Hope Entangles: A New Adult Romantic Comedy (Book 2 of 3)

by Alice Bello

  “What?” I croaked.

  “Yeah, yeah,” Darla said helpfully. “That massager can turn any frown upside down—if you know what I mean.”

  “And,” Bette added, “in case you just want to lie there and be uninvolved,” she cleared her throat suggestively, “uou can just slip on the vibrating panties, turn the remote to orgasm and enjoy.”

  Oh. My. Freaking. God.

  “I need to leave now,” I said, trying to take in a breath, but failing.

  I was past embarrassed, I was mortified!

  “Okay, okay… this isn’t your thing.” Bette took me by the shoulders and steered me over toward perfumes and body washes. “Let’s start small and work our way up.”

  We found a fragrance that smelled like berries and chocolate—which made me hungry again, and a light strawberry scent that made me even hungrier.

  From there we moved on to garter belts and stockings, and I nixed that right away. I could deal with pantyhose, but garters and clips and such were just too much for me to fathom. Bette and Darla conceded my point, since they wouldn’t be there to help me if I had a wardrobe malfunction at the party.

  From there we meandered into the bras and panties. I didn’t need a bra, but they both insister I get “a real one” while we were here. I had plenty of real bras. I just didn’t have anything that lifted and separated, and was only made up of flimsy, see-through lace.

  I ended up getting one baby powder blue lace bra, a black satin number, and an exotic looking red and orange print job.

  I balked when they breezed right past the almost not there panties and went straight for the thongs.

  “I am not wearing one of those!” I said, planting my feet and crossing my arms under my breasts.

  The girls exchanged a look and shrugged in unison.

  I was starting annoyed by them sharing one brain. Obviously they were twins separated at birth by… oh, about fifteen years.

  They backtracked to the almost not there panties and tried to get me to wear something far more revealing than I’d ever be caught dead in. I finally met them part way, with some French cut, black silk panties with some lace decoration.

  I put my foot down when they tried to add in some more risqué variations to the shopping cart—if you could call a hand held basket the size of a lunch box a shopping cart.

  I checked out and my eyes bugged when I saw the total.

  “A hundred and ninety-seven dollars!” I said, my jaw practically falling off my face.

  “I know,” Darla said beside me. “We hit one hell of a nice sale.”

  Sale?!?!

  I gritted my teeth and handed the sales girl my credit card. The underwear had been more than the dress and shoes combined. But at least they were new, I guess…

  On the up side, I was buying all this for a work related gathering, I could deduct it all from my taxes.

  We stopped for some Cinnabon cinnabuns and mocha milkshakes when Bette and Darla tugged me into a Spencers. Now, I’d been into one of these stores, so they didn’t get the charge out of me that they’d gotten at Victoria’s Secret. So they went off and browsed while I stayed over by the novelty mug counter. I loved novelty mugs.

  That reminded me that Raphael had only perfectly matching white coffee mugs in his cupboards.

  I had to get him something with a little personality.

  And besides, with the sleeve of tattoos on his arm, it was strange that he had such boring dinner wear.

  I surveyed the glut of product they had; all kinds of cute, mugs with naughty sayings, endless cartoon logos and characters—I picked up a Hello Kitty mug I didn’t have and considered getting a second one for Raphael; and of course kittens and puppy dogs abounded. I thought about getting him some of those too.

  But then I saw the absolutely most perfect novelty mug ever created. And it was perfect for him!

  I picked it up just as the girls made their way over to me, arms laden with their items.

  I held up the mug, their eyes went wide, and we all broke out in raucous laughter.

  “Oh my god,” Darla wheezed between laughs. “He’s going to have a cow!”

  Bette winked at me approvingly. “You can be so mean.”

  I turned and headed to the sales counter to make my purchase.

  ***

  I opened the door and exited the party. The room was small and unpopulated, and there was a roaring fire in the fireplace, and one of those lovely fainting couches that no one actually has in their homes. The room was lit with only a smattering of flickering candles.

