Sexy Jerk

by Kim Karr

  ABOUT BIG SHOT

  On the heels of Sexy Jerk comes a story that will steal your breath. Big Shot is filled with both humor and tears. Although this second chance romance is set in the Sexy Jerk world, it is a complete stand-alone.

  Ten years ago I had no idea what I wanted out of life, until I met Hannah Michaels. She was a computer-engineering student ready to conquer the social media world, and I was smitten. Even though I knew she was taken, I had to have her.

  Being the rich, moody bad boy that I was, I didn’t let her status stand in my way. It wasn’t long before my hands were on her thighs and my name a whisper on her lips. Soon after, we became inseparable, and she taught me so much. But as was the case with most things in my life at that time, I was more concerned with my own needs than the consequences of my actions. Before I could figure that out, she called me a Big Shot, and left.

  I always wondered what happened to her, but I never found the courage to find out. Instead, I went on with my life, carrying a little piece of her with me every step of the way.

  Having learned how to love from Hannah, I got married and had a daughter. My life was nearly perfect, but then my wife died, and my world turned upside down.

  A single father has challenges, and one of those is learning how to calmly deal with your child coming home from school in tears. I had no idea the day I pounded on my daughter’s classmate’s door, Hannah would be the one standing on the other side.

  Hannah didn’t appreciate my tirade, and once again she called me a Big Shot. It shouldn’t have turned me on. It shouldn’t have reminded me of the sexual connection we once shared. And it definitely shouldn’t have stirred up old feelings.

  Irritated with myself, I left her standing there trying to convince me her son was not the bully I had accused him of being.

  She didn’t take kindly to that, and the next day, she was the one pounding on my door. The back and forth continued for over a month until we both couldn’t stand the nearly combustible tension between us, and finally gave in to our all-consuming passion.

  Guilt hit me like a hammer. I hated myself. I hated her. The problem was I really didn’t hate her—I wanted her more than ever.

  But this time around, I can’t have her.

  Not unless I can convince myself that just because I still have feelings for Hannah, that doesn’t mean I loved my wife any less.

  This time it’s my status that stands in our way—and going up against myself just might be the hardest thing I’ve ever done.

  AND NOW: A SNEAK PEEK INTO BIG SHOT

  “DADDY, WHAT ARE you doing?”

  I looked up and blinked, and then blinked again. The sun was just rising and my daughter was standing in the space between my bedroom and bathroom in her pink nightgown. I squeezed my palm shut, and jumped to my feet. “I was just thinking.”

  “About what?” she asked with that voice of concern that made her sound ten years older than she was.

  Honesty was always the best policy, when possible. “That we should donate Mommy’s things to that organization Aunt Fiona works with.”

  She brought her hands together. “Oh, Daddy, I think that’s a wonderful idea. Aunt Fiona says there a lot of mommies who need new clothes to go back to work.”

  I grinned at her innate kindness. “And what are you doing up this early, princess?”

  Her tiny shoulders shrugged. “I woke up, and was thinking maybe you could put my hair in braids today.”

  Taking long strides toward her, I had her up in my arms and on my shoulders before she even finished talking. “You just happened to wake up early and have that thought, did you now?”

  My daughter giggled as I galloped toward my bed and tossed her on it. Once her fit of laughter subsided, she sat up. “Well, I might have set my alarm the way you showed me so that I’d wake up early.”

  The clock read six twenty-five. Normally I didn’t wake her up until seven to get her ready, and we were both downstairs by seven thirty when Mrs. Sherman arrived. “Wow,” I said, offering her my hand, “you’re a quick learner.”

  Her little bare toes landed on the plush area rug, and she looked up at me with wide green eyes. “You are too, Daddy, and I’m certain after that you-tube video we watched over the summer that you’ll be able to braid my hair just like Polly showed you.”

  Polly was the you-tuber who made a show of explaining to fathers how to do all kinds of things with their daughters’ hair, including braiding.

  This was going to be one interesting morning.

