The Wild, Wild Anybody's Guess: Aloha!

by Jayha Leigh

  THE WILD, WILD ANYBODY’S GUESS:

  ALOHA!

  Jayha Leigh

  www.loose-id.com

  Warning

  This e-book contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language and may be considered offensive to some readers. Loose Id® e-books are for sale to adults ONLY, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.

  The Wild, Wild Anybody’s Guess: Aloha!

  Jayha Leigh

  This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Published by

  Loose Id LLC

  1802 N Carson Street, Suite 212-2924

  Carson City NV 89701-1215

  www.loose-id.com

  Copyright © May 2008 by Jayha Leigh

  All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the purchaser of this e-book ONLY. No part of this e-book may be reproduced or shared in any form, including, but not limited to printing, photocopying, faxing, or emailing without prior written permission from Loose Id LLC.

  ISBN 978-1-59632-648-4

  Available in Adobe PDF, HTML, MobiPocket, and MS Reader

  Printed in the United States of America

  Editor: Ellen Tevault

  Cover Artist: Anne Cain

  Dedication

  For Robert ‑‑ you are so lucky to have me as a wife. For Jeanie…btw, restriction. For Christian ‑‑ a brilliant and patient man, thank you and welcome. For Dréa, who stayed up waiting for The Wild, Wild Mess to drop. For RRM ‑‑ thank you for looking after my bambini. For S and M ‑‑ the kind of parents that every child should be blessed with. For my new brother Tyler, who loves his woman Moira so hard that he’s in the loving hall of fame. For the members of the MFP Posse. And, as always, for the inventor of copy, cut, and paste.

  The Posse Canon

  Always have each other’s backs.

  Bring it…and bring a lot of it, and the it better be something good.

  Cater to the best cook in the group.

  Don’t even think about doing anything on Super Bowl Sunday that will interfere with watching the game.

  Exploit all loopholes and technicalities to your advantage.

  For the sake of argument, pretend that other posses are equal to you ... never mind that’s complete BS.

  Go, have fun, and look better than everyone else doing it.

  Have a contingency plan that is so kickass that it might be better than the actual plan.

  In the event that you run out of cheesecake, it’s okay to indulge in another dessert while foraging for more cheesecake.

  Just so you know ‑‑ there is only one Carolina, and it’s in Chapel Hill.

  Know when the Hot Now sign is on at Krispy Kreme.

  Laugh until you’re on the verge of passing out, and then laugh some more.

  Mock each other unmercifully, as it builds character.

  Never be afraid to answer a question with “Hell no.”

  On any given day, calling in sick to work is a viable option.

  Practice saying “We didn’t do it” until it becomes such a natural response that you say it even when no one accuses you of anything.

  Quell all thoughts of working overtime.

  Remember, nothing says love like a whole bunch of money.

  Stock your Posse with people who can be of use to you (e.g., forger, owner of a pro sports team, pastry chef, Supreme Court justice)

  Throw down a drink in each other’s names before it’s for the last time.

  Unless otherwise agreed upon, we will not be doing the following: chasing tornadoes on our off days, jumping into the Grand Canyon to escape justice, or ordering a damn thing from the healthy section of the menu.

  Vengeance is a dish best served cold, but then again, so is pudding ‑‑ and it probably won’t get you executed.

  When, in the course of human events, there comes a time when you need to kick some ass, don’t hesitate to do so.

  Xenophobes will be rehabilitated.

  You only live once, so try not to screw that one time up.

  Zillionaire kind of has a nice ring to it, so try to amass that much money.

  Chapter One

  Moaning, Aloha Carrington bit down on her succulent bottom lip as she closed her eyes and leaned over the counter. She needed a fan, and not because it was the hot-ass month of July, but because of the voice on the answering machine. No, not the voice, per se, but the man attached to it. It totally worked her over. Her breasts ached, her panties were full of cream, and her pussy throbbed in time to the cadence of his voice. Yeah, she needed to meet that man, and she needed him to fuck her while reciting tips from the Final Fantasy video game strategy guide. Damn, he had a voice that could induce instantaneous orgasms. If she smoked, she would’ve needed a cigarette factory because that man had it going on like that.

