Total pages in book: 227
Estimated words: 220940 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1105(@200wpm)___ 884(@250wpm)___ 736(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 220940 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1105(@200wpm)___ 884(@250wpm)___ 736(@300wpm)
“Hey, handsome.”
I close my eyes and let my head rest back against the wall. “What can I do for you?” Stupid question. Allison had the time of her life last night. She’s an intelligent woman. Confident. She couldn’t have missed my absence.
“Last night was fun.”
Deluded?
“Yeah,” I breathe non-committedly. “Fun.” I should go back to Leonora for my kicks. My regular never called me, I always called her. But I haven’t touched a hooker since Danny found Leonora riding me like a horse, tits bouncing, pleasure singing. Not surprisingly, she hasn’t called to find out why I’ve not been in touch. She likely thinks I’m dead after Danny waved his gun around the hotel room. There’s plenty of other paid pussy available. I could go there. If it didn’t feel so wrong. Depraved.
But fucking a twenty-one-year-old virgin is fine, yes?
I flinch, cursing under my breath. I can’t claim Pearl didn’t look that young. I knew she was that young. And now I think about how incredibly tight she was, I should have fucking clicked. And yet despite all that, I still can’t resist the pull. Despite her underhanded stunt, keeping me in the dark about something I should have fucking known, I still fucking want her. Every fucking minute of the fucking day, I want her. Think about her. Hear her. Fucking smell her.
“Brad?”
I blink, looking around the empty room. “What?”
“I said, are you free tonight?”
Two nights in a row? Don’t tell me Allison thinks this is more than it is, which is basically me using her as a distraction. A distraction that isn’t working. So what’s the fucking point?
“I thought we could have dinner,” she goes on.
My shoulders drop, my chin hitting my chest. She does. She thinks this is more. Wants more. Allison is a woman of a certain age. Of course she wants more. I should have walked away when she gave me eyes in the bar at the Four Seasons. Should have taken my ass up to the room and called one of my old regulars. “Sure,” I say, because I haven’t the energy to say anything else.
“Are you okay?” The concern in her voice adds another layer to my worry. I’ve given her no reason to catch feelings. I’ve fucked her. Invited her back to the house.
“Tired.” So fucking tired.
“Me too,” she replies, an edge of coyness in her tone. “I have to go, my client is here. Call me later.” She hangs up, and I drop my cell to the floor.
Fucking hell.
I walk into the club at six. It’s busy already, Mason, Anya, and the rest of the staff flying up and down the bar, delivering drinks fast. Anya spots me and immediately abandons serving a customer to pour me a Scotch. I take it on a smile of thanks and knock it back.
“That kind of day?” Mason asks as he pulls a pint.
“Yeah.” I don’t want to talk about my day. It’s been fucking long and painful doing sweet fuck all. Except torture myself. “Any backlash from Ella?”
“I’ve told her I’ll check the CCTV. I’m stalling her.”
“Good.” How long does it fucking take to get into a couple of cells? “Where’s Nolan?”
Mason nods, indicating behind me, and I turn to see him coming from the office, suited and booted, a shit-eating grin plastered across his face. “What are you so happy about?” I ask as he approaches.
“You loo—”
“Shut your fucking face, Nolan.” If anyone passes comment on how fucking exhausted I look again, I’ll happily introduce them to the end of my gun. I slide my glass onto the bar, and Anya’s quick to refill it. I look up and down the length of wood, to all the bodies behind it, staff serving. No Pearl. No red.
“Here’s Leon,” Nolan says, reversing his steps.
“What the fuck is he doing here?” I ask as our resident stoned surfer dude approaches with caution.
“Picking up some stock.”
“B-Boss,” Leon says, a world away from his usual loud, dopey self.
I should apologize. Should. Won’t. “Stock pickups are always done when we’re closed,” I point out.
“Yeah, sorry about that, B-Boss.”
“So why are you late?”
“I was fixing—” He stops, peeking at Mason and Nolan. “I was fixing something.”
“What the fuck were you fixing?”
“A jet ski.”
“This is more fucking important than fixing a fucking jet ski, Leon.” I get up in his face, trying not to let my other grievance with him cloud how I handle this. But he knows. He knows pickups and drop-offs are done outside club hours. He knows the actual jet skis come last to everything else.
“Well, thing is, B-Boss,” Leon says, fidgeting. “I didn’t think you’d want the police sniffing around the boatyard.”
“Why the fuck would the police be sniffing around the boatyard if you don’t fix a fucking jet ski?”
“Because if I didn’t fix the jet ski, the sheriff’s son would have reported you for assault and vandalism.”