by Emma Salah
For a second, Aidan said nothing and Zac was hoping he got through to his best friend. But Aidan shook his head as he stormed out of Reagan’s apartment. Reagan stood up, but Zac tugged her down.
“I’ll go. He isn’t angry at you,” he reassured her. “He’s angry at me.”
He nodded at the rest of the guys and went to find Aidan.
* * *
Zac found Aidan leaning against his car, head cocked back, staring at the sky. He came to stand next to him and said nothing.
“All this time,” Aidan whispered, “and I had no clue. You never said a fucking word, Zac. We’re meant to be best friends.”
“I know,” Zac said, shame burning inside him. “But it wasn’t about you. It wasn’t.”
Aidan let out a sound of disgust at that.
“It was about me, Aidan,” he continued. “I...didn’t want to admit what I was feeling for Reagan and I was using that promise as an excuse not to let myself love her. You know what it was like growing up for me and for a long time, I thought I didn’t deserve to have anyone love me. Why would I when I have no idea what it means to love someone?”
He felt Aidan’s eyes on the side of his face, but he couldn’t look at him.
“That’s fucked up, Zac. You know how to love.”
“Yeah. I’m starting to get that. I think I need to start seeing someone about this.”
“You think, dumbass?”
Zac let out a startled laugh, Aidan joining him.
“You know,” Aidan started when they stopped laughing, “I thought you were dating Letty.”
Zac gave him a blank look. “What?”
“I could tell you were acting weird over the new girl you were dating, but I thought that it was because it was Reagan’s best friend and not because it was her.”
“Fuck no. Me and Letty don’t like each other like that,” Zac burst out.
“I know that now,” Aidan said, impatiently. “But that day we played the charity game, you were being all cryptic and giving each other looks.”
Zac shook his head. “She was just giving us shit, because she knew we were secretly dating. And even if me and Reagan weren’t dating, and I was interested in Letty, it would never work. You know that, right?”
It was Aidan’s turn to give him a blank look. Zac wanted to laugh, but he didn’t think Aidan would appreciate it.
“Because Letty likes you. Why else do you think she fucks with you so much? She’s trying to get your attention.”
“No,” Aidan said, vehemently.
“Yes.” He laughed.
“Letty isn’t the kind of girl to play games. If she liked me, she would have told me already.”
“You know nothing about women, do you?” he said, in disbelief.
Aidan pushed him. “I know more than you, dumbass.”
Zac grinned. “Keep telling yourself that.”
Zac continuing to rib Aidan as they returned to the apartment. The relief he felt was immense when Aidan, with no prompting, walked over to Reagan and hugged her. He saw the echoes of his own emotions on Reagan’s face.
“You good?” he asked her, when she was finally back in his arms.
“Perfect.”
Yes, everything was perfect.
Epilogue
Six months later
“Good morning.”
Zac opened his eyes slowly. A gorgeous pair of brown eyes stared down at him. Reagan was lying on top of him, elbows beside his head, breasts against his chest, legs tangled.
“Good morning,” he murmured.
His eyes flickered to the alarm clock, another present from Callum, to his left and saw that it was 8:30 am.
“Why are you awake so early?”
It was Sunday and they had absolutely nothing scheduled for the day, other than a late brunch with her brothers and Letty and then a loose plan to catch a movie. He’d also have to swing by the rink and talk to the coach and run through some new plays. As the new captain of The Comets it was his job to make sure everything was running smoothly.
Zac ran his hand down her spine. Reagan shivered and his lips curled. She stroked his jaw, her mouth stretched in a wide smile.
“And why are you smiling?” he asked, his voice still rough from sleep.
“Because—” she leaned further into him, her excitement clear “—I have a question to ask you. What do you remember from last night?”
Confused, he tried to think back. “Nothing.”
“You don’t remember going to the toilet, or checking your emails?”
He shook his head.
“You don’t remember waking up? Or going to the living room to watch the highlights of a game?”
“I don’t remember any...”
His words trailed off. I don’t remember anything from last night. His brain clicked on.
Reagan giggled, because she could see that he finally got it.
“You slept through the whole night, Zac.” She wiggled against his erection.
“I did,” he breathed out.
“That therapist is a miracle.”
Lincoln, through his contacts, had recommended a discreet therapist for Zac to see and deal with his childhood issues. At first, Zac was overenthusiastic, expecting instant results, but when he got over his disappointment, he finally started focusing on the little details and not just the big picture. And not saying his therapist wasn’t great, because he was, but...
