Love in Transit

by Jana Aston

  Love in Transit

  Contributors:

  Jana Aston

  Ainsley Booth

  Kitty French

  BJ Harvey

  Raine Miller

  Liv Morris

  Copyright © 2017 by:

  Jana Aston

  Ainsley Booth

  Kitty French

  BJ Harvey

  Raine Miller

  Liv Morris

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  This book was built at IndieWrites.com. Visit us on Facebook.

  170523.155631

  Introduction

  What if you gave six authors the same blurb? Would the stories look anything the same? Or would they be as different as the authors writing them?

  The blurb:

  You know those people that have a house full of motivational slogans? Embrace Every Moment, stamped on their coffee mugs. Always Kiss Me Goodnight painted above their perfectly made beds.

  I’m not one of those people.

  This morning I overslept, then slipped on a stray sock and banged my toe into the nightstand. The elevator in my building broke and I had to run down six flights of stairs. And then my local coffee shop was closed. For health code violations.

  What’s that? Not the end of the world? You want me to suck it up?

  Did I mention I’m wearing a wedding dress… on the subway?

  It’s a Good Day for a Hot Mess. Someone embroider that on a pillow.

  And the stories:

  Times Square by Jana Aston

  St. George Station by Ainsley Booth

  The Hammersmith & City Line by Kitty French

  The Loop by BJ Harvey

  Capital South by Raine Miller

  Wall Street Station by Liv Morris

  Times Square

  Jana Aston

  Copyright © 2017 by:

  Jana Aston

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  This book was built at IndieWrites.com. Visit us on Facebook.

  170523.155624

  Chapter 1

  Once in a while, right in the middle of an ordinary life, love gives us a fairy tale.

  I saw that quote about fairy tales stamped on a decorative canvas at a home decorating store. I didn’t buy it because I don’t have a home to put it in. Also because I don’t believe in fairy tales. Honestly, it pisses me off. Retail propaganda aims to promote love. Don’t believe me? I couldn’t find a single decorative sign that said, Once in a while, right after you move in with your fiancé, you realize he’s sleeping with someone else.

  Nope. Not a one. Granted, that’s sorta specific, but it’s not like I could find one that said You Don’t Need Him or Keep Your Pants On, Asshole either. And seeing how the Home Stop had four aisles dedicated to wedding crap and zero to alcohol, I think their agenda was clear.

  That’s fine. Because my agenda is clear too.

  Get promoted.

  Get my own apartment, or at least my own bedroom.

  Do not get distracted by a pretty face with a big dick.

  These are all more difficult than you’d expect and I’ll give you three reasons why.

  New.

  York.

  City.

  I grew up on Sex and the City too. I get it. New York seems romantic and full of promise. The Big Apple. The city that never sleeps. The place that dreams are made of. If you can make it here, you can make it anywhere.

  It’s the only city in the world where you can buy a cupcake from a vending machine, get Pad Thai delivered at three AM and do your laundry in a twenty-four-hour laundromat with organic detergent and free wifi.

  The wardrobes are to kill for and shoes that cost more than the average American’s monthly mortgage payment are regularly paraded down the same sidewalks dogs piss on.

  What you don’t anticipate is paying seven hundred dollars a month to share a one-bedroom apartment with three other girls. Bunk beds, in case you’re wondering.

  Or a job in marketing that is so entry-level that my duties don’t amount to much more than data entry.

  Or the knowledge that you can’t afford the amazing middle-of-the-night food delivery and even those vending machine cupcakes need to be budgeted into your monthly food expenses.

  That’s why I came to New York in the first place, because the possibilities are endless here. Actually, that’s a lie. I came to New York because my fiancé was here. My ex, Brad. He’s still here, he’s just no longer my fiancé. He graduated a year before I did and got a job in New York City. The plan was that I’d follow him when I graduated, which I did.

  I didn’t realize the plan included him sleeping with other women while he waited.

  In our apartment, no less. An apartment I’d helped him move into while he’d talked about how great the space would be for both of us. It was a great apartment. I really enjoyed it for the few weeks I lived there. For the few weeks I still thought we had a future together.

  Looking back, I’m not sure how I didn’t see it sooner.

  Looking back, it should have been so clear, but clearly my hunches are shit. He’d been so eager for me to move to New York. Talking about the things we’d do once I got here, saving me closet space so he wouldn’t get used to using it before I moved in. Just six months before I moved—when he’d been home for Christmas—he’d mentioned how the following year he’d be taking me to see the Christmas tree in Rockefeller Center.

  We didn’t make it to the following year. We didn’t even make it through the summer before I realized I should have listened to my gut. Before I realized that the pair of panties I found in his apartment were not a mistake made by his laundry service. Before I realized there was no need for him to excuse himself for incoming calls from numbers labeled ‘Brady’ or ‘Chip,’ unless they were really ‘Brandys’ or ‘Christines.’

  My bad.

