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)
“At eighteen?”
Beth nods. “Yeah. It was… as normal a fucking existence as a girl like me could’ve hoped for, let’s just say that.”
“That’s…”
“Twenty-five years.”
“Wow. I can barely remember what I was doing twenty-five years ago.”
“You were fighting for your life.”
“Yeah. I was. We were… nine, I guess. Just putting this whole plan in place back then.”
She clears her throat, then looks at me.
“What?”
“I…” She blows out a breath. “I am desperate for that story.”
“Why?”
She turns her whole body towards me in her lounge chair, kind of angling herself on her side. She’s fuckin’ sexy too. I don’t know what it is about her, but she just is. Worldly, and confident, and smart. No, cunning. She’s like a fox. “I don’t know. It’s just what I do now. You see, stories, Maart—it’s how I make sense of things. I have every issue of that stupid magazine going back twenty-five years. That’s how I know I have the Dead Eyes issue. All three of them, actually. I kept them all. Because even though the articles are about the fights, they’re about the fighters too. I have the story of every single man who ever died for these sick fucks. Every single story except one. Because one of them refused to speak.”
“Cort.”
“Well, yeah. But it’s not just Cort’s story, Maart. His story is your story. And it’s kind of hard to get a story from a fighter who refuses to talk.”
“You really are desperate for it, aren’t you?”
She smiles, but it’s sad. “I am. I can’t make sense of this puzzle until I have the last piece.”
“But that’s not us. We’re not the last piece. They’re still out there.”
“You, and Cort, and the camp—including Irina. You are one ending. Then it just begins again. Because stories don’t really end, do they?”
“No.” I sigh out a long, tired breath. “I guess they don’t.”
She turns her body again, so she’s facing forward, then puts her hands behind her head and stares out at the sea. “But not tonight. We need Irina first. It’s a critical plot point.” She side-eyes me. “After we get her, I’ll get you.”
I stayed a little longer, but not much.
It felt like we’d gotten somewhere and now we needed a break. So I just thanked her for dinner and there was an awkward hug goodbye.
I have waited three days now and she hasn’t called. So on the fourth day I text her.
Come over for dinner. It’s my turn.
Her reply: Who is this?
Lance. Six o’clock. Don’t be late. Boys get hungry and they don’t like to wait.
Her reply: You’re going to let me meet your boys?
Is this a selling point?
Her reply: I’ll be there.
She’s cagy like that. Never really giving up too much. But I’m kinda cagy like that too, so it’s fine. Does she want to interview the boys?
Maybe.
Do I care?
I’m not sure. But they’re grown men. They can make up their own minds if they want to tell their stories or not. Except for Evard, who is Cort’s legitimate biological son, so Cort would have to OK that. But Evard has slowly turned into Cort over the years—quiet and introspective, except when he’s angry. So he probably wouldn’t talk to her anyway.
There was a time during that last fight of Cort’s when I thought Evard would never be a fighter. His freedom was bought and paid for, so he was slacking off that year. He won his last death fight at age eight and he knew there was never gonna be another one.
But he surprised me when he turned fifteen and wanted to join Budi at the penthouse. Cort gave his approval, so what could I do? I said yes. But I didn’t expect much.
Turns out, though, Evard is serious about this future as a fighter. He’s not big and massive like Cort or Budi. He’s lightweight now, but he’ll be welterweight by the time he’s ready to go big.
Maeko is welterweight and just won his third title only four months ago. He’s training to defend it in Vegas next year. Both he and Paulo will be defending in Vegas.
Two champions in the UFC. It’s not a small thing. I am a fucking rockstar MMA trainer. Every day coaches from all over the world are emailing me trying to get a meeting for a fighter they feel is promising. Trying to get them in my gym.
I don’t take outside kids.
Not yet, anyway. I need to get our kids set up first.
Then I can think about other people’s kids.
Beth fed me takeout, but we don’t eat takeout. Almost never. Fighters need good food and even though that dinner was tasty, it’s just not good enough for this house.
I have a cook for them. A full-time chef, five days a week. On the weekends one of us cooks. Mostly Budi, because for some reason he likes it.