Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Also by Celia Aaron
About the Author
FR EE BO O K
Want a FREE book?
Click below to get a copy
of my bestselling novel, Kicked
I
1
W ILLIS
t started with a simple email.
I really enjoyed meeting you tonight. I
put your number in my wallet, but I’ve
since misplaced it. I’d love to buy you
dinner sometime. My number’s in my sig.
Hit me up.
Todd
Dated four nights ago.
I cocked my head at my monitor, the sun
slanting through the wide glass windows of my
apartment, and flicked through the last few days in
my memory. Four nights ago, I’d stuffed myself
with Chinese food while watching college football
reruns with my best friend Elias. Both of us had
been firmly planted on my leather sofa, our feet
kicked up on my battered coffee table.
There was no Todd involved. There was,
however, the flu. I’d come down with it that night
and had been living in hell until this morning. I
coughed and took a test sip of my coffee. It stayed
down. All was well.
While I’d been ill, my unread messages number
had ballooned to terrifying proportions. My blog—
usually a well-tended hotbed of discussion and
witty posts (the latter made by yours truly)—had
been bopping along without me, though there were
quite a few messages from concerned readers with
“get well soon” notes.
I stared blankly at the email, my brain fuzzed
with a leftover Nyquil haze. Todd must have
entered his intended recipient wrong, though how
he could cock it up badly enough to turn it into
Scarlet@ScarletRocket.com was beyond me.
I deleted Todd’s errant overture and continued
scrolling through my emails. A couple from my
editor who was working on review quotes for my
upcoming book, a dozen or so from blog fans, and
one from my agent wanting to know what we were
going to do about the whole “you’re a guy
pretending to be a woman on a blog that’s an
international hit” issue. Apparently, going to
signings in drag wasn’t a particularly wise move. I
had no answer for her, so I kept moving down the
line. One from the New York Daily News caught
my eye.
Ms. Rocket,
It was so great to meet you at the
Celebrity Gala this weekend. When can
we get together for that interview we
discussed?
Jina Feinstein
Lifestyle Blogger
New York Daily News
What. The. Fuck? I sat back in my chair and
stared at my laptop as if it had grown tentacles.
First, there’d been no Todd and second, I’d never
discussed a damn thing with Jina from The New
York Daily News. I searched Jina’s signature, found
her number, and grabbed my phone. Then I slapped
it back down on my desk. What was I going to say?
“Hi Jina, I’m the real Scarlet Rocket. Just ignore
the fact that I’m obviously a man, and also the fact
that there is no actual Scarlet Rocket.”
I scrubbed a hand down my face. Maybe this
was flu-induced insanity. Little flu minions invading
my brain and turning my gray cells a sick shade of
green. That was a thing, right?
Pushing away from my desk, I rose and strode
to the bathroom and splashed some cool water on
my face. After days of being sick, it felt good just
to move around the house without wanting to lay
down and die. My reflection told me I needed a
shave and a shower, but I had no fucks to give on
those points.
My eyelids drooped as fatigue washed over me.
The flu was already winning the day, and I hadn’t
even written a single word in my blog yet. And
worse, I was caught in some sort of weird reality
where Scarlet Rocket, my blog personality, was a
walking, talking person who was apparently
capable of flirting with a Todd and nabbing an
interview with the Daily News. It occurred to me
that Fake Scarlet was doing a better job than I was
at relationships and publicity. Well, shit.
My phone rang. Actually rang. Someone was
calling me. What sort of maniac would do such a
thing? I returned to my desk and saw Elias on the
caller ID. I waffled on answering or letting it go to
voicemail, but decided to put on my big boy pants
and actually speak to another human being today.
“Yeah?”
“First, you sound like shit. Second, have you
seen page six?” He munched something in my ear.
“Not yet.”
He snorted and took another bite of what
sounded like a crisp apple. “How can you be this
queen of gossip and dating advice yet not keep up
with page six?”
