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

by Jo Raven

  The bar's a lot more low-key than what I was expecting. There's loud music, and some dancing, but also a fairly quiet corner where the group installs themselves. While everyone's interested in talking to Landon-Josh at first, they soon realize he doesn't have all that much to say when they talk shop. He plays it off well by claiming that I do all of the publishing and administrative work. Soon, all the conversations are going on over our heads. Which is honestly fine with me.

  While we nurse our drinks, I fill Josh in on the whole D.B. Blackwood situation. He can't stop laughing about TRUTH SEEKERS, even though I try to tell him that it could be very bad for us.

  But, not us, really. Just me. He always has the option to bail. I've already paid him for everything up until this point, and if the drama bomb gets too big, he can just cut and run.

  But what will I do? Can I really just walk away from everything I've built?

  If Blackwood gets a bee in his bonnet, I may not have a choice.

  "Wait, is that Blackwood's assistant here without him?" Josh jerks his head towards the mousy little guy, and sure enough, that's him. He does seem capable of speech when D.B.'s not there, dominating every moment, and I kind of feel bad for him at first.

  "He must be in the bathroom," I reason. "There's no way he'd let him off the leash, right?"

  Josh shrugs. "I didn't see him walk in. The door's right in front of me, I've been watching it all night without even meaning to." He grins. "They must be fighting."

  "Oh, I'm sure." I laugh a little. "I'd say we should ply him with drinks to learn D.B.'s real secrets, but then I realized I don't actually give a shit, and we've all got better things to do."

  "Amen to that." Josh raises his glass. "But still, we should invite him over, right?"

  I roll my eyes. "Yeah, okay, I was thinking the same thing. I just hope he's not here as a mole taking notes for that damn TRUTH SEEKERS blog."

  Somebody ends up waving the poor guy over, and we learn that his name is Caleb and he's only been working as Blackwood's PA for a few months. I'm desperate to ask him if he really buys into the whole scene, but he seems uncomfortable enough already.

  "They must be having a fight," Josh murmurs to me when Blackwood remains conspicuously absent.

  The music's getting louder, and some of our group is getting up to join in the dancing. I'm mortified at the idea of being seen anywhere near that floor, but I pretty quickly realize I need a refill.

  Caleb is standing up. "Anyone else need another drink?"

  There's a chorus of assent from the table, and he scribbles the orders down on his clipboard before heading to the bar.

  "See, told you," says Josh. "I bet he's not a bad guy. Just got caught up with a rough, cape-wearing crowd."

  I snicker.

  Caleb returns empty-handed. "Sorry, guys, the bartender's saying he needs to see I.D.s."

  Everyone groans.

  "I'll take 'em over," he says. "He didn't say he needed to actually see you, just your licenses. Promise I won't steal 'em."

  Everyone giggles a little, and I hand over my license without thinking twice. He comes back with a tray of drinks a minute later, but when it comes time to hand me my I.D. back, he pauses.

  "Kimberly Tuggey?" he says, handing it to me hesitantly.

  "Yeah." My head's swimming a little. "Go ahead, I've heard all the jokes."

  "I wasn't going to make a joke," he says, before slinking to the other end of the table and reclaiming his seat.

  Josh frowns at me. "What was that all about?"

  "No idea," I tell him.

  "Hey," says Josh, suddenly, jumping to his feet. "Come on. Come over here."

  After having just narrowly avoided getting up, I'm loath to follow him, but there's just something about Landon Steele. You can't say no.

  He grabs my hand as we head towards the dance floor, and I want to will my feet to freeze, but I can't. Not until he stops and looks at me.

  "Dance with me, Kim."

  I stare at him, horrified.

  "I can't."

  "Yeah, you can." He's smiling, still holding my hand. The lines are blurred, to the point where I'm not even sure if he's being himself, or Landon Steele. I remind myself that's a good thing. That's what I'm paying him for.

  "I don't want to," I clarify, begging with my eyes. Please don't make me do this. As if he has the power to make me do anything - but that's how seamlessly he's stepped into this role.

