Total pages in book: 47
Estimated words: 43837 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 219(@200wpm)___ 175(@250wpm)___ 146(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 43837 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 219(@200wpm)___ 175(@250wpm)___ 146(@300wpm)
I’m used to getting cat-called at the lounge, most of the men offering to take me for the night. They see me leaving, and they just assume I’m a dancer.
The dark makes men brave, and it makes them stupid.
It’s not that I’m scared, I know it’s stupid to walk alone at night. But I don’t really have any other choice.
As I walk across the parking lot, I ensure that my long coat is tucked over my revealing outfit.
I can hear the other women leaving the club as others clock in for their shifts, though none of them would be able to see me walking across the parking lot.
With all the propositions I’ve received in the past year working at the strip club, I can honestly say I have never been propositioned in the club’s parking lot.
But, just then, I jump in surprise when a guy stops and moves in front of me—some young guy, no doubt in a frat or something if the backward hat is anything to go by.
“You’re drunk,” I tell him in a firm voice when the guy laughs through his slurring.
“I’m not too drunk for you, baby,” he tries to counter, pointing at me.
“You’re too young for me,” I lie, moving to get by as my heart thumps hard in fear. I’m startled once again when the guy roughly grabs my elbow.
“Good enough to take that fifty from me, huh? Like some slut, only to act like a fucking prude now,” the red-eyed man harshly spits at me.
Now I can see that he’s the man from earlier and he followed me out of the club. In my mind, I can see flashes of stripper horror stories about men following them.
Despite my terror, I wrench my arm out of his sweaty grip, immediately heading back toward the strip club’s backstage entrance, where I know I’ll be safe.
When one of the guy’s friends makes a grab for me, I yank my pepper spray out of my pocket and point it directly in the guy’s face.
My hand shakes, but I can only think of my brother, who will have no one to care for him if these men decide to hurt me.
“I swear to God, I will empty this whole can in your eyes if you don’t back the hell off,” I tell him, my voice unwavering.
I’m sick of being seen as an object.
“You’re a bitch,” one of them spits, stumbling toward me on wobbling legs.
“Right, I’m a bitch for not wanting to get taken by three rich jerks who probably have daddy issues,” I snap at them as I back slowly toward the club’s door.
“I’ve called the cops just so you know,” a new, clear voice suddenly adds to the conversation, almost startling me into spraying the pepper spray in my hand.
I turn my head quickly to see a man in a slick suit smoking a cigarette. I can see that the guy is actually standing the legally posted distance from the entrance to the strip club—which no one ever does. He looks as if he belongs right there.
He flicks the butt of his cigarette away, extinguishing the flame with the sole of his shoe as he moves into the parking lot. He belongs in downtown Atlanta, with a denim-and-leather jacket that is clearly expensive, as well as the big shiny watch that’s wrapped around the man’s wrist. His fingers are long and strong looking, and his long, dark hair appears soft and immaculately untangled. Dark eyes glimmer faintly under the street lamps. He looks like a heavy metal heartthrob from the 80s.
“I said, I called the cops,” the man repeats, his words making the guys jump.
The man steps further into the light, and my heart nearly stops.
He is absolutely breathtakingly gorgeous.
Sharp cheekbones and a soft-looking mouth make up what seems to be the man of my dreams. Despite the terrifying situation, I almost know for sure that I want this man. A wave of safety washes over me with him.
“Man, let’s go,” one of the guys says to his other two friends, sounding disgruntled.
The guy with the cap gives me a fleeting look before leaving with the other two, and the three of them climb into an expensive car with shiny, metal rims.
I let out a heavy breath, turning to look at the man with his handsome good looks.
I realize that I don’t hear the wail of sirens or the screech of tires on the pavement. There are only the normal sounds of the city, far off and unintelligible.
“You bluffed,” I state as I push my canister of mace back into my jacket pocket.
The man arches one of his smooth eyebrows at me, silently asking me to explain.
“It only takes the cops a few minutes to arrive on the scene in the west end,” I answer, pointing it out to him. “And there’s a cop car across the street at the diner right there.”