“King, not queen, as far as you’re concerned.” I
opened my bookmarks and clicked over to the
gossip section of the New York Post. “I’m there.
What am I looking for?”
Elias whistled. “Redhead, leggy, black dress,
smoking hot.”
I searched down the page until I came to photos
from the weekend’s Celebrity Gala at the Four
Seasons. The woman Elias had described stood
with a champagne flute in her hand, her head tilted
up with an air of confidence while she spoke to a
man in a tux.
“So?” I took another drink of coffee to try and
clear my mind.
“Read the caption.”
Scarlet Rocket, of the synonymous love and advice
blog, makes her debut to the New York elite,
pictured here with real estate tycoon Todd
Mathers.
“The fuck?” I re-read the sentence in case I’d
hallucinated.
“Yeah.” Crunch. “This level-ten hottie is out
there pretending to be you. Or, I guess more
accurately, pretending to be Scarlet Rocket, who is
also you.”
I leaned forward and scrutinized her profile.
Red lips, button nose, thick lashes. Pretty, but not
familiar. “Who is she?”
“I don’t know. Hey look. I have to go. Meeting
with the president of the company later this
morning.”
“Going to pitch him your idea?” I clicked
through the rest of the photos from the gala, hoping
to find another glimpse of the hot imposter.
“Yep.” Confidence rolled out of him, though I
knew well enough to sense the trepidation lying
beneath the surface.
I tried for a supportive tone, but it came out
nasal thanks to the lingering flu. “He’s going to
green-light you. Just wait. I’ve never heard a better
idea for a, um, a…”
“It’s a dildo that squirts its own lube. The
SquickyLube? Remember?”
My memory fired. “Yeah. A dildo on crack,
right?”
“No, you’re thinking of my rear entry device
with additional vibrating fingers. This is more of a
smooth-talking dildo, eases right in.”
Have I mentioned that I met Elias through my
blog? He worked for the largest manufacturer of
personal pleasure items in the world, and served as
the main advertising contact for me. Jizzlywinks ad
dollars paid all the bills in Scarlet Rocket’s early
days and still managed to provide me with some
cushy side income.
“Right. SquickyLube. That sounds like a winner
if I’ve ever heard one, and I can’t wait to see it in
the banner ad on the site.”
“Thanks, man. I’ll text you later. And I’m
proud of you for answering your phone, you
fucking anti-social basket case.”
“Shut up.”
“Fuck you.” With his usual sign off, he hung
up.
My eyes glazed over with a tired fuzz, but I
forced myself to prioritize and get at least
something done.
Fake Scarlet simmered away in my mind. I
needed to find her and tell her to fuck right off. But
how? I decided to let my subconscious chew on the
problem while using my active brain to write a few
blog posts.
I opened my most recent article-in-progress and
skimmed through what I’d written pre-flu.
“Analyzing Anal” looked pretty promising, so I
continued where I’d left off.
“For this girl, the key to anal play, as with so
many other worthwhile things, is preparation.”
My email notification went off. I moved to turn
off all my alerts so I could focus on the
complexities of anal delights, but I caught the
subject line: “Ticket Confirmed.”
Ticket for what? I clicked on the email.
“Ms. Rocket, the Musee de Arts Sexe
welcomes you to its second annual fundraising
gala.” I scrolled down. The event was set for this
Friday. Leaning back, I ran my hands through my
messy hair and stared at the email. Fake Scarlet
would be there. Fake Scarlet, who was running
around town pretending to be me. Fake Scarlet,
whose photos I may have glared at a little too long.
Redheads were my kryptonite, but I couldn’t let
that distract me.
My eyes narrowed. I’d worked for years to
build my blog, and this imposter was schmoozing
along on my hard work. Not cool. I had to do
something. Beyond the principle of the thing, what
if Fake Scarlet was a total numbnuts? What if she
were giving my blog a bad rep? I couldn’t let that
go on. In a few short years, my blog had become
my life. Scarlet Rocket was a part of me, and I
wasn’t going to let a sexy phony destroy the real
Scarlet. (Who wasn’t actually real… Yeah, I know,
but you followed what I was saying there.)
