Love 'Em: A Bad Boy Romance (2 page)

He squints as though considering my words. “Well, they
do
say perception is ninety percent of reality. My ninety percent says this is a
load of rhino dung.”

My jaw drops.

Did he really just say that—about my book, my magnum opus,
in front of billions of people?

I snap my mouth shut and glare at him. “Maybe
your
perception is what’s full of shit.”

His eyes widen, and his gaze darts to a man on the sidelines
with a clipboard and an apoplectic vein popping out on his forehead.

“Oops, probably shouldn’t have cursed. All those pesky FCC
regulations.” I smile sweetly at my asshole of a host.

Jackson nods to the vein guy, whips his feet off his desk,
and holds my book up once more. “And there you have it, folks. Want to know how
to get a man? Buy the book and have him in the bag by Valentine’s Day.”

He tosses the book aside and smiles directly at the camera
set in the middle isle of the gallery of seats. “Our next guest, BFF to Ms.
Fitz here, is pretty much her polar opposite.”

In ways he will never understand.

Jackson grins. “
Leave ‘Em
—remember that’s her nickname.
Sorry, I can’t reveal her true identity, because she needs the anonymity to run
her business.
Leave ‘Em
claims she doesn’t believe in true love. Well, I
suppose not, considering it’s her job to prove it isn’t out there.”

Jackson stands and claps. “Please welcome our next guest. She’s
the person other women hire to test the men in their lives.”

Shayna glides onto the stage—no tripping for her. She’s much
too graceful as she waves and blows kisses Marilyn Monroe style. Maybe she’s
taking that wig too seriously.

Shayna takes Jackson’s offered hand in both of hers as Baxter
and I shuffle chairs to make room for Shayna in the seat I vacated, closest to the
host.

Jackson seats my friend and takes his own chair. “So, you’re
the temptress who actually tries to get men to cheat before you report back to your
clients.”

“I suppose you might describe my work that way.” Shayna’s
lacquered fingernail taps out a rhythm on the arm of her chair.

“You set up and ambush unsuspecting men?” Mr. Ransom shifts in
his seat.

She licks her bright red lips. “I only make an overture they
could easily ignore. It’s only a trap for those men already predisposed to cheat
on their significant other.”

Jackson Tremaine leans forward, his elbows on his desk, chin
in his hands. “So, Ms.
Leave ‘Em
, do you actually screw these cheating
guys?”

Shayna grins. As usual, she’s unfazed by direct barbs. As a
matter of fact, I’m fairly certain she likes it.

“No, I never go
that
far. I’m not a prostitute. I
simply do my best to lure the men to willingly place themselves in a
compromising position. I always stop before anything too serious happens.”

Baxter rubs his chin, as though contemplating what Shayna
has said. “Never?”

“Never.” Her shades hide her rolling eyes, but I’m certain
that’s what she did.

Baxter lifts one eyebrow. “Hmm.”

Jackson barks a laugh, which he unsuccessfully tries to
cover with a cough. “Excuse me. I—oh hell, I can’t lie. I just had a fantastic
idea.”

Our host sends a sly look toward the camera to his left
before he turns his full attention to me. “So, Ms.
Love ‘Em
—Ronnie—would
you be willing to wager that should a woman use the techniques in your book,
her man won’t have the propensity to cheat, because he’d be so enamored of her
and happy at home?”

Baxter Ransom coughs, and Shayna whips around to me, her
mouth slightly agape.

My throat goes bone dry. “Um—well, I mean—I—”

Shayna jumps to my rescue. “A cheater will cheat, no matter
how wonderful his woman is. Some guys are scum. Cheaters cheat, no matter what.”

I lay my hand on her arm. “Wait. No. I believe most people cheat
because something in their relationship is lacking.”

Shay elbows me. “Shh.”

I toss her a look.

She ignores me. “No. A cheater is a cheater is a cheater—no
matter what.”

The mischief coming off of Jackson Tremaine is almost
palpable, and the audience goes silent. It’s as though they know he’s going to do
something outrageous, which he probably will. And they’ll all think it’s epic,
only I’ll probably be shoved to a lower level of Hell. Even the slight shifting
and shuffling that usually goes on in a crowd dies down as he continues to
study me and my friend.

