Sweet Thing

by JA Huss

  Contents

  Sweet Thing

  DESCRIPTION

  CHAPTER ONE - ARIA

  CHAPTER TWO - RYKER

  CHAPTER THREE - ARIA

  CHAPTER FOUR - RYKER

  CHAPTER FIVE - ARIA

  CHAPTER SIX - RYKER

  CHAPTER SEVEN - ARIA

  CHAPTER EIGHT - RYKER

  CHAPTER NINE - ARIA

  CHAPTER TEN - RYKER

  CHAPTER ELEVEN - ARIA

  CHAPTER TWLEVE - RYKER

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN - ARIA

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN - RYKER

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN - ARIA

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN - RYKER

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN - ARIA

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN - RYKER

  CHAPTER NINETEEN - ARIA

  CHAPTER TWENTY - RYKER

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE - ARIA

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO - RYKER

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE - ARIA

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR - RYKER

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE - ARIA

  EPILOGUE - RYKER

  END OF BOOK SHIT

  WHAT TO READ NEXT

  MESSAGE FOR BLOGGERS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Edited by RJ Locksley

  Cover Design: JA Huss

  Cover Photo Sara Eirew

  Copyright © 2019 by JA Huss

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN-978-1-944475-89-5

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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  www.JAHuss.com

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  DESCRIPTION

  SWEET THING is a full-length standalone older-man-very-young-woman sexy romance filled with forbidden lust, too many ‘first times’ to count, inappropriate touching in public, and an angsty, but perfect, HEA.

  I knew how old she was.

  I just didn’t care.

  RYKER

  Aria Amherst lied about her age the first night we met.

  But when I kissed her… I knew exactly how old she was.

  And once I kissed her… I needed more.

  I wanted all of her. I wanted everything she wasn’t really offering.

  Until I found out that her father was making a deal with my business partner.

  Then I wanted her more.

  ARIA

  Ryker North blew into my life like a wall of hot, tattooed muscle.

  And did I mention he’s a drummer?

  And a businessman?

  And thirty-five years old?

  And my father is going to kill me when he finds out I’m dating his new client?

  It’s… complicated.

  But take my word on this. He’s worth every risk I’m taking.

  CHAPTER ONE - ARIA

  “Did you hear me, Aria?” my older sister, April, calls from her bedroom.

  “I heard you,” I mumble back. I’m looking out her front window, which has a view of the city down below. She’s technically on a side street, but this is a corner apartment, so the bustling busyness of State Avenue in the Gingerbread neighborhood is in full view.

  I can’t believe I get to live here for a month on my own. It’s almost too good to be true. I’ve pinched myself so many times today testing to see if I was dreaming, I have a bruise on my arm.

  “What did I say?” April pokes her head out through the open door and taps her foot, irritated.

  “You said”—I sigh—“there’s some stupid board meeting tonight at the Creative Co-op and I have to attend in your place. I heard you.”

  She smiles. Right answer.

  I cut her some slack. Because she got called away last-minute to go do a series of photoshoots in Australia and now her whole life is up in fantastic disarray because her flight leaves in four hours and she’s got twenty minutes left to pack before she has to rush to the airport.

  “What else?”

  “Feed the cat,” I say, reaching over to pet Felix. He meows and arches his back, crying to get more out of the quick rub.

  She waggles her finger at me and says, “And no sex parties.”

  Which makes me huff a laugh. As if I’m even having sex.

  “Also, stay away from my toys.”

  “Gross!”

  “You borrow everything else.”

  “I’m not going to borrow your vibrator, April. You’re disgusting.”

  She cackles out a laugh and returns to packing.

  We are as different as night and day. She is blonde, and perky, and has an exciting career as an apprentice for a huge fashion photographer. She wears fun clothes, and goes fun places, and has a bazillion fun friends and even funner boyfriends. She is outgoing and bubbly, never afraid to try new things.

  Me, on the other hand… I’m what they call the quiet one. I like books and take school seriously. My hair is dark red and no one has ever called me perky and fun. And while I know lots of people and consider most of them acquaintances, I don’t really have close friends. No BFF and no one I hang out with after school because I go to school in the city and live an hour away in the suburbs.

  Every morning for the past four years I’ve ridden into the city and back home with my father. And the kids in my neighborhood all go to school locally. So they have their own social circles now. All the kids I used to be friends with back in middle school have moved on and forged new circles of friends. So now, when I’m home, I’m just the girl they used to hang out with.

  It’s not that no one invites me places, it’s just I don’t really fit in when I try to hang out. The neighborhood kids are all into their sports. And I have zero interest in going to football and baseball games to cheer on kids I barely know anymore.

  And all my city friends have after-school clubs. Or go to the same church, or are members of the same country clubs.

  It’s just weird and kind of hard to explain. Plus, unlike April, who got a car for her sixteenth birthday and could go places without my father dropping her off and picking her up, I got a spring break trip to Space Camp for my sixteenth birthday. Which was totally fun, but didn’t help my social life much.

