by Penny Wylder
DIRTY PROMISE
PENNY WYLDER
CONTENTS
Books By Penny Wylder
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Epilogue
Second Chance Stepbrother
Books By Penny Wylder
BOOKS BY PENNY WYLDER
Filthy Boss
Her Dad’s Friend
Rockstars F#*k Harder
The Virgin Intern
Her Dirty Professor
The Pool Boy
Get Me Off
Caught Together
Selling Out to the Billionaire
Falling for the Babysitter
Lip Service
Full Service
Expert Service
The Billionaire’s Virgin
The Billionaire’s Secret Babies
Her Best Friend’s Dad
Own Me
The Billionaire’s Gamble
Seven Days With Her Boss
Virgin in the Middle
The Virgin Promise
First and Last
Tease
Spread
Bang
Second Chance Stepbrother
Copyright © 2017 by Penny Wylder
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
1
A month after my best friend died, I received a box from her in the mail. I was shocked, to say the least. Attached to the box was a note dated a week before she passed away. I’m not sure exactly what I was expecting; maybe a sweet goodbye letter, or one of those scavenger hunts she loved to send me on to find my birthday gifts. Instead I got instructions for her bucket list.
After the initial shock wears off, I pour myself a glass of wine and take the note, the box, and the rest of the bottle outside to the porch because I have a feeling this is going to be a full bottle of pinot kind of evening.
It’s beautiful out, a mild spring day. The sun slowly settles behind the mountains, turning the sky lavender and the clouds bright orange. I place the box on the patio table and dust my chair off before I sit. I haven’t sat out here since Kia and I …
I let the thought trail off. It’s still difficult to think about the good times with Kia when the bad times are still at the forefront of my mind.
Inside the box is a stack of envelopes, each with a number on the front. At the bottom of the note are instructions. I read those carefully to make sure I don’t miss anything because my mind is still spinning from getting a package from beyond the grave. It’s difficult to keep focused after something like that.
Each envelope is an item on the bucket list. The rules are to complete one challenge—I’m not sure what else to call them since I have no idea what’s waiting for me—before I’m allowed to open the next. At the end of the list of instructions, she asks if I could please do her bidding in a timely manner. I can’t help but smile. Kia was always a bossy bitch and I loved her dearly for it.
Tears fall without warning and I have to take several calming breaths to keep from exploding into rage and ugly crying, blaming the universe for taking her too early, for taking someone so good at all. I mean, there are so many horrible people in this world; why take her?
Okay, stop.
I shake my head and wipe away my tears. Focus.
I re-read the instructions. “What do you have up your sleeve?” I ask the wind, hoping that Kia is out there in the cosmos, the heavens—anywhere—listening.
I pour myself another glass of wine and take a drink before opening the first envelope. In simple, Times New Roman text, it says:
Dear Fiona,
When’s the last time you got laid? You don’t remember, do you? Same here. Being sick will really put a damper on your love life, if you know what I mean. I really miss having fun with a hot guy. I’m sure you do too, right? Well, it’s about time to get back on the saddle. Don’t worry, I’m not asking you to go on Tinder or Craigslist or anything like that. I already have someone picked out for you. Remember that hot guy who works at the tattoo shop across from the bar? Yeah, that guy. I’m not asking you to fall in love with him, but get laid for fuck’s sake.
Next to it is a smiley face emoji.
Have fun and be safe!
Love always,
Kia
I choke on the wine still in my mouth and beat on my chest, trying to cough the liquid from my lungs before I drown. My neighbor is in her front yard in her mu-mu and floppy sun hat picking the weeds from her garden. She looks up at me and I wave to let her know I’m all right.
“What the hell, Kia?” I say.
Not long before Kia’s heart condition got worse, we’d been at a bar, tipsy and laughing at everything. I’d never been to that particular bar before, but it had a great vibe and played good music. We were sitting in a booth, talking about work, when Kia noticed the guy in the tattoo shop across the street. He was hunched over a client, laser-focused on the tattoo he was creating. Even from across the street it was easy to see how beautiful he was. Muscular arms covered in bright ink that flexed when he moved his hand, a jawline you could cut a steak with. When he sat up and smiled, that’s when he really shined. It was like looking through the glass at a zoo at some rare animal, all sleek lines and powerfully built, a little dangerous, maybe.
Kia started tugging on my arm and pointing at him. “Oh my God, Fiona, look at that.”
“Trust me, I am,” I said.
Oh, the things we talked about doing to that poor guy. Kia called dibs, but it never went further than that. We saw him several times after when we’d go to that bar with our other friends. We always talked about going across the street and introducing ourselves, but he was always with clients and neither Kia nor I were brave enough to cut in and risk embarrassing ourselves in front of him.
After Kia got sick I forgot all about him. I forgot about everything.
