Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 111610 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 558(@200wpm)___ 446(@250wpm)___ 372(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111610 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 558(@200wpm)___ 446(@250wpm)___ 372(@300wpm)
Samantha’s eyes narrow, and she hops up from the stool, forgetting about her hurt knee. She hisses, shifting her weight to her good leg, and I automatically reach for her to keep her from hitting the floor.
“You good?”
“Hell no, I’m great because I’m going with you to see what this place is all about.” She’s wiggling her knee back and forth and seems to be doing better already because she reaches over the couch for her jeans. “Unless its ‘no girls allowed’? Which, to be clear, is so late-1900s and not acceptable today.”
I flash an apologetic smile. “We actually don’t allow female members, but it’s after hours, so I guess you can come with me.” I act like she’s twisting my arm and I’m doing her a favor, but I’m not ready to end this . . . date? Or whatever this is.
I’m breaking the Gentlemen's Club’s number-six rule, which is no female members or visitors, but considering I wrote the rules, I can also choose when to break them.
“That’s what I thought. Wise choice, Mr. Harrington,” she declares with a triumphant smirk.
“You’re a bad influence.”
She pats my bare chest a little too hard as she says, “You have no idea, but you like it. Let’s go.”
The drive to the club is quick and mostly spent on the phone, reassuring the alarm system security company that I don't want them to roll police just yet. I’m gambling that it’s a false alarm because there’s a hefty service fee for the police coming out. I’d like to avoid that if I can. I might have money, but I’m not in the habit of throwing it away for no reason.
Pulling up to the freshly-painted, renovated space, I’m half scanning the white brick for graffiti, black framed windows for cracks, and double front doors for any sign of entry, and also watching Samantha’s reaction to what she sees. This building, the club, is akin to holding my baby up for inspection, and if she says one critical thing, there’ll be no going back.
But she’s looking it over with concern too, like she cares about the club because she knows it’s important to me.
I don’t see anything worrisome, though, and everything seems to be in order. I park in the empty lot, right by the door. “Wait here. Let me check it out first.”
I should’ve known better than to tell Samantha to do anything, at least outside of a sexual encounter, because she laughs. “Yeah, right, Batman.”
She opens her door, and I’m stunned in place for a split second before I jump out too. But by the time I get around, Samantha is prepped with a stun gun in her hand. “Let’s go, Batman.”
“Where the hell did you get that?” I hiss, trying to keep my voice down in case there is someone inside. It’s not like there’s anywhere she could’ve stashed it that I haven’t seen.
With her empty hand, she gestures at herself and enlightens me like I’m an idiot. “Female, student, on campus at all hours, where guys think a dark parking garage is a good time to hit me up. I’m not stupid, I’m gonna do what I can to keep myself safe, so I keep this in my purse. It’s legal, and I’m trained.”
She’s answering all my questions before I answer them, but the idea that campus isn’t safe enough for Samantha to walk from class to her car without confrontation makes me angry as hell. That’s something I’ll have to address later, with her and with the club guys who are students. Maybe they can do a Gentleman escort on demand or something for students who don’t feel safe walking around campus?
I table that idea because for now, I have to focus on the club. “Alright, Wonder Woman. Let’s do this.”
I unlock the front door and open it carefully, keeping Samantha behind me as I peer inside. She does at least allow that and doesn’t go charging in, stun gun snapping and crackling in front of her with a warrior’s whoop of attack. I would’ve bet that’d be her style.
Not seeing anything suspicious, I put the code into the panel by the door, shutting off the silent alarm. In my pocket, my phone vibrates, noting the activity.
“This is the part where you offer me a tour,” Samantha whispers. I cut my eyes her way and find her grinning like this is some sort of crazy, fun adventure.
Which it’s not. This is dangerous, or potentially dangerous, at least.
So why do I feel myself smiling back at her?
Slowly and methodically, I lead Samantha around the clubhouse like we’re an investigative team of two. The front desk is undisturbed. The weight room is cleaned up, with everything in its place, and Samantha picks up a ten-pound dumbbell to do a couple of bicep curls. I glare at her, and she sets it back down, precisely in place, with a sheepish look, though I don’t think she’s sorry in the slightest. The class area is clear, the locker room is empty, and even the bathroom is surgical-level disinfected.