Styled (Travesty Book 4)

by Piper Lawson

  Styled

  A Travesty Novel

  Piper Lawson

  Contents

  Preface

  1. Jordan

  2. Ethan

  3. Jordan

  4. Ethan

  5. Jordan

  6. Jordan

  7. Ethan

  8. Jordan

  9. Ethan

  10. Jordan

  11. Jordan

  12. Ethan

  13. Jordan

  14. Jordan

  15. Ethan

  16. Ethan

  17. Jordan

  18. Jordan

  19. Ethan

  20. Jordan

  21. Ethan

  22. Ethan

  23. Ethan

  24. Ethan

  25. Jordan

  26. Ethan

  27. Jordan

  28. Ethan

  29. Ethan

  30. Jordan

  31. Ethan

  32. Jordan

  33. Jordan

  34. Jordan

  35. Ethan

  36. Jordan

  37. Ethan

  38. Ethan

  EPILOGUE

  EPILOGUE TWO

  The End

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Piper Lawson

  About the Author

  Look for the link at the end of this book to get a free Piper Lawson starter pack, including a full-length hit romance and an exclusive read you can’t find anywhere else!

  1

  Jordan

  Four weeks to the wedding

  I’ve left you five messages

  You can’t ignore me forever Jordan

  I stomped to my closet, my phone squeezed in a Godzilla-like death grip.

  I hit a button while I rummaged through my clothes. Jeans, tops, concert T-shirts. I tossed one after another over my shoulder toward the suitcase on the bed.

  “Finally,” an irritated voice answered.

  “I’m going to say this once. You, Colton Caldwell, are a dick. Not the ‘you didn’t call me’ or ‘you forgot my birthday’ kind of dick. The ‘lying, duplicitous, no human decency’ kind of dick. If you don’t stop texting I will tell my father what you did, to me and to him. Then you won’t just need a new girlfriend. You’ll need a new job.”

  I hit “end,” shoved the phone in the butt pocket of my jeans, jammed the last piece of fabric into my suitcase, and zipped the Samsonite closed.

  It wheeled silently after me as I stalked out of my room.

  “That’s all you’re taking? Are you kidding me?”

  I glanced over my shoulder toward the sectional couch. “What? I’m not going for a year.”

  “Four weeks,” one of my business partners corrected. Ava’s acid green gaze narrowed on me over her magazine. “That’s, like, a ton of days you’ll be out—”

  “Twenty-eight.”

  “—and a ton of nights—”

  “When I’ll be sleeping,” I finished, flipping through our coat rack, which hung under a series of bicycle photographs I’d taken in Brooklyn. “Lex, have you seen my camo sweatshirt?”

  One of the perks of living in Manhattan was that you barely had to raise your voice to be heard. New condo buildings like ours used high ceilings, stainless steel appliances, and euphemisms like “sleek” and “streamlined” to try and make you forget you were living in a shoebox.

  My roommate, and second business partner, emerged from her room.

  “Nope. But you can take one of my sweaters,” she said, crossing our small space in a few steps. Her gray eyes filled with regret and she tucked a strand of straight red hair behind her ear. “I can’t believe you’re going by yourself to find Travesty a new store in LA. I’m sorry to dump this on you.”

  “No one’s dumping it on me. That’s why the three of us run Travesty together. Plus, you’re getting married in a month. You’ve got shit to do. Licenses. Contracts. Logistics,” I reminded Lex as she sank onto the couch, pulling a pillow into her lap.

  “What are you doing?” I demanded.

  Ava glanced up from where she’d materialized next to me, unzipping my suitcase. “Assessing your wardrobe choices. Lex, can I raid your closet?”

  “Sure.”

  “Don’t go anywhere,” Ava cautioned me.

  “LA isn’t the worst place to be,” Lex offered as I grabbed her pink sweater off the rack and tossed it into my suitcase. “You’ll still have time to unwind.”

