Total pages in book: 192
Estimated words: 182641 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 913(@200wpm)___ 731(@250wpm)___ 609(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 182641 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 913(@200wpm)___ 731(@250wpm)___ 609(@300wpm)
It’s an old beater that breaks down every couple weeks, but it’s a fucking car with a back seat that can serve as a bed when needed. More than he would ever ask for or expect, and that’s why I do it. That, and there’s no telling when he’ll need a quick escape or when I might have to call on one for my damn self.
He’s got no one but me, and I don’t take that loyalty for granted.
Like I said, when I leave, he’s coming with me.
It takes longer than I would have liked, but we’re finally rolling into the fourth and final fight. The hype guy in the center of the makeshift ring with a megaphone lets everyone know betting is open, then moves right along to shouting and clowning on our back-to-back contenders.
Greg Moyer, a nineteen-year-old asshole with a snow problem that’s led to some shitty decisions on his part, got his ass beat last week and came back again, but anything for a bag of blow, yeah?
Fucking weasel.
I take names and money, and it only takes a few minutes for the line before me to dwindle. Sensing eyes on me, mine cut to the dark-haired dude who hit me up after the last fights. Sure enough, he’s looking this way, but after our eyes meet, he slowly looks away, stuffing his hands in his jacket to hide the jewelry he doesn’t want jacked as he talks to the guy he came with, the same one as last time. The interaction is no more than a quick glance and I’m facing forward again.
“Bishop, I got ten on Moyer.” One of the regulars comes up, a sophomore from the group home who has seen shit that would make ex-cons cry.
“Boy, where’d you get twenty from?” I lift a brow, taking the bill he won’t be doubling like he hopes, and give him back his change. At least he won’t be ass broke again after he loses.
His smirk is as crooked as his teeth are. “Popped some chick’s tire at the grocery store, waited for her to come out and offered to change it for her for a fee.”
Chuckling, I shake my head, keeping the frown from my face when the dude in the green jacket shoulder-checks him out of his way.
The guy grins, pulling out a wad of bills. “Three-fifty on Thomas.”
Pulling smoke into my lungs, I blow it out into the guy’s face, mentally logging the name he gives.
Matt Jones.
Yeah, fucking right.
He might as well have said Joe Blow. He picked the whitest, most basic fucking name his little mind could conjure. Dumbass. Still, I take his cash, sealing his fate and dismissing him with a flick of my eyes over his shoulder.
A few more shuffle my way, then the dark-haired guy is in front of me. He holds out two bills between his fingers. I stare at him a long second then jump off the crate. Everyone who tried to line up behind him scatters, knowing the drill. Bets are closed when my feet hit the ground, but I snatch the money from his fingers as I shoulder past him.
I go to stand at the edge of the ring, and Hayze slides up directly across from me on the opposite side.
Just like the dark-haired dude, I forgot his fuckin’ name, said he would, “Matt Jones” doubled his bet from last week.
Hayze wiggles his fingers at his sides, eager to close them around something, and my own adrenaline beats against my chest, but I keep it locked down.
No movement. No emotion. No tells.
The crowd goes crazy as the two come to blows, rocking and bobbing and landing hit after hit. Blood spills from Thomas’s mouth, and Moyer has a gash over his eye, but seconds before the first round can end, the fight does. Thomas catches Moyer with a clean fade to the jaw, and the guy goes down instantly.
Now we know for sure.
Some cheer; others complain, and my eyes lift to Hayze.
I bend, sliding under the rope and coming up next to Thomas.
I clap his shoulder, pay him off, and send the smiling man into the gang of girls waiting on him.
And then I turn to Moyer.
He chuckles, shrugging his shoulders as he tries to catch his breath. “Fuck, maybe you were right, Bishop. I should have waited another week to recover from last week’s pounding.”
I nod, glancing at the crowd, noting the whistleblower is nowhere in sight, and with moves too fast to be anticipated, I grip his head, slamming it down into my knee, kicking behind his a second later. His body jolts backward, and he drops flat on his back, his head bouncing against the ground with a hard thump, his bottom teeth now sticking through his lower lip. His eyes roll back as consciousness slips away and everyone around falls silent.