A Is for Alpha Male
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Authors: Laurel Curtis
A is for Alpha Male
Copyright © 2013, Laurel Ulen Curtis
Cover Design by Stephanie White of
Steph’s Cover Design
All rights reserved.
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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Table of Contents
I consider this book a very personal experience. I wrote it with two people in mind.
Firstly, it’s an author’s version of a fangirl love letter to fellow author, Kristen Ashley. I personally can’t ever get enough of her books, and I feel like this book pays tribute to her greatness.
The second person on my mind was my mom. She is a girl’s best friend, and I wanted this book to shed light on a sliver of how awesome I think our relationship is.
So here’s to you, ladies.
“DON’T BE SUCH a butthead, Hunt!” I screamed as he ran away from my pint-sized fists of fury.
Pulling my long reddish-brown hair down from my ponytail and slipping my hair tie onto my wrist, I sighed a huff of disgruntlement and toed the sandy dirt with my Keds tennis shoe. I wanted to ride a four-wheeler. But now that I wasn’t, there was no need to have my hair up anymore.
Muttering to myself, I grumbled, “He never lets me do anything. Stupid, stupidhead.”
Boy-like fingers tugged on a strand of my hair from behind me, forcing me to turn around.
“He’s just protecting you,” the boy-next-door told me.
That was probably true. Hunter was protective. He was
always
protective. Ugh.
But I wanted to do the same things my brother and his stupid friends did. I was just as tough. It shouldn’t matter that I was a girl.
“Oh yeah? What do you know anyway, Jerkface?” I griped.
Ryan Parker just smiled, shook his eight year old head, and mumbled with unconcealed wonder, “Where does a six year old little girl learn so many insults?”
I chose not to dignify him with a real answer, stuck my tongue out, and then skulked away, back to the house to see what havoc I could wreak on my sweet mother.
“Boys are so dumb,” I announced on a shout as soon as I entered the house.
I could hear my mom’s light laughter as she made herself visible by stepping out of the laundry room, the towel she was folding still in her hands.
“One day, sweetheart, I guarantee that you will confirm that thought to be true. But, believe me, you won’t care.” She paused, her pupils lifted diagonally in their oval shaped habitats as if recalling a memory, and then shared again, “No. Dumb or not, you’re still going to want one.” As I approached her she crouched down so that she was on my level, lifted a soft palm to my face, and spoke with muted exuberance. “One that makes your heart race with anticipation, your skin tingle with awareness, and your veins sing with excitement. One that accepts you for who you are and brings out the best in you.”
The fingers of her slim hand tensed, and then she told me the most important quality of all. “One that shows you the kind of love you never dreamed existed.”
“SWEET BABY JESUS, thank God you’re here,” I greeted my mom as she came in the door. “I’m freaking starving. My stomach is literally eating itself.”
I could totally feel it gnawing away in there, turning on itself with absolutely no shame about its self-cannibalism.
As Allison approached the table she rolled her eyes and lifted one corner of her mouth into a smirk. “You always did have a flair for the dramatic.”
“Hello Kettle,” I mumbled under my breath which, unsurprisingly, earned me a little smack to the back of my head.
Rubbing my hand on the surely formed lump, I grumbled, “Ouch, that’s child abuse.”
Okay, so she didn’t actually hit me hard at all, and there most definitely wasn’t a lump.
Conclusion: I
was
dramatic. But so was she.
I watched as she burst out laughing and took several seconds to get herself under control. When she finally settled back down she made sure to point out, “Honey, you have never seen abuse, and you are
hardly
a child anymore.” She looked me up and down pointedly, and then finished, “Now get over yourself.”
“Alright, fine,” I conceded, explaining, “I can’t help it. You know I get cranky when I’m hungry.”
My mood had always been largely dictated by the state of my stomach. Don’t get me wrong, I was always snarky, but I became significantly
more
snarky when food deprivation was involved.
Luckily, if anyone knew me, it was my mama, so she just nodded her head in understanding for a couple of seconds before I continued with my real problem. “Plus, I had another horrible date last night. I don’t understand. I know guys aren’t perfect, but it’s getting ridiculous at this point. This guy called his mother six times while we were at dinner.
Six
,” I emphasized by holding up a six count of fingers. “Cut the fucking cord already.”
After a brief bout of laughter brought on by my delivery, her face turned to a mask of concern, and frankly understanding, as she realized what my real plight was. I was twenty-seven, by no means an old-timer, but I had been dating for years with absolutely zero success. She knew how I felt. Actually, she probably felt worse than I did. She was forty-nine, recently divorced, and going through much of the same thing that I was, except with old, fat guys.