Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 79263 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 396(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79263 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 396(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
“We start at the shore, and whoever makes it to you first gets a kiss. First man to three wins, but keep it PG! We don’t have all fucking night.”
I’m almost tempted to complain about being the judge and not part of the race, but the first time all three of them walk out of the water together, I almost swallow my tongue. Oooooooh my. And when they turn around? Even better.
Zero is easily the fastest swimmer, but it still takes a while for him to get three wins because Beast and Piston have no problem sabotaging him in order to let one of them get in a win and keep Zero from ending the game. In the end, it takes an awful lot of kisses and brushes of slick skin under the water before they’re done.
Beast climbs out of the water first and casually throws me his T-shirt to put on so I have something to cover with and dry myself as I get out. It falls halfway to my knees when I slip it on. I crouch down on the rock, letting the shirt cover me completely so I can stay warm and dry off a little as I watch them pull their clothes back on.
Modesty? Thy name is not Beast, Piston or Zero. Not that they have anything to be modest about.
“Enjoying the view?” Piston asks as he pulls on his boxer briefs.
“Yu-p,” I answer, popping the p.
This night has been scary. It’s been sad. It’s been silly, and it’s been sexy. I haven’t had this much fun in maybe ever.
It’s perfect.
13
PISTON
Didn't think I'd be coming back here anytime soon. Maybe ever.
The name of the scrapyard changed when I sold it, but other than a new sign that I can't quite read in the dark, it looks pretty much like it did when I left. Tall wire fences around big piles of different types of rusted metal scrap, dwarfing the trailer home near the front of the property. Containers in a row, vaguely sorted by type of trash. I built my first bike out of the shit people sold us. Rode it out of here and kept it going until I could afford something that wasn't a goddamn death trap. Just me and my dog Gruzzler. He was already old then.
The three of us pass through the gate with little fanfare. A couple of guys are watching, but they just nod. One of them nudges the other, points at us and smirks. Yeah, laugh it up. I don't think anyone's gonna be smiling by the time we leave.
"Is Roscoe here?" I shout their way.
"Around the back, where the fights are. Want me to show you?"
I fucking grew up on this lot. "I know the way."
Zero and Beast follow, quietly looking around and leaving me to my thoughts. This place isn’t somewhere I’ve ever shown them, but they know my story. This place forged who I am. Some of my greatest victories and defeats happened in the back of the lot. But if the earth opened up and swallowed it all, I’d spit on its grave and never look back.
I pat the aluminum siding of the trailer I grew up in with my father and my grandmother. It looks smaller than I remember, but otherwise about the same. Just as shitty. No more, no less.
Flashing neon lights and a couple of floodlights pointed at the sky make the makeshift arena in the back seem more like a nightclub than a scrapyard, especially with the loud music pounding out of speakers attached under the lights. Roscoe’s expanded since he took over. I remember when I first cleared space for this, spreading word that I had a place we could set up where the cops wouldn’t bust our fights.
It’s a busy night. People are mingling between fights. Money changes hands, along with drugs, information and whatever else people are willing to trade. This isn’t a boxing gym, it’s a marketplace disguised as a brutal gladiatorial arena. As always, the real winners are the bookmakers, but that's none of our business tonight. Squinting, I search the dark crowd for my mark.
Instead, it finds me. "Holy shit, is that who I think it is?" Swaggering past a couple of curious bystanders, before they're back to watching the fight, is Roscoe, the guy I sold this mess to a few years ago. "You’re looking good. Here to take back your title? Could make some damn good money betting on you, but it would be better if I had some warning and could drum up interest."
"Fuck off. You know I'm done with that shit. You, me, and my brothers here, need to talk." I point at Zero and Beast.
"Oh yeah, sure. The big, bad Screaming Eagles, coming to give me trouble. If it's not one thing, it's the fucking other." He waves for us to follow him. "Come join me in my office."