Total pages in book: 117
Estimated words: 114492 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 572(@200wpm)___ 458(@250wpm)___ 382(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114492 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 572(@200wpm)___ 458(@250wpm)___ 382(@300wpm)
I look down at my shoes.
“More than a thousand bucks?” she asks.
I flash her an annoyed look.
“I thought so.” She shakes her head. “You never stood a chance.”
“Again, you lick my balls and punch ’em at the same time.”
She laughs.
For a moment, we look out the window at the rat-haired horror shows dragging their sorry asses down The Strip in the pre-dawn light.
“Oh, look at that poor girl,” I say pointing to a young woman who unintentionally looks like an extra in the Thriller video.
“Poor baby,” Kat says. “Doing the Walk of Shame in Vegas is like reaching the Super Bowl in the sport.” She shakes her head. “I’ve done the walk of shame a time or two myself—but never in Vegas. I’ve got my standards, for crying out loud.”
I laugh.
“To be honest, it always pisses me off that people say women are doing a ‘walk of shame,’ but they never say that about guys. I mean it takes two to tango, right?”
“Absolutely.” I look out the window. “I’ve definitely done my share of shame-walking.” I scoff. “I’ve done my share of everything, actually. I was a bit out of control for a while.”
“But not anymore?”
“Not anymore.”
“Was The Club part of your out-of-control phase?” she asks.
Goddammit. I hate that she knows about The Club. There’s no other circumstance in which a woman I’m interested in would know about that. “No,” I say. “The Club was just a short vacation from my adult responsibilities. I did that way after my out-of-control phase. It was just a blip. No more or less.”
“And now it’s over—the blip, I mean?”
“Yeah, now it’s over.”
“Until the next blip.”
I don’t reply—but she’s pegged me right. Surely, another blip’s coming at some point. When your brother is Jonas—and you’re his only lifeline—losing your shit for more than a blip here or there just isn’t an option.
“Tell me the story of why you got your ‘grace’ tattoo,” she says. “Were you drunk and high in Thailand for that one, too?”
I look out the window of the cab. “No, I got that particular tattoo in L.A. when I was stone-cold sober,” I say. “I was twenty-three and recently out of school—it took me a little while to graduate—and I decided it was time to stop throwing my life away on total and complete bullshit and start living a life that my...” I swallow hard. “That I could be proud of.” I shrug. “I decided to start living up to my name. So I decided to open a satellite office of Faraday & Sons and stop destroying myself, and the rest is history.”
“And did you?”
“Yeah, I opened the L.A. office about the time Jonas took over the main Seattle office.”
“No, I mean, did you stop destroying yourself? Did you start living a life you could be proud of?”
“Oh.” I run my hand through my hair. “Mostly. A few slip-ups now and again over the years.” I look into her gorgeous blue eyes. “But, yeah. By and large.”
Another long pause.
“Isn’t Thailand one of those countries where they could put you in jail and throw away the key if you get caught with drugs?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“You said you were drunk and high as a kite in Thailand.”
“Oh. Yeah. Well. I thought I was invincible back then. Or maybe I didn’t care if I wasn’t. Actually, it’s funny you say that. I’ve got a pretty hairy story about that night. I’ll tell it to you some time, maybe.”
There’s a long beat.
“Josh, I know what happened to your parents,” she says. “Sarah told me. I’m really sorry.”
I’m stunned. I had no idea Kat knew about my parents. What the fuck? She knows about The Club and my parents? Fuck.
“It was a long time ago,” I respond stiffly.
She doesn’t press me, thankfully, but she’s clearly looking at me with sympathy in her eyes. Shit. I don’t have any desire to be the Poor Little Rich Boy in anyone’s eyes, least of all Kat’s.
“No worries,” I add. I squeeze her hand to reassure her and she squeezes back.
Our taxi pulls up in front of our hotel and I help Kat out of the car. She’s pretty wobbly.
“You okay?” I ask, holding her arm.
“I’m fan-fucking-tastic. Just a little car sick, I think. I’ll be fine once I eat something.”
We walk toward the front doors of our mammoth hotel.
“Do you need to put on some dry undies before we eat? My briefs are still wet—I think my dick is getting chafed.”
“Oh, well, we don’t want that,” she says. “Yeah, I could use a change, too. Let’s run up to our rooms and meet at that Americana restaurant on the far side of the casino in fifteen.”
“You aren’t gonna pass out on your bed and not come back down, are you?” I ask.
“Not a chance. I’m the Party Girl, remember? I’m a machine.”