Dirty Princes: A Standalone MMF Romantic Comedy

by Jo Raven

  “I…” Fuck, I feel my face warm. “I’m a warehouse loader.” I also have experience as a dishwasher and cashier. But who cares? “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”

  Loader. Dishwasher. Why would Brylee ever wanna go out with a loser like me anyway? Of course she’d prefer a business man, like this Ryan. An educated, successful man.

  Yeah, I haven’t managed to get a better job, four years out of high school. And it’s only a temporary one, even after all this time. My first concern when I grabbed Xavier and left home was to make enough to live on.

  And I did.

  The problem is that I never had a cushion allowing me to quit, or even hell, take time off to look for another job. No sick days allowed. No real vacation—every free moment spent on temporary, part-time jobs to make the little extra that would allow me and my brother to keep afloat.

  Like now.

  “You saw Brylee today?” I have no fucking clue why I’m asking. Why I’m curious about a girl who rejected me before I even thought about asking her out.

  Okay, that’s a lie, it had crossed my mind. Still…

  “We sometimes go together to the gym. This big one on Regent Street. Prime Fitness, it’s called. Also… Ryan is a member there. Ryan Dawson.”

  Oh shit, okay. And… “Did you meet him?”

  She shrugs. “Yeah.”

  “He’s an asshole,” Jet says, then frowns when Candy throws him a pointed look. “What? You said so yourself a few times.”

  “I don’t…” Candy sighs. “I don’t know what to think anymore.”

  “Why?”

  Candy tucks a stray blond curl behind one ear. She’s a pretty girl, and sweet, too. I can see why my cousin fell so hard for her. Him and Joel, who’s observing us with hooded eyes, arms folded over his chest.

  “Brylee is coming on too strong to him,” she says and looks away, busies herself with a cake Joel baked, cutting slices for all of us. “She has this idea that she’ll convince him she’s the right girl for him. When I met him today, he seemed like a nice guy.”

  Great. Not only is he the guy Brylee wants, he’s nice, too.

  I shouldn’t feel so jealous of a guy I’ve never met, over a girl I’ve never had a chance in hell with. If I wanted a chance.

  Which I don’t. I fucking don’t.

  So let her hunt and capture this guy and have his babies. Who am I to stand in the way of such an epic love?

  Where I come from, dreams stay dreams, and only children believe in fairytales.

  ***

  I’ve got this.

  I’ve taken on more hours at the warehouse. Also, I’ve found a temporary job as cashier at a fast-food joint not far from where I live that I can do early in the morning, or late in the evening, depending on demand.

  Take that, Monday. And fuck you, by the way. I’m gonna get enough to pay the rent and the bills.

  Not to forget: Xavier came back.

  That thought alone is enough to give me energy to push on. And I need it with all the work piled on my plate.

  Besides, Xavier may be back, but he’s not talking to me, not telling me where he’s been, or what happened to the cash he took from me. I could corner him. I could punch the living shit out of him until he talks.

  But that’s not how I roll. I don’t beat people up. And he’s my brother. I love the little shit. I’m just scared of losing him.

  The problem isn’t fixed, and I’m damn sure I know the problem. Same one my mom has, or close.

  Yeah, that scares the shit out of me, I ain’t gonna lie.

  As I haul my ass out into the cold at the crack of dawn to get to work so that I can finish earlier and get to my second job, all I can think about is how to talk to him, get him to open up, tell me the truth.

  I have a funny twinge in my lower back as I unload some heavy boxes from a truck, but I ignore it and keep at it until I’m done. Don’t want anyone taking notice of me. That’s the number one rule in temporary positions: keep your head down, be invisible, and do your damn job.

  I pop a couple of painkillers during lunch break and go back to it. I load and unload, and I swear today the boxes are heavier than ever. What the fuck, right?

  Doesn’t matter. No point in grumbling. I get through the day somehow and take my battered car back into town, rushing to my second job.

  Fritters, it’s called, a hole in the wall place serving a mixture of Arab kebabs and Chinese noodles, the air thick with the smell of frying oil and dripping fat, onions and human sweat.

