Connect with Kristen
Author Website: www.KristenLuciani.com
Twitter
Facebook
Instagram: @kristen_luciani
Sign Up For Kristen’s VIP Reader List
Join The Stiletto Click on Facebook
The Venture Series
Unlikely Venture, Book One
Nothing Ventured, Book Two
Venture Forward, Book Three
Joint Venture, Book Four
Rebecca Manuel, a.k.a. Becca the Bibliophile, is a lover of books, Fireball, Diet Dr. Pepper, and Texas Trash Pie from Royers Roundtop Café. With a deep-rooted passion for the creative, she started the first independent short film company within the literary industry, charged with bringing book characters and plots to life via the Internet. She lives in Houston with her techie geek husband, two fabulous kids, and their menagerie of furry friends.
Connect With Rebecca
Facebook
Twitter
Instagram: @becbibliophile
Website: beccathebibliophile.wixsite.com/biblioproduction
We are thrilled with our decision to collaborate on Plowed, and it has been such a rewarding journey, one that began in the lobby bar of the Marriott on the eve of Indies Invade Philly 2015. It takes a lot of trust between both parties to embark on such a path, as well as seriously thick skin, since brutal honesty is essential. And yes, sometimes it’s very, very brutal.
To our fabulous Wattpad and Newsletter Subscribers—Thank you, our loyal Jimmy Sixx groupies! You’ve been on this crazy tour with us from the beginning, and your enthusiasm has fueled our passion for this story even more than we thought possible!
To The Stiletto Click and The Naughty Hangout—You’ve been so supportive of this project, and we love you for your constant pleas for more Dax!
To our families—We adore you, and thank you for your love, support, and understanding when we’re knee-deep in conversation about what happens next.
Thank you so much, and enjoy the ride!
Love,
Kristen and Becca
Interested in a light sexy read? Keep reading to check out Chapter 1 of M.D. Saperstein’s newest release, Naked Truth!
by: M.D. Saperstein
Copyright © 2016 by M.D. Saperstein
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
Except for the original material written by the author(s), all songs, song titles, and lyrics mentioned in this novel are the property of the respective songwriters and copyright holders.
All rights reserved. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced, scanned, distributed, or used in any manner whatsoever, via the Internet, electronic, or print, without the express written permission of the authors, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
For more information, or information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the author:
[email protected]
OR
Facebook
OR
www.AuthorMDS.com
Edited by: Megan Hershenson
Cover Design by: Bibliophile Productions
Printed in the United States of America
First Printing, April 2016
ISBN: 978-1530657483
-1-
Prostitution is illegal in Florida. It’s actually illegal in most states. But I live and work in the great Sunshine State, so that’s all I’m really concerned about. Just the thought of it makes my skin crawl. Now, I know what you are thinking – that I am a total hypocrite. I take my clothes off for money. I shake what my mama gave me for the bacon. I exploit my moneymaker for the paper. I am a stripper. Well, maybe not a stripper, per se, but a male exotic dancer. That sounds better, right? It’s all semantics. It doesn’t really matter what you call me because by the end of the night, I am pretty much naked, surrounded by sloppy drunk, not so beautiful women, pawing at me and grabbing my junk. Are they all ugly and gross? No, I’ve seen my share of beauties, but no one that I want to take home with me. But I do it all for the dollar bills. Not even the Benjamins. A fucking Washington. Does that make me a prostitute? Shit, it’s pretty damn close. Certainly an underpaid one.
Oh, and did I mention that everyone just assumes that I am gay? It’s because I really don’t get hard, isn’t it? When you see something every day, it’s just not so appealing. When I first started stripping, I had no control. I would be a walking erection. And now, months later, grinding on a random woman’s ass doesn’t do it for me anymore. I wonder if this is how gynecologists feel about vaginas. You’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all? Plus, when your blood is pumping and the adrenaline is flowing, your blood doesn’t necessarily rush to where it usually does. These days, it takes a lot to get my dick to stand at attention, not just any arbitrary fox. But if for some reason I do want wood, I can just pop a Viagra. At least that’s what I’ve been told. I haven’t done that, and I don’t plan to. If I get hard, it’s going to be because my dick wants to be. Not because I drugged it to be. Even so, the club manager keeps a supply behind the bar for us dancers.
