by Frankie Love
Small Town F*ck Club
Frankie Love
Contents
❤️READER NOTE❤️
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Epilogue
ACE: Las Vegas Bad Boy Chapter 1
Also by Frankie Love
About the Author
❤️READER NOTE❤️
Thank you for choosing to read SMALL TOWN F*CK CLUB!
But!
I’d hate for you to experience spoilers!!
… it will make a lot more sense if you’ve read A-LIST first!
xo, frankie
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Copyright © 2017 by Frankie Love
Edited By:
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“The most beautiful stories always start with the wreckage.”
–Jack London
To the messy girls and the men who love them.
xo, f.
Prologue
When I decided to fake my own death, I knew it was a drastic choice.
But sometimes drastic situations call for exactly that.
Drastic, irreversible measures.
For a long-ass time, my life hasn’t been mine. And after the scandal broke out at the Fuck Club, I knew that the person I allowed myself to become was no longer the person I wanted to be.
Maybe it makes me sound like a selfish bastard. Maybe I should have drawn hard lines in the sand that I could abide by.
But I know my strengths. I also know my fucking weakness.
I’ve always been a sucker for attention, a sucker for accolades from people who mean nothing to me.
And I had let those very people dictate my life. The only solace here is, I’ll never have to take shit from them again. I’m dead, after all.
My hand’s on the wheel of the car I bought with cash. The windows are down in this classic Chevrolet, and there’s nothing in front of me besides wide-open land.
I just keep driving east. Because if I drove west, I’d be in the Pacific Ocean. Which is the very place my family and friends think I am. Dead on arrival.
But I don’t really care what my family thinks right now.
My parents have as much to do with this—my death—as anyone else.
And I can’t let anyone know that—ever. Ever. The only way I could face their truth is by killing myself. They knew it and I knew it.
No one else ever needs to.
I exhale, trying to get rid of the feelings of regret that have been tearing me up inside. Maybe I’m a selfish motherfucker. What kind of man allows his friends to believe he’s dead when he’s not?
A man who’s desperate, that’s what kind.
My family has put Cal through enough shit.... Being friends with me is only going to cause him more pain.
I pull in to a gas station, needing to refuel so I can keep driving through the night. As I step out of the car and stretch my legs, I run my hands over my beard. What was scruff a week ago is now the beginnings of a full beard and has helped with my disguise.
I reach into the passenger seat for my trucker cap and pull it on low. With my jeans and plain white T-shirt, no one is going to identify me as the Hollywood celebrity, Sawyer Bennett. Especially now that everyone on Earth thinks I’m dead.
With my fake ID, a trunk full of cash and an offshore bank account, I don’t need anyone or anything.
That gives me a hell of a lot of freedom.... The only problem? I don’t know where the fuck I want to go.
In the gas station, I pay for a Red Bull and shitty food that’s warmed by heat lamps. Before I go, I see a copy of the latest issue of Exposé.
Motherfucker.
My face is on the front of it.
Despite the fact that it is everything I hate, I find myself reaching for the magazine, lowering my eyes as I do, and handing the cashier a five-dollar bill.
I drive all night, sleep the morning away at a rest stop, and then keep driving. I’m in the fucking middle of nowhere, and if I was trying to leave the past behind, I’d say I goddamn have.
My eyes keeps shifting to the damn magazine beside me, and I tell myself I won’t cave in and read it, even though I want to know what has been said about me.
Is this sick? A fucking twisted game? I don’t know.
But my best friend, Cal, has already been through the wringer. He watched his parents die because of the fucked-up town we were raised in. I can’t let the same thing happen to me.
And I knew I was spinning out of control.
Dating Sondra. Agreeing to shitty movies I didn’t care about. Signing on to product placements that I didn’t vouch for. Everything about me had become a fucking advertisement and I didn’t want what I was selling.
I had lost myself.
It’s better this way. The studios owned me while I was alive but they can’t own me in death.
It felt like the only goddamn way out.
If Cal knew the truth, it would tear him up.
Which is why he’ll never know. The truth of my parents will wreck him more than it has hurt me.
Which is why I keep driving.
Which is why I feel like a fucking monster, tormented by demons of my own making.
I want more, but I fucking lost the man I was.
Sawyer is dead.
And the truth is, I don’t know what’s left.
1
After ten days of being on back roads, I’m ready for a real bed, and I need a fucking drink. When I see a sign off the interstate for a town called Resting Hollow, in bum-fuck Indiana, I turn on my blinker and exit. It’s ten p.m. and time for me to get wasted.
I know this town. Or have heard of it, at least. Cal’s girl, Jules is from here— a girl as wholesome as they come.
