The Bad Boy Next Door: Lance & Chastity (46 page)

“Interview? For what?”

“It’s nothing. Some, uhhh, fitness thing,” I lie. “Some guy’s YouTube workout channel.”

“That sounds exciting.”

I always tell girls I’m a fitness model, but I never go into more detail than that. I hate talking about myself. “It’s pretty boring. Kind of technical. Blood sugar levels, triglycerides, recovery intervals. Boring shit like that.” Usually the technical talk turns them off.

“I don’t mind,” Babe purrs. “I’m sure I’ll learn something.”

Maybe this chick has potential…

She does that stripper thing where she sticks out the tip of her tongue and runs it across her top teeth. When that doesn’t work, she tweaks one of her nipples with her fingers, lifts her tit to her mouth, and licks the nip.

…Then again, maybe not.

Why’d she have to go and ruin it?

“Trust me,” I chuckle, “You’ll be snoring inside of two minutes. And the guy is a nobody. I think his biggest video has like 700 views. I’m doing it as a favor for a friend.” I’m making all of this up as I go along. Babe will never know.

“It’s no big deal, Connor. I really don’t mind.”

This always happens. A girl like her has guys throwing themselves at her 24/7. I saw it at the club last night. Five hundred different guys talked to her, but she went back to the hotel with me. What should’ve been a one-nighter is suddenly turning into a pain in my ass. I don’t know how to break it to her that I’m not interested. After fuckin them, I never am.

So, how to get rid of her?

Usually, I like the direct approach.

“You need to go,” I grunt.

<<<<<<<>>>>>>>

ELECTRA

Romeo leans his ear against the door, “I don’t hear anyone inside. Do you have a drinking glass?”

“Why?”

“So I can hear better. Don’t you watch spy movies?” he hisses.

“Not really.”

“Which celebrity do you think he looks like?” Romeo muses gleefully, his ear still glued to the door.

“I have no idea.” Nor do I care. My kind of man has a career path. Soft porn modeling is
not
a career path. Nothing gets me going like a suit and tie. Not that I’ve had anything going on in the boyfriend or the bedroom department since forever. I’m focused on being a journalist, not meaningless flings.

“Whatever he looks like,” Romeo swoons, “I bet he’s gorgeous. I’m picturing chiseled cheek bones, a brooding brow, smoldering eyes, and a rugged stubbled jaw.”

I smirk, “That sounds like a caveman or a neanderthal. Does he wear a leopard skin for a loincloth and carry a club too?”

“I hope so,” Romeo grins, his eyes dreamy. “Then he can pound me with his club, take me back to his cave, and pound me with his
human
club from behi—”

“Stop!” I bark.

“Never mind me,” he giggles. “A serious woman like you is only interested in serious information, right?”

“What makes you think I’m serious?” I ask defensively.

His eyes sweep up and down my outfit. One of his eyebrows arches dramatically and his face says,
Have you looked in a mirror lately?
But his mouth says, “Please, girlfriend. Your outfit was on the cover of the latest issue of Business Matron’s Monthly.”

I hide my scowl as I look down my nose at him through my stylish eyeglasses. “That’s not even a real magazine.” My long auburn hair may be pinned up in a conservative bun, but I look good in my pumps, pencil skirt, and blouse. I always dress my best so people take me seriously.

“We’ll work on tomorrow’s look later,” he smiles. “But we can do something about that uptight hair of yours.” He reaches for my bun like he’s going to fiddle with it, or worse, let it down completely. “Your hair bun is so tight it’s giving you a facelift.”

“Hands off!” I growl, pulling back defensively. He thinks he can give
me
fashion advice? He looks like a cartoon character. I resist the urge to kick his shins with my pointed pumps.

He drops his arm to his side, “Loosen up, girl. I’m just trying to help.”

“What do you know about women’s fashion? Look at
your
outfit! I didn’t realize sci-fi emo was still a
thing
,” I spit. “And what’s with that stupid monocle?”

With practiced flair, he flips the monocle up with a flick of his wrist and squinches it in his cheek. He stares at me through it, the monocled eye comically magnified. “Perhaps you need a personality makeover, darling,” he mutters before letting the monocle tumble free.

I’m about to give him a tongue lashing when I stop myself. I admit it. I’m very sensitive about my looks, my personality, everything. Let’s face it. I’m just plain sensitive. I blame four years of high school torment from Connor Hughes. That asshole left me scarred.

