by JA Huss
Contents
The Sexpert
DESCRIPTION
Sexpert Advice
CHAPTER ONE - EDEN
CHAPTER TWO - ANDREW
CHAPTER THREE - EDEN
CHAPTER FOUR - ANDREW
CHAPTER FIVE - EDEN
CHAPTER SIX - ANDREW
CHAPTER SEVEN - EDEN
CHAPTER EIGHT - ANDREW
Sexpert Advice
CHAPTER NINE - EDEN
CHAPTER TEN - ANDREW
CHAPTER ELEVEN - EDEN
CHAPTER TWLEVE - ANDREW
CHAPTER THIRTEEN - EDEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN - ANDREW
Sexpert Advice
CHAPTER FIFTEEN - EDEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN - ANDREW
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN - EDEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN - ANDREW
CHAPTER NINETEEN - EDEN
CHAPTER TWENTY - ANDREW
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE - EDEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO - ANDREW
Sexpert Advice
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE - EDEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR - ANDREW
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE - EDEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX - ANDREW
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN - EDEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT - ANDREW
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE - EDEN
CHAPTER THIRTY - ANDREW
Sexpert Advice
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE - EDEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO - ANDREW
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE - EDEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR - ANDREW
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE - EDEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX - ANDREW
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN - EDEN
Sexpert Advice
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT - ANDREW
EPILOGUE - ANDREW
END OF BOOK SHIT
About the Authors
Edited by RJ Locksley
Cover Design: JA Huss
Copyright © 2018
by J. A. Huss and Johnathan McClain
All rights reserved.
ISBN-978-1-944475-58-1
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
DESCRIPTION
A new standalone romantic comedy from New York Times bestselling author, JA Huss, and Actor/Screenwriter, Johnathan McClain.
EDEN
I’m just a simple girl who likes dessert. And sexy men. And social media. So starting an anonymous video channel called The Sexpert as a side hustle to make up for my low-paying marketing job at Le Man Magazine seemed like a perfectly sensible career decision. Until we went viral, my boss accused my anonymous personality of stealing his idea, and now my super sexy new boyfriend, Andrew, is out to get me.
Her. Me. Whatever.
ANDREW
I don’t want it to be her. I do not want this… sweet, delicious, shy social media nerd working at my best friend’s magazine to be the face behind those perky cupcakes on the Sexpert channel. I don’t want it to be her… because I like her. A lot. She’s funny, and quirky, and smart, and creative… and… I really, really like her. It just can’t be her.
But it is.
And now I have to choose.
My best friend?
Or… The Sexpert?
Sexpert Advice
CHAPTER ONE - EDEN
Zoey: Turn your radio on. 93.3 is talking about us!
That’s the text that just dinged on my phone. I stare at that message for a few seconds, forcing it to make sense, then have this exact thought process:
First of all—do people still listen to the radio?
Second—why the hell would 93.3 be talking about us? That must be a typo.
Third—why is it so fucking hot out this morning? I mean, Jesus Christ, it’s not even eight AM and the Kenny Rogers temperature-gauge bobble head on the dash is telling me it’s already eighty-five degrees.
The last one is really the only thing I care about right now because I’ve been sitting in standstill bumper-to-bumper traffic for the better part of ten minutes and this old truck has no AC, which means I have all the windows down and the hot July wind is making everything a million times worse than it needs to be. Plus, I forgot my hair tie, so my hair is sticking to my neck sweat because I can’t pull it back into my professional pony-tail. Which is just gross.
My phone dings another text.
Zoey: Are you listening?
I love that Zoey uses proper punctuation in her texts. It’s so cute.
Me: WTF you thinking abt I tink your lats tit was typo
I tell everyone I’m hip and cool and don’t use proper punctuation but the truth is I’m just a really bad texter. My fingers just don’t work the little keyboard right. I’ve tried the two-thumb technique and found it just takes too long because I always press two letters at the same time and it’s rarely true that you’re aiming for two letters right next to each other on the keyboard. So I use the tried-and-true pecking method when I text and… well, example A above. (I can’t take all the credit because autocorrect helps me make that magic.)
Me: Do you tink the sun shitting my bobbled makes it red the wrong tampon
Then I add:
Me: Temp. ?
To make it clear.
My phone rings in my hand.
Incoming Call
Zoey
“Hey,” I say. “Sorry, autocorrect turned ‘temp’ into ‘tampon.’ I wasn’t really asking about a tampon.”
“Are you listening to the fuckin’ radio?”
“I thought that was a typo.”
“It’s not! They’re talking about us! Turn on 93.3 quick!”
“Hold on,” I whine. “You know I have one of those pushbutton radios from the Sixties, right?”
“Just turn it on.”
So I turn the knob on the radio to the right until it clicks, get nothing but static because I wasn’t even aware this thing worked until right this moment, and then start pushing those little placeholder buttons to see if it’s been magically programmed to 93.3.
It hasn’t.
“Hurry! They’re gonna go to break!”
