Dirty Together by Meghan March EPUB & PDF – eBook Details Online
- Status: Available for Free Download
- Authors: Meghan March
- Language: English
- Genre: Billionaire Romance
- Format: PDF / EPUB
- Size: 2 MB
- Price: Free
I wait my turn at the single blinking red light in Gold Haven, Kentucky, and
turn left before pulling into the gas station. This is the first place I ever
pumped gas in my life. It was a lot cheaper then too. My Pontiac isn’t a
whole lot nicer than the 1988 Fiero I drove back then, but in this town, it
doesn’t stand out, and that’s exactly what I need. I tug on a trucker hat and
slip on sunglasses before opening the door and climbing out.
The old pumps I expected, the ones where the numbers click over as you
fill up, have been replaced with newer models.
Even better. It lowers the chance that someone will recognize me if I can
avoid all human interaction.
I swipe my card, get my gas, and twist the gas cap back on. When I get
back to Nashville, I’m finally going to look into replacing this car. I rarely
splurge on anything.
Even though I won a “million-dollar recording contract” on Country
Dreams, the amount I saw was laughable. Albums? They’re expensive as hell
to produce. And as far as the pay I get per show when I’m on tour, after all
the expenses are covered? It’s also nothing to write home about. But as my
share of the ticket sales goes up and I build my fan base, that will eventually
change.
But for now, I’m saving every penny I can and getting by on the bare
minimum because I don’t know when the bottom will fall out.
Not much has changed about that since I married billionaire Creighton
Karas. Thoughts of my husband spiral through me, followed by equal jabs of
guilt and regret. I can’t believe I did it again. This morning I just up and
walked out.
I don’t know what I was thinking beyond . . . if I didn’t get out of that
penthouse at that very moment, I felt like something inside me was going to
break. I had to get out of that city. I know I’m a coward and an idiot. No one
has to tell me that because I’ve already called myself every name in the book.
I tear the receipt off and tuck it into my coat pocket before slipping back
into my car. I turn the key.
Click.
I try it again.
Clunk.
Shit. I sigh, releasing a huge breath, and drop my forehead against the
steering wheel.
This is karma, I’m pretty sure. This is what happens to women who leave
their husbands—not once, but twice—without an actual explanation.
Crap. As much as I want to indulge in a pity party, now isn’t really the
time.
I gather myself, haul my purse over my shoulder, and push the car door
open again. This place used to provide full-service fill-ups, but they
discontinued those about the time I was learning to drive—not that I would
have paid the extra two cents a gallon for the luxury.
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