Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 71832 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 359(@200wpm)___ 287(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71832 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 359(@200wpm)___ 287(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
I keep my head up and march forward. That’s always been my motto and it’s always worked for me.
I pretend like someone’s looking out for me, but really, it’s just blind, stubborn pigheadedness. I refuse to lie down and give up. I’m like a cockroach.
Well, an adorable, brilliant, powerful cockroach.
My angel’s really just a combination of hard work and good friends that drag me through the hellstorm of my life.
But sometimes, I like to pretend there really is someone out there anyway.
The group begins to disband. Fulco bids us all goodnight as he bundles himself up and disappears out the back. Jamila follows after him with Keely on her heels. “Heading to the afterhours place,” Keely says with a wave. “See you there?”
“Maybe,” I say but probably won’t go. I’m twenty-eight, single, no prospects, no real future to speak of beyond keeping this decrepit bar running another year, and mostly I just want to head home, take my customary post-work hot bath, crawl into bed, and sleep until noon.
Bernie helps me finish closing up. “Seriously, Ash, I’m worried.” She leans against the bar as I start flipping off lights. “You’ve been cutting it close for months now. Watering down the vodka, buying cheaper ingredients for the food, giving out those little plastic tubs of ketchup with like two pathetic squirts everyone hates—”
“Hey, that was your idea.”
She waves me off. “I’m just saying, you can only cut corners for so long. Eventually, we’ve got to get more people in here.”
I know she’s right. Bottle of Smoke’s been going the way of Blockbuster for a while now, only I don’t want to admit it out loud.
This is my home and these are my friends. If Smoke goes under, how’s Keely going to pay her way through college? How’s Jamila going to send money back home to her sick mom? How’s Fulco going to afford his little baby daughter? Even Bernie needs this job although she’d never admit it.
Too much depends on Smoke for me to give up.
I turn toward the door, prepared to make some argument about divine intervention and my wonderful wit and good looks and natural charm and Keely’s willingness to wear lower cut tops when there’s a knock, followed by a bang as someone steps inside, slamming the door wide.
I startle back. Bernie goes for the baseball bat we keep near the register, but my angry shout dies in my throat as the man stands on the threshold, staring at me.
My first thought is wow, he’s tall. Easily over six foot with broad shoulders like a football player, a muscular chest straining against his white dress shirt, and a suit that must cost more than my rent. His dark hair is pushed back in a casual swoop, and his light blue eyes pierce into mine like a reckoning.
He oozes charm and charisma without speaking a word. Something about the cut of his jaw, the quirk of his full lips, the arch of his eyebrows.
Animal magnetism is baked into this guy like clay into the earth.
My heart skips a beat. I want to tell him we’re closed and he should fuck off, but I can’t seem to make my jaw work.
He’s gorgeous. Too gorgeous, actually. Absolutely, stunningly gorgeous, with that strange predatory intensity I figured only existed in movies. He cheeks are covered in light stubble, and his head tilts to the side as he studies me with a terrifying smile.
A smile I know very well.
A smile I haven’t seen in years.
“Carson?” I finally blurt out, unable to help myself. “What the heck are you doing here?”
Bernie comes around the bar, baseball bat raised in the air. “You know this guy?” She’s staring at him like she’s about to smash in his skull. Which she might, knowing Bernie. One time she punched an overly handsy drunk guy in the mouth. Got blood all over the floor.
“We’re old friends,” Carson says with that low, rumbling voice of his, a little smile pressing against his gorgeous lips like this is the most amusing joke he’s ever heard.
I haven’t seen this guy in at least ten years, maybe longer. He’s gotten older, but he hasn’t lost his edge, not even a little bit. Carson’s always been like this. Glowing, like he can waltz into a room and drag every eye in the place. His jaw’s square, his hands are huge, and his suit jacket clings to his chest like an aggressive sneeze is going to make it explode into a million pieces, which I actually wouldn’t mind seeing.
“More like acquaintances,” I say, a little faster than I should. “He’s my brother’s best friend. Or he was the last time I checked.” It’s been a while since I’ve heard from Iain. That’s on purpose.
There’s another short silence. Bernie’s staring at Carson like she’s seeing him for the first time as she lowers the bat. Her mouth’s hanging open and her tongue’s licking at the back of her teeth. Poor girl went into fight mode and now Carson’s insane sexual magnetism’s overwhelming her senses. Blinded by the sex-light, basically. I step forward before Bernie can start salivating all over herself.