Page 15 of Dirty Reads

I chuckled. “Driving a Benz isn’t a crime.”

“You’re not old enough to drive a car like that.”

I found the last statement funny. The rest of it, not so much. I responded to the latter. “I sure as fuck am.”

“No you’re not.”

“I’m not going to argue with you. That car’s paid for, and I’m the one who bought it. So, obviously I’m old enough.”

She cocked and eyebrow. “What’d it cost?”

“I don’t remember. Hundred and something.”

Her eyes went wide. “A hundred and something grand? And you paid for it? Like paid for it?”

“Yeah. I bought the fucker. I think it was $128,000.”

“I want to do whatever it is you do. It’d take…” She took a drink of wine and gazed beyond me for a moment. After a long minute of thinking, she looked at me again. “A little more than fifty years to buy one.”

I choked on my scotch. “Fifty years?”

“Yeah. I make about forty or fifty bucks a week I could call extra. You know, what I spend on clothes and stuff. So, fifty bucks a week, fifty-two weeks a year, that’s $2,600 a year extra. Fifty years of that would be $130,000.”

I was impressed. And shocked. “Jesus. You’re good at math. But what the fuck? Fifty bucks extra a week? That’s fucking ridiculous.”

She wagged her eyebrows. “Welcome to my life.”

I tried to get a grasp on living with fifty extra bucks a week. It didn’t make sense to me. Since I was sixteen, I’d hustled for everything I made. My hustling got me in some serious trouble, but it was also very rewarding.

And fun.

To think I knew someone who worked for a living and made fifty extra bucks a week was incomprehensible to me. I wanted to save her from her ridiculous job and the agony I was sure she was forced to live with, but knew better than to make an attempt.

Stuffing her full of cock and then sending her mouthy little ass home to her roommate and the football player was more like it. I decided to start a new line of questioning. Sort of. “What are you good at?”

“I’m good at a lot of things, but I thought we were talking about you?”

I cleared my throat. “We were. You bitched about my car, and then you said you made fifty bucks a week extra. Now we’re talking about you and how you’re not making any money at Patel’s bar. Maybe you need to slow down on the wine so you can keep up with the convo.”

“I’m not drunk, I’m just feeling good.”

I liked watching her lips move. She had an amazing mouth. “Open your mouth.”

“What?”

“Your mouth, open it.”

She scrunched her nose. “Why?”

I glared at her. After a few seconds of nervously squirming around in her seat, she turned to face me and opened her mouth. I didn’t want to look in her mouth, I just wanted her to do what I told her to. I folded my arms in front of my chest and imagined feeding her my dick, one thick inch at a time.

“Alright,” I said. “I’ve seen enough.”

She closed her mouth and licked her lips. “What was that about?”

I shrugged and took a sip of scotch.

She extended her index finger. “I’m not so drunk that I can’t see what it is you’re doing. You’re changing the subject, criminal.”