Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 126003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 630(@200wpm)___ 504(@250wpm)___ 420(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 630(@200wpm)___ 504(@250wpm)___ 420(@300wpm)
“Anyway.” Now he’s frustrated. “This is good news, right? You can finally find Irina, run towards each other on a beach and do a whole slow-motion hug, murmur things about bygones, and move on.”
The way he says those last two words… I dunno. I understand there’s something wrong with me when it comes to these feelings I have for Irina, but I don’t understand what they are.
I’m angry at her, but I’m sad she’s gone.
I miss her, but I don’t want her around.
It doesn’t make much sense.
“I gotta go.”
“OK.” He doesn’t try to stop me.
Normally he’s a little bit chatty. We talk on the phone almost every day. He’s always got something to say, so this is his way of telling me he’s tired of this Irina bullshit.
“Later.” I hang up before he can say anything else. Mostly so I can get the last word in. We’ve always been competitive, even over stupid shit like hanging up the phone.
Then I just continue staring out at that tree. Picturing Irina’s face that day she left.
She was crying.
I get up, shake it off, and then go out to the mats. There’s no one here because it’s late, but I don’t like to train at night. The windows are too big and Rio never sleeps. Especially Copacabana Beach. I don’t like the idea that people passing by can see me, but I can’t see them because it’s dark. I dunno. I’m paranoid, I guess. Still thinking that people are after us.
Which is stupid. Because it’s been seven years, and we didn’t do anything wrong. We had a deal. It was Udulf who double-crossed us, not the other way around. And sure, we killed a lot more people than Udulf that afternoon, but it was a fair fight, if you ask me. A pack of kids against armed bodyguards and sick billionaires? Come on.
We earned our freedom twice, as far as I’m concerned.
And anyway, they’d have killed us by now if they really wanted to.
That’s what I’m worried about, maybe. That they will realize Irina is out there all alone and get her. I mean, how stupid does she have to be to agree to that photo? Maybe she didn’t know it was gonna go up on billboards in twenty-seven cities across the globe. But if Mackenzie’s right, and she has an agent, then she would know.
Which means she let them take that photo on purpose.
And why did she have a black eye? Is she fighting again?
I will feel like such a failure if she’s still fighting.
I stand there on the mats, looking up at the ceiling, and I pray to a god I don’t even believe in.
Please. Please don’t let that girl fight.
Please make her stop.
CHAPTER 2
Every morning there is a choice. To get up, or not.
That’s my choice. To go on, or give in.
And on most days—recently, at least—I get up and go on.
But it’s never gonna be enough. Ever.
I sigh, roll out of bed, and don’t even wince when my foot hits the floor. The pain isn’t so bad. Not anymore. Not enough to make me stop, and that’s all that matters.
I make my way over to the billowing white curtains separating me from the outside world and peek past them for a moment before pulling open the sliding door. It’s four a.m., relatively cool, and there’s a breeze coming in off the ocean as I walk out to the terrace and lean on the railing. The moon is out, and it’s a good enough size, so there is a nice carpet of light shining across the water.
South Beach is almost always busy, but there’s a lull around this time. It’s not empty, not even now. But there is a small span of time in the early, early morning when it’s nearly quiet and there’s just the sound of the surf on the sand and the low murmur of a mostly sleeping city.
I take a breath, go back inside—limping just a little—and then change into sweats and a tank. I mix a protein shake, stuff a water bottle into my duffel, and seven and half minutes after I got out of bed, I’m pulling my front door closed behind me.
I live on the ninth floor of a beachfront building most people would die for. And, technically, I almost did die for it. It’s been over seven years since my last Ring fight, but the injuries linger. And they go far deeper than the foot.
Was it worth it?
Look around, Eason. Of course it was worth it.
The money I have now doesn’t really have anything to do with the fights. I had a little when things fell apart. Enough, actually. But not this kind of money. Wade, Davis, and I… we stole this money.
Technically, Wade stole it. But we divided it all up three ways and… well… we each got a lot.