Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 90511 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 362(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90511 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 362(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
“Just when I start thinking you’re an unfunny and humorless old man, you surprise me.”
“I have that effect on people.” I finish my coffee with a sigh. “I gotta get back to work.”
“You just came home for that?” She nods at the mug in my hand.
I open my mouth to tell her the truth. I came home to see you. She gives me more energy and excitement than this fucking coffee does. But instead, I only grunt. “It’s better here.”
Chapter 22
Charlie
Instead of heading into the locker room, one of Albert’s guys heads us off in the back halls. He’s sheepish-looking and his nose is crooked. It takes me a beat before I recognize Big Boss.
“Mr. Morton asked that I take you two up to his private box for tonight’s fight.” Big Boss grimaces as Stefano steps forward, getting closer. “Also, I should apologize for my actions.”
“You should grovel on your fucking knees for touching my wife.”
“In his defense, I wasn’t your wife.” I touch Stefano’s arm. Big Boss looks like he’s about to shit himself from fear. “I have a feeling this is Albert’s version of a joke.”
“Mr. Morton can be real funny.” Big Boss’s voice is shaking as he gestures for us to follow. “Right this way, please.”
“Listen to him, all fucking polite now,” Stefano says, snarling, staring at Big Boss like he’s a starving dog.
“Easy there.” I take his arm and pat it gently. That seems to mollify him, or at least it’s enough of a distraction. “You should focus on the fight.”
Big Boss leads us to the last private box. We step into a luxurious space with a small buffet spread, a minibar, lush couches, several high-top tables, a quiet private bar, and tinted glass windows that lead out to a balcony overlooking the ring down below. Albert’s most important high rollers are shown to this room, and it shows. Everything is sumptuous and high-end.
“I’m tempted to beat that fucker’s ass just for a warmup,” Stefano grumbles as he tosses his faded old duffel down beside a chair that’s probably worth more than a midsize sedan. “What the hell are you grinning for?”
“I just didn’t know you held grudges.”
“He tried to kill you.”
“And you choked him out for it. I think everyone’s square. Besides, the guy was practically scraping his forehead on the ground and pleading for your forgiveness.”
“He should still be dead.”
“Easy, big guy.” I touch his arm again. I don’t know why I keep doing it. Something about the fight tonight has me on edge, and touching Stefano calms me down. “So what do you do leading up to the big moment?”
He grumbles more about hurting Big Boss but eventually gives in. “Prefight ritual is stretching.” He sighs as he touches his toes. “Lots and lots of fucking stretching.”
I kick my feet up on the couch and enjoy the show. Old Man Stefano grunts and groans through a series of movements, bends, and lunges. He methodically works out each of his impressive muscles, which is one hell of a show, if I’m honest. All the while, he curses and groans like someone’s shoving hot pokers up his asshole.
“Why do you put yourself through this?” I say, sipping on cold Fiji water. Nothing but the fancy shit. Might as well be Philly tap for all I care. “I mean, you’re clearly miserable.”
“This part sucks.”
“So why do it?”
“Because the part down there’s worth all this.” He sighs and cracks his neck loudly. “I didn’t always have to do all this shit, you know. Back when I was younger, I could roll out of bed, beat the shit out of a dozen strong men, and get drunk that night before doing it all again the next day.”
“Must be hard for you, learning how to limber up.”
“You have no idea.” He sighs, closing his eyes. “I’m not going to bore you with the complaints of an old man—”
“Too late for that.”
“But fighting really is a young man’s game. The body doesn’t heal like it used to.”
“And yet you still think it’s worth it.” I get up from the couch and walk over to him. “Come here, let me help.”
“Not sure what you can do.”
“Lie back.” I grab his leg and push it back, loosening his hamstrings. I shouldn’t be touching him, but his muscles are too tempting. There are even scars on his legs, little knots littering his thighs. “God, you’re a mess.”
He follows my gaze. “I like to think I’m beautifully worn in.”
“Do you think scars are beautiful?”
“They tell stories. That one by my knee? That was a dog. A big fucker too.”
“A dog bit you?” I trace the lines. “How long ago?”
“I was… fifteen? Broke into a junkyard. Just about the biggest cliché imaginable, but it happened.”
“Bitten by a junkyard dog. I’m amazed you survived.”
“You’d be amazed by half the stories then.” His eyes drift down to my lips. “Been through too much. Nothing ever totally heals right either. They say what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, but that’s just bullshit. What doesn’t kill you now might kill you later. My fucked-up knee might mean I miss a step. Or my ruined elbows might make me hit a little too soft. A dozen injuries and more.”