𝐁𝐎𝐎𝐊 𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐁𝐈𝐑𝐃𝐒 𝒐𝒇 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐘 𝐝𝐮𝐞𝐭.
A truly dark and unconventional romance that's still somehow saccharine at its rotten core.
❥ 𝐋𝐎𝐔𝐈𝐒𝐀 𝐏𝐀𝐋𝐎𝐌𝐀 is a 28-year-old wannabe ballerina with her head stuck in the clou...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Ronan's POV
Staggering into Désirée's hungover, jonesing, and sleep-deprived at ten in the goddamn morning wasn't exactly on my to-do list for the day, but anything is better than suffering through brunch with my mother.
I just need an assignment. Get in. Get out. Go home and rest.
I bust through the back door of the poorly lit strip joint like a bull in a China shop, damn near losing my footing. Immediately, I'm engulfed by a haze of cigar smoke and drugstore perfume. Following the scent while a thumping bass emits from the speakers, accentuating the emptiness of the usually busy club, I find the source of the stench.
The only sign of life in the building resides in the center of the ground floor, planted in the middle of a dark leather couch. Bored-looking dancers in ridiculous costumes are posed on either side of him, one polishing his... ahem, ego.
Classy, boss.
"You look like shit, Ronan," he declares, cigar clamped between his teeth.
Every time I see The Big Guy, I can't help but feel irrationally irritated.
He's this hulking blob of a man with a head as bald as an egg, still somehow obnoxiously shining under what little light there is. He squeezes himself into expensive suits, the pinstripes struggling to contain his fat—and don't get me started on that ridiculously wide grin of his, permanently plastered on his stupid face.
It's as if he's mocking us all with that misleading smile.
When he laughs—which is often—it's ear-splitting and booming, filling any space just like the rest of him. Despite his jovial exterior, there's a coldness in his beady eyes that harshly reminds you he's not just some clown, though he sure likes playing dumber than he actually is.
Anyone with half a brain knows it's a facade.
"You don't look too shabby yourself, asshole," I retort. "I thought you said you had something for me."
Taking a seat across from him, I kick my feet up on the glass table separating us, littered with empty beer mugs and stacks of papers. Arbitrarily typing away on a laptop he has mounted on his belly like it's a makeshift desk, he pauses to slap his knees and focus his sights on me.
One of the two dreary girls has made their way to the armrest of the loveseat I've dissolved into, the gaudy, pink jewel of her bellybutton piercing dangling at my eye level. She greets me with a tight-lipped smile and hands me a shot of something lukewarm and amber, unprompted.
My eyes do a once over, taking in her appearance.
She's probably pretty under the Pepto Bismol colored wig, 80's blue eyeshadow, and tawdry garments. Definitely still fuckable.
