Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 92368 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92368 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
We bang gloves. I turn and walk back to my corner.
Mike is in my ear with last-minute directions. “Don’t go in fast. Make him come to you. Step back when he swings. Frustrate him. It’s his Achilles heel. Scott has no patience.”
The bell rings, and I go in, fists up.
We fight. Longer than I expected. He’s a tough motherfucker.
We’re nine rounds in, I’m pretty sure my nose is broken, and Scott’s not giving in. I already put him down twice, but the stubborn bastard got back up each time.
I’m not worried. Just ready to be done now.
Round ten.
I take him to the ropes. Punch after punch after punch. The referee separates us. Bell goes. Scott is in his corner, glugging water. It’s a sign he’s tired. He’s bleeding from the eye.
Round eleven.
I’ve got him. He’s mine now. I go in there, blazing. The Vaseline coating his cut isn’t stopping the blood. It’s in his eye. I see him lose focus, and that’s when I strike. I hit him, uppercut. He goes down. And I know it’s all over.
The referee is there, bending over him. Scott tries to get up. He can’t.
The referee waves his hand, calling time on the fight.
And I’ve won.
My team floods the ring. Mike is hugging me. Then, Ares, Lo, and Missy are here, hugging me and telling me how proud they are of me.
But one voice is missing.
There’s always one voice missing.
Hers.
My eyes do what they always do after every fight. They look for her. Like some part of my brain, even now, thinks she’s going to be here.
Why would she be here?
You left her. She’s not here because of you.
Then, the cameras are in front of me. Post-fight interview. Of course, Marcel is here for this. Always here for the cameras.
I thank my family. Thank Scott for the fight.
Marcel takes over, talking about himself—his favorite subject.
A commotion going on behind me catches my attention. I look over my shoulder. I can see people crowding around Scott. He’s still on the floor.
What’s going on?
I step away. Moving toward Scott.
Marcel stops me. “Where do you think you’re going?” he grits out between clenched teeth.
“Scott is still down.” I tip my head toward where he’s on the floor.
“So?” is Marcel’s response.
I hear a medic being called for. I go to move again.
Marcel tugs me back to the camera. “He’s fine. Leave him.”
I’m asked a question by the interviewer. I respond, half-distracted. Marcel starts talking about the fight.
I look back at Scott. The medic’s there, bent over him, shining a flashlight in his eyes.
“Zeus,” Marcel barks at me.
I ignore him this time. I pull away, quickly moving toward Scott again because I know this isn’t right. He shouldn’t have been down for this long. Something twists hard in my gut.
I push past the people crowding around Scott, almost reaching him, when I hear the words that will come to haunt me for the rest of my life.
“He stopped breathing. We need an ambulance. Now.”
Cam
One Year Later
That feeling…when the music is pumping, the bass pounding the floor beneath your feet, vibrating up your body…there’s nothing like it.
Not for me anyway.
Dancing has always been my thing. I love it. And I’m damn good at it.
I trained in ballet and street dance. But I dropped street when I was a teenager, as ballet was always the dream. It was everything.
I was at Juilliard on a full scholarship, eyes set on the New York City Ballet. I was in my second year when everything changed.
Those two pink lines on the test changed everything. And my future changed into something else.
And, even now, up here on this podium, dancing my ass off like I do every Friday and Saturday night, I know I made the right decision.
And, no, before you ask, I’m not a stripper. I’m a go-go dancer at this upscale club in Manhattan.
Granted, this wasn’t the stage I expected to be on when I was growing up. But life throws curveballs at you, and you have to go with them.
And my little curveball goes by the name Gigi, and I love her more than I imagined I ever could love anyone. She is the best decision I have ever made.
Okay, so she wasn’t exactly planned.
I was on the pill, but I had been with her father for four years.
He was my childhood sweetheart. The absolute love of my life. I thought we’d grow old together.
Obviously, it didn’t work out that way.
He dumped me. Over the phone.
Yes, he was in England at the time, and I was here, in New York, but hearing that the love of your life had cheated on you over the telephone isn’t the best way to have things go down. And then to find out, a few months later, that I was pregnant with his baby, only to have him tell me he didn’t want anything to do with either of us—actually, he didn’t even tell me himself; he got his manager, the great fucking Marcel Duran, to tell me and offer me money to go away, which I refused, of course—you could say, it made me a little bitter about him.