Playboys in Love #1
by Gina L. Maxwell
Now Available at
People say I’m shameless. They’re right.
I like my work dirty and my sex even dirtier. It takes a
hell of a lot to tilt my moral compass, and dancing as a private stripper for
horny suburbanites doesn’t even register. Neither does hooking up with them
afterward whenever the mood strikes—it’s one of the bennies of the job—but it’s
always a one-and-done. I don’t do repeat performances. Ever.
Until I meet the one girl in all of Chicago not interested
in dry humping my junk. She’s all I can think about, and that’s a problem,
because I made sure she wants nothing to do with me. But I’ve seen her deepest
secrets, her darkest fantasies, and they match mine to a fucking T.
I want her. Bad.
Now I need to show her how good it can feel…to be shameless.
Excerpt:
Chapter One
Jane
If such a thing as a
Landlords of Chicago Convention existed, and said convention had an award for
Worst Landlord of a Multi-Unit Building, mine would win by a landslide. A
freaking landlord landslide.
Cursing his name for the
umpteenth time in the last half hour, I wrap a Band-Aid around the cut in my
thumb I’d acquired trying to unclog the pipes under my bathroom sink. God
forbid Walter would actually do his job and call a plumber for me.
Since I’d moved into my
small apartment in the South Shore area, my hot water heater, oven, and window
A/C unit had all taken a crap at one point or another—just a few of the perks
of living in a building so old that it predates the invention of the
elevator—and each time it had taken Walter weeks to get them fixed.
But I’m nothing if not
independent and self-reliant—traits born of being the child of workaholic
parents. I’d managed to repair my garbage disposal and replace the tank
assembly in my toilet by browsing the almighty Google and ignoring all my girly
squeamishness at the ick factor of both. Neither instance had been pretty, but
it wasn’t anything a hot shower and the satisfaction of a job well done
couldn’t wash away.
Unfortunately, my stupid
bathroom sink pipes aren’t going to be added to that list of accomplishments
anytime soon. I don’t know if the slip nuts (thank you, Google Images) had been
screwed on by the Incredible Hulk or fused in place by the lesser known
supervillain Rust Man. Either way, those suckers aren’t budging for a mortal
female with minimal experience handling a pipe wrench. (Feel free to insert
dirty joke here.)
I glare at the standing
water in the sink, hands on my hips, willing it to magically go down. I’m so
focused on trying to Jedi-mind-trick the bastard into submission that I jump
when my phone rings. Jogging into the living room, I snatch up the cell and
answer as I plop onto the couch.
“Hey, you,” I say,
greeting my best friend Addison Paige. “Aren’t you supposed to be burning the
midnight oil?”
“It’s only seven p.m.,
but I’m sure I’ll still be here when midnight rolls around,” Addison says
wryly. “You writing your paper?”
I laugh. Calling my
master’s thesis on social work a paper was like calling the Taj Mahal a chapel.
I’ve been working on it for two years, and I’m almost—almost—done. Turning it
in is the last step in getting my dual degree. Then I can finally get a job in
my field and start making some real money instead of the piddly-ass wages I
make as an intern and part-time waitress. (And then move.)
“Surprisingly, no,” I
say. “I’m still trying to fix the clog in my bathroom sink, but all I’ve
managed to do is pinch my thumb. Luckily, I managed to staunch the flow before
I bled out all over the floor.”
“Damn good thing,
because if you die before I get my fun friend back, I’ll kill you myself.”
“You know what I love
about you?” I ask, laying the sarcasm on thick. “It’s that you make complete
sense when you threaten me. I think it’s what makes you the best lawyer ever.”
“And I love that you
love that about me. And also that you repeatedly tell me I’m the best lawyer
ever instead of acknowledging my pathetic peon status. This boys club of a law
firm isn’t going to give me my own cases anytime soon.”
“Nonsense. It’s only a
matter of time before they see your brilliance and make you a partner,” I say
with confidence. “Wait—since when am I not your ‘fun’ friend? I’m fun.”
“Seriously? When was the
last time you went out? For fun. Not for school or work or any other
life-sucking activity. Like, to a dance club or a bar or a fucking baseball
game? I don’t know…anything.”
I open my mouth to
respond with a list of all the things I’d done recently that qualified—because
surely there is a list—but came up with nothing. I honestly can’t remember the
last time I’d gone out to be social. I’ve hung out with Addison, but that was
more lunch dates and Netflix than clubbing and cavorting.
“Um…”
“Exactly,” Addison
crows.
Okay, so she’s not
wrong. It’s been a while since I’ve had a social life and an even longer while
since I’ve had a sex life, which makes me grateful she didn’t bring that
particular nugget up. My recent hermit status may have slipped my notice, but
I’m painfully aware of how long it’s been (for-freaking-ever) since I’ve been
satisfied by someone other than myself.
Completing my master’s
coursework in two years instead of three, and then replacing school hours with
work hours, doesn’t leave me with any time to invest in a relationship. I’m all
for casual flings or even one-night stands, but the handful of forays hadn’t
been worth shaving, much less the Brazilians I’d splurged on. After my last
underwhelming sexual rendezvous, I decided that I wouldn’t drop trou for anyone
else unless I’m positive it’ll be worth the pain of getting my pubic hair
ripped out by the roots by a sadistic woman armed with strips of hot wax. If
you’ve ever subjected yourself to that particular brand of cosmetic torture,
you know that’s setting the bar for sexual excellence pretty high.
