by Celia Aaron
You’ve Got Fail
Celia Aaron
Celia Aaron
Copyright © 2017 Celia Aaron
All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the original purchaser of this e-book only. No part of this e-book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without prior written permission from Celia Aaron.
This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
WARNING: This e-book contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language.
DIRE WARNING: If you pirate this book, your soul will rot in hell.
Cover art by Perfect Pear
Cover model Allen
Cover image by Wander Aguiar
Content Editing by J. Brooks
Copy Editing by Spell Bound
Contents
Free 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
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Also by Celia Aaron
About the Author
Free Book
Want a FREE book?
Click below to get a copy
of my bestselling novel, Kicked
1
Willis
It started with a simple email.
I really enjoyed meeting you tonight. I put your number in my wallet, but I’ve since misplaced it. I’d love to buy you dinner sometime. My number’s in my sig. Hit me up.
Todd
Dated four nights ago.
I cocked my head at my monitor, the sun slanting through the wide glass windows of my apartment, and flicked through the last few days in my memory. Four nights ago, I’d stuffed myself with Chinese food while watching college football reruns with my best friend Elias. Both of us had been firmly planted on my leather sofa, our feet kicked up on my battered coffee table.
There was no Todd involved. There was, however, the flu. I’d come down with it that night and had been living in hell until this morning. I coughed and took a test sip of my coffee. It stayed down. All was well.
While I’d been ill, my unread messages number had ballooned to terrifying proportions. My blog—usually a well-tended hotbed of discussion and witty posts (the latter made by yours truly)—had been bopping along without me, though there were quite a few messages from concerned readers with “get well soon” notes.
I stared blankly at the email, my brain fuzzed with a leftover Nyquil haze. Todd must have entered his intended recipient wrong, though how he could cock it up badly enough to turn it into [email protected] was beyond me.
I deleted Todd’s errant overture and continued scrolling through my emails. A couple from my editor who was working on review quotes for my upcoming book, a dozen or so from blog fans, and one from my agent wanting to know what we were going to do about the whole “you’re a guy pretending to be a woman on a blog that’s an international hit” issue. Apparently, going to signings in drag wasn’t a particularly wise move. I had no answer for her, so I kept moving down the line. One from the New York Daily News caught my eye.
Ms. Rocket,
It was so great to meet you at the Celebrity Gala this weekend. When can we get together for that interview we discussed?
Jina Feinstein
Lifestyle Blogger
New York Daily News
What. The. Fuck? I sat back in my chair and stared at my laptop as if it had grown tentacles. First, there’d been no Todd and second, I’d never discussed a damn thing with Jina from The New York Daily News. I searched Jina’s signature, found her number, and grabbed my phone. Then I slapped it back down on my desk. What was I going to say? “Hi Jina, I’m the real Scarlet Rocket. Just ignore the fact that I’m obviously a man, and also the fact that there is no actual Scarlet Rocket.”
I scrubbed a hand down my face. Maybe this was flu-induced insanity. Little flu minions invading my brain and turning my gray cells a sick shade of green. That was a thing, right?
Pushing away from my desk, I rose and strode to the bathroom and splashed some cool water on my face. After days of being sick, it felt good just to move around the house without wanting to lay down and die. My reflection told me I needed a shave and a shower, but I had no fucks to give on those points.
My eyelids drooped as fatigue washed over me. The flu was already winning the day, and I hadn’t even written a single word in my blog yet. And worse, I was caught in some sort of weird reality where Scarlet Rocket, my blog personality, was a walking, talking person who was apparently capable of flirting with a Todd and nabbing an interview with the Daily News. It occurred to me that Fake Scarlet was doing a better job than I was at relationships and publicity. Well, shit.
My phone rang. Actually rang. Someone was calling me. What sort of maniac would do such a thing? I returned to my desk and saw Elias on the caller ID. I waffled on answering or letting it go to voicemail, but decided to put on my big boy pants and actually speak to another human being today.
“Yeah?”
“First, you sound like shit. Second, have you seen page six?” He munched something in my ear.
“Not yet.”
He snorted and took another bite of what sounded like a crisp apple. “How can you be this queen of gossip and dating advice yet not keep up with page six?”
“King, not queen, as far as you’re concerned.” I opened my bookmarks and clicked over to the gossip section of the New York Post. “I’m there. What am I looking for?”
Elias whistled. “Redhead, leggy, black dress, smoking hot.”
I searched down the page until I came to photos from the weekend’s Celebrity Gala at the Four Seasons. The woman Elias had described stood with a champagne flute in her hand, her head tilted up with an air of confidence while she spoke to a man in a tux.
“So?” I took another drink of coffee to try and clear my mind.
“Read the caption.”
