Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 91146 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91146 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Her warning comes too late. I’ve already hit the mother lode, and it is as painful as it gets.
“Ouch…”
My one hurt-filled word tells them everything they need to know.
I found hundreds of comments under the leaked video.
Not a single one of them is positive.
19
LAKEN
My pillow smashes into the wall separating my room from Knox and Nicole’s when a breathy feminine moan churns my stomach more than my argument with Nicole.
I’ve managed one restless night in the past five. One. It was the night I convinced Knox to drop off my mother’s “ransom” so she couldn’t milk me of more of his funds.
My mother would have left me for dust the instant I handed her the bundles of cash in a gym bag, but with Nicole too tipsy to make decisions for herself, and Knox notorious for overlooking consent, I made out I’m not schooled on my mother’s inner workings.
I thought I had won the battle when Nicole stormed to her room.
Turns out my asshole radar isn’t my only feature on the brink.
Knox made up for his one night of absence multiple times over the past three days. He and Nicole are acting like newlyweds, and their actions had me giving Bella more attention than she deserved.
She could be a decent girl if she didn’t have dust for brains and if she stopped belittling her friends on the belief it would big-note herself.
There’s no “bros before hoes” logic as far as Bella is concerned. She’s as bad as Knox when steamrolling anyone to get what she wants.
When the grunt of a man seeking a quick release bellows through the air vent, I give up on my quest to sleep. After stuffing my legs into the jeans hooked over my bed, I tie on my running shoes sans socks, then hotfoot it out of my room.
I only last thirty seconds in the living room before the moans of a couple in the midst of ecstasy find me again. They’re too loud to be drowned out by the minute slithers of liquid in the bottom of the bottles Knox’s road crew polished off during the celebration of their upcoming tour.
Thank fuck no amount of jealousy had me missing the “Open 24 Hours” advertisement for the hotel bar in the building's lobby.
I’m leaving the penthouse suite in less than a minute and entering a noticeably empty establishment.
With the earlier hour, I’m not surprised. It’s a little after three in the morning.
The bartender in the corner of the cozy space, watching a rerun of a Red Sox game, greets me with a head bob, but a slender blonde at the end of the bar, nursing a bottle of whiskey, doesn’t acknowledge my presence.
While smirking about her lack of glassware, I sit three spots up before ordering a double of Buffalo Trace.
“I doubt there’s a double left,” the bartender replies while nudging his head to the only other occupant of the bar. “And she isn’t willing to part with the bottle for me to check.”
“He can have it,” the blonde offers after overhearing his gripe. “But I’ll need a fresh bottle if I’m”—hiccup—“gonna keep drowning my sorrows.”
When she slides the almost-empty bottle of Buffalo Trace across the counter, she flashes the quickest portion of her side profile.
“Nicole?” I sound in disbelief. Rightfully so. Her words were so poorly slurred that the hairs on my arms failed to stir when she spoke. And let’s not forget the part about how she’s currently being screwed to oblivion upstairs.
Nicole’s sob is low and brimming with shame. “Nicole Reed is no longer with us. She was buried in a shallow ditch by Nikki J sometime within the past three hours.”
When the bartender approaches her with a freshly opened bottle of top-shelf whiskey, I signal to him that she’s had enough, before transferring my ass to the barstool beside hers.
I try to think of something to say to lessen the heaviness on her slumped shoulders, but forever diplomatic and still pissed she didn’t apologize for blindsiding me the way she did, I get straight to the point like any decent bodyguard would. “Does Knox know you’re down here drinking?”
Stupid question.
If he did, he would be down here with her, sniffing out any dips in her morality he could use to his advantage.
I give Nicole a few minutes to reply. When nothing but a commentator bragging about the best player in the league sounds between us, I ask, “Are you all right?”
“No.”
For how long it took her to configure a response, I expected more.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
This reply is quicker than the last but just as short. “No.”
“Are you sure? I’m a shit fucking listener, but I can pretend to be almost anything.”
“Like a good guy?” After almost slipping off her chair, she locks her eyes with mine. They’re bloodshot, but the red rims around them have nothing to do with alcohol. She’s been crying. “What do you want, Laken?”