I opened a new email to the Musee de Arts
Sexe. “Ms. Rocket would like to add a plus one to
her ticket. Her date will be Willis Halloran.”
T
2
FA K E S C A RLE T
he event was small, but it had
enough cream puffs from the upper
crust to be worth my while. I stopped at the door
and flicked my long red hair over my shoulder as a
small handful of photographers clicked away. The
warm spring breeze ruffled my short skirt, and I
soaked in the start of the social season.
“Scarlet Rocket.” I smiled at the doorman and
peered past him into the gallery. People milled
about, drinks in their hands and prattle on their lips.
“Welcome.” He checked my name off the guest
list as I walked past.
A small bar was set up to the right. I skirted
around a group of people and stood in line behind
an older man in the middle of a drink order. Sizing
him up, I figured he was some sort of a banker or
an investment guy given the cut of his suit, the size
of his money clip, and the few strands of silver in
his hair. His shoes cost more than most people
made in a month, and everything about him
screamed “cash.”
I coughed into my palm, mainly for attention,
and also to try and rid my lungs of his ridiculously
strong cologne. He looked over his shoulder at me,
taking in my low-cut black top, red skirt, and high
stilettos with a practiced sweep of his gaze.
“Hi.” He smiled, his laser-whitened teeth
dazzling even in the low gallery light. What would
he go for? Extrovert sex kitten or shy schoolgirl? It
was a toss-up, but I went for the latter.
Dropping my gaze to the floor, I peeked at him
through my lashes. “Hi.”
His smile widened, and I knew I’d chosen
correctly. “Can I buy you a drink?”
“It’s an open bar.” I nibbled my bottom lip. His
eyes tracked the movement as I’d hoped.
“I mean after this.” He swiped two drinks from
the barman, one of which I assumed was for his
wife, given the gold band on his ring finger.
“I’m not sure I should.” I stepped forward and
stumbled into him.
“Whoa.” He raised the glasses so as not to spill
on me.
“Sorry about that.” I winced and righted
myself. “I’m so clumsy in heels.”
He shook his head. “I’d say you’re fuck-hot in
heels.”
Inward cringe, outer smile. “Thanks.”
“I’ve got to get back, but I’ll catch you when
this thing’s over.” He licked his lips.
Not a chance. “All right.” I gave him a demure
smile, then scooted past him and ordered a
champagne. After tucking his money clip into my
sparkly clutch (a girl’s gotta earn a living, right?), I
spun around and assessed the rest of the room.
The walls were adorned with various paintings
and photos of people performing some rather
creative sex acts. I was particularly fond of an
image of a woman doing a backbend with an
indescribably large penis wedged in her throat. If
this was art, Tumblr deserved its own fancy-smancy
gallery.
My next mark stood and stared at a photo of
two women entangled in a Sapphic embrace. Tall,
older, and running his hand along his potbelly, his
“creeper with cash” vibe practically called my
name, which, at the moment, was Scarlet Rocket.
I eased through the crowd, cursing the women
who held onto their clutches with the strength of
eagle talons. No chance with them. But men with
wallets tucked away in pockets? Easy pickings.
“Scarlet?” Someone pushed through the crowd
toward me. A toothily handsome man approached.
My hackles rose. Whenever someone
recognized me, I held my breath and waited for an
accusation. Despite my worries, no one had ever
connected me to their missing valuables. Even so, I
was still wary.
“Hi.” I plastered on a smile and tried to place
the man.
“Todd, remember?” His million-megawatt smile
flashed a memory loose. Last weekend. His wallet
sat in a pile of wallets in a basket beneath my bed.
