by CoraLee June
Well This Sucks
CoraLee June
Carrie Gray
Copyright © 2020 by June Publishing
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover by HQ Design
Edits by Helayna Trask with Polished Perfection
Created with Vellum
For Brendan. Yeah, man. This is happening.
Contents
About the Book
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Epilogue
Thank you for reading!
Acknowledgments
About the Author
About the Author
Also By Coralee June & Carrie Gray
I treat eating pancakes on patios like it’s a personality trait
Brunch is my jam. I like the beach, shopping, carbs, and reading naughty books on the train during my commute. I wear pink. Lots of it. If Tinder were an Olympic sport, I’d take home the gold. I can rock stilettos like they’re a pair of Nike joggers. I’m basically a basic bitch.
I’m in the prime of my life. I’ve got my dream job as the head of marketing at a sex toy company, and I’ve been steadily dating myself for the better half of the last decade. I’m thirty, flirty, and thriving, damnit.
Or at least I was, until some fucker had the audacity to turn me into a vampire.
I don’t do blood and doom and gloom. I sure as hell don’t like sleeping in a coffin, avoiding garlic bread, and these ridiculous vamp politics. And don’t get me started on Diego. He’s vampire royalty and a pain in my ass. A very sexy pain in the ass. When he’s not driving me crazy with all his rules, he’s turning my panties into Niagara Falls.
I absolutely refuse to live the rest of my immortal life in some wannabe nineties grunge music video.
Drew
I stopped having high expectations for my dating life when I was thirteen years old. You see, Jacob Carson was the cutest guy in eighth grade. I bravely asked him to the winter dance during our lunch hour, and he replied with a casual shrug and a snappy “sure.” I should have known that his one-worded response would indicate his lack of enthusiasm for the entire date, but I was young and dumb.
Sure was basically a marriage proposal in my mind. I was practically Mrs. Drew Carson already. So I spent hours getting ready and meticulously straightened my hair until it fell flat against my face—that was the style after all. I made sure I looked flawless. I practically bathed in Bath and Body Works vanilla body spray, and I smelled like a fucking cookie factory when I walked into that gym. Jacob, however, showed up in cargo shorts and didn’t even bother to shower. He didn’t dance with me, even though the nineties playlist was bumpin’. Instead of spinning his future wife around on the makeshift dance floor, he fooled around with his friends the entire time.
I’d built him up in my prepubescent mind, and I had our life planned out—spring wedding in Napa Valley, two kids named Britney and Justin, and a large house with a game room. But that night, as I danced alone to Backstreet Boys in my periwinkle tulle dress, surrounded by hormones, helium balloons, and crepe paper, I learned that sometimes guys don’t quite get the memo. They don’t put forth the same effort as women. And that axiom had pretty much summed up my entire dating career since then.
Tonight, my date was boring as hell.
I shaved every inch of my body from the neck down, and yet, he had the audacity to ask if we could split the check. He claimed to be saving money to renovate the basement at his mom’s house so he could have a bachelor pad. Yikes! He then asked me two basic ass questions about my day and made a comment about the weather before selfishly diving into an hour-long monologue about himself.
I couldn’t help but think, why the hell did I shave for this man?
I didn’t mean to be rude about it. I’d always been the type to give someone the benefit of the doubt, okay? But, like, how much was he going to talk about his mother? In forty-five minutes, I knew more about Miranda Sloth than her son, Joseph Sloth.
Yes. Sloth.
I should have known from that name alone that this Tinder date from hell wouldn’t be successful. I mean, he sent me an impressive dick pic. We’d been flirting via text messages for about a week or so, and I decided since I didn’t have to work late tonight, I’d treat myself to a booty call. I mostly agreed to this date simply because he was packing some serious cock. He was cute in a trendy hipster sort of way. He wore a turtleneck despite the summer weather, and the thick-rimmed glasses on his face looked fake. I liked his dark brown hair though. It was styled effortlessly, and the scruff on his defined jaw looked delicious.
Too bad he was boring.
Too bad I couldn’t fuck boring people.
I liked my bed partners to be adventurous. I might have lowered my standards since the eighth-grade dance, but good sex was one hard limit for me.
I nodded as he spoke, not really paying attention to what he was saying. “When my mother has constipation, I usually massage her stomach. I learned how to do that a few years ago, and now she makes me rub her tummy every night.”
Yeah, I needed to leave this date like ten minutes ago. Where was our fucking food? We were in some three-star Italian restaurant, and I ordered a salad because I originally wanted to come across as one of those dainty bitches that nibbled on a leaf, then complained of being full. Guys liked that, yeah? I already had plans to grab a burger with my best friend, Ryan, after this travesty of a hookup. He was going to love hearing about Joseph Sloth.
“You know how mothers can be,” he added.
