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)
“Okay, fine. There’s a guy, but it’s not what you’re thinking. I can’t stand him. Or he can’t stand me.” I frowned. “We can’t stand each other. This is a competition to see who the best bottle service boy will be. Nothing more, nothing less.” To seal the statement, I took a sip of my lukewarm coffee.
“Ooh.” Her eyes sparkled. “Enemies to lovers. My favorite trope.”
My sip of coffee slid down the wrong way, ending in a coughing fit that had my eyes watering and nose dripping. “Enemies to what?” I asked as I grabbed my linen napkin.
“Lo-vers. There’s a thin line between love and hate, Ry. And that line is very sexy.”
“Ugh.” I shuddered. “Two things. One, there is nothing sexy going on. He’s an uptight jackass who doesn’t know how to have a good time.” A very hot one with a fine set of abs and biceps anyone would want to lick. “And two, you’re not allowed to know the meaning of the word ‘sexy.’ Gross.”
Snickering, Vera set her fork down on her empty plate and then stood up. “Gotta go, bro. Loved this chat. Tell me when you want me to meet your boyfriend.” Then the little imp darted out of the dining room.
Meet my boyfriend. Insanity. Alex was the last man on earth who’d ever be my boyfriend. But a night rolling around in the sheets? I could sure get on board with that, even though it was hard to imagine him letting go enough to enjoy a good fuck.
“Hey, what the hell is a trope?” I called to her retreating back.
CHAPTER FIVE
ALEX
Morning came too fast as it always did on the nights I worked.
Sunday tended to be my most and least favorite day of the week. I didn’t have to work at the club. I had time to focus on my school assignments, and if I played my cards right, sometimes I had a few hours to myself to do whatever the hell I wanted.
On the other hand, the day often fell apart despite my intentions to combine productivity and relaxation. Last Sunday, my mother had a reaction to a new medication, and we spent nine hours in the emergency room giving her IV Benadryl. The Sunday before, my brother didn’t come home from wherever he’d crashed Saturday night. Mom was so distressed and worried that I’d spent much of the day driving to his favorite haunts, searching for him without success. He’d strolled in at six in the evening, hungry and furious we had the audacity to ask him where he’d been.
Kenny turned eighteen almost a year ago, and since then, he’d been a nightmare. To be fair, he’d been a nightmare since his first day as a teenager, but now that he was an ‘adult,’ his challenging nature had grown exponentially. He felt he no longer owed us explanations for his actions, could do whatever the hell he wanted, and was now a ‘real man,’ one who didn’t have a job—well, not a legal one. I was pretty sure he started selling drugs. He didn’t own a car, didn’t contribute to a bill, and didn’t do a damn thing to help take care of our medically complicated mother.
So, I didn’t have high hopes for relaxation when I woke up Sunday morning. Typically, I hopped right out of bed the second I woke up, but today, I lingered. If I remained tucked away in my room, under my covers, I could avoid reality for a few minutes longer.
At least I had one thing going for me—there was no way Ryder would apply for a job at Top Shelf. He’d wake up hungover and unhappy and either puke when he remembered offering to get a job with the ordinary people, or he’d forget the entire thing. If that was the best thing that happened to me today, I could consider the day a net positive.
A soft knock on the door had me suppressing a groan. There went my avoidance of reality. “One sec,” I called out as I tossed my covers to the side. I kicked my legs over the edge, letting the momentum drag my upper body into a sitting position as I reached for the cup of water on my thrifted nightstand. Then I grabbed a pair of black sweats from the foot of my bed. Sleeping naked wasn’t my thing, but I couldn’t stand going to bed in anything more than my boxer briefs. Once my bottom half was covered so I wouldn’t scare my poor mom, I opened the door to find her sitting in her wheelchair in the hallway.
“Morning, Ma. You okay?”
“Yes, honey, I’m fine.” No matter how bad things got, and with her progressive multiple sclerosis, they could get bad, she always answered with those exact four words. She carried a truckload of guilt on her shoulders for being unable to work or fully care for herself and felt like a constant burden, no matter how many times I assured her she wasn’t. Maybe always telling me she was fine was her way of alleviating her conscience. If she could convince herself she was okay, it could be true.