New Adult Romance Box Set

by Emme Rollins, Julia Kent, Anna Antonia, Helena Newbury, Aubrey Rose

  Always thinking about others.

  So when he got over his surprise that some chick with frizzy hair and fuzzy dice hanging from her old, faded rear view mirror had actually pulled over, he dipped his head down to the open window and flashed me a grin. We were out in the middle of no-fucking-where and there was one streetlight that glowed up the background, but even that wasn't enough to outshine his smile. All straight teeth, nice gums, and full lips melting into a charm-you-out-of-your-pants look that made me almost drop trou and fuck him right there.

  I about melted into my own seat. That wasn't from the heater, either. My juices seemed to go from the Sahara to Niagara Falls. When he climbed in and—literally—flashed his ass and nibbly bits at me, I nearly came on the spot.

  Something about him was familiar, but I knew he wasn't from around here. Tucking away that little tease of contemplation, I studied him a bit more, a sense of specialness flowing over the moment. Extracting it and dissecting it would yield no deeper truths, though—a part of me connected with him for whatever déjà vu-like reason.

  Or maybe I was just on overdrive to convince myself to pick up a nude male. Whatever.

  "Hi there, Ma'am." Shaggy, surfer blond, wavy hair four months overgrown from the cut that had screamed “preppy boy,” but now exuded that deep sense of complete abandon, of hedonism in bed. A flash of pink in his mouth displayed a tongue that (I imagined) truly loved women and wasn't afraid to show it. Glittery blue eyes that were focused but fleeting, like Bradley Cooper's but muted. He was high as a motherfucking kite, and that was OK, because he was pretty enough to look at just as is. He didn't need to be a stellar conversationalist.

  "I am no one's Ma'am. That's my grandma. Hell, my mom doesn't even go by Ma'am, so shut down that talk right there." No one—no woman—before the age of thirty-five wants to be called ma'am. Fastest way to shut a woman's vagina off, like a table saw brake. Come too close with that word and crack! Power off.

  "OK, then, Chippy Pete!" He adjusted his hat (where'd that come from? I didn't see no hat at first, and he wasn't exactly hanging on to a lot of pockets here, nude and all) and kept it on. This wasn't no churchgoing man. Then again, the naked ones largely aren't. The hat was cheap straw, formed like a cowboy hat, and the look—well, his fashion sense screamed Chippendales stripper on a Salvation Army budget.

  "Just Pete to you.” Chippy Pete? Seriously? He could have called me Honey or Sugar or Toots or Melons or Bitch and he picked Chippy Pete? “Where you going?"

  "Wherever you are."

  I looked in the rear view mirror at myself. In spite of the frizzy hair I wore makeup. A shirt. A bra. Pants. The chances we were going to the same place were slim. "Uh, I'm dressed. You're not."

  "I am attired in a guitar. And this." He doffed his hat and started strumming some chord from a 70s song. Kansas? Boston? I couldn't tell.

  "No shirt, no shoes, no sweaty balls on my dashboard." I was starting to get nervous. What had I gotten myself into? Was he weirder than I thought? Would this be a redo of my freshman Valentine's dance, where my best friend, Jane, hooked me up with her older brother's meth dealer and the date ended with a courtesy ride home from the DEA?

  "Just on your seat, Ma'am—uh, Pete."

  "That's right. I am Pete.” May as well embrace it. And the sweaty ball funk that would permeate my seat thereafter. “And you are?” His sandy blond hair was clean. He had that going for him. And eyes that were the color I imagined the ocean to be, if the glow of the dashboard lights were to be believed.

  “Call me Sweaty.” He gestured to his sac.

  “I'll call you Sweetheart.”

  “Pretty soon you'll call me whatever name you're really thinking of.”

  “Then your name is Asshole.”

  “I been called worse.”

  “OK, Ass.”

  “Alright then, Ma'am.” So we were at a standoff, and that would have gone on for twenty mile markers out here in the lost lands of north-central Ohio, where the people rolled Pittsburgh Yinzerese and Cleveland into one God-awful accent, had a nasty, enormous mutant raccoon not put a stop to all that.

  The impact nearly neutered poor Ass.

