Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 88646 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 443(@200wpm)___ 355(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88646 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 443(@200wpm)___ 355(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
Challenge accepted. A grim smile flashes over my face.
He doesn’t get it.
I owe none of these people.
I’m at the end of my rope.
And I sure as hell don’t have a reputation to uphold.
“Who am I?” I scoff. “I’m the girl who was just dancing for your boyfriend. He wanted a little something extra in the alley. I gave it and he owes me.”
The girl’s jaw drops.
A low murmur picks up as several brothers laugh and razz Scott.
Red’s lips twist. “You’re one of those girls from Platinum Nights. What are you . . . some kind of whore?”
The word is like a fist in my gut.
“No” I want to scream. Never. How dare she?
What is the difference between me and her?
I’ve seen her dancing on a pool table in her underwear while frat boys cheered her on.
Another girl speaks, her gaze raking over me. “I think they prefer sex worker. Where are her shoes?”
The girls giggle.
“Maybe she’s so poor she doesn’t have any,” Red says.
Another round of laughter.
“I took them off in case I had to run away from Scott,” I say. “He tried to force me to do something I didn’t want to.”
“That’s what you get when you put yourself in that position,” a willowy brunette says. She was in one of my art classes freshman year, but that time period feels so distant now. “It’s your own fault, honey,” she continues. “When you act like a slut, guys don’t know what to do. It’s their hormones.”
I shake my head as disbelief rises. “You, wow, you’re female and excusing his behavior? Gross. Hormones have nothing to do with it. He has self-control; he just chose not to use it. He has zero respect for any of you.” I tick off what happened on my fingers. “He asked for a private dance. I gave it. He went too far. Then he tried to run away without paying. Scott is scum. Scott is probably a rapist.”
That gets their attention.
“She’s a lying bitch,” Scott sneers. “She came out of that strip place on Easton Street, and I just walked her back from the bars to be nice because she was alone. And this is the thanks I get?”
My blood boils.
That Strip Place Back on Easton Street is where he’s been spending most of daddy’s hefty allowance this summer.
I lift my hands in exasperation. “I just want to collect what’s owed me.”
He laughs. “You’re owed jack. Get out of here.”
“Yeah,” his girlfriend mutters. “Before we call the cops and tell them you’re soliciting.”
“Go on, now,” the brunette calls in a haughty voice. “We don’t want your kind here. This is a decent place. Kappa doesn’t tolerate sluts.”
Frustration hits as my predicament slowly dawns. What cop is going to believe me over him? Over the girls?
Scott was easily tossing dollars at me in the club, but now I’ll have to pry the money he promised me out of his slimy hands.
Connor is going to be livid.
And with that horrible realization, I panic. I rub the scar on my wrist as my vision swims. A cold-sweat breaks out on my forehead. My anger ebbs into fear.
“Don’t come back to my place of work, Scott,” I yell as I back away. “The boys will toss you out.”
I turn to leave and the second my bare feet hit the curb, a black, tricked out Toyota Tundra pulls right in front of me. It’s one of those trucks with every upgrade and modification to make it look like it was used to cross the Sahara, but it’s never been off-road. I stumble and reach out to steady myself against one of the big tires.
The driver’s side door opens, and out steps a six-foot-four-inch wall of perfection—and he knows it. Eric Hansen.
He’s clearly been hitting the gym during the offseason, but it doesn’t look like he had time to shop. His arms burst against the gray Henley stretched across his chest, and his thighs strain against his black jeans. He truly is built like his nickname, Eric the Everest. He’s broad-shouldered with a rugged face and wavy dark red hair. Long ago, I used to run my fingers through those unruly curls.
Whoa. His beard is gone. I’m able to see the chiseled lines of his jaw, the skyscraper cheekbones, the fullness of his lips.
I try to step around him but he stops, recognition sparking.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
“Julia? Hey . . . I haven’t seen you in a while. You going in? Looks like the party is in full swing.”
This might be the most we’ve said to each other in years.
He tucks his big hand in the pocket of his jeans, a movement so smooth and sexy it appears choreographed. Confidence surrounds him. He’s rich. Beautiful. Popular.
That’s right.
He’s charming up until the last moment, then he pulls your heart out and rips it to pieces.