Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 126003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 630(@200wpm)___ 504(@250wpm)___ 420(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 630(@200wpm)___ 504(@250wpm)___ 420(@300wpm)
“I’m not dating anyone else.”
“Anyone else?” She’s frustrated and I like it. I’ve never seen her vulnerable side. I find the fact that she even has one refreshing.
“Should we date, Maart?”
“I think we should. I have a question for you, though.”
She makes a face.
“Don’t worry. It’s not about the novel.”
“OK. Then what is it?”
“Do you have a bed in that empty penthouse of yours?”
“Do I have a bed?”
“I’m only wondering because it looked pretty empty to me. And if we’re dating, and I think we just decided we were, and you don’t have a bed in that penthouse, then I will have to take exception to that and you should just stay here.”
“Did you just invite me to move in?”
“Yeah.”
She laughs. “Oh, Lance. I think you might be the man I was never looking for.”
I look out at the sea, gaze wandering, then exhale out my words. “Seems about right.”
CHAPTER 13
Irina thinks this is the worst part. She thinks that Benny’s death—and, by extension, the fact that she was part of it—is the worst part for me.
She thinks maybe I had a little flash of Stockholm Syndrome. That I loved Benny. I did. In a way. I liked him, at least. He didn’t ever try to beat me, or talk down to me, or anything like that.
But this is not about Benny.
It’s got nothing to do with fuckin’ Benny.
It’s about Eoin.
Irina just looks at me for several seconds. Then she blinks. “What?”
“That day, Irina, when you all decided that you’d had enough. Benny was one of those men who was there, in your camp, to watch Cort and Maart fight.”
I watch her process this new information. I don’t know her well enough to track her thoughts, so it could be going one of a few ways.
Perhaps she’s working through her feelings of pity. I mean, I did have it decidedly worse than she could ever dream of. Ya think, well, I’m in a fight club. Winning is life and losing is death. I understand evil, maybe she’s thinking that. Maybe she’s feeling sorry for me.
But, oh, we’re just getting started with the evil, dear Irina. You’ve got no idea what’s coming.
Or she could be thinking about that day and how it went down.
I don’t actually know how it went down. I was on a fuckin’ beach in San Tropez when word of Benny’s death came in and my world got upended for the tenth or eleventh time. I was getting drunk with Davis. I had my eye on a girl just a few umbrellas down from us, and I was gonna make a move on her. Take her up to my suite and fuck her brains out because my fight was coming up. It was days away and even though I was sure I would win—fuckin’ Sick Heart’s time was over, everyone knew it—deep down I couldn’t ever really know for sure. So I was making the most of things.
Then Davis’s phone went off. Minutes later he was tugging me up to the suite, telling me to pack my shit, Wade was gonna meet us at the airport in Dubai.
Or perhaps dear Irina is thinking more critically. Perhaps she’s now wondering why, exactly, she’s here. And what, precisely, I want with her.
“What’s wrong, Irina?”
She swallows hard, but doesn’t say anything.
“Another trick question?”
Her jaw clenches, fists tightening. She’s readying herself for a fight. “Why am I here?”
“Mmm. Number three then, eh? I knew you were smart.”
“What are you doing and why the fuck am I here? Is this revenge? Is that what this is? You want to punish me for killing your… your meal ticket?”
I lean back further into the cushions of the couch, suddenly relaxed. Then I blow out a breath and shrug. “It had crossed my mind at one point.”
“Really. That’s why you brought me here? To kill me?”
I scoff. “Please. If I wanted to kill ya, Irina, you’d be dead.”
“So what are you doing? What is this?”
I don’t really want to talk about it. But I have to say something. I am the one who started this conversation. And none of it matters now, anyway. Everything has changed.
Still, I can’t seem to find the words. And time is tickin’ off, because that’s what time does, and I just let the moments ride downstream, one after the other, and close my eyes.
“Eason.”
“Hmm?”
“What’s going on?”
I don’t open my eyes. Just shake my head a little. I want her to just go away now. Just leave me here so I can go back to bed, or maybe slit my wrists or something.
But then an idea occurs to me. And a bit of conversation comes back in this moment. I sit up. She takes a step back, like I scared her. “I’m not gonna hurt you. I don’t have a reason to, Irina. Ya see, it’s not your fault. It’s not even Cort’s fault. Or Maart’s fault. It’s… maybe… my fault.”