by Meghan March
Real Good Man
Book One of the Real Duet
Meghan March
Copyright © 2017 by Meghan March LLC
All rights reserved.
Editor: Pam Berehulke, Bulletproof Editing
www.bulletproofediting.com
Cover design: @ by Hang Le
www.byhangle.com
Cover photo: @ bareta
www.istockphoto.com
Interior Design: Stacey Blake, Champagne Formats
www.champagneformats.com
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Visit my website at www.meghanmarch.com.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
About This Book
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Also by Meghan March
Acknowledgments
Author’s Note
About the Author
About This Book
We’ve had our fair share of bad boys. Now it’s time for a Real Good Man. From USA Today best-selling author Meghan March comes a sexy new duet with a hero you won’t want to miss.
Fall for a woman over text messages? No way in hell.
Reality can never be as good as the fantasy, right?
Wrong. It’s better.
Banner Regent is smart, funny, and she’s so far out of my league, she might as well be royalty.
I’m a mechanic from Kentucky. She’s a New York City party girl.
We were never supposed to meet, but one text started something neither of us saw coming.
How do you seduce the woman who already has everything?
Show her what it’s like to be with a real good man.
Chapter 1
Banner
“It’s not like I sent him a pic of my amazing rack or something, so there’s no need to get your granny panties in a twist, Frau Frances.”
My neighbor from across the hall, who I’d guess is older than the gates of hell, covers her ears and closes her eyes like a toddler.
“Oh, that’s really mature. Here I am trying to inject some color into your black-and-white-silent-movie-like old-lady existence, and you’re going to ignore me? Nice. Really nice.”
In all honesty, I don’t give a damn that Myrna Frances doesn’t want to hear about this texting-but-not-sexting relationship I have going on, because I’ve gotten to the point that I have to tell someone. My best friend is AWOL, and therefore I’m left with little choice but to spill here.
Actually, that’s a lie. I would have tortured Myrna with it anyway just to get this very reaction out of her. I consider it my good deed of the day. Without my daily doses of color, she might die of boredom.
Our apartments each take up half of the next-to-the-top floor in our Manhattan building, and while I leave every day no matter what, even if it’s just to replenish my vodka supply or go to work, she rarely makes it past the sidewalk into the outside world.
Myrna drops her hands from her ears and opens her eyes. The wrinkles around her mouth deepen when she scowls at me. “Why are you still here? And why won’t you give me back my key, dammit?”
“Because your daughter asked me to check on you five years ago, and for some reason that I can’t explain, I really enjoy that arching thing you do with your eyebrow when you pretend to be shocked by things I’m saying. Very Maleficent of you. You can admit it—you watch the movie and practice, don’t you?”
Myrna’s frown deepens to villainess levels at the mention of her daughter. “Ungrateful child. Never comes to visit. Too busy with her superficial life to even remember the woman who gave birth to her.” This isn’t the first time she’s said it, or even the twentieth time.
“Yep, she’s really superficial, what with being a member of Congress and all.”
“I’m sure she slept her way to the top.”
Ouch, Myrna is especially pissed today. I play along with her anyway, because at least this way I know she’s getting her heart rate up. Being pissed off is about as close to cardio as she gets.
“You know, I’ll have to check. Chances are she really did—with every man, woman, and tranny in her congressional district. She’s going to need surgery to tighten up that cooch of hers.”
“Get out!”
Myrna’s tone has crossed into screech territory, but I can see she’s fighting a smile. The old bat will eventually admit she loves how much I bother her. Eventually.
“Not until you open your present.”
Our exchange of ridiculousness isn’t going to be over until Myrna sees what I brought for her. I haven’t given her a heart attack yet with one of my gifts, so I’m pretty sure she’s not going to kick the bucket today.
Mumbling something to herself about the world going to hell if I’m an example of the quality of the generation left in charge, she tears open the pink paper (not noticing the even fainter pink penises on it, much to my disappointment), and flips the lid off the box.
“What in the hell is this?” She lifts the black-and-silver silicone phallus out of the box.
“You told me to eat a bag of dicks last time—good use of Urban Dictionary, by the way—so I brought you a big black cock. It even vibrates. I swear that thing can even get you off.”
I’m not sure how to describe the sound that croaks from her old lady lips, but it turns into a shrill battle cry as she hurls the gorgeous faux phallus toward me. Jordana, Myrna’s dog, bounds off her pink princess cushion and pounces in the direction of the vibrator.
“Are you trying to kill me with that thing?”
