Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 84627 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 423(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 282(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84627 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 423(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 282(@300wpm)
We could go our separate ways with fond memories of each other rather than a burning desire on my part and hatred on hers.
I fucked it all up with my need to run, with my fear of that look in her eyes.
I spend two more hours at the bar avoiding eye contact with everyone, avoiding advances from several women whom I would’ve easily disappeared with were it any other night.
At some point, I pulled the ring from my pocket and put it back on my finger, hoping to avoid all advances, but this just seemed to draw out those women that were in the bar for trouble. I felt dirty and disgusted as they approached, their own bands and diamond rings glinting in the overhead lights. It takes a special kind of sleaziness to go trolling in a bar while wearing proof of your infidelity on your hand.
And as if the universe is out to prove me wrong on all levels tonight, I watch as Sherman walks out of the bar with that cute little blonde, a smug look on his handsome face, two fingers tossed over his shoulder in my direction, a smarmy peace sign not meant for use by anyone who is past hitting puberty.
I drain my glass of whiskey, realizing as I step away from the bar that I’ve allowed myself to be overserved for the first time in as long as I can remember. But the bartender has my back, telling me that he’s called me a cab and it’s waiting out front. I close out my tab, tipping generously for the discretion, and head outside. The intake of alcohol doesn’t help the limp Leighton has left me with, but I manage to crawl into the back of the cab, giving the driver the address to work instead of to my condo. As much as I want to be alone, I just can’t stomach the thought of it right now.
Feeling more than generous, and because I grumble about women being the work of Satan, I tip the cab driver well and climb out, saluting him stupidly as if he’s a general in the military before stumbling into the elevator of the office building, thinking that a few hours of sleep on the couch may be just what I need to get my life back together. If I’m lucky, no one will be inside, and I can get through my shame without anyone noticing.
Of course, since I haven’t had any amount of luck in the last thirty-six hours, why should I have any now?
Kit, Finnegan, and Brooks line the sofas, leaving me no room to stretch out.
“Did you leave any whiskey at the bar?” Kit asks as I fall gracelessly to the sofa beside him.
“Not much,” I grumble, lifting my legs and dropping them to the table in front of me. My head drops back on the cushion, a low groan escaping my lips. I already feel hungover, and that means tomorrow is going to suck horribly.
“You don’t normally get drunk,” Finn says.
I keep my eyes and mouth closed. Maybe if I pretend to be asleep, he’ll leave me the fuck alone.
Kit shoves my shoulder.
“Fuck off,” I grunt.
“You drinking because of that woman?”
“Leave him alone,” Brooks mutters.
And this is cause for me to lift my head and look toward the other man.
Brooks is normally the first one to get in the middle of someone else’s business. He’s almost as nosy as Wren. Maybe just as much so, only he doesn’t have the tech ability to dig as deeply.
“What?”
Brooks shrugs. “It’s clear you don’t want to talk about it.”
All eyes go to Brooks. He just made himself the center of attention, and honestly this is the best outcome for me.
“Fuck off,” he hisses, looking across the room after realizing what he’s done.
“You know,” Finnegan begins, leaning forward, a slow smile spreading across his face. “He’s been in a shite mood since he got bit by that dog. What case was he working when that happened?”
“You’d be in a foul mood too, if you got attacked by a damn dog,” Brooks argues.
“It was a fucking chihuahua.” Kit chuckles.
“It was a Bichon Frise and that little fucker was vicious.”
We all chuckle with his statement.
“Aren’t those the little white fuzzy dogs?” Kit asks. “The ones that look like little clouds?”
“Holy fucking terrors,” Brooks mutters.
“But that case,” Finnegan says again, unable to be deterred.
“The Bremen case,” Kit fills in.
“That’s the one,” Finn says, pointing his finger. “What’s going on with that?”
Brooks looks away again, refusing to answer.
“Kit, do you remember the details?”
Kit looks to the ceiling as if he’s having trouble remembering the case, but we know the details. Most of the country knows the details about Archer Bremen. The rock god was recently found in a very compromising position with a bandmate, which isn’t unusual. The only problem is that the bandmate was male, and his fans had no clue that he was gay.