“It’s you.”
“What?”
“Dr. Arnold isn’t the miracle, you are, Ree. Without you, fuck, I have no idea where I would be.”
She melted against him. “Zac.”
“You’re so brave, you astound me. Think of how much you’ve accomplished already. You’re the senior agent for Trent Newman.” He flipped her over, settling in between her legs. “Love you, Reagan.”
“Love you right back.” She grinned back at him. “Now feed me. I’m hungry.”
* * *
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Can’t wait for Letty and Aidan’s story? Keep your eyes open for news about the next book in The Dirty Thomas Siblings series. To find out about more by Emma Salah or to be alerted to new releases, sign up for her monthly newsletter on her website: www.emmasalahwrites.com.
Author Note
Dear readers, I have taken liberties with city names, football and hockey teams since I don’t want any die-hard fans to feel they have to defend the honor of their teams. Instead, you may invest in my fake teams to your heart’s content.
Acknowledgments
Writing has been a lifelong dream of mine, but, as it is true for all things in life, I didn’t achieve this reward in a vacuum. Firstly, I’d like to thank my brother for giving me a laptop when mine crapped out—it was one of the best gifts I’ve ever received. He handed it to me with the explicit instruction of “write, you fool, write!” And look, I can finally prove to you I have been! To my lovely sisters for reading whatever the heck I put in front of them, especially with no warning of just how smexy my books could get. Sorry, I had to get my laughs in somewhere! I can’t explain how grateful I am to my sister-in-law for coming into my life and letting me message her at all hours of the day to discuss scenes and characters. You opened your heart and your bookshelves to me and I love you for it! Of course, my friends have been endlessly supportive and wonderful, but special mention to Makia for all those nights we spent talking about writing and romance.
I appreciate Kate Marope, my wonderfully talented editor at Carina Press, who showed so much passion for my book I was blown away. She’s been incredibly patient and just the best to w
ork with! To everyone at Carina Press and Harlequin, especially Kerri Buckley, Stephanie Doig and everyone who spent their time and effort to make Dirty Tactics into a reality. It has been an incredible experience.
About the Author
Born and raised in London, Emma Salah spent her childhood climbing mountains, killing dragons and sneaking Mills & Boon books into her bedroom as a teenager. While only one of those is true, she did go off to seek adventures after a degree in Literature, backpacking through Southeast Asia, living in Istanbul and enjoying her time in Japan. As a young black woman, she is interested in telling stories that don’t always get heard. She writes playful, steamy stories about love with heroes and heroines with diverse backgrounds.
Dirty Tactics is her debut novel and hopefully there will be many more to come! You can check out her website for all of the latest news, subscribe to her monthly newsletter and get some really cool freebies at www.emmasalahwrites.com. You can also find her on Twitter (@EmmaSalahWrites) and Instagram (EmmaSalahWrites).
Keep reading for an excerpt from Hate Crush by Angelina M. Lopez.
Hate Crush
by Angelina M. Lopez
Prologue
The second bottle of fermented celery root gin went down much easier than the first.
His stylist was going to kill him for trading his Cartier sunglasses for the bottles. But as he slumped on a vegan leather couch in the VIP tent with his arm slung around his new best friend—a hemp-wearing gin maker wearing thousand-dollar shades—Aish Salinger thought the trade was totally worth it. After a year of sobriety, the foul-tasting liquor blurred the edges of his vision so the open flaps of the tent, the gyrating dancers in the distance, the burning fires, and the endless expanse of hot, white, flat Nevada desert looked like it used to. Exciting. Welcoming. Like a place he wanted to be.
The liquor pillowed him in the memories of the other times he’d attended this art and music festival with John Hamilton, his bass player and lifelong best friend, at his side, groupies and hangers-on answering every beck and call. The liquor convinced him that he wanted to be here, dressed like a Mad Max tool in graffitied leather jeans and no shirt, flashing his famous tattoos, instead of being home. Alone.
The liquor gave him his new best friend.
“Got a question,” his new best friend said above the distant beats of techno coming from the main stage. Propped against Aish, the man reeked of pot and patchouli and unwashed days in the desert. But that’s what you did for your best friend. You accepted them, stink and all. You never pushed them away.
The man’s name was Buck. Or Steve. Aish called him dude. “What’s that, dude?”
