Hookup
Author
Anne Marsh
Reads
16,5K
Chapters
21
CHAPTER ONE
I MAKE MY grand entrance, bursting through the doors of Kinkster in San Francisco’s gritty, dirty, fabulously alive Mission District. Kinkster is a hookup app for people who preferred nonvanilla sex, but you wouldn’t guess it from the office space. It’s all bland start-up chic, a wide-open, minimalist stage of tables and laptops ringed by a jeans-and-T-shirt-wearing chorus staring at me with varying degrees of shock. Yes, look at me.
Righteous anger surges up in me again, temporarily swallowing the too-familiar sense of shame. I wish I weren’t here, that Madd Dixon was every bit as perfect as he had seesmed. Hot and poetically sweet, he wrote me an honest-to-God card after our first night together, swearing I’d reformed his bad-boy self. Charming, rugged, downright dirty in bed? Yes, yes, and oh you betcha please. We’d been an instant couple from our first date, sharing sleepovers and late-night laptop sessions as we built our respective online businesses. While I built my influencer kingdom, he’d sourced a paper goods supply business, delivering monthly subscription boxes of pretty notebooks, pens, and sticky pads to thousands of home offices across the country. We’d planned to adopt a rescue puppy and last weekend I’d cheered from the sidelines as he played rugby with a brutal, ferocious masculinity that melted my panties right off and made me think, He could be the one. Right now, however, I’d settle for taking his head off—the big one or the small one.
God, he’s a liar.
Madd Dixon also turned out to be a cheater and a bastard, his decision to post our personal video on Kinkster being the cherry on the shit sundae he’d served me. For your eyes only, I’d texted when I’d sent the video I’d made of myself with my phone. Ours, he’d agreed with a winky face and a kiss—and I’d stupidly believed him. Now a gazillion Kinkster subscribers have watched me pirouetting in nothing but my birthday suit and ballet slippers. My inadvertent show-and-tell has already garnered me five hundred hookup requests.
A blue jeans–wearing engineer pads toward me, eyes widening as he takes me in. Sure, he might recognize me from my successful five-year career with the San Francisco Ballet—but I’ll bet he remembers me naked and dancing in that stupid video. Him and everyone else in San Francisco.
He’s willing to play nice, though, asking, “Can I help you?”
No, no you can’t, I want to scream. My picker is irredeemably broken given my recent man choices. My pre-Madd pick was equally a disaster, and the guy before that...let’s not go there. My feet settle automatically into first position, no longer poised to leap.
“Yes,” I lie. What I really need is a brain transplant or a lobotomy. Some kind of drastic intervention. “Someone’s posted a video of me on Kinkster without my permission. I want it taken down.”
“There’s a take-down form on our website for reporting copyright violations.” He volunteers this information cautiously and I bet he wishes he hadn’t stood up because, hello? Helpful, nice people get handed a shit sandwich from the snack cart of life.
“I don’t want to fill out a form.” I inhale deeply, centering myself because otherwise I’ll do something even more stupid than dating Madd. “I want this fixed. Gone. Deleted.”
Lola, my best friend and wing woman, tried to warn me about Madd. Over the years, I’ve razzed her about her broken man picker, but it turns out that I’m the one who needs “Remember: Guys Are Assholes” tattooed on my forehead because over and over I pick the assholiest asshole of the bunch. And my stupidity matters more now than ever because one of my post-ballet career moves is my Instagram brand. Being an Instagram influencer has much in common with a circus seal juggling a bright red ball on its nose. If I serve up the cute, perky and well-balanced version of me and create super popular online content, I’ll not only be able to promote my own athleisure line, but I’ll score paying gigs promoting other products. The downside? I’m always on; the curtain never falls on my performance because I share my personal life with a gazillion insta-friends.
“Take me to your leader.” I stab a finger toward Hot Nerd, who nods nervously, spins on his (bare) heel and marches toward a glass-walled office on the far side of the building.
“Max?” He tosses the name over his shoulder for confirmation, although clearly he’s already decided that Max Whoever-He-Is gets the pleasure of dealing with me.
“Is he responsible for Kinkster?”
Welcoming-Committee-Nerd nods vigorously and the mental soundtrack in my head picks up steam. Today’s theme song is “Ride of the Valkyries.” What kind of guy codes an app specifically for kinky hookups? And what does it say about me that I’ve spent hours scrolling through it? When Hot Nerd pauses in front of an office door, I barrel through it before nerves can get the best of me. No script? No worries. I’ll improvise.