“I’m trying, dammit. I’m not really sure how to find an analog radio station, OK?” I turn the other knob down towards 93.3 and get a station playing I Can See Clearly Now by… someone I don’t know. But I do know the words. “‘I can see clearly now the rain is gone…’” I sing to Zoey. “Is this the right one?”
I can hear her taking deep breaths on the other end of the phone.
“What?”
“No,” she snaps. “That’s the Rock. 93.7.”
“Well, excuse me if I’m not precise. OK, hold on.” I sigh, nudging the dial to the left just an eensy bit more…
“And did you see the one about the butt plugs?” is followed by hysterical male laughter.
But that’s when I notice the pickup truck next to me must be listening to the same thing because I hear it coming from the open window.
When I look over I see a guy with light brown hair and a scruffy chin—also talking on the phone. Our eyes meet for a brief second and I look away real fast, but then look back just as quickly because damn. The guy is cute.
He smiles and I roll my window up. It protests with a sickening squeak noise that makes my teeth hurt, but I soldier on because I don’t need some cute stranger hearing this conversation.
“What is this?” I ask Zoey. “What the hell are they talking about?”
“Us, you dipshit! Us! The Sexpert!”
“Oh, my God,” one of the radio guys says as he tries to breathe through his laugh
ing fit. “Where did she come up with this stuff?”
“Wait,” I say, holding up a finger. “Is he saying my lesson was inaccurate? Because I did a lot of research on proper butt-plug technique. And,” I add, stressing the word, “that is our most popular video. It’s got like twenty-seven thumbs up and only three thumbs down. So people must find it helpful.”
“Eden,” Zoey says in her stern mom voice. “Who cares what they think about the video? They’re talking about us! We’re going viral, baby! We’re going viral!”
She’s literally talking to her baby. I think. Then he coos back at her on the other end of the phone, and yes. She was talking to him.
“We have to find out who she is,” says the other morning radio DJ. “I mean, she’s local, yeah?”
“Has to be. All the stuff she said comparing the TDH to a collection of dildos was classic. Hey, if any of you out there know who she is, give us a call!”
“Can internet videos be nominated for Pulitzers?”
“Webby Awards, I think.”
“Well, then let’s get this chick a Webby!”
“Viral,” I say. “Well, that’s awesome, right?”
“Yes!” Zoey screams. “Yes! Do you know we’ve already gotten eight emails since these guys started talking about us fifteen minutes ago?”
“Eight emails,” I say. Damn. We’ve been putting these Sexpert videos out for a year now and never got a single inquiry. We get plenty of comments, but those are mostly rude and talk about how men want to do things to my vagina. (Or butthole—that’s a pretty popular comment on the butt plug video.) So eight emails… in fifteen minutes. “That’s fantastic!”
“And we have fifty-five—no, fifty-six thousand views now! We’ve gotten a thousand more since I first texted you!”
“Jesus. This might be serious, huh?” I turn the radio down again because it’s gone to commercial. “How’d they hear about us?”
“Who cares? It’s the break we’ve been waiting for!” Zoey says. “Oh, my God. I gotta get back to editing the next video. We shouldn’t wait until Friday for this one. We should put it up tomorrow! Bye!”
I get hang-up beeps as the call drops. And for a few seconds I can only stare at the screen wondering if all that really just happened.
When I came up with the idea for the Sexpert it was out of desperation. I hate being broke. And I hate living at home. And since I work in the Tall, Dark, and Handsome neighborhood just south of the Denver Tech Center and live all the way over in the crappy part of Lakewood, sleeping in my childhood canopy bed since I graduated college four years ago has really sucked. The commute is horrible.
Example A of horrible commutes is the bumper-to-bumper traffic I’m currently stuck in. Though it usually isn’t this bad. Something must be happening over that next hill.
A knock on my window makes me jump. And when I turn my head cute-scruffy-jaw stranger is standing there—outside of his truck—motioning for me to roll my window back down.
I do that automatically, even though he might be a serial killer, because he’s very nice to look at.
“Can I help you?” I ask, squirming in my seat because I’m so hot now since I had the window rolled up for that phone conversation, sweat is literally pooling between my boobs.
“Do you have a charger I can borrow?” He holds up his phone like this explains everything.
“You shouldn’t be out of your truck,” I say, looking over my shoulder to see if he’s holding anyone up.
“We haven’t moved in eleven minutes. I think it’s OK just this once to get out of my truck on the freeway.”
“It could start moving any second,” I say, looking around because you just don’t get out of your car on the freeway. Even in stopped traffic.
“No, really. There’s a cow giving birth up over that hill. I heard it on the radio.”
“Stop it!” I laugh, slapping his hand. Which is gripping my half-open window. “There is not!”
“Seriously. Some cow got out of that pasture over there”—he points to a rolling pasture where dozens of cows are trotting up the hill like they’re late for an event or something—“and got onto the freeway and now she’s giving birth in the fast lane.”
I snort. It’s something I’m not proud of, but do often. “That’s crazy.”
