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Shameless
Playboys in Love #1
Gina L. Maxwell
Releasing May 30th, 2016
Entangled: Scorched
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.
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 masters 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 masters 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.
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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