Total pages in book: 35
Estimated words: 32578 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 163(@200wpm)___ 130(@250wpm)___ 109(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 32578 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 163(@200wpm)___ 130(@250wpm)___ 109(@300wpm)
It’s obvious from the confusion on the woman’s pretty face she doesn’t have the first idea what Justin is blathering about.
“His asshole. He’s got beans back there. Farts, woman! Get it now?” Justin slaps the lacquered wood. “Those are the only beans he’s got because he don’t make coffee. Ain’t that the stupidest shit you’ve ever heard? A man named Coffee who doesn’t make coffee? What’s the problem with coffee, Ron? Your mama grind the beans too hard in the morning?” He laughs again.
Ron doesn’t react because he’s heard this before, but the woman is shocked. Her plump lips are parted in surprise. I jerk my gaze away and stare at the ceiling. Happily single, I remind myself. I don’t need a woman. There’s absolutely no reason that my dick is getting hard just by looking at her. I’m a fucking adult and have full control over myself. Still, there is something about her that is utterly appealing to me. I press on the center on my chest, wondering if I’m getting heartburn or something. What else would this feeling inside of me growing be?
“I don’t know what that means,” she says.
Why is her voice so damn sexy? It's not even one of those low, smoky ones but more clear, like a stream of fresh spring water tumbling over rocks—sparkling and bell-like. God, Blake, do you hear yourself? You just compared a woman’s voice to water.
A water nymph, corrects the part of my brain that’s connected to my cock. And she can slither all over us.
I rub my forehead next. Maybe I ate something bad.
Ron comes over and puts a fresh mug of beer in front of me. “Justin will tire out here soon,” he encourages, as if Justin Marco is the cause of my mental disorder and not the woman.
“You working for Novak, huh? And he hasn’t nailed you yet? I don’t want to be stepping on anyone’s toes,” Justin says.
“Actually…” There’s a scrape of wooden legs against the concrete floor. “He has hit it and continues to hit it. We were looking for a third.”
My head spins around like it’s on a stick.
“A what?” Justin yelps.
Even Ron is leaning in. She better be fucking with him. I have a feeling she is, but that anger that was building keeps on growing.
“Yeah, we’re swingers.” The woman leans toward Justin, who arches away. “Novak, in particular, is looking for someone with a little meat on him.”
Justin pales. “I’m not into that shit. Ain’t no one into that shit. Your man’s not getting any business once it gets out that he’s into that shit.”
“Wow. You’re so judgmental. I didn’t get that from your profile.” I fight a laugh, knowing she’s fucking with him now. I relax a bit.
“I didn’t get you were a swinger from your profile either. That’s some dishonest shit. I’m going to report you to the app. You shouldn’t be on there. This just ain’t right. Just ain’t right.” Justin looks like he’s about to cry. He fishes his phone out of his pocket and starts fumbling through the controls, looking for the dating app. Finally, he does whatever it is that he thinks is going to get rid of the girl off the platform and then gets to his feet. “I’m not paying for your drink because you got me here on false premises.”
“It’s pretenses.”
“What?”
“It’s pretenses. I got you here on false pretenses.”
“I don’t know what the fuck that is, but you hearing this?” Justin directs his words toward Ron and me. “You both heard her admit to lying to get me here, and this drink is a fraud.”
“Drink’s real, boss,” Ron murmurs.
“I’ll cover it.” I tip my chin at the bartender. “Put it on my tab.”
“Now, Blake, you doing this just to make me look bad?” Justin puts his hands on his hips. “You still mad about that filly I took from under your brother’s nose all those years back?”
“I can cover my own beer. I was going to in the first place,” the woman says. She puts a ten dollar bill on the counter. “Thanks for everything. Gentlemen,” she dips her head. “Mr. Marcos.”
I guess he’s not a gentleman in her books. Justin’s not so dumb he doesn’t miss the slight. His pale face turns red and then purple. He’s about to explode and launch into some rant about how he’s the gentleman and she’s not a lady, but no one needs to hear that so I step between the two, tap the woman’s back, and spirit her out of Ron’s place before Justin can piece his thoughts together, wanting her out of there altogether.
“Come here often?” the woman jokes as the heavy door slams shut behind us.
“At least once a week.” In the sunlight, she’s prettier than morning dew on the grass. Bright, fresh, sparkling—like that damn spring water. When in the hell did I ever come up with some kind of poetic thought?