  “I’m not going for a vacation. I’m going to find us a store, sign the papers, hire a manager, and get the hell back here. If everything goes according plan I won’t even be there a month.”

  I crossed to the kitchen to unplug my phone charger and tucked it in my cross-body bag.

  Ava reappeared, a shopping bag under her arm.

  “What’s in there?”

  “Options.” She set the mystery bag on top of the clothes in my suitcase, then flipped the Samsonite shut. It refused to zip, so she dropped down onto it like a chair, working the zipper with fingers that ended in dark purple nails. “Now listen. I know you want to be all ‘lone wolf.’ Whatever you do, don’t spend the whole time at home listening to that lame ass band you like. Drink margaritas. Go shopping. Find some wannabe celebrity who thinks he’s the next Tom Hardy and will do things with his tongue that are illegal in forty states to prove it. You have a place to stay in LA, right?” Ava stood, offering me the handle of the bulging suitcase.

  “Yeah, my dad arranged it. And your brother’s picking me up at the airport.”

  Lex craned her neck from the couch. “Really? Dylan didn’t say anything to me on the phone last night.”

  “You guys were too busy talking about how hot it got you when he put his whatzit in your hoohah,” I deadpanned.

  Lex flushed, and Ava raised a hand in protest. “OK, stop talking about my brother. You guys can do all the raunchy shit you want on your wedding night in Napa. But Dylan’s not picking her up, Ethan is. He’s supposed to be helping find our new store. I emailed him the boring document last week.”

  The “boring document” was the briefing I’d prepared. It contained notes on space, square footage, and most importantly, cost.

  As the designer third of our fledgling clothing company, Ava had virtually no interest in the business side of things.

  Lex frowned. “Are you sure it’s a good idea to set Jordan up with Ethan? You know he…”

  “Flosses his teeth with the thongs of his conquests? I think he can give her a ride from the airport,” Ava insisted as I backed toward the door. “Ethan’s harmless. He’s just convinced salvation is one fake rack away. In LA, that means going through a lot of prospects.”

  When every adolescent girl had been lining up for her rack, I’d been in my room drowning my sorrows in Matt Bellamy’s vocals.

  I’ve made my peace with it. Boobs sag. Brains don’t.

  Lex rolled her eyes. “All I’m saying is I spent a lot of time by Ava’s pool in high school. Ethan was older and his abs…”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Washboard?”

  “Bowflex.”

  “Thanks for the concern, but I’m good. There’s no way Ethan’s that bad. Your family—” I pointed at Ava “—is Brady. Not Kardashian.”

  I’d only met Ava, Dylan, and their mom—Ethan, their sister Kate and their father were mysteries. But Ava had showed me a Facebook pic of a party last year for her mom’s fiftieth. Ava and Dylan had the same dark hair as their dad, while Ava’s mom’s was bright like Ethan’s and Kate’s. All six Camerons looked wholesome and happy, grinning over drinks on their patio while Mr. C brandished BBQ tongs.

  Ethan looked every bit a Brady. Dirty blond hair, clean cut, with a West Coast tan and a dentist’s-wet-
dream smile. His polo said he’d fit in with the crowd I’d gone to school with, the ones who talked about “boating” and “holidays” and generally lived lives ripped off the Brooks Brothers website.

  It was hard to picture Lex in knots over Big Brother Cameron when she was marrying the youngest. Who, in my humble opinion, looked like walking sex. With dark hair and dark eyes and this little broody thing going on…the first time I saw Dylan Cameron I wanted to hand him a guitar and some eyeliner.

  “Jordan would never be into Ethan,” Ava commented. “She’s too sweet and innocent.”

  “What?” I demanded.

  “You know what I mean.”

  “No, I don’t. There are so many things wrong with that statement.”

  “OK, you’re not sweet. But innocent? Come on. Daddy’s girl, boarding school, one real boyfriend—”

  “Define ‘real.’”

  Ava tilted her head. “Not gay.”

  “Not helping,” Lex warned.

