Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 97525 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97525 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
"Asshole homeowner. Said I left last week with only half the grass cut."
"Did you?" The sharp look he gave me answered the question. I raised my hands. "Sorry." I glanced over for the bartender and tried to get his attention over the loud din of the bar. “Some ice!” I yelled as soon as he looked my way.
I got a few handfuls, dumped in the bottom of a plastic bag. Twisting the top, I pressed the makeshift icepack gently against his lip. "How did that lead to this?"
"The dickhead threatened not to pay." He shrugged. "So I punched him."
Wow, the immaturity level behind the decision. “What? Why didn't you just walk away?"
He pushed my hand away and worked his jaw from side to side. He glared at me as if I was the stupid one. "I need work. Need cash." He tried to reach for a beer that was no longer there and barked out an order for another. "From someone who's never worked a day in her life, I wouldn't expect you to understand."
Never worked a day in her life. It was true, but I didn’t like the way he sneered it, as if my lack of a day job made me less of a person. It was something Brant had never referenced, and I suddenly wondered if it was something he thought. Emotions and feelings often got hidden. Pushed down until they found another outlet to creep back up into.
I shifted the ice to a better position on his lip and his eyes flared as the cold compress hit the open cut.
"Shut up," I whispered. "Take it like a man."
He conceded and leaned into my hand. He still smelled of the job, of grass and sweat, but there was a new scent—alcohol. He must have marinated in it. How much did it take to make him swing at a client? What else would he do, under the influence.
“Hey princess, mind giving up that seat?"
Lee's eyes flicked back open as I glanced over my shoulder. A man stood at the bar; his tattooed arm wrapped around a woman I'd politely describe as hard. His free hand gripped the edge of my stool, as if he was contemplating giving it one firm yank that would knock me onto the filthy floor. I glanced quickly around the skinny bar; the landscape uninterrupted by the rough couple. I was the only outlier in my starched white blouse, pale yellow pants, beaded flats, a YSL bag hanging off my elbow. I’d been in pajamas when Lee had called and had gotten dressed in the same outfit I’d worn to have lunch with the HYA board members. It had fit in well at the upper crust French restaurant. Here, I might as well be wearing a giant PRISSY LADY WALKING sign.
My survival instincts, which had fallen dormant from lack of use, slowly raised their head. I did not belong here at midnight on a Friday night. It was stupid of me to walk into this pressure cooker of alcohol and rough men and expect not to be noticed, pushed around, and put in my place.
I slid off the stool with a gracious smile. "Sure."
The man's face didn’t change, any delight at getting a seat disguised by a thick beard.
"Sit back down." The order was a growl from Lee, who lifted his head high enough to glare at me.
“I—We should be leaving anyway.” I said, my voice low. God, I didn't need this. Lee was already bloody from one stupid fight, now defending my honor in a place packed with idiots.
He lurched to his feet, swaying slightly as he turned to face the man. The guy hadn't budged, his girlfriend still suction-cupped to his side. "What the fuck's your problem?"
I pulled on his arm. "Lee." The plea earned me a moment, a glance in which everything paused, and he looked at me and I saw everything he couldn't say in that one moment.
He couldn't buy me cars. Couldn't drown me in diamonds and buildings and trips around the world. He couldn't even pay for the beer tab from tonight’s drinking. But this, this was one thing he could do. He could stand, fight, bleed for me. This was something Brant would never do, a situation my alternative relationship would never encounter. This was Lee's world.
Here he was king.
Here he would slay the tattooed dragon and be my hero.
His eyes burned the air between us, and I let out a shaky breath. Releasing his arm, I sank back onto the highly contested stool.
"You guys ain't drinking. Make room for someone who is,” the man barked.
Lee rose, his entire body tight, and I saw his punch telegraphed a million ways from Sunday. I had a moment of admiration at the flex of his arm muscles when he lunged forward, his right hook missing my insulter as the man leaned back and easily avoided the punch.