Hook Up (Taking Chances Book 2) Read online

  Table of Contents

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  COPYRIGHT © 2019 TC MATSON

  DEDICATION

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  EPILOGUE

  SNEAK PEEK OF SLIP UP

  BOOKS BY TC MATSON

  TO MY READERS

  CONNECT WITH TC MATSON

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Copyright © 2019 TC Matson

  © 2019 TC Matson

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permissions of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the author, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at [email protected].

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to people, whether living or deceased is purely coincidental. Names, places, and characters are figments of the author’s imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously. The author recognizes the trademarks and copyrights of all registered products and works mentioned within this work.

  Editing: Amanda Brown

  Cover Design: Juliana Cabrera with Jersey Girl Design

  Dedication

  For anyone who is scared to start over, this one’s for you.

  ONE

  The moment my eyes open and my vision focuses on the unfamiliar ceiling, regret knots in the pit of my stomach.

  Shit. I’ve done it again.

  Slowly, I slide my eyes to the body warming the other side of the bed, sending up a silent prayer that I didn’t find him living under a bridge out in the woods. Not that I’ve done that, but lately, my whorish tendencies are starting to become unimaginably uncontrollable. Like, “Oh, you have a dick? Can I ride it?” I blame it on my best friend, Brooklyn, and her upcoming wedding.

  A smooth tanned and tone back faces me as the covers drape over his hips. No hair or hairy moles. Thank you, God. Relieved, I blink back to the ceiling and lift my wrist to check the time: eight forty-seven.

  Shit.

  Dropping my hand, I slap my forehead and exhale a breath of both exasperation and self-loathing. I’m supposed to be at Brooklyn’s by nine thirty. And between now and then, I need to wash the filthy whore off me and look presentable.

  I’m going to be late.

  Not that they expect anything different.

  Quietly, I slip out of the bed careful to not wake up…

  To not wake up…

  I’m drawing a massive blank. No freaking clue what his name is.

  My eyes fall shut. “Shit,” I whisper under my breath, cussing my inner whore who raised her whorey legs to the ceiling without so much as getting the name of the dick’s owner.

  The hammering throb in my head turns violent every time I bend to pick up a piece of my clothing. Apparently by the way my clothes are strewn around, we were in a bit of a ravenous mood. Remind me to not drink tequila shot after shot when I’m feeling emotional, particularly unloveable and down on myself.

  Quietly, I shut the bathroom door and get dressed before trying to tame my ridiculously messy hair with my fingers. I grab a washcloth from a small cabinet above the toilet and clean off the mascara and eyeliner plastered under my eyes. Next, I squeeze a dab of his toothpaste onto my finger and do a survivalist’s job at brushing my teeth. Something is better than nothing, especially when it comes to having fresh breath. Who wants a mouth that feels like you sucked the socks off a homeless man?

  No Name begins to stir as I exit to finish gathering my things so I can get the hell out of here.

  “Leaving so soon?” He is still groggy from sleep, his voice hoarse and raspy. Not the sexy type of raspy either. More like he needs to clear his throat and take a sip of water.

  “I’ve got somewhere I need to be,” I tell him honestly, pausing to look at him.

  His hair is a mess, and I’m positive it’s the result of my fingers pulling on it. A thick stubble covers his jaw. His brown eyes darken when he smirks. By the looks of him, we definitely had a good night. “You should come give me a farewell as great as the hello was last night.”

  I cringe, casting him another glance as he eye fucks me from my legs to my lips.

  “I’ll make it quick, but great enough for you to have a reason to see me again.” He lifts the covers, showing off his impressive boner and massive tiger tattoo on his thigh.

  I tilt my head, fake apologies pushing my bottom lip out. “Wish I could, but I’ve got to go. I’m running late as it is.”

  “Call me later and we’ll hook up again. Dinner maybe?” Disappointment is clear in his tone and evident in the wrinkles between his brows.

  I tug my purse strap over my shoulder and offer a small smile. “Yeah. Sure.”

  Yeah, right. I won’t. I never do the same guy twice. Not normally, anyway. And yes. I know how awful that sounds. I’m not truly a whore. I just have whore tendencies that are deeply rooted and proving hard to tame this time around after living through a massive heartbreak. My once-a-month shameless sex has now turned into two. Soon my inner slut will be rubbing her tits all over every man if I don’t manage to rein her in.

  Don’t judge me. I haven’t always been like this. I crammed my whore away in high school when I met and fell in love with William—my now ex-asshole-cheating-bastard-boyfriend. Eight months ago, he shattered me. I thought he was proposing. He started with a sincere “I love you” but followed it with the infamous but and dropped the bombshell. He admitted to cheating on me for months and said he was in love with the stupid cock-sucking homewrecker. As he broke my heart, he released the monster inside of me, and my inner whore came springing out of hiding like a cramped genie whose lamp was rubbed the right way.

  How I’m choosing to heal is absolutely none of anyone’s business. I’m enjoying myself. New dicks—all types of dicks with different shapes and varying sizes in lengths, girth, and experience. Sweaty nights and if I’m lucky, fantastic orgasms.

