by Stella Rhys
Table of Contents
Prologue
Epilogue
Copyright
Dedication
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
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Thank you for reading Dirty Deeds!
Acknowledgments
Contact Stella
BAD BOSS
Dirty Deeds
Stella Rhys
Contents
Copyright
Dedication
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
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Epilogue
Thank you for reading Dirty Deeds!
Acknowledgments
Contact Stella
BAD BOSS
DIRTY DEEDS
Copyright © 2018 by Stella Rhys
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written consent of the publisher.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or people, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cover Design: Vivian Monir
Dedicated to Mandy
You kick ass
Prologue
ALY
I tried to see what others saw in him.
I’m sure the height hit them first. Six feet and two inches of pure athletic muscle was bound to grab attention. I got that.
I got that the stupid thing he did with his hair made all the girls and even teachers swoon. Of course, I wasn’t convinced he didn’t know exactly what he was doing there. I mean who honestly ran both hands slooowly through their hair in the middle of talking to someone? It was ridiculously sensual – especially when it always left his hair so perfectly tousled, like he’d just rolled out of bed.
Then there was his voice. Low and kind of gravelly. The dark hair, light eyes combo – that was a thing too. I got that.
But I just couldn’t get past what a prick the kid was. Our dads were best friends, and having grown up with Emmett Hoult, I couldn’t see the appeal that everyone saw. All I could see was what they couldn’t.
When the world looked at Emmett, they saw confident, devilish, sexy.
I saw cocky, spoiled, arrogant. Your typical all-American jock.
I saw the kid I was forced to spend every weekend and vacation of my childhood with – the one that Xeroxed the worst photos he could find in my family albums, just so he could tack them all over my crush’s locker.
I saw the kid who got away with literally everything, no matter who I complained to. Teachers, coaches, even the school principal looked at me as a nuisance. A thorn in their side. All they wanted was to adore Emmett Hoult in peace – to be completely charmed by his playful, laid back nature. The last thing they wanted was to have to acknowledge me, the surly buzzkill whose griping would get him undoubtedly pulled from practice, something the football team “just couldn’t afford.”
Even my parents defended his every move.
“It’s just a sibling rivalry,” Mom would brush it off. “You grew up together. You’re practically family. But give it a few years, Aly, and I’m sure you’ll get on great.”
Right. I gave it a few years, and all Emmett did was get worse.
In high school, all it took was one evening of his mom comparing his bad friends, bad grades or bad behavior to mine, and I’d wind up paying for it with a week of torture at school.
His teammates snickered at me in the halls. He spread the nickname “Baldy” when I botched my haircut sophomore year. By the time I was a junior, I was down to just three friends who didn’t worship him or use me to get close to him, and he told me – “just for shits and giggles” – that he’d hook up with every one of them so I’d have no allies left to gripe to.
And he did precisely that.
In short, with very little effort involved, Emmett Hoult took over my entire life.
At home, Dad raved nonstop about his athletic achievements. At school, he ruled every last hallway and classroom. Even at night, in the privacy of my bedroom, I couldn’t escape the constant texts from friends he’d “mysteriously” ghosted. They sobbed for me to help figure out what went wrong, or begged me to subtly bring them up to Emmett when we saw each other that weekend. They didn’t seem to realize he’d never hang out with them again – that he only hooked up with them to get under my skin. He didn’t even remember most of their names.
Simply put, the kid was an asshole.
He always got what he wanted, he didn’t have to try, and he never even knew how much his antics made me cry every night. While I was completely miserable, he just carried on with his perfectly charmed life.
And so I hated him.
For all the many stunts he pulled on me, I despised Emmett Hoult. But amazingly, all that crap happened before the last week of junior year.
That was the week he truly ruined my life.
1
ALY
Unbelievable.
Of course his ‘summer cottage’ is more like a frickin’ resort, I thought as I walked through the house.
I had arrived at Emmett’s East Hampton home a good ten minutes ago, but I wasn’t over it yet. It was going to take awhile to get over this four-bed, six-bath masterpiece of a dream house that Emmett apparently visited just a few weekends per summer. Seriously. This place looked like an ad for Ralph Lauren Home. It had its own wine cellar, pool and outdoor kitchen. It was more beautiful than any home I’d be able to afford in my life, yet it was basically just his side piece home – the bonus one he dropped by if he happened to find himself in the mood.
This frickin’ guy. What the heck does his apartment in the city look like if this is what his summerhouse looks like?
