Vicious Billionaire (Big Bad Billionaires #11)

Chapter 1

Sinclair

I bury my fist in my friend’s face. Blood blooms from his nose, drips down his shirt.

"What the hell—?" Saint growls. "You’ve done it now." He lunges forward and catches me with a right-handed hook. My head snaps to the side. Pain explodes behind my brain, and for a second, all of my thoughts fade. Everything is calm, the way it was before the incident.

Then Saint slams his fist in my side, and pain shudders up my spine. Sparks flare behind my eyes and the breath rushes out of me.

"Bloody mother of—" I lurch back; the world spins. Sweat streams down my forehead, my back. I shake my head but that only makes it worse. My guts twist. Bile rushes up my throat and I swallow it down.

I will not be sick; will not be sick. Not until I’ve given vent to every last rotten thought that’s twisting inside of me. I charge forward and head butt him in the stomach. I hear the 'oof’ of breath rush out of him. He stumbles back.

I raise my head to find him glaring at me, blood dripping from his face.

He peels back his lips to show his bloodstained teeth, then lunges forward.

I swerve and he hits the ground, only to jump up to his feet.

He races forward; so do I. We crash, chest to chest, and the reverberations from the impact sweep through me.

My legs tremble. I put my shoulder into it, draw on every last ounce of strength within me, begin to shove him back, inch by bloody inch.

A growl rips out of me, as I grab his shoulders, then hook my leg around his, tug.

Saint sways, then crashes to his back. And stays there.

Around us, the crowd goes wild.

"Sinner."

"Sinner."

"Get him, Saint."

"Whip his ass, Saint."

"Sinner."

"Win this round, Sinner."

Yeah, that’s us, Sinner and Saint, two of the Seven, who fight in this underground parking lot every Friday.

What started months ago as a means for us to let off steam has snowballed into a crowd puller.

Guys—and girls—turn up every week to watch us, knowing they are guaranteed a good fight. One of us going up against the other, until someone is knocked out cold. Or close to it. Which is not me. Never me.

I’ve survived every fight against my friends so far, and I intend to keep it that way.

"Give up." I press my foot into the center of Saint’s chest and exert enough pressure to keep him pinned to the ground. "It’s over," I snarl, "I won."

"It’ll never be over, asshole," he spits out. Then he adds in a voice that only I can hear, "You know that the ghosts from the incident will always haunt us."

I freeze, rake my gaze across his face. His eyes gleam at me. Dirt and blood smear his features. His jaw is set, and in his eyes, I see the same determination, the same memories that plague me.

I remove my foot from his chest, hold out my hand.

He glares at it, then back at my face.

"Take it, you wanker," I growl. "Get the hell up already."

He grabs my hand and I haul him to his feet. We stay that way—panting, chests heaving, as we stare at each other.

Saint jerks his head. "Knobhead." He grunts.

"Asswipe," I retort.

"Tosser." He half smirks.

"Degenerate." I punch his shoulder, and he winces.

"Watch it, Sterling, you got me good earlier."

"Serves you right for going up against me," I mutter. "You know you’ll never win against me."

"Hah!" He snorts, "You wish. I’ll get you yet, mofo."

"And the winner is...." Edward prowls over, glances between us, then grabs my wrist and waves it in the air, "Sinner f'ing Sterling."

I make the sign of devil horns with my pinky and index finger, and the crowd goes wild again.

Exactly the reaction they'd had when we'd fought for the first time, seven years ago.

We'd started our weekly fights in the makeshift arena on the grounds of St. Lucian’s, before we moved it to this parking lot. Turns out, the students of the elite private academy the Seven of us had attended lived for the chance to get down and dirty.

The school is the playground of the rich and the trust fund babies, with the occasional exception. Like moi.

Yep, you got that right. I’d been the lone scholarship kid in a sea of blue-blooded shitstains.

My friends were the same as all of the others—all trust fund kids. And they might have gone the way of our peers, growing up to take over daddies' businesses, except something happened to derail those plans.

Seven years ago, the Seven of us had been kidnapped at the same time, held hostage, then set free a month later when the cops had found us.

The incident had changed us.

For better? For worse? The jury is out on that.

We’d changed, though. Period.

That we’d made it through school was a bloody miracle.

Most of the Seven owe it to their parents and guardians, who’d insisted they turn up every day.

Me? I’d lived alone after my parents’ untimely deaths.

The stress of trying to cope with a son who had nearly lost his mind after being kidnapped had done that.

But hold on, you say… How could a thirteen-year-old manage to dodge the law and keep up the pretense with the school authorities?

Turns out, it wasn’t all that difficult. My parents weren't rich but they owned their place outright, so I stayed on after them. And then the rest of the Seven had access to the kind of money needed to pay for basic expenses and bribe the authorities; enough to get social services off my back.

As for the school officials? A little bit of charm turned on at the right time, along with playing on their sympathies.

.. It’s amazing how a little bit of strategy can go a long way in these circumstances; and yes, the money.

