DIRTY ALPHAS: The Alpha Bad Boy Collection

by Franca Storm

  “It was on a post-it taped to your fridge.”

  Shit, it is. It’s a new number, so I wrote it on there to memorize it.

  “What is it?” I ask, unable to contain my curiosity, even though I know I should.

  “What name did I put down for you?”

  “Yes,” I sigh. Why do I want to know? What the hell is wrong with me?

  “Come here,” he says, gesturing with his free hand as he scrolls through his phone.

  And the idiot that I am, I do. He turns the phone so I can see it. A single word: Angel. The same nickname he’d given me outside on the porch earlier. I snort out a laugh. “Really? I call bullshit.”

  “You do, huh?”

  I nod.

  A second later, I hear the faint hum of my cell phone coming from the coffee table. I glance down at it and, sure enough, my phone is buzzing away.

  I look back at him, hating the blush that I can feel creeping across my cheeks. Expecting to see a smug grin of victory on his face, I’m surprised when it’s not there. His eyes are intense as he gazes into mine. There’s emotion there. Caring. And, dare I say it, tenderness.

  No. I can’t get sucked into this, to feeling things. Uh uh. I’m not equipped to do that. It will just end like it always does, with him wanting more from me than I can give. Hell, I can’t even go on a date like a normal person, so how could this work? It can’t. It never does with any guy. They just grow frustrated to their breaking point and walk out, leaving me heartbroken and consumed by the same three crippling things I always am: embarrassment, shame and weakness.

  I step back, breaking the moment between us. I turn from him and head towards the stairs. “I’ll get you a blanket. You can crash on the couch.”

  “How about a pillow?”

  “Spoiled rich kid,” I mutter under my breath.

  I hear him chuckling as I head up the stairs. He heard me. Oops. Well, it’s true.

  As I enter my bedroom, I gaze longingly at my bed. I’m so tired. I need to sleep. That bastard. I’m going to be exhausted tomorrow and I won’t be able to write for shit. Just because I work from home, doesn’t mean I don’t have deadlines to meet, just like everyone else.

  I walk into the bathroom and open the linen closet beside the door. I need a blanket for him and a damn pillow. I stop as I hear heavy footsteps in the bedroom. I peer around the door and see Dan stumbling into my room and hoisting himself onto my bed. He makes himself comfortable on my side of the bed. His eyes find mine and he flashes that smug smile of his.

  “No. Get up. You’re not sleeping there.”

  “Come on,” he whines. “I’ll be a perfect gentleman. Just don’t make me sleep on that thing trying to pass for a couch downstairs.”

  Oh, so now he’s insulting my furniture? “Couch! Now!”

  He grumbles something that sounds like an agreement.

  Assuming he got the message, I return to searching for a blanket and a pillow. My linen closet is a mess. I need to organize it at some point. After God knows how long, I finally manage to find a blanket and the pillow he wanted. I head back into the bedroom.

  I’m shocked at what I find.

  Dan is sprawled out on his stomach, his face buried in a pillow over on my side of the bed. He’s sound asleep. The asshole passed out on my bed! Argh!

  I’m too tired to continue this back and forth with him, so I drop the blanket and pillow on the floor and cross to the bed.

  I cast a quick glance at him to make sure he really is asleep.

  He is. Phew.

  I tighten my robe self-consciously and then I climb into bed beside him. At least it’s king-size, so there’s enough room for us both to sleep here without us touching.

  I close my eyes and welcome some much-needed sleep.

  Chapter 6

  ~Daniel~

  Jesus Christ. Am I dying?

  My head is telling me just that. How much did I drink last night?

  I try to bring my hand to my head, but I feel resistance. I glance down to see that I’m not alone.

  Emma is nestled against me, her head on my chest and her left arm confining me.

  Oh no. Did we fuck?

  Nah. There’s no way she’d have let me in the state I was in. Would she? I hope not. It would make me sick to my stomach to find out that the first time we did something, I couldn’t fucking remember it. That would be pure torture.

