Total pages in book: 136
Estimated words: 131789 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 659(@200wpm)___ 527(@250wpm)___ 439(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131789 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 659(@200wpm)___ 527(@250wpm)___ 439(@300wpm)
As if to punctuate that, Fenn pulls out his phone and types something. My own phone buzzes a second later.
“Number for a private car service,” he explains, giving me a faint grin. “This one’s on me, Romeo.”
Chapter 20
RJ
Sneaking out of the dorm around eleven, it occurs to me that I might have walked into a trap. What if I’m an unwitting victim of a long con? Here I am, the clever fuck who gets a date with Sloane Tresscott only to figure out too late she’s been putting the screws to me. Which is why, as I’m crossing campus toward our spot on the trail, I give myself sixty-forty odds of Sloane standing me up. Or maybe sending a text with something like, “LOL, eat shit, asswipe.”
But the odds are in my favor. Traipsing down the dirt path, I come around the bend to get a flashlight in the face.
“You’re late.”
So she does care.
“I bet you were early,” I say, shielding my eyes from the light.
“I was thirty seconds from going home.”
“Then I was right on time.”
The light disappears and I’m momentarily lost in the dark.
“This better be worth it,” Sloane grumbles.
I hide a smile. I’ve only just gotten here and already she’s over it. Sloane’s not going to make this easy on me, nor would I want her to. From the second we met, she’s been intent on throwing me off kilter. Keeping me unsteady, ready on my toes, like I’m on the side of a building waiting for her to sneak up from behind and shove me. It’s not boring and that’s what makes it great.
“I’d say you look nice tonight,” I tell the outline of her silhouette, “but my retinas are still recovering.”
Sloane scoffs. “Yeah, save it for the townie you’ll be making out with in the bathroom while I’m paying the tab.”
“Speaking from personal experience?”
“When you grow up around prep-school boys, you keep your expectations low,” she replies.
Not exactly a glowing endorsement of Duke. Which bodes well for me.
“I’m not one of them,” I remind her. “Take off the dorky uniform and I’m still nobody from nowhere.”
“You say that now. Give it time.”
Sloane walks quickly, making us take the long way to avoid cameras. She’s a thief prowling the museum under laser beams and over pressure sensors. A practiced escape artist. She stays a step ahead of me while we make our way across campus to the gates where the car is waiting. I finally get a good look at her outfit, and my cock nearly tunnels its way out of my jeans. Her legs are endless in those tight, black leggings, and the top she picked is a cropped halter held together by flimsy strings I want to rip off with my teeth. She’s not wearing a bra, either. Kill me now. There’s no way I’m making it through tonight without thinking about her nipples the entire time.
Catching my glazed expression, Sloane raises a brow. “You okay there, RJ?”
It’s hard to swallow through my cotton-stuffed throat. “Just wondering who I blew in a past life to deserve this outfit of yours.”
“Who says it’s for you?” She offers a cheeky smile, then disappears into the backseat of our town car.
God help me. This girl is pure fire.
Sandover is about a fifteen-minute drive through the middle of nowhere to the tiny downtown district of Calden that consists of a few shops and restaurants. The lone bar is open till two every night. The way Fenn tells it, carding is antithetical to their business model. Rather than drunk locals, the real money is in underage rich kids rolling up in their chauffeured Bentleys to blow their trust funds on eight balls with Johnnie Walker chasers.
Nice gig if you can get it.
The car drops us in front of a neon-lit red shack built of vertical wood siding and shoestrings. The doorway is decorated with vintage brewer memorabilia, and a hand-painted wooden sign above the door has a flying saucer on it. Inside, it’s one flannel shirt away from a 1994 high school reunion. There are more neckbeards and unironic ponytails than I’ve ever seen in the wild.
The band is already into their set, playing to a house mostly distracted by darts, pool, or foosball. Christ. Now I know what a Gen X identity crisis feels like. There are pop sci-fi-themed murals on the walls, cult movie relics, and furniture that smells like it was fished out of the discard dumpster outside a Goodwill. A group of over-forties plays a role-playing game in the back corner beside a pinball machine. Bikers with fresh, small-batch meth stuck under their fingernails glare at us from the far side of the bar.
“Not what you were expecting?” Sloane smirks and saunters up to the bar.
“Hell no. What is this place?”
“Charming, right? Welcome to Calden.”
Sloane is a knockout on any occasion. Sliding up to the bar in this hipster hillbilly sausage fest, she doesn’t even need to be braless to get the bartender’s attention. The guy is already diving toward her, tongue practically on the floor. She orders us a couple beers, then hands me one.