Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Synopsis
Also by Brooke Blaine
Dedication
1 Classy Bitch
2 Low on Fucks, High on (a Good) Time
3 That's What You Get (For Waking Up In Vegas)
4 Pussycat's Out of the Bag
5 A Fungus You Can't Escape
6 Here a Slutbag, Everywhere a Slutbag
7 Three's a Crowd
8 It's Always the Skinny Bitch's Fault
9 F.T.S.
10 Never Make a Deal With the Devil
11 Here, Fishy, Fishy
12 War of the Roses
13 Lick. Suck. Bite. Taste.
14 Don't Let the Door Hit You in the Ass
15 I Should Be Muzzled
16 Screw Memory Lane
17 Drag You Kicking and Screaming
18 Confessions of a Twat
19 Ace to the Rescue
20 Fabio and His Mistresses
21 Night of the Gold
22 Everything and Always
23 Epilogue Weddings are Still for Suckers
Special Thanks
About the Author
Copyright © 2017 by Brooke Blaine
www.brookeblaine.com
Edited by Arran McNicol
Cover Design © By Hang Le
Formatted by Ella Frank
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
P.i.t.a.
As one of the most prestigious wedding coordinators in Los Angeles, Paige Iris Traynor-Ashcroft is known for being classy, elegant, and the orchestrator of many happily-ever-afters.
But in the words of Paige herself: “What a crock of shiitake.”
Known affectionately (or not) as P.I.T.A. to those closest to her, she’s never been one to buy into the whole monogamy thing for herself. Sure, her BFFs are getting picked off by Cupid one by one, but his arrows have nothing on her semiautomatic.
Richard “Dick” Dawson does his best to live up to his name. A long-time frenemy and manwhore extraordinaire, he thrives on pushing limits, pushing up skirts—and pushing every single one of Paige’s buttons. He’s the itch she can’t scratch, and doesn’t want to. Or does she?
What happens when blazing-hot rage turns to crazy, unexplainable lust? Surely not...love? Because that would just be a total P.I.T.A.
Also by Brooke Blaine
L.A. Liaisons Series
Licked
Hooker
Romantic Suspense
Flash Point
Co-Authored with Ella Frank
Sex Addict
PresLocke Series
Co-Authored with Ella Frank
Aced
Locked
Anthologies
F*cking Awkward
To my Sam,
The bold, sassy wingbitch who introduced an innocent virgin church girl to the wide-eyed wonders of Playgirl and sex toy parties. You’re one of the strongest, most big-hearted, fearless women I know. I wouldn’t be half as brave without your corruption.
xoxox,
Char
CHAPTER ONE
Classy Bitch
LAS VEGAS. SEX capital of the world. The place I ventured to when I’d run the man supply down to a veritable cesspool back in L.A.
So, someone please explain to me why I was there with my parents.
Or—I inched the ice sculpture engraved with Happy 30th Anniversary, Patrick and Delilah a bit to the right to better address their adoring audience of friends—should I say for my parents.
“Gather ’round, everyone, gather ’round.” As the music from the small orchestra came to a close, my father’s big, boastful voice filled one of the Bellagio’s luxurious Galleria Rooms, and it was a sound entirely out of place with the elegant decor. He grabbed my mother by the waist and pulled her close, planting a kiss on her cheek, and in response, she giggled like a schoolgirl. One of her hands went up to his broad chest, and she flushed a lovely shade of pink.
You’d think they were a couple madly in love, wouldn’t you? Hah. You would be wrong.
That hand going to his chest? It wasn’t so much an adoring move as a cautionary watch-how-much-you-touch-me-tonight-because-I-will-be-taking-it-out-on-your-balls-later move. And that “lovely” flush and giggle? That was a signature Mrs. Traynor-Ashcroft move—she was pissed.
But the PDA did what it was intended to do, and everyone smiled and oohed and ahhed over how in love they still seemed to be after all these years. Hell, even I had to begrudgingly give them kudos, much as it pained me to do so. They knew how to fake it better than any couple I’d come across in my twenty-nine years of existence, and that was saying something, considering my day job.
My father held up his champagne glass with his free hand and looked down with an adoring expression at the still-stunning blonde in his arms. “Thirty years ago, I unwittingly became the luckiest man alive when the most beautiful woman ever to grace the earth trespassed onto my property and swan-dived into my pool.”
Laughter echoed off the gilded walls, and I had to repress the urge to stab myself in the eyes with the cocktail toothpicks.
“It only took mild convincing on my part to get her to take my name,” he continued.
“Don’t you mean hyphenate?” my mother said with a wink, though I knew that was meant more as a dig. My father hated that she’d refused to give up her maiden name of Traynor and go all in with his. Sort of that whole Tarzan, man-beats-chest, alpha-male mentality. I personally loved that show of independence on Mom’s part, though it would be the last time she asserted herself that I knew of. The steady supply of champagne and Xanax saw to that.
“Ahh, and it was that spirit, that fire, that made me fall for you. It’s been a glorious thirty years, my Liles, and I can’t wait to spend thirty more with you.” Then my father kissed my mother like it was the first time in years—hell, it probably was—and the move sent bile up my throat, and I couldn’t have stopped the eye roll then if I tried.
