Lover Boy

by Cassie-Ann L. Miller

  She shoves the plate of leftovers at me as she rolls her eyes and walks straight past me in her purple spandex workout gear. She’s fresh out of the gym this morning. There’s a sheen to her coppery skin. I catch a whiff of her. Strawberries and cocoa butter with subtle undertones of sweat.

  I enjoy running water as much as the next man but if there were ever a water crisis in this town, I’d gladly lick her clean.

  “Sheesh! You and that damn lawn,” she groans. “You’re like one of those annoying rent-a-cops at the Botanic Garden.” She snickers as she hunches over to pull off her shoes on the front mat. I nearly drop the plate at the sight of that ass bent over in front of me.

  Heavenly hell!

  She looks up too fast and catches me with my eyes peeled to her curves. She stumbles back a half step. Reaching out, I steady her with my free hand. I can’t tell if that shiver came from her or from me.

  Shit.

  Quick to distract her from what just happened, I turn and lead the way into the kitchen. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company this morning?” I drop onto a high stool at the granite-topped island.

  As Nova opens the cutlery drawer behind me, I take the time to adjust my erection. She spins around with two forks and hands one my way. She slides onto the stool next to me and peels back the foil covering the plate.

  “Still stealing food from work, I see.” I grab a marinated olive with my fingers and pop it into my mouth.

  Biting back a smile, she flips me off and then shovels a forkful of salami into her face. “So, are you gonna fix my car or what?” In a rudimentary show of civility, she hides her stuffed mouth behind her hand as she speaks.

  Such a lady!

  “I’m not a mechanic, Nova.” I extend my arms above my head and stretch. Her eyes still don’t peek at my muscles.

  Why the hell does it bother me so much that this chick doesn’t want me?

  I’ve got women pursuing me every single day. Calling me, texting me, begging me for a little bit of attention. They find my charm irresistible. My smile melts the lace-trimmed satin right off of their behinds. One smoldering glance and they’re down on their knees, ready to follow my instructions.

  But Nova? She treats me like a comfy armchair. Yes, she’ll cuddle against me to watch a movie on a laid-back Saturday night, but I’m pretty much just a piece of furniture. Well-loved but ultimately, benign.

  We’re strictly friends and that’s probably for the best since I’ve known her forever. She’s virtually a part of the family. Growing up, she was always in my sister’s room, wearing those creepy homemade facial masks, reading teen magazines full of bad dating advice and peer-pressuring Reese into dyeing her hair all ungodly colors.

  Still, it bugs me that she isn’t even a little attracted to me. What can I say? My male ego is a fragile petal.

  Nova doesn’t come pounding down my door when she’s looking for a toe-curling good time. She only calls me, shows up at my house or tracks me down when she’s bored or in trouble.

  And I can live with that, I guess. I have so much drama in my life, battling the ghosts of fuck friends past. It really makes me appreciate the simplicity of hanging out with Nova.

  But it certainly doesn’t mean that I can’t admire the way her tits fill out the scrap of spandex banded across her chest.

  She continues to whine. “But you know how to fix cars…”

  “I told you the last time—what I did for you was a temporary fix. You need to bring that piece of junk to the repair shop and get it checked out. You’re gonna end up running yourself off the road.”

  “So, you’re not gonna help me?”

  “I can’t.”

  She sighs, looking completely out of options. Her shoulders slump and she does that pouty thing that makes my cock ache. “You’re not just saying that, are you?”

  I frown. She knows me better than that. I’d help her if I could. “I honestly can’t fix the car, Nova.”

  “Fuck…” She mutters the word under her breath and I know exactly what it means.

  Nova’s a creative type. She excels in all things artistic. She sketches, she plays the guitar, she’s got a Nikon slung around her neck half the time. If you leave her in a dark alley with a few cans of spray paint for long enough, you’ll come back to a mural that will take your breath away.

  But she’s broke. She’s stuck at this dead-end job, a waitress at a local Italian restaurant. I know she hates it but she hangs on to it because she’s scared to let go and take a step toward her dreams. I keep telling her to just take the plunge, to quit the restaurant and give herself a few months to just go for it. She doesn’t listen. Instead, she stays in a job that keeps her broke and unhappy and suffocates her creativity.

