Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 81845 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 409(@200wpm)___ 327(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81845 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 409(@200wpm)___ 327(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
“It’s a car.” She rolls her eyes.
“This is a death trap, Mags. One little bump in this piece of shit and you’re done,” I say, running a hand through my hair.
“It’s Maggie, M-A-G-G-I-E, Sven, and it’s safe. Plus, it’s good for the environment.”
“Yeah, because it kills people off, so there is one less person on Earth to fuck it up.”
“You’re very dramatic and you curse a lot,” she says, pushing me back a step, getting in behind the wheel, and slamming the door. Once the car is on, she rolls down the window. “See you tomorrow, Boss.”
“Drive carefully, and call the club when you get home,” I tell her, knowing she doesn’t have my cell number, which I’m going to have to fix tomorrow. Plus, I’ll get her a phone that isn’t from the dark ages and tell her it’s for work, because I know she won’t take it any other way.
“Yeah, I’m not calling you, but I’ll see you tomorrow,” she retorts and then pulls out of the small space, narrowly missing a car that’s passing by. Letting out an annoyed sigh, I turn and walk back to the club, mumbling under my breath the whole way, asking myself what the fuck am I doing?
Chapter 2
Maggie
Show Me the Money
Looking at myself in my full-length mirror, I turn to the side and make sure I look okay. Since I’m working with Sven, who I’ve seen wear nothing but suits, I chose to wear my sheer black sleeveless dress shirt with a high collar that ties with a bow at my neck. My cream-colored high-waisted skirt fits snuggly against my curves leaving my legs bare, showcasing one of my favorite pairs of leopard-print heels that have a pointy toe and a thin, spiked heel.
I left my long hair down except for my bangs, which I swept to the side and pinned back away from my face. I kept my makeup minimal, with just mascara and a little blush, not really in the mood to do a full face of makeup. Picking up my bag from my bed, I head into the living room where I find my sister, Morgan, sitting on the couch, watching TV. She has healed a lot over the last couple weeks, but she’s still carrying bruises that remind me of what could have happened, that I could have lost her.
“Are you going to work?” she asks, pressing pause on the show she’s watching.
“Yeah, there are leftovers in the fridge if you get hungry. I’m not sure what time I’ll be home, but if you need me, I have my cell on me,” I tell her as I pick up my car keys from the counter in the kitchen.
“I can take care of myself,” she grumbles, picking up a bag of Cheetos from the coffee table.
“I know,” I agree, not wanting to point out that she’s done a horrible job of taking care of herself so far.
“I may go out tonight,” she says casually as she un-pauses the show she’s watching.
“Where?” I ask while my tightly controlled facade slips.
“I don’t know. Amy called and said I needed to get out of the house, and I agreed with her.”
I hate my sister’s best friend. I’ve never trusted her, and anytime Morgan has gotten in trouble, Amy has been involved in one way or another. “You still have bruises from the last time you went out with her,” I point out hoping she will see for herself the kind of friend Amy really is.
“It’s not fair for you to make what happened seem like Amy’s fault.”
“Will you call and tell me where you’re going?” I ask, knowing it’s completely pointless to argue with her about her relationship with Amy. I don’t think she will ever see how being friends with her is affecting her.
“I’ll call,” she says absently while shoving her hand into the bag of Cheetos on her lap and looking at the TV.
“Love you,” I tell her, getting a nod in return before heading out the front door and down the stairs to my car.
Walking into Sven’s office, I fight the instinct to turn around and run right back out when I see he’s on the phone. I have no idea what I was thinking agreeing to come work for him, but then again, my life has been a series of events just like this one.
“Hold on, Mags,” he says, startling me.
Pulling his phone away from his ear, he motions for me to take a seat in one of the two dark blue, velvet high-back chairs in front of his large oak desk. Rolling my eyes at him, I take a seat, watching the corner of his mouth lift before he covers it with his hand. I hate that he calls me Mags—or that’s what I’m telling myself, anyway. But then again, it’s better than the nickname my parents gave me at my spirit ceremony, when they called down the moon goddess while standing naked in the middle of a field on my tenth birthday. I think I’m still traumatized by that experience.