Authors: Carly Michaels
Book One in the Hard Core Series
Copyright © by Carly Michaels
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, including photocopying, graphic, electronic, mechanical, taping, recording, sharing, or by any information retrieval system without the express written permission of the author and / or publisher. Exceptions include brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Persons, places and other entities represented in this book are deemed to be fictitious. They are not intended to represent actual places or entities currently or previously in existence or any person living or dead. This work is the product of the author’s imagination.
Drunk Dial © 2016 Carly Michaels
I woke up to a pounding headache and a ringing phone. Bad combination, especially when my alarm clock read 2:12 a.m. Who the fuck was stupid enough or desperate enough to call me at this hour?
“Hello,” I grumbled to the unknown caller. When all I heard was a lot of heavy breathing, I said, “Speak or fuck off.”
A raspy chuckle made me sit up and take notice. Definitely not my ex-douche. He didn’t even sound that hot when he was half-asleep.
“Come on now, sexy. Is that any way to talk to the man of your dreams?”
I rolled my eyes. He wouldn’t be the man of dreams even if he had a face and body to match that panty-drenching voice, ‘cause I’d stopped dreaming about men a long time ago. Not that I was into chicks. I just wasn’t into being screwed around, and men who promised they were my dream man usually turned out to be my nightmare.
“Who is this?” I demanded, squinting into the darkness. Goddamn headaches were going to be the death of me.
“I’ll give you one hint. I can do things with my tongue that’ll make your eyes roll back in your head. You just got a taste of that tonight.”
I pulled the phone away from my ear. Was this guy for real? He didn’t sound hammered, but I knew lots of guys could drink a mickey and still sound as if they’d just gotten off work. “Look, buddy, I think you’ve got the wrong number.”
That made him pause. “What’s your name?”
“None of your business.”
I wasn’t going to give some random drunk my name, even if he did have a sexy, gravelly voice that reminded me it had been way too long since I’d gotten laid. He could be a psycho stalker who called up women, hoping they’d tell him their name and address, then dropped by and slashed their throats while they slept.
Okay, maybe I’d watched a
Law and Order
marathon and was getting carried away, but still, I didn’t know this dude. I wasn’t telling him jack.
“How about if I tell you my name?”
“What makes you think I’d care?”
He laughed. “You’re a real firecracker. I like that.”
“I’m glad you’re amused, but I have to get some sleep.” He was probably one of those underwear models with abs of steel and an ego as big as his dick.
“Are you sleeping alone?”
I rubbed my eyes.
Did he seriously just ask me that?
“Again, none of your business.”
“I’ll take that as a yes. That’s a shame.”
“Not really. I choose to sleep alone. I’m a blanket hog. Besides, my battery-operated boyfriend is a lot less trouble than any man.” Okay, why the hell had I told him that?
“Honey, if you need one of those to get off, you’ve been dating the wrong men.”
“Are you saying I wouldn’t need one if I was dating you?”
I was right about the ego. I couldn’t help but wonder if I was right about the size of his junk too. My best friend and roommate, Rachel, claimed it wasn’t the size but whether they knew how to use it. But I knew she only said that because most of her boyfriends could wear a jock under their jeans and still not impress anyone.
“No fuckin’ way. Not only would I keep you satisfied, I’d make sure you never wanted another man.”
It was my turn to laugh. This one was a seriously delusional mofo if he believed that. “Uh, I hate to disappoint you, but there isn’t a man alive, no matter how…” I cleared my throat. “Well-endowed who could keep me happy forever.”
“That sounds like a challenge. I like challenges,” he purred.
“If you like challenges so much, start training for the Boston Marathon, ‘cause you’re wasting your time on me.”
“What do you do?”
“Stand on the street corner waiting for my Prince Charming to rescue me.”
He laughed, which was a welcome change. Most guys were stupid enough to believe me when I told them I was a hooker. Some had even offered a few hundred bucks if I’d show them a good time. Maybe this one was worth a few more minutes’ amusement.
“Come on, I’m serious. What do you do?”
“Kick ass.” That was the truth. Okay, maybe not the literal truth, but I showed other women how to kick ass, should the need arise. “When I’m not making Pink Panties for all my girls.” He probably didn’t know that was a cocktail, and I wouldn’t tell him I was a mixologist at my brother’s club at night, and a kickboxing instructor by day.
“Now I’m really intrigued.”
“You’re asking all the questions. How ‘bout answering a few for me?”
“I’m an open book, baby. Ask away.”
That usually meant he’d told the same lies so many times, they rolled off his tongue, but I was willing to play along. “What do you do?”
“I’m a fighter.”
“A fighter?” I sat up straighter, propping my pillow against the vintage iron headboard my roommate claimed was shabby chic. I thought it was rusty crap, but since I didn’t care, I let her do her thing with our fugly little shoebox apartment. “What kind of fighter?”
“Pro.” He laughed. “Is there any other kind?”
He obviously thought he was talking to some gullible bottle blonde who wouldn’t know a real fighter if she fell on his dick. “You know what I mean. What-”
“I’m a mixed martial artist.”
“Shut the fuck up.” As a kickboxing instructor, of course I was obsessed with professional fighting.
“Do you kiss your mama with that mouth, girl?”
I glared at my phone as if he could see it. “You don’t like it, you can always hang up.”
“Nah, I’m gettin’ into this.”
“Just don’t think you’ll be gettin’ into me.”
