Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 83190 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83190 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Three sets of eyes immediately swing to me—two showcasing surprise and one—much to my own surprise—relief. Closing the door as quietly as I can is followed by me kicking my chin her direction and tossing the bottle across the room. She catches it one handed demonstrating reflexes I pray the twins get and offers me a small, stubborn grin of gratitude.
Seems like Margot was right.
I am needed on the assist.
“Whaddya at, you fucking beauty?” Page cockily greets the instant I’m further into the room, accent and homeland word choice stronger than normal, which I’ve learned are his tell regarding the mood he’s in. “How’s she getting’ on?” The villainous smirk expands. “I see youse still have a job.”
“Yeah, no fucking thanks to you, you pencil dicked prick.”
Another arrogant chortle escapes him at the same time he leans back in his seat. “Crooked as sin…” His smile extends calling me to stomp closer. “Why?”
“You fucking know why.”
“I didn’t put that bunny in your lap for pettin’ anymore than I put that bottle of tequila in your hand for drinkin’.”
More infuriating snickers.
More reasons for my fingers to curl like they are.
“All me did was leave you an empty net. You scored those fucked up goals. All. On. Your. Own.”
Breathing grows a bit more difficult.
Choppier.
It suddenly goes from challenging to keep my voice even to unimaginable. “Say that shit to my fucking face.”
Blanc tries to interject from his seat beside Page, “Boys-”
“No,” Harlow swiftly cuts off. “Let ‘em drop the gloves.”
Page rises to his feet, closes the small gap, and bites so close to my face that I can still smell hints of booze. “You. Fucked. Up.”
Between the stench and him in my space I can’t quite resist tightening my clenched hand.
“You know why? ‘Cause you’re a fuck up. And that’s what fuck ups do, bud.”
“You’d know.”
His bushy brows sharply lift.
“Afterall, that’s what you are. In fact,” I deliver a loud suck of my teeth, “that’s all you are. Nothing but a selfish, reckless, fucking overpaid duster.”
“Fuck you!”
My balled fist flies for his jaw, connecting with the amount of force that matches my nickname.
Page’s head snaps back and to the side, simply stumbling him a couple steps away rather than to the ground like it would someone who didn’t fight in their career. Using the pad of his thumb, he checks the corner of his mouth for blood. He grunts—clearly under impressed by its absence—before nefariously beaming, “That’s assault, me boy.”
“Is it?” Harlow chimes in, instantly grabbing our attention. “Because I didn’t see anything.” Her expression remains emotionless. “Blanc?”
“Can’t say that I did, GM.”
Page twitches a glare their direction. “You’ve got cameras.”
“Damn things are down for routine maintenance.”
This time it’s me who wickedly grins as he’s tossed a second punch. Unfortunately, that’s the last undefended shot I get. Page stretches out a hand, balls up the edge of my polo near my shoulder for leverage, and begins pounding his fist into my face. Each hit should hurt. Should have me howling in agony, yet adrenaline takes over every bit of blood in my body. It gives me strength to break his hold and extend my own arm to keep Page at distance while hammering away at one side of his face. Having a longer reach is an advantage that allows me to keep the upper hand, add more momentum to my swings, and above all else have more time to dodge the flailing retaliation. Our back-and-forth strikes are accompanied by blood splatters hitting the space under our continuously shuffling feet. While I wish he would just go down, have his knees hits the floor first, proving he’s the shittier fighter, the lesser man, I know it’s unlikely. He’s got an impressive center of gravity. And an even more impressive amount of endurance. Air gets harder to grasp in between blows, but I persist onward. Remind myself that my boss is watching.
My fucking wife is watching.
The same wife he’s been after since long before she said I do to me.
Fueled by new bursts of rage regarding the lengths he’s gone to over the recent weeks to split us apart has me unleashing every ounce of force I possibly can until his seemingly unmovable stance waivers.
He loses his footing.
And then his balance.
Page’s body mistakenly bends forward, and I execute the strike to the back that drops him to the ground.
“Enough,” Blanc firmly announces to the room.
I stagger backwards toward the edge of Harlow’s desk closest to her, wordlessly agreeing that that’s the end of the tilly; however, Page snaps his head up to reveal he’s not finished.
That this shit isn’t over.
That it’ll never be over until one of us is on a fucking plane headed back to where they belong.
Page hawks up blood onto the hard wood space in front of him. “Can’t believe you picked him over me.”