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)
Why the fuck did I agree to this?
Is this what Carrie does to get me clients?
Surely not.
Walking through the crowd, my heels click against the marble, the low thrum of music vibrating underfoot. Murmurs, laughter, and soft moans mix with the faint clink of glasses, forming a chaotic rhythm I instantly analyze.
Servers weave through the guests, trays balanced, heads down, but mostly offering food to men. Interesting. I slip to the bar and lean against it, scanning the room while ordering a stiff drink. Carrie is easy to spot, pushed against a wall while Bailey presses in too close, his hand on her breast, and my stomach tightens.
Fucking hell.
I need to leave.
“Still not interested.”
I tap my black stiletto nails on the counter, not even looking up. Then the low rasping voice moves closer, and I glance at him to find those piercing, predatory eyes locked on me.
“I know you might find this hard to believe, with your top-of-the-line narcissistic personality disorder,” I say, voice flat but cutting, “but the only thing I want down my throat this evening is an expensive, quality whiskey.”
He smirks, like he thinks what I said is cute. It isn’t.
“So why are you here then?” he asks, leaning in like his proximity gives him authority.
“I’m here for a drink,” I snap, gaze flicking past him. My stomach twists when I spot Carrie pressed against Bailey, his hand sliding up her dress. Perfect. I frown, jaw tightening, the corner of my mind noting that this is exactly why I didn’t want to come.
“You do know what’s going on here, right?” he presses, leaning closer, his tone patronizing.
“And what is that?” I shrug, forcing my gaze elsewhere, though my fists clench at the absurdity of him.
“In case you haven’t noticed, this is quite literally a fuck fest,” he grits out angrily.
I let a slow, dry laugh escape, tilt my head, and let my gaze cut back to him. “Thanks. I have two working eyes, but what would little ole me do without a man to explain it?” My tone is low and mocking, but sharp-edged.
He doesn’t miss a beat. “I’m guessing that’s why someone like you is here. Bored, spoiled … in need of a new sugar daddy to bend over for.”
I take a slow breath, letting the tension roll off me. “I supply my own sugar. Now, step back, asshole.” My eyes narrow. Inside, I’m already calculating—one wrong move, and he’ll wish he hadn’t opened his mouth.
The bartender slides a whiskey toward me, the burn of it promising temporary relief from the hum of the room. I let my gaze wander subtly over the three men standing nearby, their reflections showcased in the mirror behind the bar. They’re all known to me.
Boston’s presence hits first. Broad-shouldered, tall, clothes perfectly tailored to showcase his form, hair dark and styled just right. His eyes, slate gray and sharp, scan the room like he’s measuring it, calculating every move. I can feel him, even with two feet of space between us. He smells faintly of leather and cedar, expensive cologne hiding something darker underneath. I straighten my back, taking a steadying breath.
The man to his left leans slightly over the bar, arms crossed, shoulders hunched in a way that radiates boredom or sullen disinterest. Brooding. The other, smiling too effortlessly, is nodding. He’s polished, practiced, the type who thinks charm can smooth over anything. I take in their postures, the subtle differences in tone, the way their eyes dart or linger.
Then Boston’s voice drops into the space beside me, low, deliberate, and vicious. “I hate these things. Full of desperate women looking to fuck their next soon-to-be husband.”
I don’t flinch. I let the whiskey warm my throat, then lift my glass just enough to mask my irritation with casual composure. His eyes slide to me, and I sense the arrogant and condescending challenge there. I raise a brow, lips tilting just slightly, and sip, letting his words wash over me. My non-reaction is the biggest fuck you to a guy this cynical and jaded.
“Boston, play nice,” the third man says, clipped but amused, as if he knows Boston well. I shift my stance, subtly turning just enough to give the impression of casual attention while I eavesdrop.
“I play nice,” Boston says, voice dripping over me like a dare. I feel it, sense it, and inwardly count every second.
I take another sip of whiskey, fingertips brushing the rim, watching him without blinking. My muscles are relaxed, but every sense is on alert, cataloging everything about him—height, build, the slight twitch of his hand, the way his jaw tightens when he’s sizing me up. I came here for a drink. Not an argument, not a challenge, not a man thinking he can dictate my attention. But I take another slow sip and let him stew in the quiet confidence that I’m not here for him—and neither is my knife.