Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 56257 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 281(@200wpm)___ 225(@250wpm)___ 188(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56257 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 281(@200wpm)___ 225(@250wpm)___ 188(@300wpm)
As Marquis drives us to the press conference—probably so I don’t make a run for it—I take out my phone and text my woman. Are you there yet? I held off last night, but I could feel her presence in the city, the passion tingling over me and grabbing hold of me. I never thought like this before. Tingles. What use does a fighter have for crap like that? She’s injected me with too much love.
“You’re smiling,” Marquis notes. “This worries me.”
“A smile worries you?”
“You hate these things. Did you just text your lady?”
“I thought you didn’t know about that, remember?”
“You’ve done well,” Marquis says. “Your training, Rust… The first few weeks and this Rust are two different men. Let me tell you, but I don’t want you to get cocky.”
“It’s just a damn smile,” I tell him. “I’m happy to see her. I know it’s wrong, but I am.”
“The last thing I need is a happy fighter,” Marquis says miserably.
We arrive at the venue, the crew swiftly whisking us along. I don’t let them put makeup on me. I never do, even as Marquis tuts, “Think of the lighting.” I didn’t become a fighter to have the privilege of wearing makeup. For this conference, it’s just Cain, me, and a podium between us. There are three times the number of security guards than last time, probably because they know how easily I can cut quick angles and get to the prick.
The crowd is even bigger than last time, but I don’t spot Mary or Brad in the front row. I’m guessing they’ve sat further back to avoid any of the drama. My phone vibrates in my pocket. I quickly check it as the announcer calls out Cain.
Yes. I can see you.
I look into the crowd, but all I can see is a mass of people and lights from phones and cameras. Cain swaggers out, wearing a denim vest, his fighting shorts, a cowboy hat, and nothing else. He shoots the air with finger pistols and blows each “gun” out, then sits, immediately leaning into the mic.
“You make sure to keep your bitch ass in that seat this time,” he says.
I grind my teeth, ignoring him. Usually, at this stage of the fight week, I’m like an iceman. Nothing can crack me, but he’s just such an arrogant, deluded ass. I got my hands on the bastard once, and I’ll do it again.
“Nothing to say?” he taunts. “Really, Rust? I should get half your purse for selling this fight single-damn-handedly, and everybody knows it!” Cain declares, getting some cheering and clapping from the crowd. “He sits there like his shit don’t stink, and his breath smells like roses and chamomile. You, Rust, a man who fucked your so-called best friend’s sister.”
A hush moves over the two-thousand-person crowd. I lean forward, wondering if I look guilty, wishing I didn’t have to lie. I’d tell this whole crowd the truth if it wasn’t for Brad. “Haven’t you got anything new, Cain? Are you going to bring out that picture again?”
“Nah, I’ve got something new,” Cain says gleefully. “In fact, I just posted it on my Instagram. Have a look, ladies and gents.”
There’s a loud rustling noise as thousands of people reach for their phones. I wonder if Brad and Mary are doing the same out there. I wonder what Photoshop stunt Cain pulled, maybe putting our faces into a porn flick or something stupid like that.
Then, from the void of the crowd, I hear a voice—the same voice I heard on the lake all those years ago. The same voice that told me, “You can make it, Rust. I know you can. You train harder than anybody else. You’re more focused. More disciplined.” And I told him, “When I make it, Brad, it will be because of you.”
From the crowd, he yells, “What the fuck? Is this real?”
“What the hell is it?” I growl, staring across the stage at Cain.
He grins, holding up his phone. Oh, Jesus. It feels like the stage just fell out from underneath me. On the screen, there’s a photo of Mary and me kissing in my car at night, with my arms wrapped around her. He swipes, showing more pictures and angles.
“You must’ve had me followed by a private detective to get a photo like that,” I roar. “You rat.”
He just grins. “So you admit it, then?”
I grab the mic and stand up. I can’t let the world think badly about Mary. I can’t let them misunderstand this. It will hurt Brad even more, but I have to do this. For my woman. For our family.
“The only thing I admit is that I’m going to give my life to this woman. You all know me, Rust, the cold, stone-faced bastard. That’s what’s made me popular. It’s not what I say but being me—cold and dead inside. A ruthless killer. That’s the Rust you all want!”