Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 90114 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 451(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90114 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 451(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
Knowing Shepard, it's not:
I'm so sorry, I was rude. I know, six years ago, you finally had enough and said "I can't do this anymore, Shep. I love you, but I can't be with you if you keep drinking. This is it. If you don't check into rehab, tomorrow, I'm leaving. I'm walking away and never looking back."
I know, the day after, you left. And I kept drinking. But I can explain. I was a kid. Barely nineteen. Too stupid to see what I had.
I can explain why, a year and a half ago, when my brother blackmailed me, and used this tiny clause in my contract that said "get sober or lose the company," I did go to rehab. There's a perfectly good reason why I chose booze over you. Then money over booze. It's not that I love money more than I ever loved you. It's not that money is the only thing in the black hole I call a heart.
I really am sorry. I should have written to you after I got out of rehab. Apologized. Made sure you were okay, surviving New York on your own.
I should have written when your dad got sick. Sent help. Or at least a Get Well Soon Card.
I'm sorry I didn't. I'm sorry I let you feel like you weren't enough.
I'm sorry your love wasn't enough.
I suck a breath through my teeth. Try to wade through my thoughts. Whatever this is…
It doesn't matter how much I hate Shepard…
Right now, I need his help.
And he is right. My pride isn't worth more than my father's life.
I unwrap the letter.
Seven-figures. The rest is negotiable.
- Shep
Chapter Five
Shepard
Jasmine: I have terms.
My body gets light. My head fills with the image of her fingers sliding over her cell. Her red lips parting with a sigh. Her dark hair falling at her shoulders.
She wants the money.
No, it's worse for her. She needs the money. If it was only a want, a desire for a better place or nicer things, she wouldn't give me the time of day.
She's fucked without my money.
I have plenty of it.
But other men have money. A lot of other men. And who wouldn't want her? Who wouldn't offer her the entire world?
I have to ask fast. Before someone else sees this opportunity.
Before I lose any chance at winning this fucking game.
Shep: Come to my office.
Jasmine: It's the middle of the night.
Shep: It's eleven fifteen.
Jasmine: I have to be at work at eight.
Shep: You know that isn't true.
Jasmine: What's the address?
Shep: I'll send a car.
Jasmine: And you already know where I live.
Is she smiling or rolling her eyes? I don't know anymore. I can't read her the way I once did.
She hates that she needs me. I understand that much.
Once upon a time, I hated the way I needed her. Even when I loved her. It made me too vulnerable.
Weaknesses are exploitable.
I can't afford any more.
Only this—
I don't really have a choice.
Shep: My driver will be there in ten minutes.
Fuck, I need a drink. Something aged and strong. A bourbon so sweet it tastes of honey.
I hold on to the memory as I message my driver. Then he replies that he's on his way. She'll be here, in my office, in less than twenty minutes.
She lives too far into Queens. It's not a nice neighborhood. It's not good enough for her.
She should be here.
She should be naked on my couch.
She should be groaning my name.
My eyes close. They go to her. A memory from long ago. The two of us in my bedroom. Her hands on my neck. Her voice in my ear. Are you sure it won't hurt?
Footsteps. That loud voice. My blood going cold.
I can't think about her anymore. I can't think about that time in my life. She's a spot of light, but the darkness is pure black.
This is a bad idea. She's too close to those memories. It's too hard to stay in control.
Only I don't have a choice.
If I don't convince her to marry me, I lose everything.
No, it's worse. I need more than her hand. I need her to fall in love with me.
If I fail, that bastard wins again.
That's out of the question.
Of course, he made it her. Of course, he made that a term.
This would be easier with someone else. With someone who mistakes security or money or orgasmic bliss for love.
Some woman who's interesting enough for a little conversation, a few fucks, a sweet goodbye, and nothing more.
I haven't exactly been a monk. Yes, I drank a lot. According to everyone in my life, I had a problem. Maybe I wasn't happy. Maybe I wasn't healthy. But I was functioning.
When my brother forced me into rehab, he took that away. I needed a replacement. Cigarettes reminded me of ugly things. Coffee didn't do enough.
That left one thing.