  I dragged myself over to the couch and gently lowered myself onto it. The chocolate silk dress had been a hit, but the shoes were killing my feet. I leaned back and to the side and raised my legs up on the couch, so my feet dangled over the edge.

  Closing my eyes I sighed as the pressure on my poor, tortured feet let up.

  “May I help you take those off, ma’am?” Brad Pitt said, his voice rough and husky.

  Oh, this was a dream? A Brad dream.

  I sighed as he took hold of my ankle and started to pull my left shoe off. I hadn’t had a Brad Pitt dream in weeks. I was glad he was back.

  Maybe I’d get a naked foot massage?

  I licked my lips as I felt Brad’s rough hand slide up my leg and expertly snap the clips connecting my silk stockings to my garter belt. God, he knew how to do everything.

  His hands rolled down my stocking, his fingertips sliding down my thigh, over my knee, and then down my calf.

  I opened my eyes as he pressed his thumbs into the now naked arch of my foot, and the ball of my foot into the smooth, warm hairless flesh and muscle of his chest.

  I jumped in surprise: Jake knelt at my feet, shirtless, gorgeous, his delicious bare skin glowing in the candlelight. He stared up into my eyes and licked those pouty, thick lips of his.

  I stared into his milk chocolate eyes for what seemed like a lifetime, and then finally pulled my gaze away.

  “I’m sorry I pulled you into my dream.” I felt my face flush from shame. “You can go now.”

  “But I just got here,” he said, and I looked back to him. “And I came on my own… couldn’t stay away.”

  Oh sweet baby Jesus, this was so twisted. Jake would never even want to talk to me, not to mention show up half-naked in one of my dreams.

  I closed my eyes and leaned back, hitting my head ineffectually against the padded back of the fainting couch.

  A pair of hands glided down my bare neck—I must have my hair up. They were big and strong and they found exactly where I was tense.

  I opened my eyes and looked up… and jumped again.

  Raphael Morales stood over me, his hands kneading the tight muscles of my neck and shoulders.

  He wasn’t shirtless, but his silky dress shirt was open all the way and a tantalizing expanse of tan, creamy skin and rippling muscles played over his chest as he massaged me.

  I tensed all the more as I realized that both men were in my dream.

  Shiiit…

  “Relax,” Jake drawled as he kissed his way up my thigh.

  “Yes, chica,’ Raphael purred, his hand smooth and warm as they pressed down over my chest and under my dress. “Everything will be just fine.”

  I arched as they two men hit their mark.

  Chapter 12: Jake

  I used to love days off. I’d work on my truck, fix something on the house, maybe mow the lawn or go help a friend with something or other. Always busy—I like it like that.

  But today I’m off, and I can’t will myself to get off the couch.

  Hell, the TV’s not even on.

  I’m just sitting here, moping like a complete loser.

  But I can’t stop thinking about her…

  Hope.

  Maybe if I hadn’t had such a pathetic crush on her in high school I wouldn’t be still swooning over her now.

  Like a love-sick teenager.

  Sickening, really.

  It’s like my mind is a broken
record. It starts with memories of her in high school, back when I was just one of her brother Southie’s invisible friends; tall and gawky, nothing like her big tough brother. I was so skinny I barely left a shadow on the wall.

  She was kind of the same way: thin and delicate—but not. Always getting in trouble, rebelling against her mother—lord, just the thought of her mother still made my flesh crawl—and I thought I had the world’s worst mom. She made Norma Leer look like June Cleaver.

  Hope was a walking disaster. I’d never seen a girl more accident prone. She probably held the world record for dropping her books. I tried my best to be there to help her pick them up as much as possible. Sometimes I’d get an absent “Thanks,” sometimes half of a smile before she rushed off.

  But one time she looked me full in the eyes, dazzling me to the point I almost fell over on my ass. It was like I’d been struck by lightning, the current running through me like a wild fire.