Myrna recoils as the dick rolls harmlessly across the floor as the Chinese crested hairless dog, clad in a green-and-pink argyle sweater, sniffs at it. Quite frankly, I’m impressed that the battery compartment didn’t burst open.
Good to know it’s durable.
I rise from the torture device Myrna calls a chair as Jordana gives the cock a lick.
“Jo
rdana, don’t you dare— Ugh, Banner! Get it away from her! She’ll choke on—”
“A dick? That would be a sad way to go for Ms. Jordy.” My words are sincere. Well, they are through my laughter.
I grab the vibrator off the floor before the dog can sink her toothless gums into the silicone, and toss it back onto Myrna’s lap.
“All right, esteemed elder of the world. Have a lovely day plotting my death.”
“Get out! And take this with you!”
“Nope. You need a good O more than I do. Same time tomorrow?”
She glares at me with such force, I’m a little shocked I’m not feeling the daggers shred my skin.
“Of course, you horrible child.”
“That’s what I thought.” I give her a cheeky wave and a wink.
Sofia, Myrna’s caretaker, emerges from the kitchen with afternoon tea service comprised of crustless watercress sandwiches, peppermint tea, and Fig Newtons as I head for the door. Nasty combination, but I nab a Newton off the tray anyway and pop it in my mouth.
“You better not be stealing my cookies,” Myrna yells from the living room.
Sofia rolls her eyes. “Why do you both delight in torturing each other? It’s a mystery of the universe I’ll never quite understand.”
Sofia’s Eastern European accent clings to the words, despite how hard I know she’s worked to lose it. The statuesque brunette looks like she stepped off a runway, but the twenty-two-year-old came from a much rougher beginning.
“Drinks tomorrow night?”
Sofia’s eyes light up. “Yes, please.”
“Good. Come over when you finish your shift. I should be home from work.”
Before I can escape from the apartment, Myrna comes out from the living room, leaning heavily on her cane to impart one last bit of wisdom.
“You know what’s wrong with your generation, Banner? You don’t understand a damn thing about relationships. You’re all texting this and sexting that. You don’t actually meet people in person and talk to them. You hook up and sneak out. Men don’t ask permission to call because they’ve already gotten what they wanted. You don’t hold back and make them work for it.”
“Are you calling me easy, Myrna?”
She shrugs a frail shoulder. “You said it, not me.”
Her insight stings, but I keep my smile pinned in place.
“Enjoy the big black cock. It might just change your mind about how good it can be to get some dick.”
She waves me off with a middle-finger salute, and I escape her pearls of wisdom and judgment.
Myrna is the crankiest old woman I’ve ever met, but for some reason, I love being around her. Her daughter and son-in-law drop in no more than three times a year, and the rest of the days she’s left with paid caretakers like Sofia, who are kind but are still no substitute for family.
Basically, Myrna’s exactly what I’m terrified my future is going to look like—old and alone with no one who gives a damn except the people who collect a paycheck from me. At least her dog is loyal. If I weren’t still one hundred percent selfish and could actually keep a goldfish alive, maybe I’d get one. Nah. Too much commitment.
Annnd we’ve just crossed into the depressing-as-shit portion of the afternoon.
My phone vibrates with a text as I jam my key into the lock on my apartment door. I freeze, excitement humming through me. I can’t believe I’ve gotten sucked into this weird texting relationship with a man I’ve never met. But I can’t stop.
I mean, I would have stopped, but then my investigative (okay, call them stalkerish) skills got the best of me, and I found his picture.
Wearing fatigues, a wifebeater, and combat boots, Logan Brantley looks like one of those pictures women post on Pinterest boards but know they’ll never meet in real life unless it’s possibly on the stage of some Magic Mike strip show. Except Logan is the real deal.
But we don’t sext. We don’t send naked pics. And there’s no dirty talk. We’ve actually become friends in the last couple of weeks, and his texts fill some kind of need in my life I didn’t know I had.
Manhattan’s Queen of One-Night Stands, my self-proclaimed title, has suddenly fallen into a friendship with a guy who lives hundreds of miles away. And the more we text, the more I realize that maybe the men of New York I’ve been one-nighting aren’t the most masculine specimens around.
Basically, every time I go on a date, I end up texting Logan the same question, but with multiple variations. Would a real man . . . and I’d fill in the blank.
Wear a rose-and-gray cashmere scarf?
Pair a bow tie with pressed jeans?
Order an elderflower martini?
I think it’s safe to say that Logan Brantley’s opinion of the men of Manhattan, at least the ones I’ve gone out with lately, is sinking faster than the Titanic.
