Putting Up A Fight: A Bad Boy Romance

Putting Up A Fight

Samantha Westlake

Copyright 2016 Samantha Westlake

All rights reserved.

Putting Up A Fight: A Bad Boy Romance

Book design by Samantha Westlake

Cover Image Copyright 2016

Used under a Creative Commons Attribution License:

http://www.creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0

Adult content warning: All characters are legal and fully consenting adults and are not blood relations.

This book was free. Want another one?

Sign up for my mailing list, and I’ll give you another full-length novel, filled with mystery, romance, and sexy twists and turns, entirely for FREE!

A Billion Little Clues

Melinda Gaines, overworked personal assistant, is cursed with permanently bad luck. Her boss keeps making unreasonable demands, and no guy has seen the inside of her apartment in months.

But when Melinda is sent to a party at the CEO’s house, she ends up on a romantic, moonlit balcony with an unnervingly handsome stranger. Melinda is convinced that her run of bad luck is over.

That is, until she finds that her latest crush is being accused of murder…

Want it? Click here to sign up and get it now, or copy the following link into your browser:

http://smarturl.it/Westlake

My subscribers are the first to hear about my latest novels, and get unique sale opportunities, as well as a chance to read advance copies - all for free! Sign up now!a

Want to see EVERYTHING? I’m willing to bare it all, just for you…

Check out my website to see everything I’ve written! Get links to all my books, subscribe to my mailing list, and stay up to date on your new favorite author!

http://www.WestlakePublishing.com/

Dedication

For everyone who enjoys curling up at night with a book to keep them warm.

Putting Up A Fight: A Bad Boy Romance

Prologue

☼ ☼ ☼ ☼ ☼ ☼

Cain stared across the dirt field at his opponent. The crowd was cheering and jeering all around him, their voices merging and mingling together into a dull and steady roar.

He paid it zero attention.

Through long practice, Cain had mastered the art of ignoring that roar, pushing it out of his conscious mind and into the background. The only thing that mattered in his world was the man facing him.

That man appeared hard, focused, but Cain’s eye could see the little details his opponent wanted to keep hidden. His opponent had begun the fight favoring his right leg, putting that forward whenever he advanced, but he now kept most of his weight on it. Some of that might be due to exhaustion, but more probably resulted from the blow Cain had landed on the man’s thigh.

The opponent’s guard was up, but those fists hung a little lower, a little looser, than they had at the beginning of the fight. Cain could see it in his stance, in his attacks, in his eyes; his nemesis was tiring. He was relying on finite reserves of energy, and wouldn’t be able to go on much longer.

Cain could feel the sweat dripping down his own bare chest, tracing a line through the flattened hair, rolling over his pecs and across the ridges of his abdominal muscles. He was breathing heavily too, sucking in air through his raw throat and trying to fill his big chest. But he was not exhausted yet; he was still filled with energy, mentally tamping down the flow of adrenaline so he could keep his thoughts clear.

The man edged forward. His feet, bare as they shuffled through the loose dirt floor, kicked up small puffs of dust. Cain didn’t miss it.

That dust could be dangerous. A few grains in the eye could irritate, and a handful could blind an opponent and buy valuable time for maneuvering. Knocking down an opponent didn’t just expel the wind from their lungs; if they didn’t close their eyes in time, they would come back to their feet blind and have to go on the defensive until their vision cleared.

Cain’s fists were up, but he kept his eyes on the other man’s face. He specifically watched his opponent’s eyes. People often claimed that the eyes were the window to the soul, but Cain knew that they were definitely the windows to the body. When the man decided to attack, his eyes would move.

There! A tiny flicker, so slight that most people would have missed it. But Cain had been watching for just this shift, and he was instantly ready.

His opponent came charging forward, one hand swinging high for an overhand blow, the other one kept low for a follow-up uppercut. It would have been a devastating one-two punch that would have unbalanced Cain and cracked his jaw up into his skull, knocking off his vision and making him unable to recover in time. He would be at his opponent’s mercy for a few seconds - more than enough time for the other man to finish him off.

Cain jumped to the right as his foe’s left hook came shooting down. That fist passed within inches of his cheek, so close that he could feel the wind from its passage. But Cain had perfectly timed and measured his move, just enough to keep his face out beyond the other’s reach.

Having missed his first swing, his opponent was off balance. If his reaching haymaker didn’t connect, there was no way for him to follow through with the uppercut, and he was momentarily frozen.

It was an opportunity that Cain wasn’t going to pass up.

Cain had shifted his weight to his trailing foot to lean back and dodge, and he now used that weight to spring forward. His own fist came up, slamming into his foe’s gut and knocking the air from his lungs.

The opponent jerked forward, bending over in an instinctual reaction to the abdominal blow. This brought his head down towards waist level. If Cain wanted to go for a killing blow, he could bring up his knee, slamming it into the man’s skull hard enough to break his nose and drive that bone up towards the eyes and brain.

That instinct was at the forefront of Cain’s brain, shouting at him. It would be so easy to give in, to do it!

He resisted the urge, however, and instead brought his other fist around in an arc. He caught his opponent a ringing blow to the side of the head, throwing off his balance and knocking him down into the dust and dirt of the floor.

All around the two men, a roar rose up from the crowd. Cain’s opponent was down and he wasn’t moving to get up; his limbs were splayed out and he was groaning softly as he tried and failed to recover enough energy to rise.

Cain stood over him, ready to deliver another blow. Instead of dropping his opponent, however, he raised his eyes above the rough wooden wall surrounding the ring. His eyes scanned over the crowd until he found the one he was seeking.

The master of the arena.

