Beach Reads Box Set

by Madden-Mills, Ilsa

  His body was here with us, but his mind and his eyes were on his boogeying bride on the other side of the dance floor. The space was fairly small. At least, this room known as The Greenhouse was. They’d rented out the entirety of The Foundry out of nothing more than necessity. Kline liked to think his life was boring and normal and that no one cared at all, but the truth was they did. They cared a lot. And keeping such an important event completely private was the only way to maintain his happy little bubble of make-believe.

  “That,” he said with a slightly tipsy gesture, “is my wife.”

  I laughed and slapped him on the shoulder, exchanging smiles with Wes behind his back. I raised my eyebrows in question, and Wes gave me a pursed-lip nod of agreement.

  “Go get her,” I urged simply, knowing he wanted to be with her a million times more than he wanted to stand here and shoot the shit with us.

  And, regardless of what people might have thought they knew about me, that was fine by me. My oldest, closest friend had found it. Found her.

  Always loyal and loving, I couldn’t think of anyone who deserved it more than he did.

  “Benny!” he yelled, pulling her attention from the crowd of women around her to him. “Make room on the floor. I’m coming for my dance!” The wattage of her smile was blinding.

  I stood next to Wes and watched as Kline danced his way over to her, pulling her into his arms and handing off his drink to the first, unsuspecting free hand he came to so he could hold on to her with both hands. Hands to her jaw and lips to hers, he kissed her in a way that I felt all the way in my stomach.

  “Good God, he’s a goner,” Wes remarked, sinking into the wall and tipping his drink to his lips.

  “Yep,” I agreed, thinking about the vows they’d exchanged during the ceremony.

  “It’s nice,” I added without thought—because it was.

  Wes laughed way harder than I thought was appropriate. “Jesus. Who are you and what have you done with Thatcher Kelly?” He morphed his face into what he thought was a good impression of me and mocked, “It’s nice!” with a wobble of his head.

  I punched him hard enough in the shoulder that he stopped laughing abruptly.

  “Ow! Fuck, Thatch! Christ.”

  “It is nice,” I told him again, further delving into the teachings of his lesson. “Take fucking note from your most experienced of friends. Multiple flavors of pussy are great, but what our fucking goner of a friend found is better.”

  He looked at me like he didn’t know what to make of me.

  “The two of them stood up in front of God and us and committed to each other forever with enough trust in each other to speak one another’s words rather than their own. That, motherfucker, is love.”

  Powerful speech performed, lesson conveyed, I felt content with my message until Wes went and fucking ruined it.

  “Jesus, fuck, The Foundry must be some sort of Twilight Zone. I don’t even know who you guys are anymore,” he teased, chuckling into his bourbon.

  “One day, Lancaster, when it happens to you, I will remember this moment.” I drained the rest of my drink and walked away.

  * * *

  Moving away from the bulk of the crowd, I sat down at a table that was mostly empty. My phone buzzed in my pocket.

  I thought it might be the tattoo shop, checking in to see if I’d be there tonight, but instead, I found a number I didn’t recognize.

  Unknown: She’s a lot older than you normally go for, but it looks like you’ve got a chance.

  I looked around, wondering what the fuck whoever this was was talking about. Quickly, I typed out a message.

  Me: Who is this?

  A reply came almost immediately.

  Unknown: Your mom.

  I was no less confused, but hell if I didn’t fucking laugh.

  Me: WTF. Who is this?

  Unknown: The hot bitch at the head table.

  I looked up across the dance floor as the crowd parted in front of me. Cassie, the craziest bitch I’d ever encountered and Georgia’s maid of honor, sat all by her lonesome at the wedding party’s table, one leg cocked and her bare foot in the chair beside her. She popped her eyebrows in a mischievous challenge.

  This chick had balls, sitting there by herself, just kicked back and relaxed with zero fucks given about it. Fuck, Cassie’s balls might have been bigger than mine, and that was saying something.

  Me: How’d you get my number?

  Unknown: I have my ways.

  Cryptic. Another message came right on its heels.

  Unknown: But good luck with that pussy tonight.

  I looked at her as she raised her glass in cheers and then looked at the area around me. Not even one prospective lay stood out in the nearest twenty-foot radius.

  Me: What pussy?

  Unknown: The silver-haired cutie beside you.

  I looked to my left and then to my right, and what I saw had me smiling like a lunatic. Kline’s grandma, Marylynn, sat clapping along to the heavy beat of the music and swaying back and forth. She was cute, but she was no less than eighty-five years old. I looked down to my phone and typed as quickly as my big thumbs would allow.

