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)
“Fucking throw it in the garbage, dumbass.”
The bell over the door jingles and I groan when I see the tall, slender brunette walking through with her little sack of laundry.
“Hey, Jigsaw.” She wiggles her fingers at me. “I didn’t know you’d be here today.”
As if you didn’t notice my bike parked right outside. “Hey, Tara.”
She’s not exactly a muffler bunny but if she blows another couple of brothers in the back room, she might as well be.
While she makes a show of bending over to toss her dainties in the washer one by one, I stay behind the counter, pretending to be completely fascinated by a three-day-old copy of the Union Reporter.
Rare virus found in horses in Union Point.
Scintillating stuff.
“Who the fuck still reads newspapers?” Eazy rips the paper out of my hands. “Ooo, better stop fucking horses, the article says humans can catch this virus.”
I side-eye him. “You have something you need to share, brother?”
“It’s in the article,” he protests.
“It doesn’t say a damn thing about fucking horses.”
“Hey, Jigsaw.” Tara’s soft voice interrupts us. “Could you break this for me?” She holds out a twenty.
We have a perfectly good change machine bolted to the back wall. This is her polite way of asking if I’d like a blow job in the back room today.
I point to the machine but don’t want to make her look stupid in front of Eazy. “It’s working today.”
“Oh.” Disappointment turns her pretty mouth down.
I could sneak in the back with her. Brush up on my receiving skills before my oral lessons with Margot. What’s stopping me? A promise I made to Margot? I only promised not to sleep with anyone else. A quick blow job doesn’t count as sleeping with someone, does it? It’s a giant, gaping loophole in our agreement.
How would she ever know?
I’d know.
Honor isn’t the only thing stopping me. My desire for anyone else is gone. Poof. Up in smoke. One lesson—one very chaste lesson by my standards—and I’m totally consumed by thoughts of one woman. All I can think about is Margot’s cute, bouncy blonde curls, her quirky humor, and her wicked little smile. The way she’s shy but still curious and eager to learn. Never mind, I’d rather have Margot’s pink pouty lips wrapped around me a week from now than have anyone else’s right this second.
“Tara, this is my brother, Eazy.” I slap his back. “He’s been out on the road for a while and finally home. He’ll be happy to help you out with whatever you need.”
Eazy may not know how to read a newspaper, but he can read a woman like a traffic signal. He works a sleazy smile onto his clean-cut face. “How are you doing, darlin’?”
Her eyes sparkle as she looks him up and down. He skirts around the counter, drops his arm over her shoulders and steers her to the cash machine.
Well, aren’t I fucking cupid.
I glance at the big clock above the entrance. Feels like way too many hours until I can get my hands on Margot again.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Margot
This has been the longest week. One of those weeks when it’s impossible to find a shred of goodness in people. Death either brings out the worst in people or the best and this week, it’s been the worst.
Acknowledge the tragedy, ingest it, respect it, and continue serving the family. That’s what we do.
But some weeks it’s harder to do than others.
The doorbell chimes for the front door. Exhaustion slows my mind and movements as I open it and find yesterday’s client. Her tragedy wrapped around me like poisoned tentacles burrowing into my heart and hasn’t let go yet.
“Ms. Cedarwood, can we talk for a minute?” she asks, timid as a mouse.
“Of course.” I pull the heavy door open wider and step back for her to enter. “You can call me Margot. How are you doing, Laurel?”
She pokes her head inside, quickly jerking it around, reminding me of a delicate songbird checking the surroundings to make sure they’re clear of predators. Her face is still covered in bruises. The artist in me wants to run upstairs and grab my makeup for the living and help her cover them. But that goes way beyond the scope of my responsibilities here. I don’t want to offend her or do anything to add to her pain, either.
“Do you want me to get my father?”
“No,” she answers quickly. “I want to talk to you.”
Emotional pain surrounds her. So deep it’s almost tangible. Our conversation shouldn’t be in the office. I lead her into the parlor where Jigsaw and I sat the night he brought me home. The furnishings might be outdated, but overall it’s cozy.
“Sit anywhere,” I offer.
Her gaze darts around the long room, from the baby grand piano and bench in one corner, to the table with four chairs by the bay window, to the couch and chairs in the center of the room, to another table and chair set near the kitchen door.