“Who’d you guys write that song about? You know the one, ‘In You.’ Song’s good for rubbing one out.”
Aish tugged his head off the couch and looked blearily around the tent. The festival headliner was playing so the velvet couches and satin play pits were empty in the glow of the chandeliers. And Aish’s once-packed entourage had disappeared with the stink of scandal and a failing career.
Still, he couldn’t be too careful with a secret he’d kept close for ten years, a secret that journalists and groupies and spies had been trying to squeeze out of him since ‘In You’ exploded on the charts and unleashed their band, Young Son, on the world.
But as Aish smacked the taste of spoiled celery root in his mouth, he thought he’d never met a trustworthier guy than Buck. Or Steve.
“Dude, not naming names, but she was amazing,” he said, closing his eyes as he settled his head back on the couch, feeling soothed and tied in knots like he always did whenever he thought of ‘In You.’ The song was pure sex, summoned the sensations of the purest sex with her.
He never should have let the label release it. “I fucked up so bad.”
“What’d you do?”
“Broke her heart.” He used to think it was the worst thing he’d ever done. “I was a douche. Young, so stupid.” Memories of her lit like a constellation in his brain. “She was one in a million.”
“You sound like you loved her. I thought she just rocked your cock.”
Rocked your cock. Could Aish turn that into a song? It was better than what he’d been coming up with on his own.
“Yeah, she did,” he said, dragging his fingers through his hair the way she used to, slow and tugging. “I miss her.”
“I’d miss her too if she was as hot as you say in that song. Miss her on my junk, you know what I’m sayin’?” He laughed and elbowed Aish.
His new best friend was kind of an asshole. But his old best friend had been kind of an asshole, too.
At the disloyal thought, Aish tried to straighten. “Don’t talk about her like that,” he grumbled. When had his neck turned to jelly? His best friend had turned into quadruplets.
“Sorry, man, no offense,” Buck or Steve said, raising his eight palms into the air. “What’s she doing now?”
Buck or Steve was a good guy. And there were so many of him. It’d been a long time since Aish had talked to anyone but his manager. It’d been a long time since he’d talked about her. “She’s opening a winery.”
“For real? Classy for such a dirty girl.”
“Yeah. Yeah, she’s real classy. Royally classy.” He huffed at his own joke. Could that be a song?
Buck or Steve laughed dirty. “I bet you’d help her open her winery real good.”
“That’d be nice,” Aish said dreamily. “Soaking in the Spanish air, getting my head on straight...”
“Wait a fucking second.” His new best friend’s sharp voice forced Aish to focus, forced him to see that he was just one man, one man with eyes that weren’t as blurry and red rimmed as they’d seemed when they’d first started drinking. “A rich slut into wine? In Spain? You’re not talking about that princess, are you? What’s her name?” He snapped his fingers and the sound was percussive over the thump of the headliner’s beats. Then he pointed a dirty fingernail at Aish.
“Princess Sofia! That’s who ‘In You’ is about.”
“Shhhhhhh,” Aish said, trying to concentrate as he looked around the tent again. But when he steadied his head, the tent kept swirling. He closed his eyes. “Dude, keep your voice down.”
“Princess Sofia. She’s starting a winery? I thought she was in rehab.” Aish tried to open his eyes. But the gorge was rising in his throat. And the man’s words were crowding his ears. “Motherfucking Princess Sofia. Wasn’t she caught fucking an entire boy band? Her winery’s gonna be a 24-7 orgy. You think you can get me in there, too? Damn, I’d like a go at her.”
Aish was going to kill his new best friend. He was going to shove his hand down Buck or Steve’s throat, rip out his tonsils, and dangle them in front of his eyes as the first body part he’d lose if he ever touched her or thought about her or told another living soul.
But a familiar sensation welled up in Aish.
And instead of violence, the video from the camera hidden in a fern would show rock star Aish Salinger lurching out of view. The mic hidden in Buck or Steve’s poncho would pick up—over the thump of techno-surf—Aish Salinger heaving in a corner.
* * *
The viral video might have actually carried a virus. Because when the woman they were discussing saw the video the next day, a woman with a kingdom on the line and nothing going her way, a woman who’d blocked that catastrophic first love from her thoughts, she had to run for the bathroom, too.
Copyright © 2020 by Angelina M. Lopez
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ISBN-13: 9781488076824
Dirty Tactics
Copyright © 2020 by Emma Salah
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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