Boston Read online

  Boston

  By Alexis Alvarez

  Table of Contents

  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

  Letter To My Readers

  Q&A About Boston

  Thanks!

  Reviews

  Excerpt from Dream Girl

  Excerpt from Myka and the Millionaire

  Excerpt from Return

  This book is a work of fiction.

  Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously.

  Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Editor: Erica Scott.

  Cover Photography: Alexis Alvarez.

  Cover Model: Shane Williams aka_Eyeball.

  Cover Design: Shannon Passmore at Shanoff Formats.

  Copyright 2016 by Alexis Alvarez. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute or transmit in any form or by any means.

  Chapter One

  We’re late—the show’s about to start, and for a minute I hold my breath, sure the bouncer will tell us no. But Liesl does a tiptoe thing in her black heels that makes her boobs stick out, and whispers into his ear, letting her fingertips brush his upper arm, and he smiles. Then he murmurs something to her and waves the three of us in, where we’re hit with flashing red and blue lights and a pulsing beat. At least a hundred women are screaming at the announcer, who’s dressed only in a thong and a strip of black cloth that barely covers his generous—make that extremely generous—endowment.

  “Lees,” I whisper. “I’m not sure this is such a great idea.”

  She pats my hand. “Calm down, Abby. With the crazy sex you write for your books, and the shit you research on YouTube? This is kindergarten. Don’t be scared. Let’s get a drink.” She leads me and Marr to the bar and we slide onto stools decorated with faces of some of the Men Got Moves guys.

  Marr wiggles back and forth on her seat, which has a picture of a sexy blond man sticking out his tongue. “Yes, right there. Oh, so good!” she wails.

  I recognize that the pictures are there for that exact reason—so women can laugh and joke about getting oral—and it’s a genius idea, and I want to congratulate the person who thought it up. But it’s still sort of horrible when it’s your older next-door neighbor saying it. “I’m not scared, Liesl. It’s just that maybe I should just wait and meet him in person tomorrow. Also, these places are kind of demeaning.”

  I narrow my eyes at Liesl and she flips me her middle finger before ordering three margaritas. Marr is hitting on the bartender, a built guy in his twenties, and even though Marr can coug’ with the best, I hope she realizes that her prey is playing for the other team. I roll my eyes when she reaches out a long red nail and scratches it down his bare chest, licking her lips.

  My stool has a dark-skinned Adonis whose lips are pursed for a kiss, but I decide not to send a fake orgasm into his laminated mouth. I whisper, “Do you think we should have brought her here?”

  Liesl shrugs. “She’s just sad from her divorce, Abby. Tonight will be good for her. See how he’s bein’ nice and all? Marr needs this, and he’s giving it.”

  By the smile on his face, it appears that the young bartender does enjoy flirting with Marr, even though she was graduating college when he was still asleep in his dad-to-be’s testicles, and even though she’s got a vagina; at least, his laugh seems genuine. He looks happy as he creates a drink with multiple layers of color, although it’s possible that part of this glee may be due to the twenty that Marr smoothed into the waistband of his tight jeans.

  Marr looks ecstatic, at least more than she did when Liesl and I found her crying on her front porch next door with a bottle of cheap red wine in her hand, where she gazed up at us with hopeful tears. “You girls look so, so nice. Are you going somewhere fun?” (Five minutes later she was ensconced in the back of my Prius, singing the lyrics to “Baby Got Back” and telling us why sex is better after forty-five.)

  “In no way it is demeaning to anybody,” Liesl lectures, handing me a glass with jagged pink salt crystals on the rim. I wipe them off with the side of my hand, letting the shards tumble onto the smooth bar surface before brushing them, somewhat guiltily, to the floor. “The boys like to show off the goods and make some money, and the girls like to be entertained. It’s harmless and actually ego-affirming on both sides. Come on. The bouncer said I should talk to Keith up front, and he’d get us the good seats.”