He looks around both of us. “Bax, you’re a gambler.”

Mr. Ransom draws back. “Well, my
business
is
gambling, but—”

“Let’s make a wager, shall we? Right here on live
television.”

My bladder twitches. Nervousness makes me need to pee. I could
probably fill up three adult diapers at this very moment. Whatever Jackson has in
mind is bound to be bad for me, terrible for my book, and probably horrible for
my long-term career goals.

Baxter leans closer to Jackson. “Go on.”

“Let’s see which of these two ladies’ juju works best.” Jackson
wags his eyebrows like he’s a villain in a cartoon.

Shayna pops up out of her seat. “That’s not how I run my
business.”

“Aw, c’mon, now, be a sport.” Baxter grins, his eyes
trailing from her fake hair all the way to the five-inch heels of her platform
fuck-me boots.

Jackson looks straight into the main camera. “What do you think,
America? Shall we wager that
Love ‘Em
can’t use the techniques in her
book to keep
Leave ‘Em
from taking her man?”

Shayna falls into her seat with a thud. “She doesn’t even
have a man.”

And there it is. I let out a sigh. All of America knows I’m
a love specialist who’s not in love and has no man. No hint of a man in my
life—not even an old toothbrush still haunting my medicine cabinet from a man I
once had. I’m sunk.

Jackson cocks his head, as though he can hardly believe what
he’s heard.

I open my mouth to rebut her statement, only to be interrupted.

“Do you
not
have a significant other, Ms.
Love ‘Em
?”
His green eyes are too beautiful for someone like him. Nasty, evil people
shouldn’t get to be gorgeous. Not fair. They should be ugly as a warning to
children not to become emotionally corrupt.

I close my eyes. I so hoped this wouldn’t come up. Of all the
things, why this?

I clear my throat. “That has absolutely no bearing on—”

He holds up one finger. “Wait. Hear me out. I take it from your
reply that the answer is
no
?”

Panic sweeps over me in a rush of hot tingles up the back of
my neck and across my face. I fight the urge to jump up and run off stage. “No
significant other at this time.”

The twinkle in his eyes makes me want to scratch them out of
his skull. I’ve never met a man I liked less.

Ever.

I toss my purse onto the counter in the kitchen. “Worst.
Day. In. History.”

“I don’t want to hear it. You could’ve avoided that entire
exchange.” Shayna drops into a chair at the table and unzips her thigh-high boot.

My jaw falls almost to my navel. “
I
could have avoided
it? What about you?”

Shay kicks off one boot. “Not me. You’re the one who should’ve
said no.”

“
You
should have, too.”

She tilts her head to the side, glaring. “No. I couldn’t. My
work depends on women trusting the fact that if their guy is a cheater—if he’s going
to cheat
at all
—it would be with me. If I were to say I couldn’t
possibly entice
your
guy—whoever the fuck that ends up being—into
cheating, then why would anyone ever hire me?”

“Who’s going to buy a book on how to catch and keep their man
from a woman who isn’t confident enough to say that she can keep her man
enthralled enough that he’ll turn down the opportunity to go at it with a
blonde dressed like a prostitute?”

“Prosti…” Shayna looks down at her outfit and giggles.
“Yeah, I guess I am kind of dressed to head down to the boulevard and hawk my
ample wares.”

She shimmies her tits in her too tight black leather jacket.
“Day-umn. I didn’t even get the big O from that one. How about you?”

“What?”

She makes no sense to me sometimes.

Shay extricates herself from her other boot. “I mean,
Jackson Tremaine fucked us both, and good.”

“I guess he did.” I drop into the chair adjacent to hers.
“It’s not exactly like we can bail—not now that the entire country is waiting to
see which one wins.”

She side-eyes me. “We
could
tell Jackson to fuck off,
and dust off our hands and move on.”

I let out a weary breath. “No. We can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because millions, if not billions, of people saw us on that
show. You’re fine if you bow out. You’ll continue to do your thing. But me? If
I back out, I’m screwed six ways to Sunday.”

She rubs the teensy crease between her brows. “Aw, c’mon,
Rons. Your book’s success isn’t completely dependent on Jackson Tremaine’s show.
You just don’t want to rock the boat.”