  He shakes his head, grabbing my hand tighter and jerking me close. I gasp at the sudden movement, but he wouldn't have been able to do it without my permission. He didn't pull hard. Not enough to compel me without my will, and certainly not enough to hurt. As soon as I felt the tug, my body went to him, without my brain's permission.

  "Of course you want to," he murmurs, and it's amazing I can even understand words anymore, now that I can feel the hard planes of his body pressing against my soft curves. "I saw the way your eyes shine when you dance. You want to. You want to dance for everybody here, and you want them to be impressed. You want them to see what I see. But you're scared they won't."

  He's gutted me so thoroughly that I can't even speak. I just stand there, feeling the way his arm wraps so tightly around my waist, and I can't help but think that a smaller woman - a more appropriate woman, shall we say, for a man like him - would practically fit in the crook of his elbow. Instead, I take up his whole arm. As deliberately as I've bolstered my confidence over the years, something in the recesses of my mind still tells me that I'm taking up entirely too much space in the world.

  For a moment, I give in.

  For a moment, I dance with him.

  But then there's a pair of eyes watching me, and another pair, and suddenly everyone in the room is staring at me, even though I know they're really not. My chest starts to tighten and I don't know what happened to all the oxygen in the room.

  "I'm sorry," I whisper. "I can't."

  He wants to say something, I can tell, but he bites it back. Gently, he lets me go.

  "Okay," he says.

  But it's not really okay. It's not okay at all.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Josh and I don't talk about anything that happened that night.

  I don't really expect to. We haven't really had a serious conversation about anything, ever, unless you count the occasional argument. We're still working on developing Landon Steele, but it's mostly an excuse to be around him. I have no doubts about his ability to play the part. I've seen it with my own eyes, seen the way women react to him.

  And I'm selfish. I still want to keep something of him to myself, just a little bit. Even though I know it won't last.

  We're going over the schedule leading up to his appearance on Morning Brew. The time is flying by, but I feel strangely calm. There are just a few more things to get in order. We've invented some suitably amusing anecdotes to discuss on the show, and Josh knows them all by heart. I've even warned him about the structural support beam that all talk show couches have hidden under their cushions, to keep people from sinking in too deep.

  "Is that why celebrities are so squirmy on Leno?" was his only response. "I always figured it was all the cocaine."

  I'm going over the last few items on the to-do list now, while Josh practically naps on my couch. He's spending more and more time here lately, and I'm not sure he realizes how much. But I'm not about to point it out. Not when being around him is the only time I really feel happy anymore.

  Well. That's a disturbing thought. I turn back to my list.

  "When are you free to see a photographer?"

  He blinks, sitting up a little. "A...why?"

  "Headshots," I tell him, resisting the urge to roll my eyes. "To sign, for people who don't bring a book. We're not selling books there, it's a logistical nightmare. Most of them care more about your face anyway."

  Josh shakes his head. "It's your books they care about," he says. "I dunno why you can't get that."

  "Maybe because nobody actually did care
about my books until I attached a handsome, albeit imaginary, face to them." I tapped my pen on a pad of paper. "So, when can you get some shots done?"

  "Whenever. You know my schedule better than I do." He smiles. "I actually kinda like having an assistant, too bad this'll never really be in the cards for me."

  Sighing, I pencil in whenever next to the photographer's phone number. "Trust me, you'll be glad you got these done. It'll save you from signing a lot of boobs."

  "Oh yeah, that sounds terrible." He leans back on the sofa, hands interlaced behind his head. "Actually, it does kinda seem like they'd be hard to sign. Squishy."

  "You'll get a cramp after about four or five," I tell him. "Just ask any member of Air Supply."

  He's just kidding - I know that, but something tells me that Old Josh wouldn't have made that joke. Pre-Steele Josh. After we crashed that conference, there's no way he doesn't know I'm attracted to him. What's the point of pretending he'd actually like signing boobs, unless he wants to intimidate me a little? Make me jealous?

  That's something Landon Steele would do.

  Ugh, Josh is right. Landon Steele is an asshole.