I guess I can’t forget about him anymore, can I? Not now that she wants me to sleep with him. How exactly would I even go about doing that? It’s been a few years since I was in the dating pool as Kia so eloquently pointed out in her letter. For the past few months when I wasn’t working I was with Kia, helping her parents take care of her. It was a fulltime job. My life and my heart were consumed. There was no room left for anyone else. No time either. Dating had been the last thing on my mind.
“Please tell me this is a cruel joke,” I say and flip over the letter.
I try to picture exactly how to ask this guy that I’ve never even met to have sex with me. Do I just go up to him and say, “Hey, wanna hook up for the night?” What if he has a girlfriend? I couldn’t be that girl who steals men, even for just a night. Kia would never ask me to do something like that … which means she probably did her homework. I can’t help but find it disturbing that she wants me to sleep with a guy she called dibs on. Feels like I’m cheating, or going behind her back in a way.
I re-read the letter in the first envelope just as I did with the instructions. It’s the same. The words haven’t changed, and I didn’t make them up in my head. Kia wants me to sleep with the hot tattoo guy whose name I don’t even know and who I haven’t thought about in a long time.
What choice do I have? Those envelopes are my best friend’s last wishes—even though it’s completely insane and I question her mental clarity when she wrote them. I mean, she was on a lot of medication at the time. Still, even if sh
e asked me to streak across a high school football game naked as the day I was born, I would do it because she’s not able to. God, I hope she doesn’t ask me to do that.
I’m not going to let her down. I have to figure out a way to sleep with this guy … I can’t believe I’m doing this.
2
I get dressed and take a taxi to one of the oldest parts of town. Everything around here was built in the 1800s. Most of these buildings used to be boarded up and falling apart. A few years ago, the city paid to have the entire block restored and eventually trendy shops moved in. One of those shops is Savage Tattoos. There’s a vinyl sign in the shape of a dragon covering most of the front window, leaving just enough window space to see the hot tattooed guy working at his station inside.
My heart is racing. I have no idea what to do or say when I get in there. I stand on the sidewalk outside the building like some stalker, staring at the window, trying to figure out what to do. I swear to God I should get all the best friend points for agreeing to complete Kia’s bucket list. There should be medals, and a ceremony…
I take a deep breath. Okay, let’s do this.
I go inside.
What the hell am I doing? That seems to be a reoccurring thought in my head, like a needle stuck on a record. My stomach is in knots. I want to leave and I almost convince myself to do just that. I love you Kia, but I can’t do this. How could she ask me for this favor? She knows how timid I am around hot men. To ask this of me is to take me so far out of my comfort zone that I might as well be on another planet.
Inside the lights are bright. Several artists are at different stations with clients, having conversations and listening to death metal at low volumes. The art on the walls is extraordinary. When I think of tattoo shops, the first thing that comes to mind are skulls and depictions of death. There are plenty of those, of course, but it’s not what I was expecting. It’s not all dark and miserable. There is so much color and technique. The whole place has a vibrant, lively feel to it. And though I’m definitely out of my element in this place with all these tattooed people, I’m not as uncomfortable as I thought I would be.
I’ve never really thought about getting a tattoo before. I was never the rebellious type. But seeing how beautiful the art is, I start to wonder if maybe I’m missing out.
Walking further into the building, I spot him, the guy in the window that Kia and I had giggled about on those drunken nights. He’s even better looking up close while I’m sober. He has a close fade haircut that’s longer on top, a razor-sharp jawline, just enough scruff on his face to give him a sexy, rugged look, and colorful tattoos on his neck and arms—and probably other places, but I can’t see those … yet. If all goes according to plan, I will be seeing them soon. If a hotter guy exists on this planet, I’ve never seen him before.
He’s cleaning off the excess ink from a tattoo he just finished on a man’s forearm. He looks up at me with startling blue eyes and I’m taken aback by the sudden attention. His icy gaze roams from my head to my feet and back up to my face. It’s impossible to tell what he’s thinking by his expressionless face.
“Sorry, we’re not taking walk-ins right now. We’re booked up for a month,” he says to me. Even his low, gravelly voice is hot. I imagine a voice like that using naughty pillow-talk in bed would be a fun time.
“I’m just looking, thank you,” I say. My own voice sounds as rigid as I feel. My heart is pounding into my ribs. I can’t remember ever being this nervous about confronting a guy before. Then again, I’ve never approached anyone simply with the intention of having sex with them either.
There is a couch and a stack of portfolios of the different artists’ work on a coffee table. I take a seat and sort through them. I find the one with his photo and name on the front: Max Savage. He must be the owner. The name suits him perfectly. He finishes up with his client. I try not to look at him as he walks toward me. From the corner of my eye he’s like a tower. He stands there, imposing, taking up all the air around me, until I look up at him. I swallow, finding it suddenly hard to breathe.
“Looking for anything in particular?” he asks in a deep, playful tone that’s masculine without hitting me over the head with testosterone.
“I don’t know,” I say dumbly. I can’t think straight with him so close to me.
