Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 70458 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 352(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70458 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 352(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
When she was gone, I looked over at Calloway with a raised brow.
“Did you really expect her to be nice when you were such a bitch to her?” I asked conversationally.
Calloway looked over at me with a sneer on her face. “I expected a little bit of professionalism. I literally watched her pull her tits up and pull her shirt down to show them off before you walked in the door. Now that was unprofessional.”
I didn’t disagree with her.
In fact, I agreed with her.
Not that I would ever tell her that.
I didn’t want her to get a big head.
As the blood drained out of me and into the bag that would then be transfused into her, I watched her.
She tried to appear as if she didn’t care, but I knew that she did.
She was just as aware of me as I was of her.
“So what do you have planned today?” I asked. “It’s Saturday.”
She looked down at the blood bag that was being agitated on the little table next to my chair to see how filled it was. When she realized it was almost full, she answered.
“I have to work,” she replied.
I rolled my eyes.
Obviously she was still sticking with that story.
“It’s Saturday, Cal,” I said. “You don’t work on Saturdays.”
She looked at me, and once again, the sight of her eyes looking into mine made my heart skip a beat.
It always had and always would.
“I already told you I have to work,” she said.
She had.
And I’d already told her it was Saturday.
Instead of fighting, I changed the subject.
“I had some old woman ask me to sign her breast today on the way in,” I said, being reminded yet again of my celebrity status thanks to the stupid calendar photo shoot that I’d done with my fellow SWAT team members. “I think she actually expected me to do it, because she had a Sharpie.” I paused. “I see her every time I come in here.”
“The old woman that works next door at the scrapbooking place?” she asked. “Because she’s the only woman I know that’s older that would be here this early.”
I shrugged. “It might be her. I wouldn’t know. I’ve seen her before, but always outside when she’s smoking.”
“That’s Myrtle,” she confirmed. “She’s a pack-a-day smoker. But I really like her. You should’ve signed.”
***
Calloway
He shot me a quelling look.
“I’m not signing some old woman’s tit,” he said. “I draw the line at tits. I’ll sign the stupid calendar. I’ll sign the fucking shirt. But I’m not signing a tit. I don’t care if it’s perfectly smooth or wrinkly. It’s just not happening.”
Poor Louis.
I would’ve laughed had he not been one hundred percent serious.
I sat up and faced him, pulling my top slightly to the side. “What about mine?”
His eyes zeroed in on my flesh right when the little machine beeped, indicating the bag was full.
Seconds later, Prissy appeared, ruining the moment.
I covered myself back up, but Louis didn’t remove his gaze from my shirt.
I grinned and moved back to where I was previously lying, waiting patiently for Prissy to hook me up to the good stuff.
After she did, she paid extra special attention to Louis as she cleaned and bandaged his arm.
“Oh, I forgot to give you a ball to squeeze today,” she pouted.
I rolled my eyes. “Could’ve used your tit. You did offer.”
I must’ve said it quiet enough that Prissy didn’t hear, but Louis did.
I heard his snort of laughter just as a couple of men walked through the door, momentarily drawing Prissy’s attention.
“Ohh, the whole crew is here!”
I groaned and willed the blood to drip into me faster.
Honestly, if there was somewhere else that I could do this, I would.
Prissy was by far the worst part of my month. Even my hellacious periods were nothing in comparison to being subjected to dealing with Prissy.
She was seriously the ditziest blonde I’d ever met. She only cared about men—and only hot men at that—and she loved to point out that I was nowhere near her level.
Which, I might add, I wasn’t.
I wasn’t because I just couldn’t compete.
I didn’t have tits and ass and hair.
I had long legs, a pretty face, and black hair.
I didn’t have freckles. I didn’t have tits that could make a grown man weep—or stare at them like Sammy Spurlock, Louis’ cousin and another member of the SWAT team, was doing right that very second.
Hell, I didn’t even have a healthy body.
I was a broken pile of Calloway that had zero energy to do anything that would make my body look better.
Pretty much, I was soft, squishy, and I didn’t even go ‘woo hoo’ when I was poked like the Pillsbury Doughboy.
More often than not, I growled.
Which kept the men at bay.
Then again, I suppose it could be worse. I could have extra weight that I needed to exercise to get off but couldn’t.