Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 113880 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 569(@200wpm)___ 456(@250wpm)___ 380(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113880 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 569(@200wpm)___ 456(@250wpm)___ 380(@300wpm)
I shake my head, unable to explain that seeing the others with women tears me up inside. I turn and he gazes down at me, searching my expression. “Don’t worry.” He touches my cheek. “There isn’t another woman in here who compares to you. Your boss might want us to flirt, but none of us wants that. We’re here with you, okay?”
“You don’t owe me anything,” I say. “We have an arrangement, but it’s not exclusive.”
“It is to me. And the rest of them feel the same.” He doesn't add the words ‘for now’, but I hear them anyway.
When I turn back to the men at the bar, they’ve sent the girls packing, and I can’t believe it. As I approach, the retreating girls stare in my direction and talk behind their hands, but I brush past to where Theron and Russell have accumulated a line of drinks so wide and long, it’s drawn the focus of all the bartenders.
“Why so many?” I ask, lifting a yellow cocktail from the shiny bar and taking a long pull from the straw. It’s something with pineapple and coconut and rum, maybe. A pina colada.
“I don’t like waiting at bars,” Theron says. “I’d rather buy in bulk.”
I dread to think how much what looks like over thirty drinks have cost him, but then I remember we have a tab. “Did you use the tab?” I ask.
Theron shoots me a one-sided grin. “As much as I like paying my own way in life, tonight is on Fine Line.”
I grab another drink, this time a bright pink one, and gulp it. “Mmmm…grapefruit,” I gasp, as the sourness cuts through the sweet.
“I got one of every cocktail on the menu.”
“I told him to get beers,” Russell says. “We’re going to get shitfaced drinking all these different liquors.”
Theron shoves a bright blue cocktail that looks radioactive into Russell’s nearest hand. “Suck on that.”
Much to my amusement, Russell stares at the cocktail for a second, then grabs the two yellow straws and the shiny tassel on a stick and knocks back the drink in three large gulps, gasping when he’s done.
“Shit, that’s colder than a witch’s tit!”
“But good, huh?”
Theron seems pleased with himself, but I’m still laughing at the witch's tit description, and the two cocktails I’ve consumed in two minutes have made my head spin.
I reach for another, and Oliver takes my hand before I get hold of the glass. “Maybe it’s time to slow down a little,” he says. “I’ll get you some water, so you don’t have a hangover tomorrow.”
It’s my instinct to push back because I hate it when other people make decisions for me. I’m not a kid anymore, with parents who force me into doing stupid stuff that I hate. I don’t have to eat all my broccoli when I think it tastes like farts or go to bed at nine pm when all my friends are allowed to stay up until ten thirty.
But Oliver seems genuinely concerned, and I feel buzzy and weird and out of control. It’s not a good feeling.
I concede to Mr. Sensible’s suggestion. “Water would be great. Thank you.”
He signals to the bartender and a bottle of cool, spring water is delivered in record time, next to a glass with ice and a slice of lemon. He pours and I gulp it down gratefully.
“You know, I think I need to use the bathroom.”
“I’ll take you,” Oliver says.
This time I hold my hand up and insist. “I’m okay, thanks. I can make it on my own.”
His tightly braced shoulders and thinned lips make his feelings obvious, but he doesn’t challenge me and when Theron asks him where I’m going, he holds him back from following.
Good, I mutter under my breath. He’s learning.
The bathrooms are all black including the sinks and toilets, and the lights are muted, so it’s a bit like walking into a tomb. I pee, and then wash my hands, squinting into the mirror to check my makeup. It’s so dark, I can barely see my face. Definitely designed by a man.
“You’re the girl with all the best-looking men,” the girl next to me says. I turn and recognize her as one of the group who were rejected.
“All the best men,” I slur. The water was a good idea, but it hasn’t done anything to reduce my giddiness.
“Which one’s your boyfriend?” she asks.
“All of them.” I turn and face her full on, one of my ankles tipping to the side and then straightening. Damn, I’m a mess. “I saw you looking at them and trying to talk to them, but you should know…” I point at her like I’m jabbing a doorbell. “...that you can look but you can’t touch cos they’re all mine.”
She stares at me like I grew another head. “You’re saying you have ten boyfriends? Ten?”