That’s when the hotel room door suddenly whips open and my chest locks down tight, stopping my breath.

It’s him.

Connor Hughes.

No. Fucking. Way.

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FEARLESS

THE STORY OF SAMANTHA SMITH #1

A Romantic College Comedy

BY DEVON HARTFORD

The following sample is the opening chapter from FEARLESS, the first book in Devon Hartford’s #1 best-selling romantic college comedy trilogy, The Story of Samantha Smith.

CHAPTER 1

I was disastrously late for my first college class ever. My master plan to live at the beach while remaining close to the San Diego University campus had blown up in my face. I had left out one variable: suck-ass traffic.

Nobody had given me the memo that the Pacific Coast Highway was the route that half of San Diego County took to work in the morning.

At least I had a scenic view of the beach while I waited behind a line of cars at a red light in my raggedy VW. I watched a bunch of surfers skimming across the top of the ultramarine Pacific Ocean.

I did my best to relax, clicking my nails on the steering wheel, keeping time to Born This Way by Lady Gaga. I didn’t care what people said, Gaga wrote great music. Girl Power!

The cars in front of me had moved. Finally. Horns blared behind me.

“All right!” I shouted at them. Not watching what I was doing, I reached for the stick shift and knocked my Venti Americano out of the cup holder. The lid flew off and coffee poured all over my bare legs. “Shit!” Fortunately I loved half-and-half, so the coffee didn’t scald me. But the cup had been nearly full. Creamy coffee coated my legs and the footwell. At least none of it got on my new print dress.

“Move it!” someone yelled behind me.

Seriously? I had the BP oil spill turning my car into the Gulf of Mexico and I was supposed to worry about traffic? I threw napkins at the mess, but I didn’t have enough to make a dent.

I frantically grabbed the stick shift and put the car back into first. My foot slipped off the clutch as I put on the gas. I lurched forward and the car stalled. Crap. Coffee sloshed against the floorboards and waved into the back seat. Craptastic.

“Go, you dumb broad!”

I glanced in my rearview at a red-faced guy in a gaudy gold Mercedes convertible. He stood up in his car and leaned over his windshield impatiently.

Flustered, I twisted my keys in the ignition and nothing happened. What was wrong with my car now? I hoped nothing serious because I didn’t have spare cash for a replacement thingamajig or whatever. I took a deep breath. Duh. I’d forgotten to push the clutch.

Red Face shook his fist at me. “You made me miss the light, stupid bitch!”

Bitch…

I leaned my head out my window and prepared to give this guy a dose of feminine fury. My face was nearly sliced off as a motorcycle lane-split between my car and the sedan next to me.

“Hey!” I turned to shout at the motorcycle. “You almost killed me!”

The psycho guy on the roaring black bike didn’t hear me. He rolled to a stop at the red light a few cars ahead of my VW, planted his boots on the ground, and revved his engine. I noticed his thin white T-shirt flutter in the breeze, revealing sculpted bronze back muscles that led to what was clearly an amazing ass hidden under his jeans. The way he straddled the racing bike made me blush. Was he wearing any underwear?

I wish I was that motorcycle. Shut your dirty mind, girl! Thoughts like that will get you into all kinds of trouble!

Maybe I liked trouble.

His narrow waist led to broad shoulders that were equally amazing and stretched the cotton material of his shirt impressively. Yum.

Hold up, girl! He almost beheaded you with his handlebars! No special passes for insane bikers. Even if they are hot from the rear.

“Psycho!” I shouted. He didn’t hear me.

“You made me miss the light, idiot!” I whipped my head around. Red Face had gotten out of his Mercedes and stood right behind my door, his fists planted on his hips. He wore a toupee and gaudy gold chain. His swollen gut, wrapped in a silk button-down shirt, hung over his expensive slacks.

I might have liked trouble, but not this kind.

“Don’t call me an idiot!” I shouted. “And quit yelling at me! I’m swimming in Lake Americano here!” My pulse raced. I knew guys like this. Asshats to a man.

He eyed my coffee mess and smirked. “It’s stupid broads like you who cause all the accidents.”

“Excuse me?”
Broads?
Was I trapped in a 1940s gangster film? A thatch of curly hair puffed out of his open shirt collar. More like a 1970s mafia movie.

