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)
There isn’t an icepack big enough to cover all my aches, but I thank him anyway.
“Oh, you can have these back now, too.” He picks up a bag by his feet and hands it to me.
I peer inside. My phone, charger, and the burner phone I’d had stashed away until it mysteriously “disappeared” rest at the bottom.
“Same rules. You can’t talk about the show at all. Normally, you’d be at the hotel with the others but because of the—”
“I got it. No talking about the outcome. Wait, what about the audience?”
He waves off the question.
“After the reunion show.” He hesitates. “They’re going to go over all of this with you tomorrow, but I wanted to warn you, so you’re not surprised.”
I sense he’s trying to genuinely be helpful. So instead of shoving him out of my room, I drop the bag with the electronics on the nightstand and sit on the edge of the bed. “Yeah, okay. Give it to me.” I attempt to wiggle my fingers, wince at the pain, and drop my hand into my lap.
He grabs a small chair by the closet door and drags it over until he’s sitting in front of me. “You’re still under contract with the show. That means no social media posts. No interviews. No photographs, appearances, YouTube. Nothing.”
I circle my hand in front of my face. “In case you haven’t guessed, I’m not real eager to have my picture taken.”
Although…maybe I should take some photos to document what I looked like after the last fight. In case the show tries to come after me for something later. I reach over, take my phone out of the bag, uncoil the charger, and plug it in.
“We can’t stop you from seeing friends and family, of course. But try to limit what details you give them about your time here.”
“Only details I’ll be sharing are how I didn’t fuck Kiki,” I remind him. Highly doubt the show ever cleared up that lie.
His lips twist into a guilty frown. “Well, yes. I can understand that but still…”
My eyes keep wanting to close but the rest of my body wants to stand under a warm spray of water for at least an hour. “Anything else?”
“That’s the basics. I’ll be downstairs and some of the other crew members are still around, so you won’t be totally alone in the house.”
“Good to know.”
“All right.” He stands and nods. “I’ll let you rest. If you need something, let me know.”
“Thanks.” I don’t have the energy to walk him out, but the door closes behind him with a click.
I strip down, no longer caring if the camera’s still recording, and shuffle into the bathroom. While I was at the clinic someone filled the tub with ice. It’s melted enough for a cold plunge, but my most sensitive parts are strongly opposed to the idea, even if it might help speed up the healing process.
Instead, I hobble into the shower, flip on the hottest water I can stand, and get in.
Thirty minutes later, I return to the bedroom. Damn, I’m going to miss that shower. The hot water never seems to run out.
Someone stopped by while I was turning myself into a prune. A bunch of stuff that wasn’t here earlier is scattered over the desk and chair.
I tuck my towel around my waist and shuffle across the room. An industrial-sized bottle of Tylenol. Tubes, bottles, and tins of pain relief creams, gels, and ointments. Ice packs of various sizes shaped for different parts of the body. It’s like the world’s most depressing gift basket. At least the ice packs are cold. And a low, unfamiliar hum draws my attention to a slim refrigerator/freezer combo now installed in the corner of the room.
“That would’ve been helpful three months ago,” I grumble as I walk across the room to check it out.
It’s stocked with a tray of cold cuts and cut fruit, hard boiled eggs, bottles of muscle milk, juice, and water.
I grab an egg and water, choke them down, then hit the Tylenol bottle.
The freezer has another set of ice packs up top. I grab one designed to wrap around the ankle, one for my knee, and one for my shoulder and carry them to the bed.
Once I have the ice packs arranged on my aching parts, I pick up my phone and turn it on. A barrage of texts flash on the screen. Several from my mother—at least she’s alive—who apparently forgot I told her I’d be away at the reality show and needed money. None of her many messages ask if I’m okay. I don’t bother replying.
None from Molly. Not even a “fuck you for cheating on me” text. Maybe that’s a good sign? Probably not. She knew I wouldn’t have my phone on me.
I’m too tired to look at anything else. I send a group text to Eraser, Vapor, and Remy to let them know I should be headed home tomorrow.