Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 96586 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 483(@200wpm)___ 386(@250wpm)___ 322(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96586 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 483(@200wpm)___ 386(@250wpm)___ 322(@300wpm)
I let out an exasperated sigh at the same time I toe off my shoes that are already getting a goddamn hole in them like I can afford to just buy new ones. “Some fucking dick customer had the nerve to accuse me of trying to skim extra money out of his piece of shit car. Like come on, dude. It’s a fucking Nissan Altima not a GT-R.”
“Those babies can be so sexy.”
“Yeah, it’s probably best we’ve never gotten one at the shop, or I’d find myself feeling a little too Ferris Bueller for the resisting.”
McCoy laughs while nodding in agreement.
“And then Iron Tip’s dumbass called in ‘sick’ when I know that motherfucker was just hungover cause Roddy showed me the shots of him at the bar before his favorite stripper’s shift while this new hire I was hoping would work out so I could get of at least a few bitch boy duties went to lunch and decided he didn’t feel like fucking coming back, leaving us shorthanded this afternoon with a truck full of supplies to unload on top of the regular customer shit.”
He presents me with a painful cringe.
“Oh! Oh! And then listen to this shit.”
“There can’t possibly be fucking more, man.”
“But there is. Some fucking prick dinged my goddamn car when I went to get lunch from the gas station, lunch that I had to borrow five bucks from Big Roscoe in order to fucking have at all. Plus, our gym is closed for routine maintenance so I can’t run or lift any of this shit off and my girlfriend has to fucking work late again. And I had to work late, too, so I shouldn’t be pissed off about that shit, but I am.”
“’Cause it’s your birthday?”
“Because the only thing I want for my birthday is to be balls deep in my woman.”
“You never know.” His obnoxious mischievous smile appears. “You might get your birthday wish.”
The sardonic expression he tossed doesn’t wash away him grinning.
“Regardless, we’ll do you birthday up big this weekend. BBQ out by the pool. All the food and shit on me.”
His mentioning of food has me wincing, “Shit, about groceries-”
“Don’t fucking worry about it,” he instantly brushes off. “You cook shit on the reg, Collins. We’re straight.” Before my mouth can even consider moving, he speaks again, “I’m out. Headed the future Mrs. McCoy’s for the night.”
“Has she actually ever said yes to marrying you or do you just say that shit because you assume she will.”
“She has said yes.” His body makes it’s away around me, another impish grin growing. “She has said yes to many things…”
“No,” I slowly shake my head, “I don’t need that shit tonight.”
“You sure?” McCoys calls to my back. “Might lift your spirits.”
He’s flashed my middle finger as I head for my room.
At least this shit day is over.
I’ll shower, rub one out, and call my woman to tell her goodnight.
And to make sure she ate more than that muffin she was having when she called me before work to wish me happy birthday.
Vibrating in my pocket occurs right as my hand hits the handle to my door. I pull it out with my right and use my left to enter my bedroom.
Kara: Can I come be AROUND with you?
Hitting the lights instead of instantly replying to her illuminates much more than just the four walls I should probably put-up pictures or some shit on.
My eyes immediately drink in Pres’s curvaceous body barely covered in my white sheet, straightened hair pulled to one side, and her mischievous expression I can’t wait to fuck off of her beautiful face. The nudging of my cock against the zipper of my jeans rushes the words out of my mouth. “You’re not working late.”
She shakes her head slowly with a wide grin. “Happy birthday, Ry.”
As easy as it is just to be mesmerized by her and those toned legs stretched out across my mattress, I allow myself to look around the small space that’s been transformed in a ridiculous way. On my typically bare walls are checkered flags along with a “Happy Birthday Ryder” sign. Red and black balloons are littered across the bedroom floor just waiting to be walked through. The small nightstand near the bed has a sign that reads “Refueling Station” with several bottles of root beer chilling in an ice bucket.
The whole thing is hilariously childlike yet the sweetest fucking shit anyone has probably ever done for me.
I gradually creep closer kicking around balloons. “You did all this for me?”
Pres enthusiastically nods. “Yeah. I took the whole day off. Went to the salon to get my hair straightened,” she points a finger to her locks, “the other salon to my hair waxed,” the same digit points downward eliciting a whimper from me, “and then spent what was left of the day getting my toes painted, buying these decorations, putting them up, and of course, hunting down an orange creamsicle cupcake.”