All the Right Moves
Becca Taylor
Contents
Title Page
About The Book
1. Preston
2. Preston
3. Preston
4. Tenley
5. Preston
6. Preston
7. Preston
8. Tenley
9. Tenley
10. Preston
11. Preston
12. Preston
13. Tenley
14. Preston
15. Preston
16. Preston
17. Preston
18. Preston
19. Tenley
20. Preston
21. Preston
22. Preston
23. Preston
24. Preston
25. Tenley
26. Preston
27. Preston
28. Tenley
29. Tenley
30. Preston
Epilogue
Author Note
Also by Becca Taylor
About the Author
All the Right Moves by Becca Taylor
Copyright © 2018 Becca Taylor
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or electronically, without permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or businesses, companies, events, institutions or locales is completely coincidental. All songs, song titles and lyrics contained are the property of the songwriters and copyright holders. The author acknowledges trademark status and trademark owners of products referenced. The use of these trademarks is not authorized and done so without permission.
This book is intended for audiences age 18 and over. It contains graphic language, sexual situations, and mature content. If any of these offend you, please do not read.
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About The Book
Being called the worst boyfriend can do a number on a man’s ego.
But I handled it the way any full-grown adult male would—by eating copious amounts of carbs and wallowing over whether I was good enough.
I admit, it wasn’t the best of moments, but it made me realize I needed answers to the question, what are women looking for inside and out of the bedroom?
After I researched the subject, I compiled my data into a solution.
Thirty days.
Thirty right moves.
But I needed to test out my newfound theories, and my best friend, Tenley, was going to help.
It was a foolproof plan.
We would date and act like a real couple, all in the name of research. And when the thirty days were up, we would go back to being just friends.
Piece of cake, right?
Only, I forgot to take into consideration the multiple outcomes. Specifically, the one where it left me wanting more and refusing to go back to what we were... ever again.
1
Preston
Communication is the key to the universe.
“I’M OVER THIS,” my girlfriend of four years said from across the table as she cut up a kale leaf. Secretly, I hoped Chanel was talking about this crazy diet. I was wrong. Careful not to smudge her lipstick, she opened her mouth wide, then delicately placed the fork between her teeth and slid the leafy green from it. The sound and the sight gave me chills.
Once the fork was safe on the plate, I looked across the table and wondered what “this” she was talking about. At least once a month, she said she was over something. Like the time she claimed she was over school. Or the time she was so over winter. Only last week, she told me she was over the color teal. Personally, I dug the color. It’s also why I took what she said with a grain of salt.
“What’s it this time, Nelly bear?” I used the pet name she asked me to call her in front of her friends when she wanted to make them jealous. Apparently, it’s a big deal to have your boyfriend call you some cutesy nickname. A nickname my friends laughed at when they heard me say it. But just like the color teal, I owned it. My man card was intact, ridiculous nicknames and all.
“Us.” And we were back.
“What about us?”
“It's over, Preston.” She let out a frustrated sigh. “You’re the worst boyfriend ever.”
The first part of her statement I could deal with. This was Chanel. She thrived on drama. And breaking up then getting back together was one of those dramas she lived for. The second, however, part was so far out of the blue the words didn’t register right away. It took a good thirty seconds for them to process in the left hemisphere of my brain.
Did she just call me the worst boyfriend?
The worst, as in bad, the most unsuitable, unattractive, or ill-conceived because maybe Chanel was confusing the word worst with best. I shrugged because it was possible. Just a few seconds ago, she confused chicken with fish, but it was a quality I found endearing. Well, maybe not endearing, but it didn’t annoy me like it did my best friend. Everything about Chanel annoyed Tenley, though.
Then I wondered what Tenley would make of this conversation. She’d probably give it a hashtag in honor of Chanel … hashtag my boyfriend sucks. Which I didn’t, or so I thought.
“Did you hear me, Preston?”
I wasn’t sure, considering I zoned out again. Blankly, I stared at her while we ate our normal dinner of kale salad, boiled chicken, not fish, and no carbs. Even though I hated it I ate with a smile on my face for Chanel. It was what she wanted for dinner tonight. Everything I did was for her and our relationship. For example, she said I should work out more. So being the caring boyfriend, I signed up for a two-year membership to the gym. It didn't matter I hadn’t stepped foot in the gym. At least I cared enough to fill out the ten-page application. Then she asked me to cut my hair, so I did. I kept it that way for a whole month before I let it grow out again. It was a very traumatic experience for both me and my hair. Short was not my style. I’m more of a part shaved, part long and lustrous type of dude. And lastly, when she told me she was giving up carbs a month ago, I fully supported her. I gave up carbs right along with her unless Tenley had pasta night or pizza night or calzone night. She’s Italian, and I had to support my best friend too. So, when she said I was the worst boyfriend ever, I had no idea what she was talking about.