  Screech! I slammed on the brakes when a flash of something spooked me, my little Tercel going from 73 to nothing in about ten seconds. Poor Ass the Naked Cowboy Rock Star hadn't completed putting on his seat belt, so the guitar, still slung around his groin, was about the only buffer he had as the car pitched and swerved, the raccoon bigger than one of my toddler cousins and, unfortunately, considerably deader now that I had crushed it with my rusted-out machine of doom.

  The cowboy managed to put his hands out and, through the grace of whatever deity you believe in (mine involves noodly appendages—and speaking of those...), when the car came to a rest, spread out at a ninety degree angle the opposite of what nature or the highway commission intended, he wasn't injured. I'm sure parts of him were sore the next day, but I'm not going to talk about that, because sorting out the “The car hit a raccoon and she slammed on the brakes” soreness from the “I made love to a country girl in a field filled with wildflowers and sunshine” soreness is something I'm not privy to understanding.

  So I guess I just sort of spoiled the rest of this story now, huh? You don't want to hear how I went from nearly killing the rock star to getting caught in the act in a rest area in one of those wild fields where Ohio put its Soviet-era brick shit houses, right? The ones that look like Huber Heights in miniature?

  Sure you do. Otherwise you wouldn't still be reading this. You'd flip over to some other story on your Kindle, like one of those Cum for the Loch Ness Monster Bass Player stories, or Fifty Shades of Billionaire Hoo-haw. My story doesn't have a helicopter that whisks people off to Manhattan or a Red Room of Pain or a Bigfoot who marries a human and settles down and has critters, but it does have a naked rock star (sorta) groaning in the front seat of my mercifully unharmed Toyota Tercel, his ass off the seat and one leg splayed up, showing me his fine, puckered winking starfish and a piece of manhood that was so aesthetically pleasing it might as well have been carved out of fine Italian marble and placed on a pedestal, dipped in Swiss chocolate and served with a side of Gruyere and caviar.

  It really looked that good.

  And I'm no rabid knob gobbler. There are a good twenty...uh, eight—I meant eight—men in north-central Ohio who will confirm that.

  “Ass? You OK?” I smoothed my hair back from my forehead and felt a bump above the ridge of my left eye socket. Shit. I had gotten hurt! My brain felt fine, so whatever had happened must have been light enough to leave a bump but not so bad as to make me feel serious pain. I looked in the rear view mirror. Same bloodshot green eyes. My nose wasn't broken—pert and “a little piggy,” as my mom often said, though grandma told me it just meant I had that out-of-place “cheerleader cute” that would make me popular but do me no favors past the age of twenty-five. I was twenty-two right now, so this wasn't an issue just yet.

  “My name's Trevor,” Ass moaned, slowly extricating himself and making it about halfway. I realized I needed to reach down between his legs and offer him a hand to grasp, but the logistics weren't as easy as that might sound, for the minefield of his perfect erection made the odds that I would just encircle it with my now-itching palm about 7 to 4. If I was Aunt Marlene at the greyhound races, I wouldn't bet on me not touching him.

  “OK, Trevor,” I answered. For once, I was a bit speechless, though my nether regions started to say all sorts of sweet nothings right about now, filling in the void where my words would normally go. Seriously, Darla Jo Jennings? Mom's voice filled my dark, nasty heart. You're thinking about your loins at a time like this?

  Not exactly. More that my loins were thinking about, well, his. It was hard not to, because he was hard—and erect and pretty, like a talisman you touch to get a superstitious boost of luck.

  Which we needed real bad, right about now, as the horn from a semi started wheezing like mad, warning us to get the fuck o
ut of the middle of the Interstate.

  Chance favors the prepared, someone once said. I did not, however, think that touching his glorious dick was really going to help more than turning the key in the ignition, firing up the engine, and driving the damn car from its perpendicular status over to the side of the road. Poor Trevor's legs bounced like a drowning Daddy Longlegs stuck in a sink drain, his shards of destroyed guitar now offering zero covering. What had seemed a bit kitschy was now just match sticks and I found myself wet, hot, wanting to ride him and realizing that my mom was right. One poor decision does lead to another.

