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)
“You really want us out of here, huh?” I tease.
He grins at me. “Ha, ha,” he says sarcastically, making me forget everything bad for a moment. “I spoke to Marquis, by the way. We’ve got first-class tickets and good seats for the fight.”
“Seriously?” I ask. “Did Marquis ask Rust?”
“Yeah. Rust says he wants us there.”
“You told him I was coming, too?”
“Yeah.” Brad laughs. “It’ll be fun, don’t you think? You said you needed to use up your extra holiday days.”
Yeah, he’s right, using my own words against me. I was thinking more of after the fight when Rust came here, and we ruined Brad’s life.
“Then I guess I have no reason not to go,” I say.
He chuckles. “Is that your way of saying you’re excited?”
I smile. “Yeah, obviously I am. Another trip!”
“Let’s hope there’s less drama this time,” Brad says.
I try to laugh, to make light of it, but the idea of seeing Rust fight makes me tense up. I’ve never seen him do it in person. What if he gets hurt? What if something terrible happens, and we don’t get the chance to tell Brad the truth?
I calm myself down, taking slow breaths as Brad turns and focuses on the sausages. The sound of them sizzling covers up my frantic breathing. I do think the pregnancy hormones are making me more emotional. It’s like being given shots of liquor at random times against my will.
“What if he loses?” I ask.
“He won’t lose,” Brad says confidently, without turning. “Not again. He won’t let himself. He’s the most competitive person I’ve ever known. It’s more like he’s proving something to himself. He’ll need to know he can beat a man who beat him. It’s just the way he’s wired.”
I think Brad’s wrong. Maybe that was true before the baby, but now he has something else to fight for. The storm cloud aches against my shoulder, the passion striking me, burning over and over. Rust is fighting for us, me, the baby, our family.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-FIVE
RUST
The precision of the lines makes the whole; that’s all when it comes to the shading effect on the fake skin. I’m trying to tat a tree, make it as photorealistic as possible. It requires a steady hand, calm nerves, and complete focus.
My hand trembles, dammit. I was thinking about whether Bailey is a good name for a boy. I’m unsure if it’s a person’s name or just a pet’s. I should probably keep thoughts like that to myself at the press conference, the last one before the fight. I put the fake skin aside, run a hand through my hair, and reflect on the past few weeks.
I’ve exhausted myself in the day, sinking into dreams of Mary and the baby at night. When Marquis told me they wanted to come, I said yes, even if it was probably a mistake. I said yes because being apart from her is like being cut with a knife, except it stings more.
I should be with her, my hand resting on her belly, talking to her about the future—my beautiful girl. She saw through me and realized something I didn’t even know myself. I was using her age as an excuse. If I could make that reason the worst, maybe the Brad betrayal would not seem as bad. She knows me better than I know myself.
Sighing, I look around the apartment. It never seemed empty before. It’s Spartan, with few personal touches, but I never felt the aching emptiness. Now, I hear her laughter and little footsteps running up and down the floor. I hear happiness—maybe a barking dog.
Not much longer. A few more days. The press conference, then cutting weight, then the fight. Then Brad.
My phone vibrates. It’s from Mary. I’ve managed to stop texting her by deleting her number from my phone, but I know this is her. I read the message, making me ache all over as I wish she were here.
Hey, Rust. I didn’t want to bother you before. I’m just letting you know that we’re in the city now. Do you want us to come to the press conference tomorrow?
It’s up to you, I reply, my hand shaking because even texting her is enough to have me howling inside, with so much demand and need.
Okay, Mr. Aloof.
I grin. I have to be aloof. I’ve got business to take care of… for us.
So you still feel that way?
Always, I tell her.
She doesn’t send me a text after that. She probably thinks I need my space to meditate or train or get ready, get savage, but there’s only so much training I can do. Now that I know she’s here, I can’t think about anything else.
I turn off my phone, throw it onto the couch, and then go to the gym, the furthest point from it. It’s goddamn childish, but it’s the only way I can resist her. I need to focus. I’ve got another annoying-as-hell press conference to take care of.