Total pages in book: 153
Estimated words: 148704 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 744(@200wpm)___ 595(@250wpm)___ 496(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 148704 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 744(@200wpm)___ 595(@250wpm)___ 496(@300wpm)
The man glares, and I stare at the hack job someone, likely someone in this crowd, did on his stitches.
Good.
He’ll have the scars to remember me by.
I turn to my girl.
Worry draws her brows in close, and my attention lowers to her arm, where the asshole’s fingerprints still torment me.
I’ve touched, kissed, and run my tongue over each small spot, more times than I could count, trying to erase the memory of how they got there… and convince myself not to go fucking mad and do something stupid, like kill the guy before I beat the other fucker’s ass and get my money.
Davis looks to me, and I step into her.
This will be the last time she’s in a position like this.
That’s a deal I’m making with my damn self.
Davis
Crew might not notice, but it isn’t my grip tightening on his, over and over again, tonight; it’s the opposite. He’s anxious, but not for himself, for my presence among this mob, but we’re going to run a bar together when all this is done, so really, there’s no better time to get used to a rowdy crowd.
Yes, these are our typical customers turned up to eleven, but still.
Crew releases my hand, facing me, his beaten expression immediately zoning in on the bruise on my upper arm.
Hazel eyes slice up to mine, fury swimming behind them. I sink into his embrace, and he tips my chin up, his thumb stretched along my throat.
“No one will ever hurt you again. Never, and no one can hurt me but you.” His promise is fierce and soul searing. A reminder any blow he may take, or blood he may lose, is only surface-deep. It will heal like the mark on my skin, like the scars on his. Only I have the power to make him ache, and it’s one I’ll relish yet never release.
Willie shifts beside me, and I know it’s time, so I press my palms to Crew’s chest, rise on my toes, and meet his lips with my own. “Kick his fucking ass, baby.” I move to his ear. “And come kiss mine once you do.”
Pulling back, I meet his gaze, darkened by my words and something far more sinister.
Crew’s lips twitch, but it’s quick, and only once I nod does the mask slip over his face.
In that second, he becomes a blanket of nothingness. He grows a foot taller, his dominance dripping from his very being.
He’s the picture of power. May someone, somewhere, watch over the man across the mat tonight. After mine takes him out, of course.
One wordless glance at Willie, and his best friend loops his arm through mine, leading me to the edge of the circle where Drew waits. He takes my hand and tugs, locking my back against the wall behind him. Julius joins us, both bodies creating one in front of me, allowing nothing but my eyes to peek through the slight curve between where their shoulders press to one another’s as Willie rushes ringside.
Poor Layla. She’s likely pacing a hole into the carpet, waiting for the second this is over, so she can hear her husband’s voice as he promised. If she weren’t pregnant, she’d be here, she swore it, but I didn’t need her to say it. I already knew.
It’s what friends are for.
It’s what family is for.
A sense of guilt-laced sorrow washes over me at the word, but I don’t shy away from it.
I realize now why I didn’t have any relationships in my life that truly mattered. I didn’t allow people in for fear of filling the spots left empty by the two most important people in my life when they left home, left me, and I don’t regret keeping them open until those people returned. Even if only one of them truly did.
How many years will go by before I meet my brother’s blue eyes this time?
My thoughts are immediately drowned out by the man with a megaphone.
“Ready for the rules?” the giant of a guy shouts, the crowd quieting instantly. His hollow laugh follows, and he lifts the heavy plastic to his mouth once more. “Well, baby, there ain’t none. Balls to the walls, and hold your bitches on your britches, boys. It’s go time.”
Just like that, the entire crowd shuffles backward.
A shiver runs down my spine as Crew bends, slipping under the thick rope, the man he’s set to fight doing the same.
His bald, tattooed opponent hops from foot to foot, rolling and cracking his neck, swinging out his right arm, followed by the left, stretching each one behind his shoulder blades.
Crew does none of this.
He stands perfectly still, straight, scary. He’s a stone statue, fierce and flawless, completely lax, unfazed in the middle of a boisterous crowd, who wants to see him busted and bleeding.
He’s breathing easy, the energy leaving him almost that of a bored man. If I wasn’t so terrified, it might be hilarious, how adorably cliché the complete coolness the bad boy from the bar has when faced with a fight.