Moonlight & Whiskey

by Tricia Lynne

  Moonlight & Whiskey is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  A Loveswept Ebook Original

  Copyright © 2019 by Tricia Lynne

  Excerpt from Illegally Yours by Kate Meader copyright © 2019 by Kate Meader

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Loveswept, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  LOVESWEPT is a registered trademark and the LOVESWEPT colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  This book contains an excerpt from the forthcoming book Illegally Yours by Kate Meader. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming edition.

  Ebook ISBN 9781984800169

  Cover design: Makeready Designs

  Cover photograph: LightField Studios/Shutterstock

  randomhousebooks.com

  v5.4

  ep

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  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

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Excerpt from Illegally Yours

  Chapter 1

  I had a porn habit.

  It wasn’t an obsession. It wasn’t a fetish. It didn’t require trips to anonymous meetings where I said, “Hello, my name is Avery and I’m addicted to naked men.” I simply enjoyed watching people have sex. The women in porn, however, never looked like me.

  Mainstream porn stars looked more like a silicone Barbie, i.e., half modeling career failure, half sex doll/mechanical experiment.

  Conversely, I was soft, curvy, and not a size six.

  I’d been told I wore the weight well, that I had a pretty face. All the shit curvy women heard. Men told me I had a great rack. That if I lost forty pounds I’d be fuckable—that’s actual verbiage—and even referred to flirting with me as “taking one for the team.” I’d never be thin. Some women weren’t meant to be, but like most, I still wanted to feel feminine. Sexy in my skin. Desirable—just as I was.

  Christ, I can’t believe I let Kat talk me into this. Feminine and sexy, she said. This might have been my crazy idea after one–too–many glasses of wine last night, but she knew how to nudge me to get me to follow through. Which was how I ended up in a tacky-as-hell waiting room.

  The chair I occupied—if you could call it a chair—was a clear plastic, modern thing that was way too narrow for my ass. Black-and-white photos of chiseled female torsos lined the walls, a hot pink chandelier hung suspended over a zebra-print ottoman full of beauty magazines and gossip rags. And the rest of the all-female clientele could have been in a casting room for a skin flick, which drove me bat-shit crazy.

  Some wore yoga pants with belly rings, and T-shirts likely purchased in the children’s department. Others were the Louis Vuitton–toting, fake-boobed trophy wives with five-carat diamonds and one too many syringes of Botox. There were even a couple of professionals: tailored business suits, Louboutin peep toes, and crimson lips that matched their Prada laptop bags.

  And not a one of them weighed more than my right leg.

  I was the only Adele in a room full of Pam Andersons and Angelina Jolies. The only other “plus-sized” girl in the room was on the cover of a health magazine in a “before” picture with a caption that read, “How I Lost Half My Body Weight in Six Months.” Although none of those women could have taken me in a fight, there I sat, letting the Real Fucking Housewives of Dallas give me the disapproving once-over.

  Well, screw that and them, and their not-so-sly side-eyes of distaste.

  See, I knew what I looked like with my sweet round face and tight brown bun. My beige pencil skirt and kitten heels. My dimples and reading glasses. I looked like an enginerd, and I was okay with that—I’d learned to appear asexual—it was the role I had to play as a female engineer trying to make partner in my firm.

  The thing was, I had an entirely different woman locked inside of me. That chick had a huge set of balls, liked hard rock music, and drank her whiskey neat. She mouthed off with great satisfaction and cussed like a well-informed sailor. She had little filter between her brain and mouth, and a zero-tolerance policy on stupidity.

  She made my appointment, thinking it would be a great way to kick off the vacation where I intended to give her free rein on New Orleans and let her act like the little hussy she was. She thought I should feel sexy and feminine, comfortable in my skin. And if I had to fake it till I’d made it? So be it.

  “Avery Barrows,” came a sweet Southern drawl.

  Shit. Easier said than done and all that. “Yeah,” I croaked in my Midwestern accent as my nerves redoubled. My badass disappeared at the most inconvenient times.

  “I’m Jess. Nice to meet you. Says here it’s your first time?”

  I cleared my throat, trying to wage war on the nerves. “Yes.”

  “Well, I hope it won’t be your last.” She winked and then ushered me down the hall into a small room, closing the door behind us. “Okay, Avery. You’ll need to undress from the waist down. Please use the baby wipes to clean the area of any body oils or debris, and there’s a towel on the table for you to cover up with. I’m sure you’re a bit nervous but try to relax. I’ve done thousands of Brazilian waxes and I promise to make it as painless as possible.”

  It wasn’t the pain I was worried about. But letting this woman see my body, the lack of a thigh gap and softness of my stomach. Yeah, I could go a lifetime without doing that.

  “You get undressed and prepped, and I’ll grab you a glass of wine. Red or white?”

  “Whiskey,” I replied, and Jess chuckled as she pulled the door closed.