  Bounce-sah. Kindah-gahdin. Hahm-liss. I fell in love with the cadence and rhythms of the brash New England accent the minute I moved here three years ago. Maybe it’s because I’m from the Midwest, and so is my ex, Erik. Boston natives make an unapologetic announcement of their place, their home, with every sentence they utter.

  “Besides.” Lee leads me to a table with a “reserved” sign on it, and works her magic again: A glance, a simper, and the man guarding the table melts away like ice in the sun, leaving us right up front, best seats in the house. “This is research for you, Abs.” She raises one eyebrow. “You’re going to be working with the man every day, telling him what kind of pick-chahs you need for the book. So you might as well see all his good moves and poses ASAP, right?”

  She sort of has a point.

  I had this brainstorm last month—instead of writing my usual kinky erotic romance novel, what if it were an erotica picture book? Still a full-length novel, but each chapter would have multiple photos. Sexy photos of a handsome, ripped man and the heroine, photos that would directly mimic some of the sultrier passages of the book. Photos that—along with my words—would sell countless copies across multiple markets. (For the eighteen-plus crowd, of course.)

  I went out on a limb and pitched it to the hottest male cover model around, Parker Minelli, expecting to strike out on the best before moving on. He’s a bodybuilding competitor, a photographer, and a cover model all at once, and thousands of women follow him on every possible social media platform. I made sure to talk myself up—my success as a bestseller, my love for writing, my degree from Harvard. How this was such a novel idea that we were guaranteed to launch a new paradigm. I was sure he’d say no.

  But he said yes. And he convinced his ex-girlfriend, Annalise O’Reilly, to partner with him as the heroine of my book. Her pictures are all over social media, and there is not a more beautiful woman on the face of this earth.

  If we end up doing this for real, Parker and I will split the profits from the book. I’ve struck gold. Or else it will go down in flames and nobody will bite. I’m not sure how it will end, but it’s worth a try.

  Tomorrow I’m supposed to meet him for the first time in person to finalize our plans, although we’ve spoken on the phone. I like his voice; it’s Boston-y like Liesl’s. He calls me “luv,” which is sort of panty-melting, even though I know it’s just part of his act. When Liesl Googled him and discovered that he also dances here some weekends at the Men Got Moves club, she was determined that we must go watch.

  We sit at the tiny table, our drinks kissing on the surface as she shoves them together to make room for her voluminous purse. I hold my purse on my lap, then set it on the floor and put my heel down squarely on the strap, just in case anyone wants to snag it while we’re absorbed in the show.

  When the intro music starts, I cross my arms over my chest and Liesl pokes me. “Try to at least look lik
e you’re having fun. How often do you get to see man candy this close?”

  I tilt my head. “Right now my couch, a Diet Pepsi, and a rerun of Castle sounds a lot more appealing than watching some roidudes perform the Sausage Shimmy for an hour.” I may write crazy kink, but watching guys dance like this? It makes me feel awkward.

  “Your attitude is a complete waste of this table,” warns Liesl, although her mouth twitches. “And you should have worn a short skirt like me so you could show the guys some leggage. You get yourself a private dance that way.” She crosses one slender thigh over the other and kicks her heel.

  Marr slithers into a chair beside me and interrupts. “Girls, as long as the ass is in view, a skirt is not necessary.” She gestures up and down her body, demonstrating her curves as if revealing a new washer and dryer on The Price Is Right, and even stands up to bend over and slap herself on the butt.

  From the bar, Bobby whistles, and a few minutes later, complimentary drinks for all three of us arrive, complete with colorful umbrellas and neon cherries and chunks of pineapple.

  Marr is wearing a clingy bodysuit that defies fashion and yet somehow looks magnificent in its brash ugliness. She has a fab ass, I will admit. My own twenty-eight-year-old ass is ensconced in tight black jeans, and although I’m not as glammed up as my squad, my hair is awesome—I’ve got good hair. Long and brown, with hints of gold and blond in the sun, it curls up just a bit when I style it, and it’s full. When it’s done, it allows me to feel pretty.

