Down and Dirty Read online

  Table of Contents

  Down and Dirty

  About the Book

  Playlist

  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

  Epilogue

  Wild for You

  Acknowledgments

  Get Two Free Books

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  Other Books by Kendall Ryan

  Down and Dirty

  Copyright © 2020 Kendall Ryan

  Developmental Editing by Rachel Brookes

  Copy Editing by Pam Berehulke

  Cover Design and Formatting by Uplifting Author Services

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission of the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes only.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  About the Book

  From New York Times bestseller Kendall Ryan comes a delicious new standalone romance featuring an accidental Vegas wedding and a totally perfect alpha hero.

  Remember that time you accidentally woke up in Vegas married to your hot younger guy friend?

  That’s basically my life right now.

  Mistakes we made, okay?

  He’s too young for me. Twenty-three to my thirty.

  And he’s saving himself for the right girl.

  Yup. Apparently I’ve married the last alpha-male virgin on the planet. And my stubborn, oddly traditional, new husband doesn’t want a divorce.

  He wants me.

  Complicated doesn’t even begin to cover it.

  Playlist

  “Freqing Out” by Chris Domingo, Mariner, featuring Alec Sky

  “Doin’ It” by LL Cool J

  “La Femme d’Argent” by Air

  “A Girl Like You” by Edwyn Collins

  “Feel So Good” by Mase

  “In the Meantime” by Spacehog

  “Soul Meets Body” by Death Cab for Cutie

  “Tonight, Tonight” by Smashing Pumpkins

  1

  * * *

  Cheers

  Landon

  “Buck up, soldier,” my friend Owen, star goalie for the Seattle Ice Hawks, says as he thumps one hand on my shoulder.

  Easy for him to say. He’s engaged to the woman he loves, and is loved by adoring fans across the country. Basically, he’s got the world by the balls.

  In comparison, my life feels like it’s on the brink of falling apart. But no one wants to hear me complain about that right now, because we all just flew in by private jet to celebrate Owen and Becca’s joint bachelor/bachelorette party in Sin City.

  Yay.

  Cue the sarcasm.

  “I’m fine,” I say, tipping my chin toward the packed dance floor. “Go dance with your soon-to-be wife and quit bugging me.”

  Owen’s gaze strays over to where his fiancée, Becca, is on the dance floor, moving her hips beside a couple of our female friends, one of them being Aubree Derrick. Aubree, the petite brunette with the killer curves and fiery attitude who captured my attention the second I met her. She’s a total smoke show. But I try not to let myself notice things like that about her, because the minute I do, I need to go on boner patrol.

  My drink arrives as Aubree dances, or rather shimmies her ass in one direction and flails her arms in another. As I watch, I laugh for the first time all night, because dancing is clearly not her strong suit. But she’s still hot as fuck, and I can’t take my eyes off her.

  The club is loud, almost deafening. Deep, sultry bass thumps around me, and the room is dim except for the flashing blue and purple lights. It’s been easy to go unnoticed, tucked inside the curved booth while the rest of our group makes good use of the dance floor.

  I take a sip of the stiff drink in front of me, hoping it will calm some of the pent-up energy stewing inside me. From the outside, my life seems great . . . I’m a twenty-three-year-old rookie on one of the best hockey teams in the country, earning close to seven figures. But I didn’t get much ice time this season, and now I’m not sure where I stand with the team.

  My future feels like it’s on the brink of collapsing, and all I can picture is having to move back home to live with my dad, and get a minimum-wage job at the shoe store I worked at in high school, while some other asshole is living my dream. I signed an entry-level contract, which means there are no guarantees. Next year could be it for me. If I don’t get more playing time, why the hell would Coach keep me? I’m an overpriced bench warmer. A bearded cheerleader.

  I rub one hand across my stubbled jaw, remembering that I shaved a few days ago. Scratch that—I’m a sulky cheerleader minus the beard.

  A few seconds later, the gorgeous Aubree slides into the booth next to me, and I scoot over to give her more space. “Why aren’t you dancing?” she asks, bringing the straw in her vodka soda to her lips to take a long drink.

  Her pulse thrums steadily in her neck. She’s flushed and slightly breathless. My gaze strays to her lips before I can look away.

  I shrug. “Don’t really feel like it.”

  “You don’t have to babysit tonight, Covington. You can get drunk and make bad decisions along with the rest of us.” She smirks, watching me closely as she leans in and sucks on her straw again.

  She’s referring to the fact that I usually abstain from drinking, happy to play the role of designated driver when the team goes out.

  “This isn’t water,” I say, swirling the clear tequila in my glass, lifting a brow in her direction.

  “Good.” She pulls a tube of lip gloss from her purse and runs it over her lips. Seriously, is she trying to taunt me? “For the record, I never thought that was fair that they made you play DD as the rookie on the team.”

  I turn and glance at her. God, she’s like a cookie I want to bite into. “They didn’t make me. I choose not to drink during the season.”

  “Oh.” Her mouth parts in surprise, and her eyes twinkle. “So you mean to say that you guarded our drinks while we danced, drove people home, and even humored drunken requests for burritos at all hours because of the kindness in your heart?”