Sunlight floods the office, silhouetting a big, rangy guy sprawled behind yet another laptop. They must pass those things out like candy. The iron-and-wood shelves bolted to the exposed brick walls house an impressive collection of Star Wars figurines outnumbered only by stacks of books. I register dark hair just long enough to run my fingers through and suntanned skin. Head Nerd clearly gets out of the office. A lot. Long lashes sweep up as I storm toward him. God, he has the most gorgeous eyes I’ve ever seen. I might accidentally fall into them for just a second before I recover and continue my self-righteous advance.
He certainly doesn’t look like a geeky code genius. He wears faded blue jeans, work boots and a battered UC Santa Cruz T-shirt, with nary a pocket protector or a button-up shirt in sight. When he crosses powerful forearms over his chest, I catch a glimpse of ink. Worse, his eyes crinkle up as he shoots me a cautious smile. Stupid, hot bastard.
I look at his handsome, arrogant, knowing face and I throw my phone at him as hard as I can. It’s a dramatic gesture—and a futile one. I should have thrown the coffee I held in my other hand. My phone bounces off his shoulder, hits the trendy concrete floor of this stupid, stupid loft space and makes an audible cracking sound. It’s not his fault that Madd is a first-class asshole, but the “Ride of the Valkyries” soundtrack blasting in my head thankfully drowns out logic, because I need to blame someone for my own stupidity. He’ll do.
He shoves effortlessly to his feet, making himself an even larger target. “Max O’Reilly.”
“Asshole,” I counter.
He lifts one broad shoulder. “Guilty as charged. Or were you introducing yourself?”
A hint of a smile still plays about his gorgeous mouth. Stubble roughens his jaw. He hasn’t shaved and I suspect he simply can’t be bothered. His gaze drifts down my body and I wait for the moment of recognition. Sure, I’m fully clothed now but naked ballet makes an impression, as the number of hookup requests I’ve received attest.
“We haven’t met.” He sounds certain, although now he frowns. “But you look familiar.”
He shifts those killer hazel eyes to my phone as he bends to pick it up. Thanks to the unlocked screen, he gets an eyeful of me dancing, a graceful Swan Lake-esque solo that’s all pirouettes and graceful leg extensions. If only I’d bothered with a tutu. A leotard. Something. Since I’m wearing only my favorite pink ballet slippers in the video, however, there are many less-than-PG moments. When Asshole Ex and I broke up because I wanted an exclusive relationship whereas he desired a harem, he’d had the last laugh. He’d created a whole fake fucking profile on Kinkster for me (you really couldn’t call it dating). He’d then shared our video and my favorite dirty fantasy with the entire world. I love being watched and I thought I enjoyed the risk of being caught, but this is next-level risk. This is the difference between getting busted by the mall cop making out with your boyfriend and waking up naked in bed with an entire SWAT team surrounding you, guns drawn.
Max studies the cracked screen for a moment before turning it off and setting my phone on his desk. Hazel eyes sweep over me. “You dance really well.”
So not the point. “Take it down.”
Give him credit. He keeps his eyes on my face. “Why?”
And just like that he plunges into negative territory for those of us keeping score—and yes, he’s earned a penalty.
“Are you insane?” I extend my arm, lean over his desk and pour my coffee on his keyboard. The queen of impulsivity—that’s me. “Why would I choose to share my private video with the world?”
That devastating hint of a smile returns. “Why would you take it down when you look gorgeous?”
Sadly, I’m still reeling enough from Madd’s betrayal that Needy Me laps up the compliment. Bitter Me gets right on his ass, however. “That was a private video.”
“And that was an expensive laptop.” He sounds calm. He doesn’t leap to clean up the coffee carnage. “Your video has 2,348,992 views and it’s trending.”
Maybe I should club him with his hardware? “Take. It. Down.”
“So you’re Maple.” He gets this little puzzled crinkle between his eyes as if I’m a math problem and he’ll have me worked out in a minute.
“Like the tree.” I wave my hand impatiently. I’ve heard all the jokes before.
“That’s not it.” He thinks some more, taking his goddamned time when my entire life is slowly imploding before my (and a million other) eyes, then he smiles. A full-on, sun-wattage-worthy grin. I want to kill him. “You’re Lola’s friend. I know Lola.”
