by Kellie Hart
Up-close & Personal Novella No. 3
K E L L I E H A R T
HOT ROD
Copyright © 2017 by Kellie Hart
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
For information contact the author via the address below :
[email protected]
Book and Cover design by Kellie Hart
Edited by Pam Gonzales, Allison Irwin, and Rocky Banks
Proofread by Love2ReadRomance Proofreading
First Edition: December 2017
WHAT READERS ARE SAYING ABOUT BOMBSHELL:
“Bombshell is an AWESOME little bundle of sex, fun, love, friends & family!!!”
–Love2ReadRomance Book Blog
“This is a novella filled with it all, so funny I was gasping for air, I was also gasping for air because it’s flipping scorching hot, I honestly couldn’t think if I have read another novella that can pack so much feels in the one book. Bombshell is funny, bitter sweet and it had me crying…”
–Ang, PNR Book Lover Reviews
“What a fantastic brother’s best friend romance/erotica story!!”
–Karen, Goodreads reviewer
“As this is Kellie’s first time writing a smutty novel for us girls, she has done an amazing job, bringing us female characters that you can relate to.”
–Tamara, Goodreads reviewer
“… I enjoyed the aspect of reading about someone who wasn't your stereotypical tiny girl and rather someone who was busty and owned that shit.”
–Tarrah, Goodreads reviewer
“This was my first book I've read written by Kellie Hart and I must say, she is my idol! I love her writing style and her excessive use of the ‘f’ word.”
–Shannon, Goodreads reviewer
“For a quick, romantic, HOT, laugh-out-loud read, I'd definitely recommend Bombshell. For a debut author, Kellie balances whit, charm, heart, and heat astonishingly well.”
–Velma, Goodreads reviewer
***
WHAT READERS ARE SAYING ABOUT KNOCKOUT:
“Knockout is truly colorful, funny, dirty, and to my shock... sweet. At first I was skeptical, I didn't know how much I was going to like the trucker-mouthed Knockout. I'm happy to say I really like Char and felt emotions with her. I'm not going to give any spoilers but I really want Chad as much as Char does. A great HEA!”
–Allison, Goodreads reviewer
“There are just some books that you read and have no words to describe the awesomeness that it is, but I am going to try. Kellie has this uncanny ability to have me laughing out loud at the most random of word choices that she uses and yet it makes me love her writing more. The raw emotion that just bleeds off the page and into your heart in the most beautiful way is truly a magnificent experience.”
–Tamara, Goodreads reviewer
“Falling for your best friend's brother is always a good thing, especially when he's sexy like Chad. I loved reading this story and seeing the love play out. I already know I'm going to love reading more of Kellie's stories!”
–Nikki, Goodreads reviewers
“I don't want to spoil this great story. I will say that Kellie has a knack for humor and love. This book was cute, entertaining and magnetic. The love throughout is real and clever. The writing is fantastic! It’s a beautiful story about second chances all around. You will be thoroughly entertained and happy after reading this book!”
–Shasta, Goodreads reviewer
THE UP-CLOSE & PERSONAL NOVELLAS:
Bombshell (No. 1)
Jacque and Fox’s story — Out now!
Knockout (No. 2)
Char and Chad’s story — Out now!
Hot Rod (No. 3)
Carey and Atticus’s story — Out now!
Foxtrot (No. 4)
Millie and Monty’s story — Coming soon!
THE BRITISH INVASION IS HERE, AND HE’S GOT SUPERMAN HAIR.
At my best friend’s wedding a few months ago, I laid eyes on the most beautiful man I have ever seen. All dressed up in a tux, he was a sexy Clark Kent wannabe—tall, dark, and handsome. Then, when he opened his mouth, Atticus Sherwood revealed himself to be as British as a fucking crumpet.
Yeah, I should’ve taken a bite out of him, but he left before I could nibble his fine English muffin.
Now, Atticus is back in New Orleans. Before I know it, his tongue has me screaming the Queen’s name, and my heart is crying out for more than a torrid affair with this bed-breaking Brit.
There’s just one little problem: love broke me once before, and I swore to myself I wouldn’t let it happen again.
Is taking a leap with Atticus worth the risk? Maybe I just need to trust I’ve finally found my own Superman to catch me when I fall.
Thank God he doesn’t come faster than a speeding bullet.
I HAVE DEDICATED MY LAST TWO NOVELLAS TO MY READERS.
This time, however, I think I need to depart from that just a little. So, unlike my previous dedications, this one is not funny, nor is it sappy or stupid, as I am apt to be.
Hot Rod goes out to any woman who has lost her identity at the hands of a man.
Abuse comes in all forms: physical, emotional, and psychological. Personally, I think the worst form of abuse marries these three into something that strips a woman of a sense of self, rendering her lost and lonely, afraid to believe in herself or others, desperate for love but terrified it will only hurt.