  I led Scarlett to her bathroom. “First you have to brush your teeth, and then get dressed. Once you finish that, I will try to braid you hair, but I make no promises,” I said with a wink.

  In the doorway, where the print of tiaras covered the walls, she stopped and attempted to comb her fingers through her tangled locks. “You’re the best.”

  I smiled at her and kissed the top of her head. I only hoped she still thought that after I was finished—with the hair brushing and the braiding.

  Chances were good that I wasn’t going to get the results the you-tuber demonstrated.

  Isn’t that always the way.

  AND ALSO: A LOOK INTO NO PANTS REQUIRED

  Makayla

  JUST THE MERE SUGGESTION OF karaoke gets everyone’s heart pounding. Whether it’s out of excitement or pure, blind panic depends on the individual and that person’s frame of mind at the time.

  The truth is that most people sing karaoke for the same reasons they go bowling—it’s a fun activity and they can drink while doing it.

  With that being said, perhaps some of the people that are here can get up and confidently belt out their most favorite song in the world with no concern for the eardrums they are perforating or the notes they are destroying. Unfortunately, I am not one of those people.

  To be honest, I can’t believe I even agreed to do this.

  Then again, Bar On is not where I thought I’d find myself tonight. This Chinatown lounge may be packed full of eager-to-sing regulars, but my friends and I are not those people. We are here on a whim after a few too many drinks at a restaurant down the street.

  Shuffling through the crowd, I stop when someone taps me on the shoulder. Thinking it’s one of my friends, I turn around to see a tall, leggy brunette with the most vibrant green eyes staring at me. Her face is stunning. She looks like Megan Fox. For a second, I wonder if she is.

  She steps closer and right away I can see this woman is a bit younger, though—my age, I’d say. “Do you mind if I get by?” she asks with one of those affluent tones I know all too well from my days in private school.

  Definitely not Megan Fox.

  Without waiting for me to answer, she pushes past, and in her rush, steps on my open-toed pump.

  Ouch!

  I glare as her red Louboutin soles make their way to the front of the lounge.

  “Come on,” my coworker tosses over her shoulder, not at all bothered by the woman who brushed past her, too. “Sandra found us a table.”

  India leads the way, and I follow, making sure not to step on any toes in the crowd. Finally, she stops at the only available table large enough for our group, which just so happens to be right in front of the stage.

  Fantastic.

  The white leather banquette is awash in the neon light emanating from the human-sized letters that spell the establishment’s name across the back wall. The light is nearly blinding. I look at Sandra. “Are you sure you want to sit this close?”

  She hands me a menu of songs. “Yes, this is going to be great.”

  “Pour Some Sugar on Me” is coming to an end and once I’ve slid all the way across the bench, I look up to see a group of very pleased guys jumping off the stage in unison. The Def Leppard wannabes are staring at us.

  This must have been their spot.

  All clean-cut, all fuck-hot, all about my age. Immediately, I can tell by their walk that they are definitely Upper East Siders. Prep school, riot club types turned Wall
Street wolves would be my guess. You know—the kind of guy your mother warns you about.

  The type I should have stayed away from.

  The guy closest to me is wearing a red tie and has his black jacket slung over his shoulder. The others are dressed in dark suits too. Hmmm . . . either dressed up for an occasion or still dressed up after the occasion. Not a wedding, since it’s a Thursday night. An office party maybe? Or perhaps this group of drunken men is here for a going-away party like mine. Who knows? Anyway, the guy with the red tie gives the eight of us girls a quick glance and a smile but doesn’t stop.

  He’s cute. Really cute.

  At least he doesn’t seem to mind that we took their table. Then again, he’s too focused on the guy without a jacket farthest away from me. “Cam,” he calls out. “Don’t bother with her.” His warning is too late, though, because this Cam, whose white, rumpled shirt and dark hair are all I can see, is already allowing himself to be dragged away from his group by that Megan Fox look-alike who practically ran me over minutes ago.

  Fascinated by her assertiveness, I watch the two of them. I have to crane my neck to catch sight of them, and soon, too soon, they disappear into the crowd. Squinting my eyes, wishing I’d changed my dirty contact lenses, I search for them.