  Liesl tells me I’m gorgeous. Sometimes I think she’s right, other times I’m sure of it. And then there are moments when I feel like blah cardboard wool, a mile wide, dull and flat. I don’t enjoy being ambivalent about my body image, but I’m a borderline. I can fall into Team Sexy or Team Bland solely on my attitude and on my confidence at any given moment, and sometimes it’s sort of stressful and overwhelming to have to own it like that all the time.

  The men move in and begin their show, and I forget all about teams, because I am mesmerized. These guys are sex on a stick, they’re heat on the beach, they’re everything you dream of when you fantasize in your bed at night.

  Marr screams out at a quiet moment, “Too bad half of them are gay! Bobby at the bar told me.”

  We try to shush her, and giggles ring out. Marr seems to likes the attention. “But that guy in the middle? He’s sooooo fuckable. Baaaaby. Come here, pretty boy!”

  The guy in the middle is sizzling, and he looks right at us, and it’s him. Parker. I recognize him from all the web pictures, but seeing him here in real life is so much better and bolder. The raw power of his sexuality hits me, and I figure my eyes are wide and I’m staring, but that’s okay because so is every other woman in here.

  Our eyes meet. I don’t look away, and he doesn’t, and then he smiles, and my face burns. Some audience members hoot at the way he wiggles his eyebrow and does the “come hither” move to me with his index finger.

  Does he know who I am? I mean, he saw my picture on my profile more than once, obviously, since we’ve been messaging. But does he put the person at this table tonight together with me-Abby-his-potential-book-partner, or am I just a random audience member?

  These dancers usually pick someone out of the audience to flirt with, and with an uneasy pang, I worry that maybe they select girls who they think are less than gorgeous, just to give the poor things a feel-good pick-me-up. Is that how he’s labeled me—in need of assistance? I break eye contact and take a big sip from my drink. Even though the ice is all melty now, I gulp it down, then sneak another glance up at the stage. He’s still looking.

  He jumps off the stage and approaches me, and before I can react, he’s on his knee at my side, reaching out his hand. “Dance with me,” he says, his voice low and gravelly, sexier than on the phone.

  I stare. Liesl pokes me, hard. “Abs. Get up there. Dance with the man.”

  Marr is all agreement. “Whoo hoo,” she encourages. “If you don’t, I will.”

  Parker stands up and somehow I’m up now, too, my hand in his, and he moves in an erotic way in front of me, sort of swaying and popping his hips, but not too much—just enough to make my whole body fizz and tingle. But I shake my head and sit down, and give him a smile and a shrug.

  He shrugs back, blows me a kiss, pops his hips harder, and the audience screams. Then he grabs the hand of a girl at another table and she leeches onto him, twerking like she’s having a seizure. He grins and holds her back with casual strength to maintain a few inches of space.

  “Oh, honey,” Marr cries out, pawing at my shoulder in an outreach of inebriated empathy. “You lost your chance to ride.”

  I roll my eyes, jealous yet relieved. That girl looks ridiculous, trying so hard to grind on him; she looks out of control and desperate, while to him it’s just a job. I never want to be that far down on the inequity scale, whether it’s a long-term thing or a two-minute lap dance in a gaudily decorated man-club.

  The show goes on, and more dancers invite audience members for special attention. The lucky few run the gamut from slim blondes to overweight women in their forties to a gorgeous lesbian couple who play along with smiles, and the eclectic mix makes me feel better.

  When the show is over, Marr disappears, leaving her purse and one shoe behind, so Liesl and I wait. Liesl has drinks to finish, anyway. Bobby the bartender adopted Marr and provided her with a flow of alcohol and unromantic flirtation, and Marr ate it up like she was starving and he was half-price Wednesday at the local donut shop. Her extra drinks made their way to Liesl, who never says no to a good tequila.

  The room clears out fast, and a worry starts to nag: If Marr is vomiting somewhere, will she get it all out before we get into the car, or do I need to start searching for plastic bags and cardboard and stuff?

  A voice comes at my shoulder: “I’m disappointed you turned down my dance.”

