Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 127949 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 426(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 127949 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 426(@300wpm)
Besides, he saved the life of his youngest squad mate, the only other survivor from his unit. The guy’s dad was so grateful, he gave Jesse the only thing he owned – a failing strip club named Diamond Rocks.
When Jesse healed up and we re-connected finally, I was a true and honest mess. I was one step away from losing myself completely, and suddenly there he was, offering to let me stay with him. Well, I say offering, but really it was more like a demand.
It took all my strength, but I refused.
I told him I had a place of my own, that I was doing fine without him. He didn't accept that, though he didn't force me to move into his place. Instead, he gave me a job at the club, and that was a score. Money and booze. So there I was, the fat bartender at a skinny-ass strip club.
I think it made him feel better to at least keep an eye on me.
Jesse had bought other businesses since, but Diamond Rocks was his first, and I guessed it had sentimental value because he'd never let it go.
Now, I was stuck. No ride, no place to stay. And if Jesse found out, I had no doubt he would insist on taking me back to his place. That might sound like the dream on paper, but truth is I'd be this close to the only man I'd ever wanted, and the whole time I'd know he saw me as nothing more than an obligation.
So, I hatched a brilliant plan.
I would just stay here, in the back room, until they cleaned up and closed. Then I could grab a drink from the bar, maybe a couple of bags of salted peanuts for dinner, and head to Jesse's office for the night.
The office was really nice, and it had a big, clean sofa. Better than the one at Jenette's place. Plus, his wasn't crusty. I’ll just leave that there.
See, for a guy that owned a strip club, Jesse sure didn’t let himself get down in the dirt with the staff. In fact, from what I saw working there, and everything Jenette had told me, Jesse never once sampled his own wares. Not even a hand job.
No one. Never.
And he could. All he would have to do is tip his head and call out a name, and they would come running. They would have done whatever he wanted, for as long as he wanted. He could have had his dick in every hole that place had going. And if he wasn't interested in strippers with tiny waists, wide hips and big fake tits, what chance did a girl like me have?
Not a chance in frozen hell.
Chapter Three
“Kat. Wake up, baby girl.” The voice was deep and smooth, if not annoying because it cracked open the blissful shell of nothingness I had been enjoying. But somewhere in my subconscious I recognized the tone and felt no fear. At the same time, a silent alarm was going off inside me, making me feel like Quasimodo riding the bell in the tower. "Katrina.”
The voice took on an edge. A tone more like my father would have used when I wouldn’t eat my Lima beans at dinner.
Except he would have added the delightful sobriquet Ungrateful Little Bitch.
"Shhhhh, Jesus.” I flailed around in search of a pillow to tug over my head but my seeking fingers came up empty. The sandpaper texture of my tongue glued itself to the roof of my mouth.
"Get up."
I tried desperately to make sense of the voice, at once both gentle and ear-splitting. I turned my face into the corner of wherever it was I was sleeping, squeezing my eyes shut ever tighter against the waking assault and shoving the heels of my hands against my ears, but it was no use.
"I said get up. I won't ask nicely again."
“You’re not being very nice already.” As something in my brain clicked back online, the voice was identified and waves of panic rushed over me.
See, the worst part of a hangover isn’t the nausea, headache and muscles that hurt for unknown reasons. Nope.
It is that moment when consciousness breaks through, the tiny fingers of awareness tap inside your brain and then the floodgates open and all the stupid shit you said and did the night before washes over you like warm, chunky puke.
In fact, I would rather be drenched in my own vomit than have another morning replaying all the idiocy of the night before.
“Fuck. Stop. Talking.” I was begging now.
Insistent fingers pressed into the back of my neck, shaking me, while another hand swept the blanket off. Every cell in my body screamed for more sleep. More nothingness.
The room felt like a seesaw, and I pressed my face into the cushions as the gears in my head began to whine and turn, remembering where I fell asleep the night before. I already pieced together the voice, and I knew it was Jesse.