Total pages in book: 113
Estimated words: 109164 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 546(@200wpm)___ 437(@250wpm)___ 364(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109164 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 546(@200wpm)___ 437(@250wpm)___ 364(@300wpm)
For me, there is no time for a date, let alone a relationship. All of that shit isn’t in the cards for me and definitely not with Monica.
I have big things on the horizon, and I can’t have some indiscretion fucking that up.
She should know nothing will happen between us.
But apparently, the hints and flat-out refusals haven’t been enough to break through her thick skull.
So here we are at the club, and yet again, she comes up to my office trying for more.
There’s a bar full of people downstairs and a mountain of paperwork waiting for me to do. Letting this girl down easy is not something I’m in the mood for.
This might be some men’s fantasy, but right now, it’s my nightmare.
This gorgeous woman—I won’t deny her that—is throwing herself at me, and I’m not feeling it. Her hand slips the collar of her skintight black dress down her shoulder until she’s fully uncovered one breast.
“Monica,” I warn, hoping my tone is enough to finally have her seeing reason. It doesn’t. She slips the other side off so that she’s completely topless and slides the rest of the dress down her legs.
“Get out,” I say, rather lazily. She stops and stares at me.
The fact that nothing I say is getting through to her only manages to annoy the shit out of me. “I said. Get. Out.”
She’s a ten on any man’s scale: blonde, five foot ten, long-ass legs, and a nice, tight ass. She must see some change in my expression because she throws a coy smile my way as she saunters closer and runs her fingers down my chest.
“You don’t want me to go,” she says without a hint of shame. “Let me make you feel good.”
I can feel the bass of the system below pulsing at my feet. This was my life: the party, the music, the alcohol, the drugs. As the tempo from the club speeds up, I almost cave.
I run my hands roughly down my face before making my way out of the office.
“Where are you going?” she asks, looking at me with doe eyes as I walk past her.
“We’ve been over this, Monica. You’ve gotta go.” I open the door, and the deafening noise from below filters in, nearly drowning out her next words.
“But I—”
“But you what, Mon?”
A fucking nickname. What the hell is wrong with me? I see the glimmer of hope flash in her eyes. I’m going to crush her. I have to smash all that hope because it will never happen. I don’t do relationships, let alone commitments. If tonight is any indication that I’ve yet to make that perfectly clear, I need to rectify this situation. Might as well get it over with.
“I didn’t call you. You’ve come into my space uninvited, and this is done.”
Her head whips back as though I slapped her. “What? But you . . . What the hell, Drew!” she shouts in her high-pitched screech.
My ears sting from the sound, and I lose my patience. “We are not in a relationship. You work for me. That’s it. It will never be more.”
Her eyes go round as it sinks in. As she pulls her dress back up, her lips begin to quiver. You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. I can’t handle a crying girl.
“Why? Wasn’t I good enough?”
“You work for me.”
“And if I didn’t?” She looks at me, hopeful. As much as she drives me crazy, she’s my best bartender. I can’t afford to lose her.
There’s the million-dollar question. What do I say to make this end? “Monica, I’m sorry. I’m just not that into you.” There, I said it. Dick move quoting a movie, but fuck it. It works like a charm.
She rushes of out the room, slamming the door behind her.
That went well.
The truth is, I feel horrible.
If I had known I was going to hire her, I wouldn’t have touched her.
I really am the asshole she thinks I am.
2
Bailey
I wake with a start. My body thrusts forward from my bed as sweat beads at my temples.
What time is it?
Groaning, I turn my head until my eyes find the alarm clock.
3:00 a.m.
Of course, it is. This is how my nights go.
Dream of the past, then wake in a state of panic. Fall back into a deep sleep and miss the alarm.
My arm starts to hurt at the thought. A phantom pain. A scar to remind me.
I look down at the now faded mark.
Most people can’t tell it’s there anymore, but I know, and it does its job every time I look at it.
It holds me responsible.
It holds me prisoner.
The pain, normally a dull reminder, has intensified ever since I went behind my sister’s back to get a job at a nightclub. I have no business working there, but I don’t have a choice. I had just received my third eviction notice, and my sister’s boyfriend, Cal, was my last hope.