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)
Ugh, why was I so maudlin tonight?
I cracked my neck and shook off the mopey feelings, then headed to grab water for my tables.
The first few hours of the night flew by in the familiar dance of fetching, presenting, and pouring copious amounts of alcohol for my two full tables. Table seven was a group of coworkers from a prestigious local law firm. They were in their late thirties and forties, polite, refined, and a joy to have at my table. Table eight wasn’t rough either. A bachelor party with both grooms present and a whole lot of Patrón leaving the bottles.
I smiled, flirted, and did whatever the hell I had to for my tips when working, but damn, I’d rather be home reading or working on my school assignments. At least it would be quiet, and I wouldn’t have to act like I gave a shit about customers.
By midnight, my calves ached, and my head throbbed. The loud music might keep me awake, but it got old after a while. I only had five minutes to turn over table eight, so I wiped it down as quickly as I could, then ran from the staff room to the bar to chug a bottle of water. By the time I downed all sixteen ounces, Luke had guided a group of six guys to my table. This group looked like they came straight from the frat house to the club, slapping each other on the back and pointing out guys that caught their eye. They looked about my age, give or take a few years, with slick hair and slicker grins. Diamonds glittered from a few Rolexes, and an earring or two winked at me beneath the club lights.
If I dragged my feet a little, no one had to know. Luke seemed fine, entertaining them for a moment while I slow-walked my way there. These were my least favorite tables. I didn’t mind bachelor parties, couple groups, or men in their thirties and up, but single rich guys my age sucked. They were loud, rude, and entitled, and many acted like they’d never heard the word ‘no.’ Probably because they hadn’t.
“Ah, and here is your bottle service boy, Alex. I leave you gentlemen in his capable hands,” Luke said with a smile so fake I almost laughed. “Good luck,” he whispered as he walked by. “If they get out of hand, I’ll send Raphael your way.”
“Thanks, Luke.”
As he left, I turned to the table and smiled. “Hey, boys,” I said with the same flirty tone I used with all my tables. “As Luke said, I’m Alex, and I will be at your beck and call for the next few hours. So, are we celebrating anything special tonight?”
I scanned the faces around the table, looking for the ringleader. Typically, one guy ran the show in a group like this. I played a little game with myself I called Guess the Alpha Douche. I had a ninety-five percent success rate.
Not the first two guys—they seemed laid back. It could be the third, maybe. He had a bit of self-important energy, but—oh, shit. The only thing that kept my jaw from hitting the floor was two years of practice schooling my expression in front of customers.
There’s no way he was here. No way. I’d survived a summer program with him, made it through the same undergrad school, and finally found my freedom. What the fuck was he doing here now? He’d left the damn state for graduate school.
I blinked. Maybe I was seeing things.
Nope. The smug grin aimed my way belonged to the one person I truly hated.
My stomach sank.
Ryder smirked. “We’re celebrating all kinds of things tonight, Alex.”
CHAPTER TWO
RYDER
If I had to stand outside in the dead of winter one second longer, my dick and balls would ice over. I might never be able to fuck again. Was a little punctuality too damn much to ask? A man’s sexual future was at stake.
“Ryder, baby, it’s been too damn long!” A heavy hand slapped my back, and then I was turned into a rib-crushing embrace.
“Turk!” A grin spread across my face as I hugged my frat brother. After squeezing the life out of me, he let go, and we stepped apart. “Damn, you look like shit,” I said, frowning at him.
A lie—the guy was a damn tank on legs who’d been drafted into the NHL. He now played for Denver, but happened to be in Boston this weekend. He was hot as hell and knew it, so there was no point in me feeding his overly healthy ego.
Turk snorted. “Sorry, man, I’ve really let myself go.” He rubbed a hand over his bomber jacket where, no doubt, a set of stellar abs resided. The guy looked like he chewed tree bark and bathed with sandpaper. He was a tough motherfucker.