And I need some goddamn wholesome in my life.
Okay, maybe not wholesome—that feels like a fucking stretch—but people who are more concerned with their small town than Hollywood? Sure. And I see a bar right off the highway, a place called Dusty’s. The gravel parking lot is full of pickup trucks and motorcycles.
This is as good a time as any to see if I can get lost in a crowd.
With my cap pulled low, and my eyes lower, I put my keys in my pocket and head for the door.
My chest constricts, in a way only someone who has grown up with their face always being caught on camera understands. The reality that I can just walk in a bar, buy a drink, and do nothing but nurse it, is a fucking prize I don’t want to lose.
Hell, I don’t even know if I have it yet. All I know is, I’m in the middle of nowhere, and I need to get out of the fucking car before I go crazy.
The lights in the bar are so dim you can hardly see a soul, people are smoking in here too. Hell, I didn’t even think that was legal anymore. Country
music blares with songs I don’t know shit about, but these people sure as hell do.
They’re moving to the beat, grinding against one another on the dance floor, and on the perimeter, there are pool tables lined with women in booty cut-off shorts and shirts tied high on the waist. Men reach around women, pulling them in for a kiss, for a feel, seeing how far they can go. And from this vantage point, they seem to be going pretty damn far.
I can’t help but smirk, realizing that you can take the boy out of the city, but no matter where the hell you go, people are gonna be looking for someone to fuck; someone who will let you forget. Even if it only lasts for one slow dance, one fucking game of darts. It doesn’t matter. This place is just like the A-List Fuck Club—people come here for a chance to feel alive. Deep down in their bones.
The only difference is, here there are no fucking diamond rings and martinis. Here there’s Bud Light and cigarette butts. Even if it doesn’t look like Cal’s club—it has the same feel. I’m drawn to the energy around me, maybe because it’s familiar. Sweaty. Sexy. Stolen.
We may be out in the middle of nowhere, but it’s clear that the people here are no different than the folks in LA. Everyone’s looking for an in, an angle, a hook-up. The lights are low in this bar and the desire is through the fucking roof.
I move to the bar and a bartender, who looks as rough around the edges as I feel, asks me what I want. His arms are snaked in tattoos and he looks like he’s a retired wrestler.
“The darkest beer you got on tap,” I tell him.
He doesn’t reply, just pours me a pint of Budweiser and sets it in front of me on a coaster. Alright. When I ask for a menu, not caring what they serve, just needing something, he grunts to another bartender down the bar, “Sadie, get your ass over here.” He says it like he doesn’t give a shit about her.
But she doesn’t seem to care. Doesn’t even seem to register his callous comment.
She’s fucking gorgeous, with her messy hair hanging past her shoulders, her thick eyeliner hiding her eyes, her lips in a permanent smirk as if she isn’t taking anything here seriously.
Her eyes flick over his, and his words don’t seem to penetrate her shell at all. They slide right off, and she simply reaches for a menu and hands it to me.
“Here you go,” she says. “Just let me know what you want. Dusty’s the owner, though, so you’ve gotta be careful with what you say about this place.” She cocks her head to the big ass guy who just poured me a beer and made me an enemy in one fell swoop.
Then she leans over the bar and points to the tater-tot nachos, declaring them the only halfway decent item on the menu.
I place an order and can’t keep my eyes off her.
“You think you’re so funny don’t you,” Dusty asks, pouring a shot for a customer, his eyes on her. “Not so funny when your ass is out of a job.”
My shoulders tense, and I expect her to... I don’t know, cry? Say she’s sorry?
Instead, she speaks with layered confidence, looking back at me. “Dusty’s been here forever, or so I’m told. I’m the new girl. But everyone knows he has a thing or two to learn about women.” She scowls, looking back at him. “Besides, you wanna fire me, Dusty? Fine. But you know I’m here doing you a favor.” She smacks her cute butt, lowers the front of her tank to reveal the tops of a perfect pair of tits, and doesn’t ask him for a goddamn thing. Least of which might be an apology.
Dusty just shakes his head at her and says she’s crazy.
“Worse things than being crazy,” she mutters under her breath as he walks away.
Which is surprising. Dusty spoke to her like he couldn’t stand her.
But as he walks over to her and leans close, smiling and shaking his head, I realize it might just be his way with people. He doesn’t seem to hate her in the least.
Guess people are rarely how they first appear.
“Listen,” he says to her. “People are going to come in tonight asking for Dusty’s Special. You’re gonna tell them it will be 5.99. Understand?”
I watch Sadie’s brows furrow in confusion. “What? Is that a drink?”
“No drink,” he says coolly. “Just a price. Understood?”
