Total pages in book: 46
Estimated words: 43879 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 219(@200wpm)___ 176(@250wpm)___ 146(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 43879 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 219(@200wpm)___ 176(@250wpm)___ 146(@300wpm)
A sob saws inside my throat and I crawl over, disoriented, clawing my way up onto the windowsill, searching for his perfect face in the darkness. My love. The man I’ll love until the end of time. Is he here?
My feverish thoughts screech to a halt when I spy Tulip instead.
Down below my window, holding a handful of stones.
Exasperated, she signals at me to open my window.
At first, I’m relieved to see her. She’s a part of North. This is the closest I’ve come to seeing him in five days. Five hellish days. And she is proof he’s real.
But then I start to panic. Oh God, oh God, what if something happened to him? What if my father sent Curtis Tennison after him, even though I complied with his wishes?
“Please no, please no,” I hiccup, throwing open the window. “Tulip…” I manage.
“It’s about time,” she complains, tossing aside her handful of pebbles. “You know how long I’ve been out here, waiting for your father to leave?”
“I…” I’m dizzy. Delirious. Can’t string a thought together. How long since I’ve slept or eaten? “I didn’t even know he was gone,” I say, my voice hollow. “I’m…locked in here.”
A flash of sympathy crosses her young face. “Dang. You’re almost in worse shape than my brother—and that’s saying something.”
That statement cuts through my numbness, setting off alarm bells in my head. “What’s wrong with him? What’s wrong with North?”
Tulip looks at me like I’m a moron, which is no less than I deserve for asking such a stupid question. What’s wrong with him? He’s without me. I’m without him. We’re not supposed to be apart. We’re both suffering. That’s a given. “He’s trying to get himself killed,” Tulip says in a pained whisper, tears filling her eyes. “Every night he comes home with more bruises, more blood. You have to come stop him before someone throws the punch that knocks him out forever. He’s not even trying to win, Grace. He’s not North anymore.”
Blistering hot tears roll down my cheeks, dripping off of my chin.
Helplessness pounds its fists against the inside of my skull. “I can’t…I can’t. You don’t understand. Being with him…it’s putting him in danger.”
“He’s in danger now!” Tulip calls back. “He’s getting beat up on purpose and you’re locked in a room. It can’t get any worse.”
“Yes, it can,” I rasp.
But even as I say those three words, the urgency is kicking in. I have to reach North. Now. Before something irreversible happens. My goal is to keep him alive, isn’t it? That’s the reason I left him, ripping both of our hearts out in the process. Well his life isn’t just in danger from my father and Curtis Tennison. It’s in danger from North. And there is no way I can sit here while he puts himself in harm’s way. On purpose, no less. I have to go to him.
Eleven
North
They found someone who might be able to take me.
I’m staring across the ring at the six-foot-three brick shithouse from Jersey through hollow eyes, not assessing him as an opponent. Not strategizing about how to beat him. Nah, I’m merely trying to deduce whether or not he could deliver a death blow. It’s getting worse. Day five without my Gracie. I want to be six feet under. Life is agony. Every fucking second of it is more unbearable than the last. I dig my teeth into my rubber mouthpiece, trying to slice through it. And then I just spit it out altogether, because who gives a fuck if I lose some teeth or bust my jaw? Do it, I chant in my head, though the other fighter can’t hear me. Do it.
I can’t die.
I know that. I’ve come to terms with it.
I have to stay alive for my sister. She’s the only reason I’m bothering.
But I can get some blessed relief from being awake. After not sleeping for five days, endless memories of Grace revolving in my head, I’m willing to take a blow from a sledgehammer. I’m hurting. I’m hurting so bad from the lack of her and the only escape is unconsciousness. Bring it on.
The referee steps into the center of the ring and the other fighter powers forward, punching himself in the head to psyche himself up. I stare back mutely, the sounds of the Hellmouth tinny and cartoonish in my ears. I’m not even here. I’m in bed with Grace on one of those perfect afternoons, kissing her shoulders, cupping her soft knees in my hands, listening to her secrets. Her likes and dislikes. Telling her my own while her eyes sparkle up at me.
If this guy is going to knock me out, that’s the image I want in my head when I go.
Please, for the love of God, let him knock me out.
The fight begins and my fists come up, purely out of muscle memory. Guarding my face, moving in a circle around the other fighter. Anger wells up inside of me, unexpected. Anger at myself for being so naïve. Grace Foster? With a guy like me? Forever? What a goddamn moron I am. “Hit me,” I growl. Then louder, “Come on.”