Hot Jerk (Alphalicious Billionaires Book 12)

by Lindsey Hart

  “Are you serious?” I gasp. “You freaking ran out of gas? Now? Again?”

  “I–err–it appears that way. I meant to get some on the way to pick you up, but I blanked on it. I’ve been driving on the gas from the can the tow company put in the car after the last time.”

  “How can you forget?! I told you to get gas! I seriously and very specifically told you to get it!”

  “I don’t know how I forgot. Maybe the whole threats from you and the fake date thing had something to do with stressing me out just a little!”

  I can’t help it. I give Cliff a massive eye roll and snort-blow out my nose. “What on earth is wrong with you? How can you let this happen for the second night in a row?”

  “Maybe if you didn’t choose a place across the city, I would have been able to get you home.”

  “Maybe you should just put it in your phone as a daily freaking reminder to get freaking gas for your freaking car, so you don’t get freaking stranded on the freaking road.”

  “Maybe the person who is making money off my shitty love life, and my mother, shouldn’t have asked to be taken out on a fake date in the first place because it’s absolutely ridiculous, and those self-help books are complete nonsense. Just admit it, princess, you’re lonely up there in the ivory tower.”

  It takes a lot to make me angry. Annoyed, yes. I can get annoyed pretty easily, but I’m good at damping down on the actual emotions and things I blurt. Apparently, I have a Cliff-sized button somewhere that I wasn’t aware of, and it’s being pressed down HARD and repeatedly.

  My mind switches off, and my mouth switches on, and I know this isn’t going to be good even before the words start coming. “Ivory tower?” I scoff. “Seriously? This from the guy with billionaire parents who are so depressed over how he has chosen to live his entitled freaking life that they have to pay to find him love? Yes. I’m sure you’ve had a really hard life and a crap ton of woes. You’re just a brat who never matured and grew up because you could hide behind a shit pile of money and do whatever you wanted.”

  Cliff laughs, but not the nice, happy kind of laugh. This is a pissed off laugh. Apparently, he has a Rowan-sized button of his own, and I just stomped all over it.

  “It’s nice to see your real personality come out. I knew it had to be hidden away in there somewhere. Congrats on being a judgmental jerk like the rest of the world. If you’ve read any of your own self-help bullshit, you should understand that money doesn’t fix everything.”

  “Exactly,” I grind out, balling my hands into fists. “Which is why you’re acting the way you are. You haven’t been able to fix yourself yet.”

  “Apparently, the books you lent me should do the trick. Turns out all I needed was you, oh mighty goddess of self-help and relationships.”

  “Turns out all of this could have been avoided if you had just remembered, like the rest of the entire world, to get gas. Oh right. You’re not actually a responsible adult, though. Silly me. How could I have forgotten?”

  Cliff’s face transforms from an aggravated, pissed off, sort of amused in a really shitty way look into something that more closely resembles a fire-breathing dragon. Or maybe an angry mother bear. Or maybe a swarm of nasty ass wasps who just had their hive knocked off of whatever building they were making themselves a nuisance on. “Oh, but if this had never happened,” he snaps. “I wouldn’t have gotten to see your true colors, and let me tell you, they are very colorful. You put on a very good front. I applaud you for your acting skills. You should consider a change of career when you lose this job.”

  “And maybe you should consider putting on your big boy panties and acting like an actual mature adult who has half a brain.”

  “Big boy panties?” Cliff scoffs. “Oh, I assure you, there is nothing wrong with my panties, and I wear them proudly. Every. Single. Day.”

  Wow. I turn away, fuming silently. I don’t want to think about his male panties. Boxers. Briefs. Whatever he has on underneath his dark wash jeans. “Thank you for confirming for me that every single good-looking guy is indeed a conceited asshole. I needed that extra bit of science to push me over the edge into a firm belief.”

  “Good to know you were set against me from the start. That’s the real reason you’re single. Because someone screwed you over, and now you can’t put yourself out there again.”

