Total pages in book: 153
Estimated words: 148704 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 744(@200wpm)___ 595(@250wpm)___ 496(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 148704 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 744(@200wpm)___ 595(@250wpm)___ 496(@300wpm)
His brows are nearly touching now. “You are out of your mind if you think I will have anything to do with this.” He creeps closer. “And you’re downright dumb if you think I’ll allow anyone else to either.”
“You’ve always claimed I was kind of crazy.” Shoving the paper in his chest, I shrug, and then I head to class, knowing at some point, Crew will call.
Until then, I’ll keep getting waxed.
I’m nothing if not prepared.
Chapter Three
Davis
Stubborn, I swear. It’s not like I asked him to give me a baby.
Ohh, that’s a perfect idea for my “unmarried at thirty-five” backup plan!
Wait, focus. One use of his anatomy at a time, and time is precious, something Crew apparently doesn’t seem to grasp.
It’s been nine days since I asked him to help me with my little problem. By the third, when I hadn’t heard a word, I half expected an angry voice mail from my dad, but nooo. Mister Cool Cat Crew didn’t even bother to snitch me out. He used to tell on me to Memphis all the time and then Memphis would play dad, even though we had a perfectly strict one of those already. It was annoying.
It’s funny how the things that drive you batty about a person are the things you miss most.
Day five made everything clear. He was pretending I didn’t ask him to give me the D.
But I did. And he knows I did.
So, by the sixth day, I decided to remind him by sending him a cherry emoji, following it up with the explosion one, and a pair of begging hands.
He did respond, but only with a single, four-letter word I hate, being it’s been his go-to when it comes to me since forever.
Ugh!
So yeah, it’s the ninth day, and I’m pissed, so I pull up the message thread, glaring at the word “stop,” and I swear it grows big and bold and mocking.
And blurry, but that could be the half bottle of grocery store wine I’ve consumed.
Wedging the bottle between my legs, I jolt when the chill meets my thighs, and text the maddening man again.
Me: In case you have forgotten, I always sucked at the silent game my mom tried to trick us into playing on road trips.
Me: I don’t like silence.
Me: It makes me want to scream.
Me: So maybe I’ll keep being annoying and texting one line at a time.
Me: Over and over until you respond.
Me: It could work.
I go to text another random spew of nonsense, but before I can, those three little dots appear in the thread, and I grin. A grin that falls flat five seconds later.
Crew: I’m at work. Stop.
There’s that word again!
Me: Say you agree.
Five minutes go by, and I groan, take a swig from the bottle, and send another message.
Me: Don’t make me beg. I am not above begging. I will literally get on my knees, Crew.
Crew: Swear to god, girl. Quit, or I’ll call your dad.
My mouth gapes. See! “Ass!”
Me: Okay, sure. Tell him his sweet, perfectly virginal daughter is asking his second son to deflower her in exchange for a 1939 Chevy half ton!
Annoyed, I hop off the edge of the bed and begin pacing the room. What if he is calling my dad? At this very moment?
Oh my god, what if Crew does tell him I offered him what was supposed to be my brother’s prized possession in exchange for something so… trivial. I mean, I know virginity is important to a lot of people. Some want to wait until they’re married, and that’s fantastic. Commendable, really. Yay them.
I, however, am not one of those people. I’m only a virgin because the opportunity to rid myself of the title has never been naked before me or I probably would have grabbed hold—hopefully requiring both hands—but again, I’ve yet to get the chance.
It’s probably because I like to stay busy. Always. I work and go to school and guys are… difficult. To be fair, most of the men I talk to are hungover customers, looking for the perfect meal to settle their queasy stomachs. That or their polar opposite and instead of liquor, they get book drunk, thinking they’re smarter than me, and speak as if they’re fresh off page five of Communication Essentials for Dummies.
To be fair: they’re also not Crew.
I squeal when my phone rings, peeking at the screen out of the corner of one eye. The utter relief that washes over me when it’s not my dad’s smiling face greeting me, but the sneaky side profile shot I took and programmed for Crew is embarrassing.
Maybe it’s the alcohol, but I end up staring at the screen rather than answering, and then it stops. Seconds later, his text comes through, and I growl.
This man is impossible, but liquor can help with that.
Picking up the pink-colored wine, I take another swig.