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)
“That sucks.” When I look up from my stitching, Irina has a sad look on her face. “I always had Cort and Maart and they gave a whole lot of fucks about what I looked like when it was over. One time—”
“No.” I shake my head. “I can’t listen to it, Irina. I don’t want to know how bad you were hurt. It’s a cowardly thing, I get it. But it just makes me so angry. And I’m tired of being angry.”
She wilts a little, which makes me feel bad. But she doesn’t complain. “It’s fine. I get it. You were saying? About the kit?”
“Right. Davis gave it to me after my first fight for Benny.”
“So you could stitch yourself up?”
I look up at her. “Yeah. And I did.”
“But didn’t you ever have a broken arm or anything? How could you set that by yourself?”
“I never broke any bones, so I never had to.”
“Oh.” She says this word thoughtfully as she stares at me. Like it never occurred to her that boys might come out of those fights without broken bones. Then she looks away, probably thinking about all the times she did have broken bones.
And of course she did. She’s a girl. I don’t give a fuck how good a fighter she is, she’s no match for someone like me. Obviously she killed nine boys on her way up. But that’s just it, they were boys. Not men.
Irina is small. She’s mostly muscle, but she’s skinny. And I’ve seen my share of talented girls—hell, the women’s MMA circuit these days is pretty fuckin’ hardcore. But against me? Against Maart? Against Cort? I’m a hundred percent sure Davis would beat the ever-loving fuck out of Irina in a fight. And he wasn’t in the Ring or even in a camp. He’s just a trainer.
The fact that she killed Udulf sounds impressive, but let’s face it. Udulf was a soft fucker. A rich fucker. He didn’t know his head from his ass when it came to fighting.
Irina’s got no chance at all. She needs to run if she comes up against a man who’s been trained just as well, or better, than she has. That’s the only way she comes out the winner.
I want to say this to her. I want to make her promise to run. But I can’t. And I don’t think she would listen anyway. She would fight if someone was threatening her. She would stay and fight. The only reason she ran from me the other day was because she was upset and needed to scream into that pillow to make her world right side up again.
I do a continuous stitch, unconcerned about the scarring. That’s how I’ve always done it because it’s faster than doing single stitches and tying them off each time.
Which must be how Maart, the perfectionist, did it. Because Irina says, “Where did you learn to stitch like that?”
I pause my stitching so I can pull a little pamphlet out of the black pouch. It’s stained with dirt and blood and only nine pages long. I hold it up and smile. “I just followed the diagrams.”
She smiles too, then laughs and takes the pamphlet from me. “Your first-aid education came from a picture book?”
I’ve gone back to stitching now, so I don’t look up. “It worked, didn’t it?”
“Maart really was like a doctor. He taught himself too. He had all kinds of books in his room, a whole wall of books on anatomy and first aid and stuff like that. We never had a lot of money at the camp because Cort used most of it to pay Udulf for his future freedom and the rest went to food. But we always had a proper clinic, even on the Rock—that was our training camp on the ocean, an abandoned oil rig. But even there our clinic was as good as any clinic could be. In Brazil, at least. I’m sure it’s much better here, but for where we were, and who we were, it was very, very good. I always felt safe with Maart.”
I look up, staring at her for a moment. “Is that why you thought you loved him? Because he fixed you up when you were hurt and made you feel safe?” I don’t expect an answer. Haven’t really earned the right to ask this question. But I take the chance anyway.
Irina surprises me, as she so often does, and gives me the truth. “Yep. Obviously, I didn’t think of it like that back then. But… it makes sense now.” She shrugs. “I was such a fuckin’ child that day I walked out. I’m embarrassed at how I acted.”
“Then call him up, Irina. Talk to him. He’s looking for you. He wants to see you. Have one conversation with him so you can put his mind at ease and tell him you’re OK.”