Dirty Girl (Dirty Girl Duet #1)
Meghan March
About This Book
DESPERATELY SEEKING RICH, FAMOUS, SINGLE GUY WITH A GIANT COCK TO MAKE MY LYING, CHEATING, SHOULD’VE-BEEN-BORN-DICKLESS EX-BOYFRIEND REALIZE WHAT HE’S JUST LOST.
OH, AND I GIVE GREAT HEAD. JUST SAYIN’.
No man in his right mind would answer that ad.
Except thousands did.
My name is Greer Karas, and I should never be allowed near another bottle of booze again. Because when I drink, my friend and I do stupid things. Like take a page out of my older brother’s playbook and post something completely asinine on the Internet. Waking up with a giant hangover to find my humiliating personal ad has gone viral is not my finest moment.
Cue my look of shock when one of Hollywood’s hottest new bad boys, Cavanaugh Westman, comes knocking at my door and drops his pants to prove that he does indeed have a giant cock.
What he doesn’t have is an explanation for why he disappeared from my life without a word three years ago, only to show up on the big screen two years later, killing bad guys in action flicks.
He wants me again.
What the hell do I do now?
Have you ever done something you know is a bad idea, but you’re being egged on by your best friend, and the heat of liquor pooling in your belly destroys any concern about potential consequences? Yeah, I did that last night, and a hangover isn’t the only thing I’m regretting. Oh no, I’m a go big or go home kind of girl. I should have gone home.
“Oh my God, B, you gotta undo it. Shit. Shit. Shit. I’ll get fired over this!” Panic permeates my words as I jam my hands into my snarl of post-blackout-drunk hair.
My best friend, Banner, named by her übergenius geek of a father for the legendary comic book character Bruce Banner, tilts her head to the side as she studies her phone’s screen. With a wince, she looks up.
I already know what she’s going to say before she opens her mouth. I’m so screwed.
“I’m sorry, babe, but it’s not undoable. It’s pretty much the opposite of undoable at this point. They call it viral for a reason. Even if I delete it from the site, it’s already been shared thousands of times.”
I slump into the couch, my body going boneless. “Fuck my life.” I groan, throwing an arm over my eyes as if that will help shield me from the consequences of my poor judgment.
“Have you checked your e-mail?”
I peek out from under my arm to look at her, like a little kid who watches a horror movie from between spread fingers over her eyes in hopes of being less terrified in smaller doses. My brain is still chugging along at hangover speed, so I don’t quite understand where she’s going with this question.
“Checked for an e-mail from my very snooty, very white-shoe law firm informing me that my employment as an associate attorney has been terminated? No. No, I have not.” Normally I monitor my work e-mail religiously, but right now I’m too chicken to open it.
Banner lays her phone facedown on the gray coffee table between us. “Not that account,” she says, turning and tucking one leg under her on the couch. “The one we set up for the other e-mails. Oh, and don’t forget the direct messages on Twitter.”
My memories of last night may be a little fuzzy, but there are certain things that stand out in vivid Technicolor. Like coming up with a ridiculous password for the e-mail account [email protected], and my new Twitter account with the same handle. I shove my arm back over the slit of my vision.
Jeeeeezus. Hot mess alert. And on that note, I’m so terribly sorry, alcohol, but we need to break up.
I inject some optimism, or maybe just na?veté, into my tone. “No one would really respond to that ad, would they? I mean, it was clearly a joke.”
Banner tugs my arm away from my face and squeezes my hand. I’d like to say it’s a squeeze in solidarity, but it’s probably more along the lines of a you’re my best friend and we both know you’re totally fucked squeeze.
She delivers her words patiently, the way you’d talk to a toddler who doesn’t quite understand actual words yet. “Greer, we used your name. Being that you are who you are, what in God’s name makes you think that people wouldn’t respond?”
Snatching my hand back, I jam the heels of my palms into my eyes. “Can’t you just lie to me? I’m trying to find some way to turn back time so my life isn’t so epically screwed.”
“Sorry, babe. Ain’t happening. You were pretty adamant about it last night, and I wasn’t about to contradict you.” Banner pushes off the couch, and I hope she’s going to get a tranquilizer to put me out of my misery.
No such luck. She crosses to the granite kitchen island and grabs my tablet. Her fingernails are tapping away on the screen when she asks, “What was the password again?”
She waits until I mumble something incoherent in response.