Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 88992 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88992 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
“Well, hello, there,” a voice says. “How are you, Dempsey?”
I freeze in place with one hand on the steering wheel and half of my ass on the seat. A cold chill snakes down my spine, coiling around it in a menacing strangle.
“Who is this?”
“This is Andrew Van, motherfucker.”
Of course, it is.
I’ve wondered if he’d reach out. He always had to try to impose his will. It just never worked with me, but why would that stop him?
“Yeah,” I say, getting situated but not starting the truck. “I remember you. What the fuck do you want?”
His anger bleeds through the line before he even speaks again. It’s palpable—thick and fiery. And it always leads to trouble.
“I’m here with an ultimatum,” he says.
“You know what would be great?” My jaw tightens as my eyes land on an empty tea bottle Audrey left yesterday. “If you were standing in front of me while you said that. But, hey—bonus points for calling yourself instead of sending one of your errand boys.”
“How about fuck you?”
“Nah. Not really my thing.”
“Shut the hell up and listen,” he growls through the line. “You will stay away from my sister. Completely. Zero contact. You do that, and I’ll make sure you’re reinstated, and then you can pay for your mommy’s groceries.”
I wrap my fingers around the steering wheel and squeeze so hard that my knuckles turn white. Mom’s my Achilles heel, and the bastard knows it. Fuck that motherfucker.
“And, if you don’t,” he continues, smug now, “you’ll never fight in the NAFL again. I’ll make damn sure of that.”
There are a million things I want to say to this sonofabitch, but I don’t want to make it worse for Audrey. And it would make it worse for her. Drew would do it just to punish me. I have zero doubts about it.
“Oh, if you try to get cute,” he adds, thoroughly enjoying this, “I’ve got a guy willing to sign a notarized statement saying he’s been selling you performance-enhancing drugs for years.”
“Here’s an option,” I say, staring straight ahead. “Stop hiding behind red tape and dollar bills and fight me. Be a man. You’re supposed to be a fighter. Let’s settle this in the ring.”
“I’ll need your answer before we vote on Monday.”
“Why are you so pathetic?” I ask, seething. “I get it. You’re jealous of me. I would be, too. But keep it between us. Don’t involve your sister. That’s dirty, even for a piece of shit like you.”
“Tell her I called and say bye-bye to fighting ever again. I hope I made myself crystal clear.”
The line goes dead.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-SIX
Audrey
Me: I promise. I’ll come back next week when I get home from Boston, and I’ll answer whatever question you want to fire my way.
Gianna: I’ve started making a list. You’re going to need about 2 days to answer them all, from the looks of it now.
Me:
Gianna: I bumped what you owe me to $50, by the way.
Me: What for?
Gianna: Convenience fee for waiting for the dick data download.
I sit up on the bed. Did I hear something?
Gianna: Just don’t forget anything. I don’t want to hear you say one time I DON’T REMEMBER. That will be bad for you.
Knock! Knock!
I hop up and half-run like a lady toward the door.
Me: He’s here. Gotta go.
Gianna: Go get ’em, tiger.
I pause to give myself a second to catch my breath before swinging the door open.
Brooks comes inside, and instantly, I know something’s wrong. A forced smile doesn’t reach his eyes. Hands in his pockets instead of reaching for me. Not one singular glance at my cleavage in the lowest cut shirt I could find in Astrid’s closet.
I’m acutely aware of the sounds of my breath. I’m cognizant that my heart is beating too quickly. My body is heavy, like it wants to be rooted in place instead of following him into the kitchen, and I fight past the lump in my throat that popped up out of nowhere to block a surge of emotions.
How was I so happy two minutes ago, and now feel like I’m being dragged to certain demise?
“Is Otis okay?” I ask carefully, moving more slowly than molasses into the cabin.
He stands by the table. He doesn’t sit. Doesn’t lean. Doesn’t get comfortable at all.
“Yeah, he’s fine. Why?” he asks.
“Well, you look like someone might’ve run over something of value to you, and all I can think of to fit that bill is Otis.”
One corner of his mouth curls, and whatever war he’s fighting is broadcast across his face as plain as day.
I wipe my palms down my thighs. How hard can your heart beat without exploding?
“It looks like you have something to say.” I take a deep breath. “So, why don’t you put me out of my misery and say it?”
He runs both hands down his face, mumbling something I can’t make out. His jaw that I love to watch flex while he’s falling apart inside me isn’t as sexy now. Actually, it’s downright terrifying.