Total pages in book: 156
Estimated words: 158829 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 794(@200wpm)___ 635(@250wpm)___ 529(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 158829 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 794(@200wpm)___ 635(@250wpm)___ 529(@300wpm)
The staffers share a startled look and nod uncertainly.
Who can blame them?
Holy hell, I still can’t believe what I’m seeing. I also don’t understand where this is going as I trail after them, still rubbing my arm.
“Pippa, are you okay?” Jenn reaches for my arm at the last second.
“Yeah, I...it’s a long story.”
And I don’t have time to tell her when I’m chasing Brock. She scurries along, her breath rattling behind me.
God, I hope Brock doesn’t lose it.
I have no clue what he’s doing until we walk through another door and stop behind a massive curtain. We must be right behind the stage in the main room.
“You’ve got two options,” Brock whispers, jerking Finch around like a ragdoll. “Option A, ten minutes in a back alley with me. No weapons. You won’t walk away with a single bone intact. Option B, you get on stage right now and you deliver a very goddamned different speech than the one you had planned.”
“Are you mad?” Finch snarls hoarsely, still struggling to wrestle himself free.
“You’re about to find out. Choose wisely.” Brock just holds him up, this tall, lanky thing struggling like a puppet whose feet can’t quite reach the ground.
Jenn and I are right beside them now, hanging back a few steps, utterly breathless as we watch them struggle.
Fyodor stands behind Finch like a bulldog, his gun back in its holder behind his jacket, seemingly waiting for the slightest reason to raise hell.
Eventually, the fight goes out of Finch. Brock sets him down again, still keeping one arm locked around his.
“Well?” Brock clips. “Say it!”
“I’ll... I’ll give the damn speech, Winthrope.” Finch rubs his throat.
Brock gives a satisfied nod and stomps over to the curtain, tearing it aside.
Blinding yellow light shines in my eyes.
A collective gasp fills the huge room.
I scurry back with Jenn, and we flatten ourselves against what was backstage a minute ago, but now hangs open for everyone to see.
With Finch still prisoner, Brock frog-marches him to the podium in the center, where a baffled older man in a tux steps aside.
“Change of plans, everyone,” Brock growls into the mic. “Mr. Finch couldn’t wait another five minutes to speak to you. Anything you’d like to say?”
Finch hangs his head as much as he can in Brock’s grip, a sickly sweat gleaming on his brow.
Brock clears his throat roughly and looks over the crowd.
“I’m sure you recognize me, everyone. Brock Winthrope, but this time I’m not up here as a winner. I’m simply introducing this year’s guest of honor. Give it up for Apollo Finch.”
There’s some awkward clapping and a lot of tense murmurs flying back and forth, at least a hundred people wondering what the heck is going on.
“Would you like to say a few words, Finch?” Brock asks into the microphone.
“No,” Finch whispers.
“Don’t be so modest, Mr. Finch. I’m sure you have important things to tell the people. Confessions that get right to the beating black heart of this industry,” Brock says, his eyes shimmering like blue knives in the blaring lights.
There’s a long pause before Finch dejectedly lowers his mouth to the mic and clears his throat.
“Oasis Springs was very competitive this year. Along the way, I’m afraid we did some things that were less than civil, or fair—”
“Or legal,” Brock adds.
“Or legal,” Finch echoes, tossing his head back with his nose pointed at the ceiling like a defiant child.
“Louder, damn you. I’m not sure the microphone caught that last part,” Brock says.
Finch sighs loudly. The microphone definitely catches that.
“Or legal!” he screams. The words boom through the speakers, bouncing through the awestruck room.
Then everything falls dead silent.
“Tell them. Tell them what you did,” Brock growls.
“I...I rigged it,” Finch snarls through clenched teeth. “I showered Winthrope resorts with bad reviews. I swapped out the oysters in Seattle. I...I made over a hundred people sick so I could win.”
A few breathless gasps roll through the crowd before that crushing silence returns.
I rock back in disbelief.
Brock may have just done the impossible.
Apollo Finch is one arrogant, ruthless grade A asshole, and I never imagined he’d publicly confess to anything.
But as Finch looks back at him, Brock releases him with a shove, throwing him aside.
“Get off the stage.”
I watch Finch walk to the side, where Fyo intercepts him, grabbing his arm.
“We’ll wait together, Mr. Finch,” I hear the Russian say.
“What? But I gave him what he wanted! You can’t detain me.”
“I can’t, but the police will be here in minutes. And you just confessed to a crime.”
I’m expecting a struggle, but no.
A defeated Finch shoves his face in his hands and groans, then lets Fyo lead him away.
Beyond the stage, the murmurs are rising, frantic questions flying back and forth.
I swallow hard.
Brock taps the microphone until he has the crowd’s attention. “Now that the cheat is gone, I have something else I need to say.” He pauses.