  It’s Parker, his clothing making his tall muscular frame even sexier, because I know exactly what is beneath those worn jeans and button-down white shirt half tucked in, sleeves rolled up to show his muscular forearms. The spark of arousal that flows through me is a surprise and a joy.

  “I’m Parker.” He reaches out his hand.

  I give him my hand and his grip is warm and strong. There’s a hint of skin at the side of his jeans where his shirt is not quite tucked in, and I suddenly want to lick it so badly that I almost think I’m going to, and I bite my lip, my heart pounding. “I’m, Abby. Abby Michaels. You know, your new writing partner? I’m here. At the club. Even though it’s not tomorrow.”

  He’s grinning. “I know who you ah.” He winks and leans in, gives me a kiss on the cheek. His lips linger for an extra half second, and the kiss is so soft it’s like a caress, a brush of air. When he pulls his face away, I sort of move mine and my cheek grazes his, and his scruffy unshaved jawline sends wild hot sparks down my neck and into my stomach.

  He chuckles softly as if he knows his effect and finds it amusing, and this is sort of annoying. I step back and reclaim my hand, fighting back the urge to touch my cheek where his lips landed.

  “I recognized you right away,” he says, his voice low. “You look like your picture. But prettier.”

  Oh, my God. That smile is so overpowering in person. How do women around him manage to get anything done?

  I make a mental note to myself to message my writing group friend Jill: “Parker = the moistest panties ever.” It’s a joke in our writer’s group that the words “moist” and “panties” are two of the most disgusting and overused words in the English language, and Jill hates them with a visceral passion. So sometimes we accidentally on purpose tease Jill by writing “moist panties” into our books and emails.

  Right now though, I try to still my racing heart, because MPs are sort of not a joke, and I’m going to be working with this man for at least a month or two, and I can’t be a drooling starry-eyed mess of a fangirl the whole time.

  “I’m so excited to be working with you,�
�� I say, giving him my brightest happy author smile. “We’re going to really rock this project.”

  “Oh, yeah? How excited?” His voice is casual, and his eyes move lazily over my body, starting at my face and going down slowly, deliberately, before he meets my gaze once again, an eyebrow raised.

  “What?”

  “I figure you’re good with words, Abs. Bein’ an auth-ah and all. Tell me how excited, luv.” His voice is low and demanding, and there is a glint in his eye that seems all predator. My heart lurches and my stomach twirls. He’s so not professional. Not in a million years would this fly in a boardroom or an office setting!

  But we’re not in some dotcom cubicle, we’re here—in a club where men flaunt their nearly naked bodies to hyperventilating women. And he’s no stuffy CEO; he’s a virile male performer slash model slash fitness God. And the flutters in my abdomen tell me that I like it.

  Now he grins in a teasing, “I know I’m hot and I can wind you around my finger, watch me do it” kind of way. That pisses me off. He’s not going to be in control of anything here. I started this project, it’s my idea, my book, and if anyone is going to be in control here, it’s me. I feel my confident side surge forward. And hell, since we’re being unprofessional here…

  I lean in and lower my voice. “Meeting you in person make me a little…”

  He raises his eyebrows and smirks. He clearly expects the usual line he gets from fangirls.

  But I say, “Curious. You make me curious. Boston.” I use the nickname I gave him in our emails.

  He registers surprise with his eyebrows. I like having him off guard. “Curious about what?” He crosses his ripped arms across his powerful chest and I’m mesmerized by the muscles, the veins. He smiles at me, a smug little grin.

  I touch his arm with one finger, just for a second. “You’re cute and all, but I need to know: Do you have what it takes to excite a woman’s body and mind, and make her so completely lost with passion that she flies apart? Do you have that to give, Boston? That’s what the hero of my book needs to exemplify.” A muscle in his jaw clenches and I see his fingers tighten, and his nostrils flare as he breathes in. I bite my lip and smile in pleased triumph, because I see desire in his eyes, bold and hard. But I feel a twinge of unease, because although I see arousal in his face, something in his eyes looks—for a split second—like pain.