Dirty Christmas (The Dirty Suburbs Book 9) Page 10

  “Oh, jeez,” I say with a chuckle.

  “I think he just dropped a plank of plywood on his foot.”

  “Go kiss it better. Don’t let me keep you, hun.”

  “Okay, we’ll talk soon. And call me if you need anything.”

  “I will. Thanks so much, Sam. Good night.”

  “Good night, Faith.”

  After hanging up, I trudge into the bathroom for a long, hot shower. I literally need to wash this day right out of my hair. That’s when I realize that my shower gel and shampoo aren’t in my carryon. They’re in the big suitcase that I checked onto the plane.

  Great!

  I step into the dark-tiled shower stall and pull the glass door shut behind me. The water flicks on automatically, causing me to yelp with surprise. Then I burst into laughter.

  I drop down on the bench for a second to catch my breath. “Man,” I chuckle to myself, “I didn’t even know that automatic shower heads were a thing.”

  I swipe a very manly-looking body wash from the wall-mounted shower caddy as warm water sprays on me from all directions. It smells musky but sweet and entirely intoxicating, like a concentrated version of Maxwell’s skin. It’s almost like they took the essence of the man himself, boiled it down and packaged it in a tall, shiny tube. I hate that the mere scent of his soap provokes a not-so-subtle tingle between my thighs.

  I squirt a bit of the product into my palm and lather up, massaging the slick gel over my aching body. I’ve always hated traveling; it drains the life out of me. A yawn tumbles past my lips. I’ll be out like a light once I get into bed.

  Next, I squeeze a dollop of rich, creamy shampoo – same brand as the body wash – and quickly wash my hair.

  I step out of the shower and grab a folded towel from the nearby shelf. The luxurious bath sheet feel so good around me that I just want to curl up in a ball right there on the bathroom floor and take a nap.

  God – this man is living the good life.

  I glance around for some moisturizer. When I don’t find any sitting on the counter, I pull open the cabinet door above the toilet. Dozens and dozens of tubes of body wash and shampoo and moisturizer – all the same brand – sit in neat rows on the dark chestnut shelves.

  What the hell?

  Maybe they were on sale at Target. Or maybe he heard that his favorite product line was being discontinued. Whatever his reason for stocking up so thoroughly, it’s clear that Maxwell must love this manly scent, too. I take a minute to inspect the packaging and satisfy my curiosity.

  Once I’ve had my fill of snooping, I help myself to some moisturizer and emerge from the bathroom swathed in that plush white bath sheet. I feel so zen right now. It’s almost like I just got back from the spa. It’s almost like that whole nightmare at the airport never happened. I sit on the edge of the bed and reach for one of the pillows so that I can slip on the fresh linen that Maxwell left out for me but as I bring the pillow closer, I get a lungful of his smell again. It’s so robust and masculine. Like raw testosterone. It makes my head feel a little light and something tenses low in my belly. I plop back onto the mattress, burying my nose in the soft fabric.

  Abandoning the fresh sheets, I curl up on the bed, holding the pillow close to my chest as I bask in Maxwell’s scent. And wow – did I mention how luxurious this comforter feels? It’s the softest thing that’s ever touched my skin. The silky threads caress my bare legs. I close my eyes and sink deep into the opulent bedding, letting the experience consume me. The smell of this man is like a drug. It makes me hyperaware of every inch of my body.

  Maybe I’ve just had a long day.

  Suddenly, I find myself wondering if he’s good in bed. With arms like his and lips like his and eyes that glint with raw sex the way that his do, I’m sure that a night with Maxwell Masters is like falling into bed with Eros himself. My mind quickly wanders off, imagining in detail what it would be like if Maxwell was right here in this bed with me now.

  The bath towel eventually slips away. My hand travels slowly up the inside of my thigh until my fingers brush across the slick lips of my pussy.

  Oh my god. What am I doing?

  This is wrong this is wrong this is wrong this is wrong.

  I am seriously fucked up. What kind of person masturbates in the bed of the kind stranger who just opened up his home to give her room and board for the night?

  This girl!

  This is wrong this is wrong this is creepy this is wrong.

  Still doing it.

  And it feels pretty fucking good.

  A soft groan escapes my lips as tingles build at my core. I press my cheek into the soft pillow as my fingers move faster and faster over my flesh. The delicious tightening sensation crawling through my limbs warns of my impending orgasm. Hard, fast pants burst out of me. I squeeze my eyes shut and bite down on my bottom lip –

  The bedroom door swings open and hits the wall with a bang. “Hey, I forgot to –" Maxwell freezes mid-stride when his eyes fall to the bed where I lie splayed and breathless, a few strokes away from a toe-curling climax.

  I shriek, stunned by the unexpected intrusion. I bolt upright, grabbing a handful of sheet and towel and comforter, anything I can get my hands on to cover my naked body.

  Maxwell quickly snaps out of his shock and takes a quick step backwards, stumbling into the decorative telescope behind him. “Shit! I’m sorry! Fuck!” Panicked apologies fly out of his mouth as he simultaneously tries to gain his footing and reach for the telescope before it crashes to the ground. But he’s too late. The telescope falls with a tinny clang, swiping a framed photo off the dresser on its way down.

