Total pages in book: 29
Estimated words: 26976 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 135(@200wpm)___ 108(@250wpm)___ 90(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 26976 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 135(@200wpm)___ 108(@250wpm)___ 90(@300wpm)
“Want to grab a coffee?” he asks, stepping forward and assaulting me with his cloying cologne.
“You’re so sweet,” I coo, “but you know I need to get back home. It’s late.”
His hand finds my hip over my yoga pants and he caresses me. “You could come home with me, Summer.”
A forced giggle escapes me. “Can’t, baby. I’m a one-man girl. You know that.”
“I can share,” he teases back.
That, I don’t believe.
John is obsessed about shit. And right now, he’s obsessed with me. Sharing isn’t in his vocabulary. It’s just more crap he spews in hopes I’ll cave and fall into his bed.
“You’re a mess,” I say with a smile that hurts as I try to step away.
He walks forward, tightening his grip on my hip. “We both know you’re good for me. Just let it happen.” His palm finds my ass, giving it a squeeze. “Just let it happen.”
Gently, I press my hand to his chest and push him back.
His face pinches in displeasure. “Summer.” My name—the name I’ve demanded he and everyone else here call me despite what’s on my driver’s license—on his lips feels like a warning. Like he’s played my game and wants to change the rules.
“See you soon, baby,” I purr, batting my lashes at him and grinning.
I turn and try not to run down the hall away from him. I barely make it to the door at the end of the hallway when an arm sweeps around my waist, pulling me back. John caresses my ribs as he nuzzles my hair. I freeze and close my eyes, hoping he’ll just let me go.
“I was thinking about putting you on the floor,” he murmurs, his hot breath tickling my ear.
I swallow down the lump in my throat. The floor is for brave girls like Clarissa or Leslie. The floor is for the girls who can shake their assets in front of a crowd and earn a shit ton. The boxes are for girls like me—the ones who detest who they’ve become—a place to hide away their shame. We earn our money privately.
“You know I’d be horrible out there,” I say lightly, trying to hide the tremble in my tone. “Besides, I only really have one customer these days. I’m bad for business.” My teasing words don’t cut through the tension.
“The boxes are for my favorites,” John rumbles, his palm sliding dangerously close to my pussy over my pants. “I’ve kept you locked away in that box for a long time, Summer. Saving you for myself. But…” His unspoken words hang in the air.
But if you don’t want me, I’ll give you to them.
Turning in his arms, I tilt my head up and flash him a fake smile. “I’m still your favorite,” I flirt. I press my lips to the corner of his mouth. “Don’t forget that.”
His eyes darken as his palms grip my ass in a possessive way. “It’d be easier to remember if you’d let me spend more time with you.”
“We’ll grab coffee soon, baby,” I lie. “When I’m not so tired. I have a big day with Christian tomorrow.”
He flinches at the reminder, but remains undeterred. “I’ll win you over one day.”
“Of course you will,” I say with a bright smile before tugging from his grip. “See you tomorrow, John.”
Sometimes I wish I could call in sick.
As soon as I climb into my Honda, I rest my forehead on the steering wheel and choke out a sob. Why is this my life? In the privacy of my own space, I cry like the weak woman I’ve become. For so long, I’ve been strong and fierce. I’ve trucked along despite the shitty hand life has dealt me. I’ve made lemonade from lemons.
But I’m tired.
Something has to give.
When all my tears are wrung out, I swipe at my wet cheeks with the heels of my hands and start my car. I’ll go home, shower off the grime The Hot Box leaves on me, and try to enjoy tomorrow with my man.
I sit up straight and tap into my reserve of inner strength that seems to darken each day. At one time, it flared brightly and fearlessly. One day, I hope I’ll find a way to stoke that fire again.
Until then, I’ll go home and sleep off my bad night.
Tomorrow, I’ll start again.
We’re strangers of the night, yet I feel more connected to her than anyone else. Both of us broken in some way, banished to the dark world of depravity, creeping around unseen by the rest of world. You have to be damaged to do a job like this—to let men watch you dance naked for their pleasure. Does she need saving?
I’m on alert for no reason. She doesn’t even work Mondays, yet the chance we could be in the same room and not even know it sends a rush of adrenaline through my veins.