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)
And clearly neither does Tash when she asks, “Can we go to Franks? Daddy will give us unlimited access to the bar.” She cozies in close to make sure her next words are only for me. “And he got another shipment in today. It’s super fresh.”
Instead of admitting I’m drinking an alcohol-free Budweiser in a cooler case so no one will know I’m a soft-cock, I make out I don’t want to leave for another reason. “It’s my first day off in months. I don’t want to go to Franks. I’m there almost every day.”
Franks is my place of employment. The first time I mixed drinks for Tash’s dad, he hired me on the spot. It was awkward explaining that I had to have a break every two to three hours, but when I made out I had diabetes, he agreed to let me ‘shoot up insulin’ every couple of hours as long as I didn’t do it in front of the customers.
His leniency would have you thinking he is an upstanding member of society.
He isn’t.
He’s a douche who skims his bar staff’s tips, waters down almost all the drinks on the menu, and sells more than alcohol to his customers, but until I find something else, I have to suck it up and deal with both him and his annoying daughter.
“Caleb—”
“Tash…” I whine back, my voice as high-pitched as hers. “If you go by yourself, you can complain to anyone who will listen how I’m not giving you what you need and that only a real man could show me how it’s done.”
Her face lights up like the Christmas tree Jess and Octavia decorated in our apartment while I pretended to nap. “That’s really clever.” She peers at me like she’s shocked to learn I have a brain. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“I’m sure you will.” Since your father expects me to work seven days a week for minimum wage and a ten percent share of the tips I fucking earn.
I curse ill-timing to hell when Tash’s swoop to plant her lips on my mouth occurs at the same time Jess enters the party unfashionably late.
Although her jaw works through a stern spasm when she spots our embrace, she musters up a fake grin before making a beeline for Octavia to save her from Ronnie’s unwanted attention.
Lucky for Ronnie as I was two seconds from throwing him out.
He has issues backing down when asked. Octavia has told him numerous times they’ll never be more than friends, but he still hangs off her at every party.
I guess it could be worse. He could take his anger out on her instead of himself.
When I blamed Jess for my last shit performance, I knew I was lashing out on the wrong person. I also know her father’s job title has nothing to do with who she is, but when I spiral, I spiral good.
Nothing made sense that night, and tonight doesn’t seem as if it will fare any better.
I can’t take my eyes off Jess’s sultry curves in her fitted dress that’s far too skimpy for the rooftop party, but even with her natural seductiveness making my dick ache, no amount of pleading will have me ignoring his imaginary ‘Oh, God,’ chants hitting the back of my neck.
They’re so fucking loud I almost reach for an alcoholic beverage in the cooler this time around. The only thing that stops me is the quickest glance of a pair of pretty hazel eyes from across the room.
I haven’t told anyone that I’m in involuntary rehab, but it appears as if I don’t need to tell Jess for her to know.
She knows almost all my secrets.
Almost.
Unable to shake off the unease of her unearthing all the skeletons in my closet, I dump my recently cracked open alcohol-free beer onto the makeshift bar, farewell Jess and Octavia with a chin lift, then gallop down the stairs like I’m racing to catch up with Tash.
I’m not, but an impromptu AA meeting may go over well with my probation officer, and I need all the brownie points I can get with him. He doesn’t care about my excuses. Solutions are his only remedies for delinquents.
With the night still relatively early into celebrations, I make it to the local PCYC club within ten minutes. It is brisk out, but jackets aren’t required when you enter a room full of addicts. Shame has a way of heating you from the inside out—unlike hell.
Needing the brownie points, I sign the register an overweight guy with a bad toupée is manning. He’s sweating like more than an addiction is heating his blood. He almost looks scared.
“You all right?”
He nods, but I don’t believe him. Not only does he shake like a leaf when I dump the pen onto the register with a thump, he squeals like a girl.