Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 70980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 355(@200wpm)___ 284(@250wpm)___ 237(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 355(@200wpm)___ 284(@250wpm)___ 237(@300wpm)
And my father doesn’t take no for an answer—even from his own daughter.
His words echo in the back of my mind.
Date Colton! He’s a nice boy.
You should marry the boy. He’s good for you, and you will do this family proud.
My father doesn’t agree with my lifestyle, and like any powerful father, he always has some stupid things to say about the way I live my life.
But somewhere along the way, I started to not care. To rebel. Little bit by little bit.
I went and got my arm tattooed.
Quit college to work at a bar.
But in the end, he still won––because as often as I rebelled, I also gave in to his demands.
I despise the fact I can’t say no. Can’t be in control of my own life. Until now.
I contemplate this as I take another pull of tequila. It almost makes me choke as I continue to hold it to my lips.
For some strange, fucked-up reason, I ended up at a house party.
Is that even a thing anymore?
Emma said it was a housewarming.
Housewarming for what? Are we meant to warm the fucking house?
“Oh, my god, Lottie! At least chase it with a lime to kill the taste.” Emma takes the bottle from my hand, and I shake my head at her.
Does she not know I am trying to drown out the images of my ex? The least of my worries is how it tastes.
“This isn’t the right thing to do, and you know it. You’ll wake up tomorrow, and it will all be different.”
That was weeks ago, and his voice rings in my head as if I’ll change my mind.
How about…no.
“Lottie!” Emma yells at me.
She’s been my best friend since I managed to escape my parents’ house and start living my own life—well, partial life.
“What? You made me come. Who even has house parties at our age? We aren’t teenagers anymore. Fucking hell!” I shake my head and walk away from her.
I’m not mad at Emma. I’m mad at life, and why the hell did I even agree to come here in the first place? The last week or so I have been on my couch, watching horror films and eating all the best foods. I’ve also been hiding from my father’s calls because he is extremely disappointed I broke off the engagement.
“Lottie.” I hear Emma’s voice, but I wave her off. Walking to the door, I bypass people dancing in the lounge room right next to pristine, white furniture. Talk about a bad set up, especially since these idiots have pink fruity drinks in their hand.
I step outside, and the cool air hits my skin. I’m dressed in a short leather skirt, a black and white polka dot shirt, and I have Doc Martens on my feet. My red hair is tied up in a bandana in a curly mess, and it only completes the overall vibe I’m going for. Stepping off the balcony, I walk farther out. Emma and I took an Uber, and even though I don’t want to leave her alone, my desire to be here is waning by the minute.
“Do you live here?” I turn to the sound of the voice—it’s rich and dark.
Almost familiar in a way.
The houses are over-the-top. Three-story mansions all built too close together. It seems weird since the rich and famous usually demand their privacy. I mean, if I were paying millions for a home I sure as shit wouldn’t want my neighbors hearing me fuck.
But this is the lifestyle I know. My father is very successful. Rich beyond measure. And his lifestyle is ostentatious, which means I was raised in a neighborhood similar to this one.
“Do you live here?” the voice asks again, catching me off guard. But I can’t see him.
I hear the rustling of leaves as he moves closer. A huge guy moves out from behind one of the trees on the border of the house. I should be worried. Shouldn’t I? Here I am, standing outside of a party, and no one else is out here except for this man. A man who is stepping closer to me.
“I know how to fight,” I randomly say. Damn, that sounded tougher in my head. But I know it didn’t work when I hear the slight cackle from the man as he takes another step closer.
“You can? And what training do you have?” he asks. The lights from the house haven’t hit him yet, so I still can’t see him clearly, but the close proximity has goosebumps breaking out on my arms.
And why do I know that voice?
“A lot. Martial arts, mainly. But other things too.”
“You don’t know the names of the other things, do you?” Damn him, he caught me.
“I totally do. Boxing,” I throw out. He doesn’t have to know the extent of my boxing abilities is a summer bootcamp class I took my first semester of college. And I failed miserably at it.