Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 93683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 468(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 468(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
The Cheetah pylon struggles to settle his stance prior to grunting, “What the fuck is your problem, post rider?” He uses the back of his dark beige hand to wipe away fresh blood. “Miss my balls in your face already?”
“Cap’s beatin’ was a warmie.” Positioning my fists to protect my face precedes me adding, “Welcome to game time.”
His first thrown punch is sloppily delivered alongside a vicious roar making it easy to dodge.
The next is barely cleaner than the first resulting in a quick deflection.
By the time his third and fourth make an appearance, I’ve located the easiest openings.
Mentally mapped my knockout.
“Too much of a pussy to try to hit me when I’m fucking paying attention, aye?!” the older, most likely to retire after his beating, player chirps. “Too-”
My right fist effortlessly lands in the center of his nose, not only kicking his head back, but sending a tooth flying to the ground. Grumbles of agony echo around the room, yet they’re easy to drown out much like Bronny’s taste in music. Another jab from the same hand is delivered to his open chest prompting my left to repeat the action before my right aims a little lower in his abdomen.
The lack of padding means he feels. Every. Fucking. Hit.
And him feeling every fucking hit pushes me to pummel faster.
Strike his liver.
Again.
And again.
And again, until he’s crumbling to one side, silent screaming.
Just as I move to strike higher, a large pair of golden tan arms, unexpectedly curl around my frame at the same time Dixon, head of Dalvegan security, firmly insists, “That’s enough, Groffee.” Despite the order, my body thoughtlessly twitches in objection, the melody of determination to finish the ass whooping I started stronger than the harmony of logic. “I said enough.”
All of a sudden, a much gentler graze graces the tips of my fingers, prompting my attention to cut over to the woman I love to hear her whisper, “I’m okay, Jukes.”
Instinctively my digits curl around hers.
Tug her closer.
Fold them completely, the instant Dixon steps off.
Placing a kiss on her knuckles precedes me asking, “Promise?”
“Promise.”
“Like ’95 Michael Bolton?”
Amusement alongside adoration pierce her softening stare. “You really shouldn’t know that song.”
“You really shouldn’t be surprised I know that song, Gillybean.”
“And you should really tell me,” Dixon clears his throat, “what the fuck is going on in here.”
“That,” the dark-haired player whose name I never bothered to learn stabs the air in my direction from behind Tomas Rumlow, another member of in-house security, “fucking hillbilly-”
“You fuckin’ pigeon,” is growled in an interjection.
“-just Hulk busted his ass in here and started swinging!”
“You had your hands on my slayer!”
He leans forward and cockily flashes his bloody toothless grin. “She wanted it.”
“I did not!”
New bursts of anger rushing through me propel most of my frame forward, forcing Dixon to dart his arm out like a barrier. “No one puts their goddamn hands on my slayer but me!”
“Your. What?” quietly seethes a voice I wish was any other than the one it is.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!
This ain’t at all how this was supposed to happen.
Gilly’s fingers fall from mine, yet I don’t shy away from repeating the declaration, “My Slayer.”
“No.” He swiftly shakes his head and shifts his stare over to his sister causing me to do the same. “No.”
Her mouth cracks open, releasing a second sound I wish was any other than the one I’ve come to know all too well.
The tiny hiccup has me pressing my lips together.
Tightly.
Shutting my eyes.
Swallowing down the lump of disappointment.
Really?
She was just gonna lie?
About us?
And now of all times?
Hell, was she even serious about the dinner this weekend or just gonna find a way to weasel us out of it?
To postpone this until a moment like this inevitably happened?
Why is being with me so fucking wrong?
Why am I here fighting for her when she clearly can’t be bothered to fight for me?
I mean…no woman deserves what just happened to her – and I put that on everything – but let’s just say putting him seven feet under – because six is a privilege – wouldn’t have been blaring through my mind like the soundtrack to an 80s action movie.
“You’re done,” Coach declares to me in an unrecognizable voice. “Go back to the locker room. Tell Wheaty he’s in.”
“I-”
“You’re benched.”
“But-”
“Benched!” He bellows at the top of his lungs. “This isn’t a fucking discussion!” There isn’t even time for my mouth to move before he’s locking eyes with Dixon. “Escort him there to guarantee he doesn’t fuck up anything else tonight.”
Dixon nods at the order and gestures a palm towards the doorway Coach is moving out of.
Instead of stealing a glance of Gilly or trying to speak a third time, I simply lift my hands in surrender.
Throw in the towel.
Because what the fuck is the point anyway?
She’s not speaking up.
He’s not shutting up.