Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 86573 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86573 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
He climbed out of the cab with the movers, stood on the curb, shielding his face with his hands, staring at the house. Climbed inside the cab and came back with a baseball mitt.
He pounded the leather a few times before catching my eye, then he raised it up, shrugging.
I had a ball and ran to retrieve it.
Lobbed it at the little bastard hard as I could.
And when he caught it?
The rest was history.
In high school, we both played baseball. Got in trouble for all kinds of shit, ranging from busting our parents’ windows to sneaking out, to getting shitfaced and staying out past curfew.
In high school, Hunter broke up with my girlfriends for me; in college, I broke up with his. He became the sensitive one—giving an actual shit about people’s feelings. But me?
Didn’t give a shit at all. Still don’t.
I worked my ass off in school, carrying a full course load of credits and working one crap job after the next. Saved. Invested.
I was the levelheaded one.
I was the stiff collar.
I was the buzzkill while Hunter partied. Fucked anything with a pulse.
Business minded, I went on to get my master’s, while he dabbled in random, shitty side jobs. Honestly, I think he was waiting for me to hatch a plan that would put us both into business.
And I did.
Roam, Inc.
A play on my name—O’Rourke’s idea (sometimes he has good ones)—I spent the two years busting ass on my postgrad, restless as shit. Wanted adventure but needed to fucking work. Loved the outdoors. Testing boundaries and limits and seeking an adrenaline high.
Roam around the world is what I wanted to do.
Rome.
I’m synonymous with my brand; it’s who I am. The company is me, and I am the company. That’s why it pissed me off that little Miss Goodie Two Shoes quit without a care. To my fucking face. Who does that?
“Why am I like what?” Hunter is staring at me, head cocked to the side, fingers steepled in front of his mouth, waiting.
“Huh?”
“You asked why the hell I’m like this.” He uses air quotes around the words “like this.” “Get your head out of your ass.” The bastard laughs, tipping his head back. “Who the hell is this girl?”
Girl?
Hardly.
Peyton is all woman; a bashful, but somewhat ballsy woman.
“Why is everything about women and sex with you?”
“It’s not. I just know you’re not getting any. Maybe we should go out this weekend; get the lead out. Dude, I can see the sperm retention bulging out of the veins on the side of your temples. You need to get laid, man.”
He’s right. I do.
But unlike O’Rourke, I’m the discriminating sort. I require someone more polished than the cheap women he picks up at the bar. Someone classy, who won’t demand anything in return but a quick ride on my cock. A one-way orgasm to the front door of my townhouse afterward.
Someone that not only rolls out of my bed immediately afterward but does it without talking to me.
Try finding one of those in a town where everyone knows my name.
My goddamn face is plastered on the side of a city bus with the company’s slogan. Last year, one of the marketing geniuses wanted to capitalize on my good looks, complete with a globe, a heart circling it, and my face. I must have been shit-faced when I signed off on it because, Holy Christ. The women.
They’ve been relentless.
I run one of my giant palms down my face, swiveling in my chair, face my best friend, and snort. “Do me a favor and don’t talk about sex at work. It’s unprofessional.”
“It’s unprofessional,” he mimics, pinching the bridge of his nose so it sounds like he was sucking on helium. “Where is that in the code of conduct, anyway?”
“Page eight,” I remind him with a straight face.
“That’s right. You wrote the damn thing.” I’ve never seen a grown man roll his eyes more than he does.
“No. The legal department did.”
Hunter’s shoulders rise and fall as he inspects his nails. “Same thing.”
“Not the same thing,” I grind out. “Why are you arguing with me?”
He ignores me completely and plows on to a new subject. “When do you want to go out this weekend? Let’s head to Skeeters. I hear they have a band playing.”
The last thing I want to do is listen to a fucking band play when I have voices screaming inside my head about deadlines. All I want is some damn peace and quiet, and he’s determined to make my fucking life miserable.
“I’ll think about it.”
“Think harder.” He pauses. “Better yet, think with your dick.”
I snort.
I haven’t let that appendage lead me around in years. Not since college, and only during a phase where I’d take study breaks to drink, party, and slake my sexual appetite.
Hunter used to deliver willing girls to my dorm room so I wouldn’t have to leave; girls who willingly got down on their knees and blew me off. Efficient. Emotionless.