Total pages in book: 136
Estimated words: 130673 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 653(@200wpm)___ 523(@250wpm)___ 436(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 130673 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 653(@200wpm)___ 523(@250wpm)___ 436(@300wpm)
Rhyland: BUT I’m going to make it here in time for the Taylor Swift concert + make friendship bracelets with you.
Dylan: Thanks for clarifying. I was THIS close to going upstairs and destroying all your belongings.
Rhyland: LOL.
Dylan: I’m not kidding.
Rhyland: I’m not going to disappoint you, baby.
Dylan: OMFG what is wrong with me? I totally believe you.
Rhyland: Is this a love declaration?
Dylan: Depends. Am I talking to your dick?
Rhyland: Yes.
Dylan: Then yes.
Rhyland: And if you’re talking to the man attached to it?
Dylan: Getting warmer, but not yet.
Rhyland: Burn, baby, burn.
RHYLAND
I spent Thursday kissing so much Texan ass I was worried my breath would smell like manure and smoked brisket.
Bruce Marshall had really worked me like his busiest call girl. There was a junket, a press release, a virtual conference, and a dinner with all the investors tied to the project. By the time I walked into my room, it was two in the morning. I sent Dylan a quick message to let her know I was still alive, albeit barely, before crashing.
Friday started at 6 a.m. First, I subjected myself to a ninety-minute yoga session with youth-obsessed tech moguls who bragged about being so flexible they could suck their own dicks. Then there was breakfast with the press, a brainstorming session with Hollywood PR gurus, a professional photo shoot of me and Bruce looking like we were reenacting Brokeback Mountain, then another dinner, and another party.
This one was different from the rest. Bruce had decided to clear out the entire backyard, all two acres, and had gone guns blazing on the Texan experience. There were mechanical riding bulls, long wooden tables laden with southern comfort food, cowboy-boot-shaped beer glasses, and donut stands. A live band took the makeshift stage. There was a lot of media present. Photographers, influencers, and bloggers roamed the place, taking pictures in the App-date picture booth, downloading a sample app, mingling, and having fun. I had to admit, he’d gone balls-out and garnered at least five pieces of traditional press for the company, not to mention endless social media posts and reels.
And the celebrities? He’d actually managed to pull in a few A-list actors, including the hottest actress on Hollywood’s current roster, Claire Larsen, who was helming the blockbuster Bratz movie. She was, in truth, every man’s fantasy. She looked like a cross between Megan Fox and Scarlett Johansson. And she was fast approaching me from across Bruce’s manicured lawn while the bastard was talking my ear off about ways to monetize the app.
“Well, I’ll be damned. Claire Larsen’s comin’ to talk to you,” Bruce murmured, mouth pressed against the rim of his beer bottle. She wore a white waistcoat with nothing underneath, the slit coming all the way down to her belly button. I’d seen more clothes on a Victoria’s Secret runway model.
“You mean us.” I knocked back the rest of my whiskey.
“No, you,” Bruce chuckled. “I’m an old, married man. You’re a young, handsome one. Ain’t no ring on your finger yet.”
“She’ll be wasting her breath,” I said tersely.
I meant it too. There was only one woman these days who could get my rocks off, and she was probably busy wrestling an almost-four-year-old into the bathtub right about now.
“Claire doesn’t know that.” Bruce patted my back. “And I paid her two hundred K to make an appearance here, so while I’m fixin’ to go to the courtyard, you keep her entertained and flirt up a storm, eh?” He winked.
“You want her entertained, you go flirt with her,” I offered dryly. “What the fuck happened to being a family man? To wanting to work with other respectable men?”
“Ain’t nothing disrespectful about smiling for the camera with a pretty woman on your arm,” Bruce maintained seriously. “I’ve done that plenty a times to push a product.”
“I love that you judged me for being a man-whore when all along, you were just as bad,” I said frankly.
“Now listen here, pretty boy.” Bruce dropped his relaxed grin in a nanosecond, clapping my shoulder and squeezing. “You be nice to this woman and have your picture taken with her so this event makes it to Page Six and the Daily Mail, or we’re gonna have a problem, you hear me?”
My lips curled in revulsion. I stared him down, ready to strangle him, but reminded myself that this time tomorrow, I’d be back home weaving colorful beads into strings and making Dylan pregame cocktails. The thought was strangely reassuring.
“Respectfully, Bruce, go fuck yourself.” I smiled cheerfully. “Next time, a ‘please don’t waste the photo op’ will be sufficient. Rest assured; I like money just as much as you do. Now go check on your cow.”
He made a face but screwed right off. Just in time for Claire Larsen to park herself in front of me, offering me a dazzling smile.
“Rhyland Coltridge. We finally meet.”