  “It's like you open your brain and shit pours out and you pick the worst crap to do, Darla! I don't know what you're thinking sometimes,” she had lectured a thousand times while chain smoking Virginia Slims and sucking down Robitussin and vodka. “One bad decision is like building a long line of dominoes and then just sneezing and not turning your head.” The metaphor made less sense after Mom had three or four drinks in her, but she made a good point. It was generally the same comment rephrased a million different ways: I suck.

  One poor decision does beget another. So once you've made your first doozy, you have a choice, but you really have less of a choice than you had before your first screw up, right?

  So why not fuck him?

  Trevor

  This was not Sudborough, Massachusetts. Not even close. That was all I knew when the splinters of my smashed guitar snapped me partway out of the pleasant haze I’d been in. I gently turned my thoughts in a careful circle, trying to place myself in time and space.

  I'd been at home after doing a few shows around town as April came to a close and May peeked open, right before finals week, mostly bars where my parents knew the owner and in their pinched way, informed me that it would be “most beneficial” if I would find the time. After I played a few songs that confused them, I finally gave in—gave up—and settled into Bob Seger and AC/DC to meet their oldies-but-goodies needs. Nothing like a bar full of overweight, drunk doctors, lawyers and finance people in their 50s looking to rock out. That Nicole Kidman movie with the fake, robot wives could have been set in Sudborough. Bet they didn't because it was a little too close to the movie script and the producers freaked right the fuck out, running for Logan airport before the Mom-bots got them. God, how I needed a hit of anything to get away from that. So it was even better when a few friends from high school had gathered in my basement after that gig.

  After the initial preening that came from being a senior at an Ivy or near-ivy, our chests puffed out like being on the debate team was akin to hunting mammoth with spears, my buddies settled down, brains full of Joe's internship at Ropes & Grey this summer, my acceptance to Harvard law, and Judy's Rhodes scholarship. The less-successful among us, instantly castrated into beta males, shifted down a few levels to their baser natures and found that one, small speck of social space where competition didn't matter: substance.

  Well, drugs, actually. Peyote. 'Shrooms. Some pot. Coke galore. A little K2, which I wouldn't touch. Why use synthetics when the natural stuff was smooth and fun? And a little acid.

  Someone even brought a Costco-sized bottle of NyQuil. Ooo, we were slumming.

  Bored out of my fucking mind, even on a few hits of acid and a half a bowl, I realized I was bored not because there was nothing to do, and not because there was no one to do (Judy was an unofficial guy, and had banged everyone else, so I was holding out for Except That Guy status, a fact I weirdly prided myself on… but that made me wonder why I was proud of not getting laid). I was bored because my entire life was one big string of boring events chained together to make a necklace of boredom.

  A garland of ennui. A rope of grindingly painful nothingness with which to hang myself.

  God, even the word “ennui” sounded boring.

  I realized I live in a world of full-of-shit people who don't know they're full of shit and they just perpetuate the shit by making...more shit. And once I take my final exams in the next two weeks I’ll graduate with my bachelor's degree, head off to Chicago for three years of masochism re-branded as law school, and the transition to pod person will be complete.

  Instead of keeping that cycle going, I'd grabbed this guitar, stripped naked, and eaten the entire bag of mushrooms Joe had stolen from the evidence room when on a tour at a precinct in Boston, part of a criminal law class. A stroke of genius, really—what better way to subvert the dominant paradigm than to shed designer labels, bespoke suits, and get high as a fucking kite to escape it all?

  What a rebel.

  And now I was wedged on the floor of someone's shitbox, that someone being a frizzed out, juicy young woman with breasts like a porn star's, a voice like a redneck combined with Katie Couric, and what the fuck was on my neck?

  And why was my dick covered in splinters?

  Blink. The glow from a streetlight was shining in the car in that surreal way highways can lend, stripped of buildings and trees and anything resembling civilization or nature, its own little category of space. This woman's face stared at me from above, expectant, as if she'd just said something to me and needed an answer.

  MENSA me said, “Huh?” My hands were a bit numb, but when one brushed against my rock-hard boner, that got my attention. What was I doing on the floor with my ass scratchy and cold, peppered with splinters and my best appendage standing straight up at attention (ten HUT!) pointing at this woman?

