Jacks: BBW Billionaire Menage Romance (Billionaire Brothers, II Book 1) Read Online Free PDF

the counter for a comb - wow - there it was again. It felt kind of weird. Startling. And kind of great.
    I ran my damp hands through my dark, wavy hair and tried to make it look less insane, but nobody in Chicago had good hair in the summertime anyway. A handful of humectant gel, a slash of eyeliner pen across each eyelid and a swipe of mascara, and it was done.
    “This is it, girl,” I muttered to my steamy reflection. “Do it now, and do it for good.”
    Vaguely amazed at my own sense of hustle and direction, I flung open the bedroom door again to see Carl still cowering in the hallway. He looked so frail and naked with his hands still up like I might hit him. I found myself filled with revulsion as I strode past.
    “Bree, you can’t leave,” he insisted.
    I rolled both cases down the wood-floored hallway and picked up my purse from the dining room table where she I dropped it.
    “Brienne, we can work this out, please?”
    Finally, I spun around. I looked him in the eye. Memories of all the other times I had looked into those eyes threatened to flood me with rage or sadness, I couldn’t be sure which.
    “We worked it out last time . Remember, Carl? And Dave says you’re out of two-percent.”
    Snatching my keys from the hall table, I rolled my cases out the door and slammed it behind me. I looked at the keys in my hand. Inhaling deeply, I dug the keys for the Jeep off the ring, then turned around and dropped the rest through the mail slot back into the apartment. I wouldn’t need them again.
     

CHAPTER 5
    Getting the suitcases to the parking garage was slightly more challenging. I stared at the “Out of Order” sign on the elevator in disgust, then decided to just walk the bags up the ramps to the third level.
    The garage was deserted. Most commuters had gone for the day and wouldn’t be back until after dinnertime. I listened to the sound of the suitcase wheels on the dirty concrete and tried not to think maudlin thoughts about my life crashing down around my ears.
    Perspective , I demanded as I walked toward my car. You need perspective.
    The rear gate on my 1995 Jeep Grand Cherokee slammed shut with a satisfying sound and I took my one-thousandth cleansing breath. Turning toward my driver’s side door, I realized I was parked next to Carl’s 2015 convertible Mini Cooper. Some part of me wanted to stab through the rag top with my keys. Drag a rock down his custom orange racing stripes? Slash his tires?
    I shook my head and hopped into the Jeep’s driver’s seat, then fumbled around in the passenger’s side until I found a discarded envelope. Dragging a black Sharpie marker from my purse, I wrote: “YOU SUCK” and slipped it, facing in, under his wiper blades.
    The big Jeep roared to life and blew musty, hot air and dust out of the vents immediately. I made a face and fiddled with the knobs, then cranked the window down hard and breathed the comparatively fresh air of the parking garage.
    I drove slowly around the ramps, trying to keep the big truck from scraping against the low concrete overhangs and the shiny late-model cars. As I left, I gazed at the electric car charging station with envy. A tiny, electric car sounded fantastic, especially compared to the behemoth my father had left me. I would be able to find parking spaces on the street occasionally… Gas it up about three times a year instead of every other time I wanted to drive it… And they had all those space-shuttle-quality digital readouts on the dash. So shiny.
    In all fairness to Carl, he had suggested I upgrade to a newer model car, but I couldn’t get over my sentimental attachment to the Jeep. I remembered taking it straight up the river banks in Michigan one summer, screeching with delight as my dad executed what seemed like death-defying, gravel-spitting turns up and down steep embankments.
    I remembered sleeping across the big bench seat, wrapped in an old woolen army blanket as we drove endless miles to wherever: Wisconsin