by Brill Harper
Notch on His Bedpost
Brill Harper
Published by Brill Harper, 2018.
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
NOTCH ON HIS BEDPOST
First edition. April 16, 2018.
Copyright © 2018 Brill Harper.
Written by Brill Harper.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
ABOUT THIS BOOK
AMA with Mr. Virile
CHAPTER ONE
Neighborly Advice
CHAPTER TWO
Scene Around column from Port Calypso Daily News
CHAPTER THREE
AMA with Mr. Virile
CHAPTER FOUR
Neighborly Advice
CHAPTER FIVE
As seen on AMA with Mr. Virile and Neighborly Advice
CHAPTER SIX
AMA with Mr. Virile
CHAPTER SEVEN
Neighborly Advice
CHAPTER EIGHT
EPILOGUE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
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Further Reading: Nailed: A Blue Collar Bad Boys Book
Also By Brill Harper
ABOUT THIS BOOK
HE SAID/SHE SAID IN the age of the internet...
My job as a dating guru for men has earned me the nickname of Mr. Virile and I have no plans on giving up my reign as bachelor. I have a reputation to uphold, especially with the release of my book coming up. Men count on me and my YouTube channel and website to help them find the alpha male inside.
But a publicity stunt goes wrong and now I have to pretend to date, Holly, “the girl next door” blogger who hates my website and doles out the opposite advice to her many feminist subscribers. She says I’m exactly the kind of guy she cautions her readers and podcast listeners away from and she’s right.
She says I’ll never get her into my bed. I say she won’t regret it when I’m there. As long as we both remember this is all for fun, nobody will get hurt.
I don’t have a heart, so I’m in no danger of losing it to her, right?
Author confession: I wanted to put this book in the Blue Collar Bad Boy series because Dane is such a bad, bad boy. But he’s not blue collar—he likes his expensive suits and his urban reputation. Or does he? Oh, and there’s a big, dopey dog and lots of he said/she said. Has the girl next door tamed the most virile man alive, or is she just another notch on the bedpost?
AMA with Mr. Virile
Transcript from live Facebook event
DEAR MR. VIRILE,
Following your advice, I’ve been really careful not to let the new woman at work put me in the “friend zone” because she’s smoking hot and I want to date her. I’m not sure I’m reading her signals right, though. Sometimes, she flat out ignores me and other times, she can’t carry on a conversation with me at the water cooler without touching me a million times. How do I know if it’s a go or not?
Sincerely,
Horny and Confused
~*~
DEAR HC,
Women are mysterious creatures. They say one thing and do another all the time, but the Virile Man knows to look for subconscious cues to let him know when to stop circling the runway and land the plane already.
A woman can bat her eyelashes at you one moment and gift you with a death glare the next, but she can’t control her pupils. One sure sign of attraction can be found in the windows to her panties...her eyes. Pupils dilate during arousal and attraction, so take a moment to look deep into those baby blues before you give up. She may be sending you mixed signals, but eyes don’t lie.
CHAPTER ONE
Dane Martin
LEANING AGAINST THE wrought iron bar that overlooks the rest of the lounge, I survey my kingdom and am pleased.
It’s only Tuesday night, but bar business is good—an auspicious sign of a favorable outcome for me, though I don’t own the club or have any financial interest in it. A laugh tinkles in the distance, stirring my blood and reminding me how much I absofuckinglutely love to be surrounded by women.
I love the way they sound, smell, taste. The cool rush of their silky skin, the pillows of their flesh, the heat of their mouths, throats, pussies, and ass. I love the knowing look in their eye when they’re pretending they don’t realize I’m seducing them. Witty lovers please me the most, the ones who turn me on with their mind first, their body second. But let’s face it, I’m mostly there for their body.
I’m not saying I’m not an ass. I’m well aware I’m not on anyone’s list of prospective husbands. And I’m never dishonest about my intentions.
But just being in their presence is a reverent experience for me. I worship at the church of sexy women. I’m never a better me than when surrounded by beautiful women.
So a hot Tuesday night at the bar puts a smile on my face. Though not one of the hottest clubs in Port Calypso, I like the ambiance of Felony. The music is never too loud to get a phone number, the lights never too low to spot a woman masquerading herself prettier than she really is, and the top shelf liquor is never watered down. Really, that is all I require to get the job done.
Tonight, the ratio of women to men was a perfect 3:1 thanks to a bachelorette party in progress in the corner. Another good sign. Women feel more in control when they outnumber the men in a bar. They enjoy more freedom and less inhibition. They flirt with abandon. They don’t feel hunted.
They still are, of course.
The less testosterone in a bar, the better, as far as I’m concerned.
The volume of squeals from the corner signifies that the party is likely on their second round of margaritas. Too soon for a strike in that zone. It would be another two rounds before a guy could begin separating the individuals from the pack. Right now, the ladies are still high on friendship and Beyoncé. Girl power and all that. Later, after two hours of boozing and talking about penises, they’ll be more agreeable to finding one to take home.
