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)
“Leaving?”
“Yeah. I was fighting in the favelas trying to earn money in the underground tournaments.”
“What did Cort and Maart think about that?”
“They didn’t know. And… I dunno. Cort is the closest thing I have to a father. But he wasn’t my father, ya know? We spent the first couple years on the supply ship, working. And the oldest kids would do real fights in different cities to help save up for the village that we bought.”
“He bought a whole village?”
I nod. “Yeah. It wasn’t nothing super nice, or anything. Just huts, mostly. It was kind of a wreck, actually.” He’s staring at me with a weird look on his face. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“It’s just hard for me to picture. Him living like that.”
“Who?”
“Cort. Thirty-six fucking wins. All that money. All those prizes—”
“I told you, he didn’t take the prizes.”
“I know. That’s what I’m having trouble picturing. That he did all that… for you.”
“He wasn’t buying my freedom, Eason.”
“Ya missed the point, Irina. It literally just flew over your head.”
“What do you mean?”
“He did it for all of you. He could’ve had a yacht. He could’ve been living on it. Swimming every day, drinking every night, fucking girls… all of it.”
“But… that doesn’t even make sense. How could he live on a yacht and be training us in camp at the same time?”
Eason scoffs. “None of the Ring fighters trained their fucking camp kids, Irina. They partied. They did drugs. Whores. Jets, and cars, and boats, and whatever they wanted to do. You were put in a camp where the fighter never lost. And the reason he never lost is because he didn’t do any of those things, did he?”
I shake my head. “No. He was with us every day. Training us.”
“So you’d all live.”
“We didn’t all live.”
Eason just smiles. Then he looks back up at the sky. “He did it all right. Every single step. He figured out the rules, played the game perfectly, and now he’s free. And all his kids are free too.”
I guess I am lucky. Very lucky. Especially when I see it through Eason’s eyes. “What was it like for you?”
He turns his head, opening that one eye again. “I’m not really sure.”
I chuckle a little. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t really understand what happened to me. The camps were… terrible, of course. They treated us like shit. Made us train to exhaustion. No one gave a single fuck if we won our fights. And, unlike you, I had a good-enough sample size. Seven camps total. Not a single one of them looked anything like the camp you’ve described. But I never minded the fights. I always went in knowing I’d win.”
I haven’t known him that long, but I believe this. He’s much different than Cort. Cort was all about being prepared. Eason feels more like a guy who just… goes with the flow.
Not luck. But not preparation, either.
When I left Brazil, I had prepared for it. Because that’s how I grew up. That was my example.
Eason was thrown away and he just… rode life like a horse or something. It bucked and twisted, but he was holding on, and laughing, and when it threw him—as it occasionally must—I get the feeling that he just got back up and did it again.
“You’re a natural,” I say.
“What?”
“Fighter. It’s just… something… it’s a part of you.”
“My da was a fighter, that’s why.”
I smile. Because I had forgotten that.
Eason turns over on his stomach, his cheek resting on his shirt, his arms folded up over his head. And I know I’ve seen my share of men’s bodies, but I can’t help but glance at his back and shoulders. I study the tattoos that run down his arms. They are not all those scary smiley faces. Some of them are flowers. Roses, actually. Nicely colored, too. Much nicer than anything Rainer could do.
When I find his eyes again, he’s smiling at me. “You should call Maart.”
I turn over on my stomach too, one hand under my cheek, pressed against the still-hot sand. “Maybe.”
“He’s lookin’ for ya, Irina. Put the poor man out of his misery.”
I just scoff. “If he’s miserable, it’s not because of me.”
“Would ya like me to call him? Tell him to fuck off and all that? Tell him I’m your boyfriend? It’s part of the pretend boyfriend package, so there’s no extra charge.”
He’s teasing me. “I’m not really sure you’re up to it.”
Eason chuckles. “What’s that mean?”
“Nothing. Forget it. Just a throwaway comment."
And then, before I even know it’s happening, he’s scooting over in the sand, erasing the few inches separating us. He pushes me a little, turning me, the sand on my bare back and shoulders warm and familiar. His face is right over the top of mine, his eyes open, looking at me. Waiting for an objection. Giving me a moment to say no.