Dirty Favor (The Dirty Suburbs Book 4) Read online

  The name ‘Tickles’ does not behoove that cat. He is anything but cute and cuddly as his name would imply.

  Shaking my head, I step into the posh apartment that Evangeline calls home four or five days out of the month. Damn, it's such a great apartment. Every time I come here, I hate my own life just a little bit. Actually, everything about Evangeline makes me wonder why I even bother. My best friend is the opposite of me in every way.

  She's a leggy blonde with a perfectly slim physique while I’m petite with black hair and an ass so big it makes me wonder if I somehow reabsorbed the twin I was meant to share it with.

  Hey – the human chimera is a thing!

  I’m a hopeless tomboy while her picture was on the homepage of Marie Claire magazine’s website a few months ago under the caption “Effortlessly Chic.”

  She owns a luxurious condo overlooking the river while I share an insalubrious basement apartment with my cousin, Blakely, and the view out of the sole window is obscured by a foot of snow that my slumlord refuses to shovel.

  She's a rising supermodel who jet sets around the world and makes more money in an hour than I make in three shifts at the bookstore.

  She's got her shit together…and I clearly don't.

  I try not to let my situation get me down as I go through the motions of topping up Tickles’ water bowl, setting out his food and changing his litter. Once the cat has had his fill, I grab his medication off of the kitchen counter and he follows me into the living room. I put my phone in the dock and old school hip-hop music fills the air.

  I grab an overstuffed cushion from the couch and perch on top of it, crossed legged on the floor. I cradle Tickles in my arms, softly stroking his belly. He purrs and rubs the back of his head against my cleavage, his eyes closing contentedly.

  Perv.

  He lies in my lap, completely blissed out until I reach for the pill dispenser sitting on the table. His body immediately tenses up and he attempts to swat at my hand with his paws. "I’m sorry, buddy, " I say battling guilt as I cup his jaw in one hand and use the other hand to try and shove the pills down the poor cat’s throat.

  Tickles and I go to war for a good minute or so as he does his best to avoid the medication but eventually, I manage to get it all in.

  "Ha!" I shout victoriously as he swallows begrudgingly. The cat bolts out of my arms and dives behind a potted fern, leering at me from his hiding place. "Oh come on, Tickles. The pills are for your own good," I reason with him.

  The cat just continues to glare at me with haughty contempt.

  Now, I feel bad. He may be an asshole most of the time but the way he's looking at me now, all fragile and vulnerable, has me feeling like a big bully. I want to at least try to get back into his good graces.

  When my attempt to lure him with cat treats doesn’t work, I decide to try something different. The opening notes of ‘Baby Got Back’ pour out of the speakers and the music flows through me, my hips taking on a life of their own. I drop into a squat and put my hands on my knees. I pop my hips back and forth, doing my best to keep up with the music. Whoa – this twerking thing is harder than it looks. Still, Tickles doesn’t seem impressed. To him, I'm just the jerk who shoved a handful of vile-tasting capsules down his throat.

  "Well fine then," I say with a laugh. "I'll just be over here having all the fun. By myself."

  I’m having a blast, even though I probably look silly as hell. After this morning’s unceremonious wake up call, I deserve a good laugh. I stick out my tongue and twirl around to give Tickles a one-eighty view of my twerk-action.

  That's when my eyes land on the tall, muscular, nearly-nude body leaning against the doorframe.

  My breathing hitches and my eyes go wide as I jump, clasping my hand over my startled heart. "Prescott!" I shriek.

  "Good morning, Annaleigh," he says in a slow, sexy drawl. Amusement shines through his fatigued features as he stands there, enjoying the live freak show taking place in the middle of the living room.

  I brush my bangs out of my eyes and adjust my glasses on the bridge of my nose. Heat prickles my cheeks and I’m still breathless from the exertion. "You scared the shit out of me," I say as I smooth down the fabric of my over-shirt. Nobody’s supposed to be here, least of all, Evangeline’s smoking hot older brother.

  "You looked like you were having a good time.” One side of his mouth curves delectably. “Didn't want to interrupt."

  My lips part but no I’m at a complete loss for words. Still, despite my humiliation, I can’t help but appreciate the work of art that is Prescott Brooks. His sinewy, tanned arms are folded across his chest and he leans against the doorframe, bare feet crossed at the ankles. His silky, dark hair is a sexy mess and falls over one eyebrow. A sprinkling of stubble covers his angular jaw.

  Fuck, he’s sexy!

  But obviously, I don’t stand a chance because if he hadn’t previously noticed that I was a complete dork, he’s well aware now.

  My eyes settle where his morning wood is raging against the seam of his white Calvin Klein briefs. My jaw goes slack and little, wistful sigh escapes my lips. Only then does he realize that he's practically giving me my own up-close-and-personal Magic Mike experience.

  "Sorry."

  He really doesn’t look sorry. In fact, he’s clearly enjoying my awkward reaction as he grabs a throw pillow off of the couch and holds it over his crotch.

  I try to keep my focus on his face – which typically isn't hard because his face is sculpted perfection – but right now, there are miles of golden skin with sexy lines and ridges splayed before me. I can't help my eyes from wandering down over those glorious, golden contours and stone-carved muscles.

