Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 78850 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 394(@200wpm)___ 315(@250wpm)___ 263(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78850 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 394(@200wpm)___ 315(@250wpm)___ 263(@300wpm)
“What the hell, Raven?” she screams. I guess she’s as startled me.
“I didn’t see you.” I try to go around her, only to be stopped by her claw of a hand.
“Where are you going?” Her eyes take in my appearance. It’s times like this when I wish I had at least inherited her height. Even with my heeled sandals, she looks down at me.
“Out.” I cock my head, daring her to say anything.
“With your boyfriend?” Her eyes swing to the poor Uber driver in his Ford Focus.
“Sure.” I stare at her, then pull my arm free and move toward the car. I can sense her watching me, but she doesn’t stop me again. I slide into the back.
“Where to?” Zander, who has to be in his mid-forties, smiles back at me.
“Take me to the hippiest bar on Sunset Boulevard.” Settling back in the car, I try hard not to second-guess my decision. Cher’s right. I need to do this, take my power back. I almost start laughing because he’s now ruined that word for me, dick.
“Well, I’m a dad of three and I don’t get out much, but I do know a place that a lot of customers go—”
“Perfect,” I interrupt him, because not gonna lie, seeing my bitchy mom has kind of thrown me.
“My son has to start summer school tomorrow…”
I plaster on a smile as I completely tune out the chatty Uber driver. Was that a sign that I shouldn’t do this tonight? Like a bad omen or something? I cross my legs and look out the window, barely even seeing the scenery of Beverly Hills pass me by.
I’ll just do my three-strike rule. Strike one, running into my mom. If I get two more strikes.
Boom. I’m out.
Easy.
There, I feel better already. Always good to have a plan.
“Okay. Here we are, and let me give you my number if you need a ride home. Need to keep food on the table.” He laughs, maneuvering us over as the valet guy instantly opens the door for me.
I quickly give him a fifty-dollar tip, not that I listened to ninety percent of his rambling about his kids. But since my mom pays for my card this month, I smile at the thought of her seeing the credit card statement.
“Thank you,” I say and slide out, looking around. Yep, this is perfect.
“Excuse me.” The valet looks over as he opens the door to the Town Car. “Where’s the bar?”
“All the way to the top.” He smiles.
I nod, entering the lavish hotel. Maybe I’ll just get a room? That way if the bar pickup plan doesn’t work out, I can still enjoy myself.
I’ll drink champagne in the bathtub, rent a movie… Great, now that sounds way better than picking someone up. Who can even try to compete with Jett Powers anyway?
You have to at least get a drink. If it’s boring, leave and get a room, but you spent hours getting ready, so go.
I step into the elevator as three girls dressed in short dresses and heels rush in before the doors can close on them.
“Holy shit, Ashley is saying he’s at the bar.” One of the girls with a nose ring looks at her phone. The other two reapply their lip gloss.
One drink, I chant in my head. Then back to the lobby for a room. Maybe I’ll do a mindless Friends marathon… or The Office?
The elevator doors open and Rihanna’s “Live Your Life” spills from the speakers. The girls behind me push forward, beelining straight to the bar. It’s crowded and elegant, shaped like a square, with dark blue neon lights. I go forward, noticing the rest of the bar has booths and tables. A large wall water fountain is lit up with multicolored lights trickling down with the water.
I should leave. I’m super nervous, and why torture myself? I wanted to get out of the house. I’m out. Now I want to watch Friends and order room service.
One drink. I make my way to the bar, ignoring all the laughter and the throng of gorgeous people. This is cliché LA. Cher would be in heaven.
I squeeze my way in, ignoring the man who my right arm is touching, and lean forward to get the bartender’s attention.
“What can I get you?” A pretty dark-haired girl in a black tuxedo-like halter top smiles at me.
“Belvedere martini, with blueberries instead of olives if you have them. If not, olives are fine,” I yell.
“ID.” She wipes her hand on a bar towel as I fish through my bag, my face heating up as I hand her my fake one. Cher insisted we get them. It had better work; they were not cheap. She looks at it, then me, and smiles. “Blueberries it is.”
When she walks away, I take a deep breath and exhale, tossing my ID back into my bag.