A nod to Marc behind the bar and the man pulls out the eighteen-year-old Macallan they keep below deck for the nights I come in. I take it neat because I don’t like complications in my drinks any more than I like them in relationships. I take it at eighteen years because it tastes better, and though the joke is there, I unwaveringly stay away from women of the same age as my Scotch. There is nothing uncomplicated about dating barely legal girls. I don’t have anything to prove, thus don’t need my women to be barely anything.
I sip my drink slowly, watching a poor soul make an ill-timed blast at the bridal party. His approach is terrible. From my perch, I can see that the guy is fronting a confidence he doesn’t feel. You don’t just walk up to a table full of women, interrupt their good time, and not have a better plan than a line as tired as, “How you doin’?”
Three...Two...One...and...shot down, as expected. If the guy is lucky, one of his buddies will send him to my website, Mister Virile dot com. Sooner than later. I provide a much-needed service to the single men in the world, which in turn benefits the single women of the world. I’m almost a humanitarian, really.
Right on time, my agent, Magdalene Finch, waves at me from the bar entrance. Her shiny blonde mane bounces as she strides toward me, smiling the way that makes the primal male heart grow inside my chest. She is gorgeous, smart, savvy, and completely off limits, though that never stops me from appreciating her charms. I just can’t partake in them.
I reach to kiss her cheek and take a healthy whiff of her hair. Amazing. She always smells amazing. “Mags.”
“Dane.” She squeezes my arm and shakes her head ruefully, as if lamenting her bad luck that our professional relationship means we keep things
professional. We would never know each other in the biblical sense. A shame. “You’re a work of art, my friend.”
I smile and get Marc’s attention with a slight inclination of my chin. “My agent tells me I need to keep up my appearance for the book tour. What are you drinking?”
“Cosmo. And your agent is a genius.”
She certainly is.
I order her drink and lead her to a table. “My agent is also very humble.” I pull out her chair, seat her, and round the table. “But yes, a genius.”
She bats her eyelids in exaggerated flirtation. “Speaking of your tour, I have a friend of a friend who knows someone at KZMY. We got you an interview on their morning news show the day after your book is released. I think you are really going to shoot up the list.”
The list is spelled with a capital L when my agent says it. I don’t expect to hit the Times Bestseller list, but Magdalene has never once doubted that I will. We’ll just have to see this summer.
“TV spot? Well, then I guess it’s a good thing you told me to keep myself up. Is that why you wanted to meet me tonight, to tell me about a possible TV appearance?”
Her direct eye contact falters. Unusual for Mags. She is one of those people that doesn’t deal with mixed body signals. She is either all in or all out when it comes to conversation. “Not exactly.” Her gaze travels to the door, and she waves at a couple entering the bar.
The man has his hand on the woman’s lower back as they approach the table. If they are dating, they aren’t into it. Either of them. The woman doesn’t lean into the man’s touch, though she doesn’t look uncomfortable, just not turned on. Maybe they are married; that would explain the lack of interest. But, no, no rings on either of their hands, either.
I stand automatically to meet them as Mags introduces me first to Mitch Rains, a literary agent from her office. Mitch shakes my hand with a hearty grip and introduces Mags and me both to his client, Holly Winters.
Holly Winters. That name sounds familiar, but I can’t recall why.
A prickle of unease hits me between my shoulder blades, where I always hold my tension until my weekly session with Brigit and her Fingers of Wonder. Yet another woman off limits. I would never do anything to screw up my massage hour.
Holly Winters is...cute...for lack of better word. Like, Laura Ingalls Wilder in a black cocktail dress. I tried to place her in my memory, but it becomes frustratingly clear I haven’t slept with her. I’d have remembered all those freckles. I’d have done a lot of connecting- the-dots.
She, like her agent, shakes hands with an easy confidence, and as Mags introduces me to her, a momentary cloud passes over her eyes. Is she trying to figure out a connection as well? There is small talk as we stand around the table, but I’m distracted. Did we go to school together? Is she somebody’s sister? I place her firmly in the mid-twenties range based on, well, my experience with women of varying ages. I try to mentally dress her in different outfits to jog my memory, but all I succeed in doing is mentally undressing her.
Not helping.
It’s just that she is curvy. The kind of curves that spill out of bras, which has me dying to know how low those freckles go. I’m sure I could find out, but not sure I should. I need to figure out why her name is familiar if her face and body are not.
“Mitch!” Magdalene gasps, pantomiming a ridiculous amount of agitation. “I just remembered...we’re supposed to be at that office thing, um, meeting right now.”
Mitch, not nearly as good at feigning surprise, also gasps. “How could we have forgotten? If we hurry, we may still make it on time.”
A flurry of apologies ensues with both agents talking a mile a minute and making zero sense. A waitress brings over the Cosmo Mags ordered, and Mags encourages Holly to take her place or the drink will go to waste. I barely have time to protest their leaving when they are just...gone.
Holly blinks at me a few times, the little crease above her nose furrowing crescents deep into her skin. “Well, that was weird.”
Her voice sucker punches me. It’s low, throaty, and it flips a switch inside me that’s normally reserved for blondes about six inches taller. Holly is cute, but not hot. And she has a nice set, but I’m a leg man.
