Hung (Mister Hotshot Book 1)

by Anne Marsh

  I’m pretty sure the fire pit is courtesy of Hunter. It showed up one morning shortly after he yelled at us for illegal, unsafe burns in the previous fire pit (which was either a hollowed out, ashy depression in the ground or a metal trash can, depending on our mood and needs). I like Hunter. He’s like a loaner brother, big, grumpy, and protective. I’m not sure what’s going on between him and Lola, but it guarantees he has zero sexual interest in me, so I can just admire his very manly scenery. Plus, since he’s the local Oscar the Grouch, he’s not big on conversation, which guarantees that my secrets stay safe.

  Lola huffs out a breath as she stares up at me. “Were you asleep? Or engaged in ‘personal business’?”

  “Huh?” I shouldn’t have taken that Melatonin to help me sleep because it’s short-circuited a significant number of brain cells. My tongue is thick and my mouth more parched than the Gobi Desert.

  Lola tugs me down beside her. One of the drawbacks to our super-cheap cabin-in-the-woods lodgings is that outdoor seating is extremely minimalistic. In other words, we’re sitting on logs a previous tenant scavenged from said woods. I try not to think about carpenter ants, termites, or any eight-legged friends that could be trying to get into my pants. Yippee. That’s the closest I’ve been to any non-solo panty action in months.

  “Mas-tur-ba-tion,” Lola mouths slowly—and at full volume.

  Olivia, the third member of our club, raises a brow as she drops a pillow onto the log next to us before sitting down like it’s a freaking throne and she’s Queen Olivia. She’s been sketchy on the details of her qualifying break up, and I don’t think that’s due to her being shy or private. “Are we planning on a group orgy?”

  “Shouldn’t we wait for Hunter?” He’s the fourth and newest member of the Break Up Club, although by rights we should have denied him membership. He has a penis and this was a girls-only club. As Olivia pointed out, however, discrimination is never okay, so we let him in because his break up story is pretty darn dismal.

  Lola cackles. Right. I guess “group orgy” and “wait for Hunter” shouldn’t be uttered in close proximity. I give her the finger and wait. Lola doesn’t do silence well, which is one of the things I love about her. She’s loud, she’s colorful, and around her I usually forget the shit that’s bothering me.

  I’m about to clarify my anti-orgy stance when something rustles in the trees. The problem with Baby Bear Lodge is that it’s approximately in the middle of nowhere—a nowhere surrounded by an insane number of trees. During the daylight hours, I don’t mind all the vegetation. At the very least, I can pretend I’m starring in my very own version of Heidi and that there’s nothing more menacing than a bunch of goats nearby. At night, however, it’s dark.

  Super, super dark.

  So I find the stick-cracking noise issuing from somewhere near a gigantic pine tree disturbing. I bolt to my feet. It could be bears. Or killer possums. Or the Douche. Frankly, stalking me in the dark is exactly what the Douche would do. He swore he’d come after me, and I’m sure he’s doing exactly that. It’s why I’ve made it my mission to avoid his capturing me. One step ahead. That’s all I have to stay.

  Another unidentifiable noise emanates from the shadows.

  I grab the baseball bat I keep stashed behind the log for midnight defensive maneuvers. I have another one in my cabin because I don’t trust myself not to forget it and a girl needs to be armed and dangerous in this world. Olivia bolts to her feet too, but she calmly sweeps the clearing with her eyes. I guess she’s looking for whatever shit’s about to storm toward us. Her whole body’s relaxed, but she looks ready to rumble. I always knew she was a bad ass.

  “Stand down.” Lola tugs on the hem of my shirt. “Cute wildlife alert.”

  Sure enough, a raccoon waddles out of the dark, blinks at us, and then scoots down the driveway. Presumably, it’s on its way to the dumpster down by the road for a little midnight snackage. Olivia sits back down like it’s NBD. Lola starts laughing.

  “Are you okay?” Olivia’s still got her super calm gaze trained on me.

  “I’m fine.” I wave my hands like a little breeze might distract them from the way I’m sort of, almost hyperventilating.

  Lola rubs my back in little circles. “What are you afraid of?”

  It would be stupid to tell her. It—

  Olivia throws up a staying hand. “Don’t self-incriminate.”