“Dumb bitch! Get off the road! Leave the driving to the men!”

Bitch…

How many times had I been called that in the last two years? I learned I didn’t have to take it from
them
, so I certainly wasn’t going to take it from this prick. I cranked up my window furiously. Half way up, Red Face grabbed the glass and pushed against it. “Hey! I’m talking to you! Get off the road, slut! You’re blocking traffic!”

Slut…

I knew that one, too. But I was no slut. Uh-uh. I flashed my teeth at him. If I were a werewolf, now would’ve been the moment when I bit his fingers off. No such luck. I tried to turn the window crank, but Red Face pushed down so hard on the glass, I couldn’t budge it. “Hey, asshole, get off my car or I’m going to pepper spray your face!”

“Don’t back talk me, whore!”

Whore…

I glared at his insane eyes. I knew the look. He was trying to intimidate me. My face was suddenly hot, and I felt tears welling. I willed them to dry up. I’d promised myself no one would ever intimidate me again, and I certainly wasn’t going to cry for
this
sloppy bastard.

But old feelings leaked into my awareness anyway. Red Face had managed to bring me right back to that night two years ago. The night that had started all the dirty looks, the labels, the name calling, and the ejection from high school society.

For a second, I almost fell apart. But I had plenty of practice holding myself together under stress. I took a deep breath and shoved my old pain behind the emotional walls I’d worked so hard to build.

When I regained my composure, I spoke to Red Face in a calm, commanding voice. “Remove your fingers from my window and get back into your car. Now.”

He ignored my request. “Move it, skank!”

This guy was plain crazy. He probably didn’t know what day of the week it was, let alone his own name. He needed a handler with a leash. Where was Animal Control when you needed them?

What to do? I didn’t have pepper spray. Even if I did, it would be buried in my purse underneath the hoarder’s paradise I kept inside it. I considered biting his fingers once again. Until I noticed he had hairy knuckles. Ew. That made
him
the hairy werewolf in this scenario.

I considered gouging his eyes with my nails, but the way he was standing, I couldn’t get an angle. I looked around for help. No one was jumping out of their cars. I was on my own on this.

Shit, when wasn’t I?

Red Face kicked my car door with his pointed loafer. “Hey! I’m talking to you, pinhead!”

I noticed motion out the corner of my eye. Psycho Motorbike had put his kickstand down and swung his leg over his motorcycle. Helmet still on, he swaggered toward my car.

Psycho Motorbike stopped short of Red Face, who hadn’t noticed him. Psycho Motorbike’s front side was as impressive as his back. His broad chest flexed under a V-neck t-shirt. The tanned edges of his sculpted pectorals danced in the open collar. Muscled arms covered in tattoos hung at his sides. Leather gloves covered his fists.

I couldn’t see much of his face with the helmet on, but his sapphire blue eyes pierced my heart. “You gotta problem?”

Was he talking to me or Red Face?

Red Face swiveled to confront blue-eyed Psycho Motorbike. “Who the fuck are you?”

“This guy bothering you?” Psycho Motorbike stared into my eyes, clearly talking to me.
Sigh
.

“I’m talking to you, you fucking prick!” Red Face shouted at Psycho Motorbike.

Psycho Motorbike never took his eyes off me. I gazed into his two blue oceanic jewels and nodded slowly.

“The lady wants you to leave,” Psycho Motorbike said to Red Face.

“What? I don’t take shit from you, punk. Get the fuck outta here,” Red Face growled.

Psycho Motorbike took a step toward him. “Back off, buddy.”

“Fuck you, prick!” Red Face lunged toward Psycho Motorbike.

In one fluid motion, Psycho Motorbike side-stepped and punched Red Face in the gut. The fat man went down in a crumpled heap. Nope. this wasn’t a gangster movie or mob drama. This was an old west showdown!
Woo hoo, Psycho Blue Eyes!
I almost clapped. Almost.

Psycho Motorbike leaned over, grabbed Red Face by the back of the shirt and pulled him to his feet. The muscles in his tanned arms bunched and stretched beneath his intricate tattoos. Wow. Red Face coughed and sputtered as blue-eyed Psycho Motorbike led him somewhat politely to the curb and dropped him there like a sack of rice.

“You need an ambulance?” Psycho Motorbike asked Red Face while towering over him.