  Shucking my shoes, skirt, and practical cotton hipsters, I cleaned up with the wipes and pushed up on the table, concealing as much of my hips as I could with a hand towel, tugging this way and that in hopes it would magically cover more. God, why had I thought this was a good idea? What if she has to use extra wax, or ask me to stretch my skin to get into the crease of my thigh?

  With a tap on the door, Jess breezed in, handing me a large glass of red, from which I swallowed deeply.

  “So, we’re doing the Full Monty today?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay, lay back for me, Avery. I need you to pull your legs up like a frog and spread wide. Just bend your knees and let them fall open.”

  “Jesus,” I
mumbled, slapping a hand over my eyes. Jess chuckled as she took my wine and towel. Then I chanced a peek south. Shit. I hadn’t trimmed in a while. With my cocoa-colored hair, it looked like a family of lowland gorillas had staked out their territory and were living quite comfortably in my lady garden.

  “Perfect,” she said, and applied warm wax to my pubic bone, effectively smothering my gorillas. “What made you decide to try a Brazilian?”

  Small talk? Really? “My friend, Katia. We’re taking a girl’s trip to New Orleans and I thought, what the hell…it’s New Orleans.”

  “Well, that sounds fun.” RRRRIP.

  “Hmphf.” Holy shit! It felt like sitting on a mound of fire ants.

  “How was that? Painful?”

  “Not as bad as I thought.” I totally lied.

  “You didn’t even flinch, good girl. Kat is one of my regulars. I saw her yesterday and she said she was sending me a new client.”

  RRRIP.

  “Mmphf.” Sonofabitch. “Yeah, Kat’s like family. We were roommates at the University of Texas.”

  “Well, it shouldn’t be hard for you two to find trouble in New Orleans.” RRRIP.

  Ooh, definitely a flinch there.

  Jess smoothed the cooling gel over my tender skin, and so it continued with the rips and the small talk.

  “Okay, for this last area, you need to turn over on your front and get up on all fours. Spread your knees apart as wide as you can.”

  “WHAT?” I sat up. “Why in God’s name would you need to wax my butt?”

  The corner of her mouth twitched. “Most women’s pubic hair extends over the perineum and around the anus, even a little on the inside of the cheeks. A Brazilian includes the rear end as well.”

  “Seriously? I thought hairy asses were only a guy thing.”

  Jess snickered. “There’s not much, but most women have some. You can pass if it makes you uncomfortable.”

  “Yeah, because having a relative stranger’s hands in my kitty isn’t embarrassing at all.” I blew out a breath. “I’ve come this far. Yeah, go ahead,” I said, trying desperately not to think of how wide my ass would look stuck in the air.

  I assumed the position and jumped at the first brush of her fingers. Well, hello there.

  “So, are you seeing anyone? Will he or she be surprised?”

  “No. It’s…just for me.”

  She applied warm wax over my inner cheeks. “You know, NOLA is a great place for a hookup. Maybe you’ll meet someone and you can show off your new baldie.” RRRIP. RRRIP. RRRIP.

  Oh, Christ. Just…Fuck, that hurt.

  Gentle fingers brushed over my backdoor as she smoothed on the gel. Thank God for gel.

  “There. All finished.” Jess snapped off her gloves. “You can turn around.” She handed me the towel and I tried not to make the eww face at how slickery my butt cheeks felt as she told me how to care for my skin and when to follow up. “Don’t worry, Avery. The first time is always the worst. It gets less embarrassing.”

  Why the hell would anyone do this more than once? But as I passed through the waiting room to leave, I smirked at porn star Barbie and the Frankenhookers. I’d done something that wasn’t easy for any woman. Especially a curvy girl like me. I was ready to take on New Orleans, put the enginerd away for a bit, and let the badass out to find some trouble.

  Yeah, bitches. I got me some huge balls.

  Freshly waxed.

  Chapter 2

  We landed at Louis Armstrong International at four pm after a lot of bitching from Kat about flying a well-known discount airline where seating assignments were a free-for-all.

  “Whaaat? It’s cheaper,” I argued.

  She shook her head in disgust and jet-black spiral curls moved wildly above her shoulders. Kat was seriously beautiful. With light beige skin and cool undertones, and a face made for magazine covers, Bernini himself couldn’t have sculpted better symmetry in her plush pink lips, arrow straight nose, and high cheekbones. Her style was effortless—a black motorcycle jacket over a white tank and hot pink bra, ankle-length jeans painted on her mile-long legs. She was stunning, with the easy grace and charm of a woman comfortable in her skin.

  Then she spoke.

  “I swear, first I gotta pack your shit because everything you bring is either beige cotton underwear or sloppy college chic, then you make me fly that clusterfuck of an airline because you can’t get the cheap out of your ass.” The grin she wore belied the harshness of her words.

