Talk Dirty to Me

by Lulu Wright

  Talk Dirty To Me

  Lulu Wright

  Contents

  Copyright

  Also by Lulu Wright

  1. Rose

  2. Mark

  3. Rose

  4. Mark

  5. Rose

  6. Mark

  7. Rose

  8. Mark

  9. Rose

  10. Rose

  11. Mark

  12. Rose

  13. Mark

  14. Rose

  15. Mark

  16. Rose

  17. Rose

  18. Mark

  19. Rose

  20. Mark

  21. Rose

  22. Mark

  23. Rose

  24. Mark

  25. Rose

  26. Rose

  27. Rose

  28. Rose

  29. Mark

  30. Rose

  Epilogue

  Friction by Emily Snow

  Screwmates by Katyi McGee

  Also by Lulu Wright

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2017 by Lulu Wright

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Also by Lulu Wright

  The Hard Sell

  1

  Rose

  I have reached a new level of mad, sad horniness.

  My new vibrator plugs into the wall. As I move a night stand to expose a power outlet, I shudder with mortification, realizing that I’ve graduated from battery-generated pulsing pleasure to something that needs to connect to the city’s power grid to get me off.

  But my desire to be satisfied conquers the shame and I am ready, no excited, to test out the upgrade. Already twinging with little throbs in neglected places, my hand trembles a little as I plug my new electric boyfriend into the wall. A pre-work orgasm is just the thing I need to help me face the workday’s guaranteed stresses—because being the general manager/program director/producer of a small alt rock radio station brings way too much anxiety. Luckily, I think I’m going to love this amped up toy just as much as I do rock and roll.

  Gosh, I hope I don’t blow a fuse.

  Reclining on my bed, I flip the switch to ‘on.’

  Whoa. This is going to be fun.

  Pushing all thoughts of work aside, I settle into my go-to fantasy: a lonely beach at sunset. Ending a relaxing day nude sunbathing, my skin is slick with coconut oil and warm from the tropical sun.

  The silhouette of a perfect triangle of broad shoulders and narrow waist emerges from the waves nearby, an Anonymous Adonis. Muscles ripple under tan flesh that’s sea salt wet. Without hesitation, he comes to me and kneels beside my towel. His big rough hands massage my breasts and inner thighs, his kisses hot and deep. He flicks his tongue on my nipples and then works his way down.

  My legs shake as he works my clit with his mouth. He knows the exact right moment to enter me with his perfect cock, a deliberate slowness that both teases and….

  I LOVE ROCK ‘N ROLL

  That’s the ringtone I use for work, but I am ignoring it. Anonymous Adonis is just starting to thrust into me.

  I LOVE ROCK ‘N ROLL

  No, no way. I am on a beach right now, slippery from suntan oil and wet with desire and the entire AC current of Paramus Power and Light vibrating inside me, making my teeth chatter and my…

  I LOVE ROCK ‘N…

  Yank goes the cord from the wall. “What?” I yell into the phone, shaking with anger and thwarted arousal. This had better be really goddamn important.

  “Rose, you have to come to the station.” Chris, my senior citizen program director, speaks with a quiver in his pack-a-day raspy voice.

  “What is it?” I sound miffed. I am miffed. “Was there another fire in the breakroom?”

  “I wish,” Chris mutters. “But no. Mr. Morning has lost his mind and locked himself in the DJ booth and…” He stops to take a breath like he’s afraid to say what’s next.

  “And?” I shut my eyes in preparation. Is Mr. Morning racking up FCC fines by going on a curse-laden tirade? Is he bashing all of our old equipment with a baseball bat?

  “It’s Katy Perry. He’s playing her on loop. Same song, Dark Horse, over and over and…”

  “Shit.” My heart jumps in my throat. I can literally hear the station advertising revenue falling with each chorus. “I’m coming,” I say. “Try to talk to him. Or maybe cut the power to the booth.”

  I check the time and feel the prickles of panic settle in, a thousand needles stabbing my chest. It’s rush hour. Prime time for listeners.

  I take a breath to calm myself. Perhaps all is not lost. Our station owner Doc Bing doesn’t usually listen this early in the morning. Maybe none of his friends will call him to complain. Maybe our listeners will think it’s a funny prank.

