Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 96404 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 482(@200wpm)___ 386(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96404 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 482(@200wpm)___ 386(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
I flip them off and head to the door. They follow after me and fall in step on either side of me. The organizers gave us a special room we can retreat to whenever we wish, which definitely has to do with the amount of money Nate donates.
The moment we step out, a myriad of sounds and colors explode in front of us.
Low classical music fills the space and staff members dressed in formalwear offer us glasses of champagne.
We each take one and Daniel smiles, making sure his dimples are on full display as he winks at the waitress who blushes and scurries away.
The attendees are wearing either tuxedos or cocktail dresses, and the women have their best pieces of jewelry on exhibit. Chatter fills the air as everyone mingles.
Nate sent us to this charity event to give away some of his money and snatch clients from other firms.
So our mission is to basically help the poor and take from the rich.
Nate being Nate will probably show his face later on like he’s making some sort of a surprise appearance.
For now, his three ‘show-offs,’ as he likes to call us, will bear the weight of attending this gathering until his majesty is here.
Many women bat their eyelashes at us as we pass them by. We attract that type of attention when we’re in public, and being the focus of these kinds of events is Daniel’s kink.
Knox’s, too, when he’s in the right mood. And he seems to be tonight.
Both of them smile at the passing ladies and Daniel is still making sure they notice his dimples. The fucker uses them as a magnet any chance he gets.
“I’ll take the west wing,” he announces. “Lots of beautiful ladies.”
“East for me.” Knox pats my shoulder. “You don’t mind taking one for the team and going to the old folks’ area, do you, Bastian? They love you.”
“All the pure people do. Not my fault you’re rotten.”
“Oh, fuck you,” Daniel whispers, and Knox flips me off.
I leave their side with a smirk and head toward a small gathering of businessmen. I recognize them from the days I used to play the good grandson.
They come from old money and know how to manage it—their money, that is. They’re now represented by one of our rival firms, Carson & Carson, which is owned by the father of my friend, Asher, who currently works for them.
Although he specializes in international law, he’ll have my balls if he knows I’m gunning for their clients.
But then again, if the roles were reversed, he would do the same. Both of us still like the challenge, just like when we first chose to play football back in middle school.
I summon my showtime smile. It’s harder to do that these days. Smiling. Whether it’s real or fake.
In fact, I’ve forgotten the last time I genuinely smiled. It was robbed from me the same day I lost the meaning of living and started to simply exist.
Working is the only thing that keeps my mind functioning and alert. And that’s why I intend to have more cases than I can handle.
Maybe that will manage to shut off whatever feelings try to rise to the surface.
Maybe that will help me get my soul back.
My feet come to a halt not far from the small group as tingling erupts at my nape.
At first, I think it’s just a figment of my imagination.
An untasteful fucking joke from my brain.
Otherwise, I wouldn’t be having the sensation that the world is being set on fucking fire and the only thing I can do is to stand there and watch.
I search my surroundings, because I know, I just know that she’s somewhere here.
She has to be.
My frantic gaze scans all the faces and attendees even as I remain in place. I survey the people at the bar and everyone coming inside, searching for those inquisitive dark eyes and rosy lips.
Searching for the face I’ve never been able to forget.
The face that I picture when I take shooting fucking lessons.
I pause when my eyes land on her brown ones. She’s standing near the corner with a champagne flute in her hand.
Her posture is erect, accentuated by a long black gown that skims the floor, and her hair, the color of the night, is gathered in a twist.
I’ve dreamed about this moment a million fucking times, but nothing, absolutely nothing could’ve prepared me for the view in front of me.
Her face is almost the same—petite, delicate, with soft lines contouring it. But it seems mature, touched by the hands of time. Her lips are a deep shade of red as they part the slightest bit.
Lips that I’ve feasted on and whose taste I still remember. It’s turned fucking bitter over time, but it’s still there all the same.
A diamond necklace that must’ve cost a company’s budget wraps around her delicate throat.