Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 72863 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 364(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72863 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 364(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
I’ve never in my life been influenced by a woman. I’ve seen men around me who are, and I could always comfortably say that, that would never be me. As I turn to step out of the car, those thoughts instantly hammer in my head, and I tell myself I’m doing it for one purpose only, and that is to find out who she is and what she knows.
What the fuck am I doing? And why am I listening to her?
Shutting the door behind me, she turns and heads toward the entrance of the bar, but then she pauses and looks over her shoulder to see me still standing by the car. She lifts her hand, waving me over, and like some stupid fucking weak man, I follow.
Someone calls Maven’s name, and her demeanor softens just a little bit. A woman approaches, then pulls Maven into her arms. When the embrace ends, Maven motions for me to join them. The woman, who is gripping Maven’s hand, eyes me as if she’s never seen Maven with a man before.
“This is Boston; he’s a detective,” Maven says, waggling her brows at me.
Her friend turns to her and smiles. “You’re finally dating?”
“No!” we both say at the same time.
“Interesting,” her friend says, then offers me her hand. “I’m Antonia. I went to school with Maven, and while she isn’t super sociable, I make her come and hang with me on special occasions.”
Maven smiles and nudges Antonia with her shoulder.
“Nice to meet you,” I say.
She smiles and glances back to Maven, who is watching me with a mischievous glimmer in her eyes.
ELEVEN
MAVEN
Boston is uncomfortable.
He keeps checking his watch, like time will go faster the more he does it. I make sure to stay right next to him so if he tries to escape, I can pull him straight back. I’m actually surprised he agreed to come in with me. I know he has an ulterior motive for doing it, but I don’t care. There’s no way he’ll find out what I do for work.
I glance past him to look at the bar, the low amber glow of the hanging lights, the dark wood paneling, the worn leather stools. The smell of fried food mixed with cigarette smoke hanging in the air.
“How’s work?” Antonia asks me, pulling my attention back to her. Her dark hair is down, and she’s wearing a cute little dress that fits her perfectly. I feel Boston tense next to me, and I know he’s listening. Antonia knows I work for myself, and that’s about it.
“Good, thanks. And how is the bank?” I answer, glancing at Boston to see him checking his watch again.
“Busy as always, but I got a promotion,” she says happily.
“What is it you do for work exactly?” Boston leans in and asks me.
“I’m a freelancer. Surely you know that after all the digging you did on me.” I wink at him. His back straightens, and his eyes narrow.
His focus never leaves me, not even when I join in on the conversation with Antonia, or when I walk to the bar to get another drink. He studies me, as if I’m a complicated math problem he’s trying to work out.
When I’m on my fifth drink, a man stops next to me, and I know what he’s about to do without even guessing. Being able to read someone’s intentions is a skill I’ve perfected. He leans in a little too close, and my gaze flicks to Boston, who is watching.
“So, care for another drink?” he asks. I turn to face him. The first thing I notice is that he’s not as tall as Boston. His hair is unkempt, and his white shirt looks like he spilled something on it. But he has a nice jawline and a kind smile.
“How about you just ask me to dance?” I reply, then take a sip of my drink. He raises a brow, places his drink on the bar, and offers me his hand. I slip my hand into his, leaving my drink there, and he pulls me to the small dance floor. He rests a hand on my hip, and I place mine on his shoulders.
“What’s your name?” he asks.
I ignore him and glance at Boston. He’s clutching his glass, which I know contains water, as his assessing gaze stays locked on us. He catches me staring but gives no indication of what he’s thinking. The guy’s hand slips lower, almost to the top of my ass, and that’s when Boston breaks eye contact with me to track the movement, his jaw clenching.
I smile to myself.
“Do you come here often?” the guy asks, but before I can answer, Boston appears beside us.
“Time to leave,” Boston says, glaring at where the guy’s hand is.
“Hey, man, no. Fuck off.”
I smile as Boston looks up. He reaches for something, and I see the flash of his badge.