  It’s not like I’m complaining. I barely saw my father when I was younger because he worked such long hours and we lived so far from his job. And now we have a great relationship, even if most of our quality time is spent during the morning and evening commute.

  Anyway, that’s why I don’t have a lot of friends to hang out with and why this little adventure in the city is pretty much the highlight of my life.

  April and I are different in other ways too. She’s one of those artistic people. She draws, and paints, and dances, and plays two instruments. Also very cool. But also… so not me. The total extent of my artistic ability is manipulating photos in Photoshop. But that’s just a hobby. I’m thinking about going into banking like my father.

  After I finish college, that is.

  Well, after I finish high school and then college, that is.

  But high school barely counts anymore. I have six weeks left and I get to spend almost all of that time here, in April’s apartment, taking care of Felix and pretending I’m an adult.

  Which almost isn’t pretend anymore because my birthday is in two days.


  I’m a product of the sprawling, wealthy suburbs, which translates to sheltered, right? I see the real world from the other side of a window while sitting in the passenger seat of my father’s Mercedes.

  Sure, I am educated in the city but my school is like a little enclave of upper-class safety, so this little house-sitting gig for my sister is mostly a practical exercise as far as my parents are concerned. Next fall I’m going to college in the city near my high school, St. Bernadette of Lourdes Academy, just a few blocks away from here, and they want to make sure I’m prepared for this.

  My dad works ten blocks up from the school and April has her office in the Creative Co-op around the corner from her apartment. So this is kinda like our neighborhood. A borrowed one, for sure. But it’s all I have and anyway, I love it.

  It’s cool, and trendy, and there are lots of artists and young people around. The Creative Co-op was founded by my mother and sister so April could afford a photography studio with a swank, up-and-coming address.

  Hence, the board meeting. I’m her proxy until she comes back and there’s a new tenant application to go over tonight. So adulting here I come. It’s trial by fire, Aria.

  I can’t wait.

  The buzzer rings and April comes rushing out from the bedroom dragging a suitcase with clothes, a trunk with equipment, and her giant shoulder bag.

  “I’m coming, I’m coming,” she yells at the buzzer.

  She stops in front of me, pulls me into a hug, bashing my leg with her carry-on, and kisses my cheek. “Be good and I’ll see you in a month!” Then she blows a kiss at Felix, who ignores her, and says, “Bye, bye, kitty!”

  I pull the front door open and she rushes through, her friend Kathleen already reaching for her trunk at the top of the stairs.

  There are a few more moments of frazzled disarray as they drag the luggage down three flights of stairs and then they rush outside and the world calms down again.

  I close the apartment door and lean against it, smiling as I imagine an entire month of Girls Gone Wild: Aria Edition.

  That makes me snort. But a girl can hope.

  My phone buzzes in the front pocket of my skirt and I pull it out to find a text from April.

  Don’t forget the board meeting!

  I text back a thumbs up and slip my phone back into my pocket.

  I’ve been to plenty of board meetings with my father since I started high school. We’ve always been a pair in the city because he works so close to my school and we commute together. So most days I walk over to his office after school and do homework and sometimes he has to stay late and I’m stuck there listening to him and all his powerful friends discuss investments, and stock, and loans.

  So even though I’ve never been to one of the Creative Co-Op board meetings, I’m pretty sure I can handle it.

  Dress smart. Pay attention. Nod my head or shoot disapproving looks as other members debate the issues, then agree or disagree on the vote.

  I’ve got this.

  Most of it.

  I look down at my clothes and decide the St. Bernadette uniform has to go.

  Luckily April and I are the same size. So I go into her bedroom—squealing internally because it’s mine for a whole month—and pull open her huge walk-in closet.

  My father had that made specially for her when he remodeled this apartment and April really knows how to fill up a closet, let me tell you. She’s got a whole wall of shoes, and racks and racks of dresses, and skirts, and cool ripped jeans.

  Mostly things I would never wear, and almost none of which are appropriate for a board meeting, but anything is better than my uniform. Besides, I’ve perfected my serious, up-and-coming businesswoman look and I’m positive I can pull together something smart.

  It might be a hybrid version of April and Aria, but that’s what new opportunities are for, right?

  This is the first day of St. Bernadette’s spring break and in order to appease my parents’ fears about possibly being lonely and isolated while I stayed in the city for a month, I told them I’d take a Photoshop certification class over at the local college while I was on break.

  I started retouching April’s photographs when she was a freshman in college and it kinda became my thing. Plus, that certification looks good on a college application.

  But I have a whole weekend between now and that first class and sadly, this board meeting is the only thing on my agenda aside from my birthday tea with my parents at the Corinthian Hotel on Sunday.

  So hello, April’s closet. What can you do to help me out here?