I know what you’re thinking. I seem to be pessimistic when it comes to love and romance and the glory of marriage.
You would be right.
Sure, I was one of the most in-demand wedding coordinators in Los Angeles, but that was less because I was a starry-eyed romantic and more because I was one hell of a party planner. Weddings just happened to be the most consistent—and expensive—parties around. So what if I had to put up with brides waxing poetic about their dream gowns and Prince Charmings? It afforded me an extravagant lifestyle that had nothing to do with my parents’ money, and that was the important thing.
Lifting my French martini to my lips, I drained the glass dry just as a voice of smooth velvet—the type that typically dropped panties—came up behind me.
“I could see you gagging from across the room, Paige,” he said, as the smell of his L’Homme Yves Saint Laurent cologne enveloped the air around me. The expensive scent also seemed to help the panty drop, not that I’d ever fallen for it. Quite the opposite, actually, which I was sure surprised no one except the man himself.
“A visual I’m sure you’re used to,” I replied, without bothering to turn around and acknowledge the unwanted presence in my midst. Richard “Dic
k” Dawson received more than enough attention as it was, what with his “rocker” appeal, though he didn’t have any musical capabilities that I was aware of. Perhaps if he had, I would’ve found him mildly attractive. As he came to a stop beside me, I could see out of the corner of my eye that he’d stayed true to form tonight: his long dirty-blond hair was tied at the nape of his neck, and he wore a midnight-blue tux with an oversized, open white collar and more necklaces than I’d ever dared to at one time. Apparently, some women found that hot.
“I’m surprised you bothered to come,” I said. “Tell me, was it the allure of an open bar or a room full of young debutantes that enticed you more?”
Dawson laughed, a deep, throaty laugh, and then his arm went around my shoulders and he lifted the empty glass from my hand. As he steered us to the bar, he said, “You forgot option three, love: spending quality time with my favorite girl.”
I groaned and attempted to shrug out of his hold, but his grasp on me was unyielding. “Favorite girl to torture, you mean. Can’t you go find a new object of your affection? One who doesn’t want to castrate you?”
“I doubt anyone else would be up for that kind of foreplay.” He placed the glass on the bar, nodded at the bartender, and held up two fingers. Less than two minutes later, there were two bright pink martinis in front of us.
I quirked an eyebrow at Dawson. “Trying to get me drunk to put me in an embarrassing blackmail sitch?”
“Not exactly what I had in mind.” He smirked, and those kohl-rimmed hazel eyes twinkled with mischief.
Dirty manslut. I bet not.
Shaking my head, I said, “Newsflash, Dick: no amount of alcohol could get me into your bed. You’ll have to raid the Strip for a bachelorette to bang.”
“There you go, Pita, always thinking the worst. Can’t I just be a good friend trying to help you get through this parental charade?” He leaned in to me, his lips by my ear. “You can thank me later.”
I pushed him away, ignoring—okay, well, trying to ignore—the way his chest felt rock hard beneath my fingertips, and took up my martini. When the hell did he start working out outside the bedroom? Damn.
“Speaking of friends…” Dawson glanced around the room and then lifted his brow. “I don’t see any of your girls here tonight. Couldn’t sweet-talk them into coming, eh?”
Okay, that jab hit a sore spot. My “girls”—otherwise known as my best friends, Ryleigh, Shayne, and Quinn—and I were practically attached at the hip, so it was strange to be here without at least one of them. But Ryleigh had a couple of big holiday events scheduled at her ice creamery and booziery, Licked, as well as its companion bar, the After Dark; Shayne was attending a premiere with her director boyfriend, Nate; and Quinn…well, who knew what Quinn was really up to. She’d just said she was MIA for the weekend, which probably meant she was climbing poles half-naked, or escorting foreign billionaires, or on some undercover Mission: Impossible classified shit. There was no telling, but one of these days she was bound to slip up and spill her guts. Hopefully not literally.
“Can’t blame my friends for having a life. Some people have more important things to do than follow me around,” I said.
“That doesn’t sound like a woman who’s jealous all her friends are shacking up with boyfriends at all.”
“Please. The last thing I want is to be tied down and having boring, missionary-style monogamous sex once a week.”
“And here I thought being tied down was right up your alley.”
“Only if it involves a pair of handcuffs—otherwise, pass.”
Dawson gave a put-upon sigh. “Yes, we know ‘all men are evil dogs who are only useful for kinky sex and not relationships.’ Your mother has rubbed off on you too much.”
“Says the man who eats out for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.” I scoffed and shook my head. “See, this is the problem—when guys screw everything on two legs, it’s no big deal and actually expected of them, but God forbid a woman have a healthy sexual appetite.”
“You’re no woman, Pita. You’re a man-eater.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
His lips turned up. “It’s admirable. I do enjoy watching you devour your prey before spitting them back out.”
“Spit? Hmm. Would I do that?”
When his eyes widened, my lips curved and then I forced myself to tune back in to what my father was saying as he wrapped up his speech.
