Total pages in book: 188
Estimated words: 185811 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 929(@200wpm)___ 743(@250wpm)___ 619(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 185811 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 929(@200wpm)___ 743(@250wpm)___ 619(@300wpm)
“But you’ll be sleeping.”
“I require four hours of sleep a night, ma’am. And from REM to battle ready requires two point five four seconds. I don’t know what the time is to do that and get down the hall if you’re facing a threat. I just know it’s longer than two point five four seconds.”
Two point five four.
Exact.
“You’ve timed it?” I queried disbelievingly.
“Yes.”
Wow.
“When will you shower?”
“I don’t waste time when I shower. It takes less than five minutes. So I’ll shower with you in the bathroom with me and the door locked or I’ll shower while you’re dancing, when Smithie has his men on you. That is, if I feel the club is clear. If not, I shower with you in the room with me. Outside me taking away that choice, it’ll be your choice.”
He did not offer the choice of showering while I was showering in the same shower, which was a shame.
“Why don’t we, um…just play that by ear,” I suggested.
Back to dipping his chin.
“Do you need to go pack a bag or something?” I asked.
“It’s in my truck,” he answered.
“Okay,” I muttered.
His deep voice went low. “This will be done soon and I’ll be gone.”
Now who was a freak?
I was.
Because I didn’t know exactly what was going on, but I knew it was bad, and I still didn’t want it to end because I knew exactly one solid thing about this guy, the fact he was called Mo, and I didn’t want “this” to be done soon so he’d be gone.
“What’s your full name?” I asked abruptly.
“Kim Seamus Morrison.”
I stared at him. “Your name is Kim?”
“My mother’s Norwegian.”
Since I wasn’t an expert in Norwegian names, that didn’t explain it, except apparently Kim was a Norwegian dude’s name.
“Your dad?” I pressed.
“Half Scottish. Half dick.”
Oh man.
He rattled that off by rote.
I opened my mouth.
He shook his head.
“This doesn’t get personal,” he stated.
To hell with that.
To hell with nerves too.
There might come a time he’d shower with me in the bathroom with him.
Or better, with me in the shower too.
So yeah.
To hell with that.
I motioned to the couch, “We’re bunking together. We’re breathing the same air. You wanna train together, I’ll show you the pole and you can spot me on the weight bench. You’d fall on a grenade for me. I’d say this was already personal.”
He said nothing.
“Mo,” I snapped. “Seriously. Who knows how long this is gonna take? You can’t just hulk around silently with your gun on your belt, waiting for something to happen to me.”
He again said not a word.
Which told me he could hulk around silently with his gun on his belt, waiting for something to happen to me.
Or more, waiting for it to happen so he could stop it.
“Okay, Rambo, how about I don’t want you hulking around silently, waiting for something to happen to me,” I amended.
More nothing from him.
I crossed my arms on my chest (and still, he didn’t look in that direction).
I got paid for men to look at my tits, it was my way of life.
But never did I want a man to notice my tits as much as I wanted Mo to notice them.
“Right. I’ll start,” I offered. “I’m Charlotte McAlister. Not ma’am. Never ma’am. Lottie to family and friends. Which means Lottie to you. Lottie Mac to the world. Queen of the Corvette calendar and headliner at Smithie’s strip club. You got a problem with me stripping?”
One head shake.
“You think I’m downtrodden and promoting the objectification of women?” I asked.
He looked around the room briefly.
This answered part one of my question.
He looked to me.
“Yes.”
That answered part two.
But wait.
Whoa.
“Really?” I asked.
His mouth said nothing.
His face repeated, “Yes.”
“I’m not, you know. I can do what I want with my body, including using it to make money,” I stated.
“True,” he muttered.
“And I’m a woman.” I jerked my head his way. “You are very much not. So I think that’s my call to make.”
“Where does it go from there?” he asked.
“Where does what go from there?” I asked back.
“You take your clothes off for money. And then where does it go from there?”
I felt my eyes get squinty. “Where do you think it goes?”
A shrug of his massive shoulders which I was pretty sure wafted a breeze through the room.
I still got what he was saying.
“So me stripping means I’m in some way responsible for a man’s bad behavior,” I translated the shoulder shrug verbally. “Because, you know, me stripping means men can think of women on the whole as nothing but sex objects, if they want them to or not, and further on from that, they can treat them as sex objects, whether we want to be treated that way or not.”
Mo didn’t confirm.
His look did.
“That’s bullshit,” I told him.
He silently disagreed with me.
“And it’s manthink,” I informed him.
This made him look amused.