“Of course.” I let him take my elbow and guide
me toward a quieter alcove. I threw a longing look
at the mark with a hard-on for the lesbian love
painting. Maybe I could try him later once I shook
off Todd.
“Did you get my email?” he asked as we
stopped next to a vibrant image of a multi-pronged,
neon green dildo. Who was this designed for? An
alien with eight vaginas?
I dragged my eyes away from the octodildo.
“Um, no, I must have missed it. I get so many from
the blog and everything.”
“Yeah, I try to skip over mine, but my secretary
makes sure I see the important ones.” He took a sip
of his red. “I wanted to ask if you’d be interested in
going to dinner with me sometime.”
What had I played with him last weekend?
Forward or frumpy? Damn, I couldn’t remember.
He shrugged, his suit hugging his shoulders with
tailored flair. “Sorry to come on strong, but women
like you don’t stay single for long.”
I pressed my champagne glass to my lips and
stared at him. Handsome, moneyed, everything a
gal like me should want in a man. But I didn’t want
a man, I wanted whatever brand new wallet he had
tucked away in his suit coat. Men were a dime a
dozen, but cash was forever. Stepping closer, I ran
my free hand down his chest. “This color is
amazing on you.”
He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing
quickly. “Thanks. My tailor recommended it.”
My fingers tickled along the edge of supple
leather hidden beneath the wool. How much money
had he stashed in the replacement wallet? I was
about to find out.
I licked my lips slowly. He focused on my
mouth as I deftly slid my fingers to his inner
pocket. One twitch of my wrist, and I’d have taken
this idiot twice.
“Scarlet?” A man’s voice cut through my spell
like a knife through a spider web. The same old
cold splash of water rushed down my spine. I hated
being recognized.
I stepped back, and the wallet remained in
Todd’s coat instead of in my hand where it
belonged. Damn.
Another man had walked up.
Bigger than Todd, but nowhere near as well
groomed, the man glared at me through a pair of
glasses with black plastic rims. “Can I have a word,
Scarlet?”
“Hi, I’m Todd.” He extended his hand.
The newcomer ignored him. “I know who you
are.”
“And you are?” Todd stepped forward,
shielding me from the angry glarer.
“I’m Willis. Her date.”
“Oh.” Todd deflated a bit. “Scarlet?” He turned
back to me, a question in his eyes.
I didn’t have a date, and certainly not with
Willis, but something in his direct stare told me it
was in my best interest to play along…for now.
“Oh, Todd. I’m sorry. Willis is my PR guy’s
boyfriend. He’s pretty much my secretary, to be
honest.” I enjoyed the slight eye twitch from Willis
at my assertion. “I told him I’d show him around
the gallery. Can we raincheck?”
“Yeah. Not a problem. I need to head out
anyway.” He turned to me and pulled his phone
from his pocket. “Can I get your number this
time?”
“Yes.” I rattled off the digits to my burner
phone.
“Great.” He tapped a few buttons. “I sent you a
text, so you’ve got my number.”
My clutch buzzed. “Got it.” I shook it for
emphasis.
“See you soon.” He dropped a kiss on my
cheek, then nodded at the angry glarer. “Nice to
meet you, Willis. Have a great night.” Todd struck
off through the crowd.
Angry Glarer took his place, crowding me.
“What do you think you’re doing?” His dark blue
eyes tried to convey menace, but he seemed more
like an angry, sexy teddy bear than a frightening
aggressor. And the glasses definitely gave him a
Clark Kent flair. Angry, sexy, nerdy teddy bear.
“What do you mean, Sparky?” I opted for my
innocent bystander routine. “I think you have me
confused with someone else.” I took a few steps
away, but Angry Glarer stayed on my heels. Had I
stolen something from him recently? I couldn’t
recall his face.
“Cut the shit.” He grabbed my elbow and
whirled me around. “You’re pretending to be
Scarlet Rocket,” he whisper-yelled.
