“Your Mama doesn’t like you closing.”
“Well, I’ve got Lucille with me at all times, I’ll be fine.” Lucille is my baby; my baby blue twenty-two. I got my concealed carry permit, and I can outshoot some of the guys. Daddy taught me young, and he taught me well. I have a standing appointment at the shooting range once a week. It’s why Papa had to open this morning, since Dad was at the tattoo shop.
“Only if Ox or Tuck are here with you.”
“No. Ox hits on me every chance he gets, and Tuck annoys me.”
“Hey, what did I do to you?” Tuck said, coming over with his water bottle in hand.
“Nothing yet, but imagine having to babysit me every night as I closed. You wouldn’t be able to do your regular bed-hopping, horndog routine, so what would you be doing? Bitching about me closing, and you having to babysit.”
“She makes a valid point, Rock,” Tuck said. He was leaning on the top rope, his face sweaty. I threw a towel at him – he caught it mid-air, flashing his charming, dimpled grin. I just rolled my eyes.
“Its fine. I can still open, Daddy, but I refuse to be the only one that does the laundry when it’s supposed to be done at night.” I stared my dad down, hoping he would concede – not at all sure he would.
“Fine. Two conditions: one, Lucille is with you always; and you’ve got to bring a cage. No riding Charlie up here.”
What the fuck? Fucking hell. Being a woman in a man’s world sucks donkey balls sometimes. I’d take the deal. Daddy wouldn’t last long on the no riding thing anyway. He knew I loved Charlie, and part of the reason I did was because he bought her for me.
Annelise Reynolds
Author Bio
I spend my days working, my evenings with my two wonderful kids, and my nights are when the characters in my head are given free reign. The tagline for Phoenix Bar, "Beauty After the Burn", holds special meaning for me and really helped to give birth to the story. Like Phoenix, I've had to rebuild my life from the ashes. It's been a long journey with a roller coaster of emotions and stresses, but I can truly say where my life is now is more beautiful than where it was.
Author Links
Facebook: http://bit.ly/2fCEkLz
Goodreads: http://bit.ly/1NEUat1
POP!
By V. Kelly
Synopsis:
A sex contract seemed like a good idea, until she fell in love.
When Symone Esquire fails to woo her best friend into taking her virginity, his rejection is the catalyst that inspires her to create a sex contract with a local legend, a man nicknamed “The Cherry Popper”, to take her virginity instead.
Sid Cooperton is used to being solicited for sex, being the lead singer of a local rock band does have its perks . . . but when the nerdy, yet intriguing, Symone approaches him with a proposition to take her virginity in exchange for his college tutoring. It’s simply an offer he can’t refuse—even if his reputation for being a virginity exterminator is grossly exaggerated.
Symone wasn’t expecting anything more than a business relationship with Sid, but she soon realizes there’s so much more to her sex tutor than just sex. Matters become even more complicated when her once uninterested best friend, suddenly wants to take their relationship to the next level like she always wanted.
With the relationship she’s always dreamed of within her reach, Symone must make a decision: choose her best friend, the man she’s been in love with her whole life, or choose Sid, the man who has suddenly become the subject of all her fantasies.
The contract has been signed: Symone’s virginity for Sid’s B average. It was supposed to be simple, until she broke his only rule.
Chapter 1
Trevor Donahue is a panty-dropping machine . . .
A giraffe walking across an icy pond is more graceful than me walking in high heels. How did I come to this conclusion? I blame my roommate Staci. Somehow she's managed to talk me into dressing sexy for the sake of losing my virginity tonight. This is a bad idea, not only am I a wobbly disaster on these tiny stilts, but I also look like I've been personally invaded by a prostitute body snatcher.
The comforts of my baggy sweat pants and two sizes too big eighties cartoon shirts are locked away in my closet, instead I’m forced to wear a dress that makes my boobs look like boulders, faux hair extensions that are colored like a piece of bubble gum, and fake eye lashes that might as well be tiny spider-like monsters trying to eat my face. Pair all that with a pound of makeup, and colored contacts that make my brown eyes green and this body snatcher is ready to work fourth street.
