Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 70444 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 352(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70444 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 352(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
Which was where I came in.
The only people that came into Tiny’s were rough, and when I say rough, I mean it in the worst possible way.
Rough as in wild, unruly, coarse and unconcerned by the fact that they were thought of as wild, unruly and coarse. Rough was what they were—uncaring that they were thought of in that way.
Rough on the outside and the inside. We didn’t get any sweet little honeys coming into the bar looking to pick up a date. We had tough broads coming in after a long, hard day of truck driving, and the wild, unruly, abrasive men picking the tough broads up and doing it in their rigs.
“Fine.” I sighed. “Just don’t expect me to pour the beers. I suck at that.”
She rolled her eyes. “I would never.”
I flipped her off. “And I’m wearing my jeans. You’re not going to get me into that skirt you tried to get me into last time. No way, no how.”
An hour later I was in one of her skirts, but it wasn’t one of the ones she’d tried to get me into last time.
This time, it was a denim mini-skirt instead of a short black swishy number.
At least she’d allowed me to wear the cowboy boots.
I was a girl who loved her jeans, tees, and boots. I didn’t need fancy shoes or a low-cut top.
That just wasn’t who I was.
I was June Carter Common. A five foot four, one hundred-twenty-nine-and-a-half-pound girl with tits and ass.
I was literally the girl that everyone wanted to be.
I had long blonde hair that curled on a good day but frizzed out to the max on the bad.
But, with the blonde hair, big tits and blue eyes came a certain expectation from men.
An expectation that I would be willing to give them something that I wasn’t.
I had to be the last twenty-six-year-old virgin on Earth.
And I would probably die one, too, the way I was going.
“Come on, June-June. You’re crawling. I hate when you drag your heels.” Amanda prodded me.
I flipped her off, then went behind the bar to stow my purse and phone on one of the shelves behind the tall draft glasses.
Amanda didn’t bother. She didn’t ever have anything with her—no ID, no phone, nothing.
She said she didn’t need it when she was here. I said she was crazy.
I hated the feeling of helplessness when I didn’t have my things, and I liked knowing I had a way to pay for something if I needed it.
Then again, I only had about twelve dollars to my name at the moment, so it was likely that even if an emergency had happened, I wouldn’t have the cake to do anything about it.
But that was my life.
And always had been.
“You want the left side or the right side?” she questioned.
I pointed to the right, which didn’t have an opening out to the rest of the bar area.
If the opening wasn’t there, a man wouldn’t try to come around it like they did on the left side of the bar, which inevitably would happen at some point that night. It always did.
That was really why I hated going to work with Amanda. She couldn’t handle the drunks, and I couldn’t handle them touching me.
My mind drifted off to the last person I’d let touch me, and the moment they had, I’d freaked. It’d actually been at Tiny’s. Luckily, Tiny had been there that night, because the moment that I started freaking out, I sort of…checked out. And Amanda knew that when I checked out, I seriously checked out. Meaning I was gone and inside my head so freakin’ far that it would take a thirty-minute panic attack to pull me out of it.
Amanda knew all about my past, which was why she always gave me the option, despite the fact that she knew what I’d pick, and this was her way of giving me the benefit of the doubt.
Though she probably shouldn’t bother, but I still appreciated her faith in me.
Maybe one day I’d be able to figure out a way to tolerate it, but for now, I was happy to be behind the counter, making some money, and flying under everyone’s radar.
I’d do the dishes. I’d clean the bar. I’d even run dinner out to the stand. But what I would not do was talk to people.
Nope, no, nu-uh.
Talking turned to interest, and interest turned to touching.
I didn’t do touching well. Not since my father had let one too many of his friends paw me while I’d been vulnerable, and he’d been high. I’d learned to protect myself by escaping unwanted touches—but sometimes, they still sneak one in, and those were the days that I looked back on when I was reminded how painfully fucked up I truly was.
“All righty, then.” She rolled her eyes. “Get to work.”