Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 120186 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 601(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 401(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 120186 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 601(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 401(@300wpm)
My heart lurches in my chest when he reaches into his back pocket and palms a switchblade. “That was a mistake, Bishop,” he snarls, taking a few jabs in my direction.
“Too much of a pussy to use your fists? Fine by me.” Grabbing the nearest beer bottle, I smash it against the edge of a high top and hold out the jagged remains. “Let’s go.”
“Fuck! I told ya to stop!” Rick bellows. “That’s it. I’m calling the cops.”
Good. That’s what I deserve.
Rick’s voice is a distraction I don’t need and almost causes me to get sliced by the switchblade. This idiot might be clumsy, but a cut is a cut, and I don’t want stitches.
He swipes out in a wide arc, and I know before I even move he’s too clumsy with his booze. I shift to the side and barely protect myself with the bottle. It’s nowhere near enough to quiet the voices inside me.
By the time he brings himself to a stop, his free hand is covering his cheek, where blood pours through his fingers thanks to the way the glass sliced him from his chin to his ear. He’s stunned, like he can’t understand what happened.
“Come on, big guy,” I urge, waving him on. “Let’s see what you can do with that thing. Teach me a lesson.”
I don’t think he hears me.
“Piece of shit!” he screams, dropping the switchblade to the floor.
The people around us scramble for napkins to press against his wound while I watch, my lips pulled tight into a smile, my chest heaving. I feel more alive than I have in days, though I’m disappointed, too. That didn’t last nearly long enough. I should’ve kept playing with him.
My smile grows when red and blue lights flash through the windows.
I guess I know where I’m sleeping tonight.
Finally. It’s what I deserve.
Chapter 8
Allie
“Would you please stop fidgeting?” Mom has the nerve to ask that while she’s touching her perfectly smooth hair for the hundredth time since we left the ranch. She’s already told me ten times how our entire future rides on impressing my fiancé’s father.
“I’m sorry,” I mutter and check my dress as we walk into the restaurant.
I laughed when I first saw it—just like my ring, it was bought without my say. I only got to see it when it was time for the fitting. It’s white. I wanted to ask her if she could be more obvious but didn’t. I’m over arguing with her. The satin only covers one shoulder, is fitted around the bodice, then flares a little into a skirt to my feet. It would look better as a reception dress after the ceremony, but no one asked me.
At least it has pockets. A girl can never go wrong in a dress with pockets.
There’s no denying that it goes well with my hair and eyes. I keep my red waves swept over my bare shoulder to pop against the white. But I still feel like the prize heifer being led to the auction block as we step into the busy country club dining room. Mom’s whole demeanor changes as she spots our party across the room. She stands straighter and lifts her chin, holding it high to project the image of a strong, independent woman. While she is strong, it couldn’t be any further from the truth.
“There they are,” she mutters through her teeth as she waves. “Make sure Mr. Lowry knows he didn’t make a mistake.”
Of course, I’ll be on my best behavior. Wouldn’t want anyone to regret spending so much money to fucking buy me.
I force myself to smile as we approach the table. It’s hard when everyone’s eyes burn into me as we pass. They don’t even try to hide their interest. They are so loud, I hear them murmuring over the soft music.
I should have known our presence would spark the gossipmongers. Porters might not be Bishops, but we aren’t exactly strangers around here. Although we’re usually not dressed like we’re attending a beauty pageant. Would they balk if I started blowing them kisses? The punishment might be worth watching my mother have a meltdown. Maybe.
“You must be Allie.” A very tall, loud man pops up from his chair and goes in to hug me. I try not to stiffen. This has to be Joseph Lowry. “You’re certainly as beautiful as your momma said.”
I’m not sure how to respond, so I simply smile. He’s dressed in cowboy boots paired with an expensive-looking suit. As soon as his arms wrap around me, the aroma of cigars and whiskey assaults me, and I bite back a cough. The entire interaction happens so fast that I don’t even get the chance to hug him back. At least he doesn’t try to grope my ass as he pulls away.
The other man at the table stands as well. He’s a younger version of his dad—the same sandy-blond hair, though Jackson wears his slightly longer than his dad’s crew cut. They have the same light brown eyes flecked with gold, the same tall build, and the same chiseled features.