Total pages in book: 166
Estimated words: 160042 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 800(@200wpm)___ 640(@250wpm)___ 533(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 160042 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 800(@200wpm)___ 640(@250wpm)___ 533(@300wpm)
But so far, it isn’t happening. If anything, my need has grown further, and I’m getting pissed off at no relief.
“Just so you know, I can do a lot more than this, cowboy,” the woman in my lap whispers into my ear.
“How do you know I’m a cowboy?”
Still twisting over my lap, she takes me in. My cap first, followed by my face and then the rest of me. I know when a girl likes what she sees, and this one likes it a whole lot. I’d be lying if I said I’ve never taken advantage of looks thrown my way.
I have.
Before everything. Before my life changed.
“Big and strong body that can only come from backbreaking work,” she begins, “rough and scraped-up hands because you use them from sunup to sundown probably mucking the stalls or mending fences; sprawled thighs as if you’re sitting on a horse, not a chair. And I know it’s dark and I can’t really tell, but I bet you’ve got a killer tan from working outside all day.” She runs her eyes over me again and concludes, “A cowboy through and through.”
She’s right.
About some things.
My body is big and strong, and I do have a killer tan. It’s just that it’s from working out in the prison exercise yard and sometimes using inmates as my personal punching bags when my anger at things got bad, not from working the fields. And I do use my hands, but to stab motherfuckers who touch things that belong to me. And no, I haven’t ridden a horse in eight years, but I remember how to because it’s a thing you never forget.
But all I say is, “So you meet a lot of cowboys, then?”
“It’s Montana. Every schmuck who comes through this door’s a cowboy.” Then, shrugging, she adds, “Or wants to be one.”
At this, a low chuckle escapes me because she’s right. For some reason, everyone wants to be a cowboy. But my father used to say there’s a difference between playing a cowboy and actually being one.
I don’t remember a lot about him because he died when I was twelve, but I do remember him saying this to my older brother: There are men who want to wear a Stetson and play at being wild, and then there are men who don’t need no hat to be wild. They’re born with a wild heart and a wilder soul. So they got no choice but to be on the back of a horse, riding into the wind and the sunset. I always knew he was telling the truth, but I never knew how much until I got put away.
Trapped inside a cinder block with no wind or sunset.
I deserved it, though.
“But tell you what,” she goes, pulling me away from my thoughts and inching closer.
“What?”
“Only real cowboys know how to ride.”
Another chuckle. “Is that so?”
“And it’s your lucky day because I’m a cowgirl myself,” she says, smirking and writhing her hips with a renewed enthusiasm, probably to show off her skills. “So what do you say, cowboy, want a ride?”
I take her in again.
Dark hair piled on top of her head with tendrils falling all over her made-up face; lithe and toned body; tanned skin; skimpy lingerie. She’s a walking, talking wet dream, but unfortunately for me, not my dream.
Not only because most of my dreams have turned into nightmares filled with blood and fire and explosions. But also because, for the past six months, the few dreams that haven’t turned into nightmares are filled with letters in white envelopes and books and sociology and Heathcliff and Catherine.
“What’s your name?” I ask, my fingers fisted around the whiskey tumbler.
“Elektra.”
“Elektra,” I repeat.
“Yeah”—she keeps smiling as she takes her hand off the back of my chair and brings it to my face—“so how about—”
I grab her wrist just as she’s about to make contact. And I will admit I do it tightly. So much so that she stops moving and frowns in confusion. Not her fault; despite the gathering anger in my gut, I’ve been a perfect gentleman so far. I haven’t groped her. I haven’t leered at her. I haven’t crossed lines or boundaries. So I get why she’s confused.
But the thing is that I’m pissed.
I have no intention of taking it out on her; I’m an asshole but not one of those assholes. I just don’t like to be touched the way she was going to. I also don’t like to be lied to. Ironic, I know, but I did mention I was an asshole.
“Tell you what,” I begin, putting my whiskey down and flexing my fingers around her wrist, “I’ll give you a thousand dollars if you tell me your real name.”
“What?”
“Because it isn’t your real name, is it?”
“That’s—”
“Unless your mama actually wanted you to grow up and give lap dances for a living.”