Scarlet Rocket, of the synonymous love and advice blog, makes her debut to the New York elite, pictured here with real estate tycoon Todd Mathers.
“The fuck?” I re-read the sentence in case I’d hallucinated.
“Yeah.” Crunch. “This level-ten hottie is out there pretending to be you. Or, I guess more accurately, pretending to be Scarlet Rocket, who is also you.”
I leaned forward and scrutinized her profile. Red lips, button nose, thick lashes. Pretty, but not familiar. “Who is she?”
“I don’t know. Hey look. I have to go. Meeting with the president of the company later this morning.”
“Going to pitch him your idea?” I clicked through the rest of the photos from the gala, hoping to find another glimpse of the hot imposter.
“Yep.” Confidence rolled out of him, though I knew well enough to sense the trepidation lying beneath the surface.
I tried for a supportive tone, but it came out nasal thanks to the lingering flu. “He
’s going to green-light you. Just wait. I’ve never heard a better idea for a, um, a…”
“It’s a dildo that squirts its own lube. The SquickyLube? Remember?”
My memory fired. “Yeah. A dildo on crack, right?”
“No, you’re thinking of my rear entry device with additional vibrating fingers. This is more of a smooth-talking dildo, eases right in.”
Have I mentioned that I met Elias through my blog? He worked for the largest manufacturer of personal pleasure items in the world, and served as the main advertising contact for me. Jizzlywinks ad dollars paid all the bills in Scarlet Rocket’s early days and still managed to provide me with some cushy side income.
“Right. SquickyLube. That sounds like a winner if I’ve ever heard one, and I can’t wait to see it in the banner ad on the site.”
“Thanks, man. I’ll text you later. And I’m proud of you for answering your phone, you fucking anti-social basket case.”
“Shut up.”
“Fuck you.” With his usual sign off, he hung up.
My eyes glazed over with a tired fuzz, but I forced myself to prioritize and get at least something done.
Fake Scarlet simmered away in my mind. I needed to find her and tell her to fuck right off. But how? I decided to let my subconscious chew on the problem while using my active brain to write a few blog posts.
I opened my most recent article-in-progress and skimmed through what I’d written pre-flu. “Analyzing Anal” looked pretty promising, so I continued where I’d left off.
“For this girl, the key to anal play, as with so many other worthwhile things, is preparation.”
My email notification went off. I moved to turn off all my alerts so I could focus on the complexities of anal delights, but I caught the subject line: “Ticket Confirmed.”
Ticket for what? I clicked on the email.
“Ms. Rocket, the Musee de Arts Sexe welcomes you to its second annual fundraising gala.” I scrolled down. The event was set for this Friday. Leaning back, I ran my hands through my messy hair and stared at the email. Fake Scarlet would be there. Fake Scarlet, who was running around town pretending to be me. Fake Scarlet, whose photos I may have glared at a little too long. Redheads were my kryptonite, but I couldn’t let that distract me.
My eyes narrowed. I’d worked for years to build my blog, and this imposter was schmoozing along on my hard work. Not cool. I had to do something. Beyond the principle of the thing, what if Fake Scarlet was a total numbnuts? What if she were giving my blog a bad rep? I couldn’t let that go on. In a few short years, my blog had become my life. Scarlet Rocket was a part of me, and I wasn’t going to let a sexy phony destroy the real Scarlet. (Who wasn’t actually real… Yeah, I know, but you followed what I was saying there.)
I opened a new email to the Musee de Arts Sexe. “Ms. Rocket would like to add a plus one to her ticket. Her date will be Willis Halloran.”
2
Fake Scarlet
The event was small, but it had enough cream puffs from the upper crust to be worth my while. I stopped at the door and flicked my long red hair over my shoulder as a small handful of photographers clicked away. The warm spring breeze ruffled my short skirt, and I soaked in the start of the social season.
“Scarlet Rocket.” I smiled at the doorman and peered past him into the gallery. People milled about, drinks in their hands and prattle on their lips.
“Welcome.” He checked my name off the guest list as I walked past.
A small bar was set up to the right. I skirted around a group of people and stood in line behind an older man in the middle of a drink order. Sizing him up, I figured he was some sort of a banker or an investment guy given the cut of his suit, the size of his money clip, and the few strands of silver in his hair. His shoes cost more than most people made in a month, and everything about him screamed “cash.”
I coughed into my palm, mainly for attention, and also to try and rid my lungs of his ridiculously strong cologne. He looked over his shoulder at me, taking in my low-cut black top, red skirt, and high stilettos with a practiced sweep of his gaze.
“Hi.” He smiled, his laser-whitened teeth dazzling even in the low gallery light. What would he go for? Extrovert sex kitten or shy schoolgirl? It was a toss-up, but I went for the latter.