  I find myself wishing that pillow were my cheek.

  Dear Brain – Your thoughts are completely inappropriate right now. Please cut it out. Sincerely, Annaleigh.

  I hurry into the kitchen in search of a diversion to distract me from his enchanting semi-nudity. I lift onto my toes and pull the cabinet door open. "Golden Grahams, Fruit Loops or Cocoa Puffs?” I call out over my shoulder. “Or how about all three?" I spin around to face him, holding the cereal boxes to my chest.

  He guffaws. “You and my sister both eat like seven year old boys. You know that?”

  “Well, at least Evangeline gets to eat like crap and still be a supermodel,” I mutter under my breath.

  He appraises me openly, taking me in from top to bottom before a tiny smirk settles on his lips. “You’re not too bad yourself.”

  I feel my toes curl in my thermal socks and my heart goes arrhythmic. “Yeah, right,” I say in a feeble, blushing attempt to deflect the compliment. He can probably see the thrill zinging right through me.

  His intense stare is direct and unnerving, like a spotlight aimed right at my most private thoughts. He shakes his head. “Oh, Annaleigh. You have no idea…”

  Something inside of me tightens at his vague yet suggestive words. What the fuck does he mean by that? The topless, g-string clad devil on my shoulder shakes her tits and prods me to ask him for an explanation. Meanwhile, the angel on my other shoulder in her loose turtleneck and wide-legged corduroys demands that I let it go because there’s no way he means what I think he means. But before I get the chance to shift into overanalyze mode, Prescott tosses the pillow aside and moves away from the wall.

  “Let me get dressed. I’ll make you breakfast.”

  “You’ll make me breakfast?” I hitch an eyebrow as I ask the question.

  “Yeah, sure.” He shrugs as if it’s the most casual thing in the world. “Gimme a minute, okay?”

  Every inch of my body prickles excitedly and the fluttering in my stomach is making it harder and harder to breathe. Prescott has always affected me and this is exactly why. He's confident but not in a douchey way. He just has this easy, natural swagger that makes him both approachable and unattainable at the same time. And right now, it's doing a number on my insides.

  He’s insanely gorgeous and successful and…n
ice.

  So, would I like him to scramble my eggs this morning? Yes, please! I ogle his taut, muscular ass as he moves toward the bedroom. And goddamn – if by chance, he wants to butter my biscuits too, I’ll happily oblige.

  Brain! Shut up!

  Five minutes later, he reemerges buttoning up his black, collared shirt as he pads by me and throws the fridge door open. I watch the way his shirt tightens deliciously at the shoulders as he bends over and takes a look inside. Lust flutters in the hollow of my stomach and I bite down on my lips to keep from uttering all the inappropriate desires streaming through my mind.

  After rummaging around for a few seconds, he glances back at me. “How about a spinach-cheese omelette, bacon on the side?”

  "Sounds good," I say sweetly as I sit at the breakfast nook trying not to defile him in my thoughts. I scold myself for being so infatuated with him. I’ve known Prescott my whole life. It’s about time that I get over this silly crush.

  He switches on the coffee maker and sets two cups on the counter before popping some bread into the toaster. I sit quietly and appreciate him as he works at chopping the spinach and whisking the eggs. All the while, there’s a question burning my mind and I can’t help but ask.

  “So, why are you here?”

  It seems to be a subject that he’d rather not discuss. His shoulders heave dramatically and he grunts. Now, I’m even more curious. He peers over at me and I lift an impatient eyebrow at him, silently encouraging him to spill the beans.

  He grunts again. “Bianca changed the locks on me.”

  My eyes bulge. Not exactly the answer I was expecting. “What?”

  “Got home from a 14-hour day at the office and none of my keys worked.” He shrugs as he pours the eggs into the pan. He pulls his lips flat and stress lines appear between his brows.

  “Why the hell’d she do that?” The girl is crazy. I know I wouldn’t ever kick Prescott out if he was my bed-buddy. He’s a freaking catch.

  “She's moving in some guy she met in Amsterdam during her gap year.” He frowns. “She gave me back the engagement ring and everything.”

  Bianca had some kind of emotional breakdown shortly after she graduated college. She left Prescott behind and travelled Europe for a year on his dime. When she came back, she seemed to be fine and Prescott proposed. I think it was mostly to give her a sense of purpose but that’s just my impression of the situation.

  His eyes stay focused on the cheese he’s grating as he speaks. “Anyway, she and her pot-smoking, prostitute-loving Mokummer kept in touch and she now claims that they're soul mates. They’ve decided to live out their happily-ever-after in the little yellow cottage on Willard Road that I thought was my home.”

  “That’s right. Bianca inherited the house from her aunt, right?”

  “Right. So, I had no claim to it and she kicked me to the curb like a squatter.” He chuckles mirthlessly.

  "Oh Prescott, I'm so sorry." Let me make it up to you by sitting on your face.

  These inappropriate thoughts aren’t gonna stop, are they?

  He dumps the cheese into the pan and stands next to the table. "No, you're not sorry,” he deadpans.

  I gasp. “Excuse me?”