“Rock what boat?”

“The boat where everyone does what’s expected and no one
does what they shouldn’t. The viewers expect you to be part of this bet. You’ll
do it, if for no other reason than that you’re afraid to break the rules.”

I huff. “What rules? I don’t know what you mean.”

“Girl, you’ll fall in line behind whatever perceived rule there
is in any given situation. I hate to break it to you, but you, my friend, are a
goody two-shoes. In your mind, there’s some invisible rule that states the gauntlet
has been thrown. Therefore, you must meet the challenge.”

Goody two-shoes?
Gauntlet
?

“I break plenty of rules, thank you. It’s only that I happen
to know this particular thing can sink my career faster than the Titanic went
down. I’ve worked too hard for that to happen.”

Shay cast a skeptical glance at me. “What rules have you broken
lately?”

The answer eludes me. I search through my recent memory.
Nada.

I scratch my head. “I—I don’t know. Who keeps a journal of broken
rules? Just… ugh, stop already. We
have
to do this bet.”

“Oh whatever. I’ll do it, because you’re my friend, and I’d
cut off my right arm for you—that’s my masturbation hand, just so we’re clear
about what I’d be giving up.”

Only Shay would point that out.

I can’t help but smile. “At least this way only one of us
will be screwed.”

“Well, if I’m the one who loses, please make sure you throw me
a pittance when you see me lying outside your gate with my tin cup.” She unpins
her wig.

When she shakes her red hair down her back, it cascades like
a waterfall. The slight wave in it is probably there from being rolled up under
her Marilyn get-up. It’s moments like this that I hate her.

“I’d almost kill to have your hair,” I lament for the
umpteenth time.

She shrugs. “Well, I
would
kill to have your curls. So
you’d best sleep with one eye open, bitch.”

Shay’s African Gray whistles and squawks in the living room.
“Bitch. Who you callin’ bitch?”

The morning sun pours through the windows as I rinse the last
cup and set it on the rack. “Yes, Gee-Gee, it was very interesting to be on
television.”

My grandmother laughs on the other end of the line. “And
that handsome devil, Jackson. Is he really as much of a hunk in person as he
seems on TV?”

Hunk? I smile. He’s
more
of a hunk. “Well, he’s not
ugly.”

“And the way you fell into him—brilliant! Did you get to
brush against his naughty parts?”

I swear she delights in shocking people with the things she
says. “
You’re
naughty, Gee-Gee. And I tripped. I don’t go around feeling
men up at every opportunity.”

“You should. Life’s too short. If I had it to do over again,
I’d spend way less time worrying about what other people think and have a good
time. You need to enjoy life, Ronnie.”

I let out a little sigh. “I wasn’t there for a good time. I
was there to try to sell books.”

“If a good time doesn’t present itself, make your own. No
matter the situation.”

“Okay, Gee-Gee, I’ll keep that in mind.”

“So, when you go on the show again, trip more carefully. I
want to know if that Jackson is—what did he say to that lady in the audience? Oh!
I want to know if he’s hung like a mule. You’ll find out for me.”

I close my eyes.
This
is my family.

Surely, I was secretly switched at birth and somewhere, my real
family is normal. A nice,
normal
family. A family who talks about the weather
and the latest sports win, not how well endowed a man is.

“Gee-Gee, why can’t you be like other grandmas and tell me all
about your ailments when I call?”

“Oh pish-posh. You don’t want to talk about the fact that I
haven’t had a bowel movement in three days.” She chuckles. “Wait—you don’t, do you?”

The doorbell chimes, sending Dickey Bird into a wild tizzy
as he whistles, beeps, and sings every ringtone and alarm he’s ever learned.

Thank God. Saved by—the bell rings again.

“Sorry, Gee-Gee. Someone’s at the door; I need to go. I’ll
talk to you later. Love you. Bye.”

I swipe my finger across the screen. “Shush, Dickey. You’re
going to wake the beast.”

As I pass his large perch, he bobs his head and flaps his
wings. “Beware the beast.”

Sometimes I’d swear that bird does more than mimic what he
hears. “Shh. I see
you. I
see
you. Attention hound.”

I turn the handle on the door, still laughing at the bird.

