Total pages in book: 124
Estimated words: 118459 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 592(@200wpm)___ 474(@250wpm)___ 395(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 118459 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 592(@200wpm)___ 474(@250wpm)___ 395(@300wpm)
Jordyn nods her head to the end of the bar where two men, completely out of character for this place, are sitting. One is in a large sweatshirt, a bag sitting at his feet. The other is sipping a drink, a suit jacket thrown over the back of the stool.
Will’s hand clasps my shoulder. “You need me?”
“Nah, just stick around ’til this is over. Grab a drink and tell J to add it to my tab.”
The two guys at the end look bored. I size them up as I approach. The guy in the hoodie is surfing around on his phone, the other guy scribbling in a notepad.
I know everyone’s watching me as I walk through; I can feel their eyes heavy on my skin. There’s no threat, just curious patrons wondering if they’ll get to see some action tonight. And they will, I hope, just not the kind they’re thinking.
“Hey.”
Both men’s heads snap up. The guy in the suit’s eyes widen and he struggles to get off the stool. “Crew Gentry?”
“I heard you wanted to talk to me.”
He nods exaggeratedly and extends a hand. “I do. Thank you for coming. I’m Brett Wiskin. This is Chuck Stells.”
I shake Brett’s hand. “What can I do for ya?”
He glances around the room. “Let’s move over to the corner for a little privacy.”
Brett and Chuck load up their shit and we make our way to the corner table where Will and I usually sit. I try to block out everything but what’s in front of me. My mind naturally wants to process everyone in this room, take inventory of who is where. That’s not to mention the fact that I’m purposefully blocking out Julia and Ever. I can’t get distracted . . . for all of our sakes.
They get their stuff situated and I begin to get impatient. I grab the salt shaker and tap it lightly on the tabletop, hoping to kick them into action.
“So, Crew, are you here often?” Brett asks finally, running a hand through his journalist hair. I’ve seen my share of these sportscasters and they’re all the same. Guys that talk because they can’t walk.
I set the shaker down. “This isn’t a date. Cut the shit and tell me what you want.”
He seems a little taken aback but recovers quickly. “First of all, this conversation is completely off the record.”
I nod.
“I saw a video online this past week. If I’m not mistaken, that video was shot inside this bar.”
I wait for him to continue. I’m still not sure what he’s after and I don’t want to play my hand too soon.
“It’s created quite a splash in the online community.”
“Has it really?” I ask, sounding purposefully disinterested.
“I’m sure you’ve seen it around.”
I shrug. “I’m not much of an ‘online community’ type of guy.”
Brett considers my statement and glances at Chuck. He’s fumbling with a camera, oblivious, it seems, to the entire conversation. That surprises me . . . the camera guys are usually the smart ones, just not good-looking enough to be in front of the camera.
“Well, it was pretty impressive. Want to walk us through what happened?”
“I stopped a couple of bums from robbing a bar. Not much to walk you through.”
“You’re being quite humble, Crew. You threw those guys around like rag dolls. That wasn’t a bar fight. That was like something we’d see on TV.” A slow smile crosses his lips. “While we were sitting at the bar, a handful of people came in and asked the bartender if you were here.”
I raise my eyebrows and wait. This is why I’m here.
“You still fight?” Chuck asks, sitting the camera on the table.
Yahtzee.
“Only for fun.” I smirk.
“So, no sanctioned events?” Brett asks. “I’m telling you, it looks like you haven’t missed a beat since Minnesota. If you’re telling me you haven’t been training, I’ll be surprised.”
I lean forward, resting my elbows on the table. “Athletes train for an event, Brett,” I say, boring my eyes into his. “Guys like me, we train to live. So have I been training? Yeah. I train for fucking life.”
My tablemates watch me like I’m crazy. The fear in their eyes makes my dick hard. I love the feeling of intimidating someone, of controlling the situation.
I push out the realization that if I don’t control this one, other, more important ones, are gonna be outta reach.
“Your background is wrestling,” Chuck points out. “But you clearly know how to throw a punch. Ever think about joining the NAFL now?”
“Nah, not really.”
“There’s a lot of talk about you coming in. You fought at the 185-pound weight class in college,” Chuck remarks. “That’s an exciting division right now. There’s a lot of speculation about how things will go down in there.”
“So I’ve heard,” I say. I try to appear bored, like I don’t give a fuck, but it’s all I can do not to just blurt out what I need to happen.