Total pages in book: 104
Estimated words: 94834 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94834 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
I don’t doubt it for one second. The guy is gorgeous in a scary, gothic kind of way, kind of like the first asshole, but what really gets me is the small black snake weaving between his fingers as though it couldn’t be happier there. And goddamn, I’d like to weave all my bits around those fingers too.
His hair is cropped short, and those dark eyes warn me not to look at him twice. He’s scary as fuck, but he didn’t terrify me in the same way the first guy had. This guy is trouble, but for some reason, I don’t think I need to fear him murdering me while I sleep. I do need to fear him though.
Swallowing hard, I bust out through the door, putting space between us. I’ve never once been afraid of the dark, but in these unfamiliar streets with the chill of their stares still lingering on my skin, that could very well change.
I try to put it to the back of my mind and raise my head high. I’m not here to fuck around, and I’m sure as hell not here to let three scary as fuck assholes intimidate me. My daddy didn’t raise a quitter . . . Well, technically he didn’t raise me at all, but I can only assume that’s what he would have wanted.
Making my way down the street, I follow the noise of the bar, more than ready to make this place my bitch.
Chapter 2
OAKLEY
Danny’s Bar is nothing but a glorified wasteland, but it’s going to be my wasteland, no matter what anyone has to say about it.
Bodies fill every available space, and as I make my way through the door, I’m not surprised that no one checks my ID. It’s definitely not that kind of bar. This is the type of place for bottom shelf drinks and bad decisions.
The dim lighting mildly disguises the stained carpet and the questionable plates of food served over the sticky bar. There’s a stale smell, but I’ve quickly come to learn the majority of college bars tend to smell like this. Laughter pulls from every corner of the room as half the douchebag guys hit on every last girl in sight and the rest of them shout and curse at some big college football game I couldn’t give two shits about.
It’s just before nine on a Friday evening and most of the people here are only just starting to write themselves off after another long week of studying bullshit they’ll never understand and disappointing their parents. It’s going to be a long night for them, and if I have my way, it’ll be an even longer night for me.
The bar is situated directly in the center of the room with a crowd packed around it like sardines. It’s hard to see from here, but it looks as though there’s only one girl working the bar, and she’s completely run off her feet. There’s another girl madly rushing around, collecting empty glasses and trying to get them back to the bar without tripping over her own feet or allowing some drunk asshole to make a joke out of her.
One thing is clear though, they could use all the help they can get.
Squeezing my way through the overcrowded bar, I pass the live band and take a moment to actually listen to what they’re playing. They sound great and are smashing out covers of old 90’s soft rock hits. Though, among this crowd, they’d be better off singing something from this century.
Reaching the bar, I find my way around to the staff entrance and unlatch the small gate, separating the employees from the zoo animals, and without a second of hesitation, I put myself to work. Scooping up a fresh apron off the bar, I tie it around my waist and head straight for my first customer.
“What can I get ya?” I call, hoping I can be heard over the sound of the busy bar.
He nods, acknowledging me, and holds up two fingers, saving me from having to try and hear him over the noise. Glancing around, I find the beer glasses and scoop two up before getting straight to work filling them. I’m just about done when the other chick running the bar glances my way. Her eyes bug out of her head, not having expected to see me here. “Umm . . . can I help you?” she questions, not bothering to ask me to stop.
“No, but it looks like I can help you,” I tell her, putting the two beers up on the bar in front of my customer. I glance his way. “Ten bucks.”
The guy shoves two five-dollar bills at me, and I gracefully take it before shuffling over to the cash register to quickly ring it up. He leaves a few dollars as a tip, and I shove it into my apron before moving on to the next guy. His order is the same and I get busy again.