Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 107630 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107630 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
He’s acting as though she’s cheating on him by kissing me, but she’s not. She ended things with him days ago, and his refusal to accept her rejection doesn’t change the fact that she did it.
“Roy,” she says, her voice gentle, like she’s worried about his feelings when all that matters are hers.
She’s been doing so well, growing right before my eyes, and it’s been a fucking privilege to lay witness to. Hearing her go soft and unsure for this asshole pisses me off. She’s so much better than him. Better than me, too, but that’s not something I’m willing to examine too closely right now.
No, I’m taking every second she’ll give me, like the selfish prick I am, and giving her everything I have in return. Which admittedly isn’t much, but there’s one thing I can for sure help with—this fucker, who’s glaring at her like he has any right to say a single fucking word to her.
I push my chair back, getting it out of the way as I stand. “You need to go. Leave Hope alone.”
“Or what?” he snaps, rolling his eyes. “You think you’re some tough guy. Do you know who my dad is?”
Is he for real? Does he actually think his dad being the sheriff is some sort of force field that’ll defend him? I guess, in his experience, it probably has. Too bad I don’t give a fuck about his daddy dearest.
“Yeah, I know who he is. But in case you hadn’t noticed, he’s not here to protect you. Maybe he can fix your shit up after I smash it,” I suggest with a goading smirk. “Bring you some chicken noodle soup or something.”
Trash talk is kinda the bread and butter of the streets where I grew up. Everyone would talk shit, and as long as you can and will back it up, you’re good. Where you get into trouble is when your mouth writes checks you can’t cash.
I’m good for every damn penny.
I want to bleed this fucker. Not because of what he’s done to Hope in the past. I hate it, but she admits that she wanted that . . . then. No, I want to bleed him for what he’s doing at this very moment. As she’s risking everything for a chance at freedom, he’s all but trying to shove her forcibly back into a cage because he wants the life she promised him.
Well, promises can be broken and life can change.
His is about to.
“Guys, this isn’t necessary. Roy, back off. Ben, let’s go.” Hope’s standing between us, a hand out toward each of us like she can physically stop this. She’s trying to cool things down and get out of here without bloodshed, but this boulder’s already rolling full steam down the mountain.
So I give it an extra push.
“Yeah, Roy . . . back off. We’ve got things to do.” I let every filthy, sexy thing I want to do with Hope show in my eyes, in my evil smirk, knowing it’ll send him over the edge.
He takes the bait. “You motherfucker—”
He telegraphs his intentions, with words and a huge, almost comically looping windup of his fist, like he’s never fought a day in his life. But I let him hit me. Hell, I nearly shove my face into his fist, wanting the flash of pain that brings clarity and focus like nothing else can, turning my cheek just enough that it smacks there and not someplace that can cause real harm.
I taste the copper in my mouth and grin evilly, knowing my teeth are red-tinged. I want him to see, to remember that he’s the one who started this, so any and all consequences are his to bear.
He’s panting and looks surprised at himself. “Getouttahere!” he shouts, waving his hand toward the door like he thinks this is done.
It’s barely started.
I swipe at my lip, looking at the watery blood smear on my thumb. Conversationally, I tell him, “Hey, Roy, something you should know—it’s not about the damage you can do, it’s about the damage you’re willing to do.”
Before I even finish the rule I learned on the street, from watching a guy who was willing to go all the way, I’m on Roy. My fist crashes into him three times, hard and fast—nose, jaw, gut. I feel the crunch of bone beneath my knuckles and know I broke his nose at least. He doubles over in surprise, grabbing at me, scrabbling for purchase, and we end up tussling on the wood floor.
I get a few more blows in. So does he. He didn’t fold like a wet towel with the first shots; I’ll give him that much credit.
“Oh my God! Ben! Roy!” Hope is shouting. Other people in Let’s F*rk are too.
“Call the sheriff!” someone says.
None of it registers. All I see are red roses falling to Hope’s feet, his sneer of entitlement to her life, and the look of anticipation in her eyes when we talked about her coming to California to see me. I want that and she wants that, and this pissant fucker isn’t going to take it away from us.