  But my phone alerts me with a text message from the only member of our sales staff, Becky Lynch. WTF!?! I AM GOING TO KILL HIM.

  Not if I get there first.

  I scramble into jeans and my fave Muse tee, then head downstairs to see my roomie Geo sucking on organic coffee and twisting the white girl dreads she’s trying to nurture in her Scandinavian blond hair. “Morning,” she says. “Want some coffee?”

  “Thanks,” I reply absently as my eyes dart around the kitchen for my keys, “but I gotta get to the station. Emergency.”

  “Shit, Rose. Another ramen noodle fire?” She dangles my missing keys in her delicate hand and my soul is overcome with love for her as I snatch them from her fingers.

  I shake my head. “Worse. Much worse.”

  I head out the door and hear Geo shout after me, “Don’t forget to line up the interview for our podcast next week!” I make a mental note somewhere at the back of my racing mind as I leap into my old maroon Mustang and floor it out of my parking spot.

  Our station, W-ALT, blasts in my ears at top volume, and sure enough, it’s Dark Horse still. This is it, this is how I am going to die: in my beat up Mustang, stuck in rush hour traffic and being tortured by Katy Perry. I hear that fucking song 8 times before I pull into the W-ALT parking lot.

  I dash out of the car and up the walkway where I spot Chris taking a drag off a cigarette.

  “Who knows about this so far?” I demand.

  He shrugs his shoulders and the wrinkles around his eyes deepen. “Just me…and whoever else is listening to our station at 8 am in the greater NYC area.”

  “Fantastic.” I sigh as I throw open the door. Once inside, I don’t stop until I reach the DJ booth window. Mr. Morning—legal name: Clive Dunby—has 100% lost his shit. I see him dancing with Blowsy, the blowup doll our noon DJ left in the studio as a joke. At least she’s still wearing one of my old bridesmaid dresses and isn’t stark naked.

  Mr. Morning is in his 40’s and has more tattoos than a biker, overweight enough that I can see his hairy belly button poking out from under his Danzig tee. As he waltzes with dead eyed Blowsy, I see the phones are lighting up behind him. I’m sure that has to be a bunch of W-ALT fans calling to find out what the hell.

  I bang on the window to get Mr. Morning’s attention and he grins and bends the arm of Blowsy to wave to me. I curve my finger to him. “Come out now,” I mouth with a stern face.

  He locks eyes with me and then shakes his head, then Blowsy’s head. His eyes are wild, his hair disheveled, and I just know this has gone far beyond his typical freak outs.

  “What do you want to do?” Chris is standing behind me with Night Vixen, our overnight DJ, who they clearly asked to stick aroun
d in case we ever lure Mr. Morning out of there. Her jet black hair is sticking to her face, and she’s raccoon-eyed and sluggish but awake. She smiles at me and rubs her eyes, making her look even more like a trash panda.

  I refuse to let the station go down like this. Time to put on the big girl panties, stop the madness, save W-ALT (and all our jobs), and get Mr. Morning out of that booth. Permanently.

  “Get Becks to call the cops,” I say with a coolness that makes me proud. “And get Lizzie Borden from the storage closet.” I have wielded Lizzie Borden, the office axe, twice before. Once to threaten an unwelcome stalker. Once to break down the DJ booth door when the previous morning guy, Dawn Patrol, passed out on the mic in a drunken stupor. I know I can break down this flimsy door again in 5 whacks.

  Forewarned is fair warned. I grab a piece of paper and write on it with a magic marker.

  WE ARE CALLING THE COPS

  AND BREAKING DOWN THE DOOR

  Scowling at Mr. Morning, I slap the note against the DJ booth window. He just laughs and dry humps Blowsy in time with Dark Horse as he makes eye contact with me. I hold his stare and shake my head slowly. The time for fun and games has come to an end.

  Chris is back with the axe and eyes wider than saucers. He holds it out to me and bows his head. Wrapping my fingers around the handle sends a nice bolt of go-juice to my chest, but I feel calm, oh, so very calm, as I raise the axe and take a deep breath.

