Total pages in book: 181
Estimated words: 177690 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 888(@200wpm)___ 711(@250wpm)___ 592(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 177690 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 888(@200wpm)___ 711(@250wpm)___ 592(@300wpm)
I never knew Buck-Stop existed and near as I can tell, it’s not on the map, which is good when you’re in the hot water I’m in. I’m not just talking about that sexy Godiva dark chocolate man that I left in Vegas, either. Although, I guess that’s the one I keep looking over my shoulder for. I have other things influencing my flight though. I have an ex-boyfriend that’s been calling. One I definitely do not want to hear from. I didn’t have a great time in that relationship and with one hit from him, I was done. I left him with my knee planted in his balls and slammed the door while he was rolling on the floor. Hearing from him is bad juju. Add in the fact that my sister Hope has called me constantly. She’s called so much I’m pretty sure she’s been laying into me more than she’s laying her husband. Which is bad, since technically she’s still on her honeymoon.
All that adds up to the reason I “accidentally” dropped my phone in a motel’s bathroom. The silence has been bliss.
I got a job at a gas station. I got to say I liked dealing blackjack in Vegas much better—but then, that got me into more trouble than I care to remember. I’m not planning on staying here forever. I can’t.
“Hey, Girl, your new uniform came in this morning. Go put it on and don’t drag your feet. We’ve got a busy schedule today,” my new boss informs me while walking out of his office.
He knows my name, but he constantly calls me “Girl.” It’s beyond annoying and I might dream of knocking him over the head with a tire iron in my spare time. He deposits a small paper bag on the counter. I look at it and my eyes nearly bulge out of my head. I could barely fit a sandwich in there, let alone a uniform.
I pull out… a bikini.
“You have got to be shitting me,” I respond, holding up the skimpiest white bikini I have ever seen in my life. The top will barely cover my boobs and it’s studded. There’s literally silver studs all over it, making it shiny and glittery as hell. The bottom will mostly cover my ass, so I guess I should be glad it’s not thong style.
“You got a problem?”
“You expect me to wear a bikini in a gas station? Have you seen this place, Joe? I’ll be covered in oil by the end of the day. And why do I need to wear a bikini? I stand behind a counter all day.”
“You’ll be pumping gas,” he responds. He sounds like he thinks I’m just being plain stupid not knowing what’s expected of me.
See, there are no 7/11s or regular Chevron or Shell stations in Buck-Stop. There’s Joe’s. Joe’s is a gas station that looks like it stepped out of a 1970s sitcom. It has the old style 1980s pumps and he still literally has the black tube a car drives over that makes a bell ring when someone pulls up outside for gas. The inside doesn’t have a store. It has snacks, one freezer housing sodas—chest type, no fancy pop machine at Joe’s—and car supplies like oil, brake fluid, windshield washing fluid, antifreeze and so on.
Still, he pays in cash, which is nice, because I’ve been using my credit card to the point that I think I can hear it screaming every time they swipe it. I just never planned on wearing a bikini.
“You want me to pump gas wearing a bikini? Outside?”
“You can’t very well pump gas inside, now can you? You going to talk my head off all day or go put your uniform on?”
“It’s a bikini, not a uniform,” I argue, frowning.
“Are we going to have a problem? I could have hired other people, you know, Girl. You either do it or get out, but don’t expect me to pay you for today because you haven’t done anything to earn me one dime.”
“You do realize we are in Colorado, right? That the weather is freaking cold?”
“It’s not like you’ll be out there all day. You’ll have breaks to come inside. Make up your mind. You’re starting to wear on my nerves,” he grumbles.
For a minute I’m torn. I really want to tell him to go fuck himself. But my bank account needs to moderately recover before I can hop back on the road and play left or right turn into the next state. So instead, I sigh. Then I take the bikini and head to the back office.
I’m changing the damn penny next time. Clearly I should have been turning right when leaving Vegas behind.
six
titan
Getting a call from a private investigator at two in the morning informing you that your wife is somewhere in Colorado is not exactly what every man dreams of, I’m sure. It sure as fuck isn’t what I wanted. After a week of hearing nothing from her, I can admit I was starting to panic. I have plans and my actions kind of derailed them. They weren’t plans I’m necessarily proud of and I’ve been thinking twice about them—actually a lot more than twice. But they were plans, and either way I moved forward I didn’t need to do it with a ring on my damn finger. A ring I’m still wearing. I like to look down at it and remind myself that I’m an idiot.