Hooker (L.A. Liaisons Book 2)

by Brooke Blaine

  Geez, how did anyone get through life sounding like a dying donkey? And worse—who’d want to share that with the world? I couldn’t imagine anyone giving him tips for his vocal stylings, but maybe he made his money by people paying him to shut the hell up.

  Tempted to do just that, I reached down to grab the five-dollar bill in my back pocket, but stopped short when my fingers grazed my thin panties.

  Oh fuck shit ass and hole. Ryleigh had my pants. Which meant I’d been making googly eyes at Mr. Gorgeous without them, which also meant I’d have to exit the train with my underwear on full display.

  Oh my God. Oh my God.

  As my eyes widened, I quickly looked away from his gaze. Anywhere, anywhere but looking him in the eye. I felt suddenly exposed, because not only could he see the reaction he’d had on me, but…well…what if the pulsing between my thighs would show quite another…ahem…response?

  Was it possible to stroke out from embarrassment at twenty-eight? Because my face felt numb and I was positive anything I uttered would come out in a slur, like I’d had one too many of Ryleigh’s Slippery Slutbag boozy shakes. I could’ve been drooling and I wouldn’t have felt it. Or drooping. There could be major droopage on one side of my face…

  There was no way to get the attention of the girls to check for me unless I shouted over the human fucking loudspeaker still “singing,” so instead I stole a glance at Mr. Gorgeous. His eyes were still on me, and the way he was staring made me feel pretty sure half my face wasn’t melting off, though I did brush the corner of my mouth to make sure I wasn’t salivating.

  Nope. I seemed to be okay, even if my panties weren’t.

  Gawd.

  His head cocked to the side as his eyes trailed over my lips—and damn if I didn’t feel that all over. And yeah, okay, maybe I sort of beamed under his appraisal. Not because I was an “ooh, that boy is staring at me” virgin, but because, hell, who wouldn’t want his attention? I wished I could see the rest of him, but I was also grateful for the squished sardines currently separating us.

  As the train rattled on, I made sure to look elsewhere often before ever so casually glancing in his direction—as though I was simply skimming over the crowd instead of forcing myself not to blatantly stare at him. I even attempted to watch the man singing “Dirty Diana,” though I didn’t dare make eye contact with him either. I mean, hello—no pants, no money to give.

  The Seventh Street/Metro Center stop came into view before I was ready, and my eyes immediately shot to Mr. Gorgeous. He’d glanced out the window and then back at me, and I got the feeling this was his stop too.

  My stomach flip-flopped at the possibility of more outside our eye-fucking commuter ride. Then he looked down at himself, his mouth twisting. Before I could analyze what that look meant, the doors opened and he was lost in the rushing tide of passengers exiting the car, while others shoved their way inside like assholes.

  As I peeled myself out of the train, I searched the crowd for him, but he was nowhere to be found. Disappointment filled my gut, but what had I expected? That he’d wait for me to get off? And, honestly, did I really want him to see me without my pants, especially with the reaction I’d had?

  Hell. No.

  Still. That connection had been so intense, I couldn’t imagine what the purpose had been if I’d never see him again. But he had gotten off on this stop, so maybe he was still around…

  As the girls filed out of the train car, I pulled Ryleigh aside.

  “Quick, I need my pants back,” I said.

  She arched a brow in a you’re-fucking-crazy kind of way. “Uh, let me think. No.”

  “I need them. I’m serious.”

  “No can do, my sweet. Time to hit the bar.” Ryleigh hefted the bag farther up her shoulder, and as she started to walk away, I took hold of her sleeve.

  “Hand over the bag and no one gets hurt.”

  “Shayne, you can’t put your pants on yet. We haven’t gotten to the—”

  I grabbed the side of the bag and it fell off her shoulder, but she caught it just in time and yanked it back.

  “You don’t understand,” I said, my fingers tightening on the bag again and pulling it toward me. “There’s a guy—”

  “Dude. No—”

  “Just give it to me—”

  A back-and-forth war ensued as we each struggled for the tote.

