Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 104532 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 523(@200wpm)___ 418(@250wpm)___ 348(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104532 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 523(@200wpm)___ 418(@250wpm)___ 348(@300wpm)
What do I care?
The problem is that I do. I can lie to myself as much as I want to, but I hated seeing him with another woman. I hate the idea of him with all those other women before me. I’m jealous of every one of them and envious of what Leon had given them because maybe, just maybe, he gave them the tenderness he can’t spare me. I can’t even think about what he’s doing right now because it hurts like a burning torch jammed straight into my heart. I hate how it makes me feel—discarded, unimportant, and unloved.
What does it feel like to be cherished and respected? To be loved for who you are, regardless of the fact that you’re a bit of a pervert?
I tilt back my head and take a long drink. If only the alcohol does its job and numbs my senses.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. I set the drink aside and take out my phone.
It’s Leon.
My heart skips a beat even as coldness travels through my body.
If he’s calling to tell me he won’t be home tonight, he didn’t have to bother. He owes me nothing, not even the courtesy of not letting me worry if he doesn’t show up before sunrise.
I’m tempted to reject the call, but I remember his warning about not answering his calls only too well.
Swiping my finger over the screen, I put the phone against my ear, but I don’t speak. My voice refuses to function with the knot that’s stuck in my throat.
“Violet,” Leon says, his manner curt. “Where are you?”
Twirling my glass, I smile. I hope he hears the happiness in my voice. “In a bar.”
“Where?”
“Cut the bullshit, Leon. You’re tracking my phone, for crying out loud.”
“Where, Violet?” He sounds downright angry now. “I need to know you’re safe.”
“I’m fine. I just needed the same as you did tonight.”
“You need to speak up. The music is loud.”
“Oh, how shocking.” My tone is taunting. “My bad for choosing such a noisy bar. Just say jump and I’ll step outside.”
“No,” he says harshly. “I don’t want you hanging around alone in the dark. Stay inside. I’m on my way.”
“You missed a crucial point. You’re not welcome.”
“You’re testing my patience, darling.”
“You can stay with the bimbo, Leon. I’ve got my own thing going on here.”
He curses under his breath. “You came to the restaurant?”
“Just to confirm what I already knew. No hard feelings, darling. She looks expensive. How much do you pay her per hour?”
“Violet,” he growls.
“A thousand?” I say with a chuckle, grabbing a ridiculously high number from the sky.
His silence isn’t the answer I expected or wanted to hear. The gin and tonic isn’t strong enough to lessen the hurt or prepare me for the truth. It’s going to kill me, but I insist. “How much?”
His voice holds a warning, the kind that implies I’m not going to like what I hear. “Let it go.”
“How much, Leon?”
“Three thousand,” he grits out.
My laugh is harsh. “You have expensive taste in dates. Not so much in wives.”
“Wife, as in singular. I only have one, and I’m keeping it like that. And it wasn’t a date.”
“Whatever you call your sex transactions, you better get your money’s worth. It’ll be such a waste otherwise. Just don’t come home before you’ve showered. Better yet, don’t come home at all.”
I end the call and dump my phone on the counter, my hands shaking with humiliation and anger. Why the hell does it even affect me? Why can’t I simply not care?
Downing the last of my drink, I slam my glass on the counter.
“Another?” the barman asks. “Looks like you need it.”
“What’s the strongest drink with the quickest effect you have?”
He looks me up and down. “A tequila slammer will go straight to your head, but you’ll feel worse for it in the morning.”
“Bring it on.”
He shrugs. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
If he knew the man I’m married to, he’d bring me ten.
When he puts the glass in front of me, I seal the top with my palm and bang the glass hard on the coaster. I’ve never drunk a tequila slammer, but I’ve seen how it’s done. The drink fizzles, boiling up to the top of the glass and coating my palm.
It’s a wild and messy drink. If I had to paint it, I’d color it white like the foam of crashing waves. Before the bubbling drink has lost its chaos, I chuck it down in one go. The mixture of tequila and lemonade tastes sweet and sparkly but leaves a bitter aftertaste that reminds me of turpentine. It’s disgusting.
A man sits down on the barstool next to me, not bothering to hide his grin. I turn on my seat to take him in. He has thick, blond hair and a day-old stubble. His suit is well-cut, and his shoes are polished to a shine.