Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 134057 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 670(@200wpm)___ 536(@250wpm)___ 447(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134057 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 670(@200wpm)___ 536(@250wpm)___ 447(@300wpm)
I didn’t want riches. I just wanted to tell people’s stories. Live their pain. For no moral reason other than to use it to insulate me from my own.
“Well, if you’re new, then you definitely need someone to take care of you,” the man said, getting in my personal space so I could smell the whisky and smoke on his breath.
It wasn’t displeasing, nor was the inebriated man. He was relatively good looking, the muscles, menace, and tattoos adding to it all. In a time before this, a life before this, I didn’t like men that radiated danger. Scarred by the truths and trials of the world.
Because before all this, I had a man. One who was safe, who didn’t have hulking muscles, scars, tattoos and that radiating air of menace. And who hurt me worse than any outlaw could.
I smiled a smile that was venom and syrup. “I don’t need anyone to take care of me, I can do that for myself.” I glanced around pointedly. “And if I was looking for someone to take care of me, do you think that I’d be here?”
The low thump of rock music was loud enough so we almost had to shout, and so the man in front of me had to lean right into my personal space to make himself heard.
But I didn’t really have personal space anymore. Life had ripped away that illusion. I stiffened but made sure to keep my persona, it fit me as well as the tight dress I was wearing.
He grinned, revealing white, slightly crooked teeth. “I’m Claw.”
I raised my brow at the name.
He shrugged and it was an oddly boyish gesture for the man wearing a knife strapped to his belt and a Glock on a shoulder holster.
Every single man here was armed.
And somewhat inebriated.
But I didn’t think they were the kind to accidentally and drunkenly discharge their weapon. Nor did I think they were too inebriated to spring into action if a threat presented itself.
Claw furrowed his brows, observing me in a way that made me feel more uncomfortable than his previous leer. “Sure you haven’t been here before? You look familiar.”
I did my best not to react. I had gone to great pains to change my appearance on the off chance the men here regularly watched news coverage. I got recognized, not often, since people were more likely to recognize reality TV stars than conflict reporters. But enough to know it was a risk—a big one—coming in here without changing the face that would make me a target.
Journalists were not welcome here.
For obvious reasons.
So I’d died my blonde hair a dark brown, had my ringlets chemically straightened, put on heavy makeup to hide the freckles I’d gained from hours in unyielding sunlight in the Middle East. My trademark red lipstick was gone, replaced by a bright pink gloss that made my lips full and sexy.
Funny, considering how little clothing I was wearing, it was the absence of that red lipstick that made me feel almost naked.
“Trust me, I’m one of a kind, if I’d been here before, you’d remember me,” I replied, winking, shaking off the feeling that he recognized me. He couldn’t. And me acting anything but confident would make me a target.
He grinned again.
I exhaled.
I’d dodged a bullet.
And I had a feeling there were plenty more to come.
Chapter Two
Three Weeks Later
It was my third Friday here.
As I sauntered in, now used to the huge heels I wore every time I was here, I was met with chin lifts, ass slaps, and grins.
They knew me now.
Because I made sure they did. I flirted with the right guys, kissed the wrong ones, and slept with none of them.
And that was probably why they knew me here, because if I’d slept with one—or all—of them, they wouldn’t go to the trouble of remembering my name.
That didn’t mean I wasn’t memorable in bed.
I totally was.
But these men lived a hard and dangerous life. They forgot what was easy, women being at the top of that list.
I wasn’t easy.
Which was why I was remembered.
Why three different men had tried to haul me onto their laps as I sauntered through the party on platform heels that I knew where tacky and would never wear in the real world.
My real world.
I wasn’t even sure about what was real to me. I traded warzones as one would change offices, was only at ‘home’ long enough to throw out plants I’d killed and buy new ones. I didn’t have time to keep and maintain friendships, coffee dates or get addicted to a show on Netflix. My personal style for the past handful of years had been whatever was practical, culturally appropriate and usually topped off with a bulletproof vest for good measure.
This was yet another protective outfit—a leather mini skirt with a bright red cropped top that showed off my ample assets and my flat mid-section. I was wearing far less than I would on any battlefield in the Middle East. But in this current situation, it protected me more than a bulletproof vest would.