Total pages in book: 65
Estimated words: 66865 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 334(@200wpm)___ 267(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66865 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 334(@200wpm)___ 267(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
And another one bites the dust.
They always fall for his shit.
Content to watch the party from the corner of the room, I slouch so I’m not standing at my full height, scratching at the full beard growing on my face. It’s been about two years since I shaved the hair on my chin, cheeks, and jawline, and I have no intention of doing so any time soon.
I wouldn’t call it bushy, but it’s pretty damn close. Unkempt. Scratchy.
My mother hates it. My sister hates it.
Girls on campus hate it.
The beard serves its purpose perfectly.
Despite my size, build, and status on campus, I’m left alone all night. Not a single female approaches me, if you don’t count the girls in the kitchen who needed cups taken down off the top of the fridge earlier in the evening.
The mop of man bun on top of my head wobbles when I give it an agitated toss. For a hot minute, when I first transferred to Iowa, I’d actually thought about living in this dump.
Fortunately, I learned a few general rules quickly enough from spending time with my teammates:
Nothing is sacred if you’re a member of the team, so anyone living here better get a goddamn lock on their bedroom door.
It’s loud every damn weekend, whether a party is happening or not.
Guys are slobs when there is no one cleaning up after them. And no one is.
Even with a lock on your bedroom door, there is still no peace in this place.
Everyone is in everyone’s business.
Whatever.
Anyway.
I swipe at the hair in my eyes.
Bend at the waist, setting my half-empty beer bottle on the ground, resting it between my feet so it doesn’t spill. Pull the rubber band out of my hair and shake my entire head, dipping over to gather it in my hands. Yank it into a top knot and wrap the black elastic band around it.
“Looking good, Sasquatch. You really shouldn’t have gotten all fancy for us,” one of my teammates goads from a few feet away, having caught me doing my hair. “Want to blow me later?”
My hands are now free, so I flip him off. “Fuck the fuck off, Winkowski.”
“But you’re such a pretty girl.”
Yeah, yeah, yeah. Ha ha. Jesus, these guys. Constantly giving me shit about my appearance—as if I give a crap what they think about my hair. Nothing I haven’t been hearing the two years since I decided to let it all grow out.
It’s easier this way.
Less distraction.
Less of a pain in the ass.
The hair and the beard work because I’m not getting approached constantly, and no girls are trying to get themselves knocked up.
I’m no one’s sugar daddy and no chick’s meal ticket.
So, here’s the thing: my parents are…wealthy. And not the millionaire-next-door kind of rich. No. They’re the You want to have dinner in Vegas tonight? Let’s take the leer jet. kind of rich. Hilton rich. Rockefeller rich.
Sometimes it blows dick that Dad is one of the biggest employers in the state and owns one of the largest manufacturing plants in the country, located right here in Iowa. It’s like wearing a big, red target on my back, and eventually…I got sick and tired of it.
Don’t get me wrong—I love them like crazy. Our family is really close. But along with my parents, come the people; the assistants. The users. The ass-kissing employees.
It was time to distance myself from it all, at least for the time being—while I have the chance.
My sister got to change her last name when she got married; she didn’t even hyphenate like most socialites tend to do. Nope. Not Veronica. Lost the Carmichael name entirely, moved to Bumblefuck, USA, and only comes back for the holidays and big charity events—and even then, she digs her heels in.
Stiletto heels, but still.
My sister has a giant set of lady balls, and I’m trying to follow in her footsteps by becoming my own man—not the obedient scion my father expects me to be.
So.
The first middle finger to my lifestyle was me dropping out of Notre Dame—Dad’s alma mater—after one year and transferring to Iowa.
My parents have actually been pretty damn cool about it, albeit a little uptight from lack of understanding. They’re really regimented from habit and set in their ways, getting everything and anything they want. Their expectations of people can be ridiculous and often times impossible to meet. But, they worked their asses off to get where they are, building a company—actually, an empire—over the course of thirty years.
You get the picture; I don’t have to paint it for you.
The point is: I do what I want.
And when the time comes, when I feel ready, I’ll take my place at my dad’s company—and not a day before.
I asserted my independence and hid out, growing out my hair and beard and not giving a shit what I looked like.