Shit, where are my manners? Let me introduce myself. My name is Jordan Pike, but my friends call me Pike. I haven’t been called Jordan since grade school. The only person who still calls me Jordan is my mom, but even she usually just goes with the standard “honey” or “sweetie.” Unless I am in trouble. Then, it’s Jordan Taylor Pike. My colleagues at my old job called me Pike as well. Here, at this joint, I go by JT. It’s just easier than coming up with some dumbass stage name like “Pussy eating Pike.” I also have no interest in anyone here knowing how to contact me when I leave. Cause I will leave. Soon, I hope. I really want to return to my old job immediately.
I used to live and work in North Miami Beach, and I absolutely loved it. White sandy beaches, gorgeous women, and a hopping nightlife. My family is there and I have a great set of buddies I like to hang with. I also got along great with my colleagues. I miss my old job. I also enjoyed steadier hours and less shady people. Okay, that’s a total lie. I was pretty much on-call 24/7 and at the disposal of the boss man, and the people were sketchy as shit. Nevertheless, it was the life I chose - making a difference in peoples’ lives - and I wouldn’t change it for the world.
My boss needed me to straighten out things at this club down south, so he sent me here. Temporarily, I hope. South Miami. That’s where I am now. And although things are similar - it’s still Miami, obviously - it’s a whole other level of gross. The people here are much more aggressive, the women so grabby. Their boundaries are blurred, and I am sure the booze has a lot to do with it. Worst of all, I have no fucking idea what they are saying most of the time. No hablo Español. At least not the crass shit they are asking me to do.
Unlike how it’s portrayed in the movies, the life of a male exotic dancer isn’t as glamorous as it seems. Okay, yeah, it’s cool having all of the attention, but in the end, it is very lonely. I leave work every night, alone, to an empty apartment. I’m not really into bringing home clients, accepting hotel room keys, or doing any “side work.” No bachelorette parties, no divorce parties, and definitely, no bachelor parties. I’ve heard way too many stories about guys getting mauled, bitten, and even burned. Drunk and horny is a dangerous combination to be dancing half-naked with no stage or bouncers to help keep boundaries. Some women don’t like to hear “no” or don’t think that you are seriously rejecting them.
And since this job is hopefully temporary, so is the apartment I’ve rented. It’s a studio apartment, which means that there is no designated bedroom. It’s just one big room. No, I take that back. It’s just one tiny room. With a kitchenette in the corner. That’s right, shit’s so tiny that there’s not even enough room for a full-sized kit
chen. In fact, there isn’t a full-sized anything in this apartment - except me. I am definitely a full-sized man.
At 6’5”, I am the tallest dancer at the club. Let’s get the bullshit out of the way before I continue. No, I don’t play basketball. Yes, it’s true what is said about the size of a man’s shoe. Okay? Can we move on? As I was saying, as muscular as I am, I am not the bulkiest. There is a mini-gym in the back of the club to help us get pumped up before we go on stage. Watching these other dickheads work out is entertainment enough, trying to bulk up as much as possible. They have no idea what they are doing and they certainly have no idea what the ladies like. When I worked up north – and by up north, of course I am referring to North Miami – we had a trainer there to make sure that we knew what we were doing. I wouldn’t be surprised if these douches are juicing. Hmm, note to self, find out who would be willing to inject shit into their bodies for no good fucking reason.
Drugs are illegal in Florida, too. I know what I must sound like – insert whiney bitch voice here - but I like things done on the up and up. I need rules and boundaries. I require structure and discipline. Hence, I like laws. Codes to live by. And while I know that dancing blurs the line, I make sure every night I am here, whether I am on stage or doing a private lap dance, I do not cross the line. I may step on it, but never cross it.
But the best part of my job - the only part I look forward to, actually - is knowing that every Wednesday I get to go back to my old job, see my old buddies, and deposit all of these singles. What’s so special about a trip to the bank? Um, hello! Have you seen that beautiful little lady behind the glass? Now that’s class.
Gotta go, they are calling my name… “All you ladies love him, wish your men could move like him…the one…the only…the delicious…Jayyyyy Teeeee!”
I look at the clock every thirty minutes. It has become a habit, almost involuntary at this point. As time counts down, I begin my routine: Run my fingers through my long strawberry blonde hair and bring it forward over my shoulders, reapply my lip-gloss, smooth down my clothes, and check my teeth.