  In a matter of seconds, though, it’s not my poor eyesight but Sandra who prevents me from locating them. She stands in front of me with a huge-ass smile on her face. “What song did you decide on?”

  Giving a cursory glance at my choices, the perfect one is the first I see. “‘Total Eclipse of the Heart,’” I blurt out and point excitedly at the same time. This song I know, and know it all too well.

  Sandra is my neighbor and is more than aware of all my woes. That sad smile she gives me borders on pity.

  Not wanting to be that girl anymore, the one who got her heart broken, I grab Sandra’s arm before she heads toward the karaoke booth. “You know what, forget that song. Why don’t you pick one that represents the change coming in my life?”

  At that her eyes light up.

  Minutes later I’m being dragged up onstage by my friends and coworkers, and according to the screen, I’m about to sing a group rendition of “New York, New York.”

  Okay, I can do this.

  I know this song. Not as well as “Total Eclipse of the Heart,” but at least I know it. Besides, how hard can it be? I’ve sung it a million times—although admittedly mostly when I’ve been drunk.

  Then again, I have had a lot to drink tonight.

  The pressure is on. The eight of us gather around the microphone. The audience lights dim and a spotlight shines on us. I kind of feel like a star. No, I feel like Frank Sinatra himself without those penetrating blue eyes. But when the karaoke jockey asks, “Are you ready?” suddenly, I’m petrified. There is no way on God’s green earth I am going to be able to hit the high notes.

  The music starts. It’s too late to back out. First, it’s just the piano, but then the trumpet and clarinet join in. It’s odd, but the familiarity of the sound eases my nerves. When the lyrics flash in front of me, all my worries are gone and I don’t care anymore.

  I let all of my hang-ups go and sing.

  This, what I’m doing right now, is a glimpse into the old me. Somewhere between college and the real world, I lost that fun-loving girl, and I hope I can find her again.

  Don’t worry. I have a plan to do just that. Not only am I leaving the city I have loved for so long, but I’m also going to be moving far, far away, with no idea if I will ever be coming back.

  It’s how I hope to find myself.

  My friends squeeze my shoulders, and we continue to sing the lyrics. Unexpectedly, they alter the words, and instead of talking about making it in New York, they tell the story of making it anywhere—in my case, California.

  More than moved by this kind gesture, I gulp down the sorrow and move with them in a way that doesn’t match the tempo at all. It doesn’t matter, though, because they’re right: “If I can make it here, I can make it anywhere.”

  God, I hope that’s true.

  There’s a pause in the chorus and the piano melody quiets us all down. We’re now standing in a straight line onstage and swaying back and forth.

  Breathing for the first time in three months, regret isn’t a word I am going to allow myself to say . . . out loud, anyway.

  Yes, I admit it—I have a type A personality, which makes me hard to get to know and even harder to be friends with. Crossing my t’s and dotting my i’s will always be important to me. As is staying on a schedule. Making lists. And being organized. But none of that means I’m boring.

  The sting of the word still hurts.

  Sebastian was wrong. Is wrong—I am not boring, and even though he is out of my life I am going to prove him wrong. No, scratch that—I am going to prove to myself that I can live my life wild and free, because truth be told, I may not be boring, but I am bored.

  I need a change.

  To find myself.

  The chorus starts up again and although we sing about coming to New York, we all do so knowing that I’m leaving.

  I still can’t believe I’m doing it.

  When my best friend, Maggie, suggested on the phone, “Why don’t you quit your job and move out here with me?” I nearly broke out in hives.

  I thought, why would I do that?

  My life was settled. I had a good job, an apartment, and a fiancé. Then I remembered that my boss was an ass, my apartment was a sublet, and my fiancé, well, he wasn’t mine anymore.

  Once I let the idea of moving sink in, I thought, why not make a new start? At twenty-four and a half, I can afford to make a change. I’ll get a new job. Give myself a year. Who knows, maybe even find myself.

  I have nothing to lose.