  I lift the covers slightly and see that I’m still fully dressed. Phew. Okay, good. We didn’t fuck.

  I shift my legs and cringe at the ache there. I slept in my leather pants and my balls are screaming in protest. The leather’s sticking to them like tar on skin. I should know. J coerced me into helping him with that roofing tar shit in the early days of Harlson Construction, before he’d hired his guys.

  I’m so fucking hot, lying here in my clothes, the duvet cover pulled up to my chest and Emma lying on me, her body heat filtering through to me. I need to get up. My throat is dry as fuck. I’m dehydrated and my head is killing me.

  But as I look down at her sleeping soundly in my arms, I can’t move. It feels good. Really good. She looks so peaceful. Her gorgeous eyes are closed. Her hair is fanned out over my chest. She’s breathing slowly and softly against my skin. Before I know it, my hand is on her, stroking her soft golden hair. God, she really is an angel.

  Angel? Oh, fuck me. Just like that, pieces of last night come back to me and I feel a painful pull in my chest. The things I said to her. I came onto her in a majorly brazen way. I showed her my phone! She saw those names in there! Jesus Christ. Could I have been more of a dick to her?

  My instincts kick in and I gently ease her off me and hurry out of her bed.

  I can’t…I can’t be here. And not just because I was an asshole to her last night, showing up so late and completely wasted. But because this is way too intimate.

  This is not what I signed up for.

  The worst part and the most unnerving part is that I liked it. I liked waking up with her wrapped around me like that.

  Part of me wants to stay here all morning, just stroking her hair. Sex isn’t even on my mind at all.

  Unacceptable.

  Fucking should be the only thing I’m thinking about.

  The fact that it isn’t has me trembling like an addict in withdrawal.

  I’m in too deep already.

  I can’t do this. I can’t. Not again. Not after Isabella.

  I’m not that man anymore.

  I don’t have anything to give anyway. I’m broken. Fucked up.

  I feel sick.

  I can’t breathe.

  It’s like someone’s snaked their fingers around my heart and captured it in a crushing grip.

  It’s Emma. This is her doing.

  Well, it won’t fucking bleed for her. It won’t bleed for anyone. It’s black. I’m dead inside. And I fucking like it that way, because it sets me apart from every other dumbass out there. It makes me untouchable. I can’t be damaged. They can’t take anything from me, because it’s already gone with the wind. I’m fucking invulnerable.

  At least, that’s what I’d thought until I met Emma. How is she able to tear down every barrier I’ve spent years erecting? How can she touch me like this?

  I don’t care.

  She can. She just can.

  I have to get as far away from her as possible until I can sort this shit out.

  Sort it out? If only it was that easy. These demons have been with me for a long time, latching onto me. And I let them. I let them taint me. Because, they’re also my greatest resistance. They stop me from feeling shit and reel me in when I start to. Fighting them will leave me open to bitches like Isabella. I swore to myself that I’d never let that happen again.

  I’m in control now.

  Fuck to forget.

  Every woman I take to my bed is another fuck-you to that bitch.

  The more I fuck, the further she fades in my memory. The more inconsequential she becomes.

 
; One day it’ll be like she never existed.

  I glance at Emma’s bedside table and see a notepad and pen there. That’s an odd place to put one. Oh right, she’s an author. Makes sense then. She probably keeps it there in case an idea comes to her in the middle of the night, I guess.

  I scrawl out a quick note, which is quite a feat considering my damn hands are shaking so much. I tell myself it’s just adrenaline, not fear, or anything like that. I don’t get scared. I’m not some fucking pussy.

  When the note’s done, I quietly tiptoe out of the bedroom, hoping against hope that she doesn’t wake up before I high-tail it out of her house. It occurs to me then that I’m still wearing my shoes. God, I didn’t even have the courtesy to take them off before I got into her bed.

  Stop. You don’t care.

  Right, yeah. I don’t care.

  It doesn’t stop me from sneaking one last glance at her before I leave her bedroom though.

  Angel.