I think many of us have been there; I think many more of us are afraid to talk about it. What I’m here to tell you, ladies, is that you are not alone, you are not hopeless, and you are worth every fucking chance at love that walks into your life.
Simply put: you are beautiful. You are brilliant. You are you, and you have been, and you always will be, enough.
Never let anyone convince you otherwise.
You are Superwoman. Fly free, beautiful. Fly free.
LET ME SET THE SCENE for you.
Set deep within the heart of the French Quarter, New Orleans’s newest bakery, Genevieve’s Cupcakes and Shit, smells of freshly baked cookies and cakes. On a typical day, its welcoming interior pops with vivid mid-century furniture and a cool, retro vibe. Customers would eagerly devour the goodies lovingly handmade by the owner. The owner also happens to be one of my best friends—Charlotte Kensington. Today, however, is not a typical day.
This sunny May afternoon, pink and silver balloons hover overhead. Dangling from the rafters are matching streamers, adorned with rattles, pacifiers, and all things baby. Soft music by The Beatles plays in the background, adding a light, airy quality to the happy banter.
In the middle of the showfloor, surrounded by their nearest and dearest family, four lifelong friends sit in a semi-circle. The famous quartet includes the newly wed Fox and Jacque Montgomery and Jacque’s breath-takingly handsome brother, Chadwick Charles. It’s the stunning brunette, however, known to most as Char, who keeps our attention. She opens gifts, while we all ohh and ahh over tiny clothes, or shoes, or toys stuffed inside fancifully wrapped boxes. This mother-to-be, glowing from within, lays a hand over her swollen belly, and thanks everyone for their outpouring of love. It’s a heartbreakingly sweet scene.
And all I have to do is take a shit.
“What’s wrong, Carey?” Jacque mouths to me, a look of concern pulling her pierced brows together.
“I had t
o drop the Browns off at the White House like yesterday,” I mouth back through clenched teeth.
Though I am off to the side, not standing center-stage as the rest of my friends, I am still so near to the crowd that if I say anything much louder they will all learn of my desperate desire to defecate. When I begin shaking, I cross my legs and pray that the tray of brownies I am also balancing doesn’t plummet to the floor.
“Then go for fuck’s sake,” Fox adds in a rich, angry whisper after he takes in my knocking knees. “Char will kill us all if anyone ruins her party, so take the chocolate kids to the pool already!”
As correct as Fox may be, I know that duty comes first. At Gen’s Cupcakes, I serve as Char’s loyal, faithful, and mostly-behind-the-scenes baker’s assistant, and as such, it is my responsibility to guarantee that our guests have the best experience. I am here, as always, to guarantee that each and every patron has the chance to enjoy our famous fresh-baked delicacies delivered at a moment’s notice. So, as the responsible adult that I am, I hold my brownies aloft, squeeze my ass cheeks together, and will Old Shitful to not erupt.
“Carey Berry,” Char calls sweetly from beside Jacque. “Will you be a saint and bring me that gift?”
With my thighs still locked in a poop-repellant knot, I twist, set the brownies aside, and gesture as casually as I can to a pink polka-dot bag lying to my left. “This one?”
“Nope,” Char says with a generous eye roll and a vague point into outer space. “That one.”
“Oh, this one then?” I ask as I throw my left hand towards a purple bag.
“Nooooo,” Char says, more annoyed this time. “The yellow one. With the bunnies, Carey. It’s right beside you.”
I glance awkwardly to the ground. Merely five feet from my red Converse sits a giant box, covered in bulbous bunnies, topped off with a garish orange ribbon. It has to weigh at least seventy-five pounds, and it is so fucking ugly I almost feel sorry for it.
“That one?” I ask incredulously.
“Yes, that one,” Char confirms. “BRING. IT. HERE.”
The nachos I scarfed for lunch rumble deep and dark within me, but I am determined to keep my best friend happy. I uncross my legs, take three steps forward, and squat to collect my spoils.
That is when all hell breaks loose. Well, shit. Shit breaks loose.
As if my stomach wants me to die today, the minute I reach for the package, my body lets loose a fart for the record books. It reverberates around the room, echoes off the walls, and leaves the entire gaggle of guests with jaws agape and fingers pinching noses shut. The moment I dare to think I have heard the final notes of my flatulence, a tiny whistle rises from my ass like my anus is a fucking teapot.
“Carolina Grant!” Char screams. “You ate cheese, didn’t you? You bitch!”
“I—,” I try, but there are no words. There are only more farts. “I—"
“You better hide, Carey!” Fox and Chad scream in unison.
“It’s now or never, Care!” Jacque adds. “Char can’t run, but she can waddle like the fast brother-fucker that she is!”
Fueled by the heat of embarrassment, I turn on my heel, part the sea of guests, and flee like a lactose intolerant Moses to the bakery bathroom.
A very pissed and pregnant Char is close behind.
“What was it? Parmesan? Mozzarella?” Char nips at my heels. “Carey, I’m gonna kill you and the goddamn animal who fed you fucking dairy the day of my baby shower! That cow will not live to moo another day!”