  Get a grip, video game champion, Aloha thought as she grabbed a cranberry juice from the fridge and took a seat at the granite-covered kitchen island. She knew she needed to get it together, but she pressed replay on the answering machine so she could hear him again. That voice belonged to Atlanta’s second best friend, Imax. She had yet to meet the notorious man in person, as he had spent the last few years in his homeland, but she knew that voice because she’d heard it once a week for the last four years. That rumbling baritone was always on Atlanta’s answering machine, which she checked weekly, since Atlanta tended to forget she had a phone, much less an answering machine. Although Aloha complained bitterly about her sidekick’s technophobia, checking Atlanta’s messages was her secret pleasure. She always saved Imax’s messages for last. Regardless of how many times she heard that beautiful voice, she was never prepared for the effects it had on her body. It not only reminded her she was a woman, but it made her glad her father threw an X instead of a Y.

  Aloha self-pleasured to it. She’d lost count of the number of fantasies that involved that man. Her favorite dream involved a dark room, a big bed, and that motherfucker in her ear telling her how he was going to fuck her step by hot ass step. She shook herself from her reverie when she finally caught the last line in his message.

  “I’m returning to the States. I shall return by December.”

  Imax was returning? Oh, damn. Finally, she was going to get to meet the man who came with that voice. Closing her eyes, she wondered what the man attached to it would look like. From the pictures Atlanta had tacked to her fridge, Aloha knew he was big and had dark hair, but she wanted to know what he really looked like. What did his eyes look like in full passion? Was his bottom lip as full as it appeared? Were his hands ideal for sculpting, bearing long, tapered fingers, or were his hands built for manual labor, sporting big, thick fingers perfect for bringing a woman to a mind-blowing orgasm? That thought made her come again.

  * * * * *

  Ianikut shut off the engine and metaphorically girded his loins to face the latest challenge. His male pride was the only reason he didn’t back down from the challenge. Atlanta had dared him to spend the day kicking it with her Posse, the gaggle of women that posed as her sisters. He would’ve brought his brothers as backup, if he weren’t scared she’d find a way to literally break them, being the master of unintentional destruction that she was. Sighing, he thought of his brothers littering the healing chamber in various states of dismemberment. Better he face this challenge alo
ne. Perhaps he wouldn’t have had such an overwhelming feeling of doom if he knew precisely what “kicking it” entailed and if he was ignorant of the fact that Atlanta was slightly insane. He was sure that each of her friends also suffered various degrees of insanity. Over the past four years, he’d had the misfortune of being spoken to by said friends whenever he’d called Atlanta to assure her he was still alive and still realized how lucky he was to have her friendship. He would’ve said “spoken with” instead of “spoken to,” but that particular phrasing implied he had had an opportunity to speak.

  Ianikut mentally rolodexed through Atlanta’s most unbelievable stories regarding the misadventures of her and her Posse and shuddered at the things they could do to him, get him involved in, or try to sweet-talk him into doing. Things such as cheering for Carolina, which was anathema to him, a Duke alum. He forced himself to exit his beloved Bentley, knowing she was probably peeking out the window and placing bets on how long he would sit out there. The Jaws theme music played in his head as he walked to the door.

  Ianikut felt the beginnings of a headache as he recalled how he ‑‑ the Ianikut Maksim Aleksandrovich ‑‑ had allowed Atlanta ‑‑ a mere Carolina alum ‑‑ to rope him into this. Sighing, he mentally berated himself for once again allowing her to goad him into participating in her chaos. He chalked up her success to that superior tone she used when extending her dares. What do you think we’ll do to you? Even considering the myriad possibilities, he found himself ringing the doorbell to Atlanta’s house on April Fool’s Day ‑‑ of all days ‑‑ to bemoan the start of baseball season. The day was perfect for anything but this. If he didn’t consider her the sister he’d never had, he’d be improving on his five handicap. But he did consider her his sister, and thus he was here. Damn it.