  But she never really saw me. I was invisible to her.

  That was until she walked into Wal-Mart and asked me to fix her car.

  Hell, I could have lifted the hunk of junk up over my head one handed just seeing her again.

  And how she’d changed: so damn gorgeous I was afraid I’d start drooling on my boots instead of being able to talk to her. Curves where there had only been rail thin legs and arms, creamy peach colored flesh where she’d been alabaster white.

  And the biggest change of all? She was looking at me, and seeing me.

  And flirting with me…

  I couldn’t freaking believe it.

  Maybe that’s why I pushed so hard. All those stupid, silly pseudo dates, all that food—I remembered that even though she’d been a stick back then, she ate like a ravenous rhino.

  Maybe that had been the problem? I’d pushed too hard, we’d gone too fast, and now look where we were.

  Nowhere, with three miles of mixed messages, mistakes, and betrayal between us.

  But when she got smacked in the head with that giant beach ball at the Jimmy Buffet concert, I nearly fell over myself helping her up. It was just like high school, and I still had the biggest crush on her.

  A tingling heat rose up in my chest, and I had to rearrange myself in my jeans. Just thinking about being in her bed, having her beneath me, made me hard as a concrete wall, and got me thinking about driving over there to her house and…

  And what?

  What the hell did I think I was going to do?

  I heard footsteps on my front porch, but there was no knock. There was the slide of a key in the lock, though.

  I jerked up off the couch and headed for the door, ready to grab the baseball bat I kept stashed in the umbrella stand.

  But when the door opened a familiar face popped into view.

  “Paula?” What in the hell was my sister doing here?

  “Hi Jake,” she growled.

  I shook my head. “You ever hear of knocking?”

  Paula waltzed in and a thin, impeccably well dressed woman followed her in, a suitcase in each hand, a bothered glower on her gaunt face. My mother, Norma Leer, stopped and tilted her head as she scrutinized me.

  “Jacob Michael Troy, I don’t need to knock when I’m entering my own house.”

  Shiiit…

  She dramatically set her luggage on the floor and placed her hands on her nearly nonexistent hips. “Is that any way to treat your mother, standing there with your mouth hanging open?”

  My mouth closed with a click, and though I really, really wanted to run for the back door, I sucked it up and walked forward and gave her a hug. She was so thin and frail in my arms, but I knew she was forged out of iron.

  She sighed and patted me on the back, and then pushed herself away, holding me at arm’s length. “Your sister tells me you’re dating that Jones girl.”

  I shot Paula a filthy look. I was going to kill her.

  Chapter 13: Hope

  I woke to the sound of my alarm bleating like a dying parakeet. Covered in sweat and breathing like I’d been running a marathon, I pulled my Hello Kitty covers closer. I was in my usual pajamas—yes, Hello Kitty was the theme there too—but I felt totally naked.

  I could still feel them touching me, Raphael’s strong, smooth hands rubbing my breasts, Jake’s soft, soft lips and scratchy five o’clock shadow working over the space between my legs.

  Oh dear god, I’d had a sex dream about two men… two men I knew in real life.

  This was not happening.

  Especially the Raphael part of the dream.

  Hell, I didn’t have any right to dream about Jake either.

  I tried to smother myself with my pillow… a harder proposition than it sounds. Failing at that I sat up in bed and shook off my lusty reverie.

  I needed coffee.

  I needed food.

  I needed a cold, cold shower.

  I traipsed into my bathroom, pulled off my sweat soaked pajamas and stepped into my shower. The cold part of a cold shower only lasted five, six seconds tops. I decided that that was enough time for the cold water to teach my libido and roaming nocturnal thoughts to behave.

  When I emerged from the shower pink and wrinkly from water saturation, I wrapped myself up in a towel, pulled my hair up in another towel, and padded barefooted into my bedroom.

  I’d set my alarm for eleven thirty, and it was now a quarter past noon. I didn’t have anything planned—besides searching frantically for a date for Janine’s party.