I pull out my phone, anticipation zinging through me. That anticipation dies a quick death when the name on the screen isn’t Logan’s. Instead it’s the guy I met on the sidewalk outside my office while waiting for my car service to pull up. No cashmere scarf, bow tie, or pressed jeans. So maybe he’s a better bet?
I swipe and read the text.
BRANDON SIDEWALK: How about we grab a drink at 8? My friend’s new bar is opening tomorrow, and he’s having a preview tonight.
My fingers are poised over the keyboard to say no. All I want right now is an amazing orgasm, and I already know I’m not going to get it from Brandon of the Sidewalk. I have a sense for these things.
But . . . maybe I could get my martini fix there. I am a sucker for the extra dirty.
BANNER: Where?
BRANDON SIDEWALK: 8th and 43rd. The bar is called Olivesque.
I pull up Google and do some quick searching. There are a few articles about Olivesque’s impending opening and lots of good things to say about it. Apparently Brandon Sidewalk has some fancy friends, because it’s predicted that Olivesque will be impossible to get into for at least three or four months after it opens.
As a born-and-bred New Yorker with a taste for the exclusive, I can’t say no.
I’m only going for the martini, I tell myself.
BANNER: I’ll meet you there at 8.
BRANDON SIDEWALK: Great! Looking forward to it.
Chapter 2
Banner
I’m thankful the smell of smoke doesn’t cling to my clothes as I let myself into my apartment. Oh, and that I escaped from overly friendly Brandon without letting him shove his hand up my skirt. I didn’t see that coming. I figured he’d be overly polite, but instead he was pretty much a dick. Par for the Manhattan course, I suppose.
With the buzz of good vodka thrumming along with indignation through my veins, I pull out my phone.
BANNER: Would a real man try to feel up a woman in a bar when it’s clear she’s not interested and tells him to keep his hands to himself? Asking for a friend.
I make a beeline for my bathroom and turn on the shower and the tub. First, I need to wash the film of grossness off me, and then I’m going to soak for an hour and take care of business. And by business, I mean I’m going to get that killer orgasm I’ve been dying for all day.
I’m already over halfway through my shower routine when my phone vibrates on the counter. If it’s Brandon Sidewalk asking me to go out again, my reply will be epic.
I rinse the conditioner out of my hair and end my shower early. I tell myself it’s only because I’m worried that the tub will run over if I don’t check on the water level.
Riiight. It has nothing to do with the text waiting on my phone, and me hoping it’s Logan. Nothing.
Hopping out, I don’t bother toweling dry before I grab my phone off the counter.
LOGAN REAL MAN BRANTLEY: Who do I need to kill?
Should that alpha-caveman response send shivers through all the best parts of me? No, because we’re just friends. But that doesn’t change the fact that my nipples are hard and goose bumps rise along my arms.
BANNER: I’l
l check with my friend.
LOGAN REAL MAN BRANTLEY: Cut the shit, BANNER. No real man touches a woman when she says no.
BANNER: A real man would have her begging him instead, right? I know you would.
I freeze a second after I hit SEND.
Crap. I officially crossed the line.
I hold my breath as I wait for a response. There are things I think about saying to Logan, especially when I picture him naked while I’m lying in bed, but I’ve been so good by not saying them to him over the phone. I told myself I wouldn’t do this with him. I’d keep him in the safe zone so I didn’t screw everything up and lose whatever it is we have between us.
But I did it anyway because I suck.
I release my breath and carefully and deliberately lay my phone back on the counter and walk naked and dripping to my kitchen to pull a bottle of vodka out of the freezer. I dump two fingers into a glass and toss in a couple of ice cubes before calmly making my way back to the bathroom and my steaming tub.
What if he doesn’t answer?
What if he never texts me back again?
Then I’ll drink more vodka and mourn the loss of this ridiculous connection to a man I’ve never met.
What’s my fascination with him, anyway? The answers come in rapid-fire succession.
He’s blunt and to the point, and never bullshits me when I ask him a question. He’s nothing like the men of Manhattan who I date. He’s safe and from a completely different world seven hundred miles away, and I figured there was no way I could screw this up by sleeping with him.
Isn’t that enlightening?
The tail end of a vibration trails off as I walk back into my bathroom, and my heartbeat immediately kicks up.
I snatch my phone off the counter.
LOGAN REAL MAN BRANTLEY: If she’s not begging, he’s doing something wrong. Ladies always come first. I want a name.