Pitching for Amalie Read online

  Copyright © 2015 by Hayley Faiman

  All rights reserved.

  Cover Designer: Sarah Hansen, Okay Creations, www.okaycreations.com

  Editor and Interior Designer: Jovana Shirley, Unforeseen Editing, www.unforeseenediting.com

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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

  Visit my website at www.facebook.com/authorhayleyfaiman

  To my husband, who has always supported everything I do and who encouraged me to write my dirty books for the world to read.

  To my mother, who has always helped me on my path in life.

  Thank you.

  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

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  The aroma of liquor and cigarette smoke with a hint of desperation surrounds me. It’s palpable. Seedy little bars in the middle of the downtown area always smell like this to me. If it were anyone else but Jo, I would have told the damn girl to screw off. Jo is my best friend. I moved to Boston with her when we were eighteen and stupid. Now that we are twenty-five, I would like to say we are much smarter, but that would be a lie. At this exact moment, I am about to step into a seedy bar, looking for my best friend. She is trying to get out of a blind date with some overbearing, pushy guy.

  All the trouble we’ve ever endured has been over some guy. I don’t remember half their names because they are all inconsequential. Tall, short, built, chubby, blond, brunette, or redhead—it doesn’t matter. All that matters is, between the two of us, we have managed to find every single asshole in the city.

  Tonight, I decided to go for something a little different, out of the ordinary. Instead of just rolling off my couch in my yoga pants, I decided to dress up to drag her away from another asshole. I slipped on my royal-blue jersey fabric dress that is too short for my own good and too low cut for words. I’m curvy, and when I say curvy, I mean, curvy. I consider it a curse most of the time because of the men who try to pick me up, but I like pasta and cheesecake too much to give much thought to losing the curves.

  When I start to walk into the bar and scan the place for my friend, I notice every single man’s eyes dart straight toward my cleavage. Pigs.

  Drink first, friend in a minute. I know it sounds selfish, but Jo is not a selfless person. Although she is my best friend, we have our differences, and tonight, I need a little pick-me-up. I travel up to the bartender, a nice-looking guy. He’s shorter than I prefer, as I am six feet tall myself. He’s slim with dark hair and dark eyes and a wedding ring. Perfect.

  “Hey there. What can I do ya for?” he asks with a thick Southie inflection.

  Good Lord I will never get used to this Boston accent.

  “Vodka and cranberry, light on the cranberry,” I answer, handing the guy a ten.

  He gives me a hard nod and turns to make my drink. I hate it when bartenders try to water down my cocktails. I don’t drink often, but when I want a drink, I want to taste the freaking liquor.

  Looking around the bar, I spot her teased-out long auburn hair, skimpy red dress on her sleek little body with six-inch high heels. Together, we are the perfect man-catching team. My hair is so blonde that it’s essentially white, my eyes are so light blue they border on white, and I’m overly curvy. I hated that trait about myself until I learned that I could definitely capitalize on it, and I do. Jo is short with her auburn hair and dark mocha-colored eyes, plus she’s remarkably fit, so she has virtually no curves at all.

  The bartender hands me the drink, and I decide to sit down and watch my friend for a few minutes. She looks absolutely miserable, trying to play pool with this jackass. Her date is short with a slight belly hanging over his pants. He has a receding hairline and glasses that are too small for his face. He probably bought them twenty pounds ago. I wonder who in the hell had set up my ultra-athletic friend with this joker. It was probably a jealous coworker. I have been duped a time or two by a jealous friend.

  “What’s up, doll,” a voice whispers next to me.

  I turn my head to see Jo’s date’s freaking twin.

  Thanks, but no thanks.

  “I’m here with someone,” I state rudely.

  “I don’t see no one,” he says, inching his potbelly my way.

  “Well, he keeps pretty good tabs on me, and he typically doesn’t like guys hitting on me, so you should back off.”

  I always like to pretend I have some possessive, jealous, badass boyfriend who watches over me. It’s silly, I know, but it’s my complete fantasy. Since I moved to Boston, I haven’t dated a guy long enough for him to give two shits about what I do or where I go, so this is my man fantasy. I have steered clear of men in general for a reason that stemmed from my only long-term boyfriend, a controlling asshole who took possessiveness to the extreme. That was not a fantasy. In fact, it was nothing like my fantasy. It was more like a nightmare.

  “Huh,” he says, trying to touch my leg.

  Oh no, he doesn’t. I grab on to his fingers and pull them back.

  “Listen, asshat. If I wanted you to touch me, I would’ve asked you to. Leave me the fuck alone.” Assertiveness is my downfall.

  This can go down one of two ways. One, he will call me a bitch and back the hell off. Or two, he will get turned on and try to attack me in the parking lot to show me a lesson. I’ve had both options happen several times. Usually, I try to ignore people who are being rude or annoying, but every now and then, my temper flares without warning. It probably has something to do with PMS.

  “Fuckin’ cunt,” he says before walking away.