  She wasn't just any chick, either. As my eyes came into focus and my feet decided to stop being nineteen yards long and covered in marshmallows, I got a better idea of whose car I was in, and why my ass felt like it was colder than it should be, pressed against the floor. Shit. Was that a hole in the actual bottom of the car?

  The light made her hair glow. Glow, I tell you. Or was that the 'shrooms? Not sure. Either way, after I impressed her with my erudite, “Huh?” I followed it up with, “Wanna fuck?”

  She grinned. “Well, ain't you suave? I don't fuck anything that wears a collar. That really helps to maintain standards 'round here. It's a shame other folks in my family don't have the same rule, because Uncle Jack's permanently disabled from that goat he...” She winced. “Oh, nevermind. You don't know me well enough to hear that story.”

  “I'd like to know you,” I said, the words oozing out like slime. Sexy slime. Like sensual slime designed to cover her and draw her into my world of primordial arousal ooze. The exact idea wasn't really clear. My hands reached up and unclasped the collar. She was right. I was actually wearing a collar, which I pitched into the field by the side of the road, because if that was an obstacle to getting sex right now, off it went. Ta ta! Buh-bye.

  Then I noticed the cotton balls in my mouth, and how her hair was actually—literally—on fire at the edges. With tiny snakes flicking flint to make the fire.

  Laughter. “OK, there, Trevor.” She knew my name? “But first, how 'bout we get your ass off the ground. You're no more than three inches away from road rash.”

  I wasn't imagining it; as she reached out to help me up, my buttock peeled off the floor and I saw it—a rusted-out spot about five inches around. Little grey rocks and tar mocked me.

  “You have the strangest accent. Am I in western Mass, in some pocket of the Berkshires where people talk like this?” Or, worse—stuck in Hampshire College at some linguistics experiential conference?

  What the fuck? her face said, but her words were a bit more measured. “Trevor, you're in Ohio right now.”

  “Ohio?”

  “Right.”

  “Corn fields?”

  “Yep.”

  “First state with the caucuses that piss off New Hampshire every election cycle?”

  “No, that's Iowa. Ohio is the state that pissed off the Democrats in 2004 and Karl Rove in 2012. We're fair and balanced that way.”

  “Ohhh. That one,” I answered. Got it. “How far from Mass am I?”

  “You're Catholic?”

  Either I had just found the stupidest, hot and voluptuous w
oman with burning hair in the state of Ohio, or I was stuck in an endless loop of Groundhog Day, as written by Douglas Adams.

  “Mass, as in Massachusetts.”

  Peals of laughter from her, a sweet set of notes that made my already hard erection reach out just a bit more, stretching tall, as if seeking her. “You're about as far from Massachusetts as I am from financial solvency.”

  “That close, huh?” Rubbing my head, I realized it hurt on two levels. A bump from the car's sudden stop, and a deeper ache. The pain of being massively hungover. Another quick memory of the last time I could remember: 'shrooms. Peyote. Red Bull and espresso with local raw cream (ah, Mom and her insistence on organic purity) and Chilean pisco. It all coursed through my veins, pounding through my eye sockets.

  And my cock.

  “How did I get here?” Staring down at my body, I realized I really was completely, and utterly nude, my body floating through air without any encumbrances. Not even a condom. I was never nude like this unless I was in the middle of having sex with someone. Even then, the girls at BU were a quick-n-dirty bunch, so the actual span from being in a state of complete undress to wearing a dick sock was measured in nanoseconds.

  To be fair to them, sometimes so was the intercourse.

  But I made up for it with the next round. And the next.

  On good nights, a fourth. My voice might be well-known, but my refractory period was legendary.

  Not that I'm bragging.

  But I am.

  “I have no idea how you got here, Trevor,” she said, trying very obviously not to stare at my package. I liked her for that. Then I was offended, because what's wrong with my manhood? It deserved to be ogled. A glorious contribution to the world of erections, it definitely stood out from the crowd.

  And stood up right now, pointed at her. A lucid whisper in my brain told my hands they should cover it anyway, despite its glory, and I gave it a quick attempt. Then I looked like I was just jacking off, and that wasn't the impression I was trying to give. So I gave up, my head clearing by the second and not liking what I was realizing.