by S. E. Hall
Pretty Remedy
By S.E. Hall
© S.E.Hall 2015
Copyright © 2015 S.E. Hall
All rights reserved
This book may not be reproduced in any form, in whole or in part, without permission from the author.
Toski Covey of Toski Cover Photography
Sommer Stein of Perfect Pear Creative
Editors: Cassie Cox
Katherine Tate
Formatting: Brenda Wright
All rights reserved.
This book is intended for mature audiences only.
Remedy- n. something that corrects or counteracts
v. to solve, correct, or improve (something)
Everyone has that one person who is their remedy—your number one fan who doesn’t need to know how many other runners were in the race, the part where you messed up, or the other person’s side of the story. To them, you always win.
Your remedy is the first person you want to tell when it’s funny or sad, the good news and the bad because you know their answer will be exactly what you need to hear. Their words may not hold a lesson; they may tell a bold-faced lie that sounds like bull even to you, but they’ll say it, because it’s what you need to hear. That’s why you called them.
In return, these people should be revered. You’re not too busy to answer when they call, listen when they talk, serve when they need. Cherish them. For they are few.
This book is dedicated to the remedies.
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
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
About the Author
Other Books by S.E. Hall
Playlist
Acknowledgements
Sneak Peek of Matched
There’s nothing better than getting lost in a woman—greedy lips molded around me or warm pussy smothering my dick—either one. Take now for instance; I just finished burying myself in some pretty pink heat as she screeched and moaned my name ‘til the guests in the next room felt as if they knew me personally. Then she begged to lick her essence off me and get me hard again for round two.
But we’re done here. Rule #1, written in blood and stone: never, ever double dip. If they’re coming back for more physically, they’re coming back for more of the other stuff too… more talking, more feelings, and most definitely more expectations.
None of which I do.
“Where ya going?” Her manipulative mewl slithers down my spine like stage-five clinger fingernails on a chalkboard.
“Things to do,” I answer, void of any emotion except desire—for escape. I keep my back to her as I speed-dress, slowing only at my zipper… for obvious reasons.
“But his game will last all night.” I swear her voice didn’t sound near as nasally downstairs. “Come back to bed, baby.”
“Sorry, can’t.” And I’m far from your baby. “It’d be a real good idea for you to mosey back to Sugar Daddy or your own suite before he notices you’re gone.”
“W-well, when will I see you again?” The bed squeaks.
Please don’t let her be getting up to come after me. All buttoned and zipped, shoes on, I turn to offer a contrived but warm parting grin and damn near knock her over. Wrapped in a sheet, she’s standing an inch from me.
“You might not.” I patronizingly stroke her arm. “But you already knew that, so why ask?” I’m about to call her by name, until I realize I can’t remember it. Coco’s not right. Chanel maybe? “Listen, you.” I nauseate myself with the syrupy condescension I’m slathering on thick. “We both had fun, and we talked about this beforehand. Besides, have you seen you?” I let my eyes travel the length of her and back up for convincing emphasis. “Women who look like you should never have to ask for more. It’s my loss.”
“Bu—”
“Sshh,” I hush her, one finger on her lips. “Tell me good-bye nicely, and let me walk away. Don’t make this any harder than it already is, please.”
For one fleeting moment, that telltale “I got this” sparkle returns to her eyes, and the corners of her mouth lift in a knowing grin.
She doesn’t know. Nor does she “got” anything.
She rises to her tiptoes, curls her arms around my neck, and kisses the hell out of me, putting her all into it.
For the briefest moment I allow it, and then I pull away. Another grin tugs at my lips— this one not as contrived since I’m about to make my escape—and I walk backward to the door. “Take care of yourself, beautiful.” Ignoring her further, desperate attempts to convince me to stay, I soundlessly close the door to the Arabian Nights penthouse and rush down the hall, praying for the veil of anonymity.
It always happens the same way. Every. Damn. Time. The second I finish coming, the blip of exhilaration dissipates, and I’m left feeling vapid and angry. I turn my back on my latest conquest and, blocking out the images of insincere, physical satiation, scurry off like a criminal.
Maybe I should quit fucking them.
Or maybe I shouldn’t.
The tête-à-têtes and unrequited clinginess are as much their fault as mine—more so in fact, if everyone’s being honest with themselves. I tell them straight up, in plain English, no “code” or sidestepping what I’m really saying, that it’s one fuck. I offer absolutely nothing more, and they accept. But women have a specific order and purpose to everything they do. It shouldn’t eat at me when another woman discovers her plan didn’t work, and—surprise!—she isn’t the one “different” enough to change me.
You want to be the lady worthy of a call the next day, flowers, a ring? Then don’t ride the dick until you get at least one of them. And if you do jump on—gyrating and grinding in what you’re just certain is some mystical, “he’s never had it so good before” kind of way—and it doesn’t work, don’t blame anyone but yourself. Who was really trying to manipulate whom?
The walk from the penthouse to the club on the other side of the building takes less than ten minutes, and my bullshit rationalizing fades with the pulsing beat as I make my way up to the bar.