Why hello Mr. Sink, fancy meeting you here next to the toilet. I silently curse my peripheral vision for not alerting me to Mr. Sink’s presence before we formally met at my hip bone. I hate these colored contacts, they are not even close to my prescription. That’s the fifth thing I’ve bumped into since putting on this get-up. Gone are the days when a pair of converse sneakers are acceptable to attend a party in. Are there rules about going to frat parties? Is dressing like a hoochie mama the only way I will ever lose my virginity?
I silently sigh as I wave farewell to the girl I was before. If I’m going to make this work, then I need to own this ensemble like it’s made for me.
“You ready?” Staci hollers from her bedroom.
I smooth down the fabric of my excessively tight black dress and wobble out of the bathroom on my three-inches-too-high heels, practically taking out my ankles when I lose my footing on the carpet. I try to do a model-like spin and end up knocking over Staci’s nightstand lamp, which I fumble with before straightening up like nothing happened. “You think Trevor will like it?” I ask insecurely.
Staci smacks her lips admiring the just applied ruby-red lip stain on her lips in the full length mirror on the back of her closet door. Great, I’m dressed like a prostitute and she looks like she just walked off a cover of Vogue magazine. I have total roommate envy going on right now. Staci is the proverbial guy magnet, and I’m the equivalent to mosquito repellant. It’s not that I’m ugly. I’m actually quite average when I dress up, but where Staci goes out of her way to appeal to the opposite sex; I’m more comfortable hiding behind my nerdiness and giving her the spotlight.
Usually, on Friday nights Staci and I hang out with each other, but tonight she has a date and I’m being dropped off at my very first frat party. I probably shouldn’t be attending it alone, but I woke up this morning with one thing on my mind: to convince my best friend, Trevor, that he’s been secretly in love with me for the past fifteen years and offer the Hockey God my virginity like a good little sacrificial lamb. If all goes as planned, by this time tomorrow, I will be in a relationship and without my hymen’s trophy.
Staci smiles at me through the mirror and pops her mouth. “Damn girl, are you working the street corner tonight?”
“Shut up, Staci! Need I remind you, that we rummaged this hookerish outfit from your closet?” I motion to the closet she’s currently standing in and scornfully eye the leopard-print dress practically painted on her skin. The dress is so short that I’m about two inches away from seeing her bikini wax. I’m praying to God she doesn’t bend over because I’m definitely not in the mood for a vagina flashing.
She slips into a set of shiny, black heels. I almost groan over how they perfectly accentuate her toned calf muscles and shapely legs. Her long auburn hair is curled and half of it is pulled back into a claw clip behind her head. She looks absolutely flawless, and me, well, I look like a piece of coal in a sea of diamonds.
“I want you to be serious, Staci. Do you think Trevor will like it? I’m trying my best to look hot here. I decided tonight’s the night I’m going to offer him my virginity.”
I’ve been in love with Trevor Donahue for as long as I can remember. We grew up in the same small town, lived next door to each other for pretty much our whole lives, and had almost all of the same classes together. His mother and my mother are best friends, which, by default, made Trevor and I instant buddies.
&
nbsp; He’s been my best friend for so long, that it’s hard to pinpoint the exact moment when my feelings turned romantic. Okay . . . that’s a lie. It was when he suddenly grew muscles and the view from my bedroom window turned into my own personal eye-candy-ogling hot spot. There’s nothing better than waking up in the morning to a slab full of abs and rippling arm muscles as they do their morning calisthenics. No, I’m not a pervert. Yes, I took full advantage of my view on numerous occasions, but I did it for the greater good of females everywhere. What’s the use of a good set of abs if there isn’t someone out there to admire them?
The truth is, I am madly in love with Trevor, and he has stuck me in that hideous friend zone, otherwise known as the timeout corner for best friends.
I’m tired of being in the corner! I find myself scrutinizing everything Trevor says and does, hoping for the tiniest sign that maybe his feelings have changed, but alas, he’s never shown any interest in dating me. Well, I guess there was that one time when we were thirteen . . . but unfortunately he won’t talk about that day. Ever.