  When I packed two suitcases and got on a direct flight to LaGuardia a year ago I thought I knew where my life was headed. The fact that I was moving with two suitcases by myself after helping Brad drive his stuff across four states should have been my first clue that I thought wrong. But it’s okay because New York is also a place of fresh starts, of renewal and rebirth, and my story isn’t over yet. Not even close.

  Also, I know two suitcases sounds meager, but I mentioned the roommate situation, right? Top-bunk girls share a dresser, bottom-bunk girls get the space under the beds. Packing light turned out to be an accurate forecast of my future.

  I really, really need to move.

  Don’t get me wrong, it’s a nice place. A West Village-address elevator building. It’s not bad, just crowded. Though to be fair, one of the girls is a flight attendant and sometimes we don’t see her for a couple of days at a time, which is a huge bonus on bathroom time.

  But still.

  I’ve got goals. I graduated from Iowa. University of, not State. Go Hawkeyes. I know I have to work my way up the corporate ladder and I can. I will. I have to. Mainly because student loans are no joke and I don’t want to go back to Iowa. Because New York City, for all its flaws, really is kind of magical. Limitless. The energy is a tangible vibe that you feel every day, a jolt more effective than any caffeine.

  So moving on and all that. I found the apartment in New York through an old college friend—she’s one of the roommates. She’s a perfect size four. Apparentl
y some women are a size four, but not perfectly. I don’t get it either, but it means she gets paid a hundred dollars an hour to be a fit model. Only in New York, right? It’s a great gig—when you can get it. Turns out most fit models don’t work forty hours a week—my roommate only books six to eight hours a week, so she has to supplement it with waitressing.

  I found the job through our other roommate. She was dating a guy who worked in the IT department and told me there were openings in marketing. I got the job and he got a five-hundred-dollar referral bonus. Two weeks later he gave my roommate chlamydia and they broke up. It’s exactly as awkward as you’d imagine it is when I see him at work, which thankfully isn’t often.

  I was offered two jobs that week, but I had a really good feeling about this one, so I went with my gut.

  I ended up placed with a supervisor who is a total nightmare. Yay for my amazing intuition.

  But it’s a good company. There’s a lot of room for advancement and I’ll need a promotion or two if I’m ever going to get my own place.

  Which is why I cannot be distracted by the hot guy I just caught staring at me from across Starbucks.

  Sometimes I stop here on my way home from work. I splurge on a plain black coffee and use their free wifi and enjoy the peace and quiet while I blog. I know technically a Starbucks in Manhattan isn’t that peaceful or that quiet, but unlike my apartment no one here will try to talk to me.

  He’s spinning his phone in his hand and making no attempt not to be caught staring at me. I smile in a polite I can see you staring at me kind of way and he drops his phone into his lap. His crotch more specifically. And—I look. Of course I look. And then I catch myself looking and I burst out laughing which must be really loud because three people turn to look at me. You know how headphones kind of mute your own noise? Oops.

  He really is attractive. And in New York models are everywhere. He looks like he falls into that category: under thirty, fit, attractive and cocky. Literally. And he looks like a guy I’d see on a billboard for men’s cologne or something.

  A willowy female slides into the empty seat across from him and starts talking a mile a minute. She looks like a model as well. Tall, thin, gorgeous and dressed like she just came from a go-see. Her dark hair is pulled into a low ponytail and her delicate fingers are polish-free as she waves them around while she speaks. He breaks his gaze from mine for a moment to greet her before flicking his eyes back my way.

  I laugh again, a little shocked that he’s ignoring the beautiful creature before him to partake in whatever weird flirting he thinks he’s doing with me. He’s full-on smiling now—at me—while the girl continues to chatter away.

  I raise an eyebrow at him in disbelief.

  He raises his in return.

  I just shake my head and blush.

  This guy is like four levels of hotter than I’m used to dealing with. The girl finally turns to see what’s got him so distracted and she smiles at me.

  Oh, hell, no—I bet they’re one of those kinky couples looking for a unicorn. You know, a single girl willing to join an existing couple for a threesome? I’m not into that no matter how hot he is. Firm no. I turn my attention back to my laptop and the blog post I’m working on. Ignore him, I tell myself. Focus on what you came here for.

  What I came here for is some peace and quiet so I can finish this review for my book blog. Then it hits me. The book I just finished was about a threesome, and I loved it. I burst out laughing all over again. Oh, the ridiculous irony. But hey, just because I like to read about something doesn’t mean I want to do it.

  When I look back up the girl is gone and he’s still there. This time he raises an eyebrow at me and then stands—and heads in my direction.

  I drop my eyes to my screen and realize I was in the middle of making a graphic for the review. A really racy graphic with three semi-dressed people. Oh, fuck, abort! I snap the lid of my laptop closed half a second before he stops at my table.

  “I couldn’t help but notice you,” he says by way of hello.

  I bet, I think.

  “It’s nice to see a beautiful woman not afraid to laugh,” he continues and it catches me by surprise. This isn’t where I thought the conversation was headed.

  “Thank you?” I say, but it comes out more like a question than an affirmation.

  “You’re welcome,” he replies. “But you shouldn’t sound so uneasy when you receive a compliment.”