  “You’re being ridiculous—”

  “And you’re being a cuntba— Oh fuck.” As I jerked it toward me, something dark went flying out, littering the train tracks. And wouldn’t you know it—my jeans were the victim.

  “Oh no.” I stared at my True Religions spread-eagled across the track. Without thinking, I took a step forward over the yellow line, and a stern voice to my left rang out.

  “Don’t even think about jumping down there.”

  I glanced over my shoulder to see a security guard coming toward me, his hand moving to the belt at his hips. “Consider those our property now. You try to make a play for them, and I’ll be forced to take you in.”

  My mouth opened and shut several times as I searched for a response, but since I wasn’t in the mood to be arrested—especially half-naked—I kept silent. Except in my head. There was a lot of fuckingfuckityfuck going on in there.

  Holding my hands up, I backed away slowly and swallowed. Fine. I’d just steal one of the girls’ pants and rock them as high waters. Or walk home in an epic trench coat walk of shame. No big deal. Really.

  Ugh.

  “Hope you enjoy,” I muttered, and then one of the girls wrapped their arm around my waist and led me up the escalator as a sick feeling settled in the pit of my stomach. It wasn’t like I could afford to throw away a pair of hundred-dollar jeans. Those had been a rare extravagant purchase for me, and not one I’d be able to afford anytime in the near future if my cheapskate boss Val had anything to do with it.

  “Cheer up, babes, I’ll get you another pair,” Quinn said, rubbing my arm.

  I sighed. Feeling like the constant charity case in the group was the last thing I wanted, even though I appreciated the gesture. “Thanks,” I said as we stepped out of the Metro station, “but I think I’ll stick to something from T.J. Maxx from now on.”

  “Don’t be silly. It’s not— Hey, watch out for the—”

  With her warning too late, my boot landed in a pothole, and I tumbled down onto my knee, the scrape of the concrete stinging to high hell and no doubt leaving a bright red souvenir.

  Cut. Wrap. It’s official.

  I’m never taking my pants off again.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Rockin’ the Cradle

  “SO, SHAYNE. ANYTHING you want to tell us?”

  I raised a brow at Quinn before I finished off what was left of my Pretty in Pink drink. The liquor went down smooth, which should’ve been a tip-off that I’d indulged a bit too much over the last two hours we’d been sitting at the corner bar at The Vortex for the official Pantsless after party. But who the hell cared at that point? It had not only numbed my super-sexy scraped knee, but also my inhibitions, which had been desperately needed so I could relax and enjoy myself in the midst of half-naked partygoers.

  “Yeah,” I said, holding up my drained glass and rattling the ice around. “I think I’ll have another.”

  “Wrong.” Quinn gave the other two girls a look, and they must’ve picked up what she was throwing down because they all turned on their barstools to face me.

  I froze at their expectant expressions. “Um. Why do I feel like I’m about to be interrogated? This isn’t about my resident card again, is it?”

  “You better spill it, Shayne,” Ryleigh said, with a shake of her head. “We already know.”

  I searched each of their faces, trying to gain a hint as to what the hell they were talking about. “Spill what? You guys are freaking me out.”

  “I thought we were your best friends. I can’t believe you’d hold out on us like that,” Paige said.

  “Oh please. I tell
you all everything. Even the things you don’t want to know.”

  Wait a minute. Wait just a freaking minute. Surely they couldn’t know about—

  “Your date,” Quinn confirmed. “Cash Adams? Partridge Inn? A table by the water. Candlelight. Any of that ring a bell?”

  “You were even wearing the royal-blue dress with the slit up your thigh that I helped you pick out,” Paige said.

  Quinn nodded. “And we heard the two of you were in quite a hurry to leave after the main course. Didn’t even get one of their famous desserts—”

  “Oh, I bet that dessert was to go.” Ryleigh winked at me. “You’re a dirty, rotten whore for not saying anything sooner, but we’ll forgive you if you tell us every little detail.”

  “And every big one too,” Paige said.

  My jaw was on the floor of the bar as I blinked at my friends. My so-called date with Cash Adams was not something I ever wanted to relive, at least not without copious amounts of alcohol. “How…did you even find out about that?” I managed to squeak out.

