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)
Him: Looking over my head to a point in the distance. ‘I shouldn’t have said what I said.’
Me: Confused look on my face. ‘I couldn’t care less what you do, or don’t say.’
Him: ‘Shouldn’t have said it.’ Finally looks me in the eye.
Me: Yup, no remorse in that cold, lifeless stare. ‘I don’t give a single crap. Are you ordering something to drink, or are you going to continue wasting my time?’
Him: Silence. Then, a scowl that should’ve killed me, followed by more silence. Spins around and stalks out of the bar.
Me: Self-satisfied smirk.
Marching over, I plant a hand on my hip and glare. “I don’t work here for sport or hobby. You’re taking up a table that could be earning me money. Now, what can I get you? Because if you’re not here to drink, I can go speak to the manager.” I watch the refined nostrils of his straight nose flare. I can tell he wants to let me have it, but he choses to stare me down instead.
“Bring me a bottle of champagne,” he mutters.
I hold out my hand for a credit card and he fishes a black Amex out of the wallet he’s removed from his back pocket. I stalk back to the bar and wait as Amber pours five shots of tequila for some Wall Street hotshots that are leering at her reed thin body and shouting indecent proposals. She verbally spars back and forth with them, and the more insulting she gets, the more the morons are lapping it up. Go figure.
“How about you let me show you a good time, sweetheart?” says moron number one.
“A two pump hump in the men’s bathroom is no one’s definition of a good time, Slick, except your mother’s. That certainly explains your fondness for it,” is Amber’s quick reply. Morons number two through four double over in hysterics. Ignoring the suits, she turns to me and tilts up her chin.
“He’s here.”
“Do I need to handle this?” Amber regularly forgets that she’s 5’5” and a buck nothing.
“What’s your most expensive bottle of champagne?” I ask.
“The Krug––4 grand.”
I’m loving the devious look in her hazel eyes. “Let’s do it.”
“Coming right up,” she says smirking. I don’t feel even the least bit guilty.
I drag the bucket with the Krug on ice back to table twelve and place it on the table. He’s blasting me with that chilly stare of his. I can practically feel the frostbite forming on the side of my face. Then, before I can retract it, he gently grips my wrist. A ripple of awareness climbs up my arm and fills my stomach with icky sludge.
“Sam likes you.” It takes me a minute to realize he’s speaking about his nephew.
“I liked him, too,” is all I say because it’s the truth. Then––nothing. Those crystalline eyes search mine for something. What for? I haven’t got a clue. But the intensity of his examination makes me lean away.
Just then three, very tall men walk up to the table and stare at Shaw as if they’ve just witnessed a Kardashian receive a Nobel prize in Physics. I tug on my wrist and he lets go.
“The fuck?” says one. “Dude,” says the other. And “No way,” says the third. Shaw tenses visibly. I get the impression that it’s rare for them to see Shaw at this sort of establishment. Tall, slim black dude starts laughing and says, “Who’s your stylist, man? The grand wizard of the Klan?”
I do a quick up and down of slim, black dude. He’s wearing a royal blue suit of expensive wool gabardine perfectly tailored to the swells of his body. Accenting his impeccable suit is a colorful bowtie that would look foolish on anyone else, though on him looks amazing. He’s easily the best dressed guy in the room and that’s saying a lot in this crowd. In addition, his build, skin color, and wide bright smile also make him devastatingly handsome.
“Shut up, Brandon,” says a sulky Shaw. Brandon? The name jars something in my memory loose. Brandon Meriwether, all-pro cornerback.
Three hundred pounds plus white dude sits next to Shaw and the whole couch sinks under him. He grabs the bottle of Krug and his rust colored eyebrows crawl up his forehead. “Shaw-shank, you sure got expensive taste for a cracker from Jacksonville.” Without waiting for permission, he pours himself a glass.
Shaw’s eyes shoot to mine, glinting with something…dangerous, while I manage to keep a totally impassive expression. “Expensive, you say? How expensive, Pop?” His icy glare remains trained on me. James Popovitch, nose tackle.
Popovitch scratches his red, stubbled chin pensively and says, “’Bout four grand.” Then he raises the champagne glass and drains it. I can’t keep the corners of my mouth from lifting just a little bit.
“Not like you can’t afford it,” says the third Titans player. I recognize him immediately as Grant Hendricks, star linebacker on the team and one of the most beloved players in Titans history. He runs an extra large bear paw, I mean hand through his floppy golden hair. His brand of handsome is of the Iowa corn-fed variety. His shrewd gaze moves between me and Shaw, assessing the situation. I catch a cynical smirk that belies his squeaky clean persona. Tugging up his gray slacks, he sits on the couch with his legs spread apart, opposite the other men. “You hanging around ‘til the other guys get here?” Hendricks asks Shaw. Shaw shakes his head and Hendricks answers with, “Didn’t think so.”