Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 57707 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 289(@200wpm)___ 231(@250wpm)___ 192(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 57707 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 289(@200wpm)___ 231(@250wpm)___ 192(@300wpm)
“Are you okay, Maya?” Carlo says, leaning his weight against me, and it’s weird. It’s like his image is mixing with the blood on the canvas, like if he pushed more, the blood would expand, and that’s just so … funny, isn’t it? He laughs when I do, and I hate the sound of his laugh, but I like the idea of the blood expanding and retracting in time with his weight.
What am I thinking?
“They are having a giggle fest over there,” somebody calls, and there’s more laughter and blood; it’s so beautiful. I could write a poem about it. What’s wrong with me? Have I just, what, embraced the sick side? The shit side. The ugly side.
Riley touches my arm. Oh, that’s so much better. I move away from the ocean of the stink of Carlo’s cologne and fall right against my friend. She wraps her arm around me. “Isn’t this just the greatest night ever?”
“Yeah, you’re so warm.”
She giggles. “I missed you so much.”
“I missed you more.”
“No way, it’s not possible.”
“Holy shit, it’s starting!” Raffie leaps to his feet, pushing against the fence. A chain-link fence borders off the raised section, and it looks as if the fighters will jump up here and start swinging at us.
“This is going to be crazy,” Carlo says excitedly.
“Mess him up, T!” Raffie yells, slamming his fist against the fence.
Everybody is around the caged area now, watching closely, the masquerade masks dancing and becoming huge ghoulish grins and then frowns, and it’s so captivating. It’s all I can look at or think about. It’s like time is doing strange dances, refusing to behave normally.
Riley nudges me. “You’re going to miss the fight.”
“Huh?” When? Now.
“Look.”
I drag my gaze up, struggling not to fall over at the same time. Doing both at once is difficult until it’s not. There he is, but we’re in reverse positions this time. I’m looking down on him. Am I dreaming?
Tristan stands under the harsh light in the cage. My body heats up the second I see him.
Shirtless and glistening with sweat, every sinew and muscle is defined like they’re tempting me to trail my finger along them. His broad shoulders taper down to a chiseled chest, each muscle sculpted and powerful. His biceps bulge as he flexes, veins snaking across his arms like tributaries.
His abs are a series of intricate and taut ridges, each standing out like a stone in a riverbed. I can’t take my eyes off how his muscles move and shift under his skin with each breath he takes. His skin gleams with a sheen of sweat, accentuating the contours of his physique and making him look almost like a living statue.
Despite the chaos around me, my eyes are locked on him, every detail of his body burning into my core. His legs are thick and powerful looking, supporting his impressive frame with a solid stance. Amid the crowd and the noise, he seems to be the only real thing.
What am I even thinking? Real thing? I lick my lips. I wish Tristan were kissing me. I wish he were shirtless with me for a different reason. God, I’m hot all over.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
TRISTAN
The sleazebag touches her arm again. What the hell is she doing here? I can’t look up there at her, can’t focus on the way her dress hugs her body, her cleavage pushed up with that fuck touching on her. People are yelling and cheering for me or the man opposite; it doesn’t matter to me.
He’s big, taller than me, leaner, and his stance tells me he knows what he’s doing. The brown in his hair and the flush of his face tell me he’s in his twenties. It’s as if I had to face myself at twenty-five, but I can’t let any thoughts interfere, even about Maya and that Mob fuck grabbing on her.
“I’m sorry, old man,” the lad calls over to me, shifting from foot to foot in a long kickboxer’s stance.
“Old men have old-men strength,” I call back, grinning.
We’re wearing thin gloves, which is a blessing compared to bare-knuckle, but elbows, knees, kicks; it’s all fair game. The kid nods with a grin on his own. They’re all here for a show, but he understands, at least. This is combat—battle.
The announcer raises his fist. “Fight!”
The kid rushes forward in a straight line, throwing a superman punch, essentially launching himself like a projectile at me. I duck to the side, keeping my distance, my guard up. He wants a flashy KO. Maybe he’s placed a bet on himself.
He turns, throwing two quick front kicks to my stomach. I harden my abs, but it feels like a spear digging into me. Kicks are just brutal. I catch his leg on the third, as he grins like a cocky ass, then quickly step forward and sweep out his back leg.