Total pages in book: 192
Estimated words: 182641 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 913(@200wpm)___ 731(@250wpm)___ 609(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 182641 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 913(@200wpm)___ 731(@250wpm)___ 609(@300wpm)
I aged out a while ago, but this place ain’t like most, and I’m here until I’m ready to leave.
Or until I fuck up.
Only, I won’t fuck up.
But I will level up.
I don’t want to be the poor punk. The hands’ man. The go-to guy.
I want to be the guy.
My mind itches for more. I just have to figure out where to find it.
“Bishop, let’s go!” Keefer’s voice slices through my thoughts.
I quickly tug on a pair of faded jeans and a T-shirt, then snag my jacket off the bed, making it as quick as possible—something we’re all required to do. I don’t have the same rules as everyone here, but I do the basic shit so no one bitches and causes unnecessary problems.
Slipping out of the room, I close the door behind me, meeting Keefer in the kitchen.
He’s a big dude, tall as me, but with muscles that bulge like a beast. The man’s shoulders are so wide he has to turn his body to fit through the doorframe. His physique is probably part of the reason he’s “caretaker” of this house—it takes a monster of a man to keep all these punks in line. He can rein in a gang of teenage assholes with ease, most times with just a look, depending on the situation.
Keefer leans against the counter, coffee cup in hand, watching a kid named Wyatt finish up his chores. Wyatt nods my way as he walks out, and once he’s gone, I pull open the fridge, pushing aside the piles of vegetables to find the energy drink I buried.
Fucking thing’s gone.
Sighing, I stand, flipping off Keefer when he laughs.
“Take it your skipping classes again this mornin’?” he asks.
“I’ll be there.” Late, but I’ll be there.
He nods. “Warehouse again tonight?”
Filling a cup of water, I look at him.
Am I going? Yes. I go every night we open the place, but I have other shit to do today before I head over to run the fights I’m paid to handle, but none of that has anything to do with Keefer. He might be in charge in this house, but when it comes to the jobs of this town, he’s told only what he needs to know, and that ain’t much. We all have our roles, and until you’re the one assigning what those are, you fill yours, or you’re gone.
But I didn’t earn myself the spot of the man in charge of the ring by simply doing as I’m fucking told. I do shit my way, always, and no one says a word because what’s asked of me gets done. If, at the end of the day, no rock’s left unturned, no hint that can’t be hunted, then no one gives a fuck how it happens, and all’s good. And me?
I’m damn fucking good.
I know it.
They know it.
And later tonight, the fucker who thought he was slick from last week’s fights will know it too.
I’ll show him why you don’t fuck the hand that holds the honey, one broken bone at a time.
Rocklin
It’s never fun breaking a girl’s spirit.
Well … that’s a lie. Depending on the situation, it can be entertaining as hell, but fun or not, it’s a necessary evil.
Ms. Milano caught a second-year attempting to cheat, and Greysons do not cheat. They’re the best of the best because they work for it. She didn’t, so her privileges at The Enterprise are no more.
“Back to being as equal as any other student she goes,” Delta singsongs, waving as she heads out the door, her class on the other side of the building this morning.
“So much for a Wednesday girl.” Bronx drops onto the mini sofa, slipping a sucker between her lips. “And speaking of downgrades. I need a date for the fundraiser next month.”
“What happened to going with Victor, the dirty politician with a dirtier mouth?” I tease.
“You know that one Cardi-B song? The hook, the lean …” She smiles. “Turned out he had neither.”
Laughter bursts from me, and she winks, then pops up and heads out, closing the door behind her.
I move across the room, toying with my necklace as I stare out the large window that makes up the entirety of the back wall of the room.
This building sits on a large platform of sorts, bringing us two stories off ground level, and the school itself is three, this room located on the highest one. The view, while not extraordinary, is far from pedestrian.
In the distance, large city buildings block the sun from destroying the gardens, both built and managed by the prospects here to learn about giving back to the earth—basically young men and women looking to add some check marks to their portfolios, so when they seek investors or run for political positions in the future, they find it easier to swing the farmers and hardworking citizens their way. Or their families use farmlands as a cover business, so no one comes asking where their wealth comes from, which means they better know the difference between a hoe and a ho.