  Her unofficial job was keeping me and Ava from killing each other. Since I’d met them when they moved to New York from San Diego to start Travesty, that job hadn’t gotten easier. Not even in the past year since I’d gone from helping part-time to being a legit business partner.

  “Don’t give me that look, Jordan Briggs,” Ava tossed back in response to my glare. “You’re hot. You’re loaded. And even though you pretend not to be, you’re actually kind of fun. Any number of guys would eat you up.”

  “I’m going to LA for work. Our work.”

  I actually had two objectives.

  Objective 1: find our new store.

  Objective 2: get the hell away from giant dicks.

  I opened my text messages. In the wake of Colt’s unwelcome text fest, I hadn’t noticed the other message.

  Ethan Cameron, at 3:54 am Eastern time, relayed:

  I know you want this

  I tapped the little thumbnail, frowning. My hand tightened on the handle of my suitcase.

  “Holy…”

  “What?” Ava cast a sharp look toward me.

  “Nothing. I’m out of here. See you guys in a few weeks.” I pocketed my phone, pulling my suitcase after me out the door.

  So much for getting away from giant dicks.

  2

  Ethan

  “Leave it a little longer on top. That’s how I like it, Kia.”

  Kia beamed into the mirror, her almond eyes warming. “I know you do, baby.”

  My phone buzzed.

  You better be picking Jordan up right now

  I checked the time. “Shit, it’s eleven already?”

  We might live thousands of miles apart, but spending our formative years under the same roof meant my little sister knew me too well.

  “Almost done.” Kia frowned, her full lips forming a pout. Her tits brushing my shoulders had me remembering a particularly good night in her friend’s hot tub the month before.

  Kia and I had hooked up a handful times. Despite her promise that she was all for casual, she’d been texting me more lately. Which had, of course, backfired, making me want to text her less.

  She’d looked surprised when I’d showed for my haircut.

  Maybe it would’ve been easier to get her off me if I couldn’t find a g-spot in my sleep.

  During a tornado.

  With my—

  “There.”

  I glanced in the mirror.

  “Awesome. Thanks, Kia.” I rose and reached for my wallet, but she shook her head.

  “This one’s on me, Ethan.”

  “No way.” I dropped enough cash on the counter for the cut and a big tip, and leaned down to press a kiss to her cheek. “You’re great. I’ll see you around.”

  LA has three kinds of traffic: ass, double ass, and fuck me. By the time I got my car from the valet, navigated the 405—which was its usual beastly self—got to LAX, and parked and strode in, I was late. Still, people who think being late is a criminal offence have never endured LA traffic. It’s incredible any of us have a spare minute to eat, sleep or get laid.

  At first I’d balked at Ava’s request to babysit her friend for the week. But when she’d reminded me they were looking to open a new storefront for their clothing label, my interest level dialed up incrementally.

  Taking my sister too seriously is dangerous. This was the girl whose high school science fair project was a homemade face glitter that changed color in the sun.

  And it wasn’t like I was looking for business. I had a dozen listings going, and another thirty clients looking.

  But if Half-Pint was ready to pull the trigger, I could clear my schedule for a few hours to show around one of her little friends.

  I pulled up next to the baggage carousel and tapped my phone, searching for the time Jordan had said she’d get in. Peppered between the “number only” conversations were people I knew—my siblings, my parents, my friends and colleagues. I hadn’t given Jordan’s listing a name, and it took a sec to find the right window.

  There it is.

  My flight gets in at 10:30

  Followed by another message from me.

  Much later.

  I tugged on my collar, which was suddenly three fingers too tight.

  I’m not the kind of guy who needs to advertise his junk—word of mouth does fine. But this girl Martina had sent me a close up of parts I knew from feel, if not by sight, a few days after we’d hooked up.

  In a previous life I must’ve done something right, because my dick is my finest asset. It’s best appreciated in 3D, along with the surround sound of a woman moaning. But nobody’s going to one-up me on anything sex related. That’s like beating the Warriors at home—it just doesn’t happen.