  Oh, that is it. That is seriously it. Too far. That is MILES across the line. “Ha!” I snort. I laugh hard, but it’s one of those extremely pissed off laughs, just like Cliff’s was. “Takes a damaged one to know one.”

  That seems to silence Cliff. I’m facing the windshield, and I’m not going to turn to look at him. I’m sure he has a lemon-faced expression on that likely matches mine. We don’t need to look at each other. What I need is to get the double eff out of this car and get on with my life and forget that Cliff Marshall ever existed.

  All our furious, fuming insults have fogged up the windows and the windshield. Too much heavy, angry breathing will do that, I guess. It’s not warm out by any means, and it feels like it’s a thousand degrees in the car. If I turned around and found Satan himself sitting in the backseat, I wouldn’t be surprised. It’s literally that hot and uncomfortable.

  I can’t say this is the proudest moment of my life. I don’t know what I’m doing, and I can’t stop myself. My hand reaches out, my finger trembling. I reach for the fogged-up windshield and draw a circle. I fill it in with angry eyebrows, squinty, angry eyes, and a furious square mouth clenching its teeth. Yeah. I’m such an artist.

  The car is silent for a minute, and I think we’re both holding our breaths. Cliff releases his breath first, and I follow. He lets out a nervous, reluctant sounding chuckle. “I guess now that we have that out of the way, I’ll call a tow truck to bring some gas.”

  “You should consider getting a membership to some company where you get roadside assistance.”

  “I have one, actually.”

  I slowly turn to stare at Cliff, but he’s looking down at his phone. His nose wrinkles, and he sighs hard and sets it aside.

  “What? What’s wrong with your phone?”

  “It’s dead,” he admits. “I don’t have a charger.”

  I could get into how this seems like a pretty apt metaphor for life and further proof to everything I just said, but I want to prove I’m an adult instead of a hypocrite, so I silently pull my phone out of my tote and hand it over.

  “Here. Use mine.”

  Cliff takes it wordlessly. He makes the call, and when he’s done, he passes it back with a sheepish expression. “They’ll be over an hour. I’m—uh, sorry.” That last word is painful, I can tell.

  “Don’t be.” I tuck my phone back into my tote and reach for the door handle. “Have a good night. I’ll be in touch with information for your next match.”

  “Where are you going?”

  I open the door and step out but lean down before I shut it. “Home,” I say flatly. “I’m going home by cab. Goodnight.” I shut the door a little harder than I should. The resounding thud gives me just the smallest amount of satisfaction.

  Hey, I have to derive a little bit of pleasure where I can because I now know for sure that I am in serious trouble. Cliff Marshall isn’t just difficult. He’s the absolute worst. New job, here I come.

  CHAPTER 7

  Cliff

  The morning after my failed dry run date, I jump in my car, intent on getting a coffee. My garage is heated, but the second I drive the car out, and it hits the cold air, the windows start fogging up. The windshield gets in on the action, and I have to put the car back in park. I crank the heat, and while I wait for the glass to clear off, my eyes are invariably drawn to the right-hand corner. The angry face that Rowan drew last night from the passenger seat has magically reappeared.

  I stare hard at the angry eyebrows and the slash of a mouth. Yeah. The face was seriously pissed off. About as pissed as the person who drew it.

  The longer I stare at the face, the worse I
feel. I didn’t sleep well last night, which is why I’m currently en route to get a strong coffee made by a pro barista. I don’t usually buy overpriced coffee even though I can afford it, but in my current zombified state, I’m making an exception.

  My mind kept churning during the night, thinking about what would happen if my parents make good on their threat. And about how much I would miss the company if I lose my job. How much I would miss being a part of something greater than myself. I thought about how disappointed my parents might be over that, and how they likely wouldn’t relent, even with time, because when my mom says something she actually means, she’s not easy to talk out of it. She never could be swayed. It sucked as a kid because she actually followed through with the punishments she threatened.

