“I love you, Lee.”
“I’m glad you do.”
“Yeah?”
“Most of the time,” I joke.
“Good.”
I stare into Liam’s blue eyes and smile. “I love you too, you know?”
“I do, but you gave me a defective child that we must return.”
Ugh. The boy. The boy with raging hormones and the charm of his father.
“Listen, that kid is all you, so . . . good luck with him. I’m way too young to be a grandmother, so you need to scare the hell out of him or something.”
“You’d be the prettiest grandma around.”
He is not funny. “I’ll handle Aarabelle being late. You handle Shane being an idiot.”
He nods. “Fine, but let her know I’ll be watching and remind her that I know how to hide a body.”
Sad part is that he’s not kidding. He really does know how to.
“And after that, we’ll have some wine,” I say, pushing myself to my feet.
“Deal, but you have to promise to be naked tonight.”
I lean down, pressing a quick kiss to his lips. “Maybe, considering we are the only ones who are allowed to have sex in this house.”
He kisses me this time. “Damn right, I’m about to cockblock these kids until they’re thirty.”
My head falls back as I laugh.
Only Liam can take the crazy and make it feel like it’s going to be okay.
* * *
If you enjoyed Cockblocked, be sure to grab Consolation, and find out how Natalie and Liam found each other. Or you can grab Beloved (Book 1 in the Salvation Series) FREE for a limited time!
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About the Author
New York Times, USA Today, and Wall Street Journal Bestseller Corinne Michaels is the author of nine romance novels. She’s an emotional, witty, sarcastic, and fun-loving mom of two beautiful children. Corinne is happily married to the man of her dreams and is a former Navy wife. She enjoys putting her characters through intense heartbreak and finding a way to heal them through their struggles. Her stories are chock full of emotion, humor, and unrelenting love.
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Also by Corinne Michaels
The Salvation Series
Beloved
Beholden
Consolation
Conviction
Defenseless
Indefinite (Coming 2019)
* * *
Return to Me Series
Say You’ll Stay
Say You Want Me
Say I’m Yours
Say You Won’t Let Go: A Return to Me/Masters and Mercenaries Novella
* * *
Standalone Novels
We Own Tonight
One Last Time
Not Until You (Coming 2018)
If I Only Knew (Coming 2018)
Getting It Up
Liv Morris
A Curse, a Cocky Bastard, and a Dick Doctor = A Hard Luck Outtake.
Copyright © 2018 Liv Morris
All rights reserved
Editing: Word Nerd Editing
* * *
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the above author of this book.
* * *
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
One
Cali
When I tell people what I do for a living, nine times out of ten, their first response is an inquisitive: “Oh, really?” Then they lean closer with a crooked smile and a slight eyebrow waggle, probably hoping I’ll spill some sordid secret. Believe me, I have a story or two to tell, but according to the law, I can’t utter a single word. Well…that’s not one hundred percent true. I can give vague generalities, like the time I saw the world’s smallest penis or the pecker that permanently pointed toward the man’s hipbone.
However, one nine-inch tale will go with me to the grave. Brady Luck is a cocky, well-hung Chicago baseball player who claims he’s having a hard time getting hard, but after seeing him “rise to the occasion,” I know otherwise. Even without measuring, he sports the largest tool in the toolbox I’ve ever seen, and I’ve encountered hundreds.
I don’t work on a porno set or a questionable street corner in stilettos. I’m a physician’s assistant for a group of dick doctors—an illustrious PA who tends to trouser snakes of all shapes and sizes. The practice’s slogan, “you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all,” applies to the everyday care and maintenance of Chicago’s weenies. That is, until Brady Luck strutted into our office a couple weeks ago with his package. Since then, my life has been turned upside down. Or is that inside out? Let’s just say, considering my profession, it’s been nuts.
The problem in Brady’s pants—though I do believe it’s more in his head; the top one versus the one below his belt—has created a dilemma for me as a woman and medical professional. I can’t even discuss the situation with my best friend due to HIPAA laws, and I need to talk to someone. It’s bewildering. I’ve never wanted to jump a man’s bones while, at the same time, despising him with a fiery passion.
Maybe it’s the passion part that confuses me, or the way he claims no one can get his penis to cooperate but me. What a line! I’m sure it’s not his gorgeous blue eyes, lickable jawline, chiseled chest, sculpted forearms…and don’t get me started on his tight tush that has me all disorientated. Hot guys like that stalk me every day…in my dreams.
Anyway, I want a day to regroup before going back to work tomorrow. Monday’s are hard enough, so I’m declaring this Sunday a Self-care Day. I haven’t had one of these in…well, like ever. First things first, I need to call my best friend in hopes she can join me for mimosas and shopping before taking a nice long nap.
“Cali, do you know what time it is?” Taylor mumbles into the phone after the fourth ring.