  I hear glass shattering as I make a mad dash for the bathroom, slamming the door behind me.

  Through the closed door, I hear Maxwell’s muffled apologies. “I’m sorry! Fuck! I just came in here to turn off my alarm clock. It’s set for four a.m.! I’m so fucking sorry!”

  I drop onto the closed toilet seat and bury my face in my hands.

  This day…this day is the fucking worst.

  Continue reading here

  Lover Boy

  (Blue Collar Bachelors - Book 1)

  Leo Montgomery is the jaded single dad next door.

  My brother’s best friend.

  And I want him to be my lover…

  Pre-order here

  Preview of Lover Boy

  Chapter 1

  Leo

  "Are we they'w yet?" a sleepy, little voice calls out from the back seat of Mara's beat-up, silver Ford Escort.

  I glance into the rearview mirror and am met by a pair of dark brown eyes struggling to stay open under their heavy lids. His white sweater is two sizes too small and has ketchup stains from the fast food dinner we shared earlier. There’s yogurt crusted at the corners of his lips. That’s from breakfast.

  He’s a really cute kid but in the short time that he’s been in my care, he’s started to look like one of those kids. Y’know—the kids you see streaking through the aisles of Walmart and you immediately start wishing that parents were required to get some sort of certificate to prove their fitness to raise children? Yeah, one of those.

  Jeez, I don’t know how to be a caretaker.

  A provider? Yes.

  A protector? Damn right.

  But a caretaker? Shit…With the headspace I’m in, I can hardly take care of myself.

  He doesn’t know any better, though. All he knows is that he’s ready to get out of the confines of this damn car. His favorite soccer ball is clenched in one hand as he jams the thumb of his other hand into his mouth. The thumb sucking. I wonder if that's new. Mara never mentioned it before. At least not that I remember. I'm struck by yet another wave of guilt. There's so much I don't know about my son. There's so much I'll never be able to ask his mother.

  How the hell am I supposed to do this?

  I’m woefully unprepared. It all happened too fast. One minute, I was out in the desert sniffing out militant combattants. The next minute, I was back
stateside, tugging my bawling toddler along as I dragged him away from the only home he’s ever known. Now, I'm in my car—Mara’s car—with a tiny stranger strapped into his booster seat, driving to a small town I’ve never been to take a job I’m unqualified for with an old friend I haven’t seen in years.

  I can't remember the last time I took a breath.

  Brenton's high-pitched voice rings out again. "Dad-dy..." he whines.

  With a jolt, I snap out of my reverie. "Almost there, buddy," I say as our eyes meet in the mirror.

  He lets the ball tumble to the floor. "You alweady said that a long time ago," he admonishes sternly and folds his little arms across his little chest. Well, damn. My tyke is calling me a liar.

  My mouth opens and closes wordlessly, not quite sure of the guidelines for negotiating with pint-sized terrorists who live under your roof and call you ‘daddy’. Mara was good at this. She knew how to handle this…I think.

  I've tromped through warzones. I've come face to face with some of the world's most ruthless killers. But no one, nothing has ever scared me as much as the snot-faced three-footer sitting in the backseat.

  I'm responsible for him. Whether he turns into a devil or a saint is a responsibility stacked squarely on my shoulders and it's terrifying. How am I supposed to shape him into a decent human being when I'm so lost and depressed that I don't know right from left, let alone right from wrong?

  "Is Uncle Charlie gonna play soccer with me in the backyard when we get there?" he asks.

  "It's pretty late. I think that maybe we should save the soccer for tomorrow. Don't ya think?" I’m not sure that suggestion will go over too well.

  "Nooo!" he shrieks histrionically, "No fair!" He tosses his head back and clenches his fists as if I just told him that his health insurance premiums are going up and his shifts are getting cut in half and the electricity is about to get shut off. Tears pour down his sticky cheeks and soap-opera-style sobs rip free from his chest.

  Jeez, kid—it’s not that deep!

  Anyway, that's how his latest mini-tantrum commences. Oh god, I feel a migraine coming on, tightening right behind my eyes. I try to rationalize with him, telling him that it's too dark, that he's too tired but from what I gather, four year olds don't respond well to logic.

  I love the boy but thank god I only have one of him. I wouldn’t be able to handle duplicates.

  Eventually, I break down, reaching across the console and opening up the glove box. I dig around—empty potato chip wrappers and gas station receipts falling to the floor—until I find a small stash of gummy bears. With one hand on the wheel, I bite down on the side of the package and tug sharply with my free hand, quickly opening the bag and stretching my peace offering into the back seat. My son hesitates for a second, contemplating my compromise. I squeeze my eyes in relief when he takes it into his tiny hands and his complaining trails off. Soon, his contented little hums are the only sound filling the cabin.

  Feeding my kid pounds of sugar and food coloring to shut him up. I'm dad of the year. Where do I claim my prize?

  Shit…this is going to be a disaster.

