Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 101764 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 509(@200wpm)___ 407(@250wpm)___ 339(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101764 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 509(@200wpm)___ 407(@250wpm)___ 339(@300wpm)
Showoff.
“Damn, this is good.” One of the guys, a dude even blonder than Ryder, sipped his drink.
“Right?” I grinned at him. “What else can I get you, gentlemen?”
“Another round of shots, my man,” Turk said. “We’re getting fucked up tonight.”
“Coming right up.” I turned my back on Ryder and got my ass out of there as quickly as possible. That would be the goal of the night—excellent service with as little face time as possible with Ryder.
Though we’d gone to the same college, we’d rarely crossed paths in social settings. He was a frat boy, and I was an underprivileged introvert through and through—in school on scholarships and grants, needing to maintain high grades to keep them, and unwilling to rock the boat. Needless to say, I’d rarely seen him drunk, but I’d heard rumors about the sexy party boy with more money than sense. Everyone had wanted him, both male and female, but only one side got his attention, though he was rumored to give it out freely to those who did it for him. I could only imagine his charisma skyrocketed when he drank. A charming Ryder would only piss me off. No one had ever gotten under my skin like this man, and I couldn’t risk my tip by running my mouth and telling him what an asshole I thought he was.
For the next hour and a half, I played my role of tip-seeking bottle service boy to perfection. I flirted, I danced, I delivered round after round of high-end alcohol with the luxurious flourish Top Shelf was known for, and I did it while avoiding Ryder as much as humanly possible. He and his buddies bounced between their table and the dance floor, going from sober to tipsy to drunk as our patrons tended to do.
My feet throbbed, my back ached, and my ears rang from hours of pulsing club beats—typical Saturday night. Overstimulation and exhaustion came with the territory, though I think I tended to reach my limits quicker than the average twenty-three-year-old. At least, I usually wanted to tap out long before my coworkers.
“Why do you get the table full of hotties?” Trevor pouted his glossy lips as he joined me in a five-minute water break in the staff room. “Do you see mine? It’s a bunch of old men who just came here to drool over barely legal boy toys.”
I raised an eyebrow as I lowered my icy water bottle from my lips. “I’m sorry… how many times have you told me you like older men? You should be like a pig in shit right now.”
“Excuse me.” Trevor gasped and pressed a hand to his bare chest. “The key word there is older, not old. Wrinkly balls are not it.”
“My mistake.” I pressed my lips together to keep from laughing at his horrified expression. “Well, you know what they say…”
His eyes lit up. “What? Tell me. I need to hear something inspiring right now. Give me your wisdom.”
“Beggars can’t be choosers, my friend.”
Trevor’s jaw dropped, and a gasp flew from him. “Excuse me?” he asked, pressing a hand to his bare chest again. “You did not just say something so cruel to me, Alex Morgan.”
I hid my smirk behind the bottle of water. This moment of connection with my friend was just what I needed after the tension of waiting on a man I hated.
“I better get out and see to my table of hotties.”
“Bitch, I do not beg. Men beg me, understand?” He narrowed his black-rimmed eyes at me. If glares were lasers, I’d be dead on the floor.
“Love you, Trev,” I called as I hustled to the door.
“Sleep with one eye open tonight, Ally!”
Chuckling, I slipped from the staff room into the low-lit hallway. Immediately, the music assaulted my brain. All I had to do was survive a short time longer, and then I would head home for some peace unless my brother was awake. In that case, I’d most likely be heading home to some drama. And if my mom hadn’t fallen asleep, she’d probably need some help.
Was twenty-three too young to be burned out? Some days, I felt like an eighty-year-old in a young man’s body. Shaking my head, I started back toward the VIP lounge only to run smack into a hard, slightly damp body.
“Whoa, careful there.” On impulse, I reached out to steady the unstable man. Firm biceps met my hands, and a familiar laugh registered, causing me to glance at an even more familiar face.
Ryder. Fuck.
He hiccupped and swayed. “Whoops. FL, how’s it hanging, man?” He lifted his fist as though we were friends, and I’d give him a bump.
“Really?” That fucking nickname.
“Don’t leave me hanging, FL.” His eyes had the glossy sheen of someone who’d knocked back quite a few drinks, and his skin had the glossy sheen of someone who’d been dancing for as his ass off. I pretended I didn’t notice the tiny green fleck in his left eye. The one I’d struggled not to stare at the entire summer I suffered through being his lab partner.