So while I wait for Mr.
Mind-Blowing-In-The-Sack, I bought a Hitachi Magic Wand—God bless the misguided
man who thought he designed a great neck massager—and became a frequent
purveyor of internet porn.
That’s right. I’m a
closet porn addict.
Don’t judge me. It gets
the job done. With the right video, I can be turned on in minutes. Then,
depending on my mood, I’ll either watch several to build the anticipation, or
simply dive right in and get myself off in what I call an “express O.” Bing,
bam, boom, done.
But like I said, it’s
not something I’m ready to share with the class. Not even with Addison. Not
because I think she’ll judge me—that girl is all for owning your freak flag and
letting it fly—but because I’d inevitably have to answer questions about how
often do I watch it (several times a week), and what kind do I like (the
rougher, the better), and do I have a favorite porn star (hands down, James
Deen). I’d just rather not get into the gory details of how I take the edge off
my sexual frustrations, thank you very much.
“What’s it called when
the lawyer is being an obnoxious asshat?” I ask my best friend. “Is it
contempt? I find you in contempt of court, and I object. Your argument is
erroneous. I don’t need a good time right now, I just need someone to fix my
pipes.”
“Yeah, your lady pipes,”
she jokes. “Things are probably just as rusted shut down there as they are
under your sink.”
Actually, since I don’t
use a dildo of any kind, it’s highly likely. “Okay, that’s it,” I say, laughing
in spite of myself, “I’m hanging up. You need to get back to work, and I need
to do anything other than talk to you at the moment.”
Sighing dramatically,
Addison acquiesces. “Fine, killjoy. Does this mean you don’t want the number of
a handyman who came highly recommended to me?”
I sit up a little
straighter, perking up at the words “highly recommended.” Growing up in the
digital age as I have, you’d think that I would trust online reviews of
products and services. But things on the internet can be bought or faked. I’d
much rather take the word of someone I know, and I’m ready to cry “uncle” and
be done with this whole situation. “Who recommended him?”
“Rebecca, one of our
paralegals. She said he’s worth every cent and more. I believe her exact words
were ‘the best ever.’”
That sounds promising,
so I grab the pen and pad of paper from the side table. “Okay, what’s the
number? I’ll give him a call tomorrow.”
“One sec, I’ve got
another call coming in. Hang on.” And with a click the line went silent.
I lean back on the
couch, staring at the spidery ceiling paint, following the bigger cracks and
admiring how they fan out with reckless abandon. Of course, they probably knew
what I knew: no way was I standing on a ladder and painting upside down to fix
them. When Addison clicks back over, I tell her, “All right. I’m ready for the
number of my miracle plumber.”
“No need,” she replies.
“I just called and paid in advance. Consider it an early birthday present.
He’ll be there in about an hour.”
“What? It’s too late for
anyone to be making house calls on a Friday night.”
“Riiiiight. Because
everyone’s shit only breaks between the hours of eight and five on weekdays.”
Addison is just as fond of sarcasm as I am. It’s one of the reasons we make
such great friends.
“Point taken, but you
still shouldn’t have called.” I hate it when she tries to pay for things. Peon
or not, she makes a good living as a lawyer and likes to make up dumb reasons
why I should let her pick up the tab on stuff. “My birthday’s not even for
another six months.”
“So then it’s a half
birthday present. Hasn’t anyone ever told you not to look a gift-friend in the
mouth? Have some wine, read a book, tweeze your eyebrows. I don’t care, as long
as you let the man do what he’s hired for when he gets there, okay?”
“Yes, Mother,” I say
with the tone of an audible eye roll. But then I add a sincere, “Thanks,
Addie.”
“You’re welcome, babe.
Oh, and make sure you call me tomorrow and tell me all the juicy details.
Ciao!”
Before I can comment on
the ridiculousness of anything involving a middle-aged man with plumber’s crack
being “juicy,” she hangs up. Belatedly, I realize I never even got the name of
the guy or his business. I almost call her back to ask, but figure it’s not a
big deal. The odds of someone showing up coincidentally under false pretenses
as a handyman in disguise are pretty much nil.
It’s been a long week,
and that glass of wine Addison mentioned is suddenly calling my name.
Blowing out a deep
breath, I stand and head to the kitchen where I have an open bottle of red. For
once, I’m going to take my friend’s advice: enjoy a glass of wine and a book
while I wait for the “best ever handyman” to arrive and do his thing. Now that
I know help is on the way, I’m really looking forward to getting my pipes
fixed.
About the
Author:
Gina L. Maxwell is a full-time writer,
wife, and mother living in the upper Midwest, despite her scathing hatred of
snow and cold weather. An avid romance novel addict, she began writing as an
alternate way of enjoying the romance stories she loves to read. Her debut
novel, Seducing Cinderella, hit both the USA Today and New York Times
bestseller lists in less than four weeks, and she’s been living her newfound
dream ever since.
When she’s not reading or writing steamy
romance novels, she spends her time losing at Scrabble (and every other game)
to her high school sweetheart, doing her best to hang out with their teenagers
before they fly the coop, and dreaming about her move to sunny Florida once
they do.
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