Tug

by KJ Bell

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Books by KJ Bell

  TUG

  Copyright © 2014 by KJ Bell.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any format without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes. If you are reading this book and you have not purchased it or won it in an author / publisher contest, this book has been pirated. Please delete and support the author by purchasing the ebook from one of its many distributors.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Editing by: Indie Author Services

  Proofreading by: Perfectly Publishable

  Thank you to Ellie at LoveNBooks for the gorgeous cover photo, shot by: Scott Hoover

  Cover Model: Adam Nicklas

  For information on cover design, visit: perfectlypublishable. com

  Interior Formatting and Design: Perfectly Publishable

  To my readers.

  I wrote this one for you.

  Thank you.

  “Ouch!” I look wide-eyed at whatever-her-name-is. She’s holding a black leather pump in her hand. Its match lies at my feet, where it landed after bouncing off my head. Her red hair—as fiery as her temper—is ruffled from the roll-around we just finished.

  “Why are you throwing shit at me?”

  She makes a crazy sound in her throat before she starts screaming at me. “Who the fuck is Tori?”

  I duck in time to dodge her other shoe. I have no intention of answering her. I don’t even discuss Tori with people I care about.

  “Fuck! Would you stop throwing shit at me?”

  Her hands fly to her hips as she glares at me. “I don’t know, Aidan. Do you think you could get my name right?”

  I make puppy-dog eyes, flashing a big grin. “Ah, come on, doll. I know your name.” I have no idea what her name is. It didn’t matter when I brought her home last night from the bar. And it definitely didn’t matter when I had her on all fours, her back arched like a cat. Nor did it matter when my dick played tonsil hockey with her mouth.

  Her eyes narrow as she holds up one of my loafers. It’s bigger, heavier, and going to hurt a hell of a lot more than her pump if it connects.

  “Okay, what is it, then?” she asks, clearly testing me.

  Oh, I got this. I straighten my spine and smirk. “Alyssa … fuck!” I manage to catch my shoe before it hits me in the chest. When I look up, she’s already reloaded. My other shoe is on its way if I can’t remember her damn name. “Stop throwing shit.” I hold my hands up defensively. “Okay, I got it … it’s Melissa.”

  Nope. It’s not Melissa. My shoe sails over my head. As fun as this is, I’m done playing dodge-the-shoe with Crazy. It’s time for her to go. I get up from the bed and slip on my boxers. Crazy’s naked body brings my dick to full attention. Her creamy skin begs to be touched and licked and clawed at. I smile at her seductively.

  Her jaw drops when she glances down at my erection. “There’s no way in hell I’m screwing you again.” She starts picking up her clothing from where it’s lying on the floor. Once it’s balled in her arms, she walks toward the bathroom. “You’re seriously fucked up. You know that, right?” The bathroom door slams behind her.

  Do I know that? Ha! I do, but I don’t give a shit. Why do I need to know her name, anyway? I’m not going to see her again. That leads to being attached and putting up with her whiny demands. It’s weak. Caring about someone causes trouble.

  The only woman I ever loved is marrying my brother next week. They’re having a baby together. A baby I once thought was mine. My heart is irreparably broken, and knowing this chick’s name won’t fix it.

  I hear the bathroom door open. Her feet pad across the wood floor as she goes to pick up her shoes. I refuse to look at her. Her heated gaze burns a hole in the side of my face.

  “My name is Larissa.”

  I turn to her and shrug. “I was close.”

  She rolls her eyes as she reaches for the door. “You’re an asshole!”

  “Thank you!” I shout at the door she just slammed. I’ve been called worse by better.

  I have to remember to not get so hammered. It apparently dulls my crazy clinger-type radar, because I was way off with that one. I rub the side of my jaw where the first shoe she threw unexpectedly nailed me.

  I didn’t make her any promises. She’s pissed because sex wasn’t what she actually came here for. Every woman I bring home is sure she’ll be the one, like once I’m balls deep, smackin’ that ass, I’ll suddenly want to settle down with her. Most women think their pussy is a gateway to the Promised Land. These women don’t want me. They want my last name and my bank account. I’m not going to feel bad about using their greed to get what I want.

  Fuck! Maybe I am an asshole, but sex makes me feel better. When I’m with a woman, it’s not about feeling. It’s about not feeling.

  It’s the only time I forget about Tori.

  It numbs the pain.

  I cross the border and park in a crowded lot in downtown Tijuana. The air smells of rotting food, sewer, and vomit—a clear indicator the strip was packed last night, as it is most Friday nights. Tijuana represents the largest red light district in North America, making it a magnet for tourists and locals looking for a party and a good time with one of the paraditas.

  As I walk the busy street, taking in the filth and poverty, I can’t understand why Brady and Tori moved here. Because Brady’s band, Second Chances, climbed the charts and launched into stardom, I assume living in Tijuana is good for their relationship. They can lie low and stay away from the paparazzi, but once they leave their secluded beach house, the environment is depressing.