He holds his phone again. “I was on a call and my phone died. Since we’re gonna be stuck here for the unforeseeable future, do you happen to have a charger I could borrow?”
We both glance down at my radio. Or, more accurately, the cassette player. Which is how I charge my phone in this old-ass truck my dad gave me when my college car died a horrible death during an impromptu trip to Vegas last fall.
“Oh,” he says.
“I have a real one,” I say quickly. Because he’s even cuter up close than he was from ten feet away and I want to be helpful. “But you gotta give it back. It’s the only good one I have.”
I don’t add, And I can’t afford to buy another one, because everyone knows they sell them for ten bucks at Wal-Mart. But even ten bucks is a lot of money to me today. I’m dead broke until payday and that’s not until the end of the week. I need that ten bucks for gas.
“Cross my heart,” he says, crossing his heart.
God, that’s adorable.
So I say, “One sec. Let me find it,” and start digging into my purse.
“You moving or something?” he asks.
I glance out the back window at the boxes I’m hauling in the bed and say, “Yeah. Finally. I scored a cool studio in the TDH so today is my move-in.”
“TDH,” he says, like he’s trying out the acronym. “That’s the Tall, Dark, and Handsome neighborhood, right? Named for, presumably, all the hot dudes living there?” He rolls his eyes when he says “hot dudes.”
“Yup.” I beam. “Hottest place to live in Colorado right now and I’m there!”
What I don’t say is that I’ve been saving for two years to be able to afford my own apartment. I’m overly cautious that way. I have a year’s worth of rent tucked away in a savings account as my safety net that will not be touched under any circumstances. I might not look like one of those practical girls, but I am. Just thinking about spending my savings gives me a little sick feeling in my stomach.
“That’s funny,” he says.
“What is?”
“I’m moving in there today too.”
Holy shit. “Really?”
“Yup. Just drove in from Moab.” Then he leans in and says, “Don’t tell anybody, though. I’m not sure I’m tall, dark, or handsome enough to be there. Don’t wanna get booted out on my first day.” He winks. He’s clearly making a joke. He could probably be the damn mayor of the TDH.
“Maybe we’ll be neighbors?” I say, then immediately blush. Because I think I just used my secret Sexpert voice on him.
“So… that charger? Sorry, I don’t mean to be rude but I was on a call with my friend, and he’s in some kind of crisis and needs someone to vent to. Sorry. Can I borrow it? Please?” He smiles again.
“Ah,” I say, finding the charger cord in my purse. “Here you go. But you gotta give it back,” I remind him.
“Already crossed my heart…”
“Eden,” I say, catching his unsaid question about my name.
“Eden,” he says. “Good name. Suits you.” Then he winks again, says, “Thanks!” and turns away.
I watch him walk around the front of his truck and get in the driver’s side, then continue to watch as he plugs my charger in and starts tapping on his phone.
“Sorry, dude,” I can hear him say into the phone over the din of the stopped traffic. “My phone died. What? Oh, I had to beg a charger off…” But before I hear any more, he rolls up the window and shuts me out.
“Hmmmph,” I huff.
Well, those were two completely unexpected and exciting things to happen on the way to work. And it’s my move-in day. So that makes three exciting things to happen today.
I can
tell my life is gonna be great from now on. It’s like things are finally falling into place. Things are finally going my way. Things are finally gonna get better.
But that’s when I notice traffic is moving again.
I look over at cute guy—hey, he didn’t give me his name back—and I’m about to yell out the window about my charger, but he just waves and pulls away.
I beep my horn, but he doesn’t even bother looking over his shoulder. Just butts his way between two cars and disappears over the hill.
I turn on my blinker to signal I want to get over so I can go after him, but a guy driving a BMW gives me the finger and scoots past me.
Assholes. Both of those stupid men are assholes.
And cue the irony. Because now I really do have to spend my last ten bucks on a new phone charger just because I fell for a handsome stranger on the freeway.
CHAPTER TWO - ANDREW
“Shit,” I say, watching my new friend Eden disappear in my rearview.
“What? What’s wrong?” That’s Pierce on speakerphone.
“The chick I borrowed the charger from. Traffic started moving and this dude honked at me and I had to take off. I tried to wave to her to follow me so that I can pull over and give it back but I don’t think she saw me.”
“Fuck her. Her own stupid fault for giving her shit to a stranger on the freeway.”
Sometimes I can forget that Pierce is an unapologetic asshole. Occasionally I even wonder why I continue being friends with the guy. Normally I try to make it a rule to avoid being friends with assholes, but... Pierce and I go back, and I love him like a brother, so he gets a pass.
Also, he’s French. So it’s kind of to be expected.
“Nice, dude,” I say. “You’re a real treat.”
“Fuck everybody,” he shouts.
“Slow down, K? Start over. I’m not sure I have a handle on what’s twisting your croissant.”
He makes a sound like an engine revving down and says, “Someone is stealing my IP. OK? Someone has stolen my fucking intellectual property. And when I find out who it is... woe be unto them. Woe be unto them, I say!”
