Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 88064 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 440(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88064 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 440(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
When I eventually withdraw, I cup my hand between Dawn’s legs, feeling my cum leak from inside her. A primal instinct makes me push it back inside her, and she hums with satisfaction.
"I think you ruined me," she says. "I’m never going to want to use condoms again."
"If you stay here with us, you won’t need to. We’re all clean."
She curls into my body like a satisfied cat resting in the sun. "Stay with you?" she whispers.
"Yeah. You know. The opposite of leave."
She makes a small noise that definitely isn’t an agreement with my suggestion, avoiding any discussion about the permanence of her presence, tracing over my scar again. I expect her to ask what happened to cause it, but she doesn't. Then, I realize it’s probably because she doesn’t want me to ask personal questions either.
My fingers find the tattoo at the base of her spine, and I trace the word YOLO, even though her back is turned away from me so I can’t actually see it.
What inspires a person to live each day as if it’s her last? Maybe she was sick like me. Maybe she is sick?
The thought is like a knife to my heart.
Dawn Mitchell might be holding herself as tight as a rosebud, but I’m going to find out the truth, whatever it takes.
18
DAWN
Jeffrey Barrow is back at the bar, wearing a suit and looking completely out of place. As soon as I notice him, I grab Mitchell's arm and turn him until he's facing the right direction. "Look."
"Oh fuck," he says, immediately sprinting to where Lachlan is currently talking to a customer at the other end of the bar. He whispers something into Lachlan's ear, which causes his spine to straighten and head to swivel. Mitchell clasps him by the shoulder to fix him in place, then strolls to the end of the bar as though he doesn't have a care in the world.
I inch closer so that I can hear what's going on and because I'm worried that the situation has the potential to explode.
"What can I get you?" Mitchell asks smoothly. He takes a cloth and wipes the bar in front of the man, looking exactly like a saloon owner in a western, just waiting for the gunfight that's about to erupt.
"Whisky."
No, please, and no thank you either when it's poured and pushed across the bar. I glance at Lachlan, who's folded his arms over his chest and is watching everything with a menacing stare. His hand is bruised and scabbed from his last encounter with Mr. Barrow, and I'm not letting him lose it again.
The man tosses a large bill onto the bar and rises, pulling a crisp white envelope from his suit pocket. He rests it on the bar and pushes it so it's within reach of Mitchell, but he doesn't let it go. Not immediately. "This is the offer I discussed with your friend. Read it. Accept it."
He steps back, and his face spreads into the creepiest smile I've ever seen. "I'll be seeing you."
Mitchell retains his composure, but I know inside he's vibrating with the urge to smack this asshole in the face. I know because I am too, and it isn't even my bar that’s in jeopardy.
When Barrow has left, Mitchell takes the letter and shoves it into the back pocket of his jeans. Our eyes meet and he shrugs. "We've got work to do," he says. "And nothing that asshole says is important to me."
When he walks behind Lachlan, he pats him on the shoulder. In a flash, Lachlan has the letter in his hand and tears it open with his index finger.
"Leave it, man," Mitchell says, trying to retrieve it. "It's not worth it. Not right now when we've got shit to do. We can read it later."
"You want to know what that fucker is offering us?" Lachlan says a figure which I think sounds small but I'm not knowledgeable about Australian property values, so I'm not sure. But when Mitchell splutters with laughter, I get the picture.
"He wants us to accept that?" Mitchell doubles over with laughter, clutching his stomach. "Who does he think he is? Don fucking Corleone?"
"I think he thinks he has a lot of power in this town and we're going to find that intimidating."
"Well, I think he's a piece of shit who needs to go fuck himself."
Lachlan crumples the letter into a ball and tosses it into the trash unceremoniously.
"What are you going to do?" I ask.
"Nothing." Lachlan says. "This is our bar. End of. No suit-wearing prick is going to come in here and think he can force us to sell up our dream."
"You need to tell the others what's happened," I say. "You need to share the burden and come to a joint decision about how to act. And you should take that letter out of the trash and keep it for evidence."