This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2014 Addison Moore
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ISBN-13: 9781477847114
ISBN-10: 1477847111
Books by Addison Moore
Someone to Love (Someone to Love 1)
Someone Like You (Someone to Love 2)
3:AM Kisses (3:AM Kisses 1)
The Solitude of Passion
Ethereal (Celestra Series Book 1)
Tremble (Celestra Series Book 2)
Burn (Celestra Series Book 3)
Wicked (Celestra Series Book 4)
Vex (Celestra Series Book 5)
Expel (Celestra Series Book 6)
Toxic Part 1 (Celestra Series Book 7)
Toxic Part 2 (Celestra Series Book 7.5)
Elysian (Celestra Series Book 8)
Ephemeral (The Countenance Trilogy 1)
Evanescent (The Countenance Trilogy 2)
Entropy (The Countenance Trilogy 3)
Ethereal Knights (Celestra Knights)
To Dutch. God, I really do miss you. Never again will there be someone like you.
CONTENTS
1 THE HOOKUP Ally
Morgan
2 DINNER AND A MOVE OUT Ally
Morgan
3 LIGHT MY FIRE Ally
Morgan
4 BATTLE OF THE RATTLE Ally
Morgan
5 FLIRTING WITH DISASTER Ally
Morgan
6 LOVE BREWING Ally
Morgan
7 YOU AND ME Ally
Morgan
8 THE DO-OVER Ally
Morgan
9 ROCK BOTTOM Ally
Morgan
10 SCARE TACTICS Ally
Morgan
11 LOVERS AND FIGHTERS Ally
Morgan
12 RUBY SKY Ally
Morgan
13 BURN FOR YOU Ally
Morgan
14 THE LONG GOOD-BYE Ally
Morgan
15 THE GIFT Ally
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
1
THE HOOKUP
Ally
My mother believed in happily ever after. She said it often found you in the last place you’d think to look, but I’m pretty sure a strip club deposited at the edge of a college town isn’t one of those fabled places.
I peer from behind the velvet curtain and watch Kit, a girl I know from Garrison University, move her body in ways meant to hypnotize entire herds of inebriated men. The long metal pole creates a shadow over the platform, bisecting it in two like a broken heart.
The Pretty Girls Gentlemen’s Club is filled to the brim with patrons who can be described as anything but gentlemen, mostly stoned-out boozers with their tongues and other body parts wagging. Their fisted dollar bills are few and far between.
An ebony-haired god sits off to the side with a gaggle of bare-chested girls slithering over him. He seems unmoved, perhaps even allergic to the mass of silicone as he continues to watch the show. Something about his glossy black hair, those bottomless-pit dimples in his cheeks, reminds me of why this was a piss-poor idea to begin with. He glances in my direction and our eyes lock. My breath gets caught in my throat as I’m transfixed by those pale-blue eyes. A lewd grin plays on his lips, and I duck backstage, clutching my chest like I’ve just averted a head-on collision—more like hard-on collision, although I’m pretty sure I shouldn’t be entertaining sex with the patrons quite so soon in my budding dancing career.
“Shit, shit, shit,” I hiss.
Tess, my older, far-from-protective sister, struts over in her ultra-high heels, her long shiny hair pale as milk.
“Tessy!” I haven’t called her that since I was three, but suddenly my chest feels like it’s about to explode and I can’t catch my breath. “I think I’m having a coronary malfunction.”
“A heart attack?” She averts her eyes while adjusting the strap on my glittering bra. “And it’s not Tessy—it’s Fan-tessy.” She raises her brows seductively. “By the way, you need a name.” Her lips twitch because, God knows, she’s having a rare moment of contemplation. “How about something scholastic like the Luscious Librarian? Or School Spirit?”
A slew of protests try to gag their way out of my throat.
“How about something sane”—I say—“like Look at Her Leaving, or Oh Shit, She Just Puked All Over the Stage.”
“Ha, ha. Very funny.” She gives a wry smile. “No puking—you got that?” She tugs down my panties so they sit just below my hips. Her bright green eyes shine like cut jade as she expands her toothy grin. “If you knew how many strings I had to pull to land you this job, you wouldn’t be whining. You’d be kissing the bottom of my stilettos for letting you anywhere near this stage. These are practically sacred grounds, Ally.”
“What?” I’m not sure I want to get into a debate on the sacredness of this gloried pussycat salon. Typical Tess. Always making my problems seem impossibly small to coerce me into yet bigger problems with possible legal ramifications. “I do not whine. You’re the one genetically cursed to sound like a three-year-old brat. I used to go to bed each night thanking God I didn’t sound like a chipmunk on fire.”
“Really, Ally?” She pulls her lips into a thin line. “Well, maybe I’d rather sound like a brat than an uptight sorority girl who spends her Friday nights blue-balling with the best of them.”
I consider this a moment. She’s not too far off base, but I’m not ready to be bested by not-so-sweet, dear old Tess. Oh, what the hell. “Touché.” She got me.
“And please, save the three-dollar words for your professors.”
The crowd erupts in aggressive hoots and decidedly dirty hollers on the other side of the carnal curtain.