“What?” I cocked my head at him. “No, I’m
not.”
“You’ve been telling people that you write the
Scarlet Rocket blog!” His voice rose, but he quieted
when some of the people near us began to stare.
“And you’re a liar.”
I sipped my champagne as he huffed, his clean-
shaven jaw marred with random nicks from what
appeared to be a hasty shaving job. His shirt was
slightly wrinkled, the coat mismatched to his gray
pants, and his shoes were far too shiny for this
event. In short, he was a mess, but I couldn’t deny
he was a handsome one. Stony blue eyes, dark
brown hair, and a decent build—if he cleaned up a
little, he’d leave Todd in the dust.
Todd. My fingers itched for his wallet, but I
wouldn’t be able to make a move on it tonight. He
was gone, and instead, I had Angry Glarer in my
face. But maybe I could make up for the loss with
whatever this guy had in his pockets.
“Well?” He ran a hand through his unruly hair.
“What do you have to say for yourself?”
I tried a sweet tone. “Look, Sparky—”
“Stop calling me Sparky. My name’s Willis.”
“Sure. I go to parties sometimes, okay? My
name happens to be Scarlet Rocket. It’s not my
fault if people think that I write your blog or
whatever it is you’re saying.” I blinked a few times,
waving my fake lashes around like white flags as
the lies rolled off my tongue.
He scoffed. “Your name is Scarlet Rocket?”
“Yes.” I turned to peruse the painting beside us.
A man rode a woman from behind, the look on her
face one of raw ecstasy.
“Show me your ID.” He held his hand out.
“What do you think of this painting?” I waved
my champagne flute at it.
His eyebrows drew together. “I didn’t come
here for art. I came here for you.”
“Just tell me what you think of the painting, and
then I’ll show you my ID.” I had no ID, but he
didn’t need to know that. A little sexual
misdirection, and I’d be out of this jam in no time.
He glanced at the art, then did a double-take.
His eyes widened. “What the hell kind of gallery is
this?”
“It’s sex. Couldn’t you tell from the name?”
“I wasn’t thinking about the name. I was
thinking about catching the jerk who was
pretending to be me.”
Ah ha. He was the real Scarlet Rocket…or as
real as possible, since “she” was a “he.” I should
have been walking away from him right then, but
instead I asked, “You write the Scarlet Rocket
blog?”
He glanced around, as if afraid someone was
listening. “Not that it matters, but yes.”
“I knew it.” I grinned and finished off my
champagne.
“Knew what?” He stole another glance at the
risqué canvas.
“That the blog writer was a man.”
He blanched, the color leaching from his
smooth cheeks. “How could you tell?”
“Relax. Only a handful of people would be able
to tell. I just happen to be one of them.”
“How?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
He shook his head. “I didn’t come here for this.
Stop telling people you’re Scarlet Rocket.”
“Why?”
He sputtered, his words jumbling together.
“Because it’s a lie and you’re a liar and it isn’t
right.”
“Feeling threatened, Sparky?” I returned to the
sexual distraction part of my plan. “Oh, look at that
one.” I pointed to a painting in the corner at his
back.
“I’m not falling for that.”
“For what?” I stepped around him and
inspected the canvas. A man smiled from between a
woman’s legs, her pert nipples the focal point of his
gaze.
He followed my stare. “Oh.”
“He seems happy to be there. And those nips
could cut glass.”
His eyebrows lifted in agreement. “Yeah, they
coul—” He shook his head hard. “No, stop trying
to distract me. You have to promise me that you
will stop pretending to be Scarlet Rocket.” His
angry whisper cut through the air.
I rolled my eyes. “Why?”
“I already told you. Because it’s a lie.”
“So what?”
“Well, that’s not right.” He crossed his arms
over his broad chest.
“Isn’t you calling your blog Scarlet Rocket and
pretending you’re a woman a lie?”
