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)
Special.
Okay, he’d done that when I was five.
And when he’d stopped because the poker table was more important than his wife and daughters, that was when I’d learned what missing something felt like.
And how that missing it could turn to needing it.
And how that need became seeking attention.
Not to mention how to hold a grudge.
So on Day Three with The Supreme Asshole of All Time (Mo), Sunday, one of my two days off (I had Sundays and Mondays off), Mo was still sleeping on my couch in my room. He was also still standing backstage when I danced (except the second dance, that was when he handed off to one of Smithie’s guys and took a shower and changed).
And I had absolutely no idea what was going on with the crackpot who wanted to “cleanse” me because I couldn’t ask Smithie considering he probably thought I was getting briefs from Mo and I didn’t want to tell him Mo was the Supreme Asshole of All Time.
This was due to my desire for Mo not to get fired (or reprimanded or something) after I explained why we weren’t talking, which would make Smithie do something rash, like attempt to Tase him then kick him in the balls while he was down.
Or demand Hawk fire him.
Mo was an asshole, but he was vigilant, I was still alive and safe (ish). Not trapped in a well only to be drugged and dragged up and “cleansed” repeatedly (though, according to that letter, a “cleansing” sounded a lot like rape and torture, and I wasn’t real sure how that would make a girl clean, then again, I wasn’t a crackpot).
So I decided not to rock the boat.
Mo wasn’t the only person I’d run into who had a problem with strippers.
I was used to it.
It hurt (coming from Mo).
It sucked (coming from Mo).
He was still hot as hell and I really wanted to pounce on him.
And occasionally (all right, frequently), I remembered him telling me I didn’t need the strips or the face mousse or the implants, remembering this while also remembering how nice that felt.
But…whatever.
I’d been wrong about him.
He was one of those guys.
And one day he’d be gone.
Of course, this was what I told myself.
But at night, while trying to put my body to sleep bit by bit, knowing he was right there in the room with me, and remembering how sweet it was when Mo had helped me do that, my mind often wandered. When it did, I’d end up feeling my throat close, my nose sting, and my eyes feel hot wishing I hadn’t been wrong about him.
(Another reason for the grudge.)
Now we were in his truck, Mo driving, because I’d deviated from my one-word-a-day plan and told him I had to go to the grocery store.
Therefore, we were heading to King Soopers.
He had a badass truck. Black on black Ram that had all the bells and whistles (even illuminated door sills that said Ram).
Normally I wouldn’t hesitate to wax poetic about illuminated door sills.
I was pretty sure Mo could live without knowing I dug his sills.
Silently he drove and silently I rode.
Silently he parked and silently I sat next to him while he did.
Silently we got out and silently we walked to the store while I dug out the list from my purse.
Silently I grabbed a cart and silently he followed me as we wandered through the store.
I was silently perusing the selection of Asian noodles when I heard, “Mo?”
It was hearing a woman calling his name that caught my attention.
It was feeling the wall of…something coming from Mo that made me tense.
I looked up at him to see his jaw so set, I figured if I watched long enough, a crack would form under the pressure.
I then looked to where his eyes were aimed.
A very beautiful brunette was walking our way, pushing a cart, trailed by a tall, built (but nowhere near as built as Mo), very good-looking guy.
I assessed the guy and his expensive clothes that he wore even when going to King Soopers on a Sunday.
Peacock.
Possibly small dick.
Definitely sports car.
Or at the very least a high-performance vehicle (probably BMW).
Totally up his own ass.
I then assessed the woman.
I should have done her first.
She was staring at Mo like she didn’t care sex in public was very illegal because if he gave her a nod, she’d tear her off clothes and ride him against the Asian food shelves.
My back shot straight.
Her gaze cut to me.
Her back shot straight.
Without a thought about what I was doing, I gave her my patented, He’s Mine and I’m Ready to Rumble Look.
She shot back her, We’ll See, Bitch Look.
I was this close to growling when her boyfriend spoke up.
“Who’s this, Tammy?”
Since I was ready to rumble, I couldn’t but cut a quick glance at the Peacock.