Red Hot Alphas: 11 Novels of Sexy, Bad Boy, Alpha Males (Red Hot Boxed Sets Book 2)

by Jo Raven

  He shrugs. "Rent's due," he says. "Overdue. Technically. By a couple months. My landlord's too lazy to serve an eviction notice, but let's be real, he knows where I sleep. I might come home and find my shit on the lawn. It's only a matter of time." He's being very candid with me, and I've got no reason not believe him. He's a struggling actor, after all. It fits the narrative. "I'm sure you've been there."

  It's a strangely penetrating statement. "What makes you so sure?"

  "You've got a nice place," he says. "Nice stuff. But you don't act like somebody who's always had enough."

  This can only be a compliment, but my skin still crawls a little. I hug myself tighter. "Well, I've been lucky. But you're right. I wasn't always."

  "Lucky, hell," he says. "You worked hard for what you have. Maybe not digging ditches, but it's not like somebody just dropped a pot of gold in your lap."

  Sometimes it feels that way, but realistically, I know he's a little bit right. Even if this change of heart feels a little disingenuous. "Okay. As much as I don't want to reward you for acting like a fucking stalker, I've got to tip my hat to your ingenuity. If you want to pick up where we left off, I'll pay you for the first appearance in advance."

  He lets out a sigh, his shoulders relaxing slightly. "Thank you," he says. "Seriously. I want to give you a hug, but that might be overreaching." His forehead creases a little. "And, uh, maybe not so much in character."

  The last thing I want from him is some kind of brotherly hug, but I can't deny it would feel good to have his body pressed up against mine. "Bring it in," I say, unfolding my arms and gesturing him close. He closes the distance between us with a grin and wraps me up in a big bear hug; for a moment, I breathe in his scent and everything is perfect.

  He lets me go.

  A second later, I remember I'm still covered in sweat. But Josh doesn't seem to mind.

  "I want to work on this," he says. "I know I can do it. You just have to be patient with me."

  He's so earnest, so not-Landon, but how can I say no to him now?

  "Okay. But I'm going home to take a shower before we talk about this any more." I hug myself tightly, as if it can make up for the absence of his arms around me. "Call me tomorrow?"

  He nods, and I turn to go. I'm already halfway down the block when we calls out to me.

  "Hey, Kimberly."

  I pause, and look over my shoulder.

  Josh grins. "Nice moves."

  "Yeah, right." I keep walking, but I can't shake the feeling that he might have meant it. "If you like that, you should see my inner goddess. She really nails those merengue moves."

  Josh guffaws. "Hey, I get that now."

  ***

  I'm trying to relax in front of the computer with a glass of wine - okay, a tumbler of wine - when my screen flashes with a new message from Amy.

  Holy shit did you see this? D.B. is losing his damn mind

  I grin a little as I click on the link. We always had a good laugh at D.B. Blackwood's antics, but I can't imagine what he's done this time to get such a strong reaction out of her. I feel like we've both seen it all, at this point.

  See, when I started this whole Landon Steele thing, I didn't foresee it becoming a trend. But it did. Now there's a bunch of romance authors out there identifying as male Doms, and God only knows how many of them are filthy liars like me. I don't really care. It's the sincerest form of flattery, after all, and no one successful in this business goes long without being copied. But some of them are just like bad parodies of pickup artists, and D.B. is the worst of them all. He always wants to draw people into some kind of pissing contest, and he fancies himself an expert on women. Well, all these guys do. That's kind of part and parcel of the act. But if I see him post one more thing that starts with "the female brain..." I'm going to scream.

  And not the way he claims he can make women scream. That's for damn sure.

  At first, I can't figure out what Amy is referring to. D.B.'s latest blog post seems to be about the usual. I have to laugh a little as I dig in:

  Folks, let me tell you - you think I've never been friendzoned, 'cause I'm some big stud with a massive cock? (Hey, you guys said it. Not me. I refuse to confirm or deny any speculation about the size of my johnson, because I don't want to get into that stuff.) The Friendzone. It's happened. It's happened to me, it's happened to every man in America. So how do we DEFEAT the friendzone? How can you BREAK THROUGH the barriers that make a female think she can't possibly get wet for you?

