Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 103621 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 414(@250wpm)___ 345(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103621 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 414(@250wpm)___ 345(@300wpm)
“I’m Mindy May, your host tonight,” she continues. “Thank you so much to all the talented people who have already entertained us. But we still have thirty minutes before the band arrives. Come on, friends, don’t leave us thirsting for entertainment. Surely, there are still a few brave souls out there who love singing and songs featuring animals. As you know, here at The Brass Monkey, it’s animals only.”
Someone in the back yells something about animals being full of shit, but Mindy just cheerfully flips them off and goes back to trying to drum up suckers to keep the Ear Bleeding good times rolling.
God, I love this place.
I can’t believe I let months go by without a visit.
I’m contemplating whether I’m drunk enough to attempt my Elvis impression on “Hound Dog” when a voice behind me shouts, “Eye of the Tiger! Somebody has to sing Eye of the Tiger.”
I spin on my stool to see an unexpectedly yummy sight.
Well, hello, Mr. Potential Sadness-Banishing One-Night Stand…
This tall, bulky drink of water has serious potential. With his shaggy, dark blond hair, easy smile, and worn jeans that hug his strong legs in all the right places, he looks like the kind of well-toned meathead who knows how to show a girl a good time. He’s clearly an athlete or gym rat of some kind, but he looks too old to be in college, which is great.
I’m not opposed to dating a younger man, but if I never have to meet a guy’s ten roommates on the way out of his frat house on the morning after again, it’ll be too soon.
And weirdly, this cutie looks sort of looks…familiar.
“Why don’t you get up here and make it happen then, handsome?” Mindy calls back, her eyes flashing with appreciation.
Familiar Guy laughs. “I can’t. Not drunk enough yet. Maybe after this next Trash Panda.”
I sit up straighter.
Cute and excellent taste in gross drinks, be still my heart…
As Mindy moves on to harassing the guys playing pool, I make meaningful eye contact with Cutie’s profile until he finally seems to sense that he’s being watched. When he turns my way, spotting me just four stools down, the brief flicker of shock on his face, followed quickly by a kind of happiness I don’t usually inspire in the scruffier sex, banishes the last of my sad fog.
I mean, I’m cute, but short, scrawny girls with frizzy blond hair who spend most of their time in the raggedy kitchen scrubs because chef whites are pretentious when you run a café in an office building aren’t everyone’s thing. Neither are short, scrawny girls who never met a weird vintage dress they wouldn’t wear out to the club.
But I’m not in a dress tonight.
I’m in my trying-not-to-be-sad girl uniform of a yellow T-shirt and jeans with sunshine clips in my hair. I’m dressed like a middle school kid and barely bothered with makeup, but this guy is already out of his chair like he won the hot girl lottery.
Instantly, I decide he should be rewarded with pussy.
Enthusiasm in the opposite sex is pathetically rare in this day and age. Therefore, it must be encouraged, and I want to be part of building a better tomorrow.
“Hey, you,” Enthusiastic Cutie says as he slides onto the stool next to mine. “Nice to see you again.”
My brows shoot up. “Again?”
“Yeah, again,” he says, blue eyes dazzling into mine. “You were at the party a few weeks ago.”
Shit, he isn’t excited about me, after all. Cutie thinks I’m someone else.
“Sorry, but no,” I say, hating to toss him back, but I’m not into shoplifting other women’s cuties. “You must have me confused with someone else.”
His brow furrows. “No, it was you. I waved at you across the room, but then you disappeared into the kitchen and… Well, I thought maybe you might have recognized me, but…” He breaks off with a tight laugh. “Apparently not.”
I squint up at him, trying again to place him and failing. “I’m sorry. But I don’t think we’ve met.”
“Yes, we have.” His lips hook up on one side in a smirk that’s also familiar, but then, lots of men smirk. Then he adds in a steady voice, “Makena,” and I nearly fall off my stool. My lips part, but before I can ask if he heard Cobb say my name or something, he adds, “Makena DeWitt, alumni of River Ridge High School, fan of cooking, cartoons, adventure, and all kinds of cheese, even the stinky kind.”
My eyes fly wide.
Woah…
He does know me. Gah, hopefully I wasn’t mean to him in high school or something.
I was never a mean girl on purpose or anything, but until I finally came out of my shell, I was really shy. A lot of people mistook that for me thinking my shit didn’t stink. When really, I was always afraid that my shit stank even worse than everyone else’s—hence all the keeping to myself and staying quiet until finally the stress of hiding grew greater than the stress of letting myself be seen.