“Mine’s dead.”
His eyes widened, and his cheeks flushed in embarrassment. I knew the effect my depressing childhood had on people. My parents died when I was twelve, and I bounced from foster home to foster home until I turned eighteen. “Oh!” he exclaimed. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
I was feeling bold and bored, so I decided to fuck with him. I really wanted Joseph and Miranda Sloth to have something to gossip about later. It sounded like they lived a pretty boring life and needed a horror dating story to spice it up. If I wasn’t getting laid, I might as well have a laugh. “Yeah. But it’s okay. My new mommy is, like, totally the best,” I said with wide eyes and faked enthusiasm. “One of my old foster dads married a stripper named Jingles.”
Joseph blanched. “J-jingles?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I replied with a bored wave of my hand. “She has her nipples pierced and likes to put bells on them. Every time she shimmies, it sounds like fucking Christmas.”
Joseph started looking around the restaurant for our waiter. I continued. “Jingles is great, though. She’s switching careers and is trying to be a tattoo artist. I’m letting her pract
ice on me. I currently have a half-decent portrait of Chris Hemsworth on my ass. Every time I twerk, it’s like he’s having a seizure.”
Joseph coughed and looked around. Yep. Now go ahead and excuse yourself to the bathroom and never return. I smiled widely at him, hoping I looked as much the maniac I tried to come across as. “Oh my gosh!” I exclaimed. “We should get matching tattoos. I’ll call Jingles now. Something fun to celebrate the first of many dates. Maybe a plate of spaghetti on our cheek?”
“I-I have to go to the restroom,” Joseph exclaimed before standing up. His chair nearly toppled over as he rushed to the complete opposite side of the restaurant toward the door.
“Byeeee, Joseph,” I said while waving my fingers with a smirk, not that he even looked. The waiter brought both our plates, and I eyed the salad with disgust before grabbing his whopping serving of lasagna. I shoveled pasta in my mouth while pouring his nearly full wine glass into mine and celebrating this night’s turn of events. I always preferred my own company to that of a man’s. I gave myself better orgasms and laughed louder at my own jokes. I was a firm believer that you needed to be in a relationship with yourself before you could love anyone else, and I’d been steadily dating my fine ass since that eighth-grade dance seventeen years ago.
I was pretty enough. I stayed in shape by taking cycling classes. (My instructor was ridiculously hot, and the only reason I worked out was to stare at his fine ass for an hour.) I had long brown hair with natural waves, hazel eyes, and long legs. I had a kick ass job making good money and could suck cock like my life depended on it. So why was it so hard to find someone at my level?
“Would you like more wine?” the waiter asked while eyeing me. He was a tall college dude that filled out his suit nicely. His eyes twinkled as I licked my fingers. He had dark hair, a sharp jaw you could cut glass with, and broad shoulders. Oh, and a face I totally could see myself riding.
“Absolutely.”
I must have looked like a hot mess eating garlic bread and lasagna by myself, but as long as the wine kept coming, I didn’t really care. Especially if Mr. Broad Shoulders kept bringing it. He set the fresh glass of pinot in front of me just after I had taken an impressively large bite of lasagna. Typical. I did the awkward hand-over-my-mouth thing as I smiled and nodded to show my appreciation. He gave me a devilish grin and winked as he walked away. I knew they did that on purpose.
I lifted the glass to my lips and noticed something scrawled on the napkin.
Meet me in the alley?
I thought it over for all of two seconds before deciding to go for it. I probably shouldn’t be meeting strange men in alleys after dark, but maybe a quick make out session with my waiter could make up for the first half of the night with Joseph Sloth. I did shave, after all. Might as well enjoy my smooth legs while I can. It was rare that I put forth the effort.
I left some cash on the table to cover the bill. He was about to get his tip in the alley, and then hopefully I would be getting his tip. I grabbed a mint from the bowl by the door—he knew I was eating garlic bread when he so elegantly invited me to join him, but I was a lady. I chewed it up quickly and walked toward the alley.
He was leaning against the brick wall of the restaurant in the typical bad boy fashion: one foot propped up on the wall, arms crossed over his broad chest, and his head dipped down. All that was missing was the gelled-up seventies hair and he could have walked off the set of Grease. He had even taken off the black button-up, so he was wearing just a white T-shirt and jeans. It really did something for me, though. I loved Danny Zuko as a tween.
When I got close enough, he reached out and grabbed my waist, pulling me to him. I put my hands on his chest and explored the firmness of his muscular physique. There was no awkwardness as he dipped his head toward mine and our lips met. We both knew what we were here for. This was my favorite sort of hookup. No strings attached, just mutual satisfaction.
I let my hands roam toward his ass and squeezed as he trailed kisses down my jaw and to my neck. Oh, hell yes. This was just what the doctor ordered.