  At least this is an easy job. Standing behind the register, taking orders, giving back change.

  This is nothing. I can do it in my sleep.

  It’s gonna be okay.

  ***

  My back keeps bothering me, and I don’t like that. For a guy with my job, my body is the most fucking precious tool. I pop some more painkillers, but they don’t hit the spot.

  What I need is to stretch those muscles. I haven’t hit the gym in a while, and Thursday afternoon, when I find myself unexpectedly not needed at Fritters and with some time on my hands, I decide to look for one close to home. I always have a bag with exercise clothes in the back seat just in case—even if just to change into if I get wet during work.

  The lit sign on a corner says Prime Fitness, and I slide into a parking space before it clicks that the name seems familiar. What the…?

  Oh, right. That’s the gym Candy mentioned—the one Brylee frequents.

  The one Ryan, the not-such-an-asshole-after-all guy, also frequents, apparently. It’d be a chance to check out the man who owns Brylee without lifting a finger. Mr. CEO or whatever, who has girls running after him and can have his pick whenever the fancy hits him.

  I wanna see this guy. I’m damn curious.

  Though, as I get out of my car and make my way to the entrance, as I enter and pay for a day pass, I have to shake my head at myself.

  Am I really doing this? What’s wrong with me?

  The gym used to be called a different name last time I checked. New name, new façade. The works. New prices, too, I’ll bet.

  I’m directed to the locker rooms and offered a tour of the place. I decline. I know my way around gyms.

  No familiar faces as I change into my exercise tights and shoes, or as I wander out, among the machines, stopping at an elliptical machine, trying to decide what would be best for my back.

  The Ryan guy most probably isn’t even here, him or Brylee, so what’s the point of beating myself over it?

  Besides, how would you recognize him, genius? Christ.

  I ask one of the trainers ambling about for an exercise program. He points me to the treadmill, then mentions the lat bar and talks to me about resistance training—good for the back, he says.

  Sounds like it’s what I need.

  “A massage would be best,” he adds. “Doesn’t have to be professional. Ask a friend to do it, using warming gel.”

  I stare at him. Maybe he’s right. I should look for a PT place. Not like I have a lover waiting at home to rub my back. And asking Xavier to do it is such a crazy idea I almost laugh.

  What am I doing here? I should be home, trying to get answers out of my brother.

  Only my back hurts, and I need it in working order if I wanna keep my job.

  Before the trainer walks away, on a moment’s whim, I ask, “Do you know Ryan Dawson?”

  A shot in the dark. Hundreds of people walk in and out of a place like this every day.

  So I’m kinda shocked when he nods. “Yeah. Friend of yours?”

  I swallow. “Uh, yeah.”

  “He’s been coming here for years. A regular. Never misses a session. In fact,” he turns and points to the back of the gym, “that’s him over there.”

  My brows lift. “Um. Thanks. I’ll head over in a bit. Say hi.”

  The trainer gives me a long look, and I shoot him a toothy grin. Lying ain’t my forte.

  “You do that,” he says, and ambles off.

&n
bsp; Okay then… Ryan the Prince is here. Do I really walk over and say hi?

  “Hi,” I mutter as I start on the treadmill and swing my arms, trying to ease the pain in my back. “I’m Riddick. You can call me Rid. I’m the guy Brylee doesn’t want.” I hiss when a movement pulls at something inside my right leg and I slow down. “I’m the guy Brylee rejected over you. But you don’t want her, do you, buddy? You probably can’t make up your mind with all the chicks flocking to you. So let me make it easy for you, let me…”

  What? Blackmail him into dating Brylee? Why would I want that?

  I just wanna see what’s so special about him.

  Changing to the lat bar, I take my time, pulling and releasing, feeling muscles draw taut over my ribs. I glance his way once in a while, making sure he’s still there. An indistinct figure, lost inside the lines of the machine. He’s lying on his back, working with weights.

  Yeah, what the fuck would I say to him if we came face to face? Why am I worrying at this, like a dog with a bone? I should leave it be.

