Total pages in book: 154
Estimated words: 148220 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 741(@200wpm)___ 593(@250wpm)___ 494(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 148220 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 741(@200wpm)___ 593(@250wpm)___ 494(@300wpm)
“No contact unless you’re in the Cage!” Delta calls out.
Stone ignores that order. He draws back but grips the other man’s shoulders, grinning at him. “We’re a long fucking way from Afghanistan.”
“Not that you’d know by looking at this place,” Crash says, gesturing to the desert scrub around us, then to the turret where a guard watches over the track with a sniper rifle.
So they know each other from the military. I want to tell them not to reveal that connection, to pretend they aren’t friends. Because if Papa truly can’t find a family member to use against Stone, he might use that friendship with Crash.
But Crash is ahead of me on that. In a low voice, he says to Stone, “Handlebar tells me your family are ghosts. So if they pull some shit and try to use me—don’t let them. I’m already a dead man.”
Stone frowns. “What the hell does that mean?”
“NO CONTACT!” Delta bellows.
“They will tase you,” I tell them softly.
That draws Stone’s attention to me, and his frown darkens. “They couldn’t give you a fucking coat?”
Because we’re in the high desert, but it’s the middle of November. This outfit doesn’t do a thing to protect me from the cold. Since the fighters have nothing but sweatpants and running shoes, they aren’t covered much better. But as soon as they begin their run, they never seem to feel it as much.
I pretend not to feel it, either. “I’m used to it.”
“Are you?” His voice lowers. My breath stops when he catches my wrist and flattens my hand to his bare chest. His pectoral feels like heated steel beneath my palm. “Your fingers are freezing.”
“Yo, fucking new guy!” Tango shouts. “Don’t touch the nurse!”
“She’s checking my heart rate, asshole!” Stone’s gaze never flickers away from mine. “How’s it seem to you?”
Deep. Strong.
“A little fast,” I whisper, though that’s just my own frantic pulse, racing as his warmth seeps into my hand. He’s flirting with me as if nothing has changed—as if we’re still in the tavern, where he kissed me and made me remember a time when I still had a future. When I still had hope.
But we’re not at the tavern anymore, and hope isn’t as sweet as a kiss here. Instead it hurts so much. Like a blade through my chest, like the clunk of a locking stall. And my throat aches when I tell him, “You should be more careful than this.”
“She ain’t lying, brother,” Handlebar says. “And they won’t care if they take her down with you.”
Stone’s jaw clenches and he releases my wrist. I curl my fingers, trying to hold onto his warmth. But it’s gone before they finish their first mile.
* * *
As they’re walking off the track, Handlebar calls out to me, “So, Cherry—did you stash the prize money somewhere?”
“What prize money?” I hold up a battery-operated blood pressure cuff, and he extends his arm so that I can fasten it around his wrist. “What are you talking about?”
“Stone’s prize money.”
They think I stole it? Hurt fills my chest. Which is stupid. Because after luring Stone into the Cage, where he’s probably going to die, what’s a little theft?
“That’s why they picked him up, yeah? He won a rally fight.” Handlebar flashes me a grin and leans his head in, adding in a low voice, “Tell me where you stashed the cash, and I won’t tell anyone else.”
Oh. They don’t really think I stole it. They’re just teasing me.
It’s hard to laugh, though. Because I did wrong Stone. And his winning a fight wasn’t why they picked him. But the last time I told him why, that the blue-eyed devil had set him up, he didn’t believe me. And all his easygoing good humor vanished into lethal fury.
He’s in good humor again now. “Christ, man. I can barely fit my dick into a pair of jeans. I sure as hell couldn’t stuff ten grand into my pocket, too.”
I glance up in surprise. Was he carrying around that much? “You won ten thousand dollars in that fight?”
“Yeah, I did.” His gaze narrows on me. “Just like they announced before and after the match. I thought you watched me kick that little prick’s ass?”
Throat tight, I shake my head. “They only showed me a video.”
“So you’d know who to pick up,” he says flatly.
Mutely I nod, not meeting his eyes. He’s not angry that I drugged him, but his tone tells me that my lie doesn’t go over so well.
Until he shrugs. “Eh, it wasn’t much of a fight, anyway. Broke more of a sweat out here on the track.”
Which obviously wasn’t much of an effort for him, either. A light sheen of perspiration glistens over his bare skin but, even after running five miles, his breathing is deep and even. Crash’s is about the same, and Handlebar’s more heavy and ragged, but easier than in his first week here. A lot of these big guys are strong and muscular, but never put the time into cardio before arriving. Some don’t put in the time after, either. Like Tusk—he gets out on the track and just walks, and the guards can’t really do anything about it.