Total pages in book: 153
Estimated words: 148704 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 744(@200wpm)___ 595(@250wpm)___ 496(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 148704 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 744(@200wpm)___ 595(@250wpm)___ 496(@300wpm)
He didn’t resent me.
Never thought less of me.
“My children have done many things over the years that brought pride to my family, but son, I need you to know, I have never been prouder of anyone than I am of you, for all you’ve overcome and what you’ve accomplished along the way. You’re a strong man, Crew Taylor. A good man.”
The man loved me and my faults, and that’s an honor I’ll never take for granted.
Would he kick my ass for what I’m about to do? Yes. But that’s why kids don’t tell their parents everything, at least not until after it’s done. He’ll only do his best to talk me out of it and worry when it doesn’t work.
I’ll be the first to admit, it’s not ideal to have two lousy days to mentally prepare for a fight that will either give back all that was stolen from me and more, or leave me high and dry, like the punk kid I was at fourteen when my neighbors took me in—worthless, penniless.
Hopeless.
But even if I did lose, which I won’t, the rabbit hole won’t swallow me whole this time around because, no matter what happens tonight, tomorrow, or the day after, I’ll still have the one thing that means more than any damn dollar could bring.
I have the girl.
The girl who “refused” to stay in the suite we’ve been “guests” in—pretty sure guests don’t get locked in from the outside—the last forty-eight hours. Davis wrote, practiced, and delivered a three-minute—absolutely fucking adorable—presentation on why she should be with me tonight.
I didn’t have the heart to tell her there was no fucking way she was staying behind if she wanted to. No way in hell am I ready to leave her somewhere I’m not.
Maybe in six months or so, I’ll allow her out without me.
Maybe not.
From what we saw pulling in, in the RV they moved us to in the middle of the night, the fight is being held in the middle of nowhere, in a makeshift boxing ring set up behind an old broken-down mill. The floor is nothing but dirt, the rope, something you’d use for power conditioning, is woven through metal loops, welded to stakes likely hammered into the ground.
The lights run on generators, nothing but motorcycles and giant-ass trucks lining the yard, people piled all around them, yet a few feet of space between each large group, slightly segregating each club from the next. Weed, cigarettes, and cheap cigar smoke billowing all around.
We’ve been waiting around for hours now, Willie pacing anxiously as Davis chews her nails down to nothing. My fight is the last of the night, the best and worst spot to be. Best, because it means highest paid; worst, because every fucker around will be a six-pack past drunk by the time it begins.
The chaos of the crowd as we step out of the giant fifth wheel proves my thoughts correct. The place is drowning in drunks.
My hold on Davis’s hand tightens, and she grips my upper arm, standing tall and strong and facing forward, just like I told her. Kaleb walks us to the back corner, where a few of his guard dogs stand in a half-square near the wall, and we step behind them.
“No backing out now, kid,” he says, a grin splitting his lips, but a sharp warning in his beady eyes. “Ready to roll in two minutes. Do your job, and I’ll change your life.”
I lift my chin but don’t respond, tracing his steps as he moves to the camper across the circle. Me, Davis, Willie, and Julius stare as the dude I’m about to fight is let out.
The guy’s tall, broad in the chest, but no more than me. His body is covered in colorful ink, his bald head included. The dude doesn’t even have eyebrows. He’s greased up, roided up too, if I had to guess based on the unnatural bulge of his biceps. His arms are twice the size of mine, something Davis must assume is bad, if the way her grip tightens tells me anything.
All it says to me is my reach is better, maybe by a full two inches, and I’d like to see him try and choke a motherfucker with those balloons in the way—he could never sink it airtight.
Kaleb smirks my way, and my gaze instantly finds the man at his side.
The one I’d have happily ended if not for Willie’s decision to let him breathe another day. Kaleb called him his brother the other day, whether he meant that literally, I don’t know. Don’t fucking care.
It’s like I knew he put his hands on her before actually knowing—I cracked his fingers and busted the bones of his hand, before popping his shoulder from its joints.
Let’s see him try to ride a bike like that.