The master was young, cultured, dressed impeccably in a gray three-piece suit. He sat atop a throne built on the edge of the ring, raised high enough on a plinth to gaze down into the circular space beneath him. The master of the arena lounged across this throne, one leg tossed over an armrest, gazing down through hooded eyes. He was above the rest of the bettors who shouted and pushed their way around the ring - and he knew it.

The master of the arena looked back at Cain, hooded eyes considering. The rest of the crowd, sensing that a decision was imminent, fell quiet in a concerted hush.

Like a Roman emperor of old, the master lifted his hand, holding his thumb out from the rest of his fist to one side. Even the man on the ground at Cain’s feet had lifted his head, turning and doing his best to blink the dust from his teared-up eyes so that he could witness his own judgment.

For several quiet seconds, the master’s thumb held sideways. Finally, in a smooth motion, it turned to point up towards the sky in a definitive thumbs-up.

Cain breathed a sigh of relief, as did several members of the crowd. A minute later, the shouting had resumed its previous level, as those who had bet on him tried to reclaim their winnings from the bookies, and those who had bet on his opponent threw down their stubs and cursed their bad luck.

The gate leading into the arena opened, and several other men came rushing in, down the stairs into the lower circular area. They gathered around the fallen brawler, gently lifting him up to his feet and checking to make sure that none of his wounds were too harsh.

Cain knew that his opponent was all right. He might have had his brains briefly scrambled, but Cain’s punches hadn’t hit hard enough to leave any lasting damage. His foe needed the help of his fellows to get up on his feet, but he was already starting to recover.

Cain, meanwhile, climbed up the dirt ramp that led up from the arena, stepping out onto the hard wooden floor of the surrounding room. He easily shouldered his way through the throng of bettors, heading towards the back wall where the bookies gathered.

Wraps was already there, thankfully, scurrying back and forth as he gathered up the wads of cash that the bookies traded to him for the betting stubs he clutched. He nodded to Cain, reassuring him that his money was being collected.

Cain nodded back and didn’t move forward to check. Wraps may be small, skinny, and have the air, personality, and self-preservation instincts of a weasel, but he was still a valuable companion. Cain personally trusted him, at least far enough to hold on to his winnings and collect the bets that Cain surreptitiously placed on himself.

Cain would catch the man later, before he could scurry away, and would reclaim that money. Enough to make his payments for the week, he hoped.

The dust that hung in the air made Cain’s lips dry, stung at his throat. He coughed, and an onlooker handed him a bottle of water. He wrenched off the top and gulped down the fluid, having to force himself to not drink too fast, to not upset his stomach. He had to stay in control.

With his thirst quenched, Cain scooped up a towel he had left hanging over the side of the arena. He patted himself down, trying to wipe off the majority of the sweat. A couple places where his opponent had managed to land blows now stung, even at his gentle touch. Cain did his best to work around them, flexing the muscles beneath the skin to keep them loose.

His break time was almost up. Cain could hear the roar of the crowd beginning to build up again, as the next challenger approached.

Throwing the towel back up over the edge of the arena’s wall, he moved away from the entrance to the arena. A minute later, his next challenger came into view.

This opponent was a wiry little Asian, already dancing back and forth and filled with angry energy. He didn’t look like a pushover - but neither was Cain.

Before the round started, Cain risked a glance up at the master of the arena. Nobody knew his name. He was just referred to as the master, and the title seemed to perfectly fit. He always had Mogo, that massive beast of a bodyguard, standing beside him, but no one ever challenged the master. At his word, men fought, punches were thrown, limbs were broken, and men sometimes vanished, never to be seen again.

Nobody ever dared to cross him, for as long as Cain could remember - and he’d been here as long as anybody. Mogo commanded the respect brought by muscle, but even he remained obedient before the power of the master.

The master was gazing down into the arena, but his gaze didn’t focus on the Asian challenger. His eyes locked on Cain, observing him.

Cain felt like a bug beneath a microscope. The master’s gaze felt dry, observing, unemotional. Beside him, Mogo grunted and folded his gigantic arms.

The gate had now closed behind the Asian man; Cain had been sealed into the arena with his new opponent. He pulled his attention away from the master, away from anyone beyond the walls of the arena. He drowned out and silenced the roaring of the crowd, the shouts and cheers and jeers. His hands rose, the fingers tightening and closing into fists.

There was no one else. No one but him and his opponent.

There was only the opponent.

There was always someone else to fight.

Chapter One

☼ ☼ ☼ ☼ ☼ ☼

The pencil made lazy, unbalanced circles as it swung around on the sheet of paper on top of my notebook. The circles meandered up and down, tracing their way into all four corners of the sheet, obscuring the couple sparse lines of notes that I’d managed to jot down before losing focus.

Up several rows of seats in front of me, my professor (Introduction to Sociology, SOC 134) kept on lecturing, totally immersed in his PowerPoint presentation. He had been going on for the last forty minutes or so, but I’d long since stopped listening, somewhere around the five minute mark.

I turned my head to the left and right, sneakily checking out the rest of the students in my class. Just like me, most of them had lost focus fairly early on, and had lapsed off into their own worlds.

Thanks to the stadium seating in the lecture hall, I could see down over the shoulder of the other college students in front of me. The girl to my front left had Facebook loaded up on her laptop and was anemically scrolling through, while the boy sitting next to her, on my front right, was openly playing some sort of flash game that involved shuffling around number tiles. As I watched, he lost the game, and he momentarily grunted in frustration before starting a new game.

Normally, I wasn’t like this. Unlike most of my peers, I was always attentive in class, focusing and listening carefully to everything the professor said, taking copious notes, filling the pages of my notebook, and always doing my best to learn everything that I could from the lectures. I’m