Total pages in book: 37
Estimated words: 34442 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 172(@200wpm)___ 138(@250wpm)___ 115(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 34442 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 172(@200wpm)___ 138(@250wpm)___ 115(@300wpm)
-A.D.
Instantly, a smile formed at the corners of my lips.
Man, I loved when a plan came together. And I really loved that I had the capital to add in the romance Kline so foolishly left out, without financial burden or limitation. It made me feel all tingly inside to be able to donate so much so selflessly.
I pulled open the drawer on the right side of my desk and snatched the digital camera inside. One click to the power button and a glance at the screen assured me it was fully charged, so I shut it down with a smile and placed it back inside.
I was going to need it in a few days to snap a picture as the “Swoony Billionaire” himself fell at my feet and kissed them with his thanks for saving his Valentine’s getaway—no, his marriage. Women liked pizzazz—they liked to be wowed—even when they said they didn’t.
Only foolish guys didn’t know how to read between the lines.
The sounds of Len Dodson’s monotone-as-fuck voice continued to filter in from the speaker of my phone, and I tuned him out, my focus going straight to the priorities—ensuring that the plans in motion were foolproof and accurate.
Cell in hand, I shot a quick text to the one person who could assist with that confirmation. It was a gamble, bringing another person—especially a person without the foresight to see the value in a brilliant plan like mine—into my loop, but thankfully, I had the perfect set of “weighted dice” to ensure the odds didn’t fuck me. Because when you tried to fuck Thatcher Kelly, he always fucked you harder. Always, no matter if you were a pussy-bearing friend or a dick-swinging foe. A sword of my stature was never unprepared.
Me: Georgia will be back to work on Monday, right? Just off Thursday and Friday this week?
A minute after I hit send, my phone vibrated with a response.
Wes: Yes, only two days off work for the second fucking honeymoon. I guess Kline told you too.
He told me, I dragged it out of him. Po-tay-to, po-tah-to.
Me: Um, yeah.
Wes: Wait…why do you care when she comes back to work?
Wes Lancaster was normally too involved in his own broody, sassy bullshit to have a sixth sense about me. If he was on the brink of figuring me out this time, all I needed to do was drag him off the scent a little bit.
Me: Because I’m a good fucking friend, that’s why. I just wanted to make sure I have their itinerary in case something crazy happens while they’re gone. You know, taking a trip to a foreign country is where most people get abducted. Mexico’s got the cartel, for fuck’s sake.
Wes: And what exactly are you going to do about the cartel from here?
Me: Nothing, specifically. I’m not the fucking Karate Kid, Whiny Whitney. Jesus. But at least I’ll know where they were supposed to be if they go missing. Didn’t your momma teach you to use the buddy system with your friends? You’re ALWAYS supposed to let someone know where you are and when.
Wes: Not the Karate Kid? That’s funny because I’m pretty sure you’re trying to fucking Mr. Miyagi me right now. I wasn’t sure, but then you brought my mom into it. What are you scheming, Kelly?
Damn, maybe the bastard does have a sixth sense?
Me: Cool the inquisition, Wesley. I’m not scheming shit. Just being a good friend and trying to make sure our buddy Kline and his wife Georgia are safe.
Wes: Right. And I’m Mother Teresa. You’re up to no good, and I know it.
Me: May I suggest you consider upping your therapy hours to three a week, dude? I think your paranoia might be getting out of control.
Wes: Nice deflection, T, but it’s not working. I’m onto you. For the sake of your balls, you better tell Kline NOW. Because the instant he calls to tell me something’s not right, I’m gonna sell your ass down the river.
Wes Lancaster, ladies and gentlemen. The good-time fun-ruiner.
I mulled over my options for a hot minute before deciding that honesty was the best policy where Wes was concerned. At least then, I’d be able to blackmail him or something to keep the intel I gave him on the down-low. We’d been friends for years, and I had more than a few incriminating drunk videos of him saved up for a rainy day. Over the years, we’d taken far too many trips to Vegas for him not to be aware my phone was filled with embarrassing evidence.
If I tried to snow him, it’d just piss him off more.
Don’t worry, I’m not talking hard-core blackmail.
More like, soft-core. The late-night Cinemax of blackmail, if you will.
No X-rated money shots, just tits and ass and the illusion of sex.
Decision made, I typed out a response.