  “Zoe’s latest sugar mama owns that place and she happened to be there that night,” Ryleigh said, referring to the manager of her ice creamery and booziery, Licked.

  Busted. So busted. “I was going to tell you guys, but I was waiting for, you know. Vodka.”

  Paige tapped her foot and motioned for me to start talking. “Well, now you’ve had plenty of that, so out with it.”

  “Okay, okay,” I said, pushing my glass away from me. “It was just… It was a complete disaster.” Such a disaster, in fact, that I didn’t even know where to begin. Cash Adams was a B-list, mostly indie actor who’d gained industry attention by playing the autistic son of Meryl Streep last year in a movie up for an Academy Award. Though the date hadn’t been my idea, he was intriguing enough that I didn’t put up too much of a fuss.

  Big. Mistake.

  Pulling at my shirt as if it would somehow stretch down to my knees, I said, “So…well, do you remember that story that came out a couple of years ago? The one that claimed he did voices on dates? The baby-talk story, remember?”

  Paige’s brow furrowed. “Oh, I forgot about that. I thought it ended up being fake?”

  “More like he sued and won that defamation case because the girl was deranged and hoping for her fifteen minutes,” Quinn said, before focusing back on me. “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “Are you sure you want to know?” I asked. “It might crush a few fantasies for you.” When the girls crossed their arms in a “we don’t give a rat’s ass” way and waited, I sighed. “Fine. He does it. The voices.”

  Paige let out a disbelieving snort. “He did baby talk to you?”

  “No,” I said. “Not baby talk. French.”

  “He spoke to you in French and you’re trying to tell us it wasn’t hot?” Paige shook her head. “Bitch, I will let a guy talk dirty to me in any language he wants—”

  I held up my hand and prepared to blow her mind. “No, he didn’t speak in French. He did this horrible accent thing where he zpoke like zis ze whole time.”

  Ryleigh’s eyes were so wide I thought they’d pop out of her head. “He did not…”

  “Yes,” I said. “Ze whole time.”

  “Holy shit,” Quinn said, a roaring laugh coming out of her petite frame. “Did he say it was for a movie role or something? One of those method actors?”

  “I doubt it. The guy is a headcase.”

  Ryleigh leaned across the bar, pointing at me. “See, if I didn’t know you to be one of the most honest people on the planet, I’d call your bluff, because that has to be the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

  “No, stupid is when he tells the waiter, ‘Ze lady will ’ave ze pan-zeared zalmon wiz ze lemon zauce.’”

  Paige collapsed onto the bar top, trying to catch her breath from laughing so hard. “Jesus Christ, I knew that guy was weird.”

  “You did not,” I said. “You were just obsessing over him last week when you saw the trailer for A Man Called Gaylord.”

  “Hey, I’m the first to admit the guy is pretty hot in an off-the-wall sort of way, and I heard he’s hung like a—”

  “Paige!”

  Paige straightened and shrugged. “Well, he is. Allegedly. But he dated Mina Radetsky, who has to be one of the strangest people in Hollywood. Anyone associated with that girl has to have a few screws loose in the head, let’s be real.”

  “I bet Mina started that voice shit,” Quinn said. “Thank God you didn’t sleep with him. Hung or not, if he started wailing, ‘Geev eet to me, Zayne, ah yez, right zhere!’ your clit would probably shrivel up and die.”

  “Please yell that next time, I don’t think the people at the other end of the bar heard you,” I said, ignoring the looks I could feel aimed our way. Not that it ever bothered me. We had foul mouths. We owned it.

  “You should consider yourself lucky for dodging a bullet,” Ryleigh said. “How did that date even happen, anyway?”

  I sighed. “Val. Always Val.”

  Val Barberie. My boss and owner of HLS—Hook, Line & Sinker Matchmaking Company. She was hell on wheels and a nightmare to work for, but we’d been working together for more than five years, and I was expecting a big promotion and pay raise any time now. Val had a habit, though, of setting me up on client dinners that turned out to be dates. In her mind, a single matchmaker went against everything we stood for, and if I were somehow attached to a higher-profile man—say, in the entertainment world—it would give the company better visibility, and therefore more clients. Which meant more money in her pocket for the myriad vices she didn’t bother hiding.

