Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 56257 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 281(@200wpm)___ 225(@250wpm)___ 188(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56257 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 281(@200wpm)___ 225(@250wpm)___ 188(@300wpm)
I eagerly watch him when he bites into his steak, anticipating his reaction. It makes the crashing rain and thunder seem much more distant.
“Delicious,” he says.
“Yeah?”
“I thought I was supposed to be the perfectionist.”
I smile. It’s more than that. His words light a torch inside me, making every inch of me glow. It’s worth more to me than he would ever guess and would probably even make sense to him.
“You seem in a good mood,” I say.
“Do I?”
“Yeah. Sorry. Did I break the spell?”
“Coach says it’s good to smile before a training camp. He says a warrior has to have memories of being happy when he goes into war. Something to fight for. It’s never seemed that deep to me.”
“It must be terrifying,” I whisper, thinking of his fights.
He shrugs. “It’s combat. It’s my passion—the techniques, drilling them, and putting them into practice. There’s something special about everything fitting into place. Every opponent is a puzzle, and the body is the tool I use to work it out.”
“I can’t even watch your fights,” I say, realizing I’ve probably shared too much.
“Really?” he asks. “Why not?”
Because I hate seeing him get hit in the face, kicked, or hurt. Even when he wins the fight—which he has every time except one—there’s still a chance he’ll get hurt. It just shatters something inside me.
“I don’t like violence, I guess.”
“Violence is just a part of life,” he says, and my heart flutters strangely. That’s such a depressing statement, but it’s true for him. It always has been. I’ve never heard him talk about his childhood. He never answers questions about it publicly, but I know it’s dark.
“Why don’t you have any tattoos?” I ask. “If you’re thinking of doing it.”
“I’ve thought about it but don’t know what I’d get. Honestly, I’m more interested in the craft than anything.”
“You need a live subject,” I say, laughing. “A willing sacrifice.”
He smirks, making me glow way brighter than he has any right to. “Are you volunteering?”
“What? Me? No way. Mom always said tattoos were tacky.”
He narrows his eyes. “She said that to you?”
Well, yes, in the video. One of her frequently spoken rules. “Tattoos are for women who have willfully given into their worst desires.”
“Uh, yeah,” I say.
“What do you think about them?”
I can’t tell him about the time I dreamed of getting a tattoo of him on my body, his name branding me. It was a phase when I touched myself while thinking of him owning me and dominating me. He took all the responsibility, bending me over, saying in his fierce, calm voice, “You have to do this for me. Bend over. Take it for me.”
“They’re okay,” I say, cutting into my steak, not looking at him. I need to control myself.
CHAPTER
FIVE
RUST
After dinner, the storm quiets down some, and Mary goes to her room. I do calisthenics in the living room: a core and arm endurance circuit. I try to work up a sweat most days, even if I’m not actively training. After that, I check my phone. I’ve got a text from Marquis—You better be relaxing—and a missed call from Brad.
I swallow, guilt slamming into me, not because I don’t deserve it. It’s too much to handle. This is new to me, too, this gnawing feeling that I’m doing something wrong. Life was far easier when I was a cold bastard.
Sitting on the porch, watching the rain lash across the darkness, I call Brad.
“Hey? Rust?”
“Yeah, I’m here. It’s pretty stormy, so the signal isn’t great.”
“Wait, I got you. I’m walking around on the hotel roof. Room signal is terrible.”
Usually, I’d probably chuckle here, maybe my only laughter for the entire week, like a quota only my best friend can fill up.
“How is everything?” he asks. “Mary doing okay?”
I bite down, remembering the private plane, the bathroom, and the fierce surge of come burning up my shaft. “Yeah, all good. Her car broke down, so I gave her a ride from the motel. How about you? How’s your old man?”
“Don’t tell Mary, but I’m here to bail him out. Apparently, he tried to break open a slot machine.”
I sigh but say nothing.
“What?” Brad prompts, knowing I’m holding something back because he always does and always has been able to pick up on these things since we were kids.
“He keeps pulling stunts like this. A few months ago, it was drunk driving. Now this. Sometimes, people aren’t worth saving.”
“My dad was a police officer. He was a good man. Mom’s death broke him, that’s all, but there’s some good in there. It’s different.”
He doesn’t need to explain why it’s different. He’s talking about my dad, who actually is an irredeemable monster. After my mom passed from lung cancer, Dad drank himself into a hole. Only after I got some success did I begin hearing from the leech again.