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)
I twisted around, positioning his thick body between my legs, and then punched his face repeatedly.
His head. His neck. His face again.
He groaned, trying to push my fist away from his throat. I could see his face going from red to fucking purple.
He was about to burst.
“Tap the fuck out,” I growled in his ear.
But he didn’t. Only pussies tapped out. If he had, he’d be shamed. Since he didn’t want to tap out, I knew I had no choice but to knock him out, so I released his neck, allowing him just a moment’s breath, and then my fist came flying down, crushing the side of his face once.
Twice.
Three times and it was lights out.
The crowd went fucking wild.
Shouting my name like never before.
Money was thrown in the air, familiar gamblers rushing for their bets before the losers tried escaping. I grimaced down at my unconscious opponent, teeth bared, wanting so badly to rip his fucking throat out.
But I kept it cool, allowing the ref to throw my arm in the air and label me the winner. Otto and Oscar hooted and hollered and I smirked in their direction.
“No fucking match!” Wildcard shouted.
My eyes moved around the crowd, bouncing over heads and arms. I spotted Flex in his usual spot, at the top behind the rails, watching me, arms folded tight.
Something strange happened this time, though. Instead of watching me, letting our usual showdown happen, he spat on the ground in front of him and then turned his back, storming away towards his office.
He must have bet against me.
Fucking dumbass. I guess since he saw I was stressing over my grandmother, he figured it would throw me off my game.
He of all people should have known it would only make me angrier.
I never lost.
Ever since I was seven, I never lost. Not fucking ever. I always won the brawls Flex put together in the backyard late at night. Always. I didn’t know what the fuck I was doing back then, or how much damage it would do to me later, but I always won.
I wanted to laugh, but I couldn’t.
I didn’t.
Laughing was useless, not when I felt this fucking proud.
For this first time since my very first fight here, I took a look at the crowd, all of them waving for attention, the girls with their tits popped out of belly shirts, G-strings showing, hoping I would choose them for an after-fight fuck.
Normally I’d hop off the mats and down a bottle of Gatorade before watching my cousins fight.
Not this time.
This time, I looked around, pleased by what I saw. I swear the crowd got thicker and thicker with every fight. I scanned the room, lips twitching with pride, but when I looked to my right, that’s when I saw her.
At first I thought I was seeing things.
I had to do a double take, but when I found her again, I knew…I wasn’t hallucinating. It was her in the flesh, wearing a red and black dress, hair pulled up in a slick and sexy ponytail, the ends curled. A few loose pieces hung around her heart-shaped face, but her cat-like brown eyes were wide with shock.
Blood was on her shoulder—most likely splattered blood from Grit—but I don’t think she noticed.
She was close to the stage, front row. She must have known someone to get that close. She watched me with horror-struck eyes, and I stared at her. I couldn’t believe she was here… and what the fuck was she wearing?
Why would she wear that skin-tight shit here? Her boobs were practically on full display. I was sure her round ass was identifiable. I would remember that perfect peach-shaped ass forever. I wanted to slap her for being so dumb, wearing that to the Pit, of all places.
These men were fucking dogs. Disgusting. Filthy. They didn’t give a fuck about hurting anyone’s feelings, especially a woman’s. If something happened to any girl at the Pit, it was her situation to handle. No one batted an eyelash here because most of them were high on coke or drunk on absinthe.
I wanted to slap some sense into her, but who the fuck was I kidding? I could never hurt her.
I couldn’t hurt any woman.
I looked to see if she was alone. She wasn’t. Her friend Kylie was with her. She was cheering for me, elated with my win, but Jenny wasn’t saying a word. It didn’t even look like she was breathing.
Jenny locked eyes with me, and for a small, brief moment, I hated myself. I hated that she’d witnessed such an animalistic side of me. I hated that she saw my raw, primal side.
I never wanted her to see it. That’s why I wanted her to leave me alone. Because I did shit like this and I fucking loved it. She didn’t know what I was capable of. She didn’t know me. She didn’t need to know me. I was too fucking hardcore for her.