Total pages in book: 168
Estimated words: 164910 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 825(@200wpm)___ 660(@250wpm)___ 550(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 164910 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 825(@200wpm)___ 660(@250wpm)___ 550(@300wpm)
What the fuck?
Jerome rumbles with a laugh. “Oh, Jesus.”
Is she cool? Her head isn’t dropped back in pleasure, I don’t hear any moans…
Milo stands up, flips her over on her bench seat, and opens his shorts.
“You guys go on without me,” he groans. “I’ll just be a minute.”
He pushes inside of her, her hair in her face and her mouth open as he thrusts into her fast and hard.
Vincent looks at us, unfastening his belt as he backs away. “Nah, I want some.”
And he joins Milo.
The somersaults that were happening in my stomach a minute ago are gone as I take in the scene of the beer cart girl getting railed in broad daylight on a golf course, probably because she wants the money and probably because it isn’t the first time a rich guy has used her for a quick nut.
She pushes up on her hands and backs into it, biting her bottom lip.
Bile rises up my throat, but I don’t know why. He’s not forcing her.
“Can’t take them anywhere,” Jerome remarks, smiling as he leads us away to the next hole.
They can bring the carts when they’re done, I guess.
But I can’t swallow normally, following behind them in a fog.
I’ve seen shit like that plenty of times—at college, spring break in St. Bart’s, and of course, the Wolfe Room.
I’m going to see it a lot more. A meeting in a private room at a restaurant with a table full of business partners and a waitress.
The strippers at a bachelor party.
Someone’s assistant delivering papers late.
Hotel maids dropping off extra towels.
That’s the life, isn’t it? Wives at home who know about the fuck pad you keep in the city, but they’ll never confront you because they won’t leave you anyway. And no one really likes you, not even your friends, but they’ll never abandon you, no matter how much they fear or hate you, because you’re too costly as an enemy.
It’s a wolf’s den full of people who aren’t really wolves, because at the heart of it, we’re all trapped. Nothing means anything to you. Not your spouse, not your job, not your friends. The disposable wealth makes it feel like it’s worth it, though.
My throat grows tight, swelling with a ball the size of a fist. Nausea rolls through me, a fresh sweat breaking out on my forehead. Dallas…
I lurch, feeling the walls closing in on the sides of my head.
Fuck.
“I’m sorry,” I blurt out, breathing hard. “It’s too hot.”
I cover my mouth with my hand, trying to hide the grimace.
I back away from Jerome and his friend.
“Go. Cool off,” Jerome tells me. “We’ll meet you at the bar.”
But I shake my head. “I gotta pick up Sophia.”
They stare at me, but I can’t meet their eyes.
Carrying my club, I retreat toward the rough. “It was nice to meet you.”
And I hurry into the brush.
“See you Friday?” Jerome calls out.
I lift a hand, acknowledging.
Leaving my clubs back at the cart, I rush for my car, my head splitting. I try to force air in, but I can’t fucking breathe. Crossing the lot, I crash into my car door and spin around, sliding down. I squat, my head in my hands.
Why did I think of him back there? Feeling disgusted, angry, or scared, I always run to him in my head as if he’s home.
He’s not my home. He’s a piece of shit I longed for, because I needed attention back then.
And he’s standing in the way of me being in control.
Sweat drips down my temple, my shirt soaked, and despite what I tell myself, I see those green eyes behind my lids and still remember exactly how his mouth felt.
“What the hell’s wrong with you?” I hear someone ask.
“Just fuck off,” I gasp.
Rubbing the heel of my palms into my temples, I try to breathe in and out, but my heart rate isn’t coming down.
God, I’d love to kill Milo. I’ve hated him since we were sixteen.
And I’d celebrate with a whole fucking bottle of champagne if my father died today.
I wouldn’t miss Vincent or Jerome, and what a fucking glorious place this would be if Mrs. Johnson, Dr. Schmidt, Mitchell Kenmont, and all the other fucking ugly, sagging souls in the Wolfe Room disappeared.
I shake, my mother’s face drifting into my head all of a sudden. I don’t think of her often, my memory of her so limited, but what if she were still alive? Would I be off with her, somewhere in the world right now?
I can almost feel her hands on the back of my neck, cool and calming.
Something cold drips down my skin, and my stomach starts to unknot as, finally, I exhale a full breath. In a moment, I’m breathing easy, everything relaxing again as the headache gets duller.
“Will you answer me?” a voice gripes. “Are you okay or not?”