He stared at a spot above my head, the cogs in
xevexx9
EBooki
YOU’VE GOT FAIL
CELIA AARON
Celia Aaron Copyright © 2017 Celia Aaron All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the original purchaser of this e-book only. No part of this e-book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without prior written permission from Celia Aaron. This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. WARNING: This e-book contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language. DIRE WARNING: If you pirate this book, your soul will rot in hell. Cover art by Perfect Pear Cover model Allen Cover image by Wander Aguiar Content Editing by J. Brooks Copy Editing by Spell Bound
CONTENTS Free Book Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23
Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Epilogue Acknowledgments Also by Celia Aaron About the Author
FR EE BO O K Want a FREE book? Click below to get a copy of my bestselling novel, Kicked
I 1 W ILLIS t started with a simple email. I really enjoyed meeting you tonight. I put your number in my wallet, but I’ve since misplaced it. I’d love to buy you dinner sometime. My number’s in my sig. Hit me up. Todd Dated four nights ago. I cocked my head at my monitor, the sun slanting through the wide glass windows of my apartment, and flicked through the last few days in my memory. Four nights ago, I’d stuffed myself with Chinese food while watching college football reruns with my best friend Elias. Both of us had
been firmly planted on my leather sofa, our feet kicked up on my battered coffee table. There was no Todd involved. There was, however, the flu. I’d come down with it that night and had been living in hell until this morning. I coughed and took a test sip of my coffee. It stayed down. All was well. While I’d been ill, my unread messages number had ballooned to terrifying proportions. My blog— usually a well-tended hotbed of discussion and witty posts (the latter made by yours truly)—had been bopping along without me, though there were quite a few messages from concerned readers with “get well soon” notes. I stared blankly at the email, my brain fuzzed with a leftover Nyquil haze. Todd must have entered his intended recipient wrong, though how he could cock it up badly enough to turn it into Scarlet@ScarletRocket.com was beyond me. I deleted Todd’s errant overture and continued scrolling through my emails. A couple from my editor who was working on review quotes for my upcoming book, a dozen or so from blog fans, and one from my agent wanting to know what we were going to do about the whole “you’re a guy pretending to be a woman on a blog that’s an international hit” issue. Apparently, going to signings in drag wasn’t a particularly wise move. I had no answer for her, so I kept moving down the
line. One from the New York Daily News caught my eye. Ms. Rocket, It was so great to meet you at the Celebrity Gala this weekend. When can we get together for that interview we discussed? Jina Feinstein Lifestyle Blogger New York Daily News What. The. Fuck? I sat back in my chair and stared at my laptop as if it had grown tentacles. First, there’d been no Todd and second, I’d never discussed a damn thing with Jina from The New York Daily News. I searched Jina’s signature, found her number, and grabbed my phone. Then I slapped it back down on my desk. What was I going to say? “Hi Jina, I’m the real Scarlet Rocket. Just ignore the fact that I’m obviously a man, and also the fact that there is no actual Scarlet Rocket.” I scrubbed a hand down my face. Maybe this was flu-induced insanity. Little flu minions invading my brain and turning my gray cells a sick shade of green. That was a thing, right? Pushing away from my desk, I rose and strode
to the bathroom and splashed some cool water on my face. After days of being sick, it felt good just to move around the house without wanting to lay down and die. My reflection told me I needed a shave and a shower, but I had no fucks to give on those points. My eyelids drooped as fatigue washed over me. The flu was already winning the day, and I hadn’t even written a single word in my blog yet. And worse, I was caught in some sort of weird reality where Scarlet Rocket, my blog personality, was a walking, talking person who was apparently capable of flirting with a Todd and nabbing an interview with the Daily News. It occurred to me that Fake Scarlet was doing a better job than I was at relationships and publicity. Well, shit. My phone rang. Actually rang. Someone was calling me. What sort of maniac would do such a thing? I returned to my desk and saw Elias on the caller ID. I waffled on answering or letting it go to voicemail, but decided to put on my big boy pants and actually speak to another human being today. “Yeah?” “First, you sound like shit. Second, have you seen page six?” He munched something in my ear. “Not yet.” He snorted and took another bite of what sounded like a crisp apple. “How can you be this queen of gossip and dating advice yet not keep up