  I chuckle. “Something like that.”

  “You’re one of the good guys, aren’t you, Covey?” She pats me on the thigh with one slender hand, and my groin tightens.

  Aubree and I met for the first time earlier this year at a charity event. As the director of the team’s charity organization, she’s friendly with most of the players and their girlfriends, and has been a frequent member of this new crew I’ve found myself pulled into. But she’s never once expressed any interest in me. Never looked at me like I’m anything more than just the rookie on the team.

  I’ve told myself it’s a good thing—that I don’t have time for distractions this season. But now she’s giving me a hungry, desire-filled look, and I’m weak as fuck.

  Aubree slowly pulls her hand away and adjusts the spaghetti strap of her little black dress, calling attention to her cleavage.

  I shift in my seat, trying to alleviate the sudden pressure I’m experiencing below my belt. “I mean,
I pay my taxes on time and I haven’t murdered anyone, but let’s not get carried away.”

  She laughs, amusement dancing in her honey-colored eyes. “You are. I can tell.”

  I don’t disagree with her. Sure, I’d like to think I’m a decent human being, but let’s be real. Being a good guy doesn’t get you very far.

  Exhibit A is the current state of my life. Single as fuck and horny—which isn’t exactly a winning combination, even though I’ve brought it on myself. Being celibate is a choice, but that doesn’t make it any easier. And when you throw in my fears about getting canned from the team, let’s just say I’m not exactly a barrel of laughs tonight.

  Aubree makes a pensive sound and watches me over the rim of her glass like I’m a puzzle she wants to solve.

  My self-imposed abstinence isn’t usually a problem, and while I’m not picky, I am selective. And the gorgeous girl beside me makes me feel a little unsteady. Like she’s capable of pushing past all my inner defenses without even trying.

  Am I out of my element? Yes. Does that only make me want to push harder, strive for more, and take more chances? Bingo.

  When Aubree lets out a lengthy sigh, I glance at her. “Everything okay over there?”

  I expect her to say something mundane is bothering her—like maybe those insanely high heels she’s wearing—but it seems Aubree is full of surprises.

  “Ugh . . . where to start.” She fiddles with her straw again. “Let’s see. I’m thirty and single, which is basically like the kiss of death.” She meets my eyes quickly before deciding that’s too intimate and scans the dance floor again. “All the good guys my age are already spoken for.”

  She’s never opened up to me like this before, but something inside me appreciates her vulnerability. I turn to face her and meet her eyes. “You’re a ten, so you could have any guy you want. Your dancing skills are questionable, but still.”

  “You’re an ass.” She rolls her eyes, but the tint on her cheeks at hearing me call her a ten is evident.

  “Not denying that.”

  She smirks and stirs the ice cubes in her drink with the straw.

  “Cheers to being single.” I raise my glass to hers, and Aubree clinks her near-empty cocktail to mine. “Should we order another round?”

  “God, yes. Immediately.”

  Her timing is perfect, because our cocktail waitress has seemingly appeared out of nowhere, and we quickly place an order for another round of drinks.

  It’s over our third cocktail that Aubree blurts, “So, who here is your type?” She sweeps her arm around the bar. “I’ll help you pick someone out.”

  My sip of tequila goes down the wrong pipe, and I cough to clear my throat.

  Is that what Aubree plans on doing tonight? Picking out someone tall, dark, and temporary to provide some stress relief? More importantly, why does the idea of that bother the hell out of me?

  “I don’t have a type,” I finally manage to say, my throat tight.

  Aubree scoffs. “Everyone has a type.”

  “Are we seriously doing this?” My tone hints at annoyance, but in truth, I’m anything but. Sitting here talking and laughing with her is the most fun I’ve had tonight. To be honest, it’s the most fun I’ve had in a long time.

  “What about her?” Ignoring my question, she nods toward a blonde swaying her hips on the edge of the dance floor. She’s dressed in a barely there halter top and a tiny black leather skirt.

  Frowning, I shake my head. “No.”

  Aubree turns and glares at me. “What’s wrong with her?”

  It’s strange how expressive she is. I study her for longer than I should, unable to tear my gaze away. But rather than answer her question, I plead the fifth with a shrug and take another long gulp to drain the rest of my glass.

  “So, are you going to tell me your type, or what?” Her eyes fix on mine and stay there for what feels like too long.

  I don’t hate it.

  “Fine. I prefer brunettes.”

  She smiles triumphantly. “There. Was that so hard?”

  Trust me, I’m halfway there, sweetheart.

  Quizzing me while she sips her beverage, Aubree gets me to admit that I like petite brunettes who can hold a conversation and are feisty.

  She quirks one eyebrow in my direction, and I’m suddenly certain that she’s just realized I’m describing her. Thankfully, she doesn’t call me on it. She just continues tapping her finger against her chin, scanning the bar for prospects like an athletic scout does at a training camp.

  “There’s got to be more than that,” she says, challenging me. “Breast man? A nice heinie? What’s your thing?”