“It’s not on the menu, is it?” Sadie picks up the menu in front of me and scans it. Just then a group of four people that look far from home comes through the bar, eying Dusty. They wear suits and tight dresses, nice heels.
At the bar, they order Dusty’s Special as if right on cue.
Sadie looks at me, but I drop my gaze. Still, it’s obvious she’s confused.
“Five ninety-nine,” Dusty tells them and the group smiles as if they are in on a secret.
They leave as a pack, no drink in hand, and Dusty slaps the counter. “See how it works?”
“Where are they going?” Sadie asks, our eyes following the foursome as they snake past the pool tables, dart boards, and as they head toward the restrooms, the lights are too dim to tell where they’ve gone.
He looks over at me, and I keep my eyes on the beer in front of me. He pulls Sadie away from the counter and speaks in a hushed tone. But my curiosity is piqued and I’m listening to every fucking thing he says.
“I hired you to bartend, Sadie, nothing else. The fact you aren’t from here is an asset—you don’t ask questions. Keep it that way and we’ll all be happy.”
“Fine,” she says, swatting away from him. “Just let me do my job then, okay?”
“Good girl,” he tells her.
She frowns. “Don’t say that.”
“What, you don’t like to be called a girl?”
She snorts, shaking her head like he’s an idiot, and I swear to God every movement she makes gets me more turned on.
“No, Dusty. Don’t call me good.” She smirks. “Truth is you don’t know anything about me.”
Dusty can’t help but smile at that line, and neither can I. Sadie is an unexpected fireball, and I need a flame tonight.
I need her.
Once Dusty has left us, and she’s helped a few customers, she turns back to me. “You get a load of that horse shit?” she asks, her face incredulous.
“You know there’s something shady going on here, don’t you?” I can’t help but think of all the shady things I’ve seen. The shady places I’ve been.
It makes me want to protect Sadie from whatever bullshit is going down behind closed doors here.
“I know,” she bites her bottom lip. “I’ve only been working at this bar for a week. But Dusty gave me a place to live and took a chance on me with this job. For some reason I trust the old dude.”
“Still, watch your back,” I tell her, but I have a feeling with her hard eyes, she knows plenty about taking care of herself.
“You’re not from here, are you?” she asks. When I shake my head, she continues. “Then I guess we oughta stick together.”
“Oh, yeah, where you from?” The words fall from my mouth and I instantly regret them. I don’t want to get into a conversation where we reveal any sort of truth. God knows what trouble that might get me in.
But I also don’t want to leave this woman who seems to have everything under control.
Still, I’ve been in the limelight long enough to know when someone’s acting. And this girl, she’s hiding something. Her eyes, they may look cold, but I know they’re only protecting something soft.
Something fragile.
Something damn near broken.
She doesn’t answer my question anyway, and I realize she’s probably a hell of a lot smarter than I am.
Finally, though, she breaks my gaze and replies, “I’m from nowhere good. You?”
I nod, unable to look away. “Sounds about right.”
I’m drawn to her and watch her nonchalance as a group of guys come to the bar asking if they can take body shots... off her. I watch her dismiss them, then charge them double without blinking an eye. I eat the fucking tater-tots, one eye looking her way—and I know she catches me a few times. I don’t care—
.I want her to know I’m watching. That I can’t fucking take my eyes off her.
A few women come in—women who are loud, with big hair, and bigger tits. They fawn over me like I might be interested. A different day maybe—,but not now. Not after I’ve laid eyes on the only woman I want.
Because this bartender is about as different from Sondra as you can get. Sadie doesn’t even bat an eye at these women who demand Long Island Iced Teas, their fake nails clacking against the bar.
She just smiles as if she knows a secret, and gets them what they ordered. She isn’t demeaning or even judgmental to this group on the prowl. She is simply doing her job. Well. The women adjust themselves without discretion, after noting that I haven’t taken their bait, and I realize what it is about Sadie I like.
She isn’t playing a game of fuck-you. She genuinely just doesn’t seem to give a fuck.
Those are two very different ways of viewing the world.
And I need more of that in my life. Getting to a place where I truly don’t give a fuck those women or anyone else.
I’ve always given way too many fucks about what people thought.
It’s what has gotten me into trouble in the first place.
And so, screw it. I don’t care that I am openly checking Sadie out so conspicuously. She’s fucking hot as hell in those booty shorts and skimpy tank. And when she moves around the bar, it’s impossible not to imagine this place empty, and me taking her right here on this counter. Spreading her legs and licking her from head to fucking toe.
A few more groups come in and ask for Dusty’s Special, and Sadie does what has been asked of her—give them the numbers, no questions asked. One guy even gives her a one-hundred-dollar bill as a tip.
