Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 104919 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 525(@200wpm)___ 420(@250wpm)___ 350(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104919 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 525(@200wpm)___ 420(@250wpm)___ 350(@300wpm)
That made his square jaw all the more prominent and masculine, as well as the fact he always wore ten thousand-dollar suits, in variations of black. He was in demand with every single person in LA. Men and women. We didn’t have the kind of relationship where we talked about our love life—mainly because he had to clean up the huge disaster mine had been—but Andre worked far too much to ever have one. He screwed when he needed to and didn’t bother himself with romantic entanglements.
Selfishly, I liked that, because he had more time for me. I’d never needed a man more than I needed Andre.
“Of all the fucked-up things I’m an expert in, I’m not specialized in the area of murder,” Andre said. “I’m not the best at making sure you stay alive to testify. Now, I will be able to keep your involvement under wraps for the time being, to the media at least. My contacts go all the way to the gutter, just not the underworld.” He grinned. There was something else to it, though.
Fear. The man who I’d never seen so much as frazzled was scared.
“I’m not gonna know if they’ve got word on you,” he said, quieter now. He didn’t need to tell me who “they” were. I’d figured enough to know that Coleson had contacts all over the city, on all sides of the law. The reaction from the cops showed me that.
“If they do have word on you, it won’t matter if you’re in your mansion with the world’s best security. They’ll find you. And kill you.” He paused. “And then I’ll have to find another job, which will be a pain in the fucking ass. So don’t give me your trademarked fork tongue. Just get out of the car and march those Choos into the fucking office.”
At the start of the speech, I was ready to argue, to get my trademark way with a trademark hissy fit. But by the end I was tired and scared. Andre’s fear was catching. He was the only person in the world I trusted. Mostly. He wouldn’t be saying this, we would not be here if he didn’t legitimately think I was in danger. So I got out of the car.
My heels clicked on the concrete and the sound was nothing like a gunshot, but it took me right back there. I smelled blood, fear, and human excrement.
People shit themselves when they died.
They sure left that out of the movies.
The parking lot was practically empty, but walking toward the elevators we saw a collection of cars. Trucks, mostly. Macho man trucks. A couple manly sports cars that somehow did not scream “midlife crisis.” Macho man sports cars.
I knew the men of Greenstone Security were all macho men, each more attractive than the last. They were so alpha you almost choked on the testosterone radiating out from their pores.
I knew this because I’d worked with them before.
I also knew not a single one of these macho men liked me. At all.
Macho men like that had soft, caring, funny, and selfless wives. Not all of them were married but most were. I’d seen photos of their wives because they were involved with Lexie Descare—and her band, Unquiet Mind—as well as connected to a motorcycle club in Amber, California.
The women were also well known in the LA social circles. For being kind. Selfless. Beautiful in a natural way that didn’t require Botox, fillers, or starvation that my beauty did. However, they were also crazy as shit, had almost died at the hands of drug dealers, been kidnapped, and had generally caused havoc.
I was nothing like those women. My job, my image, my past, made it impossible to be warm. Sure, there were plenty of movie stars that were personable, down to earth and likeable. They weren’t me.
I wasn’t sure I knew how to be likeable.
And I did my fucking best to convince myself it didn’t matter to me that these attractive men—one man in particular—detested me.
My hand shook as I pressed the elevator button.
Duke was tired.
He was tired, because he’d been on a job for the past three weeks.
He’d gotten shit for sleep and hadn’t had a meal that didn’t come from a drive-thru in recorded memory.
The plan was to sleep for twelve hours straight, hit the gym, then find someone to fuck. Unlike the rest of his friends, he hadn’t settled down with a woman and that suited him just fine. That life was not for him. He was happy to have no-strings arrangements with women who were good in bed and knew the score.
Shitty assignments aside, he had a good job, one that paid more money than he knew what to do with. Had a decent crib with all the nice shit he wanted. Had guys—and Rosie—to drink beer and shoot the shit with.