Total pages in book: 171
Estimated words: 164459 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 822(@200wpm)___ 658(@250wpm)___ 548(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 164459 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 822(@200wpm)___ 658(@250wpm)___ 548(@300wpm)
Whether she realized it or not, her bottom lip began to tremble, her hands sliding down my arms and, soon, away from me. I felt some sort of absence within me when her touch went missing. A part of me wanted her arms back around my neck, or her hands in mine, or even my fucking cock inside her—shit, anywhere—as long as I was touching her.
I eased up, releasing her and calming my shit. “Why does it matter to you anyway?”
It took her several seconds to gather a response. “Because I know you deserve better,” she murmured. “And because I’m almost certain that you aren’t as terrible as people say you are. I’m also certain that you believe me when I say that.”
I swallowed the heavy lump of sentiment in my throat, looking away from her. I caught Oscar’s eye when I scanned the room, and when he gave me a swift nod and started coming my way, I returned it.
“I’m leaving.” I started to walk past her, but she caught my wrist, spinning me in her direction again.
“Wait—can I give you my number?” Her eyes were full of hope. Too much fucking hope. What the fuck did she want from me? Didn’t she know that I couldn’t give her shit? “Please?” she begged.
Breathing raggedly, I squared my shoulders and pulled my arm away. “If you’re trying to get to know me…stop.” She was lucky I wasn’t taking advantage of her curiosity—the fire I witnessed in her eyes as she danced with me only seconds ago.
I could have fucked her with no mercy. I could have slayed her with bullshit words while slipping off her panties. I could have done so much to ruin every innocent, untainted part of her.
A bad guy like me wasn’t deserving of a good girl like her.
I didn’t want to blemish her soul with my darkness, my wrongdoings.
She deserved better. So I said, “Go party, Jenny. I don’t want your number.” And then I turned and stalked out the door, ignoring her pleas for me to stop and wait.
Oscar and Otto were right behind me, confused. “The fuck was that about?” Oscar asked when the door was shut behind them.
I ignored them, pressing the button on my key fob to unlock my truck. “Nothing.”
“Definitely something,” Otto laughed. “Dude, why don’t you just fuck that girl? She wants your dick so bad! Everyone can see it.” When he got in the truck, he capped my shoulder, laughing. “Fuck the shit out of her like how you fight. She’d remember that for the rest of her life. Girls love to be fucked like they’re hated.”
“Fuck off, Otto,” I grumbled.
Oscar shook his head at us, strapping himself in. “Let’s go. We’re gonna be late and I’m not trying to hear Flex’s mouth.”
Flex, my ignorant, no-good, selfish Dad.
As much as I hated it, I knew Oscar was right. We had to go. I wasn’t in the mood to curse my so-called father out for arriving late.
Not tonight. Not after passing up the opportunity to really get to know Jenny, a girl I’d somewhat admired since I was ten years old.
But, that, she would never know.
She didn’t need to know because we would never be.
And that’s the way it needed to remain.
* * *
Blood.
Sweat.
No tears.
Fuck the tears.
If you cry, you’re a fucking pussy and you get kicked out because you never fucking belonged here.
Bones crunching.
Fists crashing.
Bodies collapsing.
This was what midnights at the Dirty Dawg Pit were made of. A brewing pot full of mean glares, a crazy crowd, and ignorant, hateful words.
Money waved in the air, men young and old, hollering towards the battle cage. Blood spewing from the opponent’s mouth.
I watched my opponents fall down like dead flies, listened to the way their noses broke beneath my fists, how my foot cracked a rib if I stomped down hard enough.
It was fucking terrifying for the guys that’d never been there before. It could have made anyone want to hurl and run home to their mother.
It was dirty.
Fucked up.
Gritty.
But to me, it was fucking bliss.
My hands were positioned, and I didn’t give a fuck about anything but winning that thousand-dollar prize.
Fists raised, brows furrowed, anger on full display. It didn’t take much to make me angry—maybe a little taunting here and there.
But there was one main trigger that got my blood boiling—only a few words that really turned my vision red. Flex said them to me every night. He’d spit them in my face, and I’d fucking hate him for it, pretending it was him in that cage with me and not some weak-ass opponent with a corny name.
He’d shout in my face. The sad part was, it worked for me. It helped me win. It helped me provide…
My opponent tonight was short and bald, but he was stocky, with tree-trunk arms and a thick torso. The ref told us to touch fists. Fuck that. I didn’t touch fists, but that pussy wanted to. I was going to rip this fucker to shreds.