Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 74794 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 374(@200wpm)___ 299(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74794 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 374(@200wpm)___ 299(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
I grasp Cass’ hand to keep her at my side, but that doesn’t stop her from doing one hell of a crowd scan. I don’t launch into an immediate lecture about how Cass’ boredom never stopped her before. She doesn’t let herself get laid because she truly believes she’s totally unlucky. A few bad exes, a few bad dates, a few other bad experiences later, and yeah. We’re here now, and I’m sure neither of us has had any action in a good long while.
“Just because I’m on a break doesn’t mean we shouldn’t go out. When’s the last time you had any action?”
“Me?” I squeal. “Don’t make this about me. It’s not about me. You know that I’m not going to be the one getting all the stares.”
I glance around nervously, and sure as shit, Cass is attracting a lot of attention. She’s gorgeous. Nearly six feet tall, model beautiful, and a strawberry blonde with more strawberry than blonde going on, she proves that it’s possible to be tall and curvy at the same time. She looks totally opposite of me, especially since I’m slightly built, bordering on waiflike. We met back in the day, meaning good old high school.
Back then, I was the tough girl goth chick with raven black hair down to my butt. I was petite and only passably pretty. Everyone knew my dad was a biker club prez, so even though I was pretty bookish and kind of nerdy, no one ever bugged me. The popular girls shunned me but never made me a target because even they were scared of the Timewell last name. The boys? Well, they all knew who my dad was, and even though high school males don’t usually have much going on in the way of brains, they avoided me like I had the plague—the plague being the vengeful hammer fist of my dad and his MC.
Cass shrugs. “Okay, well, maybe I’m still holding out hope that I’ll meet someone tough enough to break whatever curse I have going on.”
“Don’t say that!” I tug on her hand and wrap my arm tighter around her waist. “You’re not cursed. You’ve just been super unlucky.”
“When was the last time you were walking down the street with a guy, and a piano nearly crushed him to death?”
“Uhhhh, that would be never because of my dad. You know that I don’t date, don’t do public anything, and keep any and all romantic liaisons a secret so that he doesn’t get crushed to death in other ways.”
The whole piano thing is a true story. Cass really was walking down the street with her boyfriend at the time—a nice, clean-cut guy she’d met in one of her psych classes at college—and bammo! Nearly crushed by a piano. Some moving company or other thought it was a good idea to hoist it up onto the balcony of a two-story restaurant and bring it in through the patio doors that way because the place wanted it on the second floor, and they couldn’t figure out another way to get it up there. We only know this because Cass’ boyfriend broke up with her, then promptly sued the movers and the restaurant, and we read about the whole thing in the media.
“We’re never going to find Mr. Lucky or Mr. Not Afraid Of Getting His Bones Ground To A Pulp By My Giant Of A Dad in a sleazy club.”
Cass feigns outrage. “Dude, is that any way to talk about your dad’s establishments? This place is nice. Freaking five stars. If we had to pay cover, it would have set us back fifty bucks a piece. This is as high-end as it gets. There are guys in actual suits here. “
“Gross,” I mutter. I really wish Cass hadn’t worn a little black dress and heels. Heels suck when it comes to a range of motion, and while she’s not a party girl, if she has a few drinks, I don’t want her to break her ankle. Also, her hot body is attracting a lot of attention, and it makes me feel like I’m the one standing here half-naked. “Suits. Suits can’t be trusted.” I give one guy—a blonde dude in a suit who is ogling Cass—a particularly foul look. When he doesn’t take the hint, I pointedly scowl at him. He looks mildly amused, so I flip him off and tug Cass away.
The bass thumps so loud that the hardwood and tiled flooring pulses beneath my boots—biker boots. Combat style. No heels for this gal. I also didn’t rock a short skirt or a dress that shows my buns and my lady biscuit like half the ladies in here. If they want to flash their goods up top, too, that’s their business, but I went with black ripped-up skinny jeans and a black lace blouse. My hair is a source of constant contention between my dad and myself. Or rather, it was when I was growing up. He was a single dad, and he just freaking hated combing knots out of my hair all the time and trying to style it. I wouldn’t let him cut it. No freaking way.