Total pages in book: 209
Estimated words: 196085 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 980(@200wpm)___ 784(@250wpm)___ 654(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 196085 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 980(@200wpm)___ 784(@250wpm)___ 654(@300wpm)
But instead of fighting off an anxiety attack about paying for drinks, the skin on my arms sizzles and the hair on the back of my neck stands up.
I have a reason to go back to the bar.
“Sure thing,” I chirp, watching Sasha saunter back into the crowd as I chew on the inside of my lower lip following her out of the corridor.
I inhale for courage and walk toward the bar. My gaze shifts to where I see him standing, head and shoulders above the surrounding mortals. Jack was not crafted by God to blend in.
My stomach flutters and another gush of heat dampens my underwear.
He’s not alone anymore. He’s standing with a group. Four men in expensive-looking suits, acting like friends. And five women who look like socialites.
Except…
Two of the women are stuck to the sides of one man, and the other three are glued to another.
Hanging out with Sasha has taught me a lot—one of those things being the ability to spot a prostitute at these high-end clubs. If I went by Sasha’s list, these women tick every box.
They are dressed to the nines. They have seductive smiles on their faces at all times, their hands never straying from their dates. Truthfully, I don’t begrudge the women for what they do. If you want to sell your services for a living, I don’t really care.
What bothers me is Jack is talking with the group of them. Heartache churns inside me and the inevitable acid rises in my throat, stinging my tongue.
I’ve only just met the man. I don’t even know his last name.
Engulfed with the crippling need to become invisible and disintegrate into the floor, I spin towards the exit. My little dream of him searching for me through the crowd pops like a bubble over my head.
Jealousy rages through me, coating my tongue with an unsavory metallic taste, then I realize I’m biting the inside of my lip until it bleeds. I bolt to our table, grab my bag from under my chair. I keep my diary inside in an inner zipped pocket and I know there will be a woeful entry I’ll be writing later tonight.
I head toward the door, sliding through the crowd and gasping for air.
What the hell’s wrong with me? I’m not like this. Why do I care what a stranger does with other women?
I shove the doors open, gulping in a lungful of semi-fresh night air as I fish my phone out of my bag, tapping the screen as I press my back into the brick wall and try to disappear. I know Sasha will be pissed I left but I’ll deal with her wrath on Monday.
I finish messaging for my ride then I wring my hands as I wait, trying to forget what it felt like to touch him. A few quick words, a handshake, and stupid me, something deep down thought he could be the one.
Like he would understand…
Instead, it’s my father’s voice I hear…
Silly girl.
CHAPTER 3
JACKSON
A possessive fury has my jaw clenched. My temples pound with a sort of agony I’ve not felt before.
Mine. Mine. Mine.
I scan the bar as one of the Houston group laughs and nuzzles his pair of prostitutes’ necks. I catch him sliding a hand up one of their skirts, and distaste makes me turn away.
I’m embarrassed to be surrounded by these fucks. All of them wearing wedding rings.
At forty-one, I’ve never married. Never even got close.
I own homes in Manhattan, Thousand Oaks, a private island off the coast of Grand Cayman as well as a monstrosity of a house I built to surprise my parents back in Cleveland where I grew up. They refused to move into it though, they were more than comfortable in the little bungalow they bought together just after they married. So, there it sits, empty, except when I visit.
I spend the majority of my time here in Manhattan running my businesses from several offices in the city.
I know a lot of people in my social circles figure I’m a womanizer. A manwhore as I’ve heard it called. I don’t bother to correct them. I don’t give a shit what people think, I give a shit about winning. About making money. About coming out on top.
I have busted my ass trying to get to where I am. I wasn’t born with a silver spoon in my mouth. It was stainless steel, and fine enough. My parents, adoptive as they are, were great and taught me about hard work.
So that’s what I did.
Worked fucking hard for everything I have.
Who knows what my life would have been like if my birth mother hadn’t dropped me off in a laundry basket at the Catholic charity center? I don’t dwell, but I’m sure if I ever bothered with therapy there would be quite a few sessions on abandonment issues that have led to a lack of an ability to become attached to most humans.