  When we both turn to look at her, she shrugs. “We’ve all got secrets,” she says.

  “Are you holding out on us?” Lola frowns mock-ferociously.

  Olivia draws her fingers away from her eyes in a vee. “Don’t make me threaten you.”

  “Oh.” Lola chews on that for a moment. A very short moment. Then she shrugs and stabs a finger at me. “This one, however, needs an intervention.”

  Wait. What?

  If we divide our crew up into saints and sinners, I’m the saint. Even my reasons for being on the lam are almost entirely benign, although I’ve kept those to myself. Lola’s my girl, but we haven’t known each other long enough to trade life-and-death secrets.

  So I frown right back at her. Deny deny deny. “I’m an angel.”

  Lola reaches over and smacks my arm. Since she’s already sitting super close, she comes close to honking my boob. “You kissed a boy.”

  This is not the moment to ask which boy because there are only two possibilities: my last kiss with the Douche or my first kiss with Mister Hotshot. So I suck it up and brazen it out.

  “So?” That’s a genius comeback right there. Short, pithy, and puts the onus back on Lola.

  Of course she’s up for the challenge. “Shall we review the rules of the Break Up Club?”

  “Objection.” Olivia’s hand shoots up into the air. “Those rules were suggested steps, not stipulated regulations.”

  “Are you a lawyer? Judge? Jury? Long arm of the law?” Lola blows a raspberry—and Olivia sort of freezes.

  “No?” Anybody hear the question in Olivia’s answer?

  Yeah, me too. Unfortunately, they both turn and stare at me. I’d rather pursue whatever Olivia’s hiding.

  “Sure?” I say rather weakly. The longer we review, the longer I have to figure out which guy Lola’s up in arms about. I’ve spent loads of time recently getting creative with my life story, so I can deal with this.

  Lola springs to her feet and starts pacing back and forth. I think she might have mistaken our rather grubby campsite for a Broadway stage because she pitches her voice to be heard by us and every wild animal lurking in the woods.

  “Ladies, in order to be founding members of the Break Up Club, you swore you’d lived through a particularly egregious break up. We agreed to get over those bad relationships together, to support each other, to make sure no member backslid.”

  I nod vigorously. “And I’m pretty sure I said thank you.”

  Thank you not being the same thing as signed in blood, but there’s no stopping Lola. She marches over to the porch hanging off the front of her cabin and retrieves a large, pink sign. It’s huge, but lighter than it looks—kind of like the men in my life. They’ve been well-hung but light on emotions and feelings. Olivia winks at me, while I wonder if there’s a way to slink back to my cabin. I miss my stupid, lumpy mattress something fierce. Instead, I read obediently.

  Accept the empty spots in your life: heart, head, bed, laundry basket, and that drawer in the bathroom you cleaned out just for him.

  Cut it off. No texts, no tweets, no Facebook pokes, pings, or any other blip or beep on the social media radar. Distance is your new best friend and beer goggles have nothing on your ability to overlook the 1001 reasons that relationship was doomed.

  Feel it. Don’t suppress! Let it all out!

  No negative thoughts. Own your self-worth. Move out of the hermit shell and back into the real world. It's time to talk to people.

  Be honest. Acknowledge why you broke up—and rip the Band-Aid off that sucker.

  It’s all about y
ou. Self-improve, shop, and be nice to yourself.

  Get back out there.

  Onward! Upward! Don’t look back. You’ve come this far, now be open to the possibilities.

  “Are we on Step Seven?” Lola stabs the poster with her index finger and stares at me. Which is pointless. I am not the kind of person who remembers numbers. Or order. I can barely deal with the curveballs life has been lobbing at me lately, so I haven’t been paying too much attention to steps one, two, and whatever. I’ve just been using the time to catch my breath and lay low.

  “No clue,” I lie.

  Still…

  I read the rule that Lola’s now tapping with a dramatic finger. Step Seven. Get back out there. Uh, no. I’ve been doing my very best to stay right in here. Undercover. Sotto voce. Not drawing attention to myself. Except for yesterday’s slip up, the little voice in my head chimes in. The slip up where you accidentally on purpose gave tongue to Mister Hotshot.