His fingers roamed my body and dug into my hips. I groaned at his skilled hands and his hot mouth. His lips stopped working against mine for a moment. “Do you really have a tattoo of Chris Hemsworth on your ass?” he asked with a chuckle.
“You heard that, huh?” I asked.
“Yep. I’m glad you escaped your date for the night. I got secondhand embarrassment watching him.”
I tugged at his hair and whispered over his skin. “Poor Mr. Sloth. He was a dud, but that’s alright. I’m really liking how my night turned out. Now why don’t you put those fingers to work and make me come, hmm?”
He smirked while grabbing my hips. “I’d really love to do that, but I can’t.”
I squinted my eyes at him. Was he talking about his lack of skills or…? “Why not?”
“Because my grandmother needs to feed, and I have to get to work.”
Feed? What the fuck did that mean? Who talks like that? He spoke like she was some goldfish sitting in a bowl on his countertop.
Oh shit. I jumped from one crazy asshole to the next. I was two for two tonight. Figured. Brunch tomorrow with Yaz and Ryan would require extra mimosas. At least I would have one hell of a funny story to tell.
I was about to stomp off and try to salvage the rest of my night when a feral, predatory growl bounced off the brick walls surrounding us. I spun around and slammed my back against his chest. “Wh-what was that?” I asked while looking around. It was dark, and I couldn’t really see anything, but every hair on my neck was standing up.
“I told you,” the waiter purred in my ears, “my grandmother needs to feed.”
Just as he said that, a pale woman with wild gray hair and wrinkles that looked like carved ivory appeared out of the shadows. She was barefoot and stepped on a broken glass bottle without flinching. Her toenails were yellow, and blood coated the concrete where she stepped. What the fuck?
She was wearing a nightgown and had ice blue eyes that practically glowed in the night. Despite her age, delicate stature, and the slight bend of her shoulders, she looked surprisingly threatening. Her smile was manic. She had pale lips that framed bright white teeth that looked impossibly sharp.
“Whoa. Okay, Granny, let’s not do this.”
I went to move, but the waiter’s hands clamped down on my shoulders, holding me in place. He was impressively strong. Every time I tried to move, he just held me tighter. My bones felt like they were two seconds from cracking under his grip. What the fuck kind of horror kinky fuckery was this?
My mind raced through all the true crime shows I’d ever watched, searching for some nugget of information that might help me. Okay, first rule was do not go with your attacker to a second location. Shit. Too late for that one, what else? I should try to get any information to someone who could help. As I was considering whether I could discreetly make a call from the phone in my pocket, I realized I didn’t even know the waiter’s name. I was going to fingerbang a dude who wrote me a five-word note on a napkin, and I didn’t even know his name. I made a mental note to discuss my streak of poor decisions with my therapist. I couldn’t stop the hysterical laughter that bubbled up in my throat.
“What is wrong with this one? Did you bring me something spoiled to feed on?” Granny asked.
“No, I swear she was just fine,” he answered.
I’m not sure if it was the wine or my ego, but I didn’t like the implication that there was something wrong with me, and felt like I had to defend my honor. In between giggles, I blurted out, “I’m not spoiled. I’m super tasty. You’ll probably even catch a buzz.”
Baiting a crazy person was probably not the smartest thing. They were going to chop me up and turn me into the special of the day now. Of all the ways I could go, being eaten was definitely not one that had crossed my mind.
In the blink of an eye, Granny was standing inches from my face, and John Doe wrenched my head to the side, exposing my neck.
Oh God, they weren’t even going to cook me, she’s just going to take a chunk out of me right here in the alley. I’m going to die behind a three-star family-friendly Italian restaurant that Yelp reviewers described as mediocre.
Didn’t this happen in Florida once? Was Granny sniffing bath salts?!
“Stay away!” I yelled. Granny backed up a bit and rolled her eyes. I fought against John Doe, but he was ridiculously strong. It was like fighting off unmovable steel. I kicked at her, aiming the heel of my stiletto at her stomach and giving Granny a healthy view up my mini dress.
“She’s not wearing underwear, Lawrence. What is wrong with women these days?” she asked, her wrinkled face curled in disgust. “Back in my day, women had more self-respect.”
“Back in your day, dinosaurs still roamed the earth, and men spent their free time painting pictures on cave walls,” I shouted while kicking again. My dress had almost completely rolled up. Apparently, seeing my vagina had stunned the old woman. This could work. And hey, now I had a name for the cute-but-psycho waiter. I kicked once more, flashing her my poon by way of distracting her. “You got me a crazy one!” Granny complained again before stepping closer to me. “You know the crazy one’s taste gross. And she’s too drunk to properly glamour. She’ll remember glimpses.”