with page six?” “King, not queen, as far as you’re concerned.” I opened my bookmarks and clicked over to the gossip section of the New York Post. “I’m there. What am I looking for?” Elias whistled. “Redhead, leggy, black dress, smoking hot.” I searched down the page until I came to photos from the weekend’s Celebrity Gala at the Four Seasons. The woman Elias had described stood with a champagne flute in her hand, her head tilted up with an air of confidence while she spoke to a man in a tux. “So?” I took another drink of coffee to try and clear my mind. “Read the caption.” Scarlet Rocket, of the synonymous love and advice blog, makes her debut to the New York elite, pictured here with real estate tycoon Todd Mathers. “The fuck?” I re-read the sentence in case I’d hallucinated. “Yeah.” Crunch. “This level-ten hottie is out there pretending to be you. Or, I guess more accurately, pretending to be Scarlet Rocket, who is also you.” I leaned forward and scrutinized her profile.
Red lips, button nose, thick lashes. Pretty, but not familiar. “Who is she?” “I don’t know. Hey look. I have to go. Meeting with the president of the company later this morning.” “Going to pitch him your idea?” I clicked through the rest of the photos from the gala, hoping to find another glimpse of the hot imposter. “Yep.” Confidence rolled out of him, though I knew well enough to sense the trepidation lying beneath the surface. I tried for a supportive tone, but it came out nasal thanks to the lingering flu. “He’s going to green-light you. Just wait. I’ve never heard a better idea for a, um, a…” “It’s a dildo that squirts its own lube. The SquickyLube? Remember?” My memory fired. “Yeah. A dildo on crack, right?” “No, you’re thinking of my rear entry device with additional vibrating fingers. This is more of a smooth-talking dildo, eases right in.” Have I mentioned that I met Elias through my blog? He worked for the largest manufacturer of personal pleasure items in the world, and served as the main advertising contact for me. Jizzlywinks ad dollars paid all the bills in Scarlet Rocket’s early days and still managed to provide me with some cushy side income.
“Right. SquickyLube. That sounds like a winner if I’ve ever heard one, and I can’t wait to see it in the banner ad on the site.” “Thanks, man. I’ll text you later. And I’m proud of you for answering your phone, you fucking anti-social basket case.” “Shut up.” “Fuck you.” With his usual sign off, he hung up. My eyes glazed over with a tired fuzz, but I forced myself to prioritize and get at least something done. Fake Scarlet simmered away in my mind. I needed to find her and tell her to fuck right off. But how? I decided to let my subconscious chew on the problem while using my active brain to write a few blog posts. I opened my most recent article-in-progress and skimmed through what I’d written pre-flu. “Analyzing Anal” looked pretty promising, so I continued where I’d left off. “For this girl, the key to anal play, as with so many other worthwhile things, is preparation.” My email notification went off. I moved to turn off all my alerts so I could focus on the complexities of anal delights, but I caught the subject line: “Ticket Confirmed.” Ticket for what? I clicked on the email. “Ms. Rocket, the Musee de Arts Sexe
welcomes you to its second annual fundraising gala.” I scrolled down. The event was set for this Friday. Leaning back, I ran my hands through my messy hair and stared at the email. Fake Scarlet would be there. Fake Scarlet, who was running around town pretending to be me. Fake Scarlet, whose photos I may have glared at a little too long. Redheads were my kryptonite, but I couldn’t let that distract me. My eyes narrowed. I’d worked for years to build my blog, and this imposter was schmoozing along on my hard work. Not cool. I had to do something. Beyond the principle of the thing, what if Fake Scarlet was a total numbnuts? What if she were giving my blog a bad rep? I couldn’t let that go on. In a few short years, my blog had become my life. Scarlet Rocket was a part of me, and I wasn’t going to let a sexy phony destroy the real Scarlet. (Who wasn’t actually real… Yeah, I know, but you followed what I was saying there.) I opened a new email to the Musee de Arts Sexe. “Ms. Rocket would like to add a plus one to her ticket. Her date will be Willis Halloran.”
