Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 82524 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 413(@200wpm)___ 330(@250wpm)___ 275(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82524 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 413(@200wpm)___ 330(@250wpm)___ 275(@300wpm)
Holy shit.
Without thinking, I rip the door open, elation burning in my veins.
He’s finally here!
The man looks up. There’s no surprise in his stormy gray eyes. I silently thank God and Party Bill, because our stripper has to be the sexiest human I’ve ever seen in my entire life.
He’s massive. Tall and broad. The fitted, dark suit pulls tight over his well-worked muscles. Tattoos poke out at his collar and wrists, and I’m pretty sure he’s wearing a real gold Rolex. He’s got the body of a Greek god, thighs like a professional wrestler, arms like a football player, and that’s not the best part.
It’s his face. Those lips, full and serious, tugged into an expression somewhere near annoyance. His chin is cut glass, his skin like marble, the stubble somehow so fine and perfect that it makes my stomach churn. His hair’s dark, messy, ideally tousled like he rolled out of bed looking like a model.
And those eyes. Like the ocean on a cloudy day. Not husky-bright, but intense, etched with fine lines. I’d put him in his late thirties or early forties, but the age only makes him that much more gorgeous.
My heart skips a beat as our eyes lock.
Sweet Jesus.
Party Bill did good.
I love Party Bill so much right now.
“You!” I lunge at the dancer. I rip a twenty-dollar-bill from my back pocket and grab his wrist. “You’re late!” I tug at him, but it’s like pulling on stone. He doesn’t budge. “Here, take this, find the bride, she’s the pretty one with the blond hair and the glassy eyes, actually that’s all of them, her name’s Marnie—“ I’m babbling, my god, and I can’t help myself, the dancer is too gorgeous and my heart’s racing. “Anyway, find her, and tell her you have something for her—“ I tuck the money into his waistband. “And tell her to use her teeth—“
It’s around this point, my fingers shoved into the front of his dress slacks, when I realize something is wrong.
There are two other men in the hall, for starters. Do male dancers have pimps? Do dancers need pimps? These men are also in suits, also large, but they’re much more worn-looking, like they’re used to hard miles and burning weather. Craggy is the word that comes to mind.
They stare at me in horror.
One is reaching into his jacket for something. A phone, maybe? The other steps forward, powerful shoulders bristling.
I look back at the dancer.
Why is a male stripper wearing a suit? Why is he wearing what looks like a real Rolex? And expensive shoes? And a belt that feels like supple baby calfskin…
“I think you’ve confused me for someone else, little doll,” the dancer rumbles, his voice like the grinding edges of a tectonic plate.
My entire body pulses. My core clenches. My guts go damp and I want to beg for his forgiveness but I can’t make words come out.
Mortified. This is the definition of mortified.
I try to snatch my hand back, leaving the money behind, but he catches my wrist, moving lightning-quick. I let out a gasp as he holds me close, his smell like cologne and musk, pleasant and scary too.
He oozes danger. I don’t know how I missed it. I was too worried about Marnie and not thinking, but this man, he’s so clearly not an exotic dancer that it’s like I mistook a hungry lion for a tabby cat.
“Boss, you want me to handle her?” the closer man asks, hand still inside his jacket. I catch the hint of what he’s holding.
Not a phone.
A fucking gun.
I open my mouth and only a pathetic moan escapes my lips.
The man holding my wrist studies me like he’s not sure what to make of me, like I’m an alien that landed in his yard and he can’t decide if he wants to exterminate me or not. My knees go weak and it’s all I can do to stay upright.
“What do you think, doll?” he asks, grip tightening. “Should he handle you? Or should I handle you myself?”
“I’m sorry,” I manage to gasp, forcing words from my chest, because I’m pretty sure that if I don’t talk, something bad will happen. “I’m so, so sorry, we’re having a bachelorette party and we were waiting for a stripper and you were here—“
He squeezes. My wrist grinds, and I yelp. “Is that why you shoved your hand down my pants, little doll?”
“Please, you’re hurting me.”
He looks at my arm like he didn’t realize. His grip loosens. “What’s your name?”
“June.” I whisper it, hoping that if I’m small and weak, he’ll go away. Like playing dead for a hungry bear. “Please, I’m sorry.”
There’s a long moment. One of the worst of my life. I wish Grandma were here, even if she can’t walk so well these days. She’s the strongest person I know. She’d be able to get me out of this.