Total pages in book: 162
Estimated words: 158872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 794(@200wpm)___ 635(@250wpm)___ 530(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 158872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 794(@200wpm)___ 635(@250wpm)___ 530(@300wpm)
“Are you sure about this, Griff? In theory you should have you own attorney look over the contract and negotiate the terms.” She taps her pen against the pad.
“I don’t have any bargaining power. If I try to change the terms, they’ll probably just find someone else.”
“True,” she says slowly, as if maybe that wouldn’t be a bad idea. “We could always argue later you didn’t have your own counsel, but it’s a hard battle to fight. The law rarely favors the little guy in cases like that.”
Her questions don’t provoke my defensive side like Remy’s did. Her use of we reassures me even if what she said amounts to “we have a rat’s chance in hell” of winning.
“You know what? It’s never a bad time to have a will.” She picks up her pen again. “Let’s take care of that today. When it’s time to sign the contracts, call me.”
I blow out a relieved breath. “Yeah, that sounds good.”
She works through a list of general questions: full legal name, date of birth, address, debts, family. A smile ghosts over her lips when I mention Molly.
All those things are easy to talk about. Then we get to my assets.
“Like I said, there’s not much. My Harley should go to Vapor.” My lips quirk up. “My collection of flannel shirts to Eraser.”
Hope looks up from her notepad, a curious frown crinkling her forehead.
“It’s…an inside joke,” I explain. “He’ll appreciate it.”
A slight smile flickers at the corners of her mouth. “Got it.”
“My car, Black Beauty, that goes to Molly. The Malibu is already in her name, so that’s hers.” I rub my fingers over my chin. What else do I have? I glance at the list in my hands, glad I brought it. “Money in my bank accounts goes to Remy.”
“Good.” She nods and scribbles another note.
“My half of The Castle goes to Remy too. Everything else in my apartment should go to Molly and Remy. Some cash. A watch from my grandfather.” I shrug. “Not a whole lot.”
“That’s okay.” Hope’s pen hovers over the paper, and she flicks it back and forth. “Nothing to your mother?”
“No. She’ll just shoot it in her arm.” I mime jamming a needle to the inside of my elbow. I say it like it doesn’t bother me—an automatic self-protection measure.
Compassion, not judgment, shines in Hope’s eyes. She seems to be one of the few people I’ve met who doesn’t assume the sins of the mother automatically land on the son.
“I understand,” she says softly. “I’ll draft this so it’s clear what your intentions are.”
“Thanks.” Even though this seemed pointless at first, Hope seems to take it seriously and that’s reassuring.
“The nature of the show…” Hope hesitates. “At your age it’s not just death you have to worry about. What if you’re injured or incapacitated? Who do you want making medical decisions for you?”
I blink and sit back. “Shoot. I don’t want to burden anyone with that.”
“You can think about it and let me know.”
“Molly and Remy,” I answer quickly. “She won’t let him pull the plug on me too soon. He won’t let me linger as a vegetable past my expiration date.”
She doesn’t laugh, but she writes it down.
The weight of all these decisions returns, settling on my shoulders like a heavy cloak of doubt I can’t shake. The path in front of me seems like a maze of possibilities—some hopeful, some dangerous.
I just hope I don’t slam into a dead end.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Molly
The sharp bleat of an air horn slices the air. I jump and let out my own bleat of surprise.
“Welcome to The Castle!” my brother shouts over the noise.
My stomach flutters with fear and excitement.
The roar of conversation quiets. The jostling of bodies stops as people turn to locate the announcer.
Remy stands in the center of the cage on a chair. Pride fills my chest. That’s my brother commanding the attention of an entire building full of brawlers and bettors.
“If you took a wrong turn in the woods and ended up here, now’s your chance to run.” Remy waits a beat as if he really expects people to dash for freedom. “My friend and I run this show. Say hi, Stonewall.” He points to Griff standing on the steps just outside the cage. Griff raises his hand and waves. His broad shoulders and thick muscles straining against the sleeves of his T-shirt look even more impressive under the harsh, white lights. His sharp jawline remains tense. No hint of a smile. He’s all business tonight.
A woman in the crowd lets out a shrill whistle, and another one follows. “Hi, Stonewall,” they shout in flirtatious unison.
Hands off, ladies. He’s all mine.
“We make the rules,” Remy continues ignoring Griff’s fan club, “and we’ll determine the winners of tonight’s fights.”
I blow out a breath of relief. Griff already told me he wasn’t fighting. But I wasn’t sure about Remy. If he’s calling the fights, he probably won’t be in one himself.