Okay. So if he knows Lola, he’s likely one of those dot-com wealthy boys that hang around her new billionaire boyfriend. They’re like frogs or mosquitos spawning and where you find one, there’s bound to be a whole bunch. It also certainly explains why he’s not outraged at my violation of his hardware—not only does he have loads of money, but he’s probably also in possession of some new, shiny insta-backup system and hasn’t lost so much as a second of work. I think I could hate him. After I kill him.
“Look,” I say. “I’ve had a shitty, shitty day. It kicked off with discovering that I was dancing a naked solo on your Kinkster app because Asshole Ex decided to branch out into the revenge porn business. Then it escalated because it’s not just me being embarrassed that you and a million billion other guys have seen more of me than my gynecologist. This threatens my job, okay? Companies won’t hire an influencer to pimp their products if she’s cavorting naked on the internet, because they figure she’s too busy pimping her personal assets to be bothered with theirs. And since I happen to like electricity and eating and all those other useful things that a girl has to pay for, I need to keep those contracts rolling in—which means you need to take the video down.”
Max studies me some more. Thinking maybe, but it’s hard to tell. “Work here. For me.”
WTF? I have a job. Plus, he’s seen me naked.
“Pass.”
Apparently, he misinterprets pass as a different four-letter word, one that rhymes with duck, because he counteroffers. “A new job to replace the old one, thirteen hundred stock options, and a date. With me,” he adds, lest I think he’s being overambitious and asking me to take on the entire engineering team.
“Who let you out of the cave?” I step into him.
My new Neanderthal acquaintance stands firm, but I’ve already figured out that Max O’Reilly lacks the boundaries most people possess. And because he won’t back up and I won’t back down, we end up thigh to thigh, our bodies brushing as if we were dancing. I’m far too aware of the heat of his body, the controlled strength concealed beneath his clothes. He isn’t a professional dancer—I’d know him if he was—but he does far more than code all day.
“Why did you make the video?” God. That voice, low and smooth, perfect for phone sex, and parts of me demand that all of me pay attention, especially since when he lowers his head, his mouth ends up so very close to mine. His lips demand kissing. Nibbling.
Maybe even outright biting.
Except he’s seen me naked.
He’s watched my video.
This is totally, absolutely crazy, even for me. There’s no way on God’s green earth that I’d work for him or go out with him. Plus, I have the whole broken man picker thing to work on. It’s the shame talking, I decide. I’m embarrassed that I fell for Madd’s lines, and now I want to prove to myself that other guys like me just fine.
“It was a surprise for my boyfriend.” Max O’Reilly works in an office that has windows rather than walls, and I’m certain we have an avid audience. I can feel my cheeks flush, my body heating up because I have a dirty little secret of my own. Hi, my name is Maple and I love being watched. “He wasn’t supposed to share it.”
“How did you know he wouldn’t?” Max looks genuinely curious.
“Because we were in a relationship? Because I trusted him?”
Max shifts, and for a moment I think he’s giving up. But then he leans into me. “I don’t have relationships.”
Of course he doesn’t.
“I have hookups,” he continues. “For sex.”
I give his announcement a moment of silence because wow. This man either has no filter or he’s entirely too honest—which he proves with his next words.
“It’s more satisfying, yeah?”
It certainly explains why he’s used his coding skills to develop a hookup app rather than, say, curing cancer through genome sequencing. I intend to explain the joys of a committed relationship (again, liar), but something entirely different comes out of my mouth. “Did you jerk off to my dancing?”
“Yes.” His lips quirk, as if he’s maybe trying to rein himself in but can’t quite manage it.
“Fix it.” I stab my finger into his big beautiful chest. Obviously, I’m not on the dating market at the moment, but he is muscled. You, sir, are definitely more than just an engineer.
He looks down at me, that slow smile curling his mouth. “How?”
“How should I know?” I throw my hands up in the air. Yes, I’m being dramatic. No, I don’t care. “Take it down. Make sure there are no copies anywhere and then forget you ever saw me.”
I turn and storm out of his office, ready to bring down the curtain on this particular performance. No one stops me as I march past the tables of software engineers and through the front door. No one knows that I’m silently replaying what happened in that office, the way our bodies brushed, the way Max O’Reilly knew. He knew what I liked. He recognized the heat that curled through my body at the thought of him watching me dance. Maybe he even knew about the freedom in exposure, in dancing wide open and free. Or maybe he’s just a dirty pervert—a pervert who still has my phone in his possession.