  Men out there, I'm not stupid. I know you read my books to try and figure out the female mind. (And maybe sometimes cause you just want to rub one out - no judgments here! You can jerk off to another man's words. It ain't gay if the balls don't touch.) But you're completely baffled by what you find here. You just know if you talked to your wife the way I talk to women in my books, she'd slap you silly.

  Well, you might be right. Your wife's got an advantage in dealing with me, and I'm very sorry, but that's just the way it is. If she gets annoyed, she can just shut the book, turn off the e-reader, shut the computer, and walk away. She doesn't need to cook me dinner, or ask me where I put the checkbook, or tell me the kid's schedules. Not fair, is it?

  "But wait, Sir," you're saying. "I thought we were talking about the FRIENDZONE. That dreaded place where teenage boys end up, 'cause they play chess instead of football. I've outgrown that, haven't I? My own wife can't possibly friendzone me."

  Well, guys, that's where you're wrong. How many times have you heard one half of a couple describe the decline of their relationship like this:

  "It's just like we were roommates"

  "We were still good friends, but the passion was gone"

  "He's my best friend, but the sex is so boring"

  Uh huh. That's right. Let it sink in. Good and deep. Because trust me, nothing else is gonna be sinking in good and deep until we work this shit out.

  I pop back into the chat window.

  lol, is he going to start telling guys they need to wear an interesting hat to bed so they can 'peacock' their own wives?

  Amy types back:

  No no no, not THAT post, the other one. On the main page.

  I go back and hunt down what she's talking about, and my jaw drops slightly.

  All right folks, here's the situation. You know I've been struggling to protect my interests, and yours, in this crowded landscape of Doms clamoring for attention. We must sound like a bunch of clucking hens. Well, I'm not saying we need to thin the herd. Hell, I always say, the more the merrier! But I won't abide by liars, fakes, and cheats. When I get wind of them in my house, I think it's my job, no, my duty, to do something to expose them.

  I'm starting a new blog. THE TRUTHSEEKERS. In it, I'm going to devote some time and a lot of blood, sweat and tears to uncovering the fakers. I know I'm putting myself on the line, and I might get a bunch of nasty reviews or a bunch of hate in my inbox. I don't care. I have to do it, because who else is going to? We've been lied to, people. It's appalling. We all deserve the truth.

  Fake identities, fake reviews, fake names, fake everything. What are these so-called authors trying to hide? We'll find out.

  Stay tuned.

  My throat tightens. I know, in some way I've always known, that I'm flirting with disaster by having such a loud and brash personality online that's not my own. People start to notice. They start to wonder. I've always ignored or deflected questions about who I really am, trying to make it sound incredibly uninteresting, but that doesn't mean I won't end up on D.B.'s radar. Especially if he's noticed that I was the first. D.B. Blackwood is a jealous man.

  I've never written or solicited a "fake review" in my life, and I never would. Even though I know reviews are valuable currency when it comes to getting noticed, and it's becoming commonplace now for books to debut with hundreds of reviews and a five-star rating. Sometimes it feels hopeless, like I'll never be able to keep up, and hell, maybe buying reviews is the anabolic steroids of the book world. But my integr
ity's not going to mean anything to readers, if they find out I'm lying.

  All it takes is one lie, and you're a liar forever.

  I type to Amy:

  Shit.

  There's nothing more to say, really. She responds almost instantly.

  I'm sure this is gonna blow over in a week or so. Don't sweat it <3

  Well, I'm going to sweat it.

  And I'm going to do so with another tumbler of wine.

  ***

  By the time I meet with Josh again, I'm starting to think Amy was right. No new posts have appeared on the TRUTH SEEKERS blog, and D.B. seems completely absorbed with preparations for an upcoming book signing downtown. The fact that he's shortly going to be within fifteen miles of my apartment is unsettling, but that's what I get for living in one of the biggest cities in the world. He keeps saying he's super excited to meet some author called Natalie McBride, who writes about alpha males so well she could practically be one herself! Wink wink. I'm not sure if he's actually trying to imply something or not, but if he's turned his focus off of my world for a minute, that's fine with me.