  I felt bad about the date too. I gave Rowan a hard time, and I wasn’t nice to her. I pressed her hard and pushed her until she actually showed a bit of the rage I worked her up to. It wasn’t exactly my proudest moment, and the way the date that wasn’t a date ended… I seriously didn’t plan it, and I did feel bad that she had to catch a cab.

  I’m not sure what I planned to do instead. Walk Rowan to her front door like a gentleman? Kiss her goodnight? For some reason, I don’t hate the idea as much as I should. The stiffening in my jeans is proof of that. Some of those restless moments from last night might have been spent thinking about Rowan’s finer details.

  Her beautiful eyes with the dark, thick fringe of lashes. Her dainty, straight nose. Her sharp cheekbones and sweet jawline. Her full lips with their beautiful natural coral pink color.

  I cut the thoughts off before they became anything more than PG-rated, I swear I did. Any thoughts about Rowan’s womanly assets were above clothes only. I didn’t want to think about her in any form, so I made sure to change the direction my mind was going before a total train wreck occurred.

  I still have to maintain communication with her for two more dates. I won’t even be able to talk to her on the phone if I had thoughts about her that were less than gentlemanly.

  What’s going on in my jeans right now can’t be helped. My dick just happens to have a mind of its own, and right now, it wishes I could have given Rowan a goodnight kiss and maybe even more. Would she have asked me up to her apartment?

  Of course not. Fake dates and dry runs don’t include humping on her couch for a few hours after the fact. Get a serious grip here, asshole.

  That’s right. I am an asshole. I called myself an asshole all night, and I’m starting to realize that even in the light of morning, I’m still an asshole. Maybe if I hadn’t acted like an asshole for so many years, I wouldn’t be here now.

  The windshield finally clears off, along with the windows. I put the car in reverse and back down the driveway. When I hit the street, I turn on the music, which is paired with my phone. It’s Sunday, and normally that means game day somewhere, a few beers here or there, or good BBQ, but I don’t currently feel like doing any of those. I do want to talk to someone—if just to work through my confusion and frustration—but there isn’t a single person I can think of who I’d actually want to do some serious unburdening to, which says a lot about me and my current choices over the years.

  Actually, I can think of one person, but she’s off-limits. Totally off-limits.

  What did Rowan say to me last night? Right. That I’m basically an immature trash can with a pile of rotting garbage—like garbage in the summer heat. It pissed me off to hear that last night, but after a night of unfortunate soul searching that I should have followed up with a cold shower to show my dick who’s boss, I can see how the things she said to me might have some merit.

  Instead of hitting up a coffee shop, I find myself en route to my parent’s house. It might be lame to unburden myself to my dad, but I happen to know my mom has a crocheting circle with her friends on Sunday mornings every week. My dad does all his errands on Saturday, so Sunday morning, he saves for doing absolutely nothing.

  We’re not one of those families who knocks. I know the passcode for the door, so I let myself in. I find Dad in the living room in front of the TV, enjoying what is probably his eighth cup of coffee for the morning, and it’s just past ten.

  Dad always did get up early, even on the weekends.

  Neither of us says anything when I walk into the room and sit down on the other end of the couch. It’s leather, but it’s well-worn in and comfortable now. I wait. Dad waits. I wait some more. Finally, Dad sighs.

  “Do you want a cup of coffee?”

  I already know what’s coming, but I play along anyway. “Sure.”

  “Kitchen’s that way,” Dad points. “Help yourself.”

  This is an old joke between us. My dad stopped doing things for me around the house when I was about twelve and was old enough to learn how to put my own dishes in the dishwasher and pack my own lunch. The same went for coffee. If I wanted it, I could make it for myself.

  I nod and plod into the kitchen. My parents are old-school and have a regular coffee maker. I think it cost twelve dollars when it was new, and they’ve had it for somewhere right around five hundred and forty-two years. The coffee is still hot, so I help myself to a cup and add a splash of cream and indulge in the sugar since there’s a bowl full of it on the counter. The bowl is also about five hundred years old. I think it actually belonged to my grandma. It’s made from extremely fancy crystal, and it is heavy enough that if it got thrown at someone, it would probably cause some first-rate damage.

