Total pages in book: 124
Estimated words: 118459 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 592(@200wpm)___ 474(@250wpm)___ 395(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 118459 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 592(@200wpm)___ 474(@250wpm)___ 395(@300wpm)
“That’s true, Bruce. It’s yet to be seen what the Davidson camp will do. They’ve released a statement saying Davidson has nothing to prove against Pampas, since he lost. There’s just no one else without going up a weight class.”
“Absolutely. He’s gone through his opponents like a hot knife to butter. The only time he’s been stopped, even as an amateur, was in his last collegiate bout. This is definitely problematic for the Davidson camp.”
“Well, we’ll have to hang tight and see what they do. We’ll be right back after a commercial break.”
A highlight reel of Davidson’s victories flashes in time with their music. He’s flexing, doing backflips off the top of the cage, acting like a complete dumbass.
I turn to look across the table and Will’s eyeing me warily. My blood is boiling hot, burning my veins as it pumps through my tension-filled body.
“Is the world trying to piss me off?” I bark.
Will leans back, giving me space.
“Why can’t that motherfucker die? Why can’t he be sick? He’s a fucking disease to everyone that’s ever fucking met him,” I seethe.
Any attempt at responding by Will is stopped by Adam. He gives me a tight smile, sensing my less-than-stellar mood, and talks to Will. I ignore them both, not in the mood to discuss stupid shit. I hear Adam talking about some chick he’s banging and it incenses me. He’s worried about some piece of pussy and my five-year-old niece is fighting for her life.
Fuck this.
I scoot back from the table, knocking over the drink menu. I turn down the hall and into the restroom. I kick at a closed stall door. It swings open, confirming I’m alone.
I growl into the air, the numbness completely fucking gone. I feel the pain, every fucking ounce of it, rip through me like fire through ice.
I smash the paper towel box on the wall until it hangs by one screw. I hit it again and it falls to the floor. I fill the air with a string of profanities, trying to quell the fury ripping me apart. I kick the box across the floor, watching it burst open as it hits the opposing wall. It spins in a circle before stopping.
My chest heaves, air rushing into my lungs, and I hope when I blow it out, I’ll feel a bit calmer.
No luck.
Still infuriated, I burst back through the door, not any more leveled than when I went in.
I look down the hallway towards the front. The chimes ring as the two punks from outside walk in. They glance around the room, trying to look natural.
It’s anything but.
They walk to the bar, the one on the right setting down a brown paper bag. They look around, talking to one another in whispers. Jordyn talks to them a minute but doesn’t approach the bar with the same swagger that she normally does.
The hair on the back of my neck stands on end.
The air has changed. The vibe in the room is completely different. I can hear a tick of a bomb that doesn’t exist.
Something’s off.
Dane and Adam are sitting at a table by the door. As I start towards the bar, they catch my eye, sensing the same thing I am. They start to stand but I motion with my eyes for them to sit back down.
“How ya doin’?” I level up to the bar beside one of the guys. He tries to brush me off, his eyes on Jordyn. “I’ve seen you around, haven’t I? Didn’t we drink together last weekend?”
He ignores me and whispers something to his buddy. I act like I lose my balance and fall against the bar, bumping him enough to make him hit the brown bag. He turns to face me, scowling, and the bag opens enough so the nickel-plating inside catches the light.
Pistol. Just like I thought.
Fuck.
I find Jordyn watching us. I shoot her a look and realization washes over her face. I nod subtly and she backs away, fear written all over her.
“Get lost, you drunk-ass bitch.” The guy next to me pops his shoulder, trying to toss me off him like he’s gonna intimidate me. I want to laugh so damn bad, but I don’t.
Not yet.
“Ah, come on, man,” I murmur, watching them both. Quickly, I scan the area around me, spot a heavy beer mug to my right, and drag it to me.
“GDFR” by Flo Rida begins to play across the speakers and I chuckle at the irony.
It’s going down for real, all right.
The paper bag crinkles as his hand begins to draw the pistol out. His eyes are still fixed on Jordyn.
“Get the money outta the register,” his friend says, the words cold.
The guy beside me removes the gun from the bag. He turns it toward me.
I raise the beer mug and smash it against his wrist. The sound of bones crunching rips through the room. The gun slams against the bar, skids across it, and topples over the change collector, clanking against the floor.