“Well, look at that smile. I’m glad you’re happy to see me.”

Shit.

Jackson Tremaine. And look, he’s brought along his smug grin.

“What are
you
doing here?” I pull the edge of my cami
top up a notch and cross my arms over my breasts.

He shrugs and hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his
tattered jeans. “I was in the neighborhood.”

Yeah, right. “You come to West Hollywood often? Don’t they
have everything you need where you live?”

“I live not too far from here.” He glances over his shoulder
toward his car.

A sedan. Upper end… but still, I’m surprised it isn’t some
testosterone fueled sports car.

“What can I help you with, Mr. Tremaine?”

“Nice place.”

“Thanks, but I only rent a room.”

“Yeah? How’d you end up here?” He looks into the entryway.

It’s weird to be having this somewhat mundane conversation
with Jackson Tremaine. In all the years I’ve lived in the LA area, I’ve barely
even seen a handful of stars. Now one shows up where I live? What’s his game?
Bet he’s sniffing around, looking for Shay.

I answer, “Ten months ago, I lost my attic apartment because
my slumlord—I mean landlord—died and his kids sold the place. So I moved in here.”

He leans against the door frame, his gaze darting from one
corner to the next, as though he’s trying to see what—or who—is inside. “So, who
do you live with?”

Wait. “You didn’t come to see Shay?”

His brows draw together. “Shay
na
? As in
Leave ‘Em
?”

“This is her place. I thought you came to see her. She gets
a lot of that.”

“She does all right with her little out-the-cheater business,
eh?”

“I guess. She’s pretty hard to resist, I suppose.” I fiddle
with the hem on my top, pulling it down to cover the band of exposed skin above
my shorts.

His eyes zone in on the cleavage I accidentally revealed. Or
maybe my headlights are shining, and that’s what caught his attention. Boobs.
Why do they choose the worst times to do their own thing? I try to cross my arm
over my tits and hide my midriff as well.

Damn. I can’t cover everything with this stupid top.

I lay my hand flat over the spot his eyes are burning a hole
into. “Mr. Tremaine?”

With what seems to be great effort, he pulls his gaze to meet
mine.

“Oh, sorry. Call me Jackson. I—” He takes a step closer and
his hand shoots out. He wriggles his finger beneath my palm. “—is that a
tattoo?”

What the hell?

I back up.

He follows me inside. He digs a bit further under my hand and
pushes against the top of my breast. “C’mon, don’t be shy, Ronnie. Let’s see
it.”

I tighten my hold over my tat and thump his knuckles. What’s
wrong with him? Has he lost his mind?

“No.” I grind out.

“Aw. Now, don’t be like that. I want a peek.” His spicy,
wooded scent encroaches on my comfort.

He inches closer, sending my heart into panic-mode when my back
hits the wall.

God knows why, but I want to lean into him.

Wait. No. That’s wrong.

This is the guy who likely ruined my life between commercial
breaks last night. What the hell is the matter with
me
?

I smack his hand. “What are you doing?”

He stops and backs up a couple of steps. His hands go up in
surrender. “I—I’m sorry. No excuse. I just—you don’t seem like the tattoo kind
of girl.”

“I’m not sure how you can presume to know what type of
anything
I am. We only met yesterday. And for less than a half-hour at that.” Tossing him
a glare, I step into the doorway leading to the kitchen. I’m a retreating coward.

Again, he follows, tucking his hands behind his back. “Oh, I
think I got a pretty good picture of who you are.”

“Well, you’re probably mistaken. That concept is most likely
foreign to you, but I’m sure it will happen eventually. Almost everyone is wrong
at some point.”

“And you’re going to be the one who puts me in my place,
eh?” His presence fills the small kitchen as he stalks me.

Maybe I should do the old pinch test, see if I’m having some
bizarre dream. Jackson Tremaine, in my kitchen? I sneak in a pinch to my thigh.

No, must be awake. Holy freaking shit.

When the edge of the counter bites into my lower back, I hold
up my hand. He keeps coming until his pec presses against my palm. The firm muscle
twitches, and his heart beats strong beneath my fingers.

A throb starts in my pussy, something I haven’t felt for far
too long. Forever, it seems.

Why, oh why does it have to be
him
?