  If Laguna Beach isn’t the place for me, then I’ll come back to New York. And if I have to, I’ll grovel to get back my old job at the fashion house. My soon-to-be-former boss might be an ass, but he knows my value to the company as a designer.

  Completely oblivious to how this song ends, I mumble through it, laughing the entire time. When it’s over, I’m the first to stumble off the stage. Soon after, my friends follow, and we all huddle together. The group of boys our mothers warned us about have reoccupied their seats, leaving us homeless.

  “Let’s sing another one,” India suggests, practically jumping at the idea. India is—no, as of today, was—my coworker at Kate von Frantzenberg. We’ve been friends since we both started there right out of college. She’s married to a great guy named Elvis—yes, Elvis. And she, like Sandra, saw me through the dark times following my breakup with Sebastian.

  Another song does seem like fun. Karaoke is addicting. However, my bladder is about to burst. “You guys go for it,” I tell her. “I’m going to use the bathroom and I’ll hop in when I’m done.”

  “Stay out of trouble,” she calls to me.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll be good,” I tell her and weave my way through the crowd toward the restrooms.

  Trouble.

  That’s a laugh.

  Even if I went looking for it, it would never find me.

  Boring.

  My life is that boring.

  Wonder of wonders, there is only a very short line. Gleeful and relieved when I finally push through the bathroom door, I hurry to find an empty stall. The hard part comes next. My dress is tight, too tight to shimmy over my hips. With its large silver zipper running up the entire back, I have to use both hands to get it down. Getting it back up is just as much of a bother.

  An episode of Sex and the City comes to mind. One in which Carrie Bradshaw finally accepts being alone and figures out how to zip her own dress.

  If she could do it, so can I.

  Channeling my inner Carrie, it still takes me a few minutes. And when I come out of the stall, the bathroom is jam-packed. I wait my turn for a sink behind two women whispering loudly about the tragedy of it all and how they don’t blame him for leaving the city. Hi
m. I don’t know who they are talking about, but by the time the two women leave, even I feel sorry for this him.

  After I wash my hands and dry them, I follow the surge of people down the dimly lit hallway. There are rooms reserved for private parties and with my feet killing me, I slip into an empty one to check my messages.

  Strips of neon-pink bulbs along the perimeter cast an almost strobe-like effect in the room. Ignoring the fact that it’s messing with my vision, I pick a booth out of sight of the door. My screen saver lights up when I pull my phone from my purse. It’s of the Statue of Liberty. A photo I took last summer when Sebastian and I were goofing off one Saturday instead of looking for wedding locations.

  I should have taken it as a sign.

  Resolved to stop thinking about Sebastian, I thumb across the picture and go directly to Google. Once there, I search for a picture of something that will have meaning in my new life.

  Bingo!

  More than satisfied with my choice, I save it as my new screen saver and start singing the song that the bright photo reminds of: “If you like piña coladas . . .”

  With a smile on my face, I finish that verse and flip to my message. When I do, I see that I have a text.

  Maggie: Are you still out?

  Feeling on top of the world that yes, I am, I look at the time and smile. It’s 12:35 a.m. And I’m still out. Having fun.

  See, I’m so not boring.

  Excited about this, I have to retype my reply three times to get the one word correct. Just as I go to hit send, my phone slides out of my grip.

  Crap.

  Camouflaged beneath the black tablecloth, I lie on the seat and reach onto the carpeted floor. The smoothness of the vinyl bench and soft material of my dress don’t exactly see eye-to-eye, and somehow I end up falling to the ground. It’s more than a little grimy and I’m more than a little grossed out. With my fingers curled around my phone, I’m about to get off this disgustingness when I hear the sound of voices and the door closing to the private room.

  I freeze right where I am.

  From under the table I can see two silhouettes. A man. And a woman. I can’t see their faces from this angle, only their bodies. Just as I’m about to announce my presence, my eyes drift down to a perfectly shined pair of men’s shoes and a very familiar pair of high heels. I know by the Louboutins that the woman is the Megan Fox look-alike.