“You still need a name,” Tess reminds me.
“I’ll take the Bitter Bitch for five hundred,” I tease. “Better yet, the Ballistic Blue Baller.”
“I think you’re on to something with that one.” She cuts a look out at the crowd. “And I’m still not laughing.” She pivots on her heels, examining me for a moment. “I think Midnight Angel suits you. You’ve got that girl-next-door vibe going on—all wide-eyed and quivering with innocence.”
“That’s called fear.”
“Relax, would you?” She dusts her fingers over my bare shoulders. “It’s all about subtlety. And would you stop with the panic attacks?” She reaches back and thrusts a bottle of champagne at me. “Hold this, I’ll get some glasses.”
“Oh—trust me, I don’t need a glass.” I take a nice long swig and give it back before sneaking another peek into the den of depravity. The ebony-haired god is still glued to his seat. He’s looking around as if he expects something to happen, not paying attention at all to the show on stage or the one playing out around him.
God, he’s gorgeous—hair as dark as pitch—T-shirt that shows off everything that bulges and ripples on top. That boy’s got muscles for miles. Tattoos in muted shades of blue and green run up both arms,
giving him that bad-boy appeal. He holds a beer bottle on his knee, and ironically he looks perfectly bored while panning the stage. He glances in this direction and our eyes meet again.
“Oh shit,” I whisper as my stomach implodes with heat. I yank the curtain around me so hard and fast, I think it’s going to fall and smother me. It would serve me right to die one of those humiliating freak accident deaths. I can see the school paper headline now: “Garrison Sophomore Ally Monroe Dies in Fabric Avalanche While Topless Onlookers Helplessly Sip Champagne.”
“What’s the matter?” Tess struts back with her boobs one bounce away from escaping the rhinestone-studded carnage she’s trying to play off as a bra.
“Front row, left side—tall, dark, and way-too-freaking handsome.”
She brazenly pulls back the curtain and gawks at his hotness.
“Now we’re talking.” She lays it out there, low and guttural. “He’s a cute one.” Tess bounces in her five-inch heels as if she were on springs. “If things move in the right direction this could be your lucky night.”
“Lucky indeed,” I say, releasing myself from the ridiculous stuffed snake, coiled around my belly. “He has definitely moved things in the right direction because I can’t go out there now.”
“What?” Her features pinch as if I’ve decided to quit school and become a stripper, and ironically there is nothing Tess would love more than for exactly that to happen. And now it sort of has, with the exception of the quitting school part. If I had a dollar for every time she referred to my scholastic endeavors as a “distraction from the real world,” I wouldn’t be stuffing myself into snakeskin-print panties and wondering if I should have opted for a Brazilian rather than the blunted business end of my razor.
“He’s your get.” Tess shoves me back toward the open mouth of the stage. “That’s where you’ll make the big bucks. Make him feel—special—important. If you make it a personal experience he could become your regular.” Her eyes widen at the psychotic prospect.
“Geez, Tess.” I loosen her grip on my elbow. “Thanks for making me sound like a hooker in training. I can’t go out there and dance for him. It’s like going to the gynecologist and finding out you have a cute doctor. It changes your perspective, and your knees go into lockdown. The cuter they are, the less they get to see. It’s genetic discrimination employed by women the world over.”
“Geez, Ally”—she mocks—“would you stop acting like Ms. Goody Two-Shoes? You’re here to foster hard-ons, not relationships. You have a goal, remember? You’re helping Dell out with his girl shortage in exchange for help with your cash shortage. As soon as you get enough for your own place, you can run back to your little job at Starbucks for all I care. Just appreciate the favor, would you? There were at least thirty different girls on their knees for this spot, and I made sure he gave it to my little sis.”
On their knees? I’m almost afraid to ask if she’s being literal. Although knowing her sleazebag boyfriend who owns this place, I have a feeling that very position is a staple of the interview process.
“You’re right. And thank you, because I am grateful,” I whisper. Ever since my Starbucks supervisor, Gretchen, cut my hours to almost nil I’ve been having a tough time making ends meet. I swear that woman hates me. Besides, it’s my last night at the dorm before I officially turn in the keys and land on the couch of Derek’s RV. Not that I mind my brother, but a bathroom the size of a closet is involved, not to mention the tiny detail of no actual closet. I’m hoping a few nights at Pretty Girls will help me earn far more than I could at Starbucks in a month.
“Can I see that again?” I pluck the long, green bottle from her and take a few more swigs of the carbonated vinegar before handing it back to her. It’s becoming increasingly clear the only way out of this mess is to pass out or vomit.
The room sways for a moment, and I remember exactly why it is I don’t drink. Puking and passing out are never high on the priority list.
I peer out and watch as Kit jumps up on the pole and falls backward into the splits. My entire body tenses up at the sight.
“Crap. It’s like she’s trying to make me look bad on purpose. She’s an impossible act to follow.” I turn to face my sister. “I haven’t done the splits since the fourth grade—that just proves I’m totally underqualified to be here.”
