Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 66267 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 331(@200wpm)___ 265(@250wpm)___ 221(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66267 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 331(@200wpm)___ 265(@250wpm)___ 221(@300wpm)
“I meant giving you a happy time-” June yet again stops herself. “Nope. That’s not right either. I know how this sounds, but I swear I’m soooooo not an escort.”
“You have an interesting habit of sounding like one. Is that…perhaps something you once were? Before you became…a…Uber driver?”
“Are you fucking with me right now?!” She waves her pointed index finger along the length of her body. “No part of me is sexy enough to live a Pretty Woman lifestyle.”
Growling in a gravelly tone is mindlessly done, “Oh, June Bug, I beg to fucking differ.”
Her slightly thin bottom lip tucks itself out of sight on a faint whimper.
Yeah, gonna put needing to hear that sound a few more times in the reasons enough to stick around the city for longer than normal bucket.
“Um…” she attempts to collect her composure on another a tiny bite. “I’m gonna try this shit again.” A small breath is expelled flooding the luxury vehicle with faint smells of citrus. “My name is June Bailey, and I’m one of Brandi’s assistants.”
“Personal or office?”
“Depends on the day. And to-day, it’s personal. Well, actually for the next ten weeks it’s personal because I have been assigned to be your personal everything from now until your mother’s sendoff reception.”
The grunt that escapes is loud and forceful. “I’m not fucking going to that.”
“I kinda need you to go.”
“Why?”
“Because if you don’t go then I don’t have a job. And if I don’t have a job, I can’t pay my rent. Or help my struggling actress sister, Violet, pay hers. Or help my determined to be a nurse anesthetist sister, Ivy, get groceries. Or help my baby sister, Dakota, who is off to college in a few weeks afford the way overpriced Star Wars bedding she wants for her dorm room.”
Guilt – an emotion almost as foreign as rage – brushes itself around the pit of my stomach.
Fuck. Me.
That’s not really fair of Fate to put either of us in this position.
It’s actually kind of a bitch move.
Like the time I got my backpack stolen at a bus station in Vegas four years ago and had to use my family name in order to have a place to stay for the night.
Upside of that was I switched rooms from the penthouse suite to a basic one in order to let a couple – who happened to give me a ride to the hotel – have a better honeymoon. They charged everything to the room for the next four days while I checked out of theirs after the first thanks to Sunny, a body painting artist in need of a body to fill in for someone who bailed last minute.
I didn’t mind doing the nude work anymore than I minded learning how to do it.
Most of all, I didn’t mind the many, many rounds of shower sex that ensued.
Fate has an interesting way of always leading me to the most spectacular shit.
You know.
When I let it.
“My job is now to be your personal assistant. I will be living with you in this luxury lake house for the next few weeks and catering to your every whim. Feed you whatever you wanna be fed. And clothe you in whatever you wanna be clothed. And take you wherever you wanna go except bus stations, train stations, airports, or marinas.”
“I once hitched a ride on the back of a Nomad Misfits bike after buying him a shot in a bar.” Cockiness doesn’t hesitate to conquer my expression. “You can’t keep me somewhere I don’t wanna be, June Bug.”
“Then I guess I’ll just have to add avoiding biker bars to my list of places to not take you,” she smirks more mischievously than ever before, “and do everything I can to make you wanna stay with me.”
Between that smile and those eyes, why does it fucking feel like with her is the only place I wanna be?
Chapter 3
June
Wanna know what sucks?
Being forced to live somewhere you didn’t exactly sign up to.
Wanna know what sucks more?
Having a new roommate who wakes you up with their horror movie worthy screaming.
Repeatedly.
There’s nothing like being too afraid to go back to bed because now you’re convinced the man occupying the master bedroom downstairs can see an invisible serial killer that you can’t. And what makes the whole thing fucking extra awful is that he is fast asleep during the process, which means he has no idea how haunting he’s making the situation for the other person who needs some rest too, aka me.
“You’re sure you’re okay, June?” Jaye Jenkins, one of the only friends I’ve managed to hold on to, gingerly inquires from the other end of the phone. “Because I don’t think you sound okay. Not that you sound bad. You could never sound bad. You don’t have a bad sounding voice. You have one of those really nice voices. Like do audio book nice voices!”