Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 88656 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 443(@200wpm)___ 355(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88656 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 443(@200wpm)___ 355(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
“You’d better,” he warned. “I want to see you graduate with honors next year, Jamie. You’re too good, too smart, to just skate by. And you’ve certainly got the charm to make things happen.” He gave me a pointed look that let me know my efforts to flirt my way into a press pass had not gone unnoticed, and that perhaps I wasn’t as smooth as I thought I was.
I smiled and bowed to him, which earned a hearty laugh. Then, without asking, I grabbed the Sharpie out of the top of his notebook and scribbled my name and number on the cover. “Call or text me and let me know something, okay? You gotta come through on this.”
“I’ll try, but like I said, I can’t promise anything.” He frowned as a tone sounded over the hallway speaker, signifying the beginning of class. “God, look what you’ve done. You know how much I despise tardiness. You’ve made me guilty of the thing I rail about the most.” He hurried away down the hall without another word, and I wandered out of the building.
I considered going back to Layla’s dorm room and finishing what we’d started, but instead headed out to the parking lot to my car— a thirteen-year-old white BMW with a sluggish engine and a fraying convertible top. A piece of waterproof tape held the back window in. My roommate Braden had informed me that a new top would cost more than the car was worth, and I’d told him he was full of shit. No way a new top could cost that much. But I researched it online, and as much as it pained me to admit it, Braden was right.
So I was stuck with a car that would probably be held together by bubble gum and fishing line by the time graduation rolled around. Meanwhile, Braden— who was much more of an asshole than I was, and therefore less deserving, right?— tooled around in a sleek black Audi that probably rang up to about forty grand. Hell, that was close to my mom’s yearly salary as a nurse.
At least I had it over Braden in the looks department. He may have been rich, but his appearance was as plain as it got. His mix of brown hair, brown eyes, and medium skin tone was perfect for blending in, like human camouflage. He also had an aversion to working out.
As I drove the mile and a half from campus to our condo, my brain was swirling with excitement about my upcoming evening. It didn’t get much cooler than having a press pass to a big sporting event, even if it was a pseudo-sport like MMA.
My roommates were certainly impressed. Braden, our resident MMA expert, had already bought tickets for him and his girlfriend, Miranda. I still didn’t understand why he hadn’t mentioned it. I mean this guy was so crazy for the sport, he’d probably been having wet dreams about the upcoming fight for weeks.
“I thought you hated MMA.” Braden glared suspiciously at me, like he thought I must be hatching some diabolical scheme. “What ever happened to it not being a legit sport? You said it was barely a step above pro wrestling. You said—”
“I know what I said,” I interrupted. “Look, I’m still not a big fan of MMA, okay? But it’s a pretty big sports event, and it’s here in town, and it’s just a few weeks until my project is due. It’s like fate, you know? Like the deus ex machina swooping in to save my ass at the last minute.”
“Deus ex— whatever that means. Can’t you speak English? We’re not all in the Mensa club, dude.”
“I’m not in Mensa, either. That’s even less legit than MMA. And I pretty much defined the term in the sentence for you. Ever heard of context clues? You don’t have to be a genius to listen, Braden.”
“Boys, boys,” Miranda interrupted. “Are you going to fight all night? Because I don’t want to hear it. I’d rather stay home.”
“Well, anyway,” Braden said irritably, fluttering his hand in the air like a bird having a seizure. “I think you’re secretly a fan of the sport, but you think it’s beneath you. That’s what I think. I think you have this idea that fighting is a bunch of brainless cavemen, and you want people to think you’re too smart to enjoy it.”
“Oh, is that right?” I laughed and looked to my other roommate, Trey, for backup. He ignored me and kept playing his video game, looking like a little turtle, with his cap of curly brown hair, freckled nose, and roundish glasses.
“You wanna ride with us?” Miranda interrupted in her no-nonsense way, running her fingers through the blunt ends of her straight, dark hair. “We’ve got plenty of room. Is Layla going with you? She and I can get ready together.”