Total pages in book: 113
Estimated words: 106518 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 533(@200wpm)___ 426(@250wpm)___ 355(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106518 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 533(@200wpm)___ 426(@250wpm)___ 355(@300wpm)
I stroked my knuckles over her side up to her breast and brushed her nipple through her shirt, feeling her shiver against my touch. She was getting close. “This is a good start.” I was teasing her.
She flinched away, forcing me to pull my finger away. “No,” she hissed like a wounded animal. “I told you no, and that stands. You said it yourself: I’m not worth your time. I’m nothing, remember?”
I shook my head. “You aren’t nothing.” If she were, Remo wouldn’t be breathing down my neck.
“What am I then, Fabiano?”
I leaned down and kissed her slowly, letting her scent and taste engulf my senses, before I drew back. Her cheeks were flushed. “You are mine.”
I stepped back, turned around and left her alone in the storage room.
“You are mine.”
I watched him leave, stunned. For a moment, he’d looked at me like I was inexplicably precious.
Was this about more than him wanting to own me?
Don’t be stupid.
He was a killer. A monster. He was Falcone’s right hand man. He was his Enforcer.
I shuddered at the idea of what he did to people on Falcone’s orders. He wasn’t the cute guy I’d taken him for the first time I’d seen him. How could I have ever taken him for anything other than a killer? Fabiano was many things, but cute or kind weren’t among them. And yet I had fallen for him. What did that say about me?
This city was rotten, corrupt and brutal. The devil had his claws sunk deeply into Vegas’ soil and he wasn’t letting go. If I wanted to survive in this city, I had to play dirty like anyone else. I glanced down at my watch. Three hours until the final match, until Boulder would have to earn me my money back. Fabiano had said it himself: he couldn’t always protect me and I didn’t want him to. I needed to take things into my own hands. Something on the ground caught my eye. Fabiano’s knife. I picked it up.
I quickly rushed back up the stairs, searching the bar for a sign of Fabiano but he was gone. Relieved, I hurried toward Cheryl. “I need to leave for a while. I’ll be back soon.”
“Hey!” she called after me but I was already on my way out.
I returned one hour later with a few of my mother’s pills in my pocket. They were the ones she took when she couldn’t get her hands on meth. They made her dizzy and her heart beating like bush drums in her chest. I hoped they’d do the same to Boulder.
* * *
My nerves were frayed as the second to last fight started. I hadn’t seen Boulder yet. And if he didn’t show up early for his fight, I wouldn’t be able to hand him the bottle of water I’d prepared for him.
“What’s the matter with you tonight?” Cheryl took the glass with beer from my hand. The foam head had dwindled. She tossed it into the sink, then drew a new one and gave it to the man at the end of the bar counter.
And then the barrel-chested, bald man known as Boulder finally entered the bar and made his way toward the changing room. I took the bottle from the backpack beneath the bar and another, untouched one for his opponent before I followed slowly. I glanced around myself before I knocked at the door. People were occupied with the fight.
No sound came from inside, but I pushed the handle down and stepped in.
Boulder was sitting on the bench, staring down at the floor in concentration. He looked up and I held the bottle out for him. He didn’t take it, only nodded to the bench beside him. I was about to put it there when I noticed the white substance that had gathered at the bottom of the bottle. I gave it a quick shake, then set it down beside him.
I waited a moment, but he didn’t move to take it. His opponent came out of the toilet and I handed him the other bottle.
I turned and left. I couldn’t stand by. I always brought the fighters water but I didn’t hover to see them drink it. When I slipped out, I released a nervous breath, then quickly went behind the bar before someone noticed something was off.
When Boulder emerged for his fight, he was holding the bottle in his hand. If he didn’t drink it, I’d have dug myself a deeper hole. He climbed into the ring and raised the bottle, then spilled some of the liquid over his head.
I held my breath and only released it, when finally he lifted the bottle to his lips and emptied it.
It took a while for the pills to take effect, and the change was subtle. I hoped subtle enough that no one would suspect anything. It merely looked as if he was lacking concentration and occasionally as if he was dazed, which could be explained by the hits his opponent had landed against his head.