Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 55171 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 276(@200wpm)___ 221(@250wpm)___ 184(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 55171 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 276(@200wpm)___ 221(@250wpm)___ 184(@300wpm)
“It’s different,” Mel continues making a bad situation worse. An obnoxious cackle crawls up the back of my throat as my head rolls to the back of my neck. Apparently, everything is hitting me all at once—the wedding, dealing with Zach’s awful mother, my own mother trying to smooth things over while still keeping the peace, absolutely hating how I’ve rolled over and taken the verbal abuse, and now this. Now freaking this. My chest tightens, my fingers tingle. Fuck, even my toes that are scrunched into a pair of too high heels are prickling. My hands go to my decolletage, nails scratching at the lace. I feel like I’m unable to drag enough air into my lungs. If this is what dying feels like, then please let there be white sandy beaches, the ocean air, the scent of my favorite coconut, pineapple, and sugar lotion on the other side. Those are my last thoughts as stars appear behind my closed eyelids. I’m unsure who closed them because I assure you I did not decide to feel like I’m this helpless person in front of Zach and Melissa. No way, no how, never ever. Yet that’s exactly what happens. My whole body shuts down, and that’s all she wrote.
Griffin
Worthless piece of shit. I was walking down the hall looking for the john when I stumbled upon my niece and what everyone knows is the groom looking disheveled. One plus one equals mother fucking two. On any given day, I’d keep to myself and walk the hell away. I’ve got enough drama in my life the way it is, running the local bar, dealing with waitresses, barbacks, and alcohol distributors, and that doesn’t include the damn customers getting drunk off their asses, acting like damn idiots. That’s not all I do either. Before I was a bar owner, I was a flight medic. Still am on the rare occasions there’s a high-speed boat show nearby. This whole shindig isn’t my idea of fun. If it weren’t for the small town, my bar being the center of it, I wouldn’t be here. Fucking appearances sake and keeping the gossip mongers off my damn back is part of the reason. The other is because of my niece, who’s standing in front of me. Her best friend’s wedding is today, and she needed a cash bar. Free publicity and flush pockets for a couple of bartenders—it was a no-brainer.
“Jesus, you two the reason for this?” Stormy, the bride, is currently in my arms, head lolled back, one of my arms bracketed beneath the back of her knees, the other beneath her neck. “Got nothing to say for yourselves?” I quirk an eyebrow at the two. Mel has the good sense to look away. Zach is too busy opening and closing his mouth, like a fish out of water, much like a bass once it’s been caught and is trying to breathe. “Figures,” I grumble. My eyes move from the pair of dumbasses to the woman in my arms.
I don’t bother having a one-sided conversation. The way Stormy is, I’m willing to bet the two people in this room are the reason she’s in the position she’s in now. It doesn’t matter that I’m walking away, carrying the bride out of this charade. Stormy leaving the groom and passed out from fainting, my, will the tongues wag. Fuck, she’s lucky I stepped into the room. Lucky for us, no one is around when I walk out. The hallway is empty, and I’m trying to find a room that isn’t cloaked with the scent sex, hoping Stormy doesn’t come awake in my arms, do an about face, and hit me while doing so.
“Fuck,” I grumble. My hand beneath her knees tries the doorknob, finding it locked. I set off for the next. The last thing she needs is attention in the state she’s in. So, I head for the next door. This place has more rooms than a luxury hotel. The second doorknob twists open. I’m stepping inside, kicking the door shut with my foot. Locking it will have to wait. “Stormy, can you hear me?” I ask as I set her down on the couch.
“Ugh,” she grumbles, eyes opening, a dazed look on her face when she notices it’s me.
“You good?” She rolls over. I’m unsure of how to take that until she pulls it together enough to say, “Help. Off. I need to breathe.” Her long dainty fingers are trying to pull on the buttons, scratching at the material.
“Son of a bitch.” My hand knocks hers out of the way. I work at the buttons as fast as I can, and still, it’s not fast enough for my liking, not with the way she’s taking shallow needing to breathe. “Hold still, Stormy, don’t move a fucking inch.” I slide my hand inside my pants pocket, flip open my pocket knife, and flick the blade open. My eyes meet hers as she’s looking over her shoulder. I’m willing to bet this contraption of a damn dress is the culprit for her collapsing in my arms all along.