Total pages in book: 161
Estimated words: 154890 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 774(@200wpm)___ 620(@250wpm)___ 516(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 154890 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 774(@200wpm)___ 620(@250wpm)___ 516(@300wpm)
“Oh, but I do understand.” Heather pushes to her feet abruptly and, rounding the table, gives my shoulder a brief squeeze. “I feel like bashing your heads together. You live your life at full tilt, and according to Mum, Mimi has had a pretty hard time since her brother died. You’d probably be really good for each other.”
“That’s nice of you to say, Heath, but—”
“You’re a big boy, Whit. You’ve always done what you think is right, even when it’s to the detriment of yourself. But this is where I leave you because my lovely husband whose guts I once hated, incidentally, is waiting in the car outside. Once upon a time, if Archer had been on fire, I wouldn’t have parted with my pee to douse him. And now he’s the center of my universe. Life is funny like that, Whit. You can think you know yourself, know what’s best for you. You can plan and hypothesize, minimize all the risks, but at the end of the day, life has a plan all of its own.”
“That’s not what this is,” I reply with a weary shake of my head. Her hand tightens briefly before I feel the loss of it as she pulls away.
“I’ll have to bash some sense into you another day because the love of my life is parked on double yellows.”
Despite her protests, I escort Heather out of the VIP area and down to the lower floor. At the exit, she gives me a hug, which is both uncharacteristic and a bit worrying.
Am I such a sad sack?
Turning back to the dance floor, I make my way through the throng of people whose lives appear much less complicated as they laugh and drink, and deliver drunken pickup lines over the ear-splittingly loud music.
I must be getting old, I think as I dodge a dropped glass, then a drunken, unsolicited kiss, but when I find myself at the last place I’d spotted Mimi, she’s nowhere to be seen. I glance up at the floor above, but there’s no one at our table. So where the fuck has she gone?
“Nice handbag,” some joker yells, making me look down at the sparkly square my fingers tighten on. Mimi left her purse on the table when she’d stormed off. She can’t very well have gone far without it.
I swing around, my gut twisted in a tight knot. She’s about as far from flighty as Heather is, and it’s not like she has a drink to spike. Or money to buy one. She’s probably just dancing, I tell myself, as I cast a glance over the writhing bodies on the vast dance floor. It’s like a scene from hell, the knot in my stomach joined by another between my shoulder blades.
“Want to buy me a drink, gorgeous?”
“Not particularly,” I mutter, untangling some nameless woman’s arms and ignoring her pout. I swing away. This place is a fucking meat market.
If not you and not El…
Her words drift through my head. No. I don’t for one minute think Mimi is—
Someone in front of me moves one way, the person in front of them another, and I see her through the crowd. See the back of her head, at least, the light catching her blond ponytail. There’s a man in front of her. He towers over her, all smiles and slick hair.
No. Whatever that is, it’s not happening. No and fuck no, I decide, beginning to push my way through the crowd, ignoring the complaints of those between me and her. My chest expands, my heart seeming to salsa somewhere inside it. It doesn’t matter if she’s trying to make me jealous because we’ve gone way past that.
The closer I get, the more the arsehole looks like the poster boy for steroid abuse. A pounding starts at my left temple as he puts a hand the size of a shovel on her shoulder. I’m not small, but fuck me, he is huge. A strobe light passes over the pair, making it hard to tell if he moved his hand or if Mimi moved her shoulder, not that it matters because I’ll snap his hand off if he touches her again. I don’t care if he’s built like a brick shit house—his dick could be dipped in chocolate, and it’s still not happening. She’s leaving with no one else but me tonight, even if that means I have to chuck her over my shoulder and drag her kicking and screaming from the place.
Connor, my friend, better me than him, surely, I think, the moment before, thanks to a dip in the music, I hear:
“… not interested!” Her irritation is clear. “Don’t touch me!” she demands as her shoulder jerks out of his reach again. In three steps, I’m by her side, and I realize the prick is holding her wrist. “Get off.” Her voice shrill with distress.