Total pages in book: 153
Estimated words: 148704 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 744(@200wpm)___ 595(@250wpm)___ 496(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 148704 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 744(@200wpm)___ 595(@250wpm)___ 496(@300wpm)
“If I didn’t fire someone yesterday and have another person call out tonight, we would be out the door already,” he promises. “If I don’t start pouring drinks, this place is gonna get crazy. If it gets crazy, I’ll have to whoop some ass. If I have to whoop ass, yours will be one of them. Got me?” My chest flushes, and he continues, “Sit. Do not move. And wait.”
Ugh!
I’m about to argue, but then a pretty pink drink is lifted over my shoulder, a large candy straw with an umbrella sticking out of it.
Crew groans, and I spin so I’m facing the bar again, smiling at Drew as he passes it to me.
“Extra sweet, just for you.”
“Why, thank you, kind sir.” I accept, and off he goes, but not before flipping his gaze to the brute at my back.
Pulling the sweet straw between my lips, I flick my eyes to Crew.
Jaw clenched, he gets back to work, his eyes bouncing my way every few minutes, but as soon as my drink is long gone, the sour candy nothing but remnants along my lips, I forget to pay attention to whether or not he is and hit the dance floor.
I can’t say for sure when I went from slithering snake to super sloth, but it definitely happened. My body is heavy, my feet unsteady, and as I turn, I’m ten seconds from taking a tumble, but a steady hand comes to my rescue.
My eyes manage to meet the man’s in front of me, and two-point-five seconds later, the security the blond beast’s stature provided—who saved me from face-planting—is long gone. The next thing I know, I’m transported back to summer camp before eighth grade, when I busted my head and Crew thought I was dying. He swept me up in his arms and carried me all the way to the office. Except there are no big, bright butterflies in mismatched frames on these walls, instead messy files and notepads lie randomly on a rickety, chipped bookcase.
Crew tosses me on a tiny cot in the corner and points his long, strong finger my way.
“We’re twenty fucking minutes from closing.” He speaks through gritted teeth. “Think you can keep your ass where it is until then?”
Sure, he phrased it as a question, but it was so not a question, and he’s already on his way out the door when he says it. I manage to give a half nod before he slams it with his exit.
With an exasperated huff and blurry vision, I push to my feet.
And then I snoop around what must be his office.
Crew
The crowd doesn’t linger too long after last call, leaving no more than a handful of stragglers to arrange rides for, but in a frustrating twist of events, I’m standing here wishing there were a dozen. Two fucking dozen. Anything to keep me from having to go back into that office and lift a limp Davis into my arms so I can get her into the bed she belongs in… which is no-fucking-body’s but her own.
A fact she doesn’t seem to understand.
Four days. I glared at her little “offer,” printed on baby-blue paper, I might fucking add, for four days before I finally read it over, only to find the sneaky little thing had a copy of the essay I shoved back at her hidden behind it. Read them both, put them back, and did it again the next day.
And again the day after that.
Each time was worse, bringing with it guilt I can’t place.
One of the many fucking problems I’m having is knowing Davis Franco is no liar. She’s not conniving or manipulative, both rare, desirable qualities. Both annoying as fuck in this specific circumstance, as it means she’s not only certain I’m the man to do what she wants done, but dead serious. She knows what she’s asking for, and she’s ready to do what needs to be done to make it happen.
As if giving her body away isn’t worth more than a hunk of fucking metal, sentimental value or not. A perfectly pristine, limited-edition hunk of metal, yeah, but that changes nothing. Her body’s worth more and she should know this.
Her mama would lose her shit if she knew what her baby girl was up to.
I’m about to lose mine, almost did tonight.
The bloodstain on my shoulder from a certain blond bitch who dared to touch her did nothing to ease my irritation.
She’s lucky I didn’t—
“Are you restocking those bottles or testing their durability?”
My head whips left, and I glare at Paula, the only server I can depend on.
“Spoiler alert? They’re not shatterproof. Clay has the scars to prove it.” She chuckles as if her busting a bottle over her boyfriend’s head ain’t no thing. “Not much to do in here. I’m on for another hour, and Drew’s getting the last of the drunkies into their Ubers as we speak.” She jerks her head toward the back. “Go, take the girl home, but hurry back, so you can tell me who she is.”