Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 70106 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 351(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 234(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70106 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 351(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 234(@300wpm)
“In that order.”
The urge to smirk tugs at the corner of my lips prompting me to shake my head in order to resist it. “What’s the problem?”
“My car stopped.”
“What do you mean it stopped?”
“I mean it was driving before, and now, it’s not.”
Sass.
The type that makes my palm itch and my dick twitch.
The same type of shit that The Kid gives me.
That I can’t act on.
Don’t act on.
Will never act on.
Yup.
She needs to move the fuck along.
Right.
Now.
“You run out of gas?”
“No?”
“Is that a question?”
“Was yours?”
“Yes.”
Her mouth momentarily bobs in confusion before releasing a heavy huff. “I honestly don’t know if I did!”
“How do you not know?”
“Because I wasn’t paying as close attention as I probably fucking should’ve been-”
“Definitely should’ve been.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Are you here to help me or judge me?”
“I can do both.” This time I let my smirk be seen. “I’m very talented.”
“Is that so Mr. Ripley?”
“That’s Mr. Damon to you.”
Irritation flares in her gaze until she spots the mirth in mine. At that point, her slender shoulders slightly relax. Her heaving chest slows. And the tiny metal ball I didn’t need to see again – but fuck me because I wanted to – is toyed with in a playful fashion. It doesn’t take long for the Benz beauty to collect her composure and retort, “I need a tow.”
“You mean you need me.”
“Nah…” Her eyes sparkle with undeniable trouble. “I think you need me.”
She’s wrong.
I don’t need trouble.
I don’t want trouble.
And I damn sure shouldn’t be towing trouble into our small town instead of out.
Rearranging my hold on the planks occurs for a second time. “I think I just need a card to run for my services.”
At that, the mouthy female noticeably shifts in her seat. “Does it need to be a card, or can it be in cash?”
“You actually got cash?”
“You actually think I’m asking these questions to continue our stellar conversation?”
Ignoring the ache in my balls grows in difficulty. “You actually think you’d be the first broad to imply she’s got cash only to then try to bargain for a blowjob instead?”
“While it’s tax deadline clear you desperately need a blowjob…” the woman keeps her attention on me yet uses one hand to reach over into her black backpack, “I’m talking actual cash.” She flashes two hundred dollars bills at me. “See how it’s green and not Monopoly colored?”
“Depending on the version you played Monopoly did have green bills.”
Her head tilts to one side in obvious irritation.
What the fuck is she annoyed about?
She’s the one who crashed in my town and needs my help to get the fuck out of it.
I’m just trying to make sure I get paid in the process.
But given how hard her attitude is making me, I may just fuck around and do it for free.
Whatever it takes to get her ass fucking gone.
Miles away from me.
The Kid.
Rather than proceed to poke her the way she likes to be poked – though not the way I wanna be poking her – I clear my throat and tip my head towards my truck. “Let me grab my tablet to get this process started.”
Getting the planks put back and retrieving my device are a seamless set of actions, but keeping a steady, skeptical eye on the snarky female disrupts them.
I mean…she obviously ain’t going anywhere without some assistance.
And I’m the one here for that assistance.
But…there’s something about the way her eyes seem to always be watching her surroundings as if waiting for someone to pop out unexpectedly, not to mention how intensely she studied me every second I was in her line of sight.
Who the fuck does she think I am?
Or work for?
An annoyed groan escapes as I tuck my tablet into my possession.
No.
I don’t need those answers.
I don’t need her shit.
I need her gone, an ice-cold beer, and a long hot shower.
Pulling up the paperwork during the walk back to her allows me to keep the situation from stalling a second time. The instant I’m back in front of her window, I state, “Need a name.”
“Cash.”
“Mrs. Ripley it is.” Not smirking at her scoff is almost impossible. “This is your total for a hook up and tow to the nearest shop. Round up to the next dollar. I don’t have change.” Showing her the screen precedes me extending her the device. “Pay. Sign. Date.”
To my surprise, she completes the steps without hesitation.
“You want a copy of your receipt?” I ask at the same time I tuck the cash in my back pocket. This time the sarcastic glare successfully sparks a small smirk. “Yeah, I didn’t think so.” After securing my hold on the tablet, I command, “Get out and go wait in my truck.”
“Thanks, but no thanks.”
“What?”
“I don’t wanna ride in your truck.” The pen in her possession begins writing something on the inside of her thumb. “I wanna stay right where I am.”