Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 119852 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 599(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 400(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 119852 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 599(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 400(@300wpm)
“Bar, please, if a space becomes available,” I answer politely. I have high expectations, but I’m not rude about having them met.
He finishes my pour but keeps the tumbler and gestures for me to follow him. I scoot around a few people, and when he stops in front of a young guy nursing a beer, the bartender tells him, “Shawn, you gotta move, man. Lady wants a seat.”
Oh, shit. I didn’t mean for the bartender to kick someone out of their seat. But Shawn doesn’t seem surprised. He simply stands, offers a fist bump to the bartender, and holds an arm out for me to take his place, though he also gives me a head-to-toe once-over, which I pointedly ignore. I’m not here for small talk, to make friends, or to hook up, especially with a guy wearing a wrinkled and faded T-shirt with what I think is a sports team logo on it. I sit down, and the bartender places my scotch in front of me, taking my credit card. “Tab or close out?”
I tell him to close me out and a moment later, he brings my bill back. I leave him a generous tip, both for the heavy-handed double pour and for getting me a place to sit and watch the action without being a part of it. He knocks on the bar, telling me to wave him down if I need anything at all. He’s attractive, but also not my type.
Not that I have a type. Though I used to. Business types in suits and Rolexes with investment portfolios were the only acceptable suitors for me. But I learned the hard way that like doesn’t always mix with like the way you’d think. In fact, in my experience, it tends to create a sense of competition and rivalry, and when I inevitably come out the winner, men can’t handle it. Which is why I’ve chosen to spend my valuable time focusing on work.
I sip at my scotch, mostly ignoring the crowd around me, but their energy is still good to sort of soak in, like a warm bath for the spirit. I spend too much time alone most days. Even when I’m around people, like at the office, I’m alone. Nobody dares to get too close to me.
The Ice Queen. Kayla the Cunt. Ball-busting bitch. Bomb in pretty packaging.
A smile ghosts across my lips at that last nickname. It was at least said affectionately by one of my brothers. And I can’t deny that it’s true.
I used to be nice. Nice got me trampled like a bug. Run over, stressed out, dismissed as unimportant, and though it took some tough lessons, I figured out that being nice and being a good person weren’t the same thing. Now, I’m a bitch… to those who deserve it. I’m cold to those I don’t know. And only the people I care about get the real me. Like my brothers and their wives and girlfriends. I’ve never had friends to do fun things like spa days and Margarita Mondays, but thanks to my brothers, now I do.
I fucking love and will bury a body for my sisters-in-law.
I wish they were here tonight. They’d listen to me rant and rage about idiot CEOs who think they know better than facts and figures and whole-heartedly agree that he really should’ve signed the contract with me because I’m the best of the best and he’ll rue the day he refused the opportunity I presented him. Then, they’d tell me their life updates, and I’d laugh at how Dani told a customer off with one of her trademark middle-finger salutes, gasp at Samantha’s latest podcast topic, which would be something crazy like ‘How Flared Does It Need To Be?’, and we’d all ooh and aah over baby pics of Janey’s son, Emmett.
I’m struck by a wave of loneliness, but I quickly swallow that down the way I have so many times before. This is my life, the one I’ve always dreamed of—travel, business, work, and not much else. And I’m happy with it.
I am happy like this, I say again, letting it become a momentary mantra.
A guy steps up to the bar at my side and I instantly stiffen, not liking people in my space. I cut my eyes over, secretly checking the guy out to see how icy my brushoff needs to be, and find him already looking at me.
He’s tall, definitely over six feet, and so broad-shouldered that his black T-shirt looks like the seams are fighting to stay closed. His dark hair hangs in loose waves down to his stubble-covered chin, and the eyes looking back at me are framed in long lashes.
“Another one, Riggs?” the bartender asks.
The guy, Riggs, apparently, dips his chin once, making it seem like the simple act of nodding would require too much energy or show too much enthusiasm. His expression is flat, his gaze wary as his eyes stay locked on me.