Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 141676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 708(@200wpm)___ 567(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 708(@200wpm)___ 567(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
“I’ll deal with it,” he snaps, ending the call.
“If that was—”
The bottle comes back up like a club.
There’s barely time to swing to one side as he charges, backing me against the wall. “You miserable ingrate! Thought you’d play me like a fucking fool, did you?” he snarls, every breath full of murder.
I shove his thick arm away as he swings the bottle alarmingly close to my face.
Game over.
“Got pretty close, didn’t I?” I laugh at him.
“You don’t get to lie to my fucking face, Rory. I’m not the stupid shit you think I am, but you—you have no clue what my business is and how dangerous it can be.”
“Keep talking,” I grind out.
He shifts half an inch to the right.
I take advantage of his undefended left, plowing an elbow into his side—all muscle, not much fat—before ducking out from under him.
He swings that bottle again and catches me, slicing down my arm.
Fuck!
Blood soaks my shirt with streaking pain.
So it’s a proper death match now.
I barrel into him, forcing him back, straight through the glass doors and into the condo. Glass shatters around us with a deafening explosion, cutting through the soles of my shoes.
We crash into a table, rolling across the floor in vicious confusion.
Haute swings, but he’s lost his bottle in the fray.
All he has now are his fists.
They’re enough.
He punches me back before scrambling to his feet. I match him and we face each other, chests heaving.
Damn.
If I give him any time to recover, there’s a chance he’ll beat me in a fight. He’s got the weight and size advantage and I’m hurt, bleeding like hell.
Keep moving.
It’s my only chance.
I swing left, around the back of the sofa, bolting into the kitchen. A huge wooden table dominates the center of the room with an ugly-ass pig jar. Whoever decorated this place must’ve been high or catering totally to eccentric artists, but I don’t have time to think about that.
I also don’t have time to search through the drawers for a knife.
Haute pounds after me.
I swipe the pig jar off the table just as I swing around and run into the wide-open studio space with more room to maneuver.
The ceramic pig feels like a lead weight in my arms as I turn. Adrenaline foams in my mouth as Haute barrels into me and—
We crash down on the floor again.
Just two big, overgrown men brawling like warring gorillas, blood smearing stark and ugly against the off-white subway tile.
Only this time, I’ve got the jar.
I have a weapon.
And I still have my grip and just enough of my reflexes left.
With all my might, I swing my arms like a human tornado.
There’s a loud crack from Forrest Haute’s head.
Then he isn’t wrestling me anymore.
He’s slumping to the ground like a deflated punching bag.
I shove him off unsteadily, staggering to my feet in this mess of a studio.
The table’s shattered, wood and splinters everywhere. Dust is still settling in the late afternoon sunlight streaming through the balcony door.
Oddly, the pig jar split apart neatly, lying in two pieces on the ground next to Haute’s prone body.
Shit, did I kill him?
I grab a meaty arm, feeling for his pulse.
It hammers against my fingers, almost as fast as mine. He’s alive, even if he’ll walk away with one hell of a splitting headache.
Fine.
I don’t care, just as long as he never sees the outside of a cell again.
I drag myself over to the sofa, fishing for my phone.
“Archer,” I say roughly as soon as he picks up. “I’m alive, don’t worry.”
“Thanks,” he says dryly. “How’d it go?”
“Haute’s down. Call the cops—and an ambulance.”
“Ambulance? What happened?”
“You heard me. Ask for Detective Batista and tell her it’s about Haute, then get your asses over here.”
Archer relays the message to Patton, who’s presumably calling 9-1-1, before he comes back on the line.
“How bad, Dex?” he asks.
“Made a real mess of the place. He cut me. Missed killing me, but I guess I’ll need some stitches.” Not my first time, but fucking inconvenient just the same. “Otherwise, I’m fine. He sang like a bird. Just get over here, Arch, before anyone else does.”
“On our way. Don’t die on us now.”
I hang up and make my way awkwardly to the intercom, one hand pressed against the gash on my arm. The receptionist doesn’t seem to recognize the difference between my voice and Haute’s lazy drawl, making me wonder how often he visits his own properties.
Not that it matters now.
As I head back to the sofa, I glance at the broken pig jar. It’s cracked, but the words I didn’t notice before are still readable on one side.
Life is short. Love sugar.
For fuck’s sake.
It’s ironic, I suppose, that I knocked Haute out with a fancy sugar bowl.
A fucking sugar bowl after everything that’s happened.
Another reminder of what’s at stake and what I’m afraid I’ve already lost, even if Haute and his friends are neutralized.