Total pages in book: 168
Estimated words: 164910 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 825(@200wpm)___ 660(@250wpm)___ 550(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 164910 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 825(@200wpm)___ 660(@250wpm)___ 550(@300wpm)
He crashes to the floor, and I scramble to straddle him, climbing on top.
I punch him with my right and slap him with my left. “Is this the kind of aggressive you wanted?” I bellow. “Huh?”
I’m not a fucking kid anymore.
I punch him again, but he launches up, fists the hair on top of my head, and plants his fist in my jaw once, twice, and again in quick succession. Pain shoots through my face, and I feel the sting on the inside of my cheek.
Gripping his neck, I shove him back down, pinning him to the floor as I avoid his hands grappling for my head.
He snarls, and I see blood trickling out of his nose, but his nails drag down my chest, and I growl.
As soon as I loosen my hold, he rolls us over, planting his fist right in my gut.
The wind rushes out of me, pain spreading through my stomach.
“You gonna have me fired for this like a pussy would?” he yells. “Huh?”
I force a laugh, trying to throw him off me. “ ‘Have you fired’? You still don’t get it, do you?”
My blood boils, but everything in my stomach—in my head—feels light like I’m racing the loop of a roller coaster. He grinds on me as we fight, and something builds deep in my throat. Craving.
I still want him.
“Oh, I get it.” He punches me so hard my head twists. “You’re still a fucking piece of shit who only bothers those with less money, less connections, and less power.”
He grapples for my hands.
“Because you get pounded into the dirt by daddy on a daily basis,” he bites out, “and only pick fights you can win so you can feel like a real man!”
Piece of shit…
I yell, flipping us over again, pressing my forearm to his throat as I straddle him. “Less money?” I bark. “Less power? Are we still brandishing that facade?” Sitting up, I throw a slap across his pretty fucking face. “Macon doesn’t spend the money in ways that raise IRS alarms, but it’s there! Where is it coming from?”
I slap him again.
“From real men,” he replies, breathing hard.
I punch. “Where?”
“Better men.”
Goddammit.
“Where?” I bite out in his face.
But the son of a bitch actually laughs as if this is all so fun and he doesn’t already have bruises forming on his cheeks. “I’m taking it to the grave,” he teases.
I pause, the word choice hitting me as odd. Grave…
He thrashes, throwing me over, and I topple to the floor. Hurrying to my feet, I see him jump to his, and I charge him.
He falls back to the bed, and I feel the sweat trickle down my back as I grasp for his arms.
“I already bought it, you know?” he tells me, shoving my hands away. “My grave?”
I grapple, going for his throat, and it takes a moment to register what he’s saying.
He’s arranged his burial?
Already?
I don’t know if I finally get a hold of him or if he just stops fighting me, but before I realize it, my fingers are on his neck. He clutches my arm with both hands but doesn’t shove me away.
I don’t squeeze.
He’s chosen his own grave site? Why would he do that?
How could he do that? He knows for certain he’ll never leave Sanoa Bay? Never have someone he wants to rest next to?
Never have children who will alter his life?
As if he’s already decided how everything will end.
I can’t swallow, my throat too thick.
“Guys like me just turn into pathetic old fucks,” he whispers. “You don’t think I know that I won’t live to be a man?”
What the fuck is he talking about?
And the idea that he thinks he isn’t a man at twenty-five…
At least he’s aware of his faults.
He goes on, “Maybe I’ll get drunk on the boat one day out fishing, fall in, and drown.” His Adam’s apple moves up and down under my hand. “Maybe it’ll be a motorcycle accident. Maybe I’ll sleep with the wrong woman and get shot by her husband.”
My lungs constrict a little, getting less air. All of those sound entirely too plausible. They could happen tomorrow, because he’s so fucking careless.
“I’ve never seen myself with a home or family of my own,” he whispers.
Neither have I. Men like him don’t raise kids.
He looks up at me. “But you’re wrong about one thing, you know?”
I narrow my eyes.
“I don’t gorge to save myself from being like her,” he tells me. “I gorge to feel like shit just like her.”
My stomach knots, remembering how he was left alone in the house with her the day she did it. Why would he want to feel bad?
The green in his eyes shimmers with all the shit in his head.
“Someone has to witness her,” he whispers.
Just like Sophia. I don’t want to go into the Den. I have to, though.