Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 88936 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88936 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
“If you knew me, you’d realize you’re wasting your time. My kinda different isn’t something a guy like you would want in his life. Trust me. I’ve dated the rich guy with a powerful family, and he dropped me the moment his dad told him to.” She reached over and picked up my glass, then took a drink.
“You saw my house. I’m not one of you. My dad is a drunk, who I have to pick up from Miller’s Bar almost every night and get him home. I don’t know my mother, and my Grams, who was my only real parent, is slowly going batshit. Still interested?” she asked with sarcastic smile.
I took my glass from her hand and took a drink from the exact spot where her mouth had been, then licked the taste of her berry-flavored gloss that had transferred to my lips. Her gaze dropped to my mouth, and for a moment, she didn’t breathe.
She was lying to me, and I was still getting hard. Damn her.
“How old was he?” I asked her.
How far was she going to play this game?
She blinked, and her eyes shot back up to meet mine. “Who?” The one word came out breathy.
Finally, she was distracted. I’d gotten to her, if only a little. Or perhaps that was part of her act.
“The pansy-ass whose daddy told him what to do.”
She let out a deep breath, and her shoulders slumped. “Twenty-one.”
I smirked. “That’s the problem. You were dating a boy. I’m a man.”
She let out a nervous laugh. “I can see that.”
I reached out and brushed the pad of my thumb over her cheek. “How old are you?” I asked even though I already fucking knew not only her age, but also that her birthday was in four weeks and she’d be turning twenty-one.
“Twenty-one—well, I will be in a few weeks,” she replied.
She was honest about some things. Good to know. I wasn’t dealing with a habitual liar. Just one who covered up what she had to.
“What about you, old man?” she quipped. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-nine,” I replied dropping my hand back to the bar.
“Damn, ready for a walker soon.” Her eyes twinkled as she said it.
Keep that up, Ace, and I might fuck you to get you out of my system.
She glanced over my shoulder and then back at me. “I didn’t come here to drink and flirt with old men,” she told me. “Might as well go see if those two want to play a round.”
I hadn’t been able to watch her finish the last game, but then I’d not known what and who she was. I did now. Studying her and learning her tells would be good leverage.
“By all means. I’ll enjoy the entertainment.”
She rolled her eyes with a curl of her lips as she stood up.
I had her interest. Next step was to gain her trust. I didn’t see why fucking her couldn’t play a part in that. Might as well enjoy something about all this.
• Seven •
“Working as in hustling frat boys at cards?”
Royal
Is Royal a nickname?
I was smiling at the stupid phone in my hand. I shouldn’t have agreed to exchange numbers with Amory Blaine. Sure, he was older than Merce, but he drove a Porsche and wore designer jeans. I wouldn’t ever fit into his life. This was a game to him. I just couldn’t figure out why he was playing it.
Nope. It’s my name.
As if anyone would nickname me that. Nothing in my life was royal.
The clanging of pots in the kitchen had me jumping up from the sofa, where I had been reading a book for one of my classes.
“What are you doing in there, Grams?” I called as I headed to the kitchen.
“Oh, just making a chicken potpie. You know how much my Vinson loves that. Thought he might want something nice and warm when he gets home from work.”
I opened my mouth to tell her that my father hadn’t worked in years, but I stopped myself. She was living in the past again, and maybe that was just easier for her.
The text that lit up my screen asked:
First name or middle?
I had long since stopped getting embarrassed by the name my mother had given me. It was part of my story.
I looked back at Grams as she pulled out the Crock-Pot that had been behind the pots.
“We don’t have the ingredients for chicken potpie right now. Why don’t I go run and get us something to eat?” I told her, walking over to take her arm and help her straighten back up before she fell.
“I was sure I’d gone grocery shopping just yesterday,” she replied with a frown.
Grams hadn’t been grocery shopping since my senior year of high school. I did the shopping and tried not to spend money on meals for dinner. That was an expense I couldn’t add to the others weighing on me. Having connections at a few places where I could get their leftover food at closing time helped keep hot meals on the table. Otherwise, we’d be eating grilled cheese and canned tomato soup every night.