“Cheesus Christ, I have no one to blame but myself!” I cry.
My Converse skid to a halt, and I stumble into the bathroom. I slam the door closed and lock it with mere seconds to spare before Char begins to beat against it.
“Your clever word play will not save you, you hoetard! Get your ass out here. NOW!”
“I don’t want to die, Charlotte, and I know you camember the idea of hurting me.”
“Oh, I can!” Char screeches. “And I will!”
“What about your guests?” I offer through the door. “How would they feel to find out you slaughtered your weak, flatulent friend? Think of the maternity wear in jail! I can’t imagine that those jumpsuits would be flattering on you at all!”
“You’re right,” Char gasps, and I know I have her hooked. “Prison orange totes makes me look jaundice.”
“I know,” I empathize. “If I promise to finish my business before I come out, will you let me live?”
Char groans behind the door. “Okay, just this once, but I swear to God, Carey, if you bake one more air biscuit in front of our friends, I will gut you.”
I cross my fingers. “All biscuits will be baked in due time. I promise.”
“Good,” Char says. “And when you’re out, check on the goddamn bundt cakes. The guests deserve some type of compensation package for the eau de parfunk you left in the showroom.”
“I will,” I promise. “Now, go. Go be the hostess with the mostest you were always meant to be.”
“Hostess with the mostest—it is my destiny!” Char announces as she scampers away.
When my stomach gurgles once more, I turn to the toilet. It is time to pinch some loaves.
I am the baker’s assistant, after all.
***
“I’ve been working to dump a load, all the live long day,” I sing to myself as I zip up the fly on my skinny jeans. “I’ve finally dumped that load, and now, it’s time to play. Don’t you hear the toilet flushing? Rise up from the porcelain bowl! Don’t you hear the water gushing? Carey’s done blown her load! Carey’s done blown her lo—"
I would keep bestowing the gift of brilliant musical composition upon the bathroom, but even behind the sealed bathroom door, I catch a whiff of smoke.
Shit! The bundts done burnt!
I throw open the door, and as fast as my legs will carry me, I hightail it to the double ovens in the kitchen and throw open the stainless steel doors. Within the contraptions lie at least forty-eight mini versions of Char’s delectable, original recipe cake. Being that the batter is dark chocolate, the burn on them is difficult to see, but for fuck’s sake, do they smell like the dump I just dropped at the first available poopurtunity.
That’s a life lesson for you: the early worm gets the bird, and the early girl drops the turd.
As I am distracted by my own sense of irony, the top oven explodes with heated fury. Chunks of cake whiz past like tiny, calorically charged torpedos. Others pelt me in the chest, leaving me for dead, the way only a good pastry can.
Okay. I exaggerate, but the desserts are suddenly afire, and I am left screaming in the midst of a battlefield littered with cake caracasses. Waving smoke from my face, I haul ass to the fire extinguisher, rip it from the wall, and open fire on the…well, fire. When the anti-flame fog clears, I’m left in front of an appliance that’s been licked black by flames and beside a Jacque who has been sprayed virgin white. Head to toe, she is a fluffy marshmallow. When Jacque blinks her big blue eyes and coughs, a little cloud of carbon dioxide escapes her lips, and I fall to the floor, laughing until my gut hurts.
Jacque ignores me and puts on a hot pot mitten before walking stiffly to the oven and removing a pan of the bundts. She holds it stiffly in front of her, studying the victims of the oven’s pyromania; her face reads disbelief or dismay maybe. Being that I am still lying on the floor, I’m not exactly sure.
“These were gonna be the dessert finale of the party. God, Char’s got another reason to kill you!” Jacque chastises. “You were supposed to take them out forty-five minutes ago, Carey!”
Finally on my feet again, I take the pan from Jacque’s hands and put it on the counter behind us. “Forgive me for needing some time to survey my kingdom from the porcelain throne. What made you come back here anyway? I doubt you could have smelled these all the way in the front of the store.”
Jacque wipes foam from her face, and her cheeks grow pink. “Someone just got here, and he was asking for you.”
; When another little flame sparks to life, I step to the oven and rescue two more trays of baby bundts. “Who the hell would be here, looking for me?”
“Atticus, you silly thing!” Jacque shrieks.
Well, hit me with a wet weiner! ATTICUS IS HERE.
As shock knocks the air from my chest, the cakes slip from my hands and crash to floor. Suddenly, the kitchen is hot once again, and I tug at my collar to give myself breathing room. I think I’m sweating.
Am I sweating?
A quick check of my pits reveals the horrid truth.
Fuck. I’m leaky.
Jacque runs to my side and dabs my face with a towel. When I try to speak and have no voice, she leads me to the corner of the room, and I collapse against a shelf of baking supplies. I slip to the floor, and a big bag of flour serves as a pillow for my spinning head. I cannot believe that Atticus Sherwood is around the corner from me, after all this time.