  I've got bigger fish to fry.

  "Diction lessons?" Josh says, grimacing at the paper I've handed him. "Seriously?"

  "They're not diction lessons," I insist. "You just need to talk a certain way. That's all. Think HAL 9000."

  He smirks. "I'm afraid I can't do that, Dave. Is that supposed to be sexy?"

  "Not that soft-spoken, just...measured. Calm. Pronouncing everything carefully."

  "You said I didn't sound natural enough, and now you want me to talk like a robot." He shrugs. "Makes sense!"

  "I thought you said you wanted to do this," I snap. "And I'm pretty sure HAL's not a robot. He's just a computer."

  Josh's smile softens as he plops down on my sofa, cup of coffee in hand. "I knew you had a little bit of nerd in you."

  "Yeah, I really look the part, don't I?" This time, I actually sit down next to him. I'm not sure why. He registers surprise, but it seems to be at what I said, rather than what I did.

  He blows on his coffee lightly. "What's that supposed to mean? I just meant, you know, you're smart." He taps the side of his head. "Glasses. I know it's a stereotype, but it's true, isn't it?"

  "Wait, are you saying I'm smart because I wear glasses?" I'm laughing now, and he's a little embarrassed. "Landon Steele doesn't blush, you know."

  "Fuck Landon Steele." He grins at me. "There, I said it. You can hit me if you want to."

  Rolling my eyes, I take a sip of my own coffee. I'm trying hard not to think about how close he is to me. I could roll over and be in his lap.

  Why the hell would that even pop into your head?

  "I wouldn't hit you. Guys never get Landon. That's just the way it is."

  "Well, of course. No real guy could compete with a man like that." He glances at me meaningfully. At least, I'm pretty sure it's meaningful. I just don't know what it means.

  I just shrug. "Nobody actually expects them to. In spite of what everybody thinks, guys don't watch porn and actually expect that in real life. It's the same thing. These women love their husbands. They appreciate them. I see the way they talk about their real-life lovers with stars in their eyes. Makes me jealous, actually."

  That's much more honest than I usually am...with anyone, really. Especially a near-stranger. There's a lot of things I've done because of Josh that I don't normally do. I'm not much of a hugger, and I don't like people in my personal space. But right now, it feels like a great idea to scoot a little closer on the sofa. I do, disguising it as straightening my skirt.

  I've dressed to impress, which feels weird now. He must have noticed. Oh well, let him think that I'm going on a hot date later. My skirt is a deep maroon color, knee-length and flatteringly swishy. My blouse is low-cut with ribbons criss-crossing in a faux corset look, and it normally flares out nicely over my "problem areas." But when I'm sitting down, I'm quite aware of the roll that forms around my middle.

  This is what I truly hate about my body. Not the thing itself; I know, objectively, there's nothing wrong with it. Back when Rubens was painting portraits of women who looked like me, I would have been hot shit. Sometimes, I still am. But that's just the thing: sometimes. When I meet a man, I never know if he's a fan of the extra cushion, or if he's neutral, or if he's downright disgusted. And it's not exactly a question you can just casually ask somebody.

  "I said you're smart because you're smart," Josh says. I shake myself out of my depressing thoughts. "But your glasses are cute, too."

  He looks down at the floor. Holy hell, is he trying to flirt with me? Does he think it's going to help?

  Well, okay, it doesn't hurt.

  "So, what's the deal with that author signing event?" Josh stirs his coffee, glancing up at me. "I saw you fielding a bunch of questions about it online."

  I shrug. "Just another publicity shtick. I've never done them, for obvious reasons. But they know I'm in the city, so they're bugging me more than usual about it."

  "I gotta admit, I'm surprised you didn't ask me to go." He takes a sip, his eyes still locked on mine. "Don't think I'm ready?"

  "You said you weren't very good at improv. I didn't want to push you."

  He smirks. "That's a very polite way to say it. But if you want to surprise everybody, I'd be okay with that."