  Half an hour later, my back is feeling better, and I’m wiping sweat off my face, when he makes his way toward me.

  I get up, my stomach churning from nerves. What is he doing? He doesn’t know me, doesn’t know about me—as if there’s anything to know. So why is he coming this way, what is he…?

  He turns away, between machines, heading toward the locker room, and I have an impression of broad shoulders, a tight ass, and short hair.

  “Hey!” I call out, before the rational part of my brain engages. “Ryan.”

  He stops and turns. Stares. “Yeah?”

  I open my mouth, but nothing comes out, and I just gape at him.

  This is Ryan Dawson? I’d expected some middle-aged CEO, dry and desiccated, a tall, dark and mysterious guy with a stern look and a five-o-clock shadow.

  Don’t ask me why. That’s how I imagine CEOs. Haven’t met many in my life.

  Come to think of it, nobody said he was a CEO. I made that part up.

  The thing is… Ryan is nothing like that. He’s young, with bright eyes and golden hair and his mouth looks soft. Inviting.

  Whoa. I’m getting a boner over Ryan the Asshole.

  Back up, Rid. Literally.

  I take a step back, bumping into the machine I just vacated. “Sorry,” I mutter. “I thought you were someone else.”

  “You know my name.” His gaze is sharp, intelligent, a little wary. God, those eyes. They are some pale shade, impossible to make out from here. Blue? Green? “You were looking at me earlier.”

  So much for stealth.

  “I don’t know you,” I say truthfully, my heart hammering. “And you don’t know me. My name’s Riddick, and a… friend of mine told me about you.”

  “A friend?” Head tilted to the side, he tries to work this out. “A woman.”

  I nod, my mouth dry. “She said you don’t date.”

  “And that interests you, why?”

  I let out a breath and shrug. “I thought maybe you prefer guys?”

  Oh fuck. Where did that come from? Maybe it’s those damn painkillers.

  “Are you asking me out?” He steps closer, and Jesus Christ, the guy’s even better looking up close.

  Green eyes. Very green. Damn pretty.

  “Depends.” I swallow again. “Would you be interested?”

  He gives me a once-over. He takes his time doing it, too, those remarkable eyes sliding from my worn shoes up my legs and torso to end on my face, and I swear I feel it all the way.

  A boner? Ha. The tent I’m pitching threatens to split my tights apart.

  “I might.” He gives a lazy, sexy smirk, and my pulse jumps in my throat.

  Whoa, back up again. He might?

  I didn’t expect that. I fucking didn’t expect that. I asked the question on impulse—a lot of that going on today—and the last thing I expected was a tentative yes.

  “So you’re not into girls, huh?” My mouth is still on autopilot.

  “I’m into both,” he says quietly. “And neither.”

  And with that, he turns back around and walks away, leaving me more confused than ever.

  Chapter Six

  Bent Joystick

  Ryan

  This guy.

  Riddick, that’s what he said his name was.

  I like the sound.

  And I can’t get him out of my mind. Can’t scrub that handsome face and intense gaze off my memory. Those questions.

  “Would you be interested?”

  I might.

  “So you’re not into girls, huh?”

  Not into anything lately. Living on the fringes of life. But this Riddick….

  More meetings at work, passing data, analyzing it—hey, that’s what I’m paid for—and trying to keep my thoughts off the itch under my skin, under the surface of my thoughts. My body is stirring, reacting to the hint of some sort of release.

  Sex. It’s called sex. Orgasm. Coming.

  Stop. Bad idea.

  Nobody said you have to stop having sex, the small, annoying voice in the back of my mind whispers. You made this rule up for your own reasons. Because you’re chicken shit.

  Shut up.

  Keep to the schedule. Keep to the rules.

  Remember what could happen.

  Yeah, as if I could ever forget.

  I’m heading to the water cooler, my thoughts torn between the way my body burns with need I’m trying not to acknowledge and a new client’s file I’ve been studying, almost crashing into someone who’s standing in front of the machine.

  A woman, I realize as I grab at her, not to fall on top of her and smash her into the cooler, soft and smelling of flowers, slender and delicate.