Usually.
We’ve obviously been set up for some reason, and I’m supposed to know something about her that I don’t. All of these things should make me wary and rational instead of suddenly very, very turned on.
I shake my head and remember my manners, pulling out a chair. “Weird seems tame, but I agree.”
Holly takes Mags’ seat and holds up her new drink in toast when I sit down. “Well, here’s to getting the bottom of it.”
I try to come up with a quip or thought or, hell, anything to say, but my tongue can’t work around the sandpaper dryness in my mouth. I’m not actually nervous, am I? I remind myself that I’m twenty-eight years old, not fourteen, but this sensation feels achingly close.
I try to recall the last time a woman made me nervous and come up with—too long ago to remember. Well, except for the dominatrix two years ago, but that was a different kind of nervous and, while I enjoyed the experience, it isn’t one I’ll repeat.
No, this feeling is completely different. I’m...anxious. Filled with a sweet anticipation that makes all my nerve endings a little raw. I’ve been coasting safely on a very scenic highway for many years, but all of the sudden, it feels like I’m going off-road for an adventure in pot holes, blind corners, and lots of mud. My adrenalin spikes even as I try to talk myself down.
“So, Dane, why are we here?” Holly asks without guile.
God, that voice. Even a direct, honest question sounds provocative.
I’ll have to play this one cool. Not usually a problem, but tonight is going to take some concentration. “I’m here meeting my agent for a drink to talk about my upcoming book release.” Though obviously, that isn’t what Mags really invited me here for. “You?”
Those crescents deepen above her nose again. I tighten the grip on my glass to avoid the temptation to smooth her brow gently with my finger. What the hell is wrong with me?
“Same actually,” she answers.
“So, you’re a writer?” I ask.
Jesus, Sherlock.
“Accidentally, I suppose. I’m a blogger with a book deal.”
“Well, that explains what we have in common,” I reply. “I run a website too. My book comes out in July. You?”
“Next year.” She has faint crinkle lines when she smiles, and it turns my stomach inside out. Why, I have no idea. “Congratulations. What’s your book about?” she asks.
I tip my glass and watch the amber liquid move with the motion. I’m proud of my website and even prouder of my book, but suddenly it seems...shallow. My life’s work and I’m ashamed to admit it to this woman. “Dating advice for men.”
Holly sputters, and her pink drink sprinkles the table. She quickly mops up the mess with the cocktail napkin in one hand while covering her cough with the other.
“Uh...” I eloquently express. Idiot.
“I’m so sorry. And embarrassed. And wanting to die,” she says. “It’s just that...oh my God.” She shakes her head.
It occurs to me that I like the fact that she’s so human. It seems like all the women I spend time with are practiced, maybe even a little plastic if I think about it too hard. This girl with a husky laugh and genuine imperfections like smile lines and freckles feels like a new frontier of some kind. Why do women try so hard to cover them up?
“You’re going to have to fill me in here, Holly. What has you so flustered?”
Smoothing the bodice of her dress, Holly tries very hard to repaint some poise over her composure. “I just realized who you must be.”
I feel my eyebrows reaching for my hairline. “And who might that be, exactly?”
She downs the rest of the Cosmo in one gulp. “You’re my nemesis.”
Neighborly Advice
... question for Girl Next D
oor podcast
DEAR GIRL NEXT DOOR,
I’m at my wit’s end. I’m totally into this guy and we have a great time whenever we are together, but he can’t seem to make a plan and stick with it...and if I call him on it, he tells me that I’m being needy. Like last weekend, we had plans to go out Friday, but he didn’t show up until 11 p.m. I asked him why he didn’t at least call me, and he said that he lost track of time, but he was here now so I shouldn’t be mad. Obviously, I was still upset, so he left and told me to call him when I wasn’t feeling so needy all the time.
What is up with this guy? Are my expectations too high?
Signed,
Ain’t No Hollaback Girl
~*~
DEAR =/= HOLLA,
It’s a trap. When a guy wants you but doesn’t want you on your terms, chances are he’ll pull out all the stops to make it look like you are the unreasonable one. If he ever utters the phrase, “You’re too insecure...” it’s time to move on.
It’s not needy to expect a guy to call or show up when he says he will. It’s not needy to want to know if you have a date this weekend so you can make other plans if you don’t. It’s not needy to expect that if you’re sharing intimacies with someone, you might also want to know a few details about what he’s doing when he’s not inside of you.
If a guy can’t commit to the basics—following through on his commitment to call you or show up on time—he isn’t going to commit to you period.
Cut him loose and give another guy a chance to appreciate what you have to offer.
CHAPTER TWO
Holly Winters
DANE SETS HIS DRINK on the table and smiles what most would consider a friendly smile. I have to give it to the guy. He’s smooth. But I’m not a fool. Everything about Dane Martin is an artifice. From the not-a-single-dark-hair out of place to the Italian shoes polished to a shine, the man is an advertisement of an advertisement. He is the wolf in wolf’s clothing pretending to be a convincing sheep. And Dane Martin is the reason I’m able to pay my rent every month.