Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 106284 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 531(@200wpm)___ 425(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106284 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 531(@200wpm)___ 425(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
Flipping the phone around to show him, he balks, releasing me. “What the fuck?”
“I think you’d easily be able to take half.”
“You’re a freak.” Pouting, I shrug and walk away, looking down at my hand that now holds his wallet.
“Two beers,” I call out to the bartender, sliding one of the fucker’s credit cards toward her. “Drinks are on me,” I call down the line of customers. “Explain that bill to your wife, asshole.”
From the corner of my eye, I notice a tall figure inching toward me. Turning to face his direction, a smile plays on my lips. He’s handsome, with neatly groomed brown hair and an impeccable jawline, and he’s wearing a designer suit that’s so tight around the crotch, I see the perfect outline of his package. Nice.
Staring directly into my eyes with an intoxicating smirk on his face, he maneuveres through the crowd until he’s right next to me. I know exactly who he is before he extends his hand toward me. “Michael Carnell.”
I don’t take it. “I know who you are.” My teeth rake over my bottom lip.
Green eyes dance with humor. “And I know who you are.”
“Is that so?” Hiking a brow, I casually drop my gaze down the length of his body.
“Your brother is a friend of mine.” He tips his head to study me from a new angle. I don’t miss the swipe of his tongue across his thick bottom lip.
“My brother doesn’t have friends.” It’s not a lie. He has brothers, and anyone outside the club is an acquaintance.
Holding a hand to his chest as if wounded, he nods to the bartender who rushes to serve him.
“Sir.”
“A bottle of Cristal and two glasses.” I bite my tongue to stop from laughing at his show of wealth. Lame.
Within a second, the bottle appears with two glasses. “Would you like me to pour, sir?”
A nod of confirmation then his attention moves back to me. “You don’t look like a Bob.”
“Excuse me?” I narrow my eyes.
Swiping the credit card off the bar, he holds it between two fingers. Ah…fuck.
“It’s rude to assume,” I tut, wagging a disapproving finger.
“You’re fun.” He cracks an amused grin then takes the champagne flutes and offers me one.
Wrapping my hand around the beer bottle on the bar, I shake my head. “No thanks. I’m not celebrating.”
“You could be.” That sounds like a dark promise, awaking the sinner inside me.
Studying his face, I tease, “Oh yeah?”
Taking a step so close, there’s only a small margin of space between us, he says, “New friendships.”
There’s a silent pause before I exhale the breath I’ve been holding. “I don’t have friends either.”
“That’s a shame.” It’s a whisper, his breath basking over my skin.
I turn my head to down my beer and swipe my mouth. “Nice meeting you, Michael.”
Taking a couple steps back in the direction of the dancefloor, I halt when Claire stands in my path, her phone pushed to her ear. Her eyes bore into me, and she flicks her hair. “Okay, baby. See you soon.” Again with the baby? Ending the call, she rolls her eyes. “Cutter’s jealous I’m out without him.” She shrugs a shoulder. “He’s coming to pick me up.” My pulse roars in my ears, and my stomach drops, the beer splashing around in there. “He probably won’t even wait until we’re home before he tries ripping me out of these clothes.”
Shut up! Shut up! Shut up! I scream internally, my head underwater. “You two looked cozy.” Her gaze flicks over my shoulder.
Turning on my heel, I stride back to Michael. Taking the champagne flute he holds out, I clink it against his.
“Fuck it—to new friendships.”
CHAPTER 23
SHARING ISN’T CARING
CUTTER
“There’s a dress code, Cutter,” Claire huffs, the tapping of her heels chasing me toward the entrance of the club. “What the hell are you going to do?” Her voice is shrill, drawing attention from the teens loitering near a bus stop.
“Go home, Claire.”
What the hell am I going to do?
“Are you forgetting who he is?”
Has Kitty? She has to remember the shit she got when she brought Nicolas back to the club. Pres doesn’t want anything interfering with our relationship with the Carnells—pretty sure that includes his daughter fucking around with one.
“Go home.” I jab a finger in her direction when she continues to follow me.
Whining and rubbing her arms to ward off an imaginary chill, she complains, “You’re supposed to take me home.” The air is stiff, a wall of heat hanging like a blanket above us, making me sweat.
“Get a cab or fucking walk. I don’t give a shit.” I don’t stop my approach even as my brain roars at me to think about this before going in there without a plan.
“Yeah—that’s the problem, isn’t it? You don’t give a shit about your wife.”
I stop at the door by two men with fists bigger than my head wearing all black, complete with suit jackets and earpieces. Two sets of eyes flash to my cut then to each other. “We can take your jacket for you, sir.”