  Ryleigh tsked her disapproval. “That woman has set you up on more bad dates than I could possibly count on my hands and yours. How the hell can she even be the head of a matchmaking company? She couldn’t find a love match if both people slapped her in her too-big-for-her-body bobblehead.”

  “If she’s gonna set you up on dates with celebrities, why not that guy?” Quinn nodded at the TV over the bar where the trailer for an upcoming action blockbuster was playing. “I bet he doesn’t do shit accents, and he looks like he could throw you up against the wall for some super-hot wall-banging.”

  “That guy as in Ace Locke? Uh…yeah, okay,” I said. “Maybe if I was a blonde who partied on yachts and I’d been on the cover of Sports Illustrated half a dozen times. He is cute, though. A bit muscly.”

  “Yeah, I’m not usually into the big ’n’ bulky type, but I’d fuck him.” Paige threw back the rest of her drink and slammed it on the bar.

  “Please,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Like you have a type.”

  Ryleigh’s eyes were still glued to the screen, her forehead wrinkled as if she were in deep thought. “Does he wax his eyebrows?” she asked.

  Okaaay, so not quite so deep.

  “I doubt Val has connections to any A-list celebrities, hence my amazing dates so far. You’re aiming too high.”

  “Ugh. It’s unfortunate that Val is the face of the whole operation while our Shayne here is the brains,” Paige said.

  “No,” I said. “She’s got a great mind for business sometimes, not to mention the finances to back it up. I am but a lowly woman on the totem pole.”

  “Oh hell no, don’t you dare sell yourself short.” Ryleigh looked ready to stamp her foot in disapproval. “You have a gift, Shayne. It doesn’t seem to extend to your own personal relationships, but it’s still a gift. Hence why you’re the finest hooker-upper in the city.”

  I shrugged. “It’s just about reading people. And did you really just say ‘hence’?”

  Ryleigh waved me off and said, “Tell me, how many wedding invitations do you have collaged on your wall?”

  I knew better than to answer that question, and let her continue while she was on a roll.

  “I believe at last count it was one hundred and fifty. One hundred and fifty, Shayne. That’s three hundred people in this city alone that you’ve helped find their soul ma
tes. That doesn’t include those that are still dating. If that’s not a gift, I don’t know what is.”

  “Hell yes it is,” Quinn said, as she passed us a fresh round of Nutty Irishman shots. “And if I ever decide I want to settle down, you’re my first call.”

  “Thanks, but you’re not my type,” I said, giving her a wink.

  “Maybe not, but that guy checking you out certainly is.” She inclined her head in the direction of someone behind me, and I twisted on my stool to follow her gaze. And then I almost dropped my shot glass.

  Mr. Gorgeous from the train was across the room in the middle of a group of guys, a beer in hand. A slow curve tipped his lips when our eyes met, as if he’d just found something he liked. I almost turned to see if there was someone else behind me, but I knew instinctively who that look was for.

  Without the crowd of cramped subway passengers between us, I could clearly see the white collared shirt he wore, the sleeves rolled casually up his forearms, and his dark pa— Wait.

  He wasn’t wearing pants. Nope. He was wearing black boxer briefs. Just boxer briefs. Oh hell on fire.

  “Hello, handsome,” Paige said. “You better get on that stat.”

  Ryleigh narrowed her eyes. “They both look a little young.”

  “Both?” I asked.

  “Yeah, the twins. Is that not who we’re talking about?”

  “Twins?” Looking around, I tried to find whom she could be talking about. “I don’t see any twins, Ry.”

  Paige let out a loud laugh. “Well, looky who’s drunk and seeing double.”

  “Shit. Maybe I should call Hunter to come get me,” Ryleigh said, fumbling in her bag for her cell phone.

  “Oh hell no you don’t.” Quinn grabbed the bag away and tossed it to Paige. “No way are you getting out of Sunday Funday with us today. You can save that sexy-time crap for later.”

  “Yeah, you practically live together,” I said. “Really, it’s almost sickening.”