Because he’s crazy gorgeous. Because he’s an apparition that
can’t possibly be real, pinch test or not.

Jackson’s hands find my hips. “I couldn’t sleep last night.”

With a raised eyebrow, I ask, “Conscience getting to you?”

The corner of his mouth goes up, showing off one dimple. How
did I not notice he has dimples?

“Nope. I couldn’t stop thinking about how cute you were when
you tripped. The look on your face was priceless. And there was the way you
felt in my arms.”

Cute?

In his arms? Oh. “Well, if your stage people would have done
something about those cables—”

“I need to give whoever fucked up a raise.” He leans in, and
his breath tickles my earlobe. “You smell delicious. I’m dying for a taste.
Have been since last night.”

I shove the desire clamoring for recognition into a holding cell.
Now is
not
the time. This is
not
the man. I don’t even
like
him, for Heaven’s sake.

Jackson closes in. His lips brush where the pulse hammers in
my neck.

Boundary issues. The man has boundary issues.

But a wave of hunger crashes through me like a river through
a tight gorge, creating a current too strong to fight. A sample. That’s all.
What can it hurt?

Do I actually need to
like
him to enjoy a moment out
of time? I should have more fun. Life is short. Gee-Gee said so.

He lets out a low growl, and his tongue slips along the edge
of my collarbone. “Damn, woman, you taste as good as I imagined.”

Unbidden, my fingers crawl up to fasten behind his neck.

Big hands splay my ribs as he yanks me against him. His
erection pushes into my belly. Something inside me answers that silent request,
and warmth winds its way to that still pulsing beat at the apex of my thighs.

I let out a sigh. My fingertips push into the hair curling
over his nape—so soft.

He finds my jaw and pulls me to him, his fingers pushing through
the hair at my temple. His mouth dances along mine, teasing and nipping. When the
tip of his tongue slides along the seam between my lips, a small gasp opens
them to him.

His hard body pushes against me from chest to hip. His knee
nudges between my thighs, until his leg pushes against the most sensitive part
of me. That same part wets in anticipation.

A hand glides from my ribs over my breast, rubbing and
massaging.

I moan.

He deepens the kiss. I raise my leg. My pussy begs for more
attention than his thigh is providing.

He moves from my mouth, raining kisses down my jaw and over
my neck.

I find the zipper on his jeans, easing it down. His cock begs
to be released. He grunts.

My eyes fly open.

His little boy grin bowls me over.

Oh, Lord, he’s gorgeous.

His gaze holds mine. “I think I might’ve read the wrong
parts of your book.”

My book?

I yank my hand off his crotch and flatten both palms on his
chest, shoving as hard as I can. “Crap.”

“What’re you doing?” His surprised expression might be
comical in any other circumstance, but not now.

My nostrils flare as indignation flows through me—into every
artery, every vein, every capillary. “
You.
What are you thinking?”

His head draws back a notch. “If you want to know the truth,
I was thinking I’d like to find out what happens when you get my dick out of my
pants. Why’d you stop? We were just getting to the good part.”

Of course.

Men.

“That ridiculous bet.
That’s
why I stopped.”

His face says he doesn’t have a clue what I’m talking about.

“That bet you announced on
national
television,
making it almost impossible for Shay and me to refuse?”

At least he has the courtesy to look embarrassed that he
didn’t remember that life altering, career demolishing moment he engineered.

I wilt. “Look, the thing is—”

A cough from the doorway pushes me a large step away from Jackson.

“The thing is that this bet might end both of our careers. But,
I imagine you don’t give a shit about that. Do you, Jackass?” Shay scratches
her head, bleary eyed. “Sorry, I meant, Jackson, of course. Oh, and your
winky’s about to escape.”

He tosses her a fake smile and does up the front of his
pants. “Aw, don’t worry. Don’t they say all press is good press?”

Shay yanks open the refrigerator, her butt in the air as she
rummages through what’s left of this week’s groceries. “We’ll see about that.
If you cause my friend here to lose book sales, I’ll have to kick your ass.”

Dickey Bird squawks. “Kick ass. Your ass is grass. Jackass is
grass.”

“You tell him, Dickey.” She bumps the fridge door closed
with her hip and slams the coffee creamer onto the counter.