  Well, let’s hope he doesn’t get a hard-on while thinking about that scene later.

  Now, it’s time to save my friend.

  “Jo,” I call out as I arrive at the pool tables, acting winded and wildly darting my eyes around.

  “Oh my gosh, Amalie. Is everything all right?” she pleads, desperate to get away from this guy.

  “No. I just got a phone call, and Niklas has been in an accident. I hate to interrupt your date, but I don’t think I can be alone right now.” I try to look panicked.

  This guy is only looking at my boobs, so I’m hoping he can’t tell that I’m lying.

  “Oh, you poor thing,” she coos at me, all smiles. Then, she turns to her date. “I’m so sorry, but I can’t just let her go home alone. I need to be with her. Niklas is her brother, and he’s a cop in Florida.” She pats her date’s hand and then grabs her purse.

  We run out of that cra
ptastic bar as fast as our six-inch heels will carry us.

  We always use my brother, Niklas, as our excuse to get out of horrible dates. It’s not all a lie. Niklas is a police officer in Florida. I haven’t seen him in a few years, but he could be hurt. Who really knows? When I abandoned my life in Florida, I also left my twin brother and parents behind. It wasn’t a decision I made lightly, but I needed to leave for my own sanity.

  “Thank you so much, Lee. That guy was a freaking joke,” Jo says.

  We sit our asses down in a cab.

  “He was gross. Why did you go out with him anyway? Cabbie, take us to a club or something, somewhere fun. We need it after the night we’ve had.”

  Jo delivers an evil glare in my direction. She so obviously wants to go home and eat ice cream. Well, forget that. I didn’t tease out my blonde locks to go into some shitty bar. I’m going to have some fun.

  When we pull up in front of a club, I recognize the name, and it’s one of those clubs that turns into an after-hours all-out dance party. Jo shoots me another glare. She’s evidently heard of it, too. Well, we are twenty-five-year-old single women. So, why the hell not? It’s only ten o’clock. It’s still early enough to get a good buzz and dance until six in the morning or until one of us dies, whichever comes first.

  I throw the cabbie some money and readjust the girls hopefully we won’t have to stand in the long-as-hell line to get in. I have this way of getting into clubs without paying the cover or standing in line. I would like to think that it’s because of my winning personality, but in actuality, it’s because of my natural double Ds.

  “I can’t believe I let you bring me to one of these clubs. I hate these places,” Jo complains as we walk up to the entrance.

  She is my best friend, but she can be a serious buzzkill. I often find myself wondering if she will turn into a crazy cat lady.

  “Shut up. We are going to have fun tonight,” I scold her.

  I catch the bouncer’s eyes. He smiles toward me, and I plaster on my fakest smile in hopes that he’ll let us slither on in.

  “Ladies,” he says as we approach.

  “Any way we can get in without killing our feet in that line?” I purr.

  “Got IDs?” he asks, narrow-eyed.

  Seriously, I’m not some kid. I’m on the downward slope towards thirty but if he thinks I’m younger who am I to argue? I fish out my ID and hand it to him.

  “You girls be safe in there. C’mon back,” he says.

  He opens the rope just enough for me to squeeze by. I make sure to press my assets to his chest, and he smiles.

  “If you get a break, come find me, and I’ll buy you a beer,” I say, smiling up at him, as I pass.

  “Got a girl,” he snorts.

  “Good. You can tell me all about her. I always need a new friend.”

  He smiles down at me, as Jo and I run off. He was cute in a big, beefy kind of way, but he wasn’t my type. I don’t know exactly what my type is, but he just isn’t it. Plus, he has a girl.

  “I can’t believe I let you drag me in here,” Jo whines, looking up at me.

  She’s such a cute little fairy girl. I could squash her like a bug if I really wanted to.

  “Come now. Maybe we will find some nice boys.” I smile, walking toward the busy bar.

  “Yeah, boys. I need a damn man,” she hollers.

  “You wouldn’t know what to do with one once you had him!” I yell back at her earning a few swiveling heads in our direction.

  I catch the eye of a strikingly handsome cute but very gay bartender. He’s wearing a sparkling hot-pink mesh tank top and tight white skinny jeans with a studded black belt. His hair is in a bright green fauxhawk, and his ears are pierced with diamond studs. I love everything about his look.

  It’s no secret that Jo hasn’t had an extreme amount of men in her bed, and I’m seriously proud of her for that. All the guys she has had are boys—cute, funny, and sweet, but boys nonetheless. I personally like a man—a man’s man, a throw-you-against-the-wall and fuck you within an inch of your life kind of guy. Since those men can be hard to find, I, too, have not had many men in my bed…lately.

  When I first moved to Boston, I went wild with one-night stands, and later, I realized I was just screwing anything that moved to get back at my abusive, controlling ex. One day I just stopped and really looked at my life. Extremes weren’t cute, so I decided to chill out on the men and focus on my career. The last man I had was over a year ago, and my vagina is starting to retaliate against me. Self-induced orgasms are starting to become few and far between.