Dropping my gaze to the floor, I peeked at him through my lashes. “Hi.”
His smile widened, and I knew I’d chosen correctly. “Can I buy you a drink?”
“It’s an open bar.” I nibbled my bottom lip. His eyes tracked the movement as I’d hoped.
“I mean after this.” He swiped two drinks from the barman, one of which I assumed was for his wife, given the gold band on his ring finger.
“I’m not sure I should.” I stepped forward and stumbled into him.
“Whoa.” He raised the glasses so as not to spill on me.
“Sorry about that.” I winced and righted myself. “I’m so clumsy in heels.”
He shook his head. “I’d say you’re fuck-hot in heels.”
Inward cringe, outer smile. “Thanks.”
“I’ve got to get back, but I’ll catch you when this thing’s over.” He licked his lips.
Not a chance. “All right.” I gave him a demure smile, then scooted past him and ordered a champagne. After tucking his money clip into my sparkly clutch (a girl’s gotta earn a living, right?), I spun around and assessed the rest of the room.
The walls were adorned with various paintings and photos of people performing some rather creative sex acts. I was particularly fond of an image of a woman doing a backbend with an indescribably large penis wedged in her throat. If this was art, Tumblr deserved its own fancy-smancy gallery.
My next mark stood and stared at a photo of two women entangled in a Sapphic embrace. Tall, older, and running his hand along his potbelly, his “creeper with cash” vibe practically called my name, which, at the moment, was Scarlet Rocket.
I eased through the crowd, cursing the women who held onto their clutches with the strength of eagle talons. No chance with them. But men with wallets tucked away in pockets? Easy pickings.
“Scarlet?” Someone pushed through the crowd toward me. A toothily handsome man approached.
My hackles rose. Whenever someone recognized me, I held my breath and waited for an accusation. Despite my worries, no one had ever connected me to their missing valuables. Even so, I was still wary.
“Hi.” I plastered on a smile and tried to place the man.
“Todd, remember?” His million-megawatt smile flashed a memory loose. Last weekend. His wallet sat in a pile of wallets in a basket beneath my bed.
“Of course.” I let him take my elbow and guide me toward a quieter alcove. I threw a longing look at the mark with a hard-on for the lesbian love painting. Maybe I could try him later once I shook off Todd.
“Did you get my email?” he asked as we stopped next to a vibrant image of a multi-pronged, neon green dildo. Who was this designed for? An alien with eight vaginas?
I dragged my eyes away from the octodildo. “Um, no, I must have missed it. I get so many from the blog and everything.”
“Yeah, I try to skip over mine, but my secretary makes sure I see the important ones.” He took a sip of his red. “I wanted to ask if you’d be interested in going to dinner with me sometime.”
What had I played with him last weekend? Forward or frumpy? Damn, I couldn’t remember.
He shrugged, his suit hugging his shoulders with tailored flair. “Sorry to come on strong, but women like you don’t stay single for long.”
I pressed my champagne glass to my lips and stared at him. Handsome, moneyed, everything a gal like me should want in a man. But I didn’t want a man, I wanted whatever brand new wallet he had tucked away in his suit coat. Men were a dime a dozen, but cash was forever. Stepping closer, I ran my free hand down his chest. “This color is amazing on you.”
He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing quickly. “Thanks. My tailor recommend
ed it.”
My fingers tickled along the edge of supple leather hidden beneath the wool. How much money had he stashed in the replacement wallet? I was about to find out.
I licked my lips slowly. He focused on my mouth as I deftly slid my fingers to his inner pocket. One twitch of my wrist, and I’d have taken this idiot twice.
“Scarlet?” A man’s voice cut through my spell like a knife through a spider web. The same old cold splash of water rushed down my spine. I hated being recognized.
I stepped back, and the wallet remained in Todd’s coat instead of in my hand where it belonged. Damn.
Another man had walked up.
Bigger than Todd, but nowhere near as well groomed, the man glared at me through a pair of glasses with black plastic rims. “Can I have a word, Scarlet?”
“Hi, I’m Todd.” He extended his hand.
The newcomer ignored him. “I know who you are.”
“And you are?” Todd stepped forward, shielding me from the angry glarer.
“I’m Willis. Her date.”
“Oh.” Todd deflated a bit. “Scarlet?” He turned back to me, a question in his eyes.
I didn’t have a date, and certainly not with Willis, but something in his direct stare told me it was in my best interest to play along…for now. “Oh, Todd. I’m sorry. Willis is my PR guy’s boyfriend. He’s pretty much my secretary, to be honest.” I enjoyed the slight eye twitch from Willis at my assertion. “I told him I’d show him around the gallery. Can we raincheck?”