Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 74078 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 370(@200wpm)___ 296(@250wpm)___ 247(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74078 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 370(@200wpm)___ 296(@250wpm)___ 247(@300wpm)
The bar was on the floor, I swear.
But this guy—Cato, I reminded myself—was raising it with his great color scheme, good quality bed, dressers, and nightstands, and the fact that the place was reasonably clean.
I needed to stop finding reasons to appreciate a man I was just using for sex.
It couldn’t be anything more than that.
I wanted to say that I didn’t want it to be more than that. But I wasn’t sure that was exactly true anymore.
The fact remained, though, that I couldn’t have more.
So I just had to get over that desire.
“Be right back,” Cato said, giving my ass a little slap, then climbing off the bed, finding his pants, dragging them mostly up, then walking out of the room.
Presumably to the bathroom.
I didn’t hesitate.
I rolled off the bed, yanking up my skirt, and throwing on my shirt, then fisting my bra and panties, shoving my feet in my shoes, and rushing the fuck out of the room, trying to creep over the floorboards as I heard water running in a bathroom.
Then fucking booking it down the stairs, through the front of the house, out into the driveway, and into my car.
I don’t think I sucked in a proper breath until I had the engine on, and was peeling out of the driveway and onto the street.
I didn’t look back.
I couldn’t.
Because some part of me knew that if I did, if I saw him there, that I was going to throw all my rules out of the window.
As ridiculous as that was.
CHAPTER NINE
Cato
She fucking… ran out when I was in the bathroom.
And she would have had to run, too. I was too fast for a slow walk out of the clubhouse. She’d fucking booked it to the driveway.
By the time I got to the window to look out, she was already pulling down the street.
“Fuck,” I sighed, dropping down into bed after, smelling that chocolate and coffee scent of her all over my sheets. It was going to make sleep impossible. But I couldn’t bring myself to strip the bed and wash her smell out of my bedding either.
I’d barely ever spoken to the woman, but I was somehow more into her than anyone else I’d ever come into contact with before.
What the fuck was that about?
Maybe it was just the mystery. The unknown. That wasn’t something I was used to either. Maybe if I just knew her damn name I wouldn’t be so up in my head about it.
She was still what was on my mind the next day when Huck caught me coming downstairs where he and McCoy were already cleaning up the clubhouse.
“Hey, got any plans today?” he asked.
“No. Got something for me to do?” I asked.
“Want to head over to Arty’s and ask him about the Velle guy? And the new club?” he added.
“Sure.”
I mean, it wasn’t my idea of a great time. I liked Arty, don’t get me wrong, but his place was a sty. I would end up hauling out black bag after black bag full of trash teeming with fuck-knew-what to the dumpster while he clicked away at his keyboard, all but ignoring my presence.
But, it was something to do other than let my daily thoughts about my mystery woman eat me alive.
“Seeley will probably meet you there later,” Huck added.
“Alright. Anything specific you want me to ask?”
“Nah, you know Arty. He deep dives into it. He’ll tell us more than we could ever think to ask.”
“Okay. I’ll head out after I get some coffee,” I told them.
Then I did.
And the fucked up thing? The whole drive, all I could focus on was that I’d be back in Miami. Where I could possibly run into the woman again. Even though I knew that was fucking ridiculous.
My knock on Arty’s door went unanswered. Which wasn’t uncommon. He got lost in his work. Everything else ceased to exist.
When I reached for the knob, though, it turned in my hand.
“Christ, Arty, you’ve got to at least lock your fucking door,” I lectured as I moved inside, the door sliding a row of cans out of the way as it opened. “You work for all sorts of fucking unsavory people,” I added, walking right over to a window to open it up, heat be damned, because the place smelled rank.
It was as expected.
The bed was unmade, the sheets needing washing desperately. The garbage can—one of the outdoor variety, an attempt one of the women likely implemented in the hopes that the trash wouldn’t end up all over the floor and tops of surfaces, an effort that failed it seemed—had several flies dancing around on top.
I went over, closing the bag, then tossing it out of the door, so I could go back in and start collecting the shit on the ground, dressers, and around the computer desk where Arty was steadily working, completely ignoring me. I knew from experience that it was pointless to interrupt him until he took a break.