Total pages in book: 153
Estimated words: 148704 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 744(@200wpm)___ 595(@250wpm)___ 496(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 148704 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 744(@200wpm)___ 595(@250wpm)___ 496(@300wpm)
Crew
I swear to fucking God, if I wasn’t working, I’d need a damn drink, times ten. Had I lacked self-control, I’d have busted out a bottle the morning she begged me to meet her, saying the last fucking thing I’d ever expected to leave those lips.
It’s like she’s gone mad.
For real mad.
I don’t even know why I’m entertaining this conversation. Should turn my fucking phone off already.
Should but don’t.
Instead of calling me back, she sends another message.
Davis: You should really say yes. You won’t like the alternative.
What the hell is she talking about?
Glaring at my screen, I pretend I didn’t already give her the only possible fucking answer.
Me: What happens if I say no?
Davis: Are you saying no?
Me: Sweets.
Davis: Salts.
A scoffed laugh escapes me, and I kick off the wall, glancing toward the end of the alleyway when drunken laughter reaches me.
I sigh when my phone vibrates in my hand.
Davis: If you won’t take my virginity, I’ll find someone else who will.
“What the fuck?” Frustration heats my chest, my fingers flying over the keys.
Me: You can’t go shopping for dick in a bookstore.
Davis: No… but you can in a bar.
“Oh, hell no.” I whip around, heading for the sidewalk instead of turning to the back exit I came out of. My phone is at my ear in seconds, but all I get is her voice mail.
“Hi, you reached Davis, I’m either in class or effectively ignoring your call.”
“Swear to you, Baby Franco, you do something dumb, I’ll—” I cut myself off, hanging up with a huff.
I was going to say whoop that ass, but considering what she’s asking, she’d probably assume that meant I was agreeing to her “offer,” as she called it.
An offer.
“Relieve her of her virginal status” as she so callously put it in the damn contract she typed up, “in exchange” for her brother’s rebuilt 1939, dusty-red Chevy half ton. The one we spent two summers fixing up alongside his father and grandfather before he passed. The one Memphis spent a year saving for the final part to get it on the road, but never had the chance to get it installed.
Mad. She’s gone fucking mad.
Memphis isn’t around anymore to give me a hand in what we liked to call “don’t be dumb, Davis,” not that I’d hit him up if he were, and I’d never call her pops, even though I threatened to. He doesn’t need the stress and spilling something like this to him might send the old man into a heart attack. He went through enough with his son to have to worry his daughter has lost her damn mind, and only weeks before her college graduation.
It’s not like I’d want help with this anyway. No way I’d listen to what someone else thought was right, wrong, or too much. She’s too fucking much, and I didn’t go through all the shit I did, stay away all this fucking time, to allow her to pull this.
There’s no fucking way.
You’d have to quit ignoring her to stop her.
Grinding my teeth, I curve around the small line outside the bar, patting the bouncer on the shoulder as I walk by. “Last name Franco doesn’t pass the door.”
“You got it, boss.”
Shoving my way through the entrance, I slip behind the bar.
Drew nods his chin from the other side, but I shake my head and get back to picking up my employees’ slack.
She might have hinted at knowing where I work when I did my best to keep it from her, but Matt won’t let her past the door. No way she’ll Uber her ass all the way down here, and she’s too chicken to go out alone, so that scratches the bars by campus.
Her little plot twist will have to wait another night.
Minute by minute, the place grows fuller, and before I know it, I’m drowning in orders, passing out free shots just to get the area clear for all the others waiting to get up here to order.
One minute I’m pouring vodka on the rocks, and the next, I look up, locking onto a pair of eyes that shine like malt whiskey.
Davis smiles wide, pushing a twenty-dollar bill across the wooden bar top. “Drink please, something extra sweet.”
Fuck.
Chapter Four
Davis
Rag in one hand, liquor bottle in the other, Crew stands perfectly still, his eyes icy sharp and pinned on me.
This look used to scare me. It’s dark, dangerous, and daring you to make a move while promising no matter what you choose, it’s the wrong one.
When angry Crew comes out to play, everyone loses.
I learned that in junior high when I snuck two bottles of Corona from the ice chest I was tasked to clean out after a trip. Jimmy Hanson, a kid from down the street, came over, and we rode to the park, hid behind the bathrooms to “indulge” in a flavor I could only describe as warm piss. Not that we had a chance to stomach more than what was held in the neck. Crew found us too fast, and all hell broke loose.