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)
I’m stopped by an official-looking guy in a black suit who points to a black rubber mat for me to stand on. I shake off the robe and hand it to Venom, then kick off the slides. Woolly picks them up and backs away.
The ref joins us and nods at me. “Mouth guard?”
I hold it out for him to check, then pop it in.
“Arms up.” He lifts his hand in case I’m confused about what he means by up.
I hold my arms out at my sides and stare straight ahead, not really taking anything in. He runs his hands under my arms and down my sides, pats my legs and checks my feet for hidden paper clips or razor blades, I guess. Then he skims his hands over my shoulders, arms, and elbows to make sure I’m not greased. He checks my gloves, then someone hands him a tube of Vaseline and he smooths a bit over my cheekbones, forehead, and nose. At The Castle we let someone else do this for the fighters.
You’re in the big leagues now.
“You may enter the cage.” The suit guy sweeps his hand dramatically through the air toward the open cage door.
“Thanks.” I nod at him.
Venom slaps my shoulders. “Get him.”
“Keep your fingers out of his butt hole,” Bear Trap warns.
The unexpected advice jars me to a stop. “What?” I laugh.
“Stuff happens.” Bear Trap shrugs.
Venom hooks his arm around Bear Trap’s neck and yanks him backward, then nods to me.
Shaking my head, I step toward the cage. One of the ring girls wearing what amounts to three glitter-coated napkins jiggles close to me, blocking my way.
“Good luck, Stonewall!” she squeals in my ear. She leans in, her heavy perfume choking off my air for a second as she reaches up and plants a sloppy kiss on my cheek, stopping to rub her barely covered breasts all over my chest and arm.
Fucking great. Sure the cameras caught all that.
I practice my dead-eyed glare on her, and she backs away quickly, almost tripping in her glittering heels. Someone grabs her by the elbow and yanks her farther away from the cage.
Shaking my head, I step up and into the cage. Naptime skips to his corner and paces back and forth, pretending not to notice me. Stupid fucking hot-pink mohawk makes him look like a rooster who’d been raised next to a nuclear waste dump. Can’t wait to get him in a headlock.
I study his movements as he paces his section of the cage. Chicken legs. I should target there first. With a good sweep I can probably crack those little toothpicks.
Still studying Naptime, I retreat to my corner.
Underhill’s on the ledge, and he reaches through, patting my shoulder. “Tire him out with those snappy punches. Watch his feet.”
I nod and accept the bottle of water Vapor passes me over the cage. I take a bit, wet my mouth, and hand him the bottle back.
“Go.” Underhill presses his hand to my chest and shoves.
A horn blares and the ref calls us to the middle of the ring.
The announcer does his long-winded, annoying spiel. He’s so loud and there’s so much blood rushing through my ears I barely hear the words. But when he looks my way and what sounds like my name comes out of his mouth, I raise my fists in the air and turn for everyone to take a good look.
People scream, shout, and wave stuff in the air.
The calm I’ve been seeking all day descends slowly. Only three people matter right now. The three in the ring—me, the ref, and Naptime—the guy who wants to punch me unconscious.
“Mr. Royal, right here.” The ref points to a spot on the floor. He places Naptime across from me and asks us to lift our fists. I stare Naptime down. His dark eyes are flat and lifeless, but he doesn’t flinch.
“All right,” the ref says. “Clean fight. Listen to my instructions. Defend yourself at all times.”
I nod to let him know I got it. We’d had the rules drilled into us all week. They weren’t that complicated.
“Tap gloves now if you want.” The ref presses his fingers to our fists. It’s basic respect for fighters to touch gloves before a fight.
Naptime glares at me, curls his lip, and shakes his head. “Nah.”
Well, fuck you, too.
“Fight!” The ref quickly backs away.
The room erupts in shouts.
I put my fists up and circle to Naptime’s right, my bare feet sliding smoothly over the padded canvas. He lashes out with a fist that whizzes by my cheek. The missed blow rocks him off-balance.
“Over-extend much?” I taunt, pivoting out of range.
He threw everything into that first punch.
Cheered by his mistake I throw a quick double jab. My fist glances off his chin. He grunts and absorbs the blow. I cross and jab again, then shuffle to the side, light on my toes.