Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 56742 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 284(@200wpm)___ 227(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56742 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 284(@200wpm)___ 227(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
A minute later, the leader of the Shanks finally appears. He’s a short man, around five-six, five-seven. He’s wearing a leather jacket, and his black hair is combed back with so much product it glistens in the overhead lights. He has a few men with him, but they take a different table like ours.
“Fellas,” he says, with a way-too-familiar tone. “It’s nice to see you again.”
“Again?” I ask, my thoughts still on Scarlet, my world spinning over and over as I try to make sense of all this heat.
Luca glares at me. “We met at Dad’s birthday party, remember?”
Ah, right. Vaguely. A quick handshake. “Of course,” I say, forcing a smile onto my face. “It’s good to see you again…” What’s his goddamned name? It’s so difficult to think about anything else.
“Russel,” Luca says, walking around the table and shaking his head.
Russel. Russel Greene. That’s right—a two-bit criminal with an angry look in his eyes. He clearly thinks I should be kneeling at his feet. He hasn’t mentioned the fact he’s late, which pisses me the hell off. It doesn’t matter if you’re the president or the lowest of the low. If a man says he’ll be somewhere, he should be on time.
“Shall we get some drinks?” Russel says.
“Amen,” Luca replies.
“I’m fine with soda,” I say, taking my seat.
This gets another not-so-subtle look from Russel.
CHAPTER 3
Scarlet
I’m in the bathroom, breathing way too hard, trying to get a hold of myself. I don’t know what the hell happened when I approached the table. Two men were sitting there, one shorter with black hair, and the other…
He was tall and broad, wearing a stylish dark blue suit. His hair was streaked with silver, and his eyes were dark, maybe brown, but they looked black and intense. When his friend called me doll, the tall man looked so protective. I thought he was going to flip the table over. We shared some steamy eye contact… I think. It’s not like I’ve ever done that before, but it felt significant and hot. It burned. It still burns, and it’s been at least five minutes.
Despite the exhaustion and knowing I should be trying to find forty grand—or fleeing the city to find Dad—I have to get back out there. I’ll still need a job if Mom and I somehow get through this.
When I see another man at the table, I approach, reminding myself to stay calm. Each step I take closer to the table sends more and more warm tingles thrumming through my body. The silver-haired man looks up. His dark eyes fixate on me again. It’s difficult to tell if he’s angry or… something else. The third man turns. When he spots me, his eyes snap open widely. Then he smirks.
I stare at him. I wonder, am I being paranoid? Those eyes. Those green eyes. They look so similar to the ones that stared from the balaclava last night. But that would be way too cruel, the universe throwing us together so soon. Or maybe it’s not a coincidence? Perhaps he came here because he knows I work here and wants to intimidate me.
“Scarlet,” the man says as I get closer.
I’m wearing a name badge, so this doesn’t mean anything except that he can read—big whoop.
“What a lovely name,” he goes on.
The silver-haired man flinches. I wonder why. I wonder if he cares, but he’s so much older. He’s handsome. He’s hot. His suit probably costs more than our apartment.
“Th-thank you,” I say, trying to lock last night away, the argument, the threats. “Are you ready to order?”
“We’ve been ready for a while now,” the green-eyed man says, glaring at me.
“Don’t worry,” the silver-haired man says, his voice deep and reassuring. It’s a voice I can imagine whispering me awake on a lazy Sunday morning, his warm body pressed against mine, song notes of lust and love, and… Jeez, I need to quit this. It must be the lack of sleep. I’m reading way too much into this. “My friend doesn’t mean to be so rude. He’s forgotten his manners.”
The man waves a hand. “Bring us some whiskey and some steaks.”
“Any particular brand of whiskey? And how would you like your steaks cooked?”
“Do we need to fill out a questionnaire, Scarlet?” the man says, then laughs like nothing funnier has ever been said.
“Medium-rare,” the silver-haired man—my man—says.
The other two give me their preferences, and then I walk across the restaurant, wanting so badly to look over my shoulder to see if he’s watching me. I’ve never wondered or cared if boys are looking at me before. Is that the difference? This isn’t a boy. He’s a man, but I think it’s more than that. It’s like something in him is singing to something inside me.
After giving the order to the kitchen, my colleague pulls me aside. Terri is a tall woman with a shaved head and freckles scattered across her cheeks. “Do you know who you just served?” she asks.