Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 129460 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 647(@200wpm)___ 518(@250wpm)___ 432(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 129460 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 647(@200wpm)___ 518(@250wpm)___ 432(@300wpm)
As I stuff my hands under my arms to keep them warm, I head in the direction the doof doof music is coming from. My unease about leaving New Jersey in my prime seems nowhere near as bad when I bypass several parties during my three-block walk. We couldn’t afford the affluent surroundings my parents spoiled us in before their untimely demise, so we went for the more hip, younger crowd in SouthPark West. The streets aren’t tree-lined and the sidewalks are littered with rubbish, but it’s got nothing on the streets of New York when its patrons finally stagger to bed.
I like it. It’s hip but not overly skanky.
Four blocks later, I arrive at my destination. It isn’t quite as I was expecting. It appears more like an Irish bar than a nightclub, and the almost black ale in the hands of numerous patrons outside isn’t the only indication, so is the horrible accents many young Americans are butchering.
I’ve been to Ireland. The sounds thundering out of this establishment are nothing like the ones in the pubs I visited.
When the doors outside the pub burst open, and a belligerent man is tossed onto the curb, I sidestep the burly bouncer telling him he better scat before the owner returns and enter the malty-scented space.
The unusual techno garbage I heard earlier makes sense when my eyes roam to the far corner of the malt-scented space. Even with it being a little after one, a bachelorette party is in full swing, and they brought their own karaoke machine to the festivities.
The attendees’ shrieks as they belt out the latest songs rocketing up the chart thanks to TikTok trends are so ear-piercing I consider asking the bartender if they have a beer garden. The only reason I don’t is because a fairy-sized beauty in the middle of the bright pink congregation secures my attention in under a nanosecond.
Her singing is atrocious, but my God, she has a body the devil couldn’t corrupt and a face that could only be sexier if it were strained with ecstasy.
There are women who make a man’s dick ache, then there are women like this dark-haired stranger.
They don’t just make your dick ache—they make it embarrassingly erect in a room full of people.
Fuck, Caleb, get a grip before ‘pervert’ is added to your name like the sicko people believe is your blood!
The bartender eyes me with an arched brow when I spin to face the sticky bartop so fast my crotch almost takes out the empty barstool next to me. “You good?”
Not one for deep and meaningfuls with a member of my own sex while sporting a boner, I jerk up my chin before chugging down half the beer he sets in front of me.
I fight not to spray some of the malty liquid onto the bar when fleshly, gloss-coated lips press so close to my ear, you’d swear we had met before tonight. “From the way you reacted to our stare down, anyone would think I was the one wearing the bride-to-be sash instead of my friend.”
The ravishing woman I mentioned earlier has me over a barrel, but I act as if she doesn’t. “What do you mean? What stare down?”
When she tilts back, her hazel eyes glisten in the light dangling above the bar. With her lower lip caught between her teeth, she nudges her head to the makeshift karaoke stage. “Our stare down. You ogled, you liked what you saw, but then you acted as if you could catch cooties from a distance… or worse, the dreaded marriage bug.” Her gag is cute, but I only witness it for half a second before she shoves her hand between us to wiggle her ring finger in the air. “You can’t, by the way. Not even being besties with the bride puts you at risk.” She uses the same hand to offer me a handshake. “Jess.”
“Caleb,” I reply before accepting her offer.
It takes me almost asking the bartender for a crowbar to free my hand from her grip, but I get there—eventually.
Her eagerness has my clinger alarm sounding, but for some reason, its screeches are nowhere near as daunting on this side of the country.
Perhaps a change in zip code boosted more than my libido?
My confused expression doubles when Jess pops a handful of salted peanuts from a dish on the bar into her mouth before mumbling through the chunks, “I wasn’t planning to use your appreciative glare as means for a discount.”
Since I hear a ‘but’ coming, I hold back my reply.
It’s for the best.
“But…”
Told you.
“You are thirty minutes late, and drool did pool in the corner of your mouth when you stared at my cleavage long enough to make me worried my nipples were showing, so shouldn’t that give me some sort of credit?” My lips part in preparation to inform her I have no clue what she’s talking about—and to assure her she’d know if her nipples were showing because my tongue would be hanging out of my mouth—but she continues talking, foiling my attempt. “And since a credit isn’t technically a discount, you’re whole ‘I don’t work for free’ emails don’t really apply to this situation, do they?” Her quick grabble for air is too swift for me to get a word in. “And as I stated only moments ago, you are thirty minutes late. Thirty minutes lost from a twenty-minute performance should see you paying me to watch you dance.”