Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 114211 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 571(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114211 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 571(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
Thirty minutes later, Juni and I burst through the doors of the crowded Tumbleweeds. With one glance at us, the bartender rolls his eyes. As usual, Juni and I don’t care. Another ten minutes, we’re at the bar four drinks in, and I’m laughing my ass off at Juni, who keeps elaborating on how she wants to climb on top of the bartender’s face and how his mustache would tickle. I don’t know when it happens, but suddenly we’re at the jukebox dancing to Like A Virgin, and I don’t care who’s watching or rolling their eyes.
Besides, the place is plenty loud enough to drown us out. Must be no less than forty others in here, some chowing down on food at the tables by the front, others dancing like we are, the bar filled from one end to the other. It’s Saturday night, and in a small town like Spruce, you’ve only got so many options for entertainment before you’re banging your head against a horse’s ass in boredom.
When Juni and I have a night out, nothing can pull us down.
Not even—“Who in Hot Hell is that?” asks Juni.
Still dancing, I turn, following her line of sight. Four guys just walked in. Two of them I know. One of them I don’t.
As for the fourth … “You’re fuckin’ kidding me.”
Juni’s still watching them. Her dancing has become distracted. She has the attention span of a ferret. “Do you know them?”
I scowl, then turn away. “Forget ‘em, they’re nobody.”
“They’re too hot to be nobody.”
“Just forget ‘em.”
“Are they locals? Those two hotties?”
“Turd biscuits is what they are.”
“Okay.” She turns away and taps on the jukebox buttons, her face scrunching up as she fights through her blurry drunken eyes. “Is this in English? I can’t read anything.” A-ha’s Take On Me plays. “Oh, I know this one! Did I even pick this one? I dunno what I did.”
I dance distractedly with Juni, then catch myself turning back around to get a look at them. Cody and Trey, everyone in town knows who they are. But they’re accompanied by Captain Fuckface from the gas station and someone else. Are they friends of theirs? Neither Cody nor Trey have any out-of-town relatives that I know about, and they sure don’t look anything like them.
Then that pompous prick-o-potamus, appearing smug and full of himself, scans the room with his eyes—and catches me looking.
I quickly turn away. Juni’s gone into full dancing queen mode. I join her for a few seconds, but can’t get into it when I feel that jerk’s eyes all over my back. I turn again, ready to scowl at him or flip him the finger.
But he’s gone.
“I’m so sweaty … and crazy thirsty,” moans Juni. “Can I get … like, can you get me, I don’t know, something nice and hard?”
“Huh?” I grunt, distracted, as it’s now me scanning the room looking for that bastard.
“Nice and hard and bad. But also sweet, maybe? Like me?”
Then I spot him at the bar. How convenient. “Yeah,” I say, my blood burning hot, “I’ll get us somethin’ hard alright.”
“I have underboob sweat.”
I cut through the crowd heading straight for that man at the counter. Even from behind, you can tell he’s a dickhead. His tight jeans even make his ass look arrogant, like it’s the ass of a snobby, privileged kid at an Ivy League school blowing his parents’ money. He wears tight shirts, too, the sleeve-punishing kind, like he needs to announce to everyone that he works out. Who gives a shit? I sure don’t. And that stupid hair of his, styled so perfectly, parted at the side and swept over so it’s this fake balance of controlled and crazy. That shit doesn’t fool me. I know he spent an hour on that hair just to make it look like he spent ten seconds on it. He probably thinks he looks bad-ass, arms folded on the counter with his body leaning to the side just enough so the material of his shirt stretches over his back muscles, accentuating his broad shoulders that probably love to shove into people when he’s in a crowd.
I hate him so fucking much already.
When I reach the counter, I make no apologies when the side of my shoulder knocks into his as I flag down the bartender. “Hey, somethin’ nice and hard and sweet,” I call out, slapping a bill onto the counter, “and a little bad.” I put on a smirk, asserting my own authority over the bar as I deliberately ignore the dick—and the fact that I can feel his eyes burning the side of my face right now. He’s got those permanently half-closed bedroom eyes that look so damned conceited, like nothing can get to him. I hate his eyes the most. “Two of ‘em,” I decide to add. “Need one for my special gal.”