  He leans across the table and gets close. So close that I’m immediately heady off of the scent of his cologne, the mint on his breath, the sparkle in his eyes. “You nicknamed her ‘Bitchy Bianca’ and you do a spot-on impression of her over-the-top hissy fits…You’re not sorry that we broke up."

  My jaw drops and my face prickles with shame. "Evangeline told you that?"

  "Better…She showed me the video." He gives me a mocking wink before he turns away and wedges a spatula under the omelette. He flips it like a pro.

  Fucking Evangeline. She just had to put me on blast, didn’t she? On one of our drunken girls-nights-in, I’d done a silly impression of Bianca. She had recorded it and put it on Snapchat. I'd assumed that the thing had vanished innocuously into the ethers 24 hours later.

  I guess not.

  "It was hilarious, Annaleigh,” Prescott says reassuringly as I feel a blush clouding my cheeks. “Apparently, bitchy comes naturally to you." He snorts.

  How does this guy manage to make a snort look sexy?

  I feel my shoulders relax. He seems to be taking the whole thing lightly. "Thanks...?” I say, skepticism skirting my tone because that wasn’t quite a compliment, was it? “Anyway, what I was saying before you so rudely interrupted me is that I'm sorry you got hurt by Bitchy Bianca." I smirk. It feels kind of liberating to use her nickname openly.

  He grins but I can see in his eyes that it stings. At least a little. "Very kind of you, but I'll survive." He pounds his fist to his heart for dramatic effect. "It’s all for the best, though. That woman’s fetish for red-bottomed shoes had me headed for the poorhouse."

  I scoff. “Let’s see if the Dutch stoner dude can keep up. I mean, let’s face it, the chick is a bit high-maintenance.”

  “Understatement of the year.”

  We’re silent for a while. He seems deep in thought as he pours coffee into our mugs.

  "Did you love her?" I ask shyly. My curiosity is really overpowering my self-control right now. I just have to know.

  He stares out the window at the river below and shrugs. "We had lots of sex and we got along well enough…until we didn't. But I wouldn't say that I loved her. Not the way a man is supposed to love a woman, his future wife."

  I feel my heart fluttering in my chest. I’d bet that a man like Prescott knows how to love a woman. I mean, really love a woman and treat her the way she should be treated. But that’s really intimate conversation to get into, especially over eggs and coffee. So, a joke slips past my lips. "You mean, not the way you loved Crazy Caroline?" I ask, referring to one of his previous girlfriends.

  "No, Asshole Annaleigh. Not the way I loved Crazy Caroline.” He shakes his head and I can tell that he’s fighting a smile. “Anyway, I’m over the whole Bianca situation and I'm ready to move on."

  "Well, that was fast," I say under my breath. "It hasn't even been twenty-four hours."

  "I’m not saying that I’m looking for somebody new. I just don’t want to focus on that. I’d much rather shift my attention to something more productive, like my career. As my girl Oprah says, success is the best revenge." He sets a scrumptious-looking omelette in front of me. The aroma makes my mouth water. "So, let's change the subject. What’s going on with you? How's school?"

  I sigh, feeling the weight of the world on my shoulders. “Well, I’m in my last semester and I still haven’t applied for internships yet. All my classmates have and I just feel like I’m being left behind.”

  He sinks into the chair opposite me. “Why haven’t you applied?” His shirt isn’t buttoned all the way up and just a tiny swatch of flesh peeks out at the collar. My fingers twitch with the desire to touch it as he takes a bite of his eggs.

  “Well, there’s only one spot available at Reyfield Memorial, so it’s super competitive to get it. Any other position would be out of town, and honestly, I don’t want to move. Reyfield is home. So, I guess that’s why I’ve been procrastinating. Delaying the inevitable.” Most people my age would jump at the opportunity to get out of this suburb and maybe move to Chicago or some other big city. But I’m a small town girl at heart. My brothers have already moved far from home and I would hate to leave my dad behind. I’m all he’s got.

  Prescott waves off my concerns dismissively. “Psht. What are you saying? You’d totally get that spot at Reyfield Memorial if you applied. Your grades have always been through the roof.”

  “It’s not my grades that are the problem. The biggest issue is that I need a recommendation letter…”

  He looks at me with earnest eyes as he grasps my hand firmly. My skin tingles the way it does every time he touches me. I hold my breath as his lips part to speak. "Hey, if the whole lab tech thing doesn’t work out, you can always go into cat entertainment. Your own little niche in the enter
tainment business." He imitates the dance moves I was doing for Tickles earlier.

  I roll my eyes, trying not to laugh. "Thanks for the career advice, jerk.” I snatch my hand away both as a show of feigned offence and because his touch does way too much to me.

  "Couldn't resist,” he says with a chuckle as he leans back in his chair. “But in all seriousness, I might be able to help you get that internship."

  My ears perk up like an eager puppy who just heard the sweet melody of Kibbles ‘n Bits being poured into his food bowl. "You can help me?"

  He nods and gives me a handsome, one-sided smile. "I think I can."

  He can help me! He can help me! He can help me!

  And of course, his phone starts ringing in the other room right at that minute.