I wasn’t sure if I wanted to la
ugh or scowl as I imagined the life Emmett Hoult probably led these days. Over the years, I’d tolerated some Emmett-related updates from my parents, but never enough to get a clear picture of who exactly he was now.
Honestly, I didn’t want to know.
Because thinking in depth about Emmett Hoult generally led me down a road of jealousy, bitterness and countless what if’s. It made me think of all the bad memories I’d swept under the carpet and tried to tell myself I was fine with when I wasn’t, so I staunchly avoided the topic.
That is until now.
“Um… Aly?”
Evie was unblinking when she finally caught up with me in the guest room, dragging my last suitcase in behind her. Her wide eyes went wider as she drifted inside, stopping in front of the door to fully soak in everything from my canopy bed to the lush, white curtains framing the window overlooking the pool.
“So… you said you were crashing at a family friend’s house,” she said slowly, narrowing her big eyes at me. “And I just wanted to inform you that this is not a house. This is a baby mansion.”
I wrinkled my nose. “I know. I mean I didn’t know before I walked in here with you, but I had a feeling it would be something ridiculously nice. That’s just… Emmett Hoult. His life is awesome.”
“No wonder you hate him,” Evie murmured with fascination as she floated into the bathroom across the hall. The echo of her gasp had me guessing it was pretty big in there. “Aly! Holy fuck, this shower is bigger than my apartment!”
I laughed as I crossed the hallway into the bathroom, my eyebrows arching high at the marble luxury that lay within.
“Jesus, Emmett,” I muttered under my breath, taking in the absolute spa of a bathroom. “We could actually throw a decent party in here,” I snorted, opening the shower door to peek inside at the ceiling showerhead and waterproof speakers.
“Or you could just let me move into your bathroom for the summer,” Evie said as we returned to the bedroom. “I mean Mike might not even notice that I’m gone,” she cracked, though I could tell from the way she winced that she found nothing funny about her own joke.
Mike was Evie’s fiancé of ten months and her boyfriend of eight years. They’d been together forever but were, to put it lightly, on the rocks as of late. It was precisely why Evie couldn’t take me in. Aside from the fact that they lived in a tiny studio, and aside from the fact that Mike had firmly said no, their tension these days was already like a third roommate. Trying to make a relationship work was hard enough, so they definitely didn’t need the burden of my homeless ass crashing on their couch.
“Well, if you ever do need me to set up pillows and a comforter in that shower, I’m more than happy to,” I offered to make Evie laugh.
“I actually could take you up on that. I mean you’re sure he won’t drop by at all this summer, right? Like, not even once?”
“Trust me, I triple-checked with his mom when I picked up the keys. She said her friends were just staying at this place because he’s always out of town. He’s at like, some resort for the next three weeks. Then it’s off to his house in Hawaii till the end of summer.”
“Jesus, how rich is this guy?” Evie asked, sounding both amazed and disgusted. “And what exactly does he do for a living?”
“I actually have no idea,” I mumbled, rereading the texts Emmett’s mom sent me when I double-checked about him being away.
AUNT AUDREY: Yes he will be in the Maldives for the next three weeks! After that he’s got the gala and then it’s Maui till Labor Day! House is all yours.
AUNT AUDREY: Please relax and make yourself at home – you deserve it after everything you’ve been through!!
She wasn’t kidding.
I wasn’t big on pitying myself, but this last week had seriously put me through the wringer, starting with the electrical fire that tore through my Sag Harbor apartment in under thirty minutes.
Thankfully, I was at the café when it happened. Not so thankfully, the fire devoured almost all the clothes, books and other belongings I’d acquired over the course of my twenty-eight years – something I’d be way more torn up about if my mind weren’t so completely focused on this particular week of work.
It was basically my coming out week for the new and improved Stanton Family Market. Evie and I had poured every last penny of our savings into buying the dead company from Dad, and as a seasonal business in its very first year, I had a lot to prove in just a few months’ time. So the last thing I needed to stress about was where to lay my head at night.
I needed a place that I could get quick, cheap and close to work.
Hence the summerhouse arrangement.
“Alright.” Evie gave one loud clap of her hands. “Let’s stop drooling over this place and start unpacking. We can’t lose focus – we do have a mission tonight.”
I nodded dutifully.
That we did, because on top of a surprise fire this week, I also had nearly a lifetime of insomnia working against me. I hadn’t slept more than three hours a night for two months now, and while I was generally happy to run on fumes, tomorrow was a different story. Tomorrow, I had to be functional and easy on the eyes since I had Hamptons frickin’ Magazine coming to do a feature on the café.
