Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 83394 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 334(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83394 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 334(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
It had been ten years since I was supposed to see LA. Better late than never, I guessed.
I was lucky that Billy, the guy I’d worked for in Sacramento, had a buddy in LA. They’d served time together. Maybe it was fucked up, thinking shit like that, but those were my people. I’d been in prison for killing someone. No one else would understand.
Darrel, the guy Billy put me in touch with, was some kind of drugs-and-alcohol counselor now. He lived in LA and had a casita for rent on his property. On Billy’s word, the crazy motherfucker was willing to rent it out to me—a guy who’d taken a bat to a cop’s head.
When Darrel had answered the door, I’d understood why. He was a big guy, at least six feet two. His body was…fuck, he clearly worked out. He had thick muscles and a broad chest.
And he was gorgeous. His eyes were a dark brown, and he kept his hair buzzed short. He had a trimmed white beard that looked almost unreal against his dark skin. I noticed him, how could I not, but he was off-limits. Hell, I didn’t even know if he fucked men or not, so I wasn’t sure why I’d even thought that.
It was weird…but when I was released, I fucked a woman. Before Joey, I hadn’t known if I was gay, bi, or if there was just something special about him. When I was inside, I fucked men, of course, but I’d also started to notice them more. When I got out, I wanted a woman, and it had been…different. I liked it. Liked the softness, but I realized I liked men too, so yeah, that made me bi.
Darrel was a nice guy with a kind smile. I’d been there a few days, and he tried to talk to me a lot, tried to become friends, but it was hard for me to do that now.
Caring meant losing.
I wasn’t in LA to find someone to care about. I was there to get a job, to get away from home.
Shit.
It suddenly dawned on me what I was doing—trying to convince myself I wasn’t there for Joey. Not to have him back, not even to talk to him again. I just…needed to see him. Maybe once I set eyes on him, I’d know it had all been worth it. Once I saw he was happy, I could finally walk away for good.
PART THREE
Who We Are
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Joey
Pain exploded in my right eye as my opponent’s fist connected with it. Fuck. That hurt and was definitely going to bruise and swell, which meant I’d have to come up with an excuse to tell Angie and Kev.
I blocked his next hit before landing one of my own. When he stumbled backward, I advanced on him, raining down blow after blow. Whenever I gave in to this urge and got involved in one of the underground street fights, I was transported to another time, another place. I wasn’t there, in LA, fighting in an old, abandoned warehouse not far from Skid Row. I was back in Hendersonville, and it was my dad on the receiving end of my anger. In these moments, I always fought back. I was stronger than him, better than him. I didn’t need Gage to step in and save me.
“That’s it!” I was grabbed and pulled away from the guy. The match was over, and I’d won.
My head throbbed. It was all a whirlwind after that. People approached me. Guys wanted me to fight for them or against them. They tried to book me for another match, but I said no. I always said no. When I needed to fight—when I needed the reminder that I would never let someone else hurt me again, or when I wanted to hurt—I came, and then I was done…until the next time.
There was always a next time.
I got the cash and left, walked up the block to where I left my car—even though it obviously wasn’t the safest neighborhood—got in, and drove back to my apartment.
On the surface, everything looked fine. I had a small one-bedroom that was clean, too expensive—because, well, LA—and decorated, even if with older furniture and no consistent style.
There was a brown couch, a coffee table in front of it, a TV on the wall across from that. The kitchen was off behind the couch, with a bar separating it from the living room. A small table sat in the corner. I grabbed an ice pack from the freezer, a beer from the fridge, and went straight to my room.
I fell onto my queen-size bed. The hunter-green bedding was all tangled in the middle. I kicked off my shoes, leaned against the headboard, and drank my beer, with the ice pressed to my face. Cars drove by, honked, people screamed, the city alive in ways I used to dream about experiencing. It wasn’t what I thought it would be, but I guessed not much in life ever was. Still, it was more alive than me.