His eyebrows rise. He looks me over. I’m pretty sure he’s judging me right now. “Let me guess … a tramp stamp.”
My disappointment must show on my face. I would never get a tramp stamp—not that there’s anything wrong with them. On the right girl, I’m sure they look great. But I’m not that girl. He smiles like he’s accomplished what he’s set out to do. He’s trying to get a rise out of me. He keeps going. “A butterfly, fairy … no wait, an infinity symbol.”
He’s making fun of me. I’m guessing those kinds of tattoos are typically what girls who look like me get. I guess based on looks alone I’m a typical prissy girl. I’m a cosmetologist so my hair, makeup, and nails are always done, and I buy my clothes at the local mall. So, I guess looks-wise, I’m your all-American girl. It’s probably a running joke in the shop among the snobbish elite in the tattoo world. I guess it’s kind of the same for women who come into the salon where I work who wear their makeup all wrong or who cut their own hair. I don’t make fun of those people, but other girls I work with do. It feels pretty horrible being on the other side of the insults.
Despite his stellar looks, this guy is such an ass. He shows me that annoyingly beautiful smile and I frown.
“In other words, you’re saying I’m basic,” I say.
I really don’t like him. He’s hot as fuck, but what a judgmental jackass. It doesn’t matter. Like Kia said, she’s not asking me to fall in love with him—thank God, because it would never happen. It’s just a hook-up. I’m all for wild, passionate hate sex. Ask any of my ex-boyfriends who I’ve slept with after we broke up.
He shrugs and gives me the most obnoxiously sexy smile I’ve ever seen, his pearly whites revealed behind full lips.
“Is this how you treat all your potential clients?” I ask.
“No, but I have a feeling you’re not here for a tattoo.”
I furrow my brow. “Why do you say that?”
“Because you’ve been watching me the entire time and haven’t looked at a single photo in my portfolio. That’s not very typical of someone trying to figure out what they want as a tattoo.”
He talks loudly enough for everyone in the room to hear. Machines mysteriously go quiet, and I have a feeling we have an audience. Looking around I affirm it when the other artists and their clients turn their heads.
“You’re right,” I say, talking quietly and hoping he takes the hint to do the same. “I’m actually here to talk to you. Is there somewhere we can speak in private?”
“What’s this about? Am I being audited or something?”
“What? No.”
Am I dressed like a tax collector? I look down at the simple black dress I chose to wear, my sensible heals. My hair is in a bun and I wore my glasses instead of contacts. I guess I do look a bit square today. Probably should’ve worn something that showed more skin if I was planning on asking a stranger to have sex with me. I was too nervous to think about that at the time.
“It’s nothing like that,” I say. “I just need to talk to you for a minute. It won’t take long.”
He rolls his eyes and says, “Follow me.”
God, this guy is definitely single. What a jerk.
He leads me to the back of the shop and out the door into an alley. I wouldn’t be surprised if he shuts the door and locks me out. He doesn’t do that, though. Instead he comes out with me and sits in one of the three chairs surrounding a coffee-can being used as an ash tray overflowing with cigarette butts.
There’s graffiti on the walls. Not like gang tags, but a stunning mural of the cityscape, probably painted by one or more of the artists working at the shop.
He looks at me as though he’d rather be anyw
here else right now and sighs. “So, what do you want?”
I’m tempted to walk away. If Kia saw the way this guy was treating me, she would understand.
I take a deep breath. I can’t fail on the first envelope. I have to at least try.
“My best friend died recently.” The words still feel unreal when I say them out loud. They feel unreal even thinking them.
Max’s posture straightens and the smug look on his face slips away into something almost friendly.
I continue. “She has this bucket list that she wanted me to finish for her.” I hesitate. It feels wrong to out her secret but it’s too late now. I can’t bring myself to say the words, so I hand him the envelope.
He reads it, eyebrows shooting up. He flips the note over and reads the back, then bursts out in laughter.
“Is this for real?” he asks.
“Yep. There’s a whole box full of these envelopes and I have to complete one task in order to move on to the next. This is the first.”
The smooth skin of his neck starts to look blotchy. Is he blushing? It’s hard to tell with all the tattoos. He stares down at the note, avoiding eye contact. Whatever self-assurance he seemed to have an abundance of is no longer there, replaced by something reminiscent of shyness.
“Maybe this isn’t even about me,” he says. “There are other artists working here.”
But he’s the only one with a window seat, and the only one I remember fawning over in the bar that night.
“Trust me, it’s you,” I say.
That shy smile is back and he laughs again, a wonderfully deep sound.
“Look,” I say, “I understand if you don’t want—”
“I’ll do it,” he says.
My stomach drops as though I’m freefalling from the tallest roller coaster in the world. From the way he treated me when I first walked into his shop, I thought for sure he wouldn’t be interested.
“You will?” I ask, skeptical.
He shrugs and that cocky smile returns. “Sure. Why not?”
“Okay. When?”
He looks at his watch. “I have some time right now between clients.”