  I lean my elbows on the counter and watch her shove a little tomato into her mouth. “Had any gigs lately?” I ask.

  She snorts a little. “Sang at this wedding last weekend. Some rich woman married her housekeeper’s husband as soon as the ink dried on the divorce papers. Let me tell you, there was dra-ma! Flying cupcakes. Barefooted toddlers running around screaming, ‘That’s my daddy!’ I got hit in the head with a flying wedge heel.”

  I reach for the last cracker on the plate as I laugh. She snatches it from my fingers and I harrumph. “Hey!” She grins and pops it victoriously into her mouth.

  Her mane of wild, golden ringlets frames her beautiful face. I reach out and grab a lock of it. I give it a soft tug. For one moment, I fall into her enchanting green irises and I can’t seem to look away.

  She swats my hand away. “Stop it, Charlie.”

  “What?” My lips dance at the corners.

  She stretches out across the counter and rests her head in the crook of her arm. “So you really can’t fix my car?” She looks up at me from under her lashes. All sweetness and innocence.

  “Can’t help ya.”

  A groan bursts out of her chest. “You’re dead to me,” she mutters as she drops down her fork and pushes away from the table.

  “Just like that?”

  She nods. “Just like that.” She seals the foil over the plate and swipes it off of the table.

  “Hell no, you’re not taking the food.” I step into her path, blocking the way.

  Her hand comes up protectively in front of her and she slaps my chest softly. Fuck fuck fuck. There’s no way she didn’t feel that bolt of fire.

  She’s standing so close that she has to tip her head back to look at me. “You smell like sex.” Her nose twitches.

  I run my hand over my short hair. “Just got in,” I say with a sheepish grin.

  Her jaw goes tight. Her voice drips with repulsion. “Your dick is gonna fall off one of these days.”

  Not in the mood to hear it. She likes to preach about my sexual proclivities from high up on her holier than thou pulpit. She’s like a damn Sunday School teacher. In micro-shorts and a bra top.

  That spandex on her curves is killing me, though.

  “I’m always safe,” I tell her. Condoms are my constant sidekick. I may fuck a lot of chicks but I’m no fool. I won’t let some random girl end up pregnant with my baby or, worse yet, give me some awful communicable disease.

  Nova’s still mad. She lifts the foil again and grabs three cheese cubes before shoving the plate into my hand and heading for the door.

  She doesn’t understand.

  I’m restless. I can’t sit still. I can’t settle down. My demons come for me whenever I slow my pace for a minute.

  And besides, I’m young, I’m attractive, I’m successful in my trade. What’s the point in depriving myself?

  My hungry gaze rolls over her generous curves as she bends to tie the laces on her sneakers. The things I’d do if I got my hands on that ass…

  Again, she catches me staring. She throws me a venomous look before swinging the door open and marching across the lawn. “Goodbye, Charlie.”

  “Goodbye, Nova.”

  I can’t rip my eyes away from that sultry strid
e. I want to haul her back in here, flip her over the back of my couch and lose my tongue in that beautiful ass.

  But Nova Chester is my little sister’s best friend and her ass, just like the rest of that spectacular body, is off-limits.

  Now available

  Bonus Story

  Dirty Neighbor

  (The Dirty Suburbs Book 1)

  by Cassie-Ann L. Miller

  Chapter 1

  I veer off of the I-90 and guide my Harley onto the off-ramp. I grin to myself as I glance up at the huge, green highway sign looming above the road.

  Welcome to Reyfield, Illinois.

  I never thought I’d ever feel so damn happy to see that sign again but after all I’ve been through over the past three years, I just want something simple and familiar. I want to be in a place where I don’t feel antsy, like I’ve got to keep looking over my shoulder.

  Reyfield is it. It’s almost like coming home…

  Almost.

  I’m well aware that the Masters’ left a lot of destruction in our wake the last time we were in this town – unpaid bills, unsaid goodbyes and at least one very broken heart.

