Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 93583 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 468(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93583 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 468(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
“Why didn’t you answer me?” I ask her, now irritated that she got them and didn’t answer me.
“Were you out with your boyfriend?”
“Were you even home last night?” she counters. “What happened to the down low girl?”
“I knew it,” I say out loud. “That is why you left.” I get up and go downstairs. “You were jealous.”
“Jealous?” she says, almost screaming. “Jealous? I wasn’t jealous. I was pissed you wasted my whole afternoon listening to me go on and on about how we were going to rebrand your image when all along you were just going to do your own thing anyway.”
“I didn’t go out,” I tell her. “I stayed in. I also don’t even know who that person was who texted me. I answered a random tit pic text with my old bad habits, but I didn’t follow through with anything. I knew that was why you left.”
“Do you want an award?” she asks me, her sarcasm coming through the phone. “One day without sex. Your dick just may fall off.”
“I think it’s funny you are thinking about my dick right now.” I start my coffee. “You should come over, and we can talk about things.”
“You’re disgusting,” she says, and I don’t know why this conversation is suddenly more fun than I’ve had in a long, long time.
“I may be disgusting, but you are still picturing my dick.” I laugh.
“Post the picture. I have to go. My boyfriend is here,” she says and hangs up. I’m stuck in place in the middle of my kitchen while the coffee brews. Shit, she has a boyfriend, and I was trying to flirt with her. I shake my head, thinking about how wrong that was. I can be a total asshole, but I never, ever fuck with someone else’s territory. That is a line I won’t cross, no matter how good the pussy looks.
Erin: I just followed you on Instagram to see how your picture does. Post the second one I just sent you.
She attaches the one she took of me cooking. My phone shows me she sent me another text.
Erin: Put the caption “What are your weekend plans?”
I go over to Instagram and post the picture and then add her as a friend. If she can follow me, why can’t I follow her? Besides, I really want to see what her boyfriend looks like. I spend the day in my home gym and then finish it off with a run on the beach. Getting back home, I see a brown box at the door. I pick it up, going inside and making a protein shake, while I open the box and see a brand-new iPhone. I set it up right before I get ready for dinner tonight.
I grab a pair of ripped jeans and slide them on with a short-sleeved V-neck T-shirt. I put on my white Converse, then grab my jacket hanging on one of the hooks and run downstairs. The doorbell rings as soon as I get to the last step. Opening it, I see Jeff standing there wearing a suit. “I’m ready,” I tell him, grabbing my phone and keys and my glasses.
“It’s nighttime,” he tells me when I slip my glasses on and then my jacket.
“Well, if the paps are there, I’m going to get blinded so,” I tell him, following him out of the house and pulling the door closed. “Why are we having this meeting with Ryan?” I ask as I get into his Bentley.
“He called me last night,” he says, pulling out of my driveway and making his way to the restaurant, “and wants to make sure everything is okay and understood.”
“Jesus,” I say to myself. “I think I can go without sex and not die.”
“Can you? Because, dude, your past history tells a different fucking story,” he asks me with a huge smile on his face, and I give him the finger. I open my phone and see that four million people have liked my picture, and I have seventy-five thousand comments. I don’t bother reading them. Instead, I click on the search and type in Erin’s name. I see that I’m still not accepted, and mine still says requested.
When we get to the restaurant, the flashes start going off immediately, and I look over at Jeff. “This is why I wear glasses.” He grabs his own pair. “I could have held your hand going in if you wanted,” I joke when he mumbles to fuck off. I get out of the car and make my way to the door, pulling it open. “Why the fuck are we at Spago on a Saturday night?” I ask him as we walk into the Bel Air hotel. When we walk into the restaurant, the hostess looks over at me, and her whole face lights up. Her shoulders go up straight, pushing her tits out.