Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 115590 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 578(@200wpm)___ 462(@250wpm)___ 385(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115590 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 578(@200wpm)___ 462(@250wpm)___ 385(@300wpm)
The waitress came by and dropped a stack of pancakes onto the table before walking off with a grumble. “She seems like a bitch,” I said.
“Must suck, though. Working so close to the beach but being stuck in here.”
“Yeah.” I stabbed one of the pancakes with my fork and crammed half of it in my mouth. “So, where do you want to go to college?”
“Depends who offers me a scholarship. If any.”
That didn’t make me feel any better. She was smart. I would think she would have a few offers. I dumped a load of syrup onto my plate before shoveling back more food.
“I’ve never asked you what you want to do.”
“Don’t know.” I had no idea what I wanted to do, ever since my mom had died, Hendrix and I had been hustling, which left little time to contemplate shit that seemed as frivolous and farfetched as college. “Work on cars or some shit like that.”
And she wanted to be an accountant. God, she was out of my league. She had to know that.
She smiled at me like it was the best thing she’d ever heard. “Well, you managed to fix the shit box, so… You must have magic hands.” She lifted her coffee mug to her lips, but it didn’t hide the slight pink tinge in her cheeks.
“Must have.” I shook my head, wanting to divert the subject from anything to do with my shitty life goals and me, and the only way I knew to do that was make it sexual. “If I’m not getting a definite ‘your hands are epic, Zepp,’ I must not be doing my job.”
She blushed even harder. “I have never once said those words.”
“Then, I’m sorry. I’ll try harder.” I glanced at my crotch. “Maybe you’ll have a better shot since you’re in on the action now.”
“Oh my God.” She grabbed a hash brown and tossed it at me. “I can’t with you.”
“Oh, but you have with me.” I picked up the potato round and threw it down the hatch.
She put down her coffee. “You think we have time to go to the beach before we leave?”
“We can skip school tomorrow for all I care.”
She shifted in her seat, looking anywhere but at me. “I have to work tonight.”
My jaw set, and I tried to force it to relax. I hated what she did, but I didn’t want to make her feel bad for it. It was evident enough she was ashamed. But in Dayton, we all made money the way we could. And there weren’t many good options.
* * *
It was midnight when I dropped off Monroe—at The White Rabbit, not Cha Cha’s. She had on more makeup than I had ever seen her wear. The heavy eyeshadow and lipstick made her look at least twenty-three, and I absolutely hated it. “Want me to pick you up?”
“Crystal’s working tonight.” Monroe scuffed her boot over the ground. “She lives right by me. She’ll take me.”
I leaned over the bike and kissed her. “See you tomorrow?”
“Yeah.” A small smile touched her lips. “Thanks. For taking me to the beach.” Then she turned away.
She headed underneath the neon lights toward the entrance. Two bikers by the door catcalled her, and it took everything in me not to get off my bike and punch the bastards in the head. She was my girl, and regardless of what they thought of her, she deserved respect.
I cranked my bike but couldn’t make myself leave. I worried about her, worried that some asshole in there would try to cop a feel, and I wondered if she just had to take that. I guessed most people would say a girl who chose to strip should deal with that crap, but I knew Monroe, and I knew she didn’t choose this. A group of men in collared shirts lined up at the door, and if I had to guess from the way they dressed, they were from Barrington. Soon enough, I found myself behind one of them in line, handing my fake ID to the steroid-pumped bouncer along with the ten-dollar cover before slipping into the club.
Heavy bass vibrated through my chest, strobe lights flickered over the black walls, and I shifted to the side of the room, positioning myself behind one of the curtains that covered the hallway to the men’s room.
Girls gave lap dances by the stage, older men sliding their filthy hands over their thighs. The song changed from rap to heavy metal. Men whistled and cheered when Monroe walked onto the stage. Her legs looked a mile long in those stilettos, and the black-lace lingerie she was wearing left nothing to the imagination. She hooked her thigh around the pole. She leaned away, back arched and her red hair spilling to the floor. Men stood up, shoving money toward her. And the moment she straightened and started over to them to take their dollar bills, anger ripped through me like an F-5 tornado. This was a fucking mistake, and I needed to leave because watching the girl I was falling in love with undress in front of men who would disrespect her in a heartbeat was something I knew I couldn’t manage.