  So after drinks with clients and a couple shots of Patron to get me in the mood, I’d reacquainted myself with the dimmer switch, turned on some music, and gone click happy.

  Except I’d sent the picture to the wrong person.

  Someone bumped my elbow. A redhead in a short skirt and tank top was wrestling a suitcase the size of my first apartment off the carousel.

  I lifted the suitcase clear of the edge and set it next to her.

  When it comes to people, I’m basically Sherlock Holmes, with better hair and a six-pack. It’s brilliant for real estate and I can’t turn it off.

  Cami, I decided, eyeing up the grateful redhead. Twenty-nine and recently single, visiting a friend, looking for an adventure. Loves dogs, Beyonce, DSW sales, and the color purple. (The color. She’s never heard of the movie.)

  “Thanks for the help.” Her smile broadened.

  “Anytime. I’m Ethan.”

  “Chloe.”

  The girl’s eyes ran over my shoulders, my chest, and down. She had The Look. The “My Day Just Got Better” look, which, incidentally, I’m one of the top ten causes of in women under forty on the Westside. I have good genes and I work out enough to stunt double for Chris Hemsworth. It’s not arrogance, it’s just fact.

  “Maybe you could help me with something else, too.”

  “Maybe I can. Where you staying?”

  Any interest died when she named a neighborhood.

  “Sorry,” I replied, and her face fell. I felt like an asshole. “It’s not that I don’t want to, it’s just not feasible. Do you have any idea how many freeways apart we are? That’s like saying to someone from Boston you’ll meet up with someone from Jersey, and—”

  “Ethan?”

  I turned. The voice’s owner was almost as tall as me. Fresh faced with wary eyes, the girl wore a bomber jacket over a plaid shirt over skinny jeans. Messy blond hair was everywhere, like she’d walked in front of the propellers on her way to the terminal. The suitcase at her side looked too big for her scrawny arms.

  “Jordan,” I said slowly.

  Teenage grunge princess who grew a foot in junior year and hasn’t figured out what to do with it. Loves her cat named Buttons (ironically of course). iPhone full of Sheer Mag, but secretly gets herself off to Justin Bie
ber.

  I sighed. This was going to suck.

  “Ethan?” The girl from the luggage carousel was at my side, blinking up at me like I was the only person in the room. “Can I at least get your number?”

  “I don’t think it’s going to work out Cami.”

  Her mouth pouted. “Chloe.”

  Normally I’d have the decency to feel bad for messing up her name. But I barely noticed the woman stalk off as new horror dawned on me.

  You realize you sent a minor a self-portrait of your better half.

  But she can’t be a minor, the pea-sized rational part of my brain chimed in. My sister was twenty-four? Twenty-three? Her birthday was in the summer, so…

  Ambiguously-aged grunge princess stared up at me.

  “Um. Can I help with your bag?” I moved to grab it, but she tightened her grasp.

  “I’ve got it. Let me change, though.”

  Instead of heading for the washroom across the arrivals lounge, she started to strip down.

  Jordan moved unselfconsciously, with efficiency I admired. The jacket got stuffed into the pocket of her bag. The plaid shirt was tied around her waist.

  My eyes lingered on her. Not checking her out. Just taking in information.

  Her legs were hidden by skinny jeans so I couldn’t tell if they were toned or thin. The threadbare blue tank underneath was probably manufactured before either of us was born. It followed her body, which was straight from her hips to her shoulders.

  I’ve had my share of quality time with tits over the years. I like them. They like me. Being this close to hers, which looked small and round, I wasn’t even a little attracted. But if I had one more sex-related thought in the presence of this girl after what I’d done, I’d be struck down. If not by God, then by my mother. She’d appear through those sliding doors leading to ground transportation and beat me over the head with a rolling pin. The one she uses for “stubborn dough.”

  My gaze landed on Jordan’s face just as she looked up, shoving a chunk of hair out of her face.

  “Ready to go?” I offered.