He chuckled. “You are too much.”
“So, Mr. Professional MMA Fighter, have I ever heard of you?”
“I don’t know. You tell me. Name’s York.”
“No way.” Not that I would know what York’s voice sounded like. Sure, I’d seen him do the occasional interview, but I’d never actually met the champion fighter who went by one name. No one knew if York was his first or last name, and as long as he's winning fights, no one seemed to care.
“Only one way to find out for sure if I’m telling the truth,” he said, sounding amused. “Meet me for a drink tomorrow night.”
“Can’t, gotta work.” Though I would regret that if this guy really was who he claimed to be. My brother would go crazy when I told him York had drunk dialed me and asked me out.
“Where do you work?”
“You first. What’s your record?” He could just be a fanatical fan who’d memorized York’s record, but the chances were in my favor that I’d trip him up if I questioned him about his career.
“Sixteen to one.”
Hmm, he answered that without hesitation. “Who beat you?”
“Young, second year. I had a dislocated shoulder at the time, otherwise I would have taken him.”
I happened to agree that he would have taken Young out had it not been for that shoulder injury. “Where were you born?”
“Uh-huh. Where’d you go to college?” He’d earned a business degree at Cal State while there on a wrestling scholarship.
He laughed. “Cal State. Now you have to answer a question for me.”
I had to admit, he sounded legit. “You answer one more for me first. Are you drunk? Is that why you’re wasting your time talking to some wrong number you won’t even remember tomorrow?”
“Trust me, I’ll remember you.”
The way he said that almost made me believe him. I reached into my nightstand for my pain meds and dry-swallowed when I realized this headache wasn’t going to go away without a little help. “You didn’t answer the question. Are you drunk?”
“I tipped a few with the boys tonight.”
“Who did you mean to call?”
“Some hot redhead I met tonight.”
At least he was honest. I liked that. “Are you disappointed you got me instead?”
“Hell, no. This is the most fun I’ve had talking to a chick in ages. So will you fill me in now?”
“Depends on what you want to know.”
“What’s your name?”
I almost believed that I really had York himself on the other end of this line. Did I? Could it really be him? Not that I’d ever lose my shit and go all fan-girl on him. He probably got enough of that. I still wasn’t a hundred percent convinced he was who he said he was though, so I still had to play it safe. “Lacy.”
He chuckled, making me frown. “You don’t sound like a Lacy.”
“Oh yeah? What do I sound like?”
“You sound sexy as fuck.”
I couldn’t help but smile. Score one for sleep and a hot dry room.
“Tell me what you really do… for a living.”
Since I suspected he’d never believe me anyway, I said, “I teach kickboxing.”
“Shut the fuc—” He cleared his throat. “I mean, for real?”
“Okay, now I gotta meet you.”
I was warming up to the idea of a face-to-face meeting, as crazy as it sounded. If he was lying about who he was, he wouldn’t have the balls to show up and admit it, would he?
“What was that shit about pink panties?”
He wasn’t that drunk if he remembered the drink reference.
“I’m a mixologist too.” I rolled my tongue in my cheek, wondering if he’d know that was just a fancy name for a bartender who specialized in mixed drinks.
Score one for the man. I didn’t have to explain it to him. I grinned.
“My brother has a club on Ventura.” Since we weren’t the only club on Ventura, he’d have to do his homework if he really wanted to find me with just that information. Make ‘em work for it had always been my motto.
“Were you serious about the kickboxing thing?”
“Yeah, why?” I always got defensive when people thought I was lying about my job. Just ‘cause I was only five three and a buck twenty soaking wet, everyone assumed I wasn’t a threat. But those who crossed me learned the hard way that it was a big mistake to underestimate me.
“How old are you?”
This dude wanted to know more about me than the last three guys I’d dated combined. “Twenty-eight.”
“Old enough.” He chuckled. “That’s good, real good. Gimme your stats.”
“My stats?” I heard the ice in my voice. If he asked my cup size next, I was hanging up.
“Not like that. Hair, eye color, tats, stuff like that. I want to be able to recognize you when I see you.”
“Why don’t I just send you a selfie?” I was joking, of course, but that gave me an idea. “Hey, why don’t you send me a selfie, so you can prove you are who you say you are?”
“What? You think I’m lying?” He sounded amused instead of offended, which was good. I hated guys who took themselves too seriously. “Sure, why not? But only if you promise to do the same.”
What could it hurt? “Your number was blocked. Why?”
“Not on my cell. I’m on my home line, and I don’t want some crazy chick I met in a bar looking me up.”
“Okay, gimme your cell number.”
Since he already had my home number, I assumed it couldn’t hurt. I rhymed off mine, reaching for the phone on the nightstand. “Okay, I’m waiting.”
“If I am who I say I am, will you go out with me?”
If this really was York, I’d have his babies. Not really, but I’d definitely consider sleeping with him. “Maybe.”
Playing hard to get only made them want you more, or so my mother claimed. Not that she practiced what she preached. Judging by the slew of “uncles” I’d had while growing up, I had to face facts. My mother was easier to get into than community college.
I waited for my phone to ping with his message before I hit the light next to my bed. Holy shit, it really was him! And he wasn’t wearing a shirt. The cynic in me wondered if he could have pulled the image off the ‘net, but it looked as though he was leaning up against a headboard with a pillow propped behind his head. Probably not the kind of photo a pro fighter would have posted online.