  Without hesitation, I swing as hard as I can and Paul Bunyan the door. It’s thin, just particle board, so the ax goes right through like paper and I feel like Xena Warrior Princess, a towering amazon of strength even though I’m barely 5’5”. It must look like the Shining on the other side because I see the door knob jiggle frantically. Chris and Night Vixen cheer me on.

  Mr. Morning opens the door with Blowsy helplessly tucked under his arm, his eyes darting between me and the axe. “Cops here yet?”

  “Not yet.” I put one hand on my hip and heft the axe in my other. “Soon.”

  He thrusts Blowsy at me and runs down the hallway shouting, “Freedom Rock! Freedom Rock!”

  I roll my eyes and turn to Night Vixen. “Please get in there,” I say. “Play as much basic alt stuff as you can for the next hour. Radiohead, Pearl Jam, Soundgarden.” I look down at my own T-shirt. “Muse. And try to catch up on whatever ads the log says he’s missed in the last hour.”

  “You got it, boss lady.” She snaps to, enters the booth, and a second later Katy Perry stops singing in the middle of a word. I feel like I have just been released from Guantanamo. “No goth stuff,” I add, before shutting the axed-in door.

  Dragging Blowsy, I walk down the hallway to the sweet sounds of the Foo Fighters with sweat dotting my brow and victory endorphins pumping through my veins. I settle our inflatable mascot on the couch in my office and collapse in my chair. I am sweaty and almost as satisfied as I would’ve been if I’d finished beach time with Anonymous Adonis and my electric hammer of Thor.

  Chris leans in my doorway, shaking his long gray locks and sighing.

  “What now.” I bite my lip.

  “Becks says the Doc is on his way in. He heard the whole disaster. It’s not looking good.”

  Shit.

  Minutes later, I give up my desk to the Doc and his teacup Yorkie, Robert E. Lee. Doc Bing is always dressed in a seersucker suit no matter the time of year. With his white hair, waxed mustache and black horn rimmed glasses he reminds me of a gay, crazy Col. Sanders, not the wealthy plastic surgeon he actually is. Me, Chris and Becks huddle around my cluttered desk with cheeks aching from fake smiles.

  I had an hour to work out a little speech to explain this morning’s latest disaster, but he cuts me off with a wave of his ringed hand when I open my mouth.

  “Doesn’t matter,” he says in his Alabama accent. I see his eyes drift to Blowsy and squint in disapproval. “Mr. Morning, or whatever his name is, was on his way out anyway. At least now I don’t have to pay him severance.”

  My gut twists in a knot. Everything begins and ends with morning drive time. If he was planning to cut Mr. Morning, are we changing up the hour? Maybe, god forbid, going country? I swallow hard and struggle to keep the squeak out of my voice. “What do you mean…?”

  “Got another morning guy coming in to get us some much needed ratings.”

  I trade wide-eyed looks with Chris. Will we still have our jobs? “Who is it?” I ask, racking my brain. None of the other big-name NY DJs would touch us with a six foot pole, which is how we wound up with Mr. Morning, a Virginia Beach transfer.

  The Doc smiles and feeds a treat to Robert E. Lee. We all have to wait until the Yorkie finishes. Then the Doc raises his eyes to me and grins. “The Bad Boy at Bat. American All-Star. Super Slugger. Mr. Mark Carrington.” The Doc coughs behind his hand. “A damn Yankee. But a good one.”

  “Brilliant!” exclaims Becks. Her eyes light up and her hands are clenched in tight fists. “He’s so sexy,” she adds with a dreamy expression.

  I look at Chris. He doesn’t look pleased, but me? I feel like I’m going to puke. “Not Mark Carrington.”

  Squinting his eyes at me, the Doc leans back in my chair. He twists a pinky ring and grins at me. “You like this little 20k watt station playing weirdo music, Miss Taylor?’

  “Of course,” I stutter. “But…”

  “Well, if you want it to stay that way you will produce Mark Carrington’s sports show in the morning. Sports talk, two straight hours. Rest of the day is yours.” I watch the Doc rise from his seat and pick up Robert E. Lee. His charming Alabama accent has morphed into Jersey tough. “He starts next Monday. I expect the three of you—” he points at each of us one by one before continuing, “—and key station personnel, to attend the Bust Up energy drink event in Newark where we’ll formally announce that Mr. Carrington is joining the station’s lineup.”

