Total pages in book: 143
Estimated words: 141464 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 707(@200wpm)___ 566(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141464 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 707(@200wpm)___ 566(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
“Thank you,” she says. “You don’t have to do this, you know.”
“Well, I can’t sit and watch your dad and cousin do it, when I know I can help them get it done quicker.” I lean down and kiss her cheek. “Besides, don’t you and your dad have to get ready for a consultation?”
She nods quickly. “We moved the time back an hour, but yes.”
“So, you do that. And let me worry about the snow.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Margot
The snow didn’t stick around for long.
But Jigsaw has.
No more waking up alone.
He was right about being clingy.
But he was wrong about how much I’d love it.
He spends his days doing whatever it is he does for his club, racking up a lot of miles between my place and his home charter. When he’s not doing that, he’s at his friend’s gym, getting to know Cain, or setting up a new business for his club.
But almost every night, he’s at my place. When I’m on call, he gets up with me, no matter how late. Offers to drive me, even though I always say no. Paul and I do that on our own. But Jigsaw always waits up for me. I’ll find him in my living room working on his laptop or in the theater room, watching a movie with Gretel curled up in his lap. Waiting for me.
Tonight, I’m done early. Still on call but done for now.
I find him in my apartment, sprawled out in my lounge chair, working on his laptop. He sets it on the side table, and I jump onto the chair and straddle his lap.
“Guess who has the whole weekend off?”
He rests his hands on my hips, squeezing lightly. “I hope it’s you, otherwise this is the worst game ever.”
“It’s me!” I laugh and lean in, pressing my lips to his.
Movement from the corner of my eye catches my attention.
Frowning, I pull away and glance at his screen.
A pale, thin woman with black hair and zero clothes on fills the screen. Hand between her legs, rubbing something against herself. Her mouth open on a silent moan.
“What the hell?” I scoot back. “Are you watching porn in my apartment, while I’m working?” Worse, is that the kind of women he likes to watch? With her thin frame, small breasts, long legs, and pin-straight black hair—she’s pretty much the exact opposite of me.
“Fuuuck.” He closes the lid. “No, I wasn’t watching porn. I was troubleshooting an issue on one of the websites the club owns.”
“That has to be one of the most creative cover stories I’ve heard.”
He rolls his eyes. “If I was watching it for pleasure—which I’m not—I’d tell you.” He points to his crotch. “Trust me, nothing happy was going on in my pants until you got here. I can’t stand her.” He jerks his chin toward the now-closed laptop.
“Wait, you know her personally?”
He lets out a long, heavy sigh. “Unfortunately. Our last president was…I don’t know what you want to call it—dating her? Fucking her behind his wife’s back? He was basically obsessed with her. Bankrolled her website and some of her other business ventures. So now we run everything and take a cut of her earnings. We maintain a couple of sites for other girls, too. But she’s the club’s biggest earner.”
That was a lot of unpleasant information to absorb all at once. “I thought you ran a laundromat. And you’re opening one in Johnsonville?”
“I did and I am. Well, technically the club’s going to own it.” He spreads his hands out wide. “I told you I do whatever the club needs me to do.”
“Yes. I didn’t realize the club was such a multi-faceted corporation, though.” I tilt my head. “When were you going to tell me you’re a porn king?”
“Uh, never? I’m not. It’s a club business. I’ve been trying to extract myself from dealing with her for, well, ever. But Rooster does the main—”
“Wait. Rooster’s in on this too?” Why does that feel like some sort of betrayal? “Does Shelby know?”
“Of course, Shelby knows.” He frowns like it’s an absurd question. “She’s friends with one of our girls in Virginia.”
The way he says “our girls” unleashes something unpleasantly feral and possessive in me.
He jerks his thumb at the laptop. “She can’t stand Stella either, though.”
Stella. Stella. “Why does that name sound familiar?”
He shrugs. “Are you a fan? Her stuff’s supposed to be ‘for the female gaze,’” he says in a mocking falsetto that sounds more B-movie villainess than feminist icon. “Although, ninety percent of her subscribers are men.”
Is he nuts? “Ewww, no. I’m not a fan.”
“She writes feminist essays or something too. I think Hope knew who she was from that. Liked her…until she actually met her.” He chuckles.
“That’s it!” I scamper off the chair and hurry over to my bookshelf. “She wrote a piece about Feminism and Female Serial Killers. As someone who identifies as both, naturally I was intrigued.”