  Maybe it’s time to pay old debts, heal old wounds and make amends as best I can. Maybe it’s time for a fresh start.

  It’s a chilly night. Fall is creeping its way into town. I breeze through the streets and everything feels familiar. It all gives me a little thrill in the pit of my stomach. The gothic architecture of the Presbyterian church…The washed-out “Go Tigers!” banner hanging outside of our old high school…The field where we played football…The burger joint we used to go to for lunch when the school cafeteria’s offerings resembled roadkill topped with warm dog food…

  I take a left off of Clifford Boulevard and pull onto Hyatt Street. The corner store is right where I left it. I cut my engine in the parking lot and stroll through the front door. I give a quick nod to the middle-aged woman sitting behind the cash register and make my way down the narrow, brightly-lit aisles.

  Man, it feels good to just walk down the aisles of a freakin’ convenience store. When you’ve been locked away for as long as I have, you learn to appreciate the simple things.

  I stand in front of the chip display for a moment, trying to decide between vinegar and barbecue. “Fuck it…” I’m having both. And how about a bag of jalapeño-cheddar, too? I’m making up for lost time, after all.

  I grab a case of beer — the cheap kind that we used to buy with our fake IDs when we were teenagers. I’m feeling awfully nostalgic tonight. Then, I grab more chocolate-covered pretzel sticks than any self-respecting 27-year-old man ever should.

  When I get to the condom aisle, I pick up eight three-packs of XL Magnums.

  Yes, that might seem overly ambitious but I haven’t had sex in three freakin’ years and whoever I take home with me tonight is in for a hell of a good time. The ladies don’t call me Master Kee for nothing. My main priority tonight is to drain the tank into the first acceptable-looking broad that comes my way and to be honest, ‘acceptable-looking’ is pretty much open for interpretation at this point.

  Because I’m horny enough to fuck my way through the Reyfield phonebook.

  I drop my goodies onto the counter and the cashier eyes me with an arched brow and a subtle grin. “Exciting night planned?” she asks, tipping her chin toward the condoms. The innuendo in her voice is undeniable.

  I give her a second glance. Is she Ms. Acceptable for tonight?

  Nah, she’s probably older than my mother and she smells like she’s been marinating in cigarette smoke and cheap perfume all day. My definition of “acceptable” may be loose, but not that loose.

  I nod politely as I glimpse at the number glowing on the screen of the cash register and pull a $100 bill out of my wallet. She drags her long fingernails along my palm as she deposits the change into my hand.

  Did my cock just twitch?

  Down, buddy. Down.

  “Have a good night, Big Boy,” she purrs as I give her a quick salute and duck out the door.

  I store my goodies in my backpack and jump onto my bike. When I rev it, the poor thing lets out a choked straining sound. I’ll look into it first thing in the morning, but for now, I’m on mission to get laid.

  ASAP.

  Chapter 2

  “Breathe in…hold hold hold…breathe out…Breathe in…hold hold hold…breathe out…Breathe in…hold hold hold…breathe out…”

  I take long deep breaths, doing my best to synchronize my rhythm to the sound of Isla’s voice pouring into my ears. The cool morning breeze blowing over my face and the sun smiling down on my skin make it that much easier.

  This is one of the few things that I absolutely adore about being back in Reyfield. It’s a quiet, serene town. Except for the occasional ruckus caused by the young children playing on the street and the yapping of the over-talkative Yorkshire terrier a few doors down, the place is a sanctuary. A slice of suburban perfection. The ideal place for soul-searching and self-reflection.

  But Reyfield is just too slow-paced for me. Take Thornbush Lane, for example. The cul-de-sac is charming, for lack of a better word – the kind of place you’d go to raise a family or grow old, I guess. A cast of interesting characters occupy the lane. Nancy and Delores, the gray-haired duo who’ve appointed themselves as the two-woman neighborhood watch, the eccentric mailman who delivers my mail to the wrong house half the time, meddlesome neighbors who drop by unannounced when you least expect them. That all adds to the cozy feel of the place. But for an ambitious 25-year-old like me, Reyfield is nothing but a dead end.