I swallowed or more like choked down my kale before I asked her, “Do you care to elaborate?”
From inside her purse, she grabbed a list, an actual list of reasons why I won the award for being terrible.
“Number one, we never go anywhere I want to go.” Which was not true at all. I went to the bar last night with her obnoxious friend, Brinley, even though she knew it was movie release day, and I had plans to see the new Marvel movie with Tenley.
“Number two, you're boring.” No explanation, I was just plain dull.
“Number three, our sex life is meh.”
I stopped her right there. “Meh?”
She lifted her shoulder to her ear, raised her hand, and shook it left to right a few times. At least I’d been upgraded to so-so. Was I really so bad in bed? She couldn’t be right. The last time … wait, when did we have sex last? A week ago. Okay, that part was bad because we were twenty-five and should be having sex on a regular basis. Honestly, it wasn’t my fault. It was a workweek, and Chanel needed her
beauty sleep. Not important, though—what was important was the last time. “You had three orgasms right away. That’s what you consider meh?”
She flinched before her body looked uncomfortable as she shimmied in her seat. “I faked it.”
Jesus, that’s impossible. I would have known. Apparently, I said it out loud because she did the whole When Harry met Sally routine to prove that her acting classes, which apparently included a lesson in porn noises, had paid off.
“How long have you been faking it?”
“Once.”
If she only faked it once, that wasn’t that bad. Right?
Wrong.
“I only finished once.” She corrected herself.
And, right then, I was no longer hungry for my bland food. I picked up my plate and tossed it in the sink with the green devils still covering it because I mostly ate the chicken. I paced back and forth in the kitchen, trying to wrap my brain around this.
Four years we were together, and she had only got off once?
One time.
One fucking time.
But she never wanted to try anything. Missionary was Chanel’s middle name; really, it was Mission, but it didn’t matter because she never talked to me. If she had said more to the left, I would have gladly obliged. If she had begged faster or harder, I totally would have been down for it.
But she didn’t say anything. Not a peep. Not a moan. Nothing. And then it hit me. The light bulb slowly, with an annoying buzzing noise first, blinked on. “You did hate sex with me.”
Chanel took a bite of her kale and proceeded to chew it forty times. I knew this because she told me it saved calories by doing so. I didn’t have the heart to tell it didn’t work that way. Right now, I wanted to tell her the truth—that chewing didn’t reduce your calorie intake—but before I could break the news, she spoke. “Okay, maybe I lied. It may not be entirely your fault.”
“Well, hallelujah,” I preached louder than necessary.
“It’s just sex is so dirty, and sweaty, and messy.”
That’s the point, I wanted to say.
“And, well, I faked it because I didn’t want to get all sticky. You know?”
I counted to ten, so I didn’t completely lose it. “No, I don’t know, Chanel. I don’t understand where all this is coming from. Last month, we were talking about moving in together. And now you hit me with this.”
“About that.” She paused to dab the sides of her lips with her napkin. “Tonya and I decided to get a place together. I’m moving in a few days.” I disliked Tonya as much as I disliked Brinley. The gossip queens with the everlasting bitch face were nothing but rude to Tenley in college when all she tried to do was be nice to them.
“You’re just telling me this now?”
I interrupted her too soon, though. Chanel’s moment of declaration wasn’t over. “To Paris.”
“France?”
“Yes.”
“You’re moving to France?”
She rolled her eyes. “I already said that.”
“In a few days?”
She pushed in front of me at the sink to clean off her plate. “Yes, Preston. I already shipped most of my things to our new apartment.”
I looked around the room and realized for the first time everything was missing from the walls. All the picture collages of us were gone. The cabinets were almost bare. And the collection of shot glasses from the trips we took together were missing. In fact, all that remained was her furniture and dishes.
When did that happen?
I rubbed my hand down my face.
“Do you want to hear the rest of my list?”
Tenley might not be too far off when she said Chanel wasn’t very perceptive. “No, Chanel. I think I’ve heard enough reasons for tonight.”
She walked to the front door and grabbed the box that was sitting on the floor after placing the detailed list on top. “I’ll just put it in here for you to read later.”
She shoved the box into my hands as I peeked down at the contents around her worst list. Our shot glasses, my contacts and lens solution, toothbrush, and the box of unopened condoms I brought over last week. If that wasn’t final, I didn't know what was.
“So that’s it?” I questioned.
“Don’t look so sad, Pressy.” She used the pet name she gave me our junior year of college. I should have been honest from the start and told her I hated it even though her friends sighed every time Chanel called me it. Standing on her tippy toes, she kissed me on the cheek. “I’ll call you when I get to Paris to check on you.”
