Total pages in book: 135
Estimated words: 132321 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 529(@250wpm)___ 441(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132321 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 529(@250wpm)___ 441(@300wpm)
“I googled the diner in the background, dipshit,” he confirms.
I tug on the collar of my shirt. “This feels kinda stalkerish, brother.”
He continues staring at me but doesn’t apologize or explain himself. “You thinkin’ about getting another cage?”
I glance over my shoulder at my old, beat-up Toyota 4-Runner that I only drive when the weather forces me to. Margot doesn’t ride. If I ever want to pick her up, I should probably get something a little nicer to take her out in…
Take her out? What the fuck? Where did that come from?
We’re not dating.
Rooster waves his big hand in front of my face. I shake myself out of whatever fevered daydream took over my brain there for a second.
“Yeah, maybe,” I finally answer. “But I saw that truck and it made me think of Uncle Boone, that’s why I sent it to you, not so you could grill me on my whereabouts.”
His harsh expression fades. “Yeah, that was way too pretty for Uncle Boone, though.”
“That’s what I said too.” I cough and look away.
The back door squeaks open. “Jiggy, you want steak fajitas?” Shelby calls out. “Rooster said he’d fire up the grill tonight.”
My mouth waters. Whatever mystery southern spices she uses on the meat always tickles my taste buds. “Hell, yes, I do.”
“Got it!” She raises one hand in the air in a half wave and disappears inside the house again.
“Hey, instead of grilling me, how about you get that grill going, brother?” I jerk my head toward the far end of the patio where Rooster has a Weber three-burner grill stationed. “I’m ready for some steak.”
The next day, I’m at the laundromat, watching Eazy pull apart and clean the lint traps and vents. So far, I’ve had him mop liquid detergent a screaming kid spilled all over the floor, and wipe the tables, chairs, and doorknobs with disinfectant—twice. He hasn’t complained about the manual labor, and he’s done a thorough job. Could be he has a good work ethic or that he knows Z’s gonna ask me for a report later.
My phone buzzes. Expecting it to be Rooster or Dex, I pull it out of my pocket.
Little Lady Death.
Much better than the Last Responder name I’d originally listed her under.
A picture appears. A close up of Margot from her mouth down to her chest. My cock pulses like he wants to immediately hunt her down and impale her. I recognize her because I’ve spent so much time studying those pouty lips that I’m dying to shove my cock between. Next lesson.
My gaze drifts lower. A hint of the swell of her breast peeks through the V-neck. I didn’t look at her gorgeous tits nearly long enough the other night. Maybe I should break oral into two lessons. First, I’ll teach her the joy of having her tits covered in cum. Then, a lesson on how to swallow every drop.
I may have missed my calling as a professor.
I can’t stop staring at the photo. It’s not racy compared to the pictures most women send me. But I can’t stop staring at it. Is she wearing the gray shirt she finished me off with the other day?
Me: That cleaned up nice.
Little Lady Death: I’m going to think of you every time I wear it.
Fuuuck, that’s fucking hot.
Good to know maybe this relationship—no, arrangement—will last as long as the life of a shirt.
Me: You’re hot as fuck. No, that sounds fucking juvenile. I erase it.
Me: Your lips will look so good around my cock. Christ, that’s even worse. I delete that too.
Me: I can’t wait to see you again.
Little Lady Death: Looking forward to our next lesson.
I can’t believe I’m willingly doing this, but I open my camera app and hold my phone out to take a selfie, making sure to capture the rows of washing machines in the background. Am I really turning into a guy who sends pictures of himself to chicks?
Send.
Apparently, I am.
Little Lady Death: You really are at a laundromat.
Did she think I was lying to her?
Me: Not a titty in sight. Nope. Delete that. No reason to remind her I’ll be working shifts at a strip club later this week.
“What’s with the goofy look on your face?” Eazy steps next to me and tries to peer at my phone. “You’ve been staring at your screen for like ten minutes.”
I click it off. “No, I haven’t.”
“Were you watching porn?”
“What? No, you fuckin’ creep.”
“Were you talking to that hottie from the wedding? Margaret?”
I don’t bother correcting him. No reason for him to know her name.
“Nope, not Margaret.” There, now I didn’t lie to a brother. I don’t even know a Margaret. Heh.
“You done with those lint traps?” I ask.
He holds up a fluffy tumbleweed-sized ball of gray, black, and white lint. “Want me to knit you a sweater with it?”