  Growing up, I couldn’t wait to get out of the suburbs. And that’s what I did as soon as I could. I moved 15 miles south to Chicago for college and then took a job in the city. Everything was going relatively well until four months ago when I suddenly got laid off. Now, here I am, unemployed, single, broke and for the past six weeks, living in my parents’ house again.

  Ugh!

  Thank god mom and dad are staying in Florida with grams until next spring so at least I have the house to myself. I did not work my ass off for my certified internal auditor designation only to end up living with my parents forevermore. Basically, I need to find a new job stat so that I can move back to the city as soon as possible.

  Anyway, Isla swore up and down that meditation would help with my job search. She says that I’m ‘scattered’ and that’s why I haven’t been able to find a new position since I got laid off. Her new meditation recording is supposed to help me find my ‘center’ and ‘recalibrate’ in order to attract a suitable employment opportunity.

  Her words, not mine.

  For weeks, I resisted. The old Sammie thought that Isla was delusional and maybe even slightly off her rocker. The new Sammie is so hopeless and desperate and sick of being unemployed that I’m pretty much willing to try anything to get a damn job. Sending out resumes, compulsively checking job-listing websites and waiting impatiently for the postman to show up with my mail every morning has proven to be an ineffective strategy.

  So, it was time to try something new.

  I’ve been using this meditation track for a few days now and if nothing else, it’s relaxing and distracts me from the ticker tape of worry, doubt and anxiety constantly running through my mind.

  I shift my foot slightly, determined to ignore the itch prickling at my heel. I’m going to meditate the fuck out of it. Forget you, stupid itch. It’s time to turn ‘inwards’ because my money’s low and I need a miracle right about now. I focus solely on my breathing.

  Eventually, time and space slip away. I think I’m in that space that Isla’s always talking about. ‘The nothingness’ is what she calls it. I feel content. Satiated. That tiny, niggling voice in the back of my head gnawing at me to get off my butt and go search through the local classified ads again? I smother that bitch under fluffy pillows of bliss.

  “Breathe in…hold hold hold…breathe out…”

  Putata-putata-putata

  What
the fuck is that?

  Putata-putata-putata

  Is that a motorcycle? Who the hell on Thornbush Lane has a motorcycle?

  I squeeze my eyes shut and try to channel my inner yogi in a futile attempt to drown out the hiccup-hiccup of the engine as it sputters to death nearby. It seems like the harder I try to ignore it, the louder it gets.

  I grudgingly yank out my earbuds and ease out of my cross-legged position on my oversized cushion on the back patio. I peer around the side of the house and notice a shiny black Harley Davidson lying on its side in the driveway just as a tall, shirtless figure slinks across the front lawn next door.

  What the fuck? Nobody’s supposed to be over there.

  As far as I know, dad tried to get that place rented for months before he finally gave up in defeat at the end of July. Illinois’s economy is bad and nobody wants to pay a premium to rent that crumbling, two-story colonial with its unkempt lawn and weather-beaten clapboards. Still, my stubborn father refuses to lower the rental. He’d rather the house sit vacant. I guess he can afford to be picky about his tenants. He doesn’t have a mortgage to pay on it since he inherited the house when his uncle Kramer died back when I was a kid.

  I bring my attention back to the very bold intruder next door. I can’t see his face because the tall hedges now hide him from view. I should probably call the police but I decide to check it out myself. I grab a weapon – the rake leaning against the side of the house – as I inch cautiously toward the front yard.

  I trek across the driveway separating the two houses, passing the beastly motorcycle and an open toolbox on the way. I stomp through the overgrown lawn and up the stairs to the front porch. The door is wide open and for some reason that puts me at ease. A burglar would probably be more discreet than that, right?

  The knot in my stomach loosens a bit. This is probably all some huge misunderstanding.

  I stick my head into the doorway without stepping inside, just as a precaution. “Hello?”

  A shadowy figure approaches, moving down the long, dimly-lit hallway that leads from the kitchen to the front door. Sunrays slice through the kitchen curtains, illuminating him from behind and revealing his silhouette bit by bit.