  Smiling ruefully, I pour a cup for myself. "Registration was a year ago. If I'd known I was going to end up hiring you anyway, I probably would have. But you can't exactly just pop into something like this."

  "Why not? They got locks on the doors? Armed guards?" There's a glint in his eyes, and I'm not entirely sure that I like it.

  I'm sort of hoping he's joking, but I'm also sort of hoping he's not. Like so many things when it comes to Josh, it's a complicated series of emotions. "Do you really want to crash a book signing?" I'm laughing a little, but his eyes widen, like he's trying to signal this isn't a joke at all.

  "Maybe not the actual signing," he concedes. "But it's a convention, right? I bet we can just wander into the hotel and hang out in the lobby, nobody's going to ask to see our papers. Just spread the rumor on social media. Your fans will show. And I'll schmooze. They'll love it."

  "You're scarily good at this," I admit. "How long have you been planning this coup?"

  He shrugs. "Just popped into my head last night, when I was reading your feed. Your fans want to meet you. Why not give 'em what they want?"

  I have to admit, it's kind of a romantic idea. And it'll be fun to see people reacting to Landon Steele in person, even if the attention won't be directed towards me. We'll have a little more control over the situation, deciding on our own when to come and go, rather than being at the mercy of the TV production company. If things get overwhelming, we can always bail.

  "Maybe," I say, finally. "But I don't know. Things might get a little crazy. You sure you're up for this?"

  "Absolutely." He grins. "You gotta live a little. Here, we'll come up with a secret signal if we need to bail. Owl noises. Do you do bird calls?"

  I'm giggling, starting to forget about why we were here in the first place. "We could just, you know, talk to each other."

  "Right." He lifted his cup. "Cheers. I forgot about that."

  CHAPTER FIVE

  "Pleased to meet you, Ms. Tuggey."

  Josh grimaces. "Pleased to meet you, Ms. Tuggey," he repeats.

  I pull my hand away from his. "Your palms are sweaty."

  He lets out a huge sigh, wiping his hands on his jeans. "Of course they are. Every part of me is sweating. My brain is sweating. This is brutal."

  "We're almost there," I promise him. "Just a little smoother."

  Josh makes a frustrated noise, raking his hands through his hair. "You keep saying that. I don't know what it means!"

  "Smooth," I repeat. "Like James Bond. Don Draper. Sinatra. Idris Elba. I don't know, just, smooth."

  "You're going to feel bad when I keel over dead," he says.

  He
sounds different.

  I freeze, staring at him. "Say that again."

  "You're gonna..."

  "No!" I cut him off, with a vague yet frantic gesture. "No, no, you had it. You had it for a second. Now you're back to Josh. For a second there, I heard Mr. Steele. I really did."

  His chest puffs out slightly when he breathes in. "Really?"

  "Yes, really!" I'm feeling positively gleeful, but also terrified it was a one-time fluke that's now lost forever. "Come on. Try again. Going to, not gonna. It's two separate words."

  "You're going to feel bad..."

  That's as far as he gets before I squeal.

  "Wow." He's grinning, scratching at the back of his neck in that sorta-embarrassed tick of his. But I don't mind, because he's finally got it. "If I'd known how happy you'd be, I would've tried harder."

  "Are you implying you weren't before?" I'm mock scandalized, and he just laughs.

  "You know I've been working my ass off for you." He's still doing the voice, a little bit, without meaning to - and he cringes. "Shit. I sound like I'm about to ask my dad when we're meeting at the country club later."

  "You do not," I insist. "You sound sexy."

  Well. That just came out of my mouth.

  "Not that you don't normally," I hear myself say. "Shit. Uh, I mean..."

  Josh is smiling - a real smile, without a hint of sarcasm, one that grows slowly across his face. His eyes light up a little. Like it actually matters that I think he's sexy. Like he cares.

  Well, everybody likes to be flattered. I shouldn't read too much into this.

  "Kim, I wanna ask you something." He takes a step closer, and there's a little wrinkle in his forehead that tells me this might actually be important. Instantly, my heart's pounding. "You know when we uh, when we did that roleplay thing?"