Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 76365 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 382(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76365 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 382(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
Frankie stalked forward to try and grab me. “You don’t know that.”
Bones intercepted by putting a hand on his chest to push him back. “Back off, Frankie. She’s fine.”
“If anyone knows about head injuries, it’s me, you fuckers!”
Frankie’s shout rendered us all quiet. My mind flashed with shitty memories. Frankie’s first seizure. His retirement from the scene. His fight with Bones. The second seizure. The warning from the doctor. Tests, pills, wires, beeps. So many fucking beeps. He was still struggling with his diagnosis and forced retirement, and my sudden blackout must have triggered him.
For as much as I empathized, it didn’t mean he got to order me around like a beefed-up Kim Jong Eun.
“Frankie, we know that,” Bones said. “Out of all of us, I probably know it best since I put you in the hospital the last time.”
“And puts his ass on the line every night for us.” Lotto didn’t look as willing to buy into Frankie’s bullshit.
“It was one fight, Frankie. And I almost won. I just made a stupid mistake.” I exhaled and pushed some sweaty hair out of my eyes. “We have a month before Heathens Hollow. We can make a comeback. Being the underdogs means no one will expect me to win.”
“And we’ll make a shit ton more than Troy Godwin offered.” Bones nodded at me. “She can train with me and Teo now. No more one on one. We won’t go easy on her. Now that she knows what a real fight is like, we can adjust her training.”
Frankie looked from Bones to Lotto to me. He hadn’t moved an inch since his outburst. He looked like a hydrant ready to blow, so his even, collected tone surprised me.
“I’m not going to win if all three of you are against me. Isn’t that right?”
We didn’t nod or answer, but our silence was enough.
“Fine.” Frankie relaxed his shoulders. “Then let’s go.”
Now that the tension in the room was gone, my body relaxed.
Which meant, for the second time that night, I’d let my guard down.
Frankie stepped forward and grabbed me by the waist. I yelped when he threw me over his shoulder like a sack of rice, kicking my legs and smacking his back.
“What the fuck? Let me go!” I screamed as I fought against his strong grip. No dice. Frankie dug his hands even deeper, his hold so strong, I had nowhere to move, even if I tried.
“Get a ride home,” Frankie hissed to Bones and Lotto. One second later, we were back out in the sweaty, riled-up crowd, weaving through people screaming at the last match of the night.
This was so fucking embarrassing—even worse than being knocked on my ass. When I locked eyes with a middle-aged, suit-wearing man, who smirked at my helplessness and made a vulgar gesture, I decided on a new course of action. I played fucking dead. I slumped against Frankie’s back, closing my eyes so I didn’t have to see anyone else ogle me. Frankie wasn’t taking me to get fucked. Or was he? I couldn’t read him. The yells of the crowd disappeared, and Frankie’s footsteps echoed in the school’s abandoned hallways. Eventually, I heard the beep of his car, and I was thrown into the passenger’s seat like a ragdoll.
I tried to open the door and step out, but Frankie hissed at me even louder than the starting car engine.
“Sit back and keep your fucking mouth shut,” he demanded. “If you want me to let you back into the ring, you’ll do as I say.”
“As if—” I started to argue. One look at the murder on his face and I went silent. Frankie was more than pissed—he was nuclear. If I challenged him anymore, I wouldn’t be surprised if he walked out of Smiley’s altogether.
I sank back into my seat and stayed silent the entire ride. Eventually, Frankie pulled into the hospital’s parking lot—the same one he’d gone to after his seizures. I gritted my teeth. Was he really going to make me go through with this?
I trailed behind him as he led us inside and signed me into the ER. Lucky for me, after waiting a goddamn hour, out walked the same fucking doctor Frankie had during his stay a few months ago. They exchanged handshakes and pleasantries like I wasn’t sitting on some stiff bed, ready for an even stiffer drink.
“What seems to be the problem?” Dr. Stizer asked.
“She has a concussion,” Frankie answered.
I groaned. “For the last time, no I don’t.” Now that my body wasn’t in fight-or-flight mode, fatigue from training and my fight was settling in and my face and head were aching. A nice bath and about three shots of whiskey sounded really fucking great right now. “The nurses checked me and said I don’t either. Can you do the same so I can get the hell out of here and make Daddy feel better?”