According to Evie, I needed to let them photograph my “pretty lil’ face” in order to personalize our brand. And while I was normally averse to picture taking, I’d do pretty much anything for this venture, so tonight, I needed my beauty rest.
And since college, there were only two surefire ways to get my restless body a full and healthy night of sleep.
“Dancing and fucking!” Evie declared the moment we finished unpacking the last of my things. “I’m making you do both tonight. You ready, girl?”
I snorted as I rolled my empty luggage into the massive walk-in.
“Uh, no, because that’s not necessary. It only needs to be one or the other, and I choose dancing.”
“Why?” Evie whined. “Wouldn’t you rather play it safe and do both?”
“No, because with dancing, I only have to rely on myself. The other option is never a guarantee,” I pointed out. “In case you forgot, I only fall asleep after like… crazy, mind-blowing, lost-two-pounds-in-the-process type sex, and that’s not always easy to find.”
“Aly. It’s East Hampton in July. This town is currently a hot bed of A-list actors and pro athletes – you’re basically drowning in sexy, physically fit dick right now,” Evie said. “Also, if there’s anything good about my butthead fiancé at this time, it’s that he works in PR. So it’s legit his job to hunt down the places where all the yummy famous people go.”
“Alright.” I laughed as she started digging like a squirrel through her Madewell tote full of dresses for me to borrow. “Well then, if I spot Brad Pitt or George Clooney tonight, I’ll totally go for the one-night stand. But otherwise, we’re just dancing. Alright?”
“Brad Pitt or George – what the fuck? Those guys haven’t been hot since two thousand nine,” Evie said with exasperation, tossing a bunch of slinky numbers onto my bed. “And I can guarantee you neither of them have a six-pack anymore, let alone an eight-pack.”
“An eight-pack? Does anyone have those outside of Marvel comics?” I asked distractedly, undoing my topknot and shaking out my hair in the mirror. It was just past my shoulders now – long for my standards, and back to blonde for the first time in ages. Three months into this new look, and I still wasn’t used to it yet. But it was finally me – the real me – so thus far, I was loving it.
“Yeah, the eight-pack is definitely a rarity,” Evie conceded, tossing me a little black dress to try on. “Like a four-leaf clover. But that’s exactly why if you find one, you have to fuck it.”
“I have to fuck the eight-pack?” I snorted as Evie narrowed her eyes at me.
“You have to fuck the guy who owns it,” she clarified. “Because he’s clearly physically fit enough to fuck you like a champ. I’m talking pin-you-up-against-the-wall sex, or bang-you-whi
le-you’re-on-top sex.”
“I’m sorry – what was that second one?” I grunted as I struggled to wiggle into her skintight dress.
“You know. When you’re straddling him but he’s holding your hips and like, slamming up into you? It takes a shit load of core strength to go at it like that for awhile, which is why the eight-pack is essential,” she insisted as I rolled my eyes. “I’m serious, Aly. You know you want that Superman sex. Especially since you lost your good vibrator to the fire.”
“Ugh. Don’t remind me.”
“I know, it’s a tragedy,” Evie lamented. “But that just means you deserve a good lay tonight. Get some good dancing in, have dirty, wild sex with some stud, then pass out on this five thousand dollar mattress here. No way in hell you don’t get at least six hours of sleep after all that.”
I smirked, partially convinced.
“Fine. If I find a guy with an eight-pack tonight, I’ll go home with him.”
“Atta girl!”
“But he also has to be phenomenally good-looking with a decent personality,” I said as Evie groaned.
“Oh, please – who cares about personality? It’s a one-night stand. You’ll never see him again!”
“Yeah, well, I need to trust him enough to go home with him, ‘cause there is no way in hell I’m having sex with some guy in Emmett’s house.” I shuddered. “That’s just… gross. And way too weird.”
“Fair enough,” Evie declared, sliding my shoebox across the floor at me. “Now hurry up and put on these fuck-me heels. We got eight-packs to hunt for, and time’s a wastin’.”
2
ALY
“Hold up – what are you wearing under that dress?”
Evie’s question came only once we hit the dance floor at Godsend, the absolute jungle of a nightclub she’d brought me to. Hanging from the ceiling and snaking up the walls were vines upon vines of beautiful flowers and plants, their petals illuminated by the black lights.
