Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 93699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 468(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 468(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
“That was one of my mom’s favorite runway dresses, Harlow.”
“I’m aware.” She shrugs, pulling onto the road. “I snagged one of her Givenchy rompers for you.”
“You could’ve at least asked me if it was okay first…”
“I didn’t have any extra time.” She whined. “I’ve been having a super stressful day and the hours got away from me. Anyway, I saw the hottest guy ever during my manicure appointment. You’ll never guess what he said to me…”
I clench my fists as she rambles, waiting for her to ask me something—anything—about today’s expo, but she never does.
While she’s rehashing “how hard” it was for her to choose between Bubblegum Pink and Freakum Dress Poppy nail polish, I realize that I can’t take her conversation anymore.
“Can you drop me off at home please?” I ask.
“Hell no.” She scoffs. “That’s too far out of the way.”
“With all due respect, which is very little—”
“Let’s make it ‘with all disrespect’ then,” she interrupts me. “I’m sick and tired of my social life revolving around your joke of a career that does nothing except fill up a medal closet instead of a bank account. I’m sorry your mom died, but life goes on. You can’t skate forever, and I can’t drive you around forever either. So, we’re doing what I want to do tonight, and we’ll go home after.” She speeds through a yellow light. “If you want to spend hundreds on an Uber tonight, be my guest, but I’m not missing out on this for you. Clear?”
I sit on my hands to prevent myself from leaning over and strangling her.
“That’s what I thought.” She turns on the radio, and I look out the window—mentally calculating my chances of survival if I jump out of the car.
She’s lucky the odds aren’t in my favor.
Forty-five minutes later, we park in front of a massive warehouse with tinted black windows. The towering red sign on its roof has four letters lit for the night.
HELL.
There’s a line wrapped around the side, leading toward a flashing door that warns, “VIP only.”
“What is this place?” I ask.
“I wouldn’t worry about that if I were you.” Harlow pulls down the visor and uncaps a lipstick. “You should be far more concerned with changing out of that ridiculous sweatshirt.”
“I’m fine, thanks.”
“Suit yourself.” She shrugs, stepping out. “I don’t trust you enough to leave you alone in my car, so are you getting an Uber or coming inside?”
“Inside…” I hold back a groan and follow her to the front of the line.
A bouncer scans her phone before handing us black and gold wristbands.
They read, “Welcome to The Underground: We don’t talk about this. Ever.”
I roll my eyes and reconsider getting that Uber.
“This way, Tati.” Harlow leads me toward another door.
A security guard opens it, welcoming us into a world of loud roaring and applause. It’s an indoor arena, with metal bleachers wrapped around something I can’t quite make out.
Harlow squeezes my hand and tugs me through the crowd, stopping in front of a massive wire cage.
Inside, a salt-and-pepper-haired man mops blood off the white canvas while a badly battered blond tends to his wounds.
“Okay, really.” I shake my head. “Where the hell are we, Harlow?”
“We’re at a fight club.” She beams. “This is the best place to meet hot guys and all the future stars of the MMA world.”
“MMA?”
“Mixed martial arts.” She looks at me as if I should already know this. “It’s wrestling, boxing, karate, Jiu-Jitsu, and, like, everything mixed in one. Anything goes.”
“Um…” I cough as a guy walks past us puffing weed. “Is this place legal?”
“Of course not.”
“Ladies and gentlemen!” A man dressed in all black steps into the cage, mic in hand. “Prepare for the first co-main event!”
The crowd’s screams are louder than any of the ones I’ve heard in a skating rink.
“Fighting in the red corner: Mad Max Jones!”
A sexy blond in grey shorts suddenly runs toward the cage. He kisses his wrapped fists before waving to the crowd and walking inside.
“His real name is Connor Masters,” Harlow says to me. “I was so close to fucking him last summer. I had to settle for giving him a blowjob.”
I did not need to know that.
“Fighting in the blue corner, well, he’s still refusing to name himself, but since he’s from Seattle, we’ve been calling him The Humble Kid from the Emerald City!”
The decibel level rises so high that it hurts my ears. The bleachers shake as the entire crowd jumps up and down.
Uninterested in joining this cult, I immediately open the Uber app, but the sight of Travis entering the ring in dark red shorts stops me dead in my tracks.
I swallow as the arena’s harsh lighting accentuates every inch of his perfectly sculpted body. His abs glisten and he not-so-subtly flexes the muscles in his back.
An intricate trail of ink-black tattoos mars his shoulders, dripping their marks on both his arms before stamping an emblem on the left side of his chest.