  See? Healing. Empty, no commitments, sex.

  * * *

  After stopping by my house to wash off last night’s forgettable sex and change into something more comfortable, I rushed to Brooklyn and Nathan’s house, pulling in with negative twenty minutes to spare.

  Brooklyn’s espresso-colored locks are piled high on top of her head with untamed strands tumbling down and framing her face. A knowing smile rests on her lips.

  I lift my hand as I step past her. “Nope. I overslept.” It’s technically not a lie considering I don’t necessarily know what she’s thinking and had I been home, I would’ve woken up on time.

  “Really? Did your pillow give you that god-awful hickey on the back of your neck too?” Humor rides out from her pink lips.

  I gasp, slapping a hand on the back of my neck. “Who the hell gives hickies anymore? And more importantly, how the hell did it get there?”

  “My guess? You were face first against the wall,” Cody, Nathan’s hot best friend says as he enters the living room sporting his sexy cocky grin.

  Have I mentioned he’s sexy? He’s one fine-as-hell spe
cimen of a man. His parents deserve the highest of high awards for coming together and creating him. You can’t get any more perfect than him. His square jaw can rock either scruff or a clean shave, and his deep emerald green eyes are tantalizingly intense. He’s downright delicious. And let’s not forget his god-like body. He was positively carved out of stone. Muscles define his chest, etching his skin and tapering down to a flat stomach and slender waist. He wears gym shorts low on his hips on Saturdays, jeans the same way after work, and slacks that mold his tight ass during the workweek. Not that I pay that much attention or anything. He has arms that promise safety and hands that pledge roughness. He’s tall, over six-foot, with long legs and big feet.

  And we all know what they say about a man with big feet.

  He’s totally beddable.

  Sexy as sin and he knows it.

  But absolutely, one hundred percent, no questions asked, off-limits.

  Brooklyn, my best friend, is engaged to Nathan, who is Cody’s best friend. If we ever crossed the line and slipped in between the sheets with one another, not only would it make our little circle very awkward, it would also be detrimental to our love-hate-flirty as hell friendship. Also, might I add, it’s hard enough to look him in the eyes knowing the sensational fantasies he’s already starred in. Imagine trying to look at him knowing his O face.

  “Don’t you have somewhere to run to?” I snap with satire undertones.

  The corner of his sexy and perfectly soft lips curve into a devastatingly panty-melting smirk. “Nathan’s getting ready.”

  Every Saturday, Cody and Nathan take a bro-jog in the park. Meaning every Saturday, I’m forced to lay eyes on this unattainable piece of man-candy while my inner whore sharpens her claws. All because Brooklyn decided we needed to move our weekly Wednesday girls’ night to Saturday girls’ brunch. Now we day drink and eat finger foods while shit talking in the comfort of her home.

  Forcing myself to ignore Cody and his alluring emanation, I rub the back of my neck, wishing this monstrous hickey would disappear as I look to B. “This sucks,” I mumble.

  Brooklyn’s perfect eyebrow raises. “Did it though?”

  I lift a shoulder shamelessly. “No clue. Don’t remember.”

  Cody’s deep laugh bursts out. “Do what? Poor schmuck. One night with me and you’d remember it for the rest of your life.”

  I roll my eyes toward him, curling my lip. “Yeah. You’d have the award for the worst fuck of all time.”

  Welcome to the Cody and Aimee’s love-hate-flirty friendship circus I was telling you about.

  He shifts, crossing his arms over his chest, and drops a shoulder to the wall, looking too amused. “Care to find out?” The amusement from his face rides out through his question and somehow, he laces it with seduction. If it weren’t for my will-power—aka Brooklyn—I’d strip my panties off and toss them to him.

  I scrunch my face. “You’re repulsive.”

  He juts out his chin. “I bet my paycheck you’d think otherwise.”

  I’m positive I would and am about to argue the complete opposite when Shyla steps in. “What are we thinking and betting about?” She looks between the three of us.

  “She can’t remember her screw from last night,” he tells her before turning a full-blown panty-melting grin toward me. “Had it been with me, we’d still be in the bed.”

  “Probably to make up for the lack thereof from the night before,” I quip, scowling at him.

  Shyla snorts, interrupting our banter. “Explains why you’re fashionably late.”

  I rock back onto my hip, tilt my head and purse my lips. “I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t make a statement.”

  Nathan enters the living room in his normal running attire—black gym shorts and gray shirt. “I’m heading out.” He kisses Brooklyn on the side of the head, peering down at her like she’s his whole life.

  Brooklyn is one lucky bitch. The man who wants to spend the rest of his life with her is none other than Nathan Bennett, CEO and owner of Bennett Towers and one of the wealthiest men in Dallas, Texas. Not to mention, he had to be carved by the same stone Cody came from, or at least the same sculptor. He’s pretty damn hot too, but I’m definitely not looking at him in any way other than brotherly. That’s my best friend’s fiancé and my soon-to-be brother-in-law, though not by blood.

