Total pages in book: 154
Estimated words: 148220 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 741(@200wpm)___ 593(@250wpm)___ 494(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 148220 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 741(@200wpm)___ 593(@250wpm)___ 494(@300wpm)
Mine and Lissa’s portions were never as large as theirs. Papa has stringent ideas about how much a woman should eat. So our calorie count is barely enough to cover what we actually need.
When the fighters die, maybe a day or two passes before the meals stop. Lissa and I used to split the dead fighter’s extra meals. It was the shittiest, most horrible feeling in the world. But I remember her telling me once it could help us stay strong.
Staying strong. That’s why I eat hers along with mine.
It never, ever stops tasting like ashes.
But the next delivery only includes my lunch and dinner. So I heat up the last one of hers along with mine, then grab my spork.
Tango comes in as I’m finishing up, because it’s time to escort me back to my stall. He doesn’t say anything about the two trays in front of me. He knows I’m only supposed to have the one each night, but none of the guards have ratted me out. All of these guards are pieces of shit, but they can have their nice moments. All week, I’ve been doubling up my meals and they all know it.
But it’s over now, anyway.
With a sigh, I dump my tray and wash my spork. The utensil always has to be in a particular spot when the kitchen is checked. Lissa’s is right there, too. I think about taking it—they might assume it disappeared along with her meal deliveries—but decide not to risk it.
Not now, at least. I’ve got another plan to put into motion.
To Tango, I say, “I need to check in with Crash, because he was having stomach issues this morning.”
He nods. “You’ll get a minute.”
Good. My heart beats a little faster as I head out of the kitchen—veering all the way over to the opposite side of the aisle as soon as I come out, as far from Tusk’s cell as I can walk. More than once, he’s been jacking off as I pass. A few times he’s let his semen drip from his fingers as I go by. Like the weird guy out of Silence of the Lambs. But there’s no Hannibal Lecter in the next cell to make him eat his own tongue.
There’s just Stone. I glance into his stall as I go by. He’s working the heavy bag, muscles flexing beneath tanned skin. For all that he doesn’t intend to fight in the Cage, he doesn’t stay inactive in his cell. Instead he’s always working out. Maybe keeping busy, or to stave off boredom. I’m not sure, and I don’t get much chance to ask.
But it’s been three days since Victor gave him the ultimatum. In the months I’ve been here, that two day warning has never passed without Victor coming back with evidence that the worst has happened. Not once. But we’re on day three and still nothing. Maybe Stone’s confidence wasn’t misplaced.
Which doesn’t mean everything will turn out all right. If they can’t make him fight, they’ll kill him.
But they won’t waste their investment right away. So they’ll try for a while first.
Hopefully by then we’ll be out of here.
Crash is the key to that plan. Because I can’t just get the medicine I need—the doc will want to see documentation leading up to it. And I can’t ask Matt to make up a story of constipation, because the Doc knows our relationship and he might be rightly suspicious. But Crash is a good guy. And he feels as if he owes me for putting him in the exercise group with Handlebar and for helping to conceal his tumor from the doc and Papa. Still, he might have played along even if he didn’t owe me.
I halt in front of his stall. Tango stops a few feet away. Crash looks over at me, eyes narrowing as I say, “Any improvement on the, uh, bowel situation?” I glance at Tango as I ask the question, lowering my voice slightly, as if trying to keep patient confidentiality. “Are you still blocked? Or have you been able to...you know?”
One of the things I like most about Crash is that he’s smart. And quick. “Take a shit? Not yet.”
“Okay. Well, let me know in the morning if you’re having the same problem. In the meantime, I’ll ask them to add more fiber to your meals.”
Laughter passes over his expression, then is gone. “Just what I fucking need. More of that whole grain bullshit.”
“Sorry. If that doesn’t work, I’ll ask the doc for something stronger.”
“All right. Thanks, Cherry. You always take real good care of me.”
I give him a bright smile. “That’s what I’m here for. You should also drink lots of water. Sometimes that helps to get things moving.”
“I’ll do that.”
I wish him goodnight. Not looking over into Matt’s stall is so hard, but I don’t dare because I might burst out laughing. Yet there’s a little skip in my step as I continue on—then stop dead when the music suddenly goes silent.