  Yeah. Except for that.

  “Class?” Lola points to Olivia, who’s looking doubtful. I suspect she’s the kind of person who will still be able to do calculus proofs when she’s ninety.

  “We’re not on Step Seven,” Olivia admits.

  “But Sarah Jo has skipped ahead on us.” Lola winks at me. She’s not mad—just giving me a hard time. “She locked lips with a very sexy hotshot at fire camp yesterday, and then she kept the details to herself.”

  Pick, not the Douche. I inhale deeply and nearly choke on a nose-full of smoke. I’ve done plenty of things I regret in my life, but strangely enough, kissing Pick is not one of those things. Not even close.

  “I’m not getting back out there,” I say firmly.

  “But you did kiss the boy.” She whips her phone out of her pocket and holds it up so I can see the screen.

  FYI? When you kiss a guy in public with a half-dozen cooks egging you on? You should expect to end up on the Internet. So I’m not surprised, although I’m not trying too hard to see the evidence with my own eyes. I don’t even like my own photos. I doubt I’ll like watching myself kiss any better. Fortunately, my face is mostly obscured in the footage.

  “Guilty as charged.” I’m not convinced that confession is good for the soul. Frankly, I’ve been happier telling nothing to anyone.

  “Was it good?” Lola passes her phone to Olivia. I think about trying to wrest it away from her, but I’m pretty sure she could kick my ass. Plus if Lola has the video, it’s undoubtedly all over the Internet—or at least the local Facebook pages.

  Olivia grins. “You can see that for yourself.”

  “Cannot.” I give in and grab the phone.

  Whoever shot this was expecting it. In the first frames, I’m standing with my butt to the videographer, who shoots over my shoulder as I strut up to Pick. He’s so damned gorgeous. Even all mussed and sooty from the monster forest fire he’d just spent hours fighting, he looks ready for some hot loving. He’s big and built, and he moves with that easy grace some large men have. He’s comfortable in his own skin, and he doesn’t care what anyone else thinks. If I didn’t want to kiss him again so badly, I’d resent that.

  Movie Star Me reaches up and drags Pick’s head down to hers and proceeds to kiss him vigorously. I give myself points for effort. It’s not the smoothest kiss I’ve ever seen, but it’s clearly getting the job done. The phone disappears out of my hand.

  “So?” Lola stares at me expectantly.

  “It was a dare. I had to kiss the first guy I saw.”

  “Such a hardship,” Olivia mocks.

  “So you just tripped and your tongue accidentally ended up in his mouth?” Lola’s not ready to let this kiss go.

  “It was just a kiss.” A really awesome, smoking hot, toe-curling first kiss—which is my favorite kind. It also sort of has me wondering what a second kiss with Pick would be like. I don’t really want to admit this to Lola and Olivia because then they’ll know that it wasn’t just because of the dare.

  “Just?” Olivia asks.

  “It was nothing. Are we really meeting just to ask me about a ten-second kiss?”

  Lola grins. “Are you really doing Step Seven without us?”

  I take a moment to imagine the collective reaction of the Big Bear Rogues if the three of us (or the four of us if I include Hunter) descend upon them looking for a chance to get back out there. Honestly, they’re nice guys. I’m sure they’d be happy to help strictly as a public service, but I don’t really want my sex life to be a group project.

  “He’s not my Step Seven man,” I say as firmly as I can. “He was an aberration, a mistake.”

  Lola nods thoughtfully. “Because it would be totally okay if you felt ready to get back on the horse.”

  From the way she waggles her eyebrows, I think we all know she means horse as in hung like a horse. But I’ve sworn off guys. Maybe not forever, but for at least a year or ten. Kissing Pick was fun—and he’s a good sport—but I can’t go back for seconds. He is not an all-I-can-eat buffet.

  Even if part of me wishes he were.

  “This is the intervention part, right?” Olivia looks at Lola. When Lola nods, she continues. “Good. Then I’m going to tell you that you’d be crazy not to kiss your hotshot a second time. You only live once, and that man…

  She makes a good point.

  I need to stop.

  Stop running.

  Stop hiding behind my clothes, my hair, my fears.