Even though there is no indication he’s reciprocating my growing affection for him (a minor setback), I am determined to make Trevor Donahue finally mine. How I came to the conclusion that dressing up like a prostitute, going to a frat party, and wearing heels is the best way to get his attention, is beyond me.
Staci turns around and crosses her arms over her chest. “Are you sure giving Trevor your virginity tonight is a good idea?”
What is she talking about?
“Of course it’s a good idea! Trevor is it for me, Staci.”
“Uh duh, I know that, but giving up your virginity is a big thing, Symone. You don’t plan it. It just kind of happens.”
I think back to when Staci lost her virginity our sophomore year of high school. She went to a movie with Cody Alexander, and came back de-virginized and horny. Ever since then it’s been like open season between her legs.
“You know I can’t go into anything without planning it first. I have to psyche myself up for this, Stace. I need to prepare myself mentally, emotionally, and physically. Coitus is not spontaneous. Every angle needs to be calculated, every push needs to have the right amount of force and resistance. It’s imperative that both parties get equal amounts of pleasure or the whole experience could be disastrous. I’m behind the curve on this one. I want to make sure that I’m giving Trevor the right angles and force to make him happy.”
“Symone, I love you, but no one says the word coitus, or refers to sex like a science experiment.”
“Sheldon does, and Leonard, and Wallowitz, and Raj and Amy . . .”
“It’s never a good sign when you have to revert to using Big Bang Theory references in order to back up your argument. You cannot base your sex life off nerds who don’t normally have one. I know how smart you are, Symone, but you need to get fucking laid, pronto! Don’t think about it. Don’t plan it. Definitely stop talking about sex like it’s geometry. Go to this party tonight, get really drunk, find a random guy that’s cute, and fuck him. That way when you finally do decide to give yourself over to the Hockey God, Trevor Donahue, you’ll already know what you’re doing. Plain. Simple. Easy.”
“I’m not going to lose my virginity to some random guy at a party, Stace. I need to at least have some feelings behind it.”
“Trust me, Sym, the only feelings you will ever have during sex are the orgasmic kind, but only if you’re lucky. Most of the time it’s all moaning, groaning, and bumping uglies. All of those women who say they have an orgasm every single time they have sex are lying.”
“You know, I’ve never really understood that reference. Why would you want to have anything ugly, bumping?”
Staci rolls her eyes. “We’re leaving. You look way too hot to start channeling Einstein right now. You’re twenty, Sym. It’s time to drop that dreaded v-card for good.”
She hooks my arm within hers and leads me from our dorm room.
This whole virginity thing is like a stigma, and I’m desperate to get rid of it. I might as well be wearing a bright letter ‘V’ on my shirts so everyone will know what a loveless loser I am. But in spite of Staci’s incessant pestering, I will not be deflowered by some random drunk guy. No, my hymen’s trophy belongs to one man and one man only: Trevor Donahue.
“Well, do my eyes deceive me or is that Symone Esquire?” Randy Smith, Trevor’s other best friend and a disgusting excuse for a muscled anatomy, shouts from across the room. Randy waves at me, and like an idiot I wave back, causing my whole body to lose balance. Damn these shoes. I sway recklessly and smash into the body next to me.
A tattooed arm straightens me upright, and I find myself looking into an amazing set of cobalt colored eyes. “Whoa, Bambi. Just learning to walk, huh?” It’s like his voice has snuck in and sucker punched my vagina. The moment he speaks, the cooch is doing Kegel jumping jacks, and I have to cross my legs. A flush warms my cheeks, and I have to focus on something other than his eyes, because any second now my knees are going to give out on me.
There, gripping my elbow, is one of the hottest guys I’ve ever seen in my life. When our eyes meet, my flush goes even deeper. I expect him to drop his hold on me, but he leaves his hand there, while he continues to stare at me and seduce my skin with the softness of his touch.