  CHAPTER TWO - RYKER

  “Ryker!” Ozzy says. “I need one more signature.” My best bro and business partner, Oswald Herrington III—otherwise known as Ozzy—thrusts a piece of paper and a pen at me as I try to rush past him to make my meeting.

  “I gotta go, man!”

  “Just quick,” he says, handing me the pen. “Sign. It’s just a purchase order for the festival.”

  The festival is a giant pain in my ass. Ozzy’s idea, all of it. But we’ve finally bought the last piece of property we need to redevelop the Gingerbread neighborhood and people are pissed off about gentrification.

  OK, yes, that’s exactly what we’re doing. But we honestly don’t want to kick low-income people out so we can make a boatload of money. We want to lift up the neighborhood for everyone. So this festival is our way of letting the neighborhood know we’re all in this together. We want them to stay, enjoy the new safer, trendier neighborhood, and spruce up their aging homes. We’re even putting together loan packages so we can help them renovate and raise their property values and become part of the transition.

  I don’t know if it’s working—yet—but we’re doing our best to win them over.

  When we took on this project we knew some people would be forced out of the neighborhood. But if what we’re doing ends up changing all the things that make Gingerbread so interesting, then what’s the point? We can restore all the old Victorian houses and paint them up pretty, but people already come to Gingerbread for night life and restaurants and the houses are mostly all shit. People don’t come for the houses. They come for the food, and the music, and the art, and the people.

  There’s a fine line between rehabilitation and annihilation and neither Ozzy nor I want to be on the wrong side of this once it’s done.

  Which is part of the reason I’m trying to rent a space in the Creative Co-Op. That’s where the neighborhood artists create.

  And I just happen to be a drummer. Well, not since freshman year of college, actually. And that was a good fifteen years ago. But I still have the old kit and I think inserting myself into the artists’ community will show the neighborhood I’m one of them.

  Ozzy, well, he’s not so sure. He’s worried about my renewed interest in drumming because of how into the ‘scene’ I was back when we first met. I had to talk him into spending almost two hundred thousand dollars cash purchasing this creative space and tonight’s meeting is Judgment Day. I have to defend my application to the Creative board.

  Yeah, it’s gonna be a disaster. I can already tell. For one thing, I have to call them Mr. This and Miss That. No first names allowed. Weird and sorta pretentious for a group of artists, if you ask me. But I think they already hate me and that’s part of their you’re-not-welcome-here plan.

  They’re totally gonna deny me. And I hate being denied. Fucking hate it. I don’t care what that says about my character, it’s just a fact. That’s why we have all the property in Gingerbread in the first place. I bartered and negotiated until those people decided they couldn’t afford to say no.

  Not helpful when you’re trying to win people over and convince them you’re not out to ruin the culture they’ve carefully cultivated over the past fifty years. But we’ve got a good plan, we really have.

  I sign the paper, thrust the pen back at Ozzy, and rush out the door to my waiting car. It’s a good thirty minutes in traffic to get over there and by the time I’m walking into the
co-op, I’m stressed, and late, and running my fingers through my hair so the long strands that are usually perfectly groomed kinda hang over in my face.

  Just… please. Get me through this ambush with a yes. That’s all I’m asking for. One. More. Yes.

  “Mr. North, I presume,” a man wearing a vintage army jacket and baggy ripped jeans says, as I stop in the lobby and look around.

  Hmmm. Interesting place. There’s about two dozen offices down the long, wide hallway and each one of them is made of glass on all sides. This gives me a glimpse of my new neighbors as they work. A few are painting. One is doing ballet at a barre. One is playing the violin, swaying back and forth like he’s caught in a trance. And one is a goddamn mime—black leotard and scary black and white makeup on her face. Doing that whole glass room thing, even though she’s actually in a glass room.

  What the fuck am I doing? I do not belong here. I’m wearing a ten-thousand-dollar suit, a fifty-thousand-dollar watch, and I was brought to this meeting by my company driver.

  “Mr. North?” the man asks again.

  “Yes,” I say, turning to him. “That’s me. But you can call me—“

  “Mr. North.” The man smiles. “Pleasure to meet you,” he says, extending his hand. “I’m Mr. Garcia.”

  OK. So that’s how it’s gonna be. “Very nice to meet you, Mr. Garcia. This is a great place. I had no idea it was so… modern.”

  Mr. Garcia gives me a tight smile that shows zero teeth. “Yes,” he says. “The Amherst family put this in about four years ago so Miss Amherst would have a place for her photography studio. And even though they still own the building, we all own our individual offices, which is why we’re called the co-op.”

  “Right,” I say, forcing myself to smile—not tightly and with teeth. “That’s an amazing concept.”

  But what I want to say is, I’m a fucking developer, dude. I know what a co-op is.

  “Everyone else is already here, Mr. North. So if you’d like to follow me into the board room, we can get this meeting underway.”