  She screams and plants an elbow into my middle that makes me see stars. “Yah!”

  “Fucking OW!”

  “Stay back!” She lifts her hands in a defensive karate pose.

  I blink the dark spots from my eyes and straighten with a wince. I know this voice, and those copper curls. “Brylee?”

  “Ryan!” She lets her hands drop, hazel eyes going round. “Did I hurt you?”

  “I’ll live.” I rub at my aching middle. “You got some moves there.”

  “Thank you.” She beams. Then frowns. “You spoiled everything.”

  “What did I spoil?”

  “Oh nothing.” She grimaces. “But you weren’t supposed to come here now.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “Your schedule. You don’t come to the cooler until later, if at all.”

  I blink. I have such a rigid schedule? Shit.

  “You came out early,” she says, pouting.

  “All right.” She has a pretty mouth, I think dazedly. Kissable. The arch of her neck, her collarbone, barely visible where her white shirt dips… is sexy. Really sexy. “Can I have some water?”

  “Suit yourself. I haven’t noticed you’re here, anyway.”

  I open my mouth, close it. “I crashed into you. Surely you noticed that?”

  “Nope. Not at all.”

  “You didn’t feel…” I put my hand on her wrist, close it around her fragile bones. “This?”

  She draws a sharp breath, and her tits rise and fall under the shirt, drawing my gaze to them. Her scent seems stronger now—flowers and strawberries and woman.

  “I haven’t…seen you,” she manages. “And in any case, I don’t care.”

  What is this game she’s playing? And why is it affecting me? It’s childish, and ridiculous, and I want to laugh. I also want her to admit she noticed me, that she’s also thinking about how our bodies fit together a moment ago.

  How I could lift her tiny wrist, hold it against the cooler as I kiss her, as I grope her through her clothes. As I fuck her.

  Shit. Dropping her arm, turning on my heel, I march back to my office.

  Maybe I should leave work early today.

  ***

  I’m heading out, hands in my pockets, head down, when I see her
walking determinedly toward me. She’s like a slender, ginger hurricane, and I have to resist the urge to move out of her way. I mean, she’s seen me. She’s looking right at me as she approaches.

  Then she swerves at the last moment, walking past me. “At last,” she murmurs as she does.

  I frown. “At last, what?” I call after her, zeroing in on her ass.

  Her heart-shaped ass.

  Shit.

  She stops and turns. “Oh, I hadn’t noticed you.”

  I chuckle. “Ah-huh. Next time you want me to believe that, crash into me like I did with you earlier.”

  “That’s because you never notice me,” she says quietly, and my grin falls.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Just that.” She smiles. “But that’s fine, because now I don’t notice you either.” She lifts two fingers. “Twice today.”

  With a little laugh, she turns away and sways down the corridor.

  What was that about? Caught between concern and laughter, I continue on my way out.

  But I don’t laugh, because I have noticed her. I do notice her. More and more.

  And that’s the problem.

  ***

  I take a long walk and then eat a Lean Cuisine dinner in front of the TV, trying to ignore the images dancing in front of my eyes, making my blood run hot under my skin and my dick hard.

  Riddick. My body hums every time I remember those gray eyes, that wide mouth, that strong body so clearly defined under the T-shirt and tights.

  And then I see Brylee, her copper curls loose, those ruby lips parting as I kiss her, and shit, something’s definitely wrong with me these days.

  I thought I had control over this. I have everything in my life scheduled: work, exercise, walking, reading. Not leaving time to wonder what else is there.

  But what if I took Riddick up on his offer? A quick fuck to scratch that itch. Guys are less complicated. They don’t expect long-term relationships and eternal vows of love.

  I couldn’t do that with Brylee. Wouldn’t consider it.

  And fuck, why am I considering either of them? Neither, that’s what I told Riddick. That’s right. I really shouldn’t entertain thoughts of him, or her, in my bed. Under me. Rubbing against me. Kissing and—

  Oh shit. Leaning back on the sofa, I cup my hard-on through my pants and can’t help the moan rolling from my lips. It’s been too long. This is driving me insane.