  And if it takes plastering myself all over a very sexy hotshot to do it? Well, there are definitely worse self-help programs in this world.

  “I’ll think about it,” I say.

  “Do it.” Lola nudges my knee with hers. “No regrets, girl. If you want to Step Seven that hotshot, you do it. YOLO.”

  Lola screams this last word as she hoists her phone over her head. She looks like a warrior princess, a star, like a woman who’s not afraid of anything. I’m so sick and tired of being scared all the time. That’s not who I used to be, and I don’t like who I’ve turned myself into. The old Sarah Jo didn’t back down from a challenge. She went through life at full speed, living balls out. I’d kind of like her back.

  5

  SARAH JO

  The look on Pick’s face when I strolled away from him after our first kiss is priceless. Yes, that’s present tense. Thanks to the miracle of modern cell phone technology, I’m able to replay that look of stunned surprise over and over again. I’m also the happy recipient of not one but two iPhone videos of his face and a third of his butt (the cook in question has a definite thing for faded denim and I’m not complaining). He looks amused. Deliciously confused. Ready to come after me and ask me all about my specials. It has to be the sensual warmth in his eyes, though, that has me melting. I kissed him on a dare, but I definitely don’t need any more trouble. Or men.

  So maybe I grabbed a screenshot from Rosalie’s Pick video and made it my wallpaper. And just maybe one of the steamier stills is now hanging on the wall of the kitchen with Dish of the Day scrawled in the margins in hot pink Sharpie. I’m sure you remember that Pick is a good-looking man. Mr. Chocolate-Eyed, Broad-Shouldered, Big-Dick Lumberjack kisses even better than he looks, too, which is a definite plus in my book. It’s too bad I can’t start something with him, but I’ve learned my lesson. No more policemen, sheriffs, first responders, or firemen. That kind of guy is nothing but take-charge trouble.

  Still, walking away from him was hard.

  Especially since parts of me—the more southern parts—insist I should grab his hand and lock him in my cabin. He’d make one hell of an afternoon off.

  On the other side of the camp, a car starts. I jump before I can stop myself and the silverware I’m holding bites it, scattering on the cafeteria floor. I look down at it. Yup. Dirty, dirtier, and dirtiest. I’ll have to re-wash it all. Bending down, I scoop up the rejects and eye the departing vehicle as surreptitiously as I can. Just one of the hotshots leaving camp for an afternoon of R&R. A car pulling out—not in.

 
Still safe.

  “Don’t overreact,” I tell the silverware. “He can’t find me out here.”

  Okay—so it’s won’t and not can’t. I’m pretty sure my ex could track me down in Antarctica if he put his mind to it. Thad Hill has the tracking skills of a bloodhound.

  Unfortunately for my peace of mind, the sound of a second motor approaching the camp requires a recheck of the impromptu parking lot through the cafeteria’s front windows. The battered pickup definitely seems like hotshot material. Hotshots don’t make billionaire money, and they like their trucks tough and rugged, chosen for their ability to take on backcountry roads and haul loads. Like the men themselves. There’s a certain raw beauty about that kind of dedication and power. Hotshots are men with staying power.

  Unlike my ex.

  Thad will come for me. Making like an ostrich won’t change that truth. I should have known better. Thad is law enforcement and I fingered him for a jewelry theft and cover-up arson . . . and then he deflected the blame back onto me. Nevertheless, the possibility of discovery seems far away right now. I’m three hundred miles away from Mr. Douche. Plus, the fire camp, for all its rough-and-tumble ways, is more peaceful than any town or city. Instead of skyscrapers, ponderosa pine reach for the summer sky, which is all hazy heat and summer gold instead of smog and light pollution. It’s like I’m starring in my very own Disney movie because I can count at least a dozen different birds flying around and making mad, loud bird noises. Even the squirrels have glossy coats, for crying out loud. The place certainly smells a hell of a lot better as well.

  Line cook isn’t any harder than my last job as a home care worker. I had my own small business, taking care of a few elderly women. I met Thad when I picked up the phone and called for a wellness check for one of my ladies who hadn’t answered the door or collected her mail. He arrived in uniform. Different from my usual dates, but he was polite. Considerate. My client was fine, but he kept on coming by. Calling, my ladies said.