Total pages in book: 136
Estimated words: 130673 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 653(@200wpm)___ 523(@250wpm)___ 436(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 130673 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 653(@200wpm)___ 523(@250wpm)___ 436(@300wpm)
“I broke my own phone,” I ground out. “Fucking hell, I witnessed the man nutting into someone’s eyeball in the halftime of a high-stakes poker game just to take the edge off. He needs to seriously reexamine his life if he has the audacity to call me unhinged.”
Row’s head popped out from the hallway into my bathroom. “You need to haul your ass into the shower, down three gallons of water, and shovel the pizza I’m about to make you down your throat while I clean this pigsty—you hear me?”
“Why?” I grumbled.
“Because Marshall is on his way here, and you’re not losing this fucking deal. Now, are you too drunk to take a shower?”
“What do you take me for?” I spluttered. “Of course not.”
Lies.
I was too drunk to take a shower.
Turned out I was too drunk to recognize one too. At first, I strode into my walk-in closet and took a nap inside my hamper. Row eventually fished me out of there and tossed me into an ice-cold shower, clothes on, and that was what finally woke me the fuck up.
“Hey. What the shit?” I skidded up on my feet like a deranged baby gazelle, slapping the glass door with my open palm. “I could get pneumonia.”
Row was standing on the other side, arms crossed, looking like he’d finally run out of every single fuck he’d ever possessed. “And?” He arched an eyebrow. “You already have alcohol poisoning. You’re headed to the hospital either way.”
I ended up scrubbing myself back into something semicivilized, brushing my teeth three times, and chugging down water and Row’s authentic thin-crust Italian pizza. The apartment looked spotless. I didn’t know how, but he’d somehow gotten rid of the puke stench too. A good friend. Especially considering the fact that up until four days ago, my dick was so far in his sister’s ass I knew the shape of her kidneys.
Row glanced at his watch. A Rolex. Funny, but I didn’t miss mine. Somewhere in the past nine weeks, I’d realized I was obsessed with designer crap because I figured it would fill the void my parents left. But that never happened.
“Look, Bruce should be here any minute. I’m going to dash out. You’ll be okay, Rhy.”
I was sitting at my kitchen island, pouting like a little bitch, feeling very much the opposite of okay. “How do you know?” I asked, surly.
Row gave me an incredulous look. “I don’t. It’s just shit people say, you know.” He shrugged. “But in all likelihood, you will survive.”
“I don’t think there’s any surviving your sister.”
“Speaking of her, I heard she’s a wreck too. Maybe it’s not over?”
“Wait, what?” My head jerked up.
The fucker was already pulling the door handle open, going his merry way. “Ciao, assface.” He saluted. “See you later.”
“Wait, wait.” I shot up, stalking after him. He slipped out, and I smashed right into the body of Bruce Marshall.
Yay fucking me.
Even his sorry ass of a face, giant cowboy hat, and ridiculous buckle couldn’t spoil my mood.
Dylan was miserable? That was great news. Maybe I still had a chance.
“Howdy, partner.” He tipped his hat down.
Another bout of nausea washed over me. This time, I wasn’t drunk, just grossed out by the conversation that was yet to come.
“I’m gonna go ahead and invite myself in and make myself some coffee while you explain to me the whole lil-miss debacle.” He breezed past me, heading straight to my coffee machine. After flicking it on, he leaned against my counter, curling his hands over the edge and giving me a look.
I could pull a story out of my ass about how we were together and had broken up recently because of the Claire Larsen fiasco. Dylan would back me up on it, I knew. And still, something had become indifferent in me.
If I couldn’t have her, nothing else was worth owning. Including a billion-dollar company.
I was done jerking this nutjob off. If he didn’t want what I was offering, he was free to go.
After paying me seventy million dollars as part of a walk-out clause. Thank you, Tate Blackthorn.
“You want the truth?” I chuckled humorlessly.
“If it ain’t too hard for you to utter.” He took off his hat and placed it next to the sink. “You gave me ten different versions of a lie so far, and none of ’em did the trick.”
“It was a ruse,” I said flatly. “You were ancient and backward, and I figured if I played house with someone to convince you I was a decent human, you’d sign the contract. Dylan was here, familiar, and available. You caught us trying to rip each other’s heads off, drew your own conclusion, and we went along with it.”
“What’d she get out of the bargain?”
Her pussy licked at least twice a day. Period days included.
“Money.”
“So you lied to me?”