It always comes down to the money. It's how I learned, early in life, what’s most important.

The kind of cash the rest of the Seven had access to helped me when I most needed it.

Something I'll never forget... After all, their money bought me my freedom, right?

Back then, I wasn't answerable to anyone. Hell, I could stay out and pick up fights all night if I wanted, and no one would bother me, or stay up for me to come home… Or worry if I lived or died. So that’s what I’d done.

I’d taken to the streets, built up quite a reputation too…

Then, decided to take part in these cage fights as a way of making money.

The rest of the Seven had followed… Not that they needed the money. They did it for the thrill of it, the bastards. But hell, if they don’t make the best fighting partners.

Our shared experience has ensured that we are filled with the same level of fury, angst, and frustration that goes into trying to find your way after your reality has been smashed to pieces by a bunch of bastards who had never been identified. Something I intend to rectify.

Edward drops my hand, and together with Saint, we walk over to the trailer that stands on the corner of the lot.

It doubles up as a dressing room/first-aid space where we patch ourselves up after the fights.

The scent of sweat and body odor smacks me in the face as I enter. "Remind me again why we decided not to buy a new trailer?"

"Because Edward, here, didn’t see the point of wasting a perfectly good trailer that already existed on site?" Saint snorts.

Edward chuckles from behind us.

"Waste not, want not...and all that." He ambles to a hammock in the corner.

There's a boxing bag on the other side; next to it is a chair sans arms. On the far corner is a bar-stool, next to which is a sink with a cracked mirror above it. A lone door next to it leads into the bathroom.

The rest of the space is crammed with couches, which are currently occupied by the lounging figures of our friends.

"You look like shit, asshole," Baron drawls from his position in the only chair in the room. That’s Baron for you… He prefers to try to hold on to his individuality as much as possible, even if it’s not all that comfortable.

Not that the rest of us don’t, but Baron takes it to an illogical extent.

Hell, I’m a loner, but I’ve never hidden my background or my lack of family.

But Baron? None of us have ever heard him talk about his circumstances.

All we know of him comes from that one shared experience which tainted our pasts enough to meld us together in this strange shared brotherhood; one that's been our default setting since the incident.

"And you look..." I take in his general state of unkemptness. His jeans are tattered, his sweatshirt battered, and his baseball cap calls attention to his flowing hair that is now shoulder length. "...like you’ve seen better days."

"Yeah." He yawns widely. "I was up until all times of the morning, trying to hack into the MI6."

"Why the hell would you do that?"

He stares at me as if it’s a trick question. "Because it’s a challenge?"

"Is that all it is to you anymore, a challenge?"

"Hello pot; meet kettle." He stretches. "At least, I’m pitting my brains and intellect instead of getting my ass kicked."

"I won this round," I mutter. "At least, I have something to show for my efforts."

"What, like broken bones?" He snorts. ”Speaking of,” he stares at Saint, who’s lumbered over to the sink at the far end of the trailer and is splashing water on himself like it’s going out of style, "best get that nose seen to, champ. You don’t want it set the wrong way and spoil your already weak chances of getting laid. "

Saint straightens. "I’m not the one struggling to get the cum stains off my carpet every night."

I chuckle, "That's because you're too busy practicing the one gun salute."

"While you're jackin' the beanstalk, no doubt?"

"Will you two wankers stop indulging in your one man orgies already?" A new voice cuts in.

I turn to find Weston sauntering toward us. "Hey mofos," he says in a mild tone.

He walks over to where Saint has grabbed a bunch of paper towels, and is proceeding to wipe his face. Saint peers at his reflection in the mirror and mumbles, "Shit, is my nose crooked? It definitely seems crooked."

"Want me to fix it for you?" Weston drawls.

Saint shoots him a glance. "If you think I’m going to let you get your grubby hands on my face, you are sadly mistaken."

"Turns out," Weston wiggles his fingers, "I’m not too bad with my hands."

"Yeah, especially when they’re attached to your dick." Saint snorts.

Weston chuckles, "I don’t need to resort to that, since I’m getting loads. Unlike you, dipshit."

"I have more than enough companionship of the female persuasion to keep me occupied, you twat," Saint retorts.

"Children, children." Edward rolls off the hammock. He lopes over and throws himself down on the couch on the other side from Baron. "Don’t you realize how juvenile you sound when you argue?" he asks.

"Don’t you realize how boringly grown up you come across?" Weston retorts. "But since you’re the only one of us who seems to be of sound mind, can you tell asshole, here, that if I’m good enough to qualify for med school, I’m good enough to fix his nose?"

"Hang on a second." I blink. "You’re going to med school?"

Baron stiffens.

Edward freezes.

Silence descends in the dingy space, broken only by the plop-plop-plop of water dripping from a broken pipe in the bathroom.

"You best get that looked at by a doctor…or by one who’s going to study to be one," Edward remarks.

Saint turns to Weston. "Give it your best shot," he mutters.