“You’ll do fine.” Tess scoots me closer to the stage where the stench of beer and cigarettes clots the air. “Pretend you’re someone else—someone who actually enjoys what she’s doing.” She wrinkles her nose as she looks out at the crowd. Tess’s features harden. “You better loosen up, Ally. They’re like dogs. They can totally smell fear. Take this”—she thrusts the champagne back in my direction—“bottoms up.”
I take the cool bottle in my hands and force the rest down until my insides feel as though they’re disintegrating in a vat of acid. The room pulsates like a heartbeat, and I hold on to her shoulders to keep from toppling.
“This stuff goes straight to my head,” I whisper, as the echo reverberates in my brain like a boomerang.
“That’s what all you sorority girls say.” She gives an approving wink. Her red lipstick shines like glass, and for a moment I want to lose myself staring into it.
“I’m not a sorority girl.” I glance back out at the crowd, and then at Kit, who I know for a fact belongs to Tri Delta. “And if I was, I wouldn’t be in this mess to begin with.”
“What mess?” She rolls her eyes. “You go to Garrison and hang out with snobs all day. Fix my handcuffs, would you?” Tess holds out her wrists. She’s opted to costume herself as law enforcement, which, in and of itself, is slightly hypocritical since Tess has walked in the shadow of all things legal since the tender age of twelve when she was caught giving herself a five-finger discount on a pack of cigarettes.
“Since when do cops arrest themselves?” I ask, securing her cuffs.
“Since they had to deal with uptight little sisters like you. Hey…” She gets that fiendish look in her eye that’s usually followed up with something just this side of a legal violation. “I know a great way to help you loosen up. You should have a one-night stand.”
Tess percolates with glee as she dispenses her not-so-sage sisterly advice. If I haven’t learned by now to run like hell from Tess and the brain aneurisms she tries to pass off as good ideas, I never will.
“I should not have a one-night stand.” I glance back out at the ebony-haired god whom I’ll be mortifying myself in front of shortly.
“Oh, come on.” She peers at him from over my shoulder. “Look at him. Walk on the wild side for once, would you?”
“I tried walking on the wild side, remember? It turned into a felony and almost landed me in prison. By the way, the jackass who was marching next to me is still being housed in a federal institution, trying not to pick up the soap. And besides the unlawful offense, I ended up with a baby—who by the way I had to give away.” To say it ended badly would be an understatement.
I shake my head, trying to push Ruby out of my mind. I’ve sunk so low. My heart breaks in half just thinking about her. I miss her, but thank God I had the wherewithal not to raise her. One of the most difficult things about the whole situation is that if I had a million dollars, she’d probably still be with me. It’s money I hate most. It’s the one thing that’s always managed to hold me under water a little too long, struggling to breathe, making me do things like inaugurate myself as a Pretty Girl.
“Yeah, well”—her lips twitch like she might cry—“you’re lucky you still get to have her in your life. Tell her Auntie Tess can’t wait to see her on her birthday.”
Kit twirls her way backstage out of breath. Her bright pink tassels rotate over her nipples with glee and, in all honesty, it’s embarrassing to watch. Kit is gorgeous and wealthy, both of which are usually prerequisites if you plan on attending Garrison University. Of course, I’m far from gorgeous, mo
re like the vanilla girl next door—and for damn sure I’m not wealthy, nor is “stripping” on my bucket list. The only reason Kit’s doing this is because she’s an adrenaline junkie. Unlike Kit, I prefer my adrenaline to mimic my bank account and run on empty. Oddly, she somehow sees stripping as a move that will advance her social status. I’m sure it will have the reverse effect on me if anyone finds out, resulting in complete and brutal social rejection at the hands of my peers.
“That was fantastic!” Kit’s dark hair is slicked into a neat bun. Her sharp features look like they belong in a magazine. “It’s just like the time I zip-lined across the Serengeti!”
“And”—I hold back the urge to mock her—“much like the wildlife at Serengeti, the animals native to this watering hole have prehensile tongues and are unable to repress the urge to mate at random.”
“Oh, Ally”—she rolls her eyes—“you’re gonna love it.” A wad of bills fringes her jewel-encrusted bikini. “I’ll see you on the floor.” She rushes back out to a mosh pit of dollar-wielding patrons.
A single dollar bill remains in her wake, and I glare at it for a moment.
I take a breath, bracing myself at the sight. That’s exactly why I’m doing this—money. It’s just for a few weeks. I’ll get a place, pay off my credit cards, and have enough to buy Ruby something nice for her fourth birthday.
“Go on.” Tess pushes me gently until I reach the lip of the stage.
My heart picks up pace. My skin breaks out in a cold sweat, and my breathing grows erratic.
“Shit,” I pant.
The speakers crackle overhead as a deep voice booms, “Let’s give it up for our next Pretty Girl, Midnight Angel!”
The bright lights blind me momentarily, and I shield my eyes as I try to get my bearings. The crowd ignites in a choir of catcalls as I try to focus all my energy on the long, metal post at the other end of the stage. The faces, the hungry hands clawing out for my attention, all turn into a dizzying blur.
Someone Like You Page 1