Holy crap, he’s not letting go. Why isn’t he letting go? I stare at his hand like it’s an alien face hugger and any minute it’s going to lunge at me and consume my face. He obviously notices my discomfort because he drops his hand and grins at me.
“Um . . . I just . . . well . . . high heels are evil,” I finally answer while attempting to smooth out my skirt.
He chuckles. “From what I hear, the trick is to walk heel to toe, and the more you practice, the better you will get. Maybe you’ll get so good you won’t bump into strangers,” he winks at me. The dude lights up a cigarette and places it between his lips. I notice he has a lip ring, a sleeve of tattoos, and spiky black hair. He looks like a rock star—a highly fuckable one at that. “If this is a strategic ploy to get my attention, congratulations, you’ve succeeded.”
I blush, “Glad to know my clumsiness is an attention getter.”
“It’s not just the clumsiness that has my attention,” his eyes briefly gravitate to my breasts before returning to mine.
I’m spending way too much time staring at his face. It’s one of those faces that you only see in movies or on the cover of magazines: smooth skin, insanely blue eyes, sculpted eyebrows, chiseled jaw and probably one of the hottest smiles I’ve ever seen. He doesn’t even have dimples; his smile stands on its own without them. I always thought I was a dimple lover. Trevor has dimples. I love Trevor. So therefore, I must love dimples. Yet, staring at his dimple deprived face, I find myself lost in his sexiness, and that’s something he has a lot of—sexiness.
He stares at me for a long time like he expects me to answer, but not only do I have limited experience in bed, I’m also pretty lame when it comes to talking to good-looking guys.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I mumble nervously.
He opens his mouth to speak again when I feel a familiar hand on my elbow.
“Symone, what are you doing here? Why are you dressed like that? Why are you talking to him?” Trevor spins me around so I face him. He’s glaring at me. I briefly make contact with his hazel eyes before looking back to the ground. To say Trevor is good-looking would be an understatement. Trevor Donahue is a panty-dropping machine. He’s been that way since high school. I’ve watched him flirt, date, and if the rumors are true, sleep with half the female population in our small town. He’s that way with every girl . . . well, every girl except Staci and me.
“Trevor, fancy seeing you here in those shoes.” Did I really just mention his shoes? Why is it that anytime I get around Trevor my eyes always end up on his feet? It takes everything I have to look up at him.
“Um, okay? Why are you dressed like that?” He eyes my dress and the insane amount
of cleavage I have popping out of it. “You look weird.” He flicks his mahogany hair away from his face and runs a hand through his tousled locks. His jaw tightens as he waits for me to answer. The odd amount of stubble all over his face is evidence he lost his razor again. I silently thank the missing razor, because I like him even better when he’s all stubbly. He’s wearing a flannel t-shirt, blue jeans, and his signature Doc Martens. Unfortunately, my little heart can’t take the fact that half of his shirt is hanging open. I can see every muscle of his six-pack. I try to push back the attraction I’m feeling, but I can’t.
“Weird is good, right?” I notice tat-man has disappeared somewhere into the crowd, which is disappointing. I was actually having a good time talking with him. Plus, I didn’t even notice what shoes he was wearing. I’m hoping that’s a sign I’m starting to work out of my awkward shyness stage. Anytime I talk to Trevor, or a hot guy in general, I can barely look them in the eyes. I’ve become so acquainted with staring at men’s shoes, that I can probably tell you how long they’ve had them and from what store they were bought.
God, I’m so pathetic.
“You don’t look like you.”
“That’s the point.” A couple of guys walk by us and whistle at me. Trevor’s eyes dart over to them, and they immediately stop their barbaric mating calls.
“Come on, I’m taking you home.” He tugs on my arm and leads me away from the party.
“Trevor, I just got here,” I whine.
He has me to the front door when the music cuts out and a microphone squeals with feedback.
“Hey, everyone! We’re Static Cling. I’m Sid and these are my band mates: Hector, Flex, and Mush-mouth. We want to thank all of you for having us here tonight and hope you’re ready to rock this house to the ground.” Every girl in the room starts screaming like crazy. “This first song goes out to all the girls who can’t walk in heels.”
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