Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 69452 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 347(@200wpm)___ 278(@250wpm)___ 232(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69452 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 347(@200wpm)___ 278(@250wpm)___ 232(@300wpm)
“That’s Calliope.”
Chapter
Three
Sometimes I wonder if all this is happening because I didn’t forward that chain letter to ten people.
—Merriam’s secret thoughts
MERRIAM
“That’s Calliope.”
I looked to where my best friend was pointing and said, “That’s the owner’s daughter?”
“Yes,” she answered. “She’s the one that invited me to come.”
“And asked you if you had any other girls that might be interested in getting the snot beaten out of them and you volunteered me,” I grumbled.
“It’ll be okay. I promise,” she said.
I doubted it.
I hated getting hit, too. It was the worst.
How did I know it was the worst?
Because one, I had an abusive father that made it damn near impossible to live on my own, and found new and exciting ways to make my life a living hell when I tried to escape from his suffocating clutches.
Anyway, back to the face beating, the women that were showing up in droves were slightly terrifying me.
At least I knew how to take a punch.
“I’m not so sure about this,” I said when a woman in a mini-skirt so short that I could see her bright pink hipster underwear as she rolled by.
“That one looks like Ilona Mahar,” Gisela whispered. “God, she’s gorgeous. I think I’d like getting my ass kicked by her.”
My best friend and I were straight as boards. Saying that, we could truly appreciate the feminine form, and the woman she’d just pointed out that came in wearing short shorts and a tank top that said ‘No Bull’ on it truly was gorgeous.
She also looked like she’d dominate whatever sport she decided to play.
Her thighs were magnificent.
“Her thighs look like that one cheerleader that lifts the girl up in the air by herself,” I murmured. “Do you think she was born with those thighs? Or do you think that she had to work her ass off for them?”
“Born with them,” I heard a masculine voice say from behind me.
I whirled in my seat to see the man from earlier sitting there.
The hockey player.
Jeremiah Jones Dixon.
“How do you know?” I asked.
“Because she’s my friend’s sister.” He jerked his chin at his friend.
“Who’s your friend?” Gisela asked curiously.
“That’s Bryson Hardy,” he answered. “And they’re twins. They both have the best set of legs I’ve ever seen. And they’ve had them since middle school.”
“Ahh,” she said. “Is Bryson single?” She paused. “Or his sister?”
Bryson snorted. “I’m well and truly taken.” He paused. “Mostly. If she’ll ever agree to marry me, that is.”
“Your girlfriend hasn’t agreed to marry you yet?” I asked.
“Is she crazy?” Gisela asked.
“That’s what I keep telling him,” Jeremiah said. “But he swears that she’s just ‘finding her feet.’”
“Listen, Mia,” Bryson warned. “I’m just trying to be conscious of her choices.”
“You’ve been together for eight years, you’ve asked her five times to marry you, and she’s turned you down all five times. She lives off of your money, travels the world without you, and spends more time with her friends than you,” Jeremiah argued.
Was it bad that I found it hilarious that Bryson had called Jeremiah Mia?
“This argument is getting old.” Bryson rolled his eyes. “She’ll agree.”
It didn’t sound like it.
It sounded like she had a good deal with Bryson and was using him like she did his credit card.
I didn’t say that, though.
I’d spent my time dealing with so much abuse that it was easy to spot it.
Takes one to know one, if you get my drift.
“Maybe ask her a simple question,” I found myself saying anyway. “Where do you see yourself in five years. If you’re not in her response, then you have your answer.”
Bryson looked at me then and nodded. “Okay.”
Jeremiah’s eyes shifted to mine. He nodded at me, giving me his thanks.
Old argument indeed.
He looked relieved that someone else had given him advice on this matter when he’d likely been blue in the face with his pleas for his friend to listen.
I looked over at Gisela.
How many times had she tried to take me out of the situation I’d been in?
Had I been confident in her ability to get me out of the fucked-up situation, I might’ve given in a lot earlier.
But hell, she hadn’t been any better off than I had been.
Working her way through college, living in a dorm and then with three roommates. I couldn’t put my situation on her.
“Everyone on their feet!” I heard screamed.
Screamed.
Literally.
Like one of those death metal bands.
Awesome.
“Come on,” Gisela urged.
I got up and was so proud of myself when my feet didn’t split like they’d done earlier when I’d tried to first stand.
“Everyone make your way out to the middle of the floor,” the woman with the microphone, Calliope, said. “We’re gonna warm up.”
I managed to work myself around the floor, while also avoiding any and all eye contact with Hotty McHockeyson, four full times before Calliope said, “All right, I want you to split off into your numbered groups as I call them out.”