave to Higa—looking for approval, as if he wasn't sure that they would approve.

  "Goddamn," the American beside Higa said softly. "I just love this. What's the bet?"

  Higa's voice was more coy than it was confused. "What bet?"

  "Oh, come on, you don't watch these fights without betting, do you?"

  "Mr. Bradley, I am a 4th-degree black belt in Karate. Every fight is a learning experience for me. I value just watching these fights! To bet on them would be—"

  Mr. Bradley started to apologize if he'd been rude, and Takuya laughed. "The bet, you ask? What are my odds?"

  "Even, wouldn't you think?"

  "Not at all. Those two? My father's man will kill him! I'm sorry, you're going to have to find a new fighter after tonight."

  "We have several more than just him, as you know, but I think you'll be surprised."

  "Two to one, at least. My fighter is the favored one, and make no mistake."

  "Well, if you'd rather, I'm always amenable to taking more money."

  "One thousand."

  "Done."

  Minami shied away from them. Why on earth were they doing that with her here? And why did Higa think that it was remotely acceptable? She had tried to wait and see. Perhaps there was something to him, but perhaps there wasn't.

  As she thought it, the woman in the middle of the ring finished whatever preparations were necessary, looked from one fighter to the other, raised her hand, and shouted out loud enough to be heard at the back, over the murmur of the crowd. "Ready? Let's fight!"

  The men were moving the instant her hand dropped.

  Two

  Wes

  Wes sat in his corner and waited for the hand to drop. It was the same every time, and just like every other time, they'd thrown him in against some big son of a bitch as if that were going to make a difference.

  There was reason enough to wait just because the longer the fight lasted, the more speculation they'd get about him. The more interest there would be
. Bare-knuckle like this, it was hard to keep fights going long enough to be good.

  Her hand dropped and he moved a little. Circling. Watching. Bare-knuckle fights ended in an instant. One punch could do it, but it wasn't too common. Not when both of them knew what they were doing. This guy looked like he knew what he was doing. He circled, too. Cautious, for a big guy. They made them different in Japan, he supposed.

  Most of the usual guys, the brawlers from around, if they were six-five and weighed two-hundred eighty at least, they'd just be bringing the fight in right away. Patience was always a virtue in these venues, and it was interesting to see a guy who knew it.

  Wes was the more patient one, though. The Japanese in the opposite corner tucked in one shoulder and started in with a hard dash. It might have caught Wes off-guard if it was the first time he'd seen someone try it. For an instant he considered the option of letting the guy catch his knee, but in that instant, the opportunity to do it had already passed.

  Wes let him sail by, the big man barely able to stop himself before he sailed right through the ropes. It wouldn't have meant an automatic disqualification, but the way that the guy looked at his boss—well, there was something there, Wes figured. Something more than a paycheck. Some of that Japanese respect.

  Wes decided to be magnanimous and didn't start kicking the big bastard while he was off-balance. Instead he waited a little longer. Waited to see what he had to worry about. There was always something, and as impressive as this guy's tackle definitely was, he wouldn't be here if there wasn't something to be afraid of. Anyone could dodge a tackle.

  Wes could dodge about anything, but he had to know about it first. You go in swinging, and things get a whole lot harder from there. Better to know what to expect first, and then take it on the chin if you have to, rather than run in blind.

  He dropped his hands. The hands were the first line of defense, but they weren't the important ones. His feet would get him out of most trouble. His eyes, though—those were the most important. If he could see it, he could deal with it.

  The big guy caught his balance in an instant and turned. He brought his shoulders in tight, and straight from the middle shot a hand out like a piston. Wes jumped back a step, feeling as if he'd been pushed by the sheer threat of being hit by that big meaty son of a bitch's hand.

  No way he would let himself get hit by that. His heart would stop right then and there, knowing these Karate-using types. Right then and there. He brought his hands back up. Maybe he didn't need them for defense, but maybe they would be useful. He could have his arm shattered instead of his rib-cage, and that was an acceptable trade.

  They circled a minute longer. The big Japanese took another shot. Practically the same. A straight shot from the shoulder, smooth and quick and perfect. Wes couldn't have improved on it if he'd had the guy in the gym for a week.

  But it was time to start testing out the attack; he couldn't play second fiddle forever. Another piston-fired arm shot out, only this time Wes stepped in, ducked his head under the powerful hit, and used his momentum to shoot one big meaty hand into the big guy's sides. The tender bit of a guy's ribs, right under the armpit.

  The big Japanese, Fuji, Wes thought, bent over in two a little, bringing his elbow down as if he could protect the spot in hindsight. Wes was back out of range again when a second thrust shot out, hard enough and aimed to crush his skull.

  Nothing to worry about. Not yet. As long as he kept himself from getting hit, this would be a cakewalk. But aside from breathing heavy, the guy looked like he wasn't even bruised. Wes slipped another punch, hit the ribs again. Then a third time. He stepped back, a hair's breadth away from a fist right in the nose. If he was lucky it would give him a flat play-doh face. If he wasn't, it was lights out and an unsung funeral, probably eternity in an unmarked grave under the bay.

