Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 97667 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97667 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
They both turn to look at me. My face is a mask of stone cold indifference, the one I perfected during countless interviews with the FBI and SEC.
Perfect’s face drops, suddenly stricken with embarrassment when he reads my expression. Shaw doesn’t flinch. He continues to glare with those icy, lifeless eyes of his. There are a million things I want to say, the vitriol sourly coating my tongue, however, in the end I just walk out. No way am I allowing this irredeemable prick to see how upset I am, to take the last shred of dignity I posses. He doesn’t even warrant the effort it takes for me to be angry. But I am, unimaginable so. He and his unhygienic beard can go to hell.
Chapter Three
“Belvedere on the rocks, rum and Coke, top shelf, and two Heinekens,” I shout over the din of the crowd and the mellow hum of hip-hop music playing in the background. Amber jumps into action immediately. Amber Jones, all around badass and my best friend since the fifth grade when Jimmy Murphy pegged me in the face during a game of dodgeball. While I stood there crying like a little bitch, Amber Isabelle Jones, half my height and weight, tightened her side pony, sauntered up to him without a word, and punched him in the nuts. After that, we were inseparable––my sister from another mister.
She’s the hot flash and I’m the slow burn. When I need someone to kick my ass into gear, she’s the fire in my belly. And when she needs to be talked off a ledge or to be stopped from committing a felony, I’m her voice of reason. We suit each other perfectly. When I told her what had happened with Shaw, she was on her way to my house with a dozen rotten eggs before I’d even finished telling her the story. Amber has the brass ball to do all the things I just fantasize about. God, I love her.
She’s an actress. With limited success so far. But with her beauty, brains and talent, it’s just a matter of time and perseverance before she makes it big. In the meantime, she works as a bartender at one of the most exclusive bars slash lounges in the city. On any given night, One Maple Street is filled with a who’s who of celebrity entertainers and star athletes. After some finagling, and a lot of heavy flirting with the new manager, she scored me a couple of shifts as a cocktail waitress, thank Christ, abating my monetary worries––for now.
In the two weeks since cowgate, I’ve received a number of emails from Mr. Perfect. After apologizing extensively on his behalf, which I believed, and on Shaw’s behalf, which I didn’t, he offered me the job. I accepted his apology, harboring no ill will against him; I heard it for myself how hard he’d lobbied for me. However, I’ve officially reached my limit. My fragile pride can’t survive one more beat down. I know this for a fact. So I didn’t need to think twice about it when I respectfully turned down his offer. Then I cried a day and a half for the loss of the hundred grand.
I know what you’re thinking, that I’m in no position to turn down an offer like that. Not unless I’m required to commit a crime or bend over, both of which I’m not yet desperate enough to do. However, when you’ve had every piece of your life dissected, trampled on, or taken away from you, you cling to the meager remains as if it’s a matter of life or death. As if giving up what little is left of your dignity, you may in fact cease to exist altogether. At least, that’s what it feels like to me. Bottom line, claiming my power to say ‘no’ felt dang good, and I haven’t had a heck of a lot to feel good about lately.
Cow. Ugh.
Truth: every time my head hits the pillow at night that word rattles around my head like loose change…and every morning since that day, I’ve awoken in a craptastic mood. No, I’m not a delicate snowflake. Standing a robust 5’9”, however, does not make me a cow. Granted, I’m less fit than when I was playing softball in school, but I still work out regularly. I’m curvy, always have been. Tits and ass that I used to be ashamed of until I hit high school and realized boys seemed to like it. More importantly, Matthew Edward Blake, most popular senior of Norwood High School, loved it. And that’s all that ever really mattered to me. Do I sometimes struggle with my self-image? Of course, I do. Especially when I’m shopping for jeans––show me a woman who doesn’t. But a cow? Mmmmno.
Amber loads my tray with the drinks I ordered. Glancing beyond my shoulder, her hazel eyes narrow when she says, “Someone just sat down on table twelve. Please inform The Mountain that the table he’s occupying is reserved.”