  Cody grabs a few waters from the fridge and I take this moment to steal another glance at him. He’s the epitome of hot, raw, and sexy. His dark gray shirt clutches against his chest and the sleeves grip his biceps just like I’m sure I would. His gym shorts embrace his hips, and my eyes travel to the bulge between his legs when he clears his throat. My eyes lurch back to his face where I’m greeted by an all-knowing megawatt grin. Busted…

  Dammit.

  “Have fun, ladies,” Nathan’s voice pulls me away from Cody and I glance up to him.

  I bat my lashes. “Don’t we always.”

  Amused, Nathan chuckles and leaves with Cody behind him, never casting me another glance. Not that I was watching. Because I wasn’t. That would have been awkward to have been busted watching his ass after staring at his junk.

  TWO

  Ever since my mother put a Barbie in my hand as a kid and I learned how to braid her synthetic strands, I’ve loved hair. Cut it. Style it. Color it. The creativity is endless. The salon environment is fun, happy, and energetic with the perks of decent music playing through the overhead speakers. I also have a healthy obsession for the white noise of my blow dryer. Plus, let’s face it, the money is good and no matter where I live in this wonderful world, my job is always in demand.

  All in all, being a hairstylist is my passion and also the best effin job you can have.

  I look at most of my clientele as family, considering I get a glimpse into their lives every two, four, or six weeks learning of love lives, break ups, pregnancies, and the rest of their families. I consider myself a much cheaper therapist. As you spill your beans, I help you look and feel confident.

  “What are your plans tonight?” Shyla asks as she wipes down her work station.

  Yes. My bestie shares the same love as I do. We went to beauty school together, graduated with our cosmetology licenses together, and job hunted together. Our dream is to open up our own shop—together. In due time. We’re working on it. Brooklyn, on the other hand, hates hair and spends her day filling prescriptions for a local pharmacy.

  “Home. Sleep.”

  Her caramel colored eyes flick to me in the mirror. “Everything okay?”

  She heard my sulky tone, huh? No. In the eight months since William up and left me, I’ve helped plan and attend her wedding and now I’m gearing up for another in a few weeks. It’s messing with my head and royally screwing up my emotions. Which I blame for making my whore extra whorey lately.

  I thought for sure I’d be married by now. When William and I started dating, everything was instant. Instant attraction. Instant love. Instant lust. We were inseparable, and shortly after graduating, I bought a house with the money my grandmother left me when she passed and asked him to move in with me after less than a year of dating. I didn’t think we’d split up. I had plans to marry him. I devoted my life to him. Yet. Here I am, single as ever and living in a house he and I made into a home.

  “Yeah. Everything is fine,” I lie. I hate lying to my best friends, the people who have been there for me through everything. “Actually,” I rush out shaking my head. “No. Everything is not okay and I’m not okay. I’m single. Not engaged. Not married. Not a mother. I’m just…” Spilling my emotion and frustration, I deflate and my shoulders drop, as does my head. “I just figured I’d be somewhere different in life by now. Further. And all this wedding stuff is wreaking havoc on me.”

  She rubs her palm down my arm and squeezes. “The last thing Brooklyn and I want to do is rub it in your face. I hated having to put your through my wedding two months after…” she trails off. She wants to say the breakup, after the asshole devastated me, but she d
oesn’t. “You know it’ll get better, right? Things happen for reasons we don’t always understand.”

  “Yeah.” Bullshit. The universe hates me. “And it is better. I just thought it would be different.”

  “You’re not going to find anyone worth keeping in a club.”

  Here we go. Shyla’s in full on mom-mode.

  I scoff. “What should I do then? Head to the nearest grocery store and ram my car into unsuspecting drivers in hopes I find a prince in the wreckage?”

  She laughs. “Meeting Brady like that was a fluke—a once-in-a-lifetime thing. Anyone in their right mind would’ve been pissed off beyond measure, but apparently he was stunned by my sheer beauty.” She bats her eyelashes and flips her hair off her shoulders overdramatically. “Maybe you should try Insta-Dates? Look what came out of it for Brooklyn.”

  Yep. Brooklyn found Dallas’ wealthiest bachelor at a speed dating event. Pretty sure my luck isn’t that good.

  “Cody did it too and it didn’t work out for him. He’s most definitely still single.”

  “Yeah. But that’s by choice.”

  “I’m not interested in speed dating and I swear, if you go behind my back and set me up like we did B, I will never ever speak to you again.” My tone may have humor in it, but my glare is dead serious.

  “Coffee shops,” she chirps like it’s the best idea. “A lot of successful businessmen spend hours working there to get away from the office.”

  “Because they’re banging the assistant. Next.” My words are bitter.

  “I think your perspective is skewed by personal experience.” She gives me a pointed look. “What about the park? Instead of running on your treadmill at home, go to the park a few of those days. Spruce up the scenery.”

  “You want me to run in the park alone? Have you not seen the stories of joggers finding women’s dead bodies beaten and battered?”

  Her head falls back as she laughs. “Pessimistic and overdramatic much? Take Brooklyn. I’m sure she’ll go with you. Might even do her some good to get the…” she trails off again on the wedding word with apologies in her gaze. “To get things off her mind,” she saves.