Read Dirty South (A Blue Collar Bad Boy Romance) for Free Online Page B

and a shot of Jack on the table in front of me and slides into the other
side of the booth.
    "Bad date," I reply. She chortles, and I shoot her
a glare.
    "Sorry," she says with a shrug. "Just didn't
think you cared enough."
    "What's that mean?" I frown.
    "Usually for you, a bad date means you didn't get laid,
which is fine, because you can just call another girl in your rolodex. Or, you
know, phone contacts or whatever. So, what's she like?" she asks, leaning
her forearms on the slightly sticky table.
    What's she like? Funny, smart, her emotions play across
her face like a cattail dancing in the breeze. But she's not fragile, either.
She can ride a horse like hell, her perfect thighs gripping the saddle and
guiding the horse with just the smallest flexion. She's pale, with a rope of
thick, dark hair, like she's jumped here from another time. She seems like a
perfect Southern debutante on the outside, but I know she's got a wild heart.
    "Doesn't matter," I grunt.
    Sydney whistles. "Turned you down, huh? Well, I get off
in a couple hours." I shake my head no. "You've got it bad."
    "Just not in the mood tonight," I reply, trying to
keep the defensiveness out of my voice.
    "Alright," she says, backing off. "Keep 'em
coming?" she asks, indicating the drinks.
    I nod.
     
    * * *
     
    My mood's no better the next morning, though the hangover
isn't helping. I stare at my bedroom window, admiring the moldings and custom
drapes. It's an old house built in the English Regency style that defines
Savannah architecture, but everyone else was scared off by its dilapidated
state. I bought it and fixed it up myself. Just finished it a year or so ago.
    I live in the right house, wear the right clothes... but
still I feel I don't belong here. I can't tell if my outsider status is real or
imagined. Do these old money Savannah people really consider me one of them? Or
will I always be some kind of interloper, making off with their precious
daughters? And the daughters are never nearly as innocent as they claim, by the
way. The gatekeepers love to help me spend my money, putting me on the board of
this society and that charitable association, but I can't help but feel I'm not
truly accepted.
    Or maybe I'm being paranoid. It's true that I've always had
a massive chip on my shoulder, needing to prove I'm better than my druggie
mother and absentee father. Well, it's always kept me working hard, harder than
anyone around me. I thought that by making myself into a successful
businessman, my insecurities would vanish, but I guess I was wrong.
    I pull on a pair of short and sneakers and head out for a
jog along the Savannah River. It always helps me to clear my head, and I don't
want to get soft like some of the other people who work in Woodall & Sons
front office, especially Mason Woodall himself. Sometimes I walk in on him
studying his gut in the mirror in his office.
    My gratitude to him knows no bounds, but he can't deny that
I've proved my worth to him ten times over. I wish I could say he trusts me
completely now, but he still pushes back on some of my ideas for the company.
Like the rebranding, for one. At least he finally relented on that issue, though
who knows why. Months of trying to convince him, with no headway, and then one
day he comes into my office all ready to go and has even picked out the company
we should hire.
    My head snaps and I almost trip as a leggy brunette jogs
past me. I thought for a second it was Callie. Shit. I need to let that one go.
Clearly she's got something going on. My money's on a boyfriend, maybe from
college and living in a different state. Probably she was just feeling lonely,
and then pulled back at the last second when the guilt was settling in.
    I just wish she'd tell me straight out. I pull out my phone
and type in her number, then shut it again. If it is a boyfriend issue, then
I'm not getting involved. All the women I go out with need to be free and
clear. And if it's not... well, then a phone call isn't