Page 6 of Inked Daddies

His punch comes fast, but I’m faster, ducking out of the way and slamming my fist into his ribs. He grunts, stumbling back, and for a second I think he might be smarter than he looks. But no, he comes at me again, this time swinging for my jaw.

I let him get close enough that he thinks he’s got me. I almost feel bad for him. He can’t read an opponent for shit. But then I slam my elbow into his face. Blood spurts from his nose, and I can’t help but laugh as he curses and staggers back.

“Oh, come on,” I say, wiping his blood off my arm. “That all you got?”

Behind me, Hugo calls out, “Trick, quit playing with him. End it.”

But he’s got the reason to play with this punk wrapped up in his arms. A punch for every tear on her cheeks sounds like a fair trade.

I can’t stop. Not yet. It’s been too long since we’ve defended someone worth defending, and I’m savoring this. The weight of my fists, the crack of bone on bone—it’s the kind of therapy you can’t get in a gym.

The guy lunges again, and this time I let him clip my arm, just enough to make it interesting. Let him think he’s tiring me out, or that he could get the upper hand. It’s funny.

“Nice shot.”

He smirks with blood on his teeth. “You should be running. All three of you. You have no idea who you’re fucking with.”

“Have you checked the scoreboard, son? You’re outnumbered. None of us are running from someone like you.”

“You don’t know what I’m like.” He comes at me with a roundhouse kick that he telegraphs a mile away.

I catch his foot and twist, sending him spiraling in the air before he lands with a thud on the hard-packed dirt parking lot. He’s panting now, desperate, swinging wild when he gets to his feet. A disorganized, frantic attack. This is too easy.

I’m gearing up to put him down for good—a slam to the head should do it. But something flashes in the dim light. A knife.

My grin drops as my disappointment grows. “Seriously? Are you pulling a knife? I thought we were having fun. Chickenshit.”

“Fuck you!” He lunges for me with the blade pointed down the side of his wrist.

He’s been hiding something this whole time.

But before I can move, Sam’s there. He snatches the guy’s wrist in a vise grip, twisting it until the knife clatters to the ground. Then he punches him—hard. Hard enough to drop the boy to his knees, gasping for air. Sam doesn’t stop until he’s flat on his back, groaning.

I would be too, if I ever went up against Sam. I’m glad I never have. No one punches like Sam Cane. I can take a man down easy enough if I want to, but Sam hits like it’ll be the last chance he ever gets. His arm is a jackhammer slamming into flesh.

And just like that, it’s over.

I should feel satisfied. This little shot of fighting adrenaline after flirting with Rebecca Flowers should have taken the edge off ofnot getting laid. That woman got me keyed up. I still don’t know why Sam turned her out.

But as I stand here, my systems come back online, and I feel my body again. An acrid stink…blood. I smell it on my hands, my shirt. His blood, not mine. I’m okay. There’s the throb in my knuckles, the tightness in my wrists. Familiar, all familiar. My body knows this feeling—the crash after a fight. The rush of it coursing through me, making me queasy. Not from the violence, but from the leftover adrenaline?—

Sobs. I hear sobs.

When I turn, my eyes land on Marie, and all that adrenaline in my chest twists into something else. She’s still bawling in Hugo’s arms, her face buried against his shoulder like she can’t bear to look at me.

Fuck. I’ve scared her.

Sam’s jaw is tight, and he motions toward her. “Stand down, Trick. She needed this over five minutes ago.”

I hate that he’s right. I know that was why he didn’t want me and Hugo in on this—he knew we’d fuck this up. But I couldn’t stop myself even if I’d wanted to. Marie’s scream took the choice away from me.

Or am I just telling myself that so I feel better about the way she won’t look at me?

I step toward her with guilt rotting in my chest. I didn’t mean to scare her—I just got caught up in the fight. Someone who scared Marie should be scared themselves. They should pay for what they did to her.

But Sam is right. I could have made it fucking quick. Instead, I dragged it out for my own satisfaction.

Marie looks up when I get close, her face streaked with tears, her cheeks red and blotchy. My chest aches at the sight. Even now, she’s a stunner. Sweet brown eyes, those soft cheeks. I can’t see the dimple in them—she’s as far from smiling as she’s ever been, and that kills me.

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