Total pages in book: 40
Estimated words: 36999 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 185(@200wpm)___ 148(@250wpm)___ 123(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 36999 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 185(@200wpm)___ 148(@250wpm)___ 123(@300wpm)
"Oh my gosh. You stole it, didn't you?"
"Do you want to get into the club or not, Gemma Marsh? Because if you do, here's your golden ticket." I nod at the invitation on her lap. "They won't know where you got it, so it doesn't matter."
"Whoa. You're cranky today."
"Crap. I'm sorry." I throw myself down onto the couch beside her with a loud groan. "Coby is making me crazy."
"That's because you're in love with him."
"Am not."
She snorts, not believing my bullcrap. She knows me far too well. We've been best friends since we were freshmen in college. Outwardly, we're complete opposites. She looks like an innocent little girl. I'm covered in tattoos. But we get each other. We both know what it's like to be underestimated because of the way we look.
People treat her like a little kid. And for a long time, people treated me like I was supposed to be grateful when they propositioned me. God forbid if I said no. Suddenly, I was a whore or a bitch or not that pretty anyway. I lost count long ago of how many times I was asked out, said no, and then told they were just doing me a favor. It's so stupid. But it happened a lot before I got all of my tattoos. When I was with Gemma, it happened a lot less often. People didn't approach me as much. She's like a natural buffer against the assholes of the world.
That's how our friendship started. But we quickly realized that we're a lot alike in a lot of other ways, too. We're both virgins. We both had rough upbringings. We love the same shows and want big families. We're two freaking peas in a pod. I adore her.
"Are too," she says. "But if being delulu makes you sleep better at night, you do you, boo."
"You've been spending way too much time on social media again."
"Have not. Shut up. We're judging you right now, not me."
I laugh quietly. "Fine. Maybe I like him a tiny bit, but it doesn't even matter because he hates me."
"He doesn't hate you, Elodie."
"Uh, are you sure about that? Because he told me that spending time around me is hell."
"What? He did not."
"Oh, he did." I scowl at the wall across from the sofa. "And then he told me that I deserve more than working in the tattoo shop and I should be running the freaking world."
"That's kind of sweet."
"Did you miss the part where he told me spending time around me is hell?"
"Maybe he meant it as a compliment?"
"How is that possibly a compliment?" I cry.
"I don't know, but men are idiots. They say a lot of dumb stuff that they think is complimentary that isn't."
She's not wrong about that. Keegan has said some really dumb stuff over the years, trying to be helpful. "When Coby said he was in hell, he meant it," I whisper, wringing my hands together. "He hates me."
"If that's true, he's an idiot."
"Yeah." I sigh, leaning my head back against the couch.
"What are you going to do?"
"Pretend he doesn't exist until I forget about him." We both know I'm full of crap. I'm going to be miserable and die alone, probably. But I'm not going to admit that out loud. It sounds pathetic. And stealing the invitation from his desk put me over my quota of pathetic things for the day.
"You could come to the club with me." She plucks the invitation from her lap, dangling it in front of my face. "I have this fancy invitation."
"Watching kinky people get it on is your thing, not mine."
"It might not be my thing," she mumbles. "We'll see."
"So you're really going?"
"Um, yes!"
"Good for you," I whisper, reaching out to squeeze her hand. At least one of us should be living out our dreams. And since mine involves a man who thinks spending time around me is hell, well, it's pretty obvious that I won't be living mine out anytime soon.
Chapter Three
Coby
"Hold the fuck on!" I shout to whoever is beating on my front door, trying to drag a pair of sweats up my legs and stumble across the living room at the same time. I narrowly avoid colliding with the coffee table, growling a curse. If this isn't an emergency, I'm killing whoever thinks it's acceptable to wake me up this fucking early. I didn't even get to bed until after five. "Jesus H. Christ."
I rip the door open, scowling when I see my older brother smirking at me, his bald head shining in the early morning sunlight. "Why the fuck are you beating on my door like the police at the ass crack of dawn, Bronx?"
"Motherfucker, it's after eleven," he says with a chuckle.
I scrub a hand down my face, poking my head back inside to look at the clock hanging over the mantle. He isn't kidding. It's nearly eleven thirty. "Shit. I have to be at the shop in an hour."