Total pages in book: 162
Estimated words: 158848 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 794(@200wpm)___ 635(@250wpm)___ 529(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 158848 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 794(@200wpm)___ 635(@250wpm)___ 529(@300wpm)
“Shut up.” He lifts his fist, then drops it at his side. “Come on. I brought food. I want you to eat something, then take more pain stuff. I assume you went to an actual doctor?”
“Yeah.” I shuffle behind him as he walks down my short hallway and turns toward the kitchen. “Some special clinic.”
“They give you anything useful for the pain?”
“Bro, you know I won’t swallow anything harder than Tylenol.” Too many addictive genes in my DNA to take the risk. I’d rather suffer through the pain.
He grunts a sound of grudging agreement.
Despite every part of my body throbbing or aching, my stomach rumbles. That’s gotta be a good sign.
“Sit.” Remy orders.
I ease into the chair by the window so I can keep an eye on him. “Yes, Dad.”
“Don’t ‘dad’ me.” He opens my cabinets, searching for plates, rinses one off, then sets it on the counter. “I can’t believe they sent you home in this condition.”
The scent of roasted chicken teases my nose and my mouth waters in anticipation. “Bro, this is what we do. We literally run an underground fighting ring.”
He sets a plate of chicken, macaroni salad, and cornbread in front of me. My stomach roars to life and I pick up a chicken leg, taking a vicious bite.
“We never let a fight go this far.” He waves a disapproving finger at my injuries—my entire body. “What the fuck was the ref doing—taking a nap?”
“He wasn’t the best,” I admit, setting down the chicken leg, picking up my fork, and stabbing into the macaroni. “Other guy needs surgery last I heard.”
“Good.” He sets a glass of water in front of me. “You get knocked out?”
“Not once.” I turn my head, showing off my jaw. “Concrete chin saved the day.”
He slides into the chair across from me. “You’re done with this now, right?”
I set my fork down with a slight clink against my plate. “Done with what? Fighting? Or the show?”
“Both.”
“No. And not quite.”
“What the fuck does that mean?”
I take a sip of water, then shake four Tylenol out of the bottle and pop them in my mouth. After swallowing, I look him in the eye. “It means, if I want to collect the rest of my winnings, I have to make an appearance at the reunion show.”
“What kind of bullshit is that? How are they getting all the other guys who didn’t win anything to come back?”
I shrug, then wince at the pain slicing down my back. “They’re fame whores? I don’t know or care about anyone else’s motives. I just want my money.” Should I tell him there’s some extra cash if I convince Molly to go with me? No, it’s her decision to make. I’ll discuss it with her.
“All right. As long as they’re not going to trap you in that house again. Or make you fight.”
I stare at him. “You know you’re not actually my dad, right?” Maybe that was too harsh. “Did you really miss me that much?”
“Yes, bonehead. Besides all the other stuff—that I’m not going to mention until you’re feeling better—you were missed.”
Not by everyone, I bet. “How’s Molly?”
“She’s fine.” He waves his hand in the air as if he’s dismissing the question. “She comes home on the weekend sometimes.”
“Don’t tell her I’m back yet.” I point at my face. “I don’t want her to see me like this.”
“You assume she wants to see you at all.”
Already tired of this conversation, I slam my fork down. “Remy, I didn’t sleep with that girl. You really didn’t tell Molly—”
“Yeah, I told her,” he says, his voice thick with annoyance. “But you not coming home to set things straight,” he shrugs and shakes his head, “didn’t sit well with her.”
“I couldn’t!” I explode, then falter as pain flares in every part of my body.
“Stop.” Remy holds out his hands. “Finish eating. I think you should come stay at the house with me. At least until you can move without looking like you want to cry.”
“More like scream,” I mutter, shoving more chicken in my mouth. Do I want to stay at Remy’s to recover? Having him in my face constantly lecturing me about my recent bad choices isn’t all that appealing. But staying here by myself isn’t exactly a thrill, either. “You gonna feed me like this every night if I come stay at your place?” I tap my fork against my almost-empty plate.
“No, but if you behave, I’ll bring you leftovers from the bar.”
“How tempting.” Exhaustion tugs at my eyelids. “I’ll think about it. Right now, I don’t think I could make it back down those stairs.”
“Jesus,” he breathes out. “What are you going to do about your job?”
“I just need to heal for a few more days and I’ll be fine.”
Remy stares at me. “You look like you need at least six weeks of recovery.”