Every Wednesday, 3:00 pm, like clockwork. He walks through the double glass doors, nods at Cliff, our security guard, and then weaves through the maze to get to the front of the line. He always wears slacks and a dress shirt, untucked, no tie. His sleeves are rolled halfway up his forearms. His sexy, sinewy forearms. They are lightly dusted with the same dark hair that resides atop the most gorgeous face I’ve ever seen. Oh, that face. It is always clean-shaven and never a strand of hair out of place. I zone out every time I see him. Imagining that he is here for me. Wondering what he does for a living, taking wild guesses in my head. I pray that he is single. Please be single. I always end each daydream zeroing in on that left ring finger. Still nothing, thank god.
He walks - no, swaggers - past my window and I get a soft breeze, the faintest smell wafting over me. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, trying to be subtle and not look like a stalker. If I could just figure out what he uses, I would buy it and spread it across my pillow every night. Okay, so maybe that’s a little stalkerish. I then experience the briefest trip to heaven as I gaze into his piercing hazel eyes as he offers me a wink and a smile. My day is made. All of my senses are in overdrive and I know I must savor them all until I get to experience him all over again, next Wednesday. Fortunately, I get to relive this day repeatedly, any time I want…in my head, of course.
He continues past me and stops in front of the glass only a few feet away, but I can’t keep my eyes off of him. I try to look busy.
“Hello, Susie,” he greets my coworker with a smile. There it is…the dimple in his right cheek. How a muscle deformity could be so sexy is beyond me. I would do anything to lick it.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Taylor. How can I help you today?” she asks him.
I fiddle with some papers at my station, trying to distract myself while his smooth voice washes over me. I wish today, like every other Wednesday, he would stop at my window. I also wish that Susie got sick so she would have to take the day off. That’s pretty shitty of me, isn’t it?
“Just the usual deposit,” he croons.
Another customer comes in and walks up to my window. Mrs. Harlow, divorced, works in a plastic surgeon’s office, which would explain all of the Botox in her face. Not that you need to know any of that stuff, just more useless information ingrained into my memory. I have no choice but to give her my full attention and take care of her banking needs. I am, after all, North Miami Bank’s number one customer service provider. I see from the corner of my eye that he is wrapping up with Susie. She is flirting as usual and the smile on his face most likely means that he is eating it up. Plus, her being 5’8”, blonde, with blue eyes, we are completely opposite, and I am assuming that she is just his type, given that he walks right past my open window every week. I am barely 5’3”, on a good day, and although I am in fairly good shape, I inherited my mother’s curves.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a schlump by any means. In fact, I have a few customers that ask me out whenever they come in. I’m sure one or two of them are serious about getting my number, but I know the majority are just being flirtatious. Too bad none of them gives me butterflies or makes me want to do naughty things to them.
I complete my transaction as quickly as possible with Mrs. Harlow so that I can catch sight of his fantastic ass as he leaves.
“Have a nice day, Mr. Taylor,” Susie wishes, wiggling her fingers at him.
“I plan to,” he answers with a wry smile.
Mr. Taylor turns to walk toward the door, taking the same route as he always does. I plop down on my stool and sigh. Just as he reaches Cliff, he completely devastates me. He turns back toward me and gestures as though he is lifting his top hat toward me, bidding me adieu. I think I just peed a little.
“I hate your guts,” I say to Susie in jest, even though deep down I kinda do really mean it.
She just laughs and shrugs. “What? I can’t help it if he wants to make a deposit into my box.”
“Shut up, you’re gross,” I tell her then slip my pinkie through a rubber band, wrap it around my thumb, and secure it to my pointer finger. I am totally my father’s daughter.
I aim my rubber band gun at her, daring her to say another thing.
“And why does he always come in with hundreds of singles? Do you think he’s a stripper or something?” she asks, and that breaks the straw.
I pull the trigger, her shoulder my intended target, but oops!
“Ouch! Bitch! You hit my boob!” she yells at me in the middle of the bank. So much for being professional.
“That’ll teach you not to talk about my future baby daddy like that. Stripper my ass! There is no way. I’m thinking accountant or lawyer. Why else would he be so dressed up every time we see him?”
“Baby daddy? You’re crazy, Vi. No offense, but that man never stops at your window to deposit anything into your sorry box,” she reminds me.
“I know. Maybe he’s just playing hard to get,” I joke, trying to take the sting out of her comment. We both share a quick chuckle then get back to work. A line is starting to form, anyway.
By 5:00 pm, I am ready to clock out. As much as I enjoy seeing that delicious man, it is stressful at the same time. I wish I had my sister’s balls, but sadly, my inexperience with men and shyness continues to trip me up. One day.
Purchase Here
Plowed Page 19