  Brady’s work at the Center on the other side of town was probably their biggest motivator. I have to admit, I enjoy spending time there, too. When one of those kids gets adopted and leaves to live a better life, there’s no greater feeling in the world. Of course, with the bureaucratic red tape in Mexico, it doesn’t happen often enough.

  I’m late meeting Harrison to go over plans for Brady’s bachelor party, but I have to pick up my favorite cigars from the local smoke shop. Maybe I’m subconsciously putting the planning off. Honestly, I’d rather shove toothpicks in my eyes than be involved with this wedding in any way. Their happiness is more than I can take. My brother’s future wife gets to walk down the aisle into wedded bliss and pretend like I never meant a damn thing to her. I must be punishing myself by agreeing to be the best man. As much as I love my brother, the idea of having a front-row seat when he promises to love my girl
until the end of time makes me sick.

  What can I say? Being a member of the Hunter family is a shrink’s wet dream. My siblings and I are poster children for dysfunctional. And I thought my mother’s life was a farce. A woman who kept her role in the death of an innocent girl a secret, and then went about her life as though things were peachy is mild in comparison to the lie I live every day. The one where I pretend to be happy for Brady and Tori, with placating smiles and bogus well wishes. I’m not sure how much more I can tolerate.

  I open the door to the walk-in humidor and go inside. The warm aroma of Spanish Cedar mixing with Pure Havana tobacco delights my senses and makes me feel slightly giddy.

  There’s a girl scanning the back wall. When I see her twisted lips and pinched brow, I realize she obviously has no idea what she’s looking for. Her white T-shirt hangs off the shoulder on one side, a colorful tattoo peeking out of the top, although I can’t make out what it is. I ignore her and find my favorite cigar.

  The scent of cinnamon, pepper, and cedar fills my nostrils as I bring the cigar to my nose and inhale. It’s divine, godlike in its earthiness, a little piece of heaven rolled into divine perfection. Nothing tops a premium cigar, except maybe premium sex, but an exceptional cigar is far easier to find.

  “Does it help you decide if you smell them?”

  Her raspy voice oozes a sexiness that makes my dick twitch. I turn my head slowly toward the girl as she inches closer to me. I don’t look at her face, but respond, “Only if you know what you’re doing.” It’s rude, but I don’t have time to flirt with this chick. Not to mention, she must be freakishly desperate if she’s hiding out in cigar shops to meet men, although I have to admit it’s original.

  “And I definitely don’t.”

  She giggles in an attempt at flirting, I think. It’s not as annoying as other women, but designed to try to introduce herself all the same. She must recognize me.

  “Clearly,” I respond dryly.

  “I don’t smoke them,” she offers. I want to roll my eyes. I didn’t ask her, and I can’t understand why she’s still talking to me. “My grandfather sent me on this little errand. I thought it would be easy, but I had no idea there were so many different types. Can you suggest one?”

  I rub my forehead without answering her and squeeze my eyes shut. My head pounds violently, unrelieved by the pile of pills and the protein concoction I downed this morning to relieve my hangover. She asks again, her voice sweeter and sultrier than the first time, as if she’s practiced in the fine art of seducing men.

  I’ve reached the top of my irritation threshold, and I want to shout that I don’t give a fuck about her pretend grandpa’s need for a cigar, but our eyes meet before I have the chance. I’m lost in a sea of creamy-brown wonderment and shake my head to clear away the spell this witch obviously cast. She’s not my type, and I’m late to meet Harrison.

  “If you’d bothered to find out which brand he smoked, you might have saved yourself the trouble.”

  My terse response makes her cower. The sparkle in her large brown eyes disappears and they widen further, as though she’s afraid. She opens the door to leave.

  “I didn’t mean to bother you. I’ll go find a clerk to help me.”

  Oh, man, now I feel like a complete dick.

  My eyes scan the length of her body as she walks out. She has a gorgeous ass. Another tattoo runs down her side. I catch a glimpse from below her half-shirt, which disappears into her low-riding and extremely tight jeans. The inspiration is Day of the Dead, but I can’t see all of it. I’m not typically a fan of tattoos on women, but hers feel like they’re worn as a form of expression rather than to be trendy or garner attention.

  I go back to making my selections, but the girl takes up space in my head, distracting my thoughts. Moments later, she returns with a clerk. She looks over nervously through her long dark hair, which is highlighted with thick streaks of deep purple hues.

  The clerk reaches up into a box. He’s a straggly looking kid with a face full of zits. Either that, or he’s been playing goalie for the dart team. His dyed black hair hangs past his shoulders and is in dire need of shampoo. I read the lettering underneath the large marijuana leaf screen-printed on his T-shirt—It’s 4. 20 somewhere. He’s obviously aspiring for greatness.

  “I’m pretty sure he bought these the last time he was in, but he may not remember,” the clerk says, handing her a few cigars.

  “I asked him.” She shoots me a quick and heated glance, one in which her eyes shout fuck you, and looks back at the clerk. “But you’re right — he couldn’t remember.”