  Becks rises from her chair and smooths her pink pants suit. “Did you say Newark?”

  “Newark. Prudential Center,” he says staring down Becks’ Oh god face. Nobody likes going into Jersey if it’s at all possible to avoid.

  As the Doc walks by me, Robert E. Lee licks my arm with his soft tongue. “Got a big New York City PR team to announce it though.” The Alabama accent is back in full force. “Gonna be a big event, y’all.”

  Becks follows the Doc out of my office. “Mark is such a fantastic looking guy,” she sings down the hallway. “I can’t wait to meet him.”

  Chris looks at me and shrugs. “Well, I guess our morning drive time is sports talk now. Maybe we can sneak some rock beds between the sports chat, at least.”

  I can’t even register how meh I feel about sports right now. Meanwhile, my brain is doing a copy-paste loop with no end.

  Mark Carrington.

  Mark Carrington.

  Mark Carrington.

  I reclaim my chair and just melt into it. Fucking hell. I can’t believe this is happening. I’m going to be forced to work with the high school crush that completely shattered my heart.

  I haven’t seen him face to face in person for years, but I am acutely aware that he has only gotten hotter since high school. Your crushes getting famous will do that to you.

  A Google search later and I’m eyeing his naked chest and stubbled but impossibly sexy jaw in a shaving cream ad. Water drips down his pecs and the towel, oh, the towel barely clings to his hips in a tease. I think of what his dick must look like behind the white terry cloth and tingle in all the right places. Then I forcibly banish that thought.

  No, no, no. Ain’t going to happen.

  Another Google image search pulls up the reason why:

  Amber Wilson, supermodel, lingerie designer and UNICEF ambassador.

  She is the quintessential standard of American beauty with cat eyes, thick auburn hair and a swimsuit bod. With each image, I feel more inadequate as a woman and as a human being. Who looks that good feeding orphans in South Sudan? Seriously?

  Apparently, Mark and Amber are finito
as a couple, but it doesn’t matter. For guys like Mark, there are always supermodels or actresses ready to pounce. Dorky, career-obsessed regular gals like me can’t compete. He probably doesn’t even remember me. At least, not like I remember him. My heart beats hard when I think of seeing him again, but then I remind myself that all I have to do is stay calm, focused, and professional—and he’ll no doubt do the same.

  I just pray it’s not a repeat of high school.

  2

  Mark

  “This is a major fuck up.” Stanley paces his office with such fury, I’m sure he’s wearing down the carpet. Red faced and spitting as he talks, his hands flutter in the air like angry birds as he details my “outrageous behavior” and “arrogance.”

  I sit cross-armed in my chair and try to catch his eye, but he won’t look at me. Until what went down in that Brooklyn nightclub last night, he was my biggest fan. Now he’s making noise like he doesn’t even want to be my agent anymore. He’s overreacting, of course. I’m sure he wants to continue collecting his fifteen percent on every dollar I make.

  “Can you even begin to comprehend the amount of spin I’m going to have to put on this? Do you understand you could lose all of your endorsement deals?” He rubs his red face. “And not to mention what the American League and the Yankees are going to do to you?”

  Shrugging my shoulders, I roll my eyes and shift in my seat. My stats are strong, I have nothing to worry about. Besides, Stanley has made a lot of money selling me as the Bad Boy of the Bat. I crack my knuckles, but wince. The two knuckles on my right hand are still smarting from Tommy Pizza’s cheekbone. I probably should have never hit him that hard, but woulda, shoulda, coulda has no place in this conversation if Stanley ever lets me talk. Pangs of guilt stab my stomach thinking of the heart attack he had last year and how my actions might be giving him another one. His eyes are bulging like he can’t breathe and a vein pulses in his temple.

  “Why did you have to hit Tommy? If you punched any other Mets player, it wouldn’t be a big deal, but no, you gotta knock the lights out of America’s kid brother.”