  I veer off of the I-90 north and glance up at the highway sign glowing up ahead in the darkness.

  Welcome to Copper Heights.

  Let’s see how this goes.

  Chapter 2

  Reese

  “Fuck the getting-to-know-you stuff—let’s just skip straight to the sex.”

  I glance up from the pile of hot clothes that I’m pulling from the dryer and stare over at my best friend. “You sound just like my last three dates,” I say flatly. I wish I were joking.

  Nova flicks her wrist dismissively at me as she crosses her legs beneath her and trains her attention on my laptop screen in front of her. “Half of this quiz is boring. I’m not gonna sit here and ask you personality questions when we can just jump to the good stuff.” She giggles at my sour expression. "Okay, first question—how would you describe your ideal lover?" She turns her expectant emerald irises to me and drums the tip of her finger against the palm rest of the computer as she waits for my answer.

  I resist the urge to roll my eyes. She’s taken it upon herself to sign me up on some online dating website despite my protests. I have absolutely no intention of searching for my next date on cheekychat.com, or any of the equally ridiculous-sounding dating apps she’s just listed off, but I'll humor her for a few minutes.

  Rubbing a finger thoughtfully against the side of my mouth, I pretend to think hard. "A former military man who is now a volunteer firefighter. Of course, his body is ripped in the sexiest way with abs that are packed like ladder rungs. He permanently wears a deep and pensive broody look. And for some inexplicable reason, he has a thing for girls with love handles and thigh-jiggle."

  She balls up a napkin and tosses it at me. "Be serious, Reese. This is important. You haven’t had an orgasm in forever and I'm starting to worry about you."

  "Don't," I tell her pointedly. "I'm fine." I turn my back to her and bend into the dryer to pull out the rest of my fresh laundry.

  True—I’m long overdue for some seismic activity in my nether regions but I’m not about to start dwelling on the lack of male companionship in my life. I’ve never been good at romantic relationships so I’m satisfied with spending time with my friends, co-owning a thriving business and hanging out with my (annoying but loving) family. At least for now.

  Copper Heights, Illinois isn’t rife with dating options, anyway. This small suburb is overrun by mean soccer moms with their monster strollers and their despondent, prematurely balding husbands. And don’t forget the slow-moving seniors whose attempts at parallel parking clog Main Street at all hours of the day. Eligible bachelors, as a species, are practically extinct around these parts. All that to say that—yes—I’m going through a dry spell, but I’m really not eager to put myself out there again.

  "You're not fine," Nova insists. "I feel like you’re still just relentlessly holding onto the hope that Martin's gonna zip back into Copper Heights and stop liking boys and scoop you up like it’s the fairy tale of our generation.” She throws me a frustrated look and shakes her head. “Goddamn. If Jack had half as much tenacity as you do, Titanic would have had a happy ending."

  She’s never going to let me live this Martin-thing down, is she?

  Look—I’m not one to back down from a challenge. When my childhood sweetheart admitted to being gay, I hadn’t seen it coming. Yes, he’d been a High School Musical fanatic, but who hadn’t been?

  Anyway, did I dump him like a hot potato following that epic confession? Hell no! Instead, I spent another two years trying to convince him otherwise because you don’t just give up on people. At least not when you love them. But ultimately, those efforts failed and he ran off to Vegas to perform show tunes. If I’m honest, the guy always did look good in red Lycra and sequins.

  Whatever…

  He and I are on excellent terms and his partner, Hahn, ensures that I get a delicious fruitcake every Christmas. I don’t know what Nova’s whining about. I'd call that a win.

  She’s still yapping away as the divine combination of lemon and vanilla infuses the kitchen. She stares at me with her wild golden ringlets fanning out around her caramel face like a curly lion's mane. "I don't mean to be harsh, but I've got news for you. Martin's not coming back. The sweet, exuberant disco enthusiast who serenaded you down the halls of Copper Heights High? He doesn't exist anymore."

  I check the timer on the counter. Just a few more minutes before I pull the cupcakes out of the oven. "Nova...I’m over him. I just haven’t met anyone worth investing in yet. So, please, let’s not relive the Martin phase." I move my laundry basket to the table and set it right in front of her, hoping that she'll take a hint and help me as I fold. No such luck. I’m not surprised. She’s just going to sit around and wait to be fed while I buzz around the kitchen like a worker bee doing overtime. I shake my head.

  Nova Chester is my badass-warrior-woman friend. We’ve be
en besties since high school. My family was reasonably well-off but my dad was determined to make a ‘statement’ by sending his kids to public school instead of carting us off to Hoovertown Private High School. It was a political strategy he adopted to bolster his run for the state senate but I’m glad he made that decision because that’s how I met Nova.

  She’s my opposite in endless ways but she feels like my soul mate on many levels. She’s the friend who has a catty retort for every situation and can kick some ass even in four-inch leather thigh-highs. The one you call when you find your blind date blocking the service exit with his tongue down the waitress’s throat halfway through your romantic rendez-vous (True story, by the way). She’s blunt. She’s real. She’s straightforward. And because of that I trust her with my life despite her rough edges.