  I smirked, looping my arm through hers. “Stop being a diva, Kitty. It doesn’t look good on you.” Her smile widened at me as we strolled out to the curb.

  It was unseasonably warm for February in New Orleans and god-awful humid. “Jesus, how do people live in this?” I pulled off my St. Louis Cardinals hoodie and wiped away the first beads of sweat from my neck, wishing I’d worn shorts instead of my favorite jeans cuffed up to capri length. I twirled my long hair up into a sloppy bun off my neck and was thankful I’d forgone makeup. It didn’t matter what I wore, though. I always looked like a train wreck next to Kat, who wasn’t sweating. At all. Even in goddamned leather.

  She flagged us a taxi. “You get used to it.”

  “Not fucking likely,” I mumbled as we slid in the back.

  “We’re at The Crescent in The Quarter, and turn on the air,” she barked, slapping the partition. The driver glared in the rearview mirror, but flipped on the A/C as a trickle of sweat running down my butt crack reminded me of a bone I had to pick with her.

  “By the way, darling, you could have told me that a Brazilian wax involved hair I didn’t even know I had.”

  She lifted a single, perfectly arched brow.

  “I’m talking about my ass, you twat. That is the most embarrassing thing I’ve ever done.” I flushed at the thought, did a bad imitation of Jess. “Get on your knees doggie style while I rip unwanted and unknown hair from your anus.”

  Kat guffawed and the cabby snorted, eyeing us again in his rearview. “I’m sorry,” she gasped through the tears. “I’d have given my left nut to see the look on your face.”

  I rolled my eyes, watching her try to catch her breath. “I’m sweating down my butt crack,” I whisper-yelled. “It’s all slippery and shit.”

  She dabbed at her eyes. “Mmhmm, slippery anywhere else?” She poked my side and a naughty smile spread over her face. “You’ll be more sensitive, too.”

  Oh, I was definitely more sensitive and it made me feel like I was running around with a neon sign on my forehead that said, “Looking for some vitamin D.”

  I smiled to myself watched the city pass by as we drove through the remnants of last week’s Mardi Gras. Beads still clung to anything that stood still, from the wrought-iron fences to power lines and trees still winter bare as it all went by in a riot of color.

  Kat said it was the perfect time to visit. She insisted that you had to see New Orleans both ways—during Mardi Gras, and when it was life as usual for The Crescent City—but in the proper order. You weren’t likely to fall in love with what the city had to offer if you got caught up in the legendary party on your first visit.

  The nuances of NOLA go unnoticed; the character of the city, and its people, slyly covered by the twin theater masks of pageantry and hedonism. She promised to bring me back to party on Fat Tuesday and clamor for parade trinkets—she assured me there was still plenty of debauchery to be had on Bourbon Street after dark. But for this trip? I should see the lady without her makeup, in all her natural beauty, and I was more than eager to get started.

  The Crescent was a new boutique hotel in La Vieux Carré, a stone’s throw from Jackson Square where you could take in the sunset on St. Louis Cathedral from a handful of balcony rooms. Nothing like old-school New Orleans, à la French aristocracy. The Crescent was modern and chic, sitting directly across from the Creo
le and American townhouses The Quarter was famous for.

  A lavender glow shined from the hotel’s entrance as the cab pulled to a stop in front of polished aluminum doors with iron-grated, speakeasy windows that faced the street. A bellhop retrieved our luggage and we made our way through the cozy lobby. Arched sofas—the color of old nickels, so soft and deep your feet wouldn’t touch the floor—sat in semi-circles around wooden cocktail tables. Eggplant-colored pillows broke up the crushed velvet and reclaimed-wood bookshelves lined the walls.

  The twenty-something at the desk was a little taken aback when she met Kat’s amber-colored eyes, but quickly schooled her features.

  Kat’s a bit famous. Her father is a Russian attaché to the States; her mother was half-Swahili, and half-Japanese. Her six-foot-tall frame was effortlessly sexy. Combined with her striking mix of facial features, she had been what top fashion designers wanted on their runways once upon a time. A few years ago, however, she left modeling, moved behind the camera, and her body filled out. She had muscle to her arms now, her hips rounded out nicely, and she had an ass that wouldn’t quit. She became less critical of herself. Less rigid. More carefree, she was able to savor life’s moments instead of constantly monitoring what goes in her mouth and worrying about timing it with which magazine shoot she had next. Kat would always be model-beautiful, but now she was more Crystal Renn or Robyn Lawley than Liya Kebede or Kendall Jenner.

  The two of us together were the metaphorical yin and yang. I was from a blue-collar family and mostly Irish with some Italian and Latina thrown in. I had at least thirty pounds on her and she had five inches on me. I’d gotten lucky by inheriting my mother’s olive skin and thick, brown hair with caramel highlights, and my dad’s nearly gold eyes, which suited my coloring. I had a more than respectable set of boobs, but I was pretty much the anti-Kat.