Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 76207 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 381(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76207 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 381(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
Not me, of course.
I was just jaded enough to pretty much think the vast majority of them were trash who couldn't be trusted.
That said, I knew a man or two in my business who had some choice things to say about the female population too.
In short, we were all mostly assholes.
Which sucked for the good ones.
But, thankfully, people like me existed to make them pay for what they did.
Kenny/Matthew practically had to work to keep the drool in his mouth. I could see the image playing across his eyes.
Us in a room.
A ruler on the nightstand.
Him 'teaching' me to say all the dirty words he wanted to hear.
I wouldn't begrudge anyone their fetish. But you took that shit home. You worked them out in the bed with the woman you swore your future to.
Asshole.
But the smile I gave him was warm enough to toy with my own eyes.
"I have so much respect for teachers," he claimed.
I imagined he did. Since he had three children and a handful of teachers who taught them. I couldn't help but wonder how many of them he had fantasized over during parent-teacher conferences.
"It's hard, but rewarding work," I agreed, toying with the rosé I had ordered. I didn't drink on a job as a rule. You never wanted to lose your response time if something went south. You always had to be prepared to act if it became necessary. Alcohol made it difficult.
Luckily, Kenny/Matthew was probably just taking it as more of my good-girl persona.
If he only knew how not good I was.
He would run screaming.
It was one more drink for him and twenty more minutes of banal get-to-know-you talk at the bar before I was saying I was tired, before he was using that as an in to get himself back to my room.
And then clothes came off.
Hands grabbed.
I could practically hear the pictures getting snapped.
And then, the getaway plan.
"Oh my God. Oh. My. God," I gasped, yanking away, clutching hands to my bra-clad breasts, eyes wild.
"What's the matter, honey?"
Ugh.
Honey.
He called his wife that.
"I can't do this!" I declared, reaching for my dress, holding it to my chest. "What was I thinking? I don't do this. I'm a relationship kind of girl," I insisted, backing toward the door. I was going to need to leave the shoes. Given that they were ugly tan kitten heels I didn't like anyway, it was no loss.
"No. Wait. Come back here," he demanded, reaching for me.
"No! No. I can't. I'm so sorry. Really, you're a nice guy. I just can't. I can't."
With that, I flew out the door, knowing he wouldn't follow since he was naked.
I was most of the way there, too, but I luckily hadn't known any shame in my life.
"What? You've never seen tits before?" I snapped at the guy I passed in the hallway, making him jerk his head in the other direction as I rounded the corner, slipped into my dress, then made my way barefooted out of the building.
"Did you get it?" I asked as I walked past the PI.
"Got more than we need."
"Great. Tell the client I will see her in half an hour," I told him, making my way down the street where I'd parked my skoolie—converted school bus house.
A couple hours.
A couple grand.
Fair trade, in my humble opinion.
And, luckily, my living expenses were low. The big money had been the up-front cash to convert the old school bus into a house on wheels. Once that was done, it was really just gas, insurance, phone, and various streaming services to keep me entertained while on boring cases in an areas where I couldn't get out in the fresh air.
I'd painted the offensive yellow and black vehicle a crisp white. Then I'd gutted and rebuilt the whole inside. It was one of my proudest projects to date.
People didn't generally see me as a handyman sort, what with my penchant for ankle-breaking heels and a complete inability to take instructions from anyone.
Luckily, online videos were a perfect resource that didn't talk back or condescend to me.
And so, I rolled up my sleeves. And I built my home. From the rustic farm wood floors, to the white cabinets that lined the left side—along with a farmhouse sink, a hot plate, and a mini-fridge—to the built-in padded booth that took up the left side, that Raven had once used as a bed. I'd been the one to decide to lift the full bed in the far back to make more storage for clothing as well as a water tank to feed into the minuscule shower. I'd done the research on composting toilets. I'd figured out the electrical. Every inch of my home had my blood, sweat, tears, and frustrated rage in it.
I loved it more than was probably appropriate for an inanimate object.
I dropped down in the driver's seat, taking a deep breath, reaching for my phone, shooting a text to Raven.