Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 79938 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79938 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
With that, knowing down to my bones, and maybe my dick judging by the way her eyes went the slightest bit hot at the word eating, I got up, and walked back to the clubhouse.
That bad mood of mine?
Fucking gone.
TWO
Kennedy
Someday, I wanted to be able to walk into a store without having to look at the price tag before I decide if I like a dress or not.
Really, my entire life came down to that.
Poverty was a crushing thing.
It weighed down on you until you were almost sure there was nothing that could relieve that much pressure.
Almost sure.
That almost was what kept me going.
That almost was what had me at She's Bean Around though I literally never got coffee outside home because it was a frivolous spending of money that I, quite frankly, could not afford. It was also what had me sitting at a table across from Ethan whose voice had the same response in my body as nails on a chalkboard, listening to him prattle on and on and freaking on about how he wanted to help me.
Wanted to.
But wasn't going to.
Such was our so-called relationship.
Not romantic, mind you.
God, no.
Professional relationship.
I had been dealing with his cocky, condescending, overbearing, lying ass for a while. I had also needed to field his misguided flirtation when it arose. Because... hell freaking no.
Not in a million years.
Luckily, being in public seemed to make him keep his hands to himself and be on, somewhat, good behavior.
You know, while he jerked me around and gave me platitudes and half-promises I knew he had no intentions of keeping. I had brought my best to the table too.
Watching him walk away, taking what I hoped would be more financial security with him, I was already mentally back at home eating store brand ice cream straight from the tub with a soup spoon and a side of five-dollar wine. Yes, five dollars. They, in fact, do make wine that cheap. And in case you were wondering, it absolutely does taste like it costs five dollars, really just being glorified bathroom cabinet alcohol. But, hey, at least it was alcohol.
And then he spoke.
Really, he just startled me at first. I was no saint. I had heard (and used) many a curse word in my day. But something about it being said directed at me made me jerk back and automatically look for the source of it.
Then there he was.
He was good-looking in a very rough kind of way. Maybe that was just a judgement based wholly on the jeans, wifebeater, leather biker cut, and boots. But I was inclined to think it was just the man as a whole, not his clothes. He was tall and a lean kind of strong and a sort-of young De Niro in Taxi Driver kind of face, but somehow hotter. Which is saying something, 'cause I was always a sucker for De Niro. I may or may not have drooled over that picture of him covered in blood with a finger to the side of his head more than a time or two. And this guy? He totally seemed like someone who might have been covered in blood a few times. His own or someone else's.
His hair was less ridiculous than De Niro's in that movie, black, short-cropped, but stylish enough. His eyes were dark, and there were several scars on his face that should have made him ugly, but somehow didn't. There was more than a day or two's worth of scruff on his face.
Everything about him seemed to scream- danger!
But that, as most people knew, tended to be a bit like catnip for us lady folks.
Besides, girls from the quote-unquote wrong side of the tracks like me, we were so used to his type that the danger seemed more like a comfort. In fact, we tended to be a bit more suspicious of the guys in suits.
Then he continued his little monolog, effortlessly calm and cocky, so bloody sure of himself that I pretty much instantly believed that being finger fucked by him would somehow be a life-changing experience.
Of course he ended it with an invitation, and a smooth as all get out exit that was straight out of a movie.
I knew the party he was talking about.
I had walked past it on my way in, ignoring a catcall from a few of the guys walking into it carrying cases of beer. And, let's face it, anyone who had spent more than a long weekend in Navesink Bank knew exactly who The Henchmen MC were and precisely what they were into. So the rough and tough look this guy who did not give me a name so I mentally dubbed him Niro in homage to Mr. Taxi Driver himself, made total sense. He was an arms dealer. Or gun runner. Whatever term they wanted to use to call selling illegal guns to other bad guys in exchange for money.