  Wes took in a breath and started circling again. The guy was definitely breathing hard, now. He had the discipline to keep his hands up, but every few steps his hands fell as if to protect that same spot from getting hit again. Maybe he had a broken rib, or maybe it was just a bad bruise right on the bone, but either way—

  Wes shook the thought out of his head. Don't plan. React. Don't plan. React.

  A hand shot out hard. Wes slipped it just in time to see the elbow coming around behind it. He ducked his head further and slammed shoulder-first into the guy's waist. It wasn't enough to knock him down, though, especially since it had been mostly accidental. A heavy hand clubbed down on his back, sending Wes to the ground.

  He climbed to his feet as quick as he could. No more time to fuck around. Not when the guy could hit like that. This wasn't a play fight. Don't plan. React. The guy seemed to have fallen back into his rhythm. Wes slipped another palm thrust headed for his nose. He knew to expect the elbow, and ducked back under the thrusting arm.

  He brought a heavy fist around in a downward arc. Poor Fuji never saw it coming. He caught it right in the teeth, which hurt like a son of a bitch but in Wesley's experience it worked pretty well. He felt the guy slumping as he lost control of his not-inconsiderable weight. Easy. As long as you keep your eyes open and don't get caught by surprise, no problems at all.

  Wes stood up. Who was it that son of a bitch kept looking at? He looked over. Todd Bradley was sitting there beside some Japanese kid, probably only nineteen. He couldn't have weighed a hundred twenty soaking wet, but he was talking to Mr. Bradley, so he must have been somebody.

  Not that it mattered, because the girl sat beside him was pretty god damned good looking. She seemed to say something to the Ramen-sized guy beside her, and he blew her off. She said something again, still too quiet to hear, and he turned sharply and said something louder. It was in Japanese, but Wesley knew that kind of talk wherever he heard it, regardless of the language.

  The translation was pretty rough, but he guessed it fell somewhere on the range between 'shut up, bitch,' and 'fuck off' and that meant that the girl was his for the taking.

  He stepped back out through the ropes.

  "What did you say to her, man?"

  "That was a great fight, Mr. Park. I'm very impressed."

  "Thanks. But what did you say to the girl?"

  "Oh, that? Nothing. It's none of your business."

  "He told me that I should keep my mouth shut when I'm around men's business."

  "You should apologize," Wes said, letting a bit of an edge slip into his voice.

  "Or what?"

  "Or you won't like it."

  Three

  Minami

  Minami wasn't sure how she was going to manage it, not yet. But there was no doubt in her mind, not one bit, that she wanted to disappear right from that spot. She should have realized that things were going to go this way, but the temptation of having someone actually standing up for her—it was just too much.

  "I'm not going to apologize. Why don't you leave before you get yourself into trouble?"

  "Alright."

  The American grabbed her arm and pulled her up. His hand on her arm, where his skin touched hers, burned hot and drove all her attention to him.

  "What are you doing?"

  "I'm taking my fee," the American growled, and started moving.

  Minami was trapped in her mind, unable to muster up the courage or conviction to fight back. What in the hell was going on here?

  She looked at the man who was taking her away, through the crowd. Minami could feel all eyes on the two of them. He was good-looking, with a typically American square jaw, and a beard that looked like he hadn't shaved in a day or two.

  His hair was cut short, but not very short. Probably the longest he could leave it, if he was doing these fights regularly. Long hair would get caught and pulled, she knew instinctively.

  But it was his eyes that drew her in the most. They burned hot and told her that if something happened right then and there, it wouldn't matter what it was, he would get revenge, and the person on the receiving end of that fury wasn't going to be walki
ng normally for a while.

  Someone came up to meet them, a dark-skinned man, and he handed Wesley a shirt, which suddenly brought into focus that he hadn't been wearing one before, just a tight pair of blue-jeans that showed off how absurdly thick his thighs were.

  If Fuji had been built like a draft horse or a bull, Wesley Park was built like a thoroughbred racehorse. Thin at times, and not an ounce of fat on his frame, but wherever there needed to be muscle, he had it. As if he'd been purpose-built by God to do what he was doing right now.

  His looks left her feeling something that she hadn't felt during any of the times when she'd been forced to meet with the other families, none of the marriage meetings. She tried ignoring the tingle inside her as he walked her away through the parking structure. Higa wasn't anywhere to be seen behind them, apparently having either decided she wasn't worth the effort, or having been stopped by someone.

  Possibly it was both, but 4th-dan or not, she doubted that he would want to fight someone like the man who was practically dragging her out now. He pulled a set of keys out of the back pocket of his jeans, and jabbed a button. A car in front of them beeped and flashed its lights.

  The American opened the driver's side door, and waited, watching her. He must not have seen the confusion on her face, or if he had, then he must not have cared.

  "Get in."

  The tone of his voice made her hands start moving before she knew what was happening, and lit a fire inside her that she didn't want to admit was there.

  He waited a moment for her to slide inside, get herself buckled in before he started the car moving.

  Then they were driving, and he drove like he fought. Cautious, but when the time came, he took his chances and he could afford to be aggressive. When he pulled up into a spot, Minami suddenly jerked out of her reverie. Watching him drive had been nicer than watching him fight, but in both cases she had been mesmerized. The way that he moved was fluid, with no wasted movements. He didn't waste time fiddling with the shifter, or adjusting the temperature, or drumming his thumbs on the wheel.