  I had… oh lord have mercy, less than thirty-three hours before the party.

  I could just throw myself on Bette’s tender mercies. I’m sure she had a male friend that wasn’t a complete pervert.

  My little black book was more a list of six guys I’d dated for approximately three weeks a piece. Not that they were bad guys, I just had it in my rebellious head that if I let a relationship last more than a month, I’d get sucked into staying here forever…

  And isn’t it funny that’s exactly what happened, but pretty much because I left and found the world outside of San Antonio just a tad too stimulating.

  My wrist ached, right where my star shaped scar was. I held it for a moment and wriggled my toes. I’d read in Oprah’s magazine that it was a good way to trick your brain into being in the here and now.

  I could almost hear that song again by The Black Keys: the way it played on a loop, and had been the soundtrack of the worst night of my life. The sour smell of sweat, and his voice cracking with desperation and anger, filling me with panic.

  I pulled on some jeans and a t-shirt, yanked my hair back into a ponytail and then headed downstairs with my laptop.

  I needed to talk to Raphael. And I needed coffee. Coffee would make everything better. That and some of the microwavable frozen pancakes I’d bought a couple night ago.

  Luckily Bette had given me Raphael’s phone number, so I didn’t need to go over there and be subjected to his underwhelming charms.

  I loaded my coffee maker and flicked on the switch as I dialed his number.

  Maybe he wouldn’t be home.

  No luck… he answered on the second ring.

  “Hello neighbor… what can I do for you today?”

  The bastard either had my phone number programmed into his phone (I’d have to have a talk with Bette if that was the case) or he had caller ID. The obnoxious, arrogant ass.

  “Sprinkles,” I couldn’t resist bringing that up. “Have you had your whipped cream and precious little candy specialty drink yet? I was heading over to Sheetz and would be happy to pick one up for you.”

  Silence.

  “Funny,” he said flatly. “Very funny.”

  I try. “It’s nothing, really.”

  “So have you found a date yet for your party?” I could practically see him smiling as he brought that one up.

  “As a matter of fact…” I was about to lie, tell him I already had a date, and hang up on him.

  But I didn’t.

  And I needed a sexy, swaggerin
g peacock of a man; which he was, in spades.

  “As a matter of fact, I do need a date. Are you still free?”

  He chuckled. “On a Friday night? What kind of loser doesn’t have a date set up for a Friday night?”

  Asshole.

  He waited and waited, not saying a word, waiting for me to finally admit I was a loser and needed him as a date.

  I sucked in the air to tell him to shove it straight up his ass…

  But he really did have a great ass, and the broadest shoulders I’d seen in person, and that chest…

  Good grief, I needed him on my arm for business, but my out of control sex drive was going to get me in far more trouble than any job was worth.

  I looked around at my house, at my kitchen, and my percolating coffee.

  I loved living here, and if I screwed up my job with Janine’s publishing house I could lose it. All of it.

  I hate you. “Yes, I’m a pathetic loser who doesn’t have a date for this Friday night.”

  A long, silent few beats.

  “And?” he prompted.

  I really hate you. “Will you please go with me to the party?” I hate you, I hate you, I really, really hate you!

  “Can you hold, I’ve gotta check my calendar.” The line clicked over to some wacked out muzac, like you’d expect on the home shopping network.

  Twisted…

  I waited for a good three minutes, tapping my fingers, wanting to pour myself a cup of coffee, but afraid he’d burst onto the line and make me jump, and I’d end up scalding myself.

  “Hope?” he said, finally coming back on the line.

  “Yes, Raphael?”

  “Are you home?”

  I hesitated. Why would he want to know if I was home or not?

  “You’re not going to try to chop down my sycamore tree again, are you?”

  He laughed and I could practically see the sexy little creases around his dark, brooding eyes.

  No! Not sexy! Irritating!

  “I just have something for you, and would rather get it to you now than later. And I thought I could give you my answer then too.”