A quick glance at the clock on my nightstand says it’s after ten, which shouldn’t elicit such a sleepy response since she rises and shines with the sun.
“It’s time to get up and go to brunch. Sound good? Maybe Magnolia’s.” I hear a raspy male voice in the background. She’s not alone. Obviously. And talk about working fast. When I left her last night at the bar, she wasn’t even talking to a guy, and that was after midnight.
“Actually, I’m…well, it’s complicated,” she says, then whispers something I can’t quite make out, like she’s pulled the phone away from her mouth and is speaking to the mystery man in her bed, or maybe she’s in his. I rack my brain with guy possibilities, and not a single one comes to mind except the hot bartender who kept throwing free drinks our way.
“Okay. But you’d better call me later with all the details.”
As my feet hit the floor next to my bed, a bolt of lightning illuminates the sky outside my bedroom window, followed by an exploding blast of thunder that makes me jump. Another streak of light flashes, and I count between it and the sound of thunder.
“One-Mississippi. Two…” The heavens clash before I get to the second Mississippi. The storm is right on top of me. “Guess I’m staying in today.”
Why am I talking to myself like a crazy person? Two words. Brady Luck.
It seems logical to blame him. I’ve been “off” sinc
e the day I fell at his feet…or more like swooned until I hit the floor of a bar in his presence. I need to explain this incident in greater detail. I’m not a boy-crazy, weak-kneed type of woman. I usually learn a guy’s flirting with me after Taylor kicks me in the chin to get my attention and raises her brows suggestively.
My woes began a few weeks ago when Taylor and I were at a local club here in Chicago. At the time, I was the head cheerleader for Brady Luck fangirls—at least in my head. Yeah, I had it bad for him. When Brady showed up later, along with his teammates, he spotted me in the crowd of batting eyelashes. Stunned he even noticed me, I slithered off the barstool in a swoony type of motion onto the floor. It was a proud moment for me. Actually, I wanted to die of humiliation.
After I assumed my position on my seat…with Brady’s assistance, I watched him walk away with his friends. I thought it was my brief shining moment with my crush, until I walked into an exam room where a new patient was waiting inside. It was Brady under a fake name, but I’d know that lopsided grin and gorgeous face in a room as dark as midnight.
Long story short—or is it the short story that became long?—he was able to get his formerly limp equipment to work in my presence. And for some crazy reason, he thinks he can only get a hard on if I’m around him, or when hears my voice. So, guess who’s been stalking me? He even followed me into the infant department at Nordstrom and proceeded to tell me how he wants a ton of kids. I think the entire department store heard my ovaries explode. I had to hightail it out of the place before we started making babies near the bibs and blankets.
Well, enough is enough. I don’t want to be his erection booty call, so I’ve refused to see him as a patient anymore, even though he calls the office several times a day.
While stewing over my Luck issues, I pop a bottle of sparkling wine—aka cheap girl champagne—and pour half into a small pitcher with some fresh O.J. I’m skipping coffee this morning and going straight for the hard stuff. I throw a couple frozen waffles into the toaster—and voilà! Breakfast.
I prop my pillows against the headboard, making a comfortable nest for my brunch in bed, place the mimosa pitcher on my nightstand—I can refill my glass from the bed. Win! I snatch up the erotic book I started this past week from where it’s laying on the floor. The story was getting to the good part last night. I thought the couple was finally going to give in to their forbidden desires, but then, sadly, I couldn’t keep my eyes open any longer, and the book must’ve fallen from my hands.
I start reading the naughty novel, and finally, the professor tells his student to lock the door behind her as she enters his office. I bite my lip as he rises from his desk and tosses his jacket onto a leather chair. In just a couple strides, he encircles his arms around his startled and—dammit! My cell phone rings and an unknown number with a Chicago area code pops up.
Hitting “ignore,” I wait for a voicemail, but nothing comes. I roll my eyes at the stupid interruption, drink what’s left of my first mimosa, and refill the glass nearly to the top before reaching into my nightstand for my favorite self-care toy. My phone better not ring again. I plan on having both hands busy.
Two
Brady
My teammates are sitting at tables in the hotel private dining room, stuffing their faces with breakfast fit for a king. Me? I’m trying to figure out why my life is shit. Even the smell of bacon doesn’t hit me right. I’ve moved over to the wall of windows looking out over the Saint Louis skyline. Dark clouds threaten, and I really hope a storm gets our afternoon game called off. I’ve been playing like hell and letting my team down.
My entire body is strung tight, and my mind is a million miles away from the ballpark down the street. All I can think about is my dick and its inability to perform. Hell, it’s never let me down before. I have one hope left: Cali Jones. She’s the only woman my dick likes for some reason, and she’s refusing to see me or take my calls.