“Thank you all for coming, and please—stay as long as you want, drink as much as you want, and come visit us at our new home in Paris whenever you want. Cheers.” My father raised his glass and nodded at the group before him, and as everyone raised their glasses at his toast, my mouth dropped open.
Did he say…new home…in Paris?
And then—because I retain no filter whatsoever—I blurted, “What the fuck? You’re moving? To Paris? Like, eleven-hours-on-a-nonstop-flight Paris?”
As all eyes in the room jerked in my direction, I felt no heat in my cheeks from embarrassment, no remorse at letting the thoughts in my head come tumbling out in a public way. No, I only felt the shock and rage an only child would when she learned her parents were moving without so much as an “Oh, by the way.” Because, seriously—who does that?
Even from across the room, the tic in my father’s jaw was visible, but like that ever stopped me. Or should I say, stopped my mouth.
“Paris,” I said again, and then shook my head in disbelief. “Were you going to leave a note for me with the butler?”
“Don’t be silly, Paige,” my mother said, smiling and waving me off with her hand. “We’re taking him with us.”
…Do you see what I have to deal with?
“Music,” my father called out to the conductor before I could say more of what was on my mind. Which, at the moment, was nothing but expletives.
As the orchestra kicked up a rousing selection from Mozart’s The Marriage of Figaro, a heavy arm went around my shoulders, yet again, and then Dawson’s lazy drawl was in my ear.
“Cheer up, love. Just think—no more awkward family dinners to endure.”
I crossed my arms as I watched the strangers I called my parents shake hands and receive cheerful congrats from their friends. “Unless they force me to attend by sending a private jet, you mean.”
“Most people would be thrilled at that prospect. Paris, private jets, a whole country of untapped men…”
I shot a glare his way. “This is shitty, and you know it.”
His hands went up in the surrender position, just as his parents came up beside us.
Mr. and Mrs. Dawson. If ever there were Leave It To Beaver parents made reality, it was these two. That was, if the Beavers were worth a few billion dollars, lived in Beverly Hills, and ran a conglomerate of entertainment venues and companies.
“Paige, it’s so nice to see you,” Dawson’s mom, Gail, said, wrapping me in a hug. She was a small woman, and I had to bend down to her level, but her hugs had always felt like a safe place, and tonight’s was no different. She rubbed the space between my shoulder blades, and some of the tension my parents’ revelation had caused seemed to ease. “If I’d known you had no idea, I would’ve said something before,” she said, giving me an extra squeeze before letting go.
“No, you shouldn’t have to do that,” I said, trying for a smile. It didn’t work.
Gail squeezed my hand. “I’m sure with all the chaos surrounding the move and the party that it must’ve slipped their minds.”
“You don’t have to defend them anymore. I know how they work by now.” Yeah, twenty-nine years and slipping down on that priority list one rung at a time.
Dawson’s father, Charles, placed his hand on my shoulder, and his eyes were full of concern. “You know you’re welcome at our home anytime. Don’t let Richard here keep you away.”
“Thanks, Mr. D,” I said, lifting up on my toes to give him a hug. Dawson definitely got his height and strong build from his father, and if genetics were anyth
ing to go by, he’d also end up strikingly good-looking, like his dad, once he hit his sixties.
Guyliner notwithstanding.
“Can we get you anything?” Gail asked, eyeing my empty martini glass. “Some food? Water?”
I shook my head. “I’m good, thanks. I plan to get good and liquored up, maybe toilet-paper a few party guests. The usual.”
Charles and Gail looked at Dawson with similar expressions that said don’t you dare let her do any of that, and by the way he gave the smallest of nods, it looked like I’d have a babysitter this evening.
A babysitter. In Vegas.
Greaaaaaat.
“Good to see you both, but if you’ll excuse me,” I said, turning away and heading for the bar. I got about two steps before Dawson reached out and pulled me back to him.
“Oh, no you don’t.”
“Oh, yes I do. I’ve got an alcohol quota to fill, and I’ve never let my liver down. I don’t plan on starting now.”
“I’m not saying you can’t. I’m saying not here.”
“Why? Afraid I’ll show my ass?”
A sly smile lifted the corners of Dawson’s lips. “That, love, is nothing I’d be afraid of.”
Something in the way he said that, and the way his gaze was steady on mine, caused my heartbeat to trip, like I’d stumbled into an unexpected pothole in the road. I opened my mouth to let loose a sassy retort, but when nothing came out, I frowned. And that only served to make Dawson’s smile grow wider.
Wanker bastard.
“A word, if I may,” came my father’s thunderous voice behind us, and I flinched momentarily before squaring my shoulders. As I turned to face him, I noticed the way Dawson stayed close, his hand moving from my arm to the small of my back. No doubt he wished he had me on a leash right now in case I made any sudden moves, like gouging eyeballs and crushing nuts. Though that was probably more up Quinn’s alley than mine, if she was the ninja assassin we all joked she was. Note to self: ask Quinn to give us all self-defense lessons.
P.I.T.A. (L.A. Liaisons Book 3) Page 1