  Me: You should be ashamed of yourself. This is Kline’s grandma. But I’ll be sure to tell her you find her attractive.

  I shifted my gaze from the phone to her table as soon as I was done, but when the dancing crowd finally moved out of the way, she was gone. Gone from sight and gone from my phone, but she’d found a home somewhere else—stuck in my head.

  THE END

  Love Kline, Georgie, and the crew?

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  Cassie and Thatch get wild with Walter, and Kline puts his BDB to good use!

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  Want more from Max Monroe? Read on for a sneak peek of Tapping Her…

  Tapping Her Sneak Peek

  Chapter One

  Cassie

  New York, Thursday, April 20th, Early Morning

  Georgia: Good Night from Bora Bora!

  Ah, Georgia. My beautiful, sweet, funny, newly married, currently annoying as fuck best friend.

  Her lovely text included a photo of her and her hot husband, lounging in the tropical sun, on a private beach in Bora Bora. They’d been on their honeymoon for no more than three days, and I’d already received fifteen nauseatingly happy messages.

  Me: You. Are. An. Asshole. Another picture of you and Big Dick at the beach, and I’ll drop Walter off at the Humane Society.
/>   Georgia: If you fuck with my cat, I will disown you.

  Me: Your cat is Satan. Seriously. I think the devil was reincarnated inside him. He’s evil.

  Did I fail to mention that while Georgia and Kline were on their honeymoon, I had been given the responsibility of taking care of Walter? And not in the cool way that a mobster would. Georgie actually wanted me to look out for his well-being. Well, Thatch and I had been given that task, but I was the one at their apartment, spending time with their asshole of a cat.

  Georgia might’ve thought he was a big sweetheart, but he was the opposite—a big feline dick. That cat’s life mission was to make everyone else’s life a living hell. And he did it often. So far, in the span of forty-eight hours, he’d pissed on my favorite pair of Chucks and left a generous gift of his shit—yes, his actual cat shit—inside my overnight bag.

  Which explained why I was tits out, standing around in only my thong and rummaging through Georgia’s closet. Fresh out of the shower, I needed something to wear that didn’t smell like feline feces.

  “Thanks a lot, douchenozzle,” I said out loud, looking directly at Walter—who was currently lounging on their bed, licking himself. “Nice. Real classy, Walnuts.”

  He just stared back, irritated and completely aloof, all at once. I guess that’s the look you get when a good fifteen hours of your day is used up by licking the rim of your own asshole. He eyed me for a solid ten seconds without a single blink and then strode out of the room, kitty paws tip-tapping across the hardwood floor. I couldn’t put my finger on the exact reason, but everything about the way he moved screamed fuck you.

  “Yeah, walk away, buddy! Walk the fuck away!” I shouted toward him as my phone vibrated on top of the dresser next to the closet.

  Georgia: He is not evil! He’s just a little hesitant with new people. He’ll warm up to you.

  Me: Ohhhhh…so when he pisses on my shoes, that’s just him being “hesitant”? Or is that him “warming up to me”?

  Georgia: Another 24 hours and you guys will be buddies. I promise.

  Me: He shit inside my overnight bag, Wheorgie. This tells me that your promises mean nothing. I hope you don’t mind me going through your closet. Because I already am.

  Georgia: You can wear anything but my favorite LuLaRoe leggings.

  Damn, she makes it too easy. Looks like hot dog leggings will be worn today.

  For all I knew, those leggings were an inside joke about Kline packing a foot-long in his pants, but whatever. I’d make those stretchy pants my bitch. Hell, maybe I’d take a leisurely seventy-mile jog in Central Park just to make sure my twat left her mark.

  Gross? Definitely.

  But should I remind you her cat has been using my personal belongings as his litter box?

  Point made.

  Georgia: Wait. Why did you bring an overnight bag to my apartment?

  Me: Because I’m watching The Asshole.

  Georgia: That still doesn’t answer my question. We just asked you to check in on Walter and feed him twice a day, not move in.

  Me: Yeah, but I can’t rummage through your kinky sex box at my apartment.

  This was me calling Georgia’s bluff. I had no idea if she had a freak-a-leek box of goodies, but I was real curious. She had always been a bit reserved when it came to sex. I mean, she was a virgin up until she let Big Dick inside. Which honestly surprised the shit out of me. It was how I knew, when she gave it up to Kline, he would become a permanent fixture in her life.

  To quote Phoebe Buffay, Kline Brooks was Georgia’s motherfucking lobster.

  Okay, so the profanity was all mine. The lobster part was a la Friends.