My friend, who happens to be a Class A hacker, found her personal cell number, so I called her a few minutes ago. She didn’t answer, and I didn’t leave a message. I had no idea what to say anyway. I can’t think straight. Maybe it’s because I’ve never had to beg a woman for sex. Who knew getting laid was this tough?
I stuff my phone in my back pocket and rub my palms over my face. Someone places a firm hand on my shoulder, and I turn around. Shit. It’s Coach. His levels me with a stony expression as he slowly shakes his head.
“Brady, what the hell’s going on with you?” he asks with a heavy sigh. “You’re acting like your puppy died.”
“Well, you’re close.” I give him a bitter smile. I might as well play “Taps” over my dick.
“Listen, you ate anything yet?”
“Nah. I’m good.” I brush off his question and stick my hands in my pockets.
“Like hell.” He rubs the back of his neck and breaks eye contact with me for a beat. “Eat something and come up to my suite. We need to talk. See you in fifteen.”
He lowers his head and walks out of the dining room. A few guys call out to him when he passes, but Coach ignores each one, and all eyes focus on me. I shrug my shoulders and flash my trademark cocky grin, but they look back at me with worried eyes. Smiles aren’t going to be enough to calm the tension. I need to execute on the field. It’s like they want me to tell them everything’s going to be okay. If only I could.
Fuck.
I’m used to being the guy with all the answers—the player who lights up the scoreboard and jokes with everyone in the dugout. Chicks dig me. Guys want to be me. People don’t know this other version of me: the one who’s striking out at the plate and making rookie errors. I don’t either.
My mind can’t get past the last three hookups that ended with me as limp as a manicotti noodle. I blamed it on cold medicine each time and fled the scene with a cough and sneeze, but I doubt the girls were fooled.
After my failed attempt last night, I don’t know where to turn…well, other than Cali. Even the sound of her voice works to get things up and rolling.
I stuff a donut into my mouth, grab a water bottle, and make my way to Coach’s suite. I knock on his door and wait. For what, I have no clue, though I imagine it’s a king-size grilling.
“Brady, come in.” He opens the door, and I follow him toward the living room area. A brown couch and two matching chairs make it look inviting. I can’t say the same for the glare on Coach’s face. “Have a seat.”
I sit in the middle of the couch. He stays standing.
“It’s Sunday morning, so we’re going to church right here. Have a little come-to-Jesus moment,” Coach says, taking the chair across from me. “Enough of this ‘nothing’s wrong, everything’s fine’ bullshit. Spill.”
Coach leans back in the chair and places his elbows on the armrest. He brings his hands to his face and rests them under his chin. He might as well be wearing a priest’s collar, because I see no way out of this confession.
“My spark is gone,” I sigh.
“Well, you need to find it. Chase it down the street, wrestle it to the ground, and carry it home if you have to. Snap out of it, Brady.”
“Believe me, it’s not that simple.”
“Something else is going on. You’ve turned into a powder keg. No one turns on a dime like this without a reason.”
“How’d you get so smart?” I ask him.
“Years of dealing with knuckleheads like you.” Coach laughs.
I take a deep breath before I begin. “My game’s off because of this girl I hooked up with. She’s a voodoo princess or some shit. Anyway, I slept with her one night…” I don’t mention not having any memory of the actual fucking part. I just woke up with her in my bed. “She thought we were a thing or something. She became wild-eyed and crazy when I handed her a wad of money for a cab ride home. Before she left, she pulled a voodoo doll out of her bag and stuck a pin in its…” I point to my crotch. “And now...” my mouth goes dry, and I pause. This is even worse than the confessional booth.
“My mojo isn’t just off in the batter’s box. It’s messed up in the sack. I can’t get it up,” I exhale the words like a weight’s been lifted off my shoulders. “Well, except for this one chick.”
I decide to leave out the fact that she’s my dick doctor…or was. That’s creepy.
“So, what’s the deal with the girl? Not the psycho one.”
“Her name’s Cali Jones, and she doesn’t want anything to do with me.” My shoulders slump back into the couch. I feel like the biggest pussy. Maybe this happens to dudes with my condition. No wonder my game’s all fucked up.
“This has to be a first,” Coach huffs. “Brady Luck getting a no.”
“Yeah. I’ve tried calling her. Putting on the Luck charm. Still, she refuses to speak to me.”
I leave out the fact that I’ve been stalking her delicious ass all over Chicago. He doesn’t need to know that.
“Got your phone with you?” he asks, and I nod my head.
“Pull up her number and give me your phone.” Coach holds out his hand.
“You’re going to call her now?” I swallow and blow out a quick breath.
“Is she a baseball fan?”
“I think so?”
“Let’s hope she takes one for the team,” he says with a bristling chuckle.
I hand my phone over to Coach. From what I’ve dealt with firsthand from Cali, I have a bad feeling about this, but what do I have to lose?
Three
Cali
Cocktales Page 44