  Ianikut rang the bell again and grimaced at the tone. Only Atlanta would have the Monday Night Football jingle as the tune for her doorbell. Finally, his nemesis swung open the door.

  “About fucking time. Get your ass in here,” she yelled over the raucous sound of laughter.

  If he hadn’t been well acquainted with Atlanta, he might’ve been surprised she had answered the door riding a scooter and wielding a hockey stick. He snickered, eyeing her rather interesting ensemble, which consisted of protective gear, a North Carolina jersey, and a pair of basketball shorts.

  “That’s an interesting outfit you have on.”

  Rolling her eyes at his short-sleeved button-up dress shirt and cuffed dress pants, she asked, “You know this is a cookout, right?”

  “You mentioned that.”

  “And yet, you still show up dressed like you might be called to the golf course at any moment.”

  “I don’t have on golf spikes.”

  “Yeah, and if you didn’t suck at golf, you’d have a pair right next to your spare standard rich guy outfit,” she retorted as she directed him to the living room, where she hurriedly introduced him to a beautifully put-together woman.

  “Silana, this is Imax. Imax, Silana. Don’t piss her off.”

  “Yeah, or she’ll hex your ass and then throw down a party celebrating your demise,” a woman, dressed in various shades of neon, piped in.

  At the sound of Aloha, Ianikut nearly came, and the beast within him stilled. Ianikut immediately recognized that voice, the one that sounded as if it should be featured on a 1-900 commercial. The man knew that voice, the beast knew it, and his body would’ve reacted had they been alone. He’d heard it instruct him to leave a message. He’d heard it inform him of the hours at Evil Twins. Now he wanted to hear that voice moan his name over and over until she was hoarse. Had they been alone, he would’ve reached down and tasted that succulent mouth as he pulled her softness to him.

  He might’ve fantasized about her for the rest of the day had it not been for the rest of her team skating up. There was a mass introduction before they skated off to another room to resume their game. “Time in,” someone yelled just as he seated himself in what he guessed was the living room. Atlanta’s home looked like a frat house ‑‑ an expensive one, but a frat house nonetheless ‑‑ and he was shocked and amazed every time he stepped over the threshold.

  “So, how did a man of such discriminating taste allow Atlanta to rope you into this?” Silana inquired.

  “Thank you for the compliment. I can only surmise that I might’ve been drugged.”

  The woman paused to laugh before offering advice. It’s what she did ‑‑ after all, she was the attorney in the bunch, he recalled. “Better not let Atlanta hear you say that. How could you even suggest you had to be dragged kicking and screaming to her infamous ‘Dammit, Baseball Season Is Back’ cookout?”

  Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of a man who resembled the poster child for the all-American cowboy. “Hi, I’m Iain ‑‑ the lucky SOB married to Victorious,” he introduced himself. “You might want to fix yourself a drink and get some rest before they come back in here, slinging demands,” he advised, pointing to the full-size bar. Ianikut discovered an immediate kinship with this male and soon the three of them lapsed into a refreshing conversation.

  Triumphant shouting and the sounds of stuff breaking caught his attention.

  “What are they doing?” Ianikut felt compelled to ask.

  “My guess is that they’re well on their way to destroying some things ‑‑ plural ‑‑ which requires a plethora of trash-talking and ends with one of them requiring a trip to the ER,” Silana answered.

  “Are they always like this?”

  “Only on days that end in y,” Iain said.

  After nearly choking on his drink, he asked, “Did, uh, did Atlanta do any of the cooking?” He didn’t want to offend either Silana or Iain, as they obviously had great affection for Atlanta. However, having witnessed the fallout from Atlanta’s attempts at microwaving, he wasn’t taking any chances.