  Chapter 7

  ~Emma~

  “Yes. Daniel Alder. Which apartment?” I ask the security guy behind the mammoth marble-topped desk once again.

  “Penthouse, Ma’am,” he answers as though it’s a stupid question and I should have known. Well, he has a point. Where else would Mister-arrogant-fucking-millionaire live? Of course, a simple apartment in this luxurious building wouldn’t be enough for him. He has to have the best one.

  “Thanks,” I say, pawing at my sunglasses nervously and pulling my baseball cap down further. There are two people sitting in the lobby. I can’t let them see me. No one can see me.

  “Ma’am,” the big, burly security guy calls out before I’ve made it two steps.

  I spin back around, surprised and embarrassed that he’s calling out to me. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the two suits in the lobby look my way at the sound of the commotion. My anxiety levels skyrocket and it’s all I can do to eke out, “Yes?”

  The walls are closing in.

  I’m too hot.

  No, I’m shivering.

  My legs are turning to jelly.

  I need to stop my heart from pounding. It’s too painful. Oh God, the room is spinning. I’m going to pass out.

  And then I inadvertently glance at the note crumpled in my right hand. Right there, rage takes over, quickly working to push down all else. I remember my mission: to give the author of said note a piece of my mind.

  “You can’t just walk on up to Mr. Alder’s apartment. It’s invitation only,” the security guy tells me.

  I draw in a breath to try to compose myself. “Tell him Emma Spencer is here to see him.”

  He nods and flashes me a reassuring smile. Shit, he must be able to see how out of sorts I am. If only he knew just how incredibly out of sorts I really am. I still can’t believe I’m here right now. Out in public. Away from the safe refuge of my home. Fucking Daniel.

  I watch the guy pick up the phone behind his desk. I can’t hear what he’s saying. His voice is so low.

  It only takes a few seconds, before he returns the phone to its cradle and tells me, “Go on up, Miss Spencer.”

  I make my way over to the bay of elevators and quickly press the call button. Oddly, I barely notice the two strangers who had caused me so much anxiety just moments ago. My thoughts are consumed by what I’m about to do. I look at the note in my hand one more time and find myself growling out loud.

  I’m annoyed that I had to announce my arrival. I wanted to show up at his place out of the blue, just like he’d done to me last night.

  The elevator arrives and I punch the button for the penthouse level. Despite the fact that the building has twenty-five floors, the elevator arrives at the penthouse in no time.

  To my surprise, the doors behind me open up. I hadn’t even realized there were doors on both sides.

  I spin around and find myself in the middle of asshole’s apartment. I step out of the elevator just before the door closes on me.

  I glance around. Wow. If I didn’t already know Daniel was a millionaire, this certainly brings it home. I’m in what appears to be the living room, complete with black leather couches, crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, what look like marble floors, priceless artwork on the walls, a huge flat screen TV, and a bar over in the corner with liquor I’ve only ever heard about, because it’s so damn pricey. And then I catch sight of the balcony. My eyes widen in disbelief as I see the sunken swimming pool out there. The balcony seems to wrap around the entire apartment.

  “Miss Spencer.”

  I spin around at the sound of his rumbling baritone to find him walking towards me in nothing but a gray towel hanging low on his hips.

  My God. He’s more cut than I’d even imagined. Those abs! I’ve never seen such muscle definition before. He runs his fingers through his thick head of dark hair, dispelling some of the moisture from the shower he clearly just stepped out of. My body reacts of its own accord and I have to bite my lip to distract myself from the dirty scenarios playing in my head. Shit.

  Remember why you’re here.

  “Asshole,” I return.

  “Asshole? You wound me, angel,” he says, slapping his hand over his heart in a fake gesture of pain. “Best you can do, huh?”

  Oh, you don’t want to challenge me. “Arrogant man-child. Immature, cocky bastard. Self-centered egomaniac. Domineering cocksucker.”

  He blinks in surprise and lets out a low whistle. “Impressive. I especially like the cocksucker part.” He angles his head to the side. “Although, that’s not my job, babe. Feel free to give it a go, though. You can drop to your knees right there by the couch if you like,” he says, pointing to one of the two wraparound leather couches behind him. “I’d love to feel those sexy lips of yours wrapped around my cock as I fuck your sweet mouth.”