  “Ladies,” the bartender says, sliding up in front of us.

  “Vodka and cranberry, light on the cranberry,” I say, smiling.

  Jo orders her favorite appletini. Those things make me freaking sick. I don’t know how she can stand it. We stand and drink our cocktails. Well, I drink, and Jo sips. We survey the club for anyone who looks halfway appealing. Unfortunately, none of the men appeal to me in the slightest. I down the rest of my drink and grab Jo before heading to the dance floor. It smells like sweat and liquor as we start moving to the rhythm.

  A few guys decide they are brave enough to try to hump us while we dance. Lucky for me, the one who picks me is a whole head shorter than I am. I take my heel and stab it into his foot as soon as he begins to dry-hump me while putting his hands on my hips. That’s a no-go, my short friend. He gives me the stink eye and slithers away to his next unassuming victim.

  Jo seems to like the next guy who comes to dry-hump her, so I give her a smile and walk away, heading toward the bar. I need a break from the music and handsy sweaty guys.

  I’m just downing a second vodka and cranberry, when I am tapped on the shoulder. I spin around to see a huge, brawny guy in a black shirt that says Security in big white letters across the chest.

  Oh, hell, what have I done now?

  I think maybe it’s the bouncer from the entrance. Buying him a beer and chatting would be kind of nice right about now, but when I look into his scowling face, I realize it’s not him.

  “Come with me, girl,” he growls.

  Damn, he looks mean.

  “Um, no, thanks. I don’t know you.”

  I’m not trying to sound like a bitch. Frankly, this guy scares the shit out of me, and not many people do that. I’m about six feet six with my high heels, but this guy has at least three inches and two hundred pounds on me.

  “I’m club security. Come with me.”

  It’s not a question. It’s an order, and it’s freaking terrifying. He grabs my elbow and pushes me in front of himself to guide us through the crowd of sweaty bodies dancing around the floor. The people part like the Red Sea. We must be a sight—me with my white-blonde hair and creamy alabaster skin, standing above everybody, and him with his dark mocha skin and shaved bald head, also standing above everybody. I nervously giggle to myself, ebony and ivory seems fitting in this moment.

  We arrive at a set of stairs. I look up, and it’s almost pitch-black.

  Oh, hell, he’s going to rape me. I know it. Or he’s just going to kill me and leave me up there.

  Shit. Jo has no clue where I am. Great.

  “Up you go,” he orders, pushing me toward the stairs.

  I dig my feet into the ground as much as I can. It isn’t all that much, considering the floor is cement and I’m in spiky heels with zero traction ability.

  “Excuse me if I’m a bit reluctant. I have no clue what the hell is going on here, and I’m not about to go up some pitch-black freaking stairs, so you can kill me,” I huff, looking up at him.

  He cracks a smile on his stony face, and for some reason, I’m not as terrified as I was, but I’m still pretty wigged out.

  “I am just the messenger. Someone wants to meet you.”

  He points up to some alcoves, and I can see what could possibly be outlines of shadows up there but nothing else.

  “What is all this about?” I ask, putting on my brave girl panties.

>   “You’ll see. Ain’t no one gonna hurt you, girl. This is the VIP section, and there is a bouncer at every single alcove,” he states, pushing me right up the stairs.

  My feet should have been planted firmly on the ground, but they’re curious little bastards, and up the stairs I go. A long walkway is lit only by those little lights that they use in the movie theaters, so I each step I take is with pure hesitation and I can hear my heart thumping each time one foot glides in front of the other.

  The massive guy stops and leans down to whisper to another big, hefty man standing at the entrance of one of the dark alcoves. This screams rape and murder—or at least, serious trouble—but I’m too fucking intrigued to leave. Nothing like this has ever happened to me before.

  “Come in,” the second beefster says, opening the rope and waving his hand like he’s the ’roided-out little brother of Vanna White.

  I tentatively take a step into the alcove and look around. I’m alone. What in the hell? I walk over to a couch in the little area and sit down. Well, if this isn’t the weirdest night I’ve ever had…

  My feet are silently thanking me for the chance to relax. I love a good pair of heels, but after dancing and spending all evening running around on them, I need the break. My eyes adjust to the darkness, and I see a very cute girl walk into the alcove. Well, I certainly hope whoever brought me up here isn’t anticipating some kind of kinky ménage a trios scene.

  I’ve only done that once, and it didn’t work out the way I had envisioned, so it’s never happening again. It probably didn’t help that I didn’t know the other people at all. I was drunk as hell, and then I puked right when things were about to go down. I shiver at the thought. That was the last time I ever sailed with the Captain. I miss my Captain and Diet.

  “Can I get you something to drink?” she asks, turning on a small lamp attached to the side of the alcove.

  Wow, that’s much better.

  “Vodka and cranberry, light on the cranberry, please,” I order, still uncertain as to why I’m even sitting here.

  “Sure thing, honey,” she says before walking away.

  She’s cute—young but cute, I think to myself, looking around.