Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 111610 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 558(@200wpm)___ 446(@250wpm)___ 372(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111610 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 558(@200wpm)___ 446(@250wpm)___ 372(@300wpm)
“Do you really expect us to believe that bullshit?” a deep voice bellows.
I squint through the spotlight, shading my eyes and scanning the crowd until I spot who’s spoken.
Lucas Walker.
He’s a newbie, still considering joining the Gentlemen’s Club, and exactly the type of man I want to reach. He’s got one foot in the door here but has Jake McGibbons-type rhetoric still whispering in his ear.
Right now, he’s standing up, his arms crossed over his chest, glaring at me in challenge. If this were a battle of physicality, he’d win, biceps down. He’s built like a defensive end. But it’s not.
Contrary to popular belief, men have evolved beyond fist fights and bar brawls for the most part. Or at least I have, and I have no interest in beating reason into Lucas’s mind. That doesn’t work, anyway.
Meeting his glare head-on, I address the interruption. “What ‘bullshit’ would that be, Lucas?”
He gestures toward me while half turning to address the room, grinning goofily at his peers as if he’s saying what they all think too. “That you got here by doing ‘the basics’,” he mocks, adding in air quotes as if his tone didn’t make that clear already. “You expect us to believe that your family money didn’t open every door, get you a fancy as fuck car, and make hot chicks drop to their knees and beg to suck your dick? How stupid do you think we are?”
I groan inwardly as the room erupts into snickers and chatter. It’s not the first time I’ve been accused of keeping a squeaky-clean façade while being an entitled asshole behind closed doors. I think people have come to expect that from people with money. It doesn’t help that I’m single, don’t publicly date, and have strict boundaries about discussing my private life.
But Lucas is wrong. This isn’t an act. I simply have high standards and hold myself to them stringently.
“Lucas, if that’s your definition of success, then you should leave now,” I say flatly, calling his bluff. “But I don’t think it is, nor do I think it should be,” I add quickly.
“And as I’ve said countless times before” —I glance around the room, knowing there are those who’ll back me up— “I’m here to help. I don’t do this for amusement or some weird sense of hero worship. I believe in you, believe you can be better . . . if you choose to be. If you work to be. And then, you can redefine success for yourself however you’d like to.”
Smooth, I praise myself. Lucas really thought he was doing something there, but I’ve matched verbal wits with far better. Hell, I grew up with a family that can flambé your guts with a look, much less a word. I hope Lucas hears me, though, and that I didn’t go too far for his fragile ego. A beaten dog eventually bites, and Lucas has been beaten too many times, I suspect.
“But—” Lucas begins to protest, but a gruff voice interrupts him.
“Dude, sit the fuck down and shut up. You asked, he answered, and do you seriously think he hangs out with us for fun? In case you’re not sure, the answer’s ‘fuck no’.”
There’s a bit of chuckling from around the room at that. “Some of us actually want to do more than flunk out and go home to our parents’ basements, so let Chance talk to those of us who came to hear him, not your dumb ass.”
I look for the new speaker and spot him several rows down from Lucas. Enzo Delano. We’ve spoken a few times. He seems like a smart guy who honestly doesn’t need much guidance. He’s got his head on straight, has a plan, and has a healthy fear of disappointing his mother, whom he loves. But he shared that he needed a sense of community and wanted some decent male role models because his father’s been absent most of his life, and that was enough to convince me that he’d make a great Gentleman.
Lucas glares at Enzo, pissed at being called out and sensing a new target. But Enzo’s no wilting weakling himself and grew up scrappy enough to back up his own outspokenness.
Enzo firmly points at Lucas’s seat, and Lucas’s face turns red, but he slowly begins to sink into his seat, seething.
“Exactly, shut the fuck up and let the man finish his damn speech.”
If only Enzo hadn’t added the last bit, I think with a sigh. Unfortunately, Lucas has to get in the last word.
“Fuck you,” he mutters loudly. I’m not sure whether that’s directed to Enzo, me, both of us, or the world at large, but when Enzo stands, I can see how fast this is going to go sideways.
Considering our club is filled with a bunch of young, opinionated, hormone-raging men in one place, it’s not uncommon for insults to be tossed back and forth, but I don’t want it escalating into any fisticuffs.