  ***

  Flying first class is the tits.

  I don't know when I started talking like that. I must be spending too much time with Josh. But there's really no other way to describe it. We've got the whole aisle to ourselves, with nice roomy seats, individual movie screens, and a little cup of warm mixed nuts.

  Oh, and free alcohol. The free alcohol is a nice touch.

  With a few drinks in him, Josh starts talking a little more about himself. About his life before trying to become an actor, his parents, his sister.

  His biggest struggle with the acting, he says, is that he never figured out how to sell himself. At least, that's what a sleazy agent once told him. I said I couldn't disagree with that, and when he looked skeptical, I had to expound on the point.

  "The problem is, you've gotta think like a businessperson," I tell him. "A marketer. And your product is you."

  "I know how to be enterprising," he insists. "I've got a knack for it. My brother stole cable when we were kids, and I recorded all the episodes of Emmanuelle in Space and sold the tapes at school."

  "Wow, that's great. I'm pretty sure that's how Mark Cuban got his start." I resist the urge to throw my empty nut dish at his head. "Can you focus, please?"

  "Not really," he admits. "Now I'm wondering if Emmanuelle holds up, at all. It's been a long time."

  I let out a little snort of laughter. "I promise you, she doesn't. Want me to make a note on your schedule to subscribe to Cinemax later and make sure?"

  "You don't have to look so jealous, you know." He winks in my direction. "She means nothing to me, I swear."

  "Jealous?" I repeat, a little too loudly. Hell yes, I'm jealous. I don't want him fantasizing about Krista Allen, I want him fantasizing about me.

  Right. Because that's realistic.

  "Persuasive argument," he says. "But the whites of your eyes are green, baby girl."

  My lips thin. "I don't think that's a saying."

  "It is now." He grins. "You like it? You can have that one for free. Put it in one of your books." He takes a sip of his gin and tonic, and makes a face. "This is shit. I only ordered it because it sounded like something Steele would drink."

  I roll my eyes. "He drinks scotch."

  "Only scotch? That's way too boring." He's not even close to sloppy, just has an edge of muzziness to him. And he's tilted over slightly in his seat, bringing our heads closer together than they strictly need to be. "I'm surprised you didn't make me sign a contract so that you own everything I create for the character, too. What if I show up in ten years and try to sue you?"

  "Yeah, that sounds like you." I could pull away, try to put some more distance between us. I probably should. But for some reason, I don't.

  "You gotta be careful, judging a book by its cover." He sets down his empty glass very deliberately, still smiling at me, but very slyly now. "I know I seem like an honest salt-of-the-earth type, but what if I'm really a scumbag?"

  "Oh, I don't doubt you're a scumbag. Just not that kind of scumbag." I gesture at my empty cup. "How about those warm nuts, huh? I wonder if they do refills."

  He's laughing, a low, quiet chuckle that sends a tingle through my whole body.

  And I laugh too, a little bit, although it's not very funny at all.

  ***

  I'm sitting cross-legged on my bed, in my pajamas, in the incredibly swank Los Angeles hotel Morning Brew is paying for, when there's a knock at my door. Frowning, I go to the peephole.

  It's Josh. Why didn't he just text me, or something?

  "What's wrong?" I ask, pulling the door open.

  "Does something have to be wrong?" He half-smiles, stepping inside without me having to invite him. "I just thought you'd want to do some last-minute cramming."

  Swallowing hard, I glance down at my pink pajama bottoms, stretched out and threadbare from years of overuse. Hey, I'm a writer - the number of days during the week when I actually put on real clothes is pretty limited. And my tank top has certainly seen better days. None of it's flattering, per se, but it's definitely more revealing than anything I've worn in front of him. Not a great combination.

  This time, I think maybe he notices. At least a little bit. His eyes keep flicking to my body, and then I remember I'm not even wearing a bra.

  Shit. Well, it's kind of too late to save it now. I could throw on a bathrobe, but he's probably already at least seen the outline of my nipples.

  Compromising, I fold my arms across my chest. "So, what did you want to go over?"