“’Bout time,” JC yells over the music and slides a cold bottle of Bud my way. “Down that, then get your ass out there. Shawn’ll start crying if he doesn’t get help soon.”
I don’t give a shit about Shawn. I might actually enjoy watching him lose it, but I told Thatcher I’d help, so I drain the beer and head outside to bounce the entrance. The line’s about thirty bodies too deep when I get there. Check ID, pull back rope… how hard can it be?
“Dude, where you been?” Shawn asks.
“Your mom’s,” I bite out, waving half his line over to mine.
“That supposed to be funny?” He bows up and quickly cowers right the fuck back down when I step to him.
I raise my brows in challenge, begging him to throw. I’m never short on pent-up aggression that could stand an excuse to escape. “Not supposed to be anything,” I bite out. “You want help, or you want your ass beat? You can either fear me or respect me. I don’t give a fuck which one you pick.”
“Called this shit.” JC’s behind us, shoving Shawn in the shoulder. “Shawn, Rhett’ll wipe the par
king lot with you right before Thatch fires your punk ass. Shut the hell up and be grateful for the help, man. Give us a minute.” JC jerks his chin, silently asking me to step aside with him, causing everyone who just moved into my line to collectively groan.
When we’re out of earshot, he asks, “W’sup, Casanova? Bad night?”
If only he knew. Casanova may seem an appropriate nickname, and in way of random and numerous liaisons, it is. But anyone with more than a cliché knowledge of Giacomo Casanova knows he prided himself on his mastery of attentiveness, small favors, and verbal communication. He enjoyed softening a woman’s heart rather than mere easy conquests. Nothing like me.
But even if I educated JC, he wouldn’t “get” it, so I simply shrug. “Eh.”
“Eh?” he parrots. “What the fuck is eh? She not any good?”
“Good enough,” I answer, as curious as ever why he always finds an excuse to ask me. There aren’t that many variations of pussy: really tight, tight, not tight, or really not tight; wet or sloppy; etc. What descriptive narrative he’s always fishing for beats the hell outta me.
“Thatcher said her man was down about ten grand and possibly in lung failure from all those Cubans he tokes.” JC laughs.
Her man of whom he speaks is actually someone else’s man—another woman’s husband to be precise. He’s at least twenty-five years her senior, one liver spot away from officially being declared a block of head cheese, and I’m guessing at least one of his kids graduated high school around the same time as his arm-minx. Thatcher knows everything about his high rollers, and he shares their chronicles of adultery and gold-digging with me. I think venting his disgust helps absolve him of misplaced guilt. Of which he should have absolutely none. Thatcher’s more straightforward with his trysts than even I am. To each their own though. It’s none of my business. And since loyalty’s obviously running scarce instead of rampant, I am able to forgive myself. At least for as long as it takes to give it to some high-rollers’ girl… the way she likes it. The way she’ll take it and beg for it without me draping her in diamonds first.
The wealthy men are cheaters who get cheated on… cry me a river of hypocrisy.
But my justifications usually stop making sense in less time than I spend fucking. Damn conscience. Pain in my ass.
“So how good is good enough?” JC asks, disturbing my circling thoughts.
The man needs to get laid yesterday. Guys notice very little specifics of the sex they’re actually having, let alone ask another dude for every sordid detail of theirs. Any bragging—which isn’t my style—that I’ve ever heard consisted of about ten words and two high-fives, tops. But JC? This kid wants a damn PowerPoint. I humor him though, because he, along with Thatcher and myself, have quite the sweet setup, and it takes all of us to keep our covert operations running smoothly.
“Are we still talking about this? Jesus, I don’t know. She had all the right parts and didn’t lay there like a china doll, afraid of breaking a nail or messing up her hair. That mouth of hers could siphon mud through a coffee stirrer, so like I said… good enough. Could’ve lived without the overdone moans and dramatized departure, but far from a waste of time.”
“Nice,” he drawls with a slow, impressed whistle.
“If you say so. Anyway, I’m here to work the door. How ‘bout I go do that?”
“Hey, Happy, sometime today?” the chick in front of me snipes, tapping her foot impatiently, license shoved in my face. “Why would they put the unwelcome wagon at the front door?” she asks someone behind her.
“That loud mouth of yours, I swear. Knock it off,” her friend—whom I still can’t see— chastises.
“Well, damn, what sense does it make to put the grumpiest motherfucker in the building at the front door?” she continues, not lacking a valid point. “Do they want people to turn around and leave?”
Now she’s just talking out her ass. No one leaves because of me. Keep telling yourself that though, sweetheart. You and I both know I could hit it if I wanted to.
“Move.” The friend gently pushes her aside and steps up.
Explains why I couldn’t see her—she’s the tiniest little sprite in the forest.
“I’m sorry about my friend,” she says softly while pulling out her license. “She’s not always so bitchy. She does sleep sometimes.”
And funny… what do we have here?
I chuckle but concentrate on her laminated stats.
Reece N. Kelly
Turned twenty-one just a few days ago.