  The clerk hands her three cigars. “So he’s getting worse, huh?”

  Her gaze falls to her shoes, which swipe the carpet, drawing nervous patterns.

  “Unfortunately. Some days he doesn’t even recognize me.”

  I’m definitely an asshole. Not only was her “grandpa” story real, but he has to be a sick grandpa. I peel the egg from my face and go back to searching the cigar selections.

  “Oh, Maria, I’m sorry,” the clerk tells her, trying too hard to be sympathetic. “Is there anything I can do?”

  “No, but thank you, Pablo.”

  Why is she smiling at this loser? He was clearly born during low tide in the gene pool. I’m in here all the time and half of those times, he’s been asleep. He has nothing to offer her. If his IQ were any higher, he’d be a rock.

  From the corner of my eye, I see him touch her cheek affectionately, and she lifts her head. Why is he touching her? He’s a bigger douche than I am. I know his play. He wants to take advantage of her vulnerability for the sole purpose of getting laid.

  “You know, it may be getting time to consider a home that specializes in people with Alzheimer’s,” he suggests quietly.

  “My grandfather would never go for that, and we can’t afford it anyway,” she responds, her sad voice tortured with a mixture of desperation and regret.

  Why the fuck I’m still here is baffling. I don’t know this girl, let alone care about her, her “sick grandpa” or what she’s going through. I have my own insurmountable pile of problems to deal with.

  “Well, I need to get back up front. If you need anything, you know where to find me.”

  “Thanks, Pablo,” she says. The sparkle returns to her eyes as our gazes meet. It’s the first time I really see her face and she smiles. The dimly lit humidor is suddenly bright, as though the roof split in two and the Heavens shine down on us. Cue the fucking choir music, I’m going to church. Somebody, save me.

  She’s smoking hot, and my dick is now fully in charge of finding out more about her. She makes a face and looks away. Clearly our exchange didn’t have the same religious-experience feel for her.

  I eye Pablo with aversion as he makes his way to the door. He turns and asks, “Do you need any help, sir?

  “I’m good,” I reply flatly. When he’s gone, I turn to the girl. “What did he give you?”

  She forces an awkward laugh. “Oh, I see. Now you care.”

  The hairs on my neck rise. “Excuse me?”

  She takes a step closer to me. The look she gives me nearly turns me to stone. “You couldn’t be bothered to offer a suggestion earlier.”

  “I …” Actually, I’m speechless. This girl just called me out on my shit.

  “What?” Her eyebrows shoot up, and she shrugs. “You couldn’t be nice for the sake of being nice, but now that your conscience has awakened, you want to make amends—help the poor girl with the sick grandpa? Don’t bother.”

  “That’s not it,” I lie. That is completely it, although add dirty dancing under the sheets after the helping part. “I thought …”

  She rolls her big brown eyes. “You thought I was hitting on you. Don’t flatter yourself! You’re not my type!”

  “Is that so?” I say as a challenge, hoping she’ll elaborate.

  “It is!” She nods and her lips purse. With her arms folded in front of her chest, her eyes move up and down
my body. “Let me guess, with your designer clothing and conceited arrogance, I’m going to say investment banker.”

  I scoff. “I’m not a banker.”

  “Ha!” she gloats. “But you work in investing. You’re completely transparent, pretty boy, and as shallow as they come.”

  Ouch! That hurt, but I’m amused and wiggle my eyebrows at her. “Perfect. You’re not my type, either. My turn.” I deliberately take my time looking her over, stopping at her full breasts for a while before making eye contact with her. “I’d say barista, but with your personality, I bet it’s more like you ask, ‘do you want fries with that?’ eight hours a day.”

  She curls her lip and says, “Wrong, and that might hurt if I actually gave a shit what you think about me!”

  While she’s pint-sized, maybe five-one, five-two, her attitude is easily seven feet tall, which I find oddly appealing.

  “You don’t have to give a shit, but you still want me to feel your kitty. Come on, admit it!”

  “You’re an asshole!” she responds instantly.

  That’s twice in one morning I’ve been called the glorious A-word. It’s the typical default come-back for women after I’ve shocked them and they’re so pissed they can’t think. I’d like to say twice is my record, but there were those three brunettes I woke up with a couple of weeks ago.

  “I’m flattered,” I say and grin sardonically.

  She grumbles a string of profanities under her breath in Spanish and I laugh.

  “Go to hell!” With one last dirty look, she turns and storms out of the room. I’m left stunned and slightly turned on. No woman has ever spoken to me so confidently, or rejected me so adamantly. Well, except for one. That’s the only thing this girl has in common with Tori.

  I leave the cigar shop and try not to think about the pretentious jerk inside. The gorgeous pretentious jerk, tall and lean with smoky bedroom eyes and a delicious smile. Maybe I was too harsh, but I’m having a crappy day, and he set me off. I’m also angry with myself for being a sucker for a guy who clearly wants to add me to a growing list of women he smooth-talks into sex. He probably has a drawer full of trinkets from his conquests or a list he keeps in a frame above his bed.