  “Scared?” Silana inquired.

  “Frankly, yes. I’ve seen her start fires ‑‑ plural ‑‑ in the microwave…warming up food, not even cooking it.”

  “Ah, so you’re the cretin who banned her from the office kitchen.” Iain laughed.

  “I had to. She doesn’t even work for my company and is a hazard all by herself, and I’m on a first-name basis with the entire day shift of all of the emergency services in the metro Atlanta area. I’ve only been back in the U.S. for a few months. My office qualifies for a frequent-buyer discount card.”

  “And yet you came over anyway?” Iain said.

  “Yeah,” Ianikut said resignedly. “She pronounced that she was the sister I needed and thusly has taken to bossing me around ever since.”

  “But aren’t you older?” Iain asked.

  “And wiser?” Silana finished.

  “Yes and yes. I’ve told her this many times, but reason means nothing to her when it runs contrary to her wants.”

  “Sounds like you love her,” Iain said.

  “This is where I plead the fifth.”

  “What for?” Silana asked. “Everyone here already knows you love her. I bet that child has a postcard from every city in Russia, courtesy of you.”

  “If she didn’t get a postcard every week, she’d wait for the most inconvenient time to call and harass me, knowing I was eight hours ahead of her.”

  “And yet you not only came back to the U.S., but you moved to the same city?” Iain asked.

  Ianikut sighed and bowed his head before mumbling a response.

  Iain leaned forward and clinked his beer bottle against Ianikut’s glass. “Welcome to the real world, where women run everything, and we men just do their bidding. I think the Posse is extra special nuts due to the fact that they’re Carolina alums.”

  “Watch it, Iain,” Silana teased before turning to Ianikut. “Well, since Atlanta has you so wrapped around her little finger, are you sure you couldn’t be persuaded to partake of one of her culinary endeavors?”

  “Not even Atlanta can be persuaded to partake of her own culinary endeavors.” I
anikut shuddered. “Just because I’ve been dragged into mischief with her, doesn’t mean I have a death wish. I know her culinary endeavors are chased by a trip to the ER. Hell, I once rushed her to the ER to have her stomach pumped after she attempted to make something she saw on one of those cooking shows.”

  Indy, an older woman who wore a ready smile and an easygoing disposition, interrupted them when she informed them lunch was ready.

  Atlanta sauntered into the room, removing her protective gear. “Dude, come on. We don’t have all day. Wash your hands and let’s grub.”

  * * * * *

  “Ianikut?” Aloha asked.

  “Aloha?”

  “Yes. It’s nice to finally meet the notorious Imax in person.”

  “And it’s nice to finally meet Atlanta’s evil twin,” he replied. Seeing her throw him a look that promised retribution, he hurriedly clarified, “Her words, not mine.”

  “Yeah, that sounds like her, but I’m the good twin; she’s the evil one. So now that we’ve been properly introduced, hopefully you will appease my curiosity. How did you come across such an intriguing nickname?”

  Ianikut emitted a long-suffering sigh, admitting, “Atlanta gave it to me.”

  Aloha laughed at his admission. “She must really like you. Normally when she nicks someone’s name, it isn’t a compliment.”

  Ianikut smiled. “Recalling the disproportionate amount of people with a nickname that involves the terms ass, mother, or head, I know I’m lucky. However, I’m her second-best friend, so it’s only right I get a decent nickname.”

  “Yeah, but I’m her best friend, and second place is so far behind first place, there might as well be a continuation symbol because the gap is so large,” she threw back with a beautiful smile.

  “Your place in Atlanta’s hierarchy of best friends is duly noted,” Ianikut returned. “Truce?” he inquired because, although there were things he could imagine doing with the cute woman before him, fighting wasn’t one of those things unless it was fighting to see who got to be on top.