  Needless to say, I was the over-sharer in our relationship. Georgia had nailed down the “I don’t kiss and tell” role from the very beginning. And I couldn’t deny the enjoyment I got from pushing her boundaries and making her blush.

  Georgia: Do NOT go through my shit, Casshead.

  Me: But this vibrator looks really cool. And a ball gag? Shit, G, I didn’t know you had it in you. Color me impressed. Kline’s dick looks good on you.

  Georgia: Shut. Up. I’m done with this conversation.

  Holy mother of awesome. My best friend had a stash full of sex goodies somewhere in her apartment, and I was going to find it.

  Me: I was kidding. But now, I’m not kidding. Canceling my “get rid of Walnuts” mission. New mission: Find Georgia’s box of freak. I’m so proud of you.

  Georgia: Greetings from Bora Bora, asshole!

  Attached to that text? A lovely picture of Georgia flipping me off while she stood on a deserted beach, twinkling water and her fucking beaming, handsome husband behind her.

  Me: One question before I start my search in your closet. Do you clean your bag o’ dildos after each use? Because if you don’t, you’ll need to pick up a new box of magnums on the ride home. I don’t have any latex gloves, and one of these isn’t big enough for my whole hand.

  Georgia: You’ve already gone through Kline’s nightstand?!

  Me: Oh, come on. That’s the first place you ALWAYS look. Does Kline really fill the entire magnum? Because if he does, I’m convinced his cock is a mythical unicorn.

  Georgia: I’m not discussing my husband’s penis with you.

  Me: Haha! I could literally hear you say the word penis like a schoolmarm. “Peeee-nis.”

  Georgia: I’m disowning you when I get back from my honeymoon.

  Me: Just remember to pick up milk too on your way home. You’re almost out.

  Georgia: Since you’ve made yourself at home. House rules: NO sex in my bed.

  Me: Okay, but those rules start right now, right? Yesterday shouldn’t count.

  Don’t worry, I’m not that much of a weirdo. I don’t make a point of using my best friend’s bed as my own personal brothel. But it’s too funny not to make her think that.

  Georgia: WASH MY SHEETS.

  Me: I love you, Wheorgie. Go back to enjoying your honeymoon and riding Kline’s peee-nis with the glow of the sunset behind you. I’ll take care of everything here like it’s my own.

  Georgia: Ugh. I love you too, Casshead. Replace everything you destroy.

  I swear, my best friend was far too easy to rile up. I probably shouldn’t get that much amusement out of it, but I did. She pulled off adorably embarrassed like no one else. And I wasn’t the only one who noticed. Kline used it to his advantage, frequently. It was one of the reasons I loved him. He knew Georgia better than she knew herself sometimes, and he also respected her, cherished her, and treated her like a goddamn princess—all the requirements for avoiding genital mutilation, courtesy of me.

  Since I was alone and there was absolutely nothing more fun than walking around without a bra on, I stopped my clothes search and placed my phone in their speaker dock. Once my playlist was set, it was time to search this place like I was a key investigator for the FBI.

  Rhianna’s “Cockiness” was speaking to me, echoing throughout the apartment and getting my exploration mojo off to the right start.

  “I love it when you eat it,” I sang, shaking my hips to the seductive beat and moving back toward Georgie’s closet.

  And then, in my peripheral vision, my eyes caught sight of a large, looming figure in the doorway.

  “Ahhhhh!” I screamed. “Holy son of a whore tramp!”

  ~END SNEAK PEEK~

  Click here to keep reading Tapping Her!

  Word on the street is that Thatcher Kelly is about to make his debut. ;) ;)

  The Worst Best Man

  Lucy Score

  "Newsflash. You don't buy me. You earn me."

  The bride is a doll. The groom is the perfect gentleman. But the rest of the wedding party? They're the stuff of nightmares. Rich? Check. Vapid? Double Check. Entitled? Not enough checks in the world. And the Best Man? More like the Worst Man.

  But Maid of Honor Franchesca takes her duties seriously. Kidnapped groom? She's got this. Rude attendees? You just watch her handle them. So
a Best Man with a big attitude and an even bigger...checkbook? Yeah, there's no way she's going to let that pretentious, judgmental jackhole ruin her best friend's wedding. No matter how sexy he is. (Well, that's the plan anyway...)

  Aiden Kilbourn doesn't do long-term relationships. He's busy ruling the business world, and has yet to find a woman he can tolerate for longer than a month, two at the outside, anyway. Conquering the unconquerable is basically his bread and butter. And he hasn't met a challenge that he can't win. But Franchesca Baranski? This smart-mouthed girl from Brooklyn may just be his downfall.

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