Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 68390 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 342(@200wpm)___ 274(@250wpm)___ 228(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68390 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 342(@200wpm)___ 274(@250wpm)___ 228(@300wpm)
“Aww, you came with someone then?”
“Taken, I’m afraid,” I reply.
“Probably married.” She pouts, but then she laughs, and I swear it’s loud enough to cut over the pounding music. The lights are strobing, too, or at least I think they are. I don’t think that’s my eyes and brain. God, when did thirty-two start to feel this old? “But that’s okay! The married ones are more fun.”
“Ohhhhhh, no. Not me. I’m very—very—married. Very married.”
“Not happily, though, or you would have said so. Although, that’s usually just a lie people tell when they’re not. You can still buy me a drink, you know.”
While she pouts at me and I shake my head, I realize Weland and her group have moved to some other part of this club, which is entirely too massive. Panic claws at my throat. Panic because I can’t let all this be for nothing. Not this crazy amount of work, the past four years, Weland’s sacrifice, or the fight of my life that I’ve had to do to keep my company mine. A company that I built myself from the ground up. From nothing. I had to borrow money at the start to buy shares. Shares that were worth nothing one day and then worth everything the next. Shares that my aunt, who backed me, left to me only on the most clichéd conditions. No doubt she’s laughing from beyond the grave at all this.
But no doubt I’m not.
“I’m sorry. I really am.” I’m only sorry that a line like that actually works on some people. I back out of the line, and the blonde just shrugs and turns around to find a more receptive audience in the guy behind me.
Alright, I’m sorry I had to drag someone like Weland into this too.
I’m sorry she’s been having a hard time. I’m sorry she’s sad and lonely and—holy shit.
Right freaking here.
She’s right around the corner. In fact, I nearly plowed right into her. I bring myself up short, and my sharp athletic reflexes save me.
But they don’t save her. I guess I’m a little bit too close because even though I come up short, she must sense the air shifting or something, so she spins around. Her drink goes flying out of her hand and lands right on the front of my suit.
Because yes, I’m one of those guys who wore a suit to a club. To be clear, it’s not a formal, suit-wearing kind of place.
“Oh my holy smokies and onions! I’m so sorry! I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Oh my goodness, you scared the life out of me, and it just went flying. I’m…jeez, well, you did sneak up on me. You shouldn’t do that in a club. People get the wrong idea. Something about darkness and weird lights and too much music and too much booze, and ahhh, look at me. Talking too much. Hold that thought.” She holds up a hand. “I’m going to run to the bathroom and get some paper towels to wipe you down. Again, I’m so, so sorry about the suit. It looks expensive. Gah, look at me. I’m still talking too much when I should be moving. Okay, moving now. Right now. Right now now.”
She’s nervous, but she’s over her scare. With those wide blue eyes, the adorable way she’s biting down on her bottom lip, and the way she won’t look me in the face after that first initial shocked glance, it all tells me that she likes what she sees, and she’s flustered from more than just her projectile drink, which honestly, appears to just be water.
I brush at the wetness and raise my fingers to my nose. I don’t care that I give them an undignified sniff. Yup, it’s just water, which is funny because when I look over at the other women—there are at least fifteen or so in the stagette group, and they are all packed into one big booth—they all already look beyond slightly inebriated.
“It’s not a problem. Don’t worry about it.” I don’t think club bathrooms are a safe place for a woman to go alone. Is any bathroom safe? God, I want her to be safe.
Catching a plane from London, I literally got here just in time. Smitty did the rest, finding out which club the stagette was going to take place at, and if there were more than one, he would have found out the specific times. I have no idea how he did it, but he gave me the time, address, and name of the place, and he had it for me within twenty minutes of the phone call with Weland.
It sounds a lot like he tattles and spies, but in reality, he doesn’t do either. Not much. But maybe kind of. I have to keep tabs on my wife, okay? The marriage thing was a rocky idea at best and fucking straight-up awful multiplied by infinity and spiders at worst.