Total pages in book: 227
Estimated words: 220940 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1105(@200wpm)___ 884(@250wpm)___ 736(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 220940 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1105(@200wpm)___ 884(@250wpm)___ 736(@300wpm)
“Morning,” she chirps, smiling down at her daughter. I won’t ask if it was a good night; I could hear the cries. “Have you seen Danny?” she asks.
“I assumed he was still in bed.”
“I’ll try his office.” Rose carries on her way, looking back. “Want a walk around the garden soon? Go for coffee?” She smiles, and it’s a lovely sight. Coffee dates—just leaving the mansion on a whim to sit in a coffee house—are not a normal thing in Rose’s life. Obviously, Danny has to know her every move, but she can at least move. A giant, hairy guy following aside. It’s freedom. I can appreciate her appreciation.
“I have a few things I need to do.” I take the stairs, feeling her curious look on my back. I won’t feed it. I smile as I jog down the corridor, googling local salons as I go, my mind sub-consciously counting the doors as I pass them until I’m at Anya’s and my room. I walk right on in, reading the reviews of a place downtown as I do. “I’m going to get my hair cut,” I declare to Anya as I look up, all smiles. “And my—” My eyes widen. “Brad?” He’s standing in the middle of my room, a towel held on his wet hair, butt naked. My eyes fall down his prime chest to . . .
Oh Lord.
It’s—
I quickly shoot my eyes to his, all kinds of weird shit happening between my thighs. I’m pulsing. Throbbing. I gulp as I stare at him, and he stares right back. No apologies. Not bothering to cover himself. He’s not looking at me like he wants me dead now. He looks . . . shell-shocked.
“What are you doing in here?” I say on a breathy gasp.
He slowly lowers the towel from his head, but he still doesn’t cover himself. Cover yourself! “This is my room, Pearl.”
I move my eyes left. Right. Look past him at the curtains. Oh shit. I take one step back into the corridor, craning my neck and counting the doors to this one. Idiot. I close my eyes briefly and take a breath. “I didn’t mean—”
“Sure.” The door slams in my face, and my mouth falls open. What the hell? I throw the wood the filthiest look, hoping it burns through and burns him. Wanker.
It’s an effort not to barge back in and give him a piece of my mind, but I resist, going to my room—the right room—and pushing my way in. I fall against the wood and look to the ceiling. What the hell is his problem? I’ve heard he’s moving as soon as his burnt-out apartment is restored to its former, bachelor pad glory. I wish the builders would hurry the hell up. Being civil toward one of the bosses is getting harder by the day. With one word, he could have me out on my arse.
And I’ll be found faster than Brad Black can draw his gun and fire, and I’ve heard that’s pretty fucking fast.
The salon I find has the best reviews. I’m no expert in hairdressing, although I have completely put myself up shit’s creek by claiming I studied it at college back home. I wish. But what else could I tell them? The truth? I was scrambling for something, anything to share that would mean I could avoid the truth. Because the truth could have me killed, either by Brad, Danny, or James for lying, or by the monsters who’ll find me when I’m inevitably thrown out. But I’m in a different country. I have to keep reminding myself of that.
But back to my more immediate problem: I’m no hairdresser, and Rose thinks I am. The closest I got to any kind of education after I turned ten was the library where I’d lose myself for hours in various books. No one else read them. That library wasn’t there for reading. It was a status symbol. And it came with the ridiculous house my father bought.
I study the stylist in the mirror as she pulls chunks of my thick red hair out with a comb, one eye closing, measuring, snipping, until my chin-length bob is back, just long enough to tie back if I want to. She puts some waves through with the straighteners and spritzes it with some gloss spray. It’s my first proper haircut in over eleven years. I pay with my own money, smiling as I do, then I walk across the road for my next appointment, taking a deep breath as I push my way through the door.
Des and Drake eye me with an edge of curiosity as I wriggle out of my denim jacket. “Pearl?” Des asks, his chin lifting a little. “What you doing putting holes in your face, girl?”
“You’ve no need to worry.” I pat his suit-covered arm. “Unless they’re bullet holes.”