I walked to the door, opened it, and told her, “Don’t bother.”
When I made it back to my apartment, I first headed to my best friend’s next door to me. I knocked our secret code—the Darth Vader theme—out of habit. Tenley opened the door with a yawn wearing my old college baseball T-shirt she had confiscated from my mom’s discard pile and a pair of yoga shorts. At one point, the shirt came halfway down her thighs, but she hacked it in half, claiming it was too soft to give up and too long to wear in the hot Florida heat. Her long, dark hair rested on the top of her head in some twisted knot, and there wasn’t a stitch of makeup on her face.
Why couldn’t I feel something for this woman?
Tenley was the most uncomplicated chick in the history of women. Everything I was into, she was too. Not only that but my family also loved her. Unlike Chanel, who they thought was not the right one.
“Hey,” she said sleepily, “I didn’t expect to see you tonight.”
Pushing past her, I headed straight to the fridge and grabbed a beer. It was one of those strange cider beers she liked since I had forgotten to restock mine. With a quick twist, the top came off, and I tossed it in the sink like I always did. Without a word, I drank until the bottle was empty. “Yeah, well, I didn’t expect to get dumped tonight. So… surprise.”
Tenley, who knew me, opened the fridge. She took out two more beers and reached for the bag of Cheetos she kept stashed for emergencies. After the caps were both off, she handed me one. I opened the bag of orange cheesy goodness, and we clinked bottles, then chugged because that was what we did when we got dumped.
We drank, and we ate shit food.
It had been years since I’d been the dumpee, the dumper on, the one dumped. I looked at the label on the bottle to read the alcohol content, which wasn’t enough to be drunk… yet. So I blamed my lack of brain function on the chemicals on the kale even though I only had one bite.
“So Channel number nine gave you the boot?” Tenley started to peel the label from her bottle like she always did, then twisted it into some Barbie-size goblet. She called it her hidden talent.
“Don’t call her that.” Fuck, what am I saying? “Never mind, call her anything you want.” It’s no secret Chanel and Tenley didn’t get along. They never did. Chanel had a slight issue with our friendship even after Tenley reassured her there was nothing between us. At a party, things between them took a turn for the worst when Chanel was a bit blitzed and informed everyone her mom named her after her favorite perfume Channel number nine. Tenley was in tears laughing, and I probably was too, but Chanel didn’t take kindly to it. Chanel tried to warn me away from my best friend, but I reminded her Tenley was and always would be a permanent fixture in my life. She had been since the first grade when she moved to Florida. It was either deal with it or I walked. She never did it again.
Tenley, on the other hand, was not jealous of Chanel. She just didn’t care to be around her… ever.
This time, I opened the fridge. Taking inventory of the alcohol, I saw three more ciders, which wasn’t enough for me to feel like shit tomorrow. Then I remembered the secret stash in the freezer. Good old Smirnoff vodka. I didn’t even care that it was apple flavored. Tenley was obsessed with all things apple flavored. Though I did have to admit it tasted fantastic in her “surprise, I put vodka in the whipped cream” apple pie.
As I was pulling the bottle from the freezer, she asked, “What�
�s in the box?”
I closed the freezer door only to find Tenley pointing to the box. I forgot I had brought it over with me and set it on Tenley’s breakfast bar next to my keys. My intention was to dump it in the trash along with my feelings, but the need to see Tenley took over. I knew she wouldn’t act like one of my guy friends and tell me I fucked up and lost some good tail. At twenty-five, some of them were still in college. Maturity was a work in progress. Tenley, who was fully mature, would care my feelings were hurt.
“Funny you should ask.” I reached inside and snagged two shot glasses—Aruba and the Keys—both places Chanel had begged me to take her on vacation.
Under my breath, I mumbled. “You never take me anywhere I want to go, my ass.”
I poured the chilled liquid to the top and raised my glass. My best friend clinked my glass and toasted, “Ar Revoir, Channel number nine.”
And I almost choked on my drink as Tenley smiled at her own wit. Three more shots and I started feeling a nice buzz. Tenley’s cheeks were a nice shade of rosy pink from her two shots.
“What else is in your box of tricks?” I didn’t even get a chance to answer her before she was digging through the contents. She held up the box of condoms. “Ribbed for her pleasure?”
“Pointless,” I spit out.
“Okay, I’m not even going there. What is this?” In her hand, she held the folded piece of paper listing all the qualities that make me less-than-ideal for a woman. My attempt to reach for it was an epic fail. The alcohol had slowed my reflexes to a snail's pace. Tenley opened the folded paper with care and started reading it out loud. I had already heard one through three, and by number twenty-five, I was done.
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