Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 91064 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91064 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
She shifts her weight and moves her gaze over my face, sharp and cutting now. But not as sharp her words.
“Oh, Rory.” She brushes her hand over my cheek, and it’s cold. “Haven’t you figured it out yet? I already hate you.”
I take a deep breath and repress the urge to lash out at her. To say something equally venomous, which is exactly what she wants.
“Don’t take it personally.” She retreats into her own space again, and my lungs start functioning, again. “I hate everybody.”
“Bailing already?” I find myself asking as she slips further away.
“You know I don’t do the whole family thing. I just came for the ceremony.”
I reach down and grab her hand to stop her. But the words I’m after don’t find me. There’s always a part of me that wants to tell her to never come back. But there’s another part of me that worries about her.
Scarlett senses that in me, I think.
My warring hatred and want for her.
I never know which one is going to win out until the words spill from my lips.
“Come out to lunch with me. No date, just food. Everyone needs to eat.”
She smiles, that soft and deadly smile. Sadness seeping ever so slightly into her features before she masks it with charm. She leans up on her toes and kisses my cheek.
“I can’t be your Daisy,” she says. “So, don’t ask me to.”
“Cut the shite,” I tell her.
Scarlett’s always talking in riddles. Too smart for the likes of me or anyone else in this room, probably. But she doesn’t show that part of herself often. Only in quiet moments like these.
And I’m like a schoolboy, waiting on tenterhooks to hear her explanation of the inner workings of her mind. If I’d ever been blessed enough to have a teacher like Scarlett in school, I may have actually paid attention.
“The Great Gatsby,” she says. “I would say the book, but the film has become the thing as of late. Ever watched it?”
“Nah,” I tell her.
“She was the destruction of him,” she tells me. “Of Gatsby. A void of moral decay. An empty husk driven by materialism and social status.”
“Scarlett.”
Sometimes her riddles are cute. At times like these, they annoy the bleeding feck out of me.
“You should really read the book.” She pulls away. Not for herself. She is doing it for me.
Because she thinks she is rotten to the core.
And before I can tell her otherwise, she’s gone.
Same as always.
Two
Scarlett
Some girls are made of sugar and spice and everything nice. Some are made of venom and sin. When you open the chambers to their hearts, you’ll find- absolutely nothing within.
My eyes are locked and loaded and the target is in my sights.
Trick rolling is an art. It isn’t as simple as picking the easiest client. It’s about digging deep. Getting your hands a little dirty while you wade through the dime a dozen losers that frequent these types of bars. When I’m bored, and not looking for a certain blue-blood that’s on my list, it all boils down to something simple.
I make up my mind before I ever walk in. Tonight’s challenge is to find the guy that’s leering at everything with a vagina in a ten-mile radius.
It happens before I can even enjoy my first drink.
This guy is a douchebag of the highest order and he definitely has the leering thing down. He wears his entitlement like a crown and looks out over the sea of women like he is a King amongst peasants. In the ten minutes I watch him, he’s already grabbed two asses and dropped three gag-worthy pick up lines.
You’re so hot, baby. You’re too hot to be in this bar alone, baby. I’ve got a suite upstairs. Want to enjoy a taste of luxury?
Two of his potential victims blow him off before he can really get fresh, and the third- a girl from Ohio- is too polite to tell him no, so she endures his hapless attempt at getting her into bed for a full ten minutes before she bounces too.
If this were a theater, it would be called The Encore, because I see this same show every night. It’s a tale as old as time. The upper class fucking over anyone beneath them. Sometimes, it serves a purpose, but mostly I think it’s just because they can.
These men… these stock brokers and financiers, lawyers and marketing executives. They all think the same.
They are the bread and the butter and the whole fucking cake. With sprinkles on top.
The thing about cake is it gets old after a while. The party has lost its thrill. And that sugar rush? The high I used to get from devouring their souls? It’s not really present anymore. It checked out a while ago.
But like any addiction, I can’t be freed from these binds. Even though the thrill grows dimmer with each trick, it’s still the only thing that thrills me.