Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 117451 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 587(@200wpm)___ 470(@250wpm)___ 392(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117451 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 587(@200wpm)___ 470(@250wpm)___ 392(@300wpm)
He peeks up for a second, and I smack the bridge of his nose. It feels good. When he bounces over to my side, I swivel with him, going for another head shot. Instead he lands a punch to my back.
I see stars but then recover fast enough to sock him in the jaw. His head snaps back. I get a kidney shot, and then he’s on me. He hits me on the shoulder—fucker’s clearly going for the weak spot Priscilla told him about—and I catch him in the temple with my elbow.
He dances back, and I follow hard, thinking I’ve got him. I go for a knock-out punch, and he side-steps to evade. A hard jab to my stomach, then a blow to my jaw. Everything spins. He gets me in the ribs, he gets me in the ear. I think I see Libby in the audience, and that momentary hesitation earns me a glancing blow across my cheek.
I get him in the teeth, and he spits blood at me. I slam him again in the nose and he goes down on one knee. I kick him in the shoulder…punch him in the neck.
He falls back, and when his eyes flicker, he smiles a bloody smile.
“You’re an evil bastard,” he hisses. “Making that escort disappear.”
And I change my mind. I’m going to kill this rotten bastard here and now.
Elizabeth
SOMETHING’S WRONG WITH Hunter. I can tell as soon as he steps into the ring. I’ve been watching him from afar for years, and I’m an old pro at his body language. Hunter West is a guy who’s used to setting the agenda. His limbs are usually loose and relaxed, carried with the kind of self-assurance that comes from knowing you’ve got it all handled. So when he steps into the ring looking uncomfortable, those wide shoulders slightly hunched under a tight blue t-shirt, with eyes that look tired and heavy even from my vantage point, I’m worried.
Then the fight starts, and it’s dirtier than the others. A few times I get a glimpse of his face, and I think he looks desperate. I cringe each time he gets hit, and I cringe each time he hits Lockwood. Eventually he knocks Lockwood down, and I sigh with relief. I watch Hunter lean over. Words must have been exchanged, because Hunter settles on one knee and starts punching Lockwood’s face.
“Holy shit.” Loveless, beside me, is leaning forward, both hands over her mouth.
My mouth is open, too, because Hunter is really going at it.
A whistle blows, but he won’t stop. People in the crowd gasp. Men rush in and grab him, throw him down. Meanwhile, people are stepping in to check on Lockwood. Marchant steps into the ring behind them, helping Hunter to his feet. Someone throws a metal winner’s chain sash over Hunter’s head. I see him wince when it comes to rest on his back. He walks off with Marchant, and I wonder where Priscilla is.
“Where’s Priscilla?” I ask Juniper a minute later.
“She’s in Canada. They’re filming something huge there.”
The crowd claps as Lockwood is helped to his feet. His face is a bloody mess, but he waves, drawing more applause.
The last fight is tamer, but the vibe inside this place is still a little off. A little dark. I think about what Hunter did, and I begin to see holes in the story I created to make myself feel better about the whole Hunter-has-rough-sex-with-porn-stars thing. Because he certainly seemed to like violence in the fight.
“Want to go downstairs?” Loveless asks over the din of chatter. “See if we can get a view of the guys, post-shower?”
I do, but obviously I shouldn’t. “I don’t think so.”
“Then let’s get a drink. You can spill your Hunter story.”
“Yes. You can,” Juniper says.
I insist there is no story as I follow them to the balcony bar, whatever that is. We have to go up countless flights of stairs to get there, and when we finally arrive—in a dark den lit by flashing, multicolored strobe lights—I realize we’ve clomped to the very top of the arena. The bar must have been above and behind us as we watched the fight. It juts out over the bleachers.
Juniper goes to order our drinks, while Loveless and I take a seat at a yellow booth. She leans across the table, and I smile blandly, pretending I don’t know what she’s about to ask.
“What’s your story, Scarlett? We trust you, and you can trust us. What’s your Hunter West story?”
I swallow hard, aware that I’m going to have to tell her something. It’s only fair. Finally, after looking twice at the bar, hoping Juniper will be on her way back and I can postpone my sad tale until she arrives, I jump in head-first.
“I have a thing for him. But he doesn’t know that I’m alive. I promise.”