Green eyes
5’3”—my ass. Must be some of that new Common Core figuring.
Lives in Connecticut?
“Happy late birthday, Reece. This your club initiation?” I ask.
“Wh-what?” Her head pops up as she blushes beautifully, vibrant even in the dusk.
“Long way from home for some clubbing. Don’t they have any of these in Connecticut?”
Mouth agape, her head turns left, right, then back at me. “How do you know all that?”
She asks so quietly, I find myself leaning in to hear her. To reply, my head dips until my mouth softly brushes her ear. “I’m holding your driver’s license, small fry.”
“Dear God,” she groans, squeezing her eyes shut. “I can’t believe I asked that.” Still refusing to open her eyes, she blindly holds out the hand not rubbing her forehead. “Just hand it back to me and pretend I’m not the biggest moron alive, please.”
“I’ll say,” her friend interrupts, grabbing Reece’s arm. “Let’s get all that suave you’re workin’ inside. I’m kinda in a hurry.”
“Ignore her,” I whisper in her ear that I’ve yet to leave. “She’s got nothing on you.” I place Reece’s license back in her hand and curl her fingers around it for her, then turn her hand over. I lean back and yell, “Shawn, you got that marker?”
“Bu-but I’m twenty-one now. You saw,” she argues in her miniature voice, eyes now open wide.
Laughing, I nod. “I know. Show the waitress this.” I write a black twelve on the back of her hand. “Have a great time, Reece.”
She looks as though she wants to question me but doesn’t, silent as her friend drags her away.
I casually glance over my left shoulder, and my lips twist into a half-smile. Despite the incessant tugging on her arm, her curious eyes are pinned right on me.
Time to shove my thoughts of the hot, captivating doorman aside. My best friend needs to slow her roll before she does something she may forever regret.
“Landry.” I grab her elbow, stopping her just inside the door. “Maybe—I could be wrong, but just maybe—you should rethink this. Do you love Stephen?” I asked that louder than I’m sure she’d like her problems announced, but even just shy of “the thick of things,” the music’s overbearing.
“Yes,” she snaps, ripping her arm from my hold. “What kind of question is that?”
“And you want to marry him? Spend the rest of your entire life with only him?”
“Say what you have to say! We’re wasting time standing here philosophizing!” she yells back.
To and fro, order and anarchy—that’s Landry and me in an antonymous nutshell. We’ve been friends since before I even knew the word antonymous, and our relationship is the same push/pull today as it was way back then. Our lives are as different as we are. Landry’s always apartment, city, and men bouncing, working whatever minimum wage job doesn’t “bore” her that week—no, thank you. Her patented brand of “life by the seat of your panties” would send my OCD into maximum overdrive.
But I do envy her in so many other ways.
“Honey, I love you and support you no matter what, but…” I take a deep breath, deciding it needs said. “I think leaving your bachelorette party to come spy on your fiancé might be a sign that your relationship’s a tad shy of marriage material.”
There, I put it out there. What kind of best friend and maid of honor would I be if I didn’t? Call me crazy, but if you don’t trust him
enough to leave him be at his bachelor party… does the red flag need to sing and dance too?
“Ladies.” A scantily clad waitress with shiny blond hair and legs up to her neck approaches us. “Can I show you to a table?”
As tucked in the corner as I could get us, our impromptu Lifetime moment is still kind of blocking the walkway.
“Please.” I smile at her, once again holding Landry’s arm.
“Oh.” The waitress’s eyes grow big. “You get that twelve on your hand here?”
“I, um…” I pull my hand back and duck my face, heated with my blush. “It’s nothing.”
“Oh, it’s something.” She snorts. “You have no idea. Follow me.”
“Come on,” I hiss at Landry and tug her along. “We’re here because of you. Feel free to take the lead anytime now.”
“You stopped me, remember? I’m not here to sit at a table. I’m here to find my fiancé!”
“Let’s stick together, please. What if someone—”
“They won’t, or they would’ve already. Geez, wanna check the ego?” She shakes her head and rolls her eyes. “Seriously, chill out and attempt to have some fun!”
Before I can get a grip on her, she storms off into the massive swarm of bodies, flashing lights and deafening music—I’m not sure I’m a fan of clubs. This night won’t end well. I can almost guarantee when we’re reunited, I’ll be picking up a once-again broken Landry and trying to piece her back together. If her gut says he’s here and doing something wrong, then he is. Landry’s instincts are, more often than not, spot on. She just hasn’t quite mastered applying her uncanny gift to her own decisions yet.
She wears me out, truly, but she knows and accepts everything about me and sometimes gets me to have a little fun. Like tonight was supposed to be. I just turned twenty-one, which brings all kinds of freedoms I’ve never enjoyed. Since she’s supposedly stopped her man-hopping to get married, she talked me into coming out to Vegas for not only her bachelorette party but a much-needed break. A “let go before you really start grinding the ax” break, if you will. Her last hoorah before matrimony was the perfect reason to get me to live a little, feel my age.
