From Despair Grows Order: The Broken Billionaire Series Book 3 by Nancy Adams

Author:Nancy Adams [Adams, Nancy]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Published: 2017-07-01T04:00:00+00:00

JOSH

An atomic bomb was going off in my head, its huge mushroom-cloud of anger expanding in me as I stomped away from the apartment along the dimly lit sidewalk and into the night. The furious bomb’s components consisted of: Sarah comparing me to my father, a man I’d longed to disassociate myself from since childhood; the fact that her morality and blind obedience to the law had wrecked my ecstatic mood at having won the money, bursting my balloon and sending me crashing down to the earth; coupled with the fact that she was sure to expect me to hand the money over and ruin my return to college on the basis of her ethics; and that that would mean spending God knows how much longer breaking my back, being talked down to like a piece of shit, getting covered in filth, and all for a crummy wage that barely amounted to a night on the town every week. But the final component, the one that viciously writhed underneath the rest and acted as a catalyst for my wrathful explosion, that component was my sexual frustration. It was this that spread through everything else and decimated my mind.

Having walked for what must have been at least an hour, I finally found what I was looking for: an avenue of neon bar signs that glittered in the night’s sky like stars of the street. Some old instinct told me to ignore the first bar I came across, so instead I continued until I reached one that was on the corner of an intersection. Even though it was well after one, the place was still packed tight with revelers, some band playing shitty covers of eighties hits making noise in a corner, clusters of people dancing around their edge, the rest of the bar wasted and swaying about the place. Women’s screams and giggles, male guffawing, smashed glasses and a hundred dead-end conversations all mixed in with the din of the band.

I ignored everyone and sidled my way through the knots of drunken people until I reached the bar, immediately calling over the barmaid, ordering two bottles of Coors and two shots of tequila. I paid the bill with a hundred-dollar bill, all I had, and the barmaid shot me a suspicious eye, but soon returned with my order and change. I slammed the tequilas back one after the other and then took my beers over to one of those shelf-like tables that always surround tall pillars in bars. I thumped my beers down on the ledge, before dumping myself down on the stool. At first, all I did was watch the piece of column in front of me and swig at my beers, the first one rapidly, the second a little slower, the oily tequila twisting my stomach a little. But soon I wanted a smoke, and, turning around, stopped this plump blonde wearing ripped jean-shorts several sizes too small, her thick pink thighs ballooning out of them like badly packed ham, and a Metallica t-shirt covering her gargantuan breasts.

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