  “My thing?” I can’t hide the humor in my voice. “First off, don’t use the word heinie ever again.”

  “But—” she says.

  God, I love that she’s about to vehemently defend even this.

  I hold up one hand, stopping her. “Promise me. Never again.”

  Aubree makes a low sound of agreement, and I feel a sudden ache in my balls. “Just answer the question, lover boy.”

  “Tits are nice,” I say.

  Aubree laughs, the sound deep and throaty, and any regrets I had about muttering that inarticulate phrase vanish. I’d do it all again just for a shot at hearing that laugh.

  “But a nice curvy ass is pretty great too. I’m a guy, so I wouldn’t deny either.”

  “Truer words,” she says with a chuckle.

  I’m about to turn the question around on her, ask about her type, but the words stick in my throat. I don’t want to hear her describe any man here who isn’t me. My ego isn’t secure enough for that tonight. Sad but true.

  Aubree’s got perfect tits and a nice curvy heinie—God, that word really is atrocious—and I can’t not make a play for her. At this point, what do I have to lose?

  “You want to get out of here?” I ask, adjusting my watch, feigning a casual posture.

  Her lips twitch with a smile. “And go where?”

  I shrug, trying to play it cool, but my heart is hammering. “Anywhere. Someplace we can talk.”

  She considers this, weighing my offer as those expressive amber eyes flash on mine again. “Talking is good.”

  So is kissing.

  “Sure,” she says at last.

  I settle our tab and rise to my feet, grateful that the night is taking an unexpected turn.

  2

  * * *

  Mistakes Were Made

  Aubree

  The rays of sunlight shining through the hotel curtains feel like a flashlight shining directly in my eyeballs. No, not a flashlight. Laser beams. A hundred laser beams, all pointed directly into my corneas.

  Hell hath no fury like a hangover when you’re thirty years old.

  With an exhausted groan, I roll to the edge of the bed, feeling around the side table for my phone, which kindly informs me that it’s almost eleven in the morning. Jeez. If it were any other Saturday, I’d already be home from yoga and hopping in the shower by now.

  But I’m not at home in Seattle, I’m in Las Vegas, and at the moment, just the thought of yoga makes my stomach turn. The only downward dog I’ll be doing today will be directly over the toilet. That is, if I can force myself out of bed.

  Last night, I was throwing back vodka sodas like I was still twenty-one, back when hangovers were a mythical thing that only happened to real adults who just couldn’t keep up.

  Let the record show that I, Aubree Derrick, can’t keep up. My head is pounding, and there’s a churning in my stomach that I’m not even sure throwing up would fix. So, yeah, those real adults? I guess I’m officially one of them.

  Since I’m not particularly excited about the idea of leaving this bed, I open my texts, looking for clues as to what exactly went down last night. By some miracle, I find no evidence of drunk texting any exes. Or if I did, my drunk self had the wherewithal to delete the evidence so Sober Me didn’t have to be embarrassed. Thank you, Drunk Self, for being a true frie
nd.

  But I’m not in the clear yet. I still need to check my camera roll.

  I tap the icon with my thumb, holding my breath as I swipe through photos of me and the girls, Owen and Becca posing at dinner, and a goofy selfie Elise must have snapped when I wasn’t paying attention. I’ll be sure to save that as ammo for a future birthday post for her. But that’s it.

  A slow, relieved breath leaves my lungs. Thank the good Lord above, because other than the hangover from hell, I actually got away scot-free.

  Until I hear the rustling of sheets coming from the other side of the bed.

  Oh no. I spoke too soon.

  Slowly sucking in a deep breath, I count down from ten, promising myself that by the time I reach one, I’ll have worked up enough courage to face whoever I brought back to my hotel room last night.

  Three.

  Two.

  Two and a half.

  Two and a quarter.

  One.

  At first, I don’t recognize the mess of dark hair and tanned skin lying next to me. My bedmate is facing away from me, giving me a delicious view of his muscular back. Faint red lines run down the sculpted muscles between his shoulders, definitely the work of my fingernails.

  Wait a second. I know that back. It’s one I’m used to seeing draped in a jersey.

  Number 94, a.k.a. Landon freaking Covington, the Ice Hawks rookie, is asleep in my bed. Shirtless. And although the sheets are pulled above his trim waist, the pile of clothes on the floor is a pretty good indication that he’s naked below the waist too.

  It doesn’t take a detective to tell you what that means. Shit got real last night. My heart takes off like a race car, thumping so loudly that I’m sure it’s going to wake him up.

  Okay, Aubree. Deep breaths. It’s a hookup. People do this all the time. It’s no biggie.

  And then I catch a glimpse of my left hand. Staring back at me is a beautiful halo-cut ring with a huge diamond that is most definitely a biggie. Literally and figuratively.

  My gaze pings between my left hand and the sexy man sleeping next to me, trying to fill in the gaps in my memory. Slowly, it starts coming back to me—the feel of his strong arms wrapped around me, him whispering something in my ear that made me laugh like a hyena. Us stumbling down the Vegas strip together, hand in hand.