  I blink, a little unsure how to take him.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Lauren,” I find myself telling him, but I’m not sure why. My go-to name for creepers is Samantha. Why did I give him my real name?

  “Lauren,” he repeats with a nod. “Would you mind if I asked you a question?”

  “Um, okay,” I reply. Oh, shit. He’s going to invite me to a three-way now. I’m so not ready. “Wait,” I blurt out.

  “Wait?” He smiles at me, and damned if he doesn’t have the cutest dimples ever. Dimples are supposedly a genetic deformity and I find myself wondering if it hurts his modeling. Probably not because it’s somehow adorable and erotic simultaneously. He probably gets paid extra for them. I wonder if they’re insured.

  “Well, first you should tell me your name too.” Ugh. That’s the best line I can come up with? Lame.

  “Max,” he replies with a small tilt of his head and a bemused expression on his face.

  “Okay.” I nod. And because I really have no game I shrug and blurt, “What?”

  “What were you looking at online that had you so entranced?”

  “Oh.” I glance down at my closed laptop and back to him. “I’m a blogger. I was working on a book review.” He nods and I notice his hair is slightly damp, as if he just came from the gym. It’s dark and his eyes are the most seductive shade of blue. I’m still not doing the threesome. Nope, no way.

  “What kind of books do you read?”

  “Smut mostly,” I blurt out before I think better of it. I feel my face heat up while he smirks.

  “Nothing wrong with reading a little smut, Lauren. But it’s even better to act it out.”

  Holy. Hell.

  Then he winks at me, turns around and walks out.

  Only in New York, right? And holy crap, now I’m all hot and bothered and I can’t even go home and masturbate because the apartment is always occupied. Always! And I’ve never successfully been able to get myself off in the shower, dammit to hell.

  I tightly cross my legs while opening my laptop again. I really need my own place.

  Chapter 2

  I wake up the next morning before my alarm—as per usual. Someone is always creeping in and out of the bedroom in the mornings. Luckily the bathroom in this apartment is off the living room, so that cuts down on the noise a little. We also keep a vanity table set up in place of a kitchen table to create a hair-and-makeup zone, keeping the bathroom open as much as possible.

  But someone is in the bathroom now, so I’ll have to wait. No biggie. I plan my morning routine around this, so when my alarm sounds I hit the snooze button and stretch out under the covers to wait.

  In retrospect, that’s the exact moment when this day goes to shit.

  Because somehow, inconceivably, in an apartment shared with three other girls, I wake up an hour later to complete silence. And now I’m late. Really late.

  “No, no, no, no, no!” I mutter while tossing the covers off and dropping out of bed. I drop because I’m a top-bunker and I don’t have time to use the ladder and oh, holy shit, how does my life include a ladder required to get in and out of bed?

  My feet hit the floor, but one lands on a sock and my foot skids until my pinky toe bangs into the milk crate my bottom bunkmate has been using as a nightstand. I do that weird dropped-open-mouth thing one does when they hurt themselves right before they swear, which I do next. How? How did I even just do that? I hop around for a second while I do the math on how I’m going to make it to work on time. Then I bolt for the shower and thank th
e water gods that it’s hot before jumping in.

  I’m out in under a minute, sans hair wash. No time. I’ll spray some dry shampoo on and make the best of it. I’ve got a perfect record at work. I’m always on time, always dependable, and I don’t need today to ruin that. Especially when I’m applying for promotions.

  Plus my boss is a bitch of the worst degree. I’m pretty sure she hates me so I’m not going to give her anything to use against me. No way, no how. I just have to pay my dues and then get promoted out of her department. Fingers crossed.

  Teeth brushed, pants on, blouse buttoned and I’m flying out the door. And… the elevator has two strips of yellow caution tape forming an x across the doors. Okay, Lauren. Just breathe, you got this. Six flights is not that many. I shove open the stairwell door and keep one hand on the rail as I book it down the stairs as fast as my feet will move, my sneakers thumping on the concrete steps and echoing through the stairwell. I don’t have time to care about the racket I’m making, I’m just counting my blessings that it’s only six flights.

  Shoving open the door on the ground level, I sling my purse across my body and make a run for the subway. I think I’ve still got this, as long as the trains are running on time I’m going to make it with a few minutes to spare.

  I’m two minutes into my run when I remember I forgot to grab my office shoes on the way out the door. Dammit, I hope I have a pair of flats in my drawer at the office or I’m going to be stuck in these all day and my boss will make a snide comment about millennial shoe choices while pretending it’s a joke.

  No, it won’t be a joke. And yes, she will be wearing shoes that cost more than my rent. But I’m so going to make it on time, so she can suck it! I sigh in relief as I run down the stairs into the Fourteenth Street Station and squeeze through the turnstiles in time to make my train. Once on, I score a seat and get to work. First I pull a brush out of my bag and get to work taming my blonde hair into a perfect ponytail with lots of volume and a final strand of hair wrapped around the band and fastened with a bobby pin to cover the elastic. I watched a video online once and now I can do it without a mirror and in motion when necessary.