Total pages in book: 65
Estimated words: 62972 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 315(@200wpm)___ 252(@250wpm)___ 210(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 62972 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 315(@200wpm)___ 252(@250wpm)___ 210(@300wpm)
Whoosh. He grunts and bends over to catch his breath but pops right back up.
He maneuvers behind me, and this time I’m ready before he kicks, managing to block him with a punch to his thigh.
He growls out a curse and backs up, a slight limp to his normal swagger, and my fist aches inside the glove—it was a good solid blow.
He shifts around, eyeing me. He thinks I should be down by now.
I force a grin, knowing I probably look maniacal.
He comes at me again, his swipe a hair too wide, and I duck. He breathes heavily as he chases after me.
“Stop playing and take him down!” one of the men from Kai’s corner calls out.
“Go back to Ole Miss!” Ryker yells back.
Kai runs at me head down, in football mode, and I anchor myself, waiting. He gets a second from knocking me on my ass, I sidestep like a good boxer, and he misses completely, lurching into the ropes.
I rush at him, landing a punch to his lower back.
Score.
Using my shoulder, I pop him in the chest and send him reeling.
Stay down, asshole, my face is telling him.
But he gets back up, his eyes glazed.
“You done?” I pant.
“Pussy,” he calls at me as he slings blood out of his face.
“Your funeral,” I say and raise my fists up.
My words spur him into action and he rushes at me again. He lands a strike to my spleen, and I thrash away to get my breath back. Fuck.
“Killer! Killer! Killer!” some of the Ole Miss fans chant.
It’s like he brought his own cheering section.
I spare a glance at Ryker, and he screams out that there’s a minute left in the round.
I’m not sure I can last sixty more seconds without a breather.
Kai advances again, on the offense, and I skirt around him, my feet skipping on purpose. If I can’t take him down, maybe I can distract him. I make my way over to the crowd of people who’ve congregated in Kai’s corner, cross my left arm into my inner right elbow, and pull it up—the universal sign for fuck you. The crowd roars its approval while Kai’s fans shake their fists at me. I prance off, forcing my body to move like it isn’t screaming in pain.
He runs at me, more sluggish than before, and I square off and wait. I suspect he’s going to throw more fancy karate moves at me, and he does, his legs kicking at me as his fist aims for my face. I turn my body sideways and he misses, the inertia of his movement making him stumble. Before he recovers, I hit him in the head and he pops back with a dazed expression.
Down he goes like a rock off the side of a cliff.
“Hell yeah!” Ryker screams from the side, and I look around for Leslie, who motions for the ref standing off to the side. He jumps in and checks on Kai, who hasn’t even twitched. His chest is rising and falling so at least I know he’s breathing—I don’t want anything serious to be wrong with him.
“Winner!” the ref yells as he holds up my hand.
I take a walk around the ring, eyeing the people in the audience. Some are cheering—thank you, fellow Waylon fans—while some are surly and sneer at me. Whatever.
It’s fucking over.
Delaney
Mav-Man: I miss you.
Me: Me too. Will I see you today?
Mav-Man: No. I’ll see you soon, Buttercup. Just…be patient and wait for me.
“This donut is the best thing I’ve ever put in my mouth,” I murmur in reverence as Skye and I sit inside the pastry shop at the student center. The books for our next class are piled on the table where we’ve been studying. A popular hangout, the place is packed with students milling around before class on this Tuesday morning.
She picks at her donut, a sparkly thing with white icing and purple glitter, as she watches Tyler. Sitting at a table a few feet from us with several baseball players, Bobby Gene included—someone who is obviously too nice for Tyler—he’s been glaring at us since they came in. He also sent Skye a few nasty texts over the past two days. So far, she hasn’t responded, and I approve of her decision to dump him and move on.
“He’s leaving,” I tell her, watching as he picks up his trash and throws it away. “And, dammit, the douche is coming over here.”
“Ugh.” Skye wipes her fingers on a napkin, her body stiffening.
“You got this, girlie. Be polite, but don’t let him talk down to you,” I tell her.
He arrives at our table, tall and looming over us with a glower on his face. He brushes his eyes over me dismissively then turns to Skye, a curl to his lip. “You haven’t replied to my texts. Still pissed at me, I suppose?”