Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 77124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Which, I’ll admit to myself, at least, happened no fewer than five times between jumping in his car in Washington Heights, and when he dropped me back off a few blocks from my actual apartment in Hell’s Kitchen after walking my dog in Spanish Harlem.
And, damn it, yes, one of those times was when he’d been able to pull a gun on me without me noticing.
Was it healthy that my body saw that as some sort of foreplay? Probably not. But I was how I was. There was no changing me at this point in life.
“Hey, killer,” one of the regulars said as he ducked under the ropes. “Wanna try to knock me out again?” he asked, knocking his gloves together as he started to circle me.
“It’s always a joy to beat the shit out of you, Denny,” I said, smirking as he faked a couple of punches, trying to look all big and bad. But it distracted him, letting me move in on his slow left side and land a nice punch to his ribs that had him exhaling forcefully.
“Oh, it’s on,” he said, anger flicking in his eyes.
Denny was one of those guys. You know, the kind who thought that being masculine meant he should be stronger and more intimidating than a woman. Up to the point where he would genuinely try to hurt me because I’d bruised his ego in front of the two other guys in the gym.
So I danced around him, jumping back when he swung, knowing those punches were the kind that would leave me walking around with bruises for a week.
It just so happened that he landed one good punch to my stomach when Anthony Costa decided to show up.
“What the fuck?” Anthony snarled, making Denny glance over.
I wasn’t above using an opponent’s distraction against him. I charged forward, getting inside the cage of his arms and landing a hard shot to his ribs, then another, and another, making him stumble back as he gasped for breath.
The rule of the gym was no headshots without a padded helmet and a mouthguard, so I pulled the punch that would have likely won me a real fight, holding my glove up under his chin as his eyes burned fire at me.
“Hey hey, you know the rules,” my mom called, coming out of the back where I bet she took the time to actually shower before getting changed back into her leggings and gym logo tee. “Fight’s over. Take the loss, Denny. Work it off on the treadmill.”
Denny might have been a bit of a dick, but he respected my mother and her rules, so he took a step back.
“You got lucky,” he said. “I’ll get you next time.”
“The fuck, Saylor?” Anthony asked after Denny slid under the ropes to mope away.
“What?” I asked, leaning my arms on the rope.
“He was twice your size.”
“Don’t you worry about my girl, sweetie, she’s got fighter running through her veins,” my mother said. “Also, holy shit,” she said, gaze moving over him, then sliding to me, eyes huge, before going back to his face. “You are phenomenally good-looking,” she told him.
“Holy shit back at you,” Anthony said, shaking his head at my mother. “How are you old enough to have a grown daughter?”
“I know, right?” my mom asked, beaming at him for the compliment, even if she heard it half a dozen times every single time we were out in public together.
“Anthony, this is my mom, Sam,” I introduced them. “Mom, Anthony Costa.”
“Nice to meet you. Can I take your jacket?” she asked, waving at his expensive-looking suit coat.
“Ah, why?” Anthony asked, brows pinching.
“Because if I know my daughter, and I do, she wants you in that ring.”
“She’s not wrong,” I agreed, smiling at how uncomfortable he looked at that information.
“I’m not going to hit a woman,” he said.
“Well then,” my mother said, taking his jacket and folding it over her arm. “You’re going to get your ass handed to you,” she said, smiling sweetly. “Shoes off in the ring, too,” she added, looking down at his feet, then moving over toward the desk to carefully hang his jacket on a coat hook.
“She’s not serious,” Anthony said, looking up at me.
“Afraid so. There’s gloves right there,” I said, nodding toward where several pairs were sitting.
Sensing this was a losing fight, Anthony sighed and walked over to them, sitting to remove his shoes, then slipping the gloves on before bending under the ropes and coming into the ring.
“You might as well swing too,” I told him. “I am going to be hitting you.”
“I don’t doubt it,” he agreed, circling me as I circled him, looking for an opening. “Still not gonna hit you.”
“That’s kind of ridiculous, given the venue,” I said, waving one arm at the ring.
“Not gonna be like that dickhead before me.”