Total pages in book: 162
Estimated words: 158848 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 794(@200wpm)___ 635(@250wpm)___ 529(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 158848 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 794(@200wpm)___ 635(@250wpm)___ 529(@300wpm)
“Thanks for doing this, brother,” I say, once I’m handed the phone and Jordan clears the tiny “confessional” booth. “Sorry if they asked a bunch of invasive shit.”
“Not a problem. You all right?” Vapor’s low voice is full of concern. He’s always been almost too sensitive for all the shit the world’s put him through.
“Questioning a lot of my life decisions lately, brother,” I answer honestly.
“I bet you are.” It’s not said in a mean way. Just stating a fact.
“Workouts are gettin’ harder.” I hold my breath, waiting for someone to cut off our call. They killed one of my calls with Molly for saying a lot less. “Kinda reminded me of when Eraser and I took you to the gym at The Castle to teach you how to fight.”
He chuckles, even though it’s probably not a great memory. “Yeah? Who are you torturing in this story?”
“Honestly? I’m you in this tale. Been getting my ass kicked.”
He laughs harder. Honest laughter that brings on a wave of longing for home—nights at Zips, racing cars, grilling good food, and bullshitting with each other.
“Christ,” he laughs. “I never knew so many types of planks existed until you two sadistic bastards got your hands on me.”
“You never backed down, though.”
“Good thing, too.” His voice lowers, turns harder. “Probably the only reason I survived that place.”
That’s a conversation killer.
“How’s little man?” I ask, refusing to use Vapor’s son’s name when someone’s probably listening in.
“Good. Butterfly’s got him all signed up for nursery school.” Obviously, he’s decided to use his nickname for Juliet, so he doesn’t expose her to any of the insanity Molly’s had to deal with.
“Shit. Already?” Is Atlas even old enough for school? “You’re making me feel old.”
“It’s only three days a week. Let him hang with other kids his age.” In the background, there’s a rustle and a whisper. “Hang on. Someone wants to talk to you.”
I’m expecting Atlas to babble a happy greeting at me, but it’s Juliet’s soft voice that comes through the line.
“Hey, Champ. How you holding up?” she asks.
“Can’t believe you’re willing to talk to me.”
She scoffs gently. “I know you, Griff.”
At least someone does. I’m trying hard not to judge Remy. I wasn’t there to see how everything went down, but it’s still pissing me off that he was so quick to assume I did whatever the show says I did.
Can’t think about that now. Focus on what’s in front of me.
“How are things?” I ask.
“She’s okay,” Juliet says. “Everything’s…well, as good as it can be.”
“Thank you.” For the first time since I spoke to Remy, I can actually take a breath.
We talk for a few more minutes. Nothing substantial. And nothing juicy enough for the show because they cut me off before my time is up.
A heavy silence settles over me as I stare at the phone. I want to smash it into the wall—or someone’s face.
The list of all the things I’m missing out on continues to grow. The time I’m losing keeps expanding.
I sigh and close my eyes for a few seconds. The ache of longing that’s been following me for weeks returns. I can’t throw a fight. As much as I want to go home, I can’t lose a fight on purpose. Fuck the money. It’s just not who I am.
So until someone defeats me or the producers lose interest, I’m staying in this mansion that feels more like a prison.
Molly
Something about old men celebrating a birthday by getting drunk in a bar seems rather sad. But at least it’s business, something Remy says we desperately need these days, so I lock down my opinions and serve the drinks.
“Why aren’t you wearing a skirt?” the man who’s old enough to be my grandfather says to me with a leer at my jeans-covered legs.
“I’m here to work. Not be decoration,” I retort, forcing myself not to give in to the nervous smile threatening to yank the corners of my mouth up. “That’s why.”
Remy warned me if I wanted to work at the bar this summer, I had to be ready to fire back a good comeback. Never show weakness.
I set the man’s glass of water on the counter with a hard thump. Droplets splish-splash over the sides, wetting my hand.
“Everything all right?” Remy’s hand lightly touches my back.
“No.” The old man laughs. “You should make the gals wear skirts here. Give ’em a uniform.” He vaguely gestures to my legs again.
Weirdo.
Remy’s body stiffens. He lays his thick forearms on the bar and leans over. “That’s not some ‘gal.’ That’s my sister. Watch your fucking mouth.”
His face pales. “I, uh, uh,” he stutters.
“Go sit your ass down.” Remy points to the man’s table.
The guy shuffles away, glancing back once as if he’s checking to make sure Remy didn’t hop over the bar to chase him into his seat.