  I shove my hands into his chest and he stumbles back, laughing.

  Before I can fire back a retort at his disgusting comment, he gets there first.

  “Christ, I’m loving that skirt on you,” he comments, gazing at my thighs. “And those boots? Mmm.”

  He’s staring at my black mini skirt and my over-the-knee leather boots. I shift uncomfortably and adjust my off-the-shoulder gray sweater nervously and pull my black suede jacket closed before he makes some sort of comment about them too.

  My eyes narrow. “I know what you’re doing.”

  He throws me a questioning look.

  “You’re trying to flirt your way out of this.”

  “It was working.”

  “Don’t kid yourself.”

  He just grins and folds his arms across his chest, giving me a fine view of those mouth-watering biceps of his. I want to scream at him to put a shirt on, but I can’t. He’ll know that him standing there in nothing but a towel is affecting me.

  I wave his note in my hand at him erratically. “What the hell do you call this?”

  “A note.”

  “Yeah, a note. Let’s see what it says, shall we?”

  He shifts his weight and looks on with interest. What the hell is he finding so interesting? My reaction to it? Shit, of course. I just played right into his hands. Well, I don’t care. I’m gonna rip him a new one like I’ve been fantasizing about since I read the damn thing.

  I smooth out the crumpled note and read: “This is a mistake. Forget me. Sorry about last night.”

  I look up at him for his reaction, but there isn’t any hint of remorse. No I’m sorry look. Why am I so surprised? I know the guy is a player. A big time womanizer. I knew it even before I got my hands on his phone last night. After he’d told me his name, I’d checked him out on Google.

  I’m not sure womanizer even covers it. Of course he’s reacting like this. He doesn’t give a fuck. And it bothers me. A lot. That’s the unnerving part. I don’t want it to bother me as much as it is. And I hate him for making me care like this. I told him to stay away for this precise reason. I didn’t want to get attached. Nothing can happen here. I know that. I’ve tried it time and time
again, but someone with my issues can’t sustain any sort of relationship.

  Hell, I barely have any friendships—just a couple of friends who I email now and again. It’s too hard for me to maintain contact. The phone is out of the question. I just have one for emergencies. I can’t actually call anyone on it. Talking on the phone is…it’s too much. With email I can prepare what I’m going to say in advance and make sure my email is perfect before I send it. With a phone call, it can’t be controlled like that. I hate it. And don’t get me started about meeting any of my said friends in person.

  “You don’t get to pull the shit you did last night and then be the one who walks away!” I thunder. “If anyone’s walking away, it’s me! Do you hear me, playboy? Consider this my verbal note.”

  His eyes widen, clearly stunned by my outburst. “Wow. You really hate not being the one in control.”

  It catches me off guard. It’s not what I was expecting him to say at all. “What?” I stumble.

  His expression shifts then, his eyes gentle as he asks, “How are you here? I thought you never leave your house?”

  “I…uh....” I struggle. How am I here? “You made me mad!” I blurt out.

  He smiles and looks away, nodding to himself as if he understands something that I don’t. “Interesting,” he says, his eyes meeting mine once again.

  Interesting? Oh no. No way. “Don’t you dare.”

  He seems genuinely confused. His eyes search mine for some sort of answer.

  “I’ve seen that look a thousand times,” I tell him.

  He shakes his head as he closes the distance between us again. “I really don’t know what you’re talking about, angel.”

  “Don’t try to fix me.”

  He looks wounded by my suggestion. “I would never,” he says, with a gentle half-smile.

  Something about the way he says it, mixed with the look on his face, gets to me. Somehow I know he’s being genuine. He means it. Everyone I’ve ever met has tried to fix me and that’s no exaggeration. I’ve been berated too many times for the way I am that now I’m so incredibly defensive about it. And the fact that he’s making no move to do that, affects me more than I thought possible.