Caged: The Underground

But there’d been fear in Davonte’s eyes when Damon had come for him. That was worth gold.

I needed this man. Whether he wanted to help me or not. He was already hip-deep in shit and the only way out was to fight to survive the hell that was coming.

I couldn’t do it without Damon.

I needed him — he didn’t need me.

I had to figure out a way to convince him that there was a reason he stood up to Davonte and if that didn’t work, I’d do whatever else it took to get him on my side.

And don’t fucking judge me for whatever I have to do because you’ve never walked in my shoes.

You don’t know the terror of watching someone you love more than life itself being beaten to death under the guise of a legitimate fight.

Tommy died choking on his own blood in the ring.

All because I wouldn’t sleep with Davonte.

I wouldn’t be his woman.

I hadn’t giggled and dropped to my knees to suck his dick simply because he was Louie Davonte — the so-called messiah of the downtrodden.

Davonte was king of the slums around here and he made sure everyone knew they were beholden to him in some way or another.

I wouldn’t suck his dick even if it were made of candy.

The idea made me want to puke as hard as Damon was upchucking right now.

I winced as some sort of roar came from the bathroom. Poor dumb ox was probably unloading his spleen.

My family had blamed me for being too prideful, that I’d been stupid to pass up the honor of being with Davonte.

“Think of your brother,” my dad had demanded with greed in his eyes. “You’re lucky Davonte thinks you’re something special. Use it to your advantage. If you’re smart, you’ll let him knock you up and you’ll be set for life.”

Parenting skills were not my dad’s forte. I ignored his disgusting suggestion and tried to fight for Tommy’s future.

“Tommy needs to use his head for more than a punching bag,” I’d shot back, hating my weak-ass father for slavering at the thought of both his children working under Davonte and all the perks that would supposedly come with the privilege. “He needs to go to college to get out of this fucking hell-hole!”

“College?” he sneered as if I’d just started babbling nonsense. “What the fuck is wrong with you? College ain’t for people like us so get that through your dumb-ass skull,” my dad had growled, irritated as fuck. “Just sit there and look pretty…that’s what you’re good for, sweetheart. Your brother knows the score. He’s got talent. Davonte sees something in him. He’s gonna take him to the big time.”

The smug assurance in my father’s tone made me want to shake his head off his shoulders.

“He’s going to get him killed,” I cried with impotent rage. “Don’t you see that Tommy is just like the rest of the guys thinking they’re going to be the one who makes it out of this shithole? How many careers have actually made it out of the town?”

“Jimmy “The Punisher” Ratchet, Paul “Steel Hands” Rodrigues,” her dad shot back as if two nominal successes were enough to leverage someone’s entire future on. “They got out of here and it was all because of Louie Davonte so show some respect, girl.”

I hated when my father called me “girl.” I also hated that my father placed my entire worth on my ability to catch a slimy pig between my legs.

But then Frankie Williams wasn’t angling for Father Of The Year nor had he ever been in the running.

The toilet flushed and water started running. Damon was showering.

My sinuses tingled as real emotion boiled up, awakening parts of me that’d been hibernating.

There was nothing about Damon that turned my head.

Uneducated block of man meat.

All he knew was swinging fists and training until he fell into his bed.

I’d seen enough of his kind hanging around the gym, their eyes sharp as sharks but their heads full of sawdust.

Well, I wasn’t looking for a relationship, least of all with someoene like him.

But that big, dumb blockhead could save my ass.

I wiped at the tear that somehow found its way down my cheek. I smiled at the drop perched on my fingertip.

I wasn’t crying because I was sad.

I wasn’t mired in hopelessness like before.

I wasn’t driven by panic.

No, this was something entirely different.

This emotion was wild, reckless and blood-thirsty.

And I embraced it with all the abandon that only the truly damned could appreciate.

I was crying because for the first time since Tommy died, I saw a way to avenge my brother’s death and put Davonte behind me for good.

I saw a future free of The Underground and everything it stood for.

I saw me, shaking off the grip that Detroit had on my throat.

I saw hope.

Now, I just needed a plan.

And a metric shit-ton of luck.

Chapter 3

Damon

Panic drove at me as a litany of 'fuckfuckfuck' echoed in my Jameson-soaked brain. Why? Why would I risk everything for a woman I didn't know or care about? I lifted my face to the shower spray and prayed for some kind of clarity, even though prayer wasn't something I believed in.

So, now I had damage control to deal with — what was my first step?

Apologize, grovel, beg for forgiveness, plead temporary insanity.

Seemed legit.

Especially the insanity part. No one would question that I'd lost my ever-loving mind when I reared my fist and plowed it into Davonte’s nose.

I scrubbed at my face with the coarse washcloth and gave my nuts and cock a quick once-over. My cock stubbornly ignored the message that the chick in the other room wasn't anything but a ball of trouble and kept trying to harden as if something was going to happen.

Jesus, I palmed my cock roughly, knock it off, already.

But the rough touch was the wrong thing to do.

Suddenly, my semi-hard cock was steel encased in hot skin.

No whiskey dick problems here, I thought grimly.

Now wasn’t the time to get off. I had bigger problems.

But my entire body tensed, needing that release.

Fine, I conceded, lathering up my cock with more soap for a nice, slippery sensation. It wasn’t a hot pussy but it’d do.

I closed my eyes and stroked my cock, needing to feel something other than this overwhelming fear that I'd just signed my death warrant and killed my career in one punch.

Too much pent-up testosterone.

I hadn't jerked off in a while.

My balls were practically purple.

I'd been so focused on getting back in the ring, I hadn't spared a moment for a quick wank, even if just to relieve the pressure.

Big tittied women flashed in my brain and I stroked harder, squeezing the base and shaft for a tight fit.

God, I loved big tits.

Just like the woman's I woke up to this morning.

Yeah, she was the perfect package.

Small waisted, big hips and tits, and barely reached my chest. I could pick her up and impale her on my cock without breaking a sweat.

No, I shook my head, don't think of her. She's the reason I’m in this mess.

But I was already close.

That familiar tingle at the base of my cock, building in my balls, was already getting ready to go nuclear. I braced myself against the shower wall, a groan locked tightly behind my teeth. I didn't want to think of her but each time I shoved her away in my mind, desperately grabbing onto nameless, faceless chicks to finish, she crowded back in.

Those golden eyes.

Those perfectly thick hips that made me want to grip with both hands so I could sink my face into her hot pussy.

All that long, red hair flowing down the curve of her back.

And, yeah, that was all I could take.

FUCKKKKKKK! That groan I'd tried

to hold back, escaped from my clenched lips as I blew a nut so hard it could've punched a hole in the wall.

I sagged as my knees weakened.

Sobriety came with a thunderclap and I realized I was in such deep shit I couldn't even fathom the depth.

Davonte wasn’t a forgiving man.

He ruled The Underground and with good reason.

No one messed with the King of Detroit.

But I’d broken his nose.