  He shrugs, sitting down on the bed. "I dunno. You're usually in charge of all that."

  Obviously, he's not here to go over lines. And he seems a little sloppy, like he might have hit the mini-bar before he came over. Maybe he wants to blow off some steam, and he figures a quick fuck the night before the show is the best way to do it. While I can't deny the idea has its appeals, there's no way I'm going to just be Josh's booty call because he's lonely and bored and nervous. Not because he thinks I'll be an easy lay, 'cause a girl like me must have self esteem issues a mile wide.

  I've got no idea how to play this. I don't want him to leave, exactly, but there's no way I can unwind while he's here. And I'm not just falling into bed with him. I can't even picture us kissing without flashes of past conversations entering my mind, conversations I had with other guys, but with Josh filling their shoes instead. It's not you, I just don't have time for a relationship right now. You know? Flash forward to me running into them with a size two in yoga pants at the coffee shop. That was fun, but, you know, I just don't see us going anywhere... Well, you're not exactly who I pictured taking home to the folks... You know you'd be even sexier if you took up jogging or something...

  I shake my head, forcing myself back to the present. "Honestly, I didn't really have anything planned. I mean, if there's anything you're not sure about..."

  Josh smiles, his hands curled around the edge of the mattress like he's about to launch himself back onto his feet, and right out of the room. This obviously isn't the reception he expected. Did he think I'd be wearing a little pink nightie and waiting for him with my heart palpitating?

  That's not fair. I don't even know if he's here for sex. I just can't figure out why else he'd be here, and it's nearly impossible for me to look at him without thinking about sex, so it's a natural conclusion.

  So, I'm standing here in a hotel room with Josh the tattooed, rough-around-the-edges struggling actor, who's playing Landon Steele, or maybe at this point it's Landon Steele playing Josh. I can't really be sure anymore. And I'm thinking about sex. Specifically, I'm thinking about the kind of sex that destroys hotel furnishings. The kind of sex where you don't just want to take a shower afterwards, you have to take a shower afterwards. Ridiculously filthy, over-the-top sex. A guy like Josh is built for exactly that kind of thing.

  "Penny for
your thoughts." He cocks his head a little, and I realize I'm staring. "Or, did you just want me to leave?"

  "No," I blurt out, before I can think twice. "No, you don't have to leave."

  He shrugs a little. "Okay. So you wanna play Solitaire or something?"

  I laugh at him, although at least fifty percent of my brain is still consumed with images that would probably get cut from Emmanuelle in Space for being way, way too filthy. "Solitaire is a one player game," I remind him. "And I'm pretty sure you know that."

  "Right." he snaps his fingers. "I'm thinking of Old Maid. I'm not exactly a card-playing man, in case you didn't pick up on that."

  "Didn't you play a gambling addict in that one Lifetime movie?" I sit down on the bed next to him, because, you know, what the hell.

  "Oh ho, somebody's been reading my profile." He snorts. "I figured if you were gonna bring something up, it'd be that horror TV serial that got cancelled after two episodes. You can still find the pilot online. I gotta recommend checking it out. It's awful."

  I'm chuckling, feeling some of the tension of the last few weeks melt away from my knotted-up shoulders. "Did you have a line?"

  "I had a few," he says. "I was the asshole boyfriend who basically whines and begs for sex, so of course he's the first one to die. I can't remember what the killer was supposed to be. I don't think we even had a scene together. I just did a lot of ADR screams, and then they made me up to look like a bloodied corpse. You know how hard it is not to twitch your eyelids? Or breathe?"

  "No," I admit, feeling bolder now. There's no real denying the chemistry between us, and even if it's mostly just casual friendship, it's something else, too. Otherwise, a guy who looks like him wouldn't be spending his evening with me. He thinks I'm a sure thing. I don't want to be, but I'm starting to feel the inevitable pull.

  Just kiss him.

  "Do your lines," I suggest, cheekily. "I want to hear you sound like a real dickhead."

  "Uh, you already have." He's laughing. "Unless you're still holding tight to that whole 'Landon Steele is just a misunderstood genius' thing."