  It was actually my contingency plan as a teenager in case someone ever broke in. True story. You can’t make this shit up.

  I take my coffee and join my dad back in the living room. He’s watching the news, but the TV is on silent. Probably because it’s his third or fourth go of the same broadcast. I stare vacantly at the TV. Another few minutes of silence that isn’t strained or awkward goes by. It’s just silent. I’m used to that with Dad. He’s always been like this—quiet and thoughtful. Mom is boisterous and loud enough for us both.

  “Cliff,” Dad starts. He trails off, but I know he’s going to restart. He always does. “You know that I—that this—I support your mother in her decisions. We both talked about this. I just—we’re worried about you, that’s all. We really do want you to be happy.”

  I seem to have matured a little in the past forty-eight hours and after two technically failed dates, because I don’t respond with something biting or snarky like I did before. I don’t challenge him about how their definition of happiness differs from my own. I don’t accuse him of ruining my life or tell him that threatening to cut me off from the company is bullshit.

  “Yeah.” I sip my coffee. My parents might have a cheap coffee maker, but my mom buys this fair trade coffee that is dark and delicious with notes of caramel. “I know.”

  Dad’s head cranks around with an audible crunch of vertebrae and whatever else that didn’t get stretched out yet this morning. “You know?” It doesn’t make me look or feel very good when I hear the clear astonishment in his tone.

  “Really.” I nod slowly. “I don’t know if this will work. I’m actually pretty sure it won’t, and not just because I’m apparently hopeless, but I get it.”

  “Your mother thought you wouldn’t listen or take her seriously if she didn’t lay down the law.”

  “I get that. I wouldn’t have. She’s only been telling me to settle down since I was eighteen.”

  “I think she started after you were done with college, to be fair.”

  “True. You’re right.”

  “Anyway.” Dad sighs and takes a sip of coffee. “I just wanted to make sure you’re alright.”

  “I think so.”

  “She doesn’t expect you to just pick someone and get married. She just wanted to—uh—shake things up a little.”

  “She definitely shook it.”

  “She thinks you have a negative view about marriage that isn’t exactly, well… fair or right.”

  “I know.”

  “She wan
ts to see you take responsibility for your own life.”

  “I do have a job. I am good at it. I did go to college. It’s not like you guys just handed me a position at the company.” I hate that Rowan pretty much said the same thing to me. She assumed I was spoiled and called me entitled even though my parents have taken care never to treat me that way. I had to earn everything, just like everyone else.

  “Yes. That’s not exactly what she meant.”

  “I think she has this image that I enjoy not fulfilling her desire for grandchildren. Or that I’m always going out with guy friends and doing dumb things because I went to one—seriously, just one—stag in Vegas months ago. Just because I don’t date doesn’t mean I don’t believe in relationships or marriage. I just haven’t found someone I want to put in the time with. She knows that, doesn’t she?”

  When Dad doesn’t respond, I bite down hard on my bottom lip. I take another sip of coffee and allow the sweeter notes to play over my tongue. Maybe she doesn’t know.

  “She just saw you in this rut…” Dad trails off. He’s clearly embarrassed.

  It makes me wonder how many conversations they’ve had about me and my ruts. And how many might have involved Amy’s name. Jesus. How pathetic do they actually think I am? How much truth is there in that patheticness? A few days ago, I would have denied it completely.

  But now…

  Now I want to go home and actually crack those self-help books. Now I want to take Rowan out on a real date just to prove to her that I’m not a total failure and can be something other than an asshole.

  It’s a crazy thought.

  I want to take Rowan out again. Like, seriously. A real date this time. And no, not just because I thought about kissing her. Not just because I want to kiss her. Not just because I couldn’t sleep last night due to the fact that I couldn’t stop thinking about her. I actually think she’s smart. She’s witty. I also feel like I owe her an apology because I said some stuff that was pretty out of line.