T 2 FA K E S C A RLE T he event was small, but it had enough cream puffs from the upper crust to be worth my while. I stopped at the door and flicked my long red hair over my shoulder as a small handful of photographers clicked away. The warm spring breeze ruffled my short skirt, and I soaked in the start of the social season. “Scarlet Rocket.” I smiled at the doorman and peered past him into the gallery. People milled about, drinks in their hands and prattle on their lips. “Welcome.” He checked my name off the guest list as I walked past. A small bar was set up to the right. I skirted around a group of people and stood in line behind an older man in the middle of a drink order. Sizing him up, I figured he was some sort of a banker or an investment guy given the cut of his suit, the size
of his money clip, and the few strands of silver in his hair. His shoes cost more than most people made in a month, and everything about him screamed “cash.” I coughed into my palm, mainly for attention, and also to try and rid my lungs of his ridiculously strong cologne. He looked over his shoulder at me, taking in my low-cut black top, red skirt, and high stilettos with a practiced sweep of his gaze. “Hi.” He smiled, his laser-whitened teeth dazzling even in the low gallery light. What would he go for? Extrovert sex kitten or shy schoolgirl? It was a toss-up, but I went for the latter. Dropping my gaze to the floor, I peeked at him through my lashes. “Hi.” His smile widened, and I knew I’d chosen correctly. “Can I buy you a drink?” “It’s an open bar.” I nibbled my bottom lip. His eyes tracked the movement as I’d hoped. “I mean after this.” He swiped two drinks from the barman, one of which I assumed was for his wife, given the gold band on his ring finger. “I’m not sure I should.” I stepped forward and stumbled into him. “Whoa.” He raised the glasses so as not to spill on me. “Sorry about that.” I winced and righted myself. “I’m so clumsy in heels.” He shook his head. “I’d say you’re fuck-hot in
heels.” Inward cringe, outer smile. “Thanks.” “I’ve got to get back, but I’ll catch you when this thing’s over.” He licked his lips. Not a chance. “All right.” I gave him a demure smile, then scooted past him and ordered a champagne. After tucking his money clip into my sparkly clutch (a girl’s gotta earn a living, right?), I spun around and assessed the rest of the room. The walls were adorned with various paintings and photos of people performing some rather creative sex acts. I was particularly fond of an image of a woman doing a backbend with an indescribably large penis wedged in her throat. If this was art, Tumblr deserved its own fancy-smancy gallery. My next mark stood and stared at a photo of two women entangled in a Sapphic embrace. Tall, older, and running his hand along his potbelly, his “creeper with cash” vibe practically called my name, which, at the moment, was Scarlet Rocket. I eased through the crowd, cursing the women who held onto their clutches with the strength of eagle talons. No chance with them. But men with wallets tucked away in pockets? Easy pickings. “Scarlet?” Someone pushed through the crowd toward me. A toothily handsome man approached. My hackles rose. Whenever someone recognized me, I held my breath and waited for an
accusation. Despite my worries, no one had ever connected me to their missing valuables. Even so, I was still wary. “Hi.” I plastered on a smile and tried to place the man. “Todd, remember?” His million-megawatt smile flashed a memory loose. Last weekend. His wallet sat in a pile of wallets in a basket beneath my bed. “Of course.” I let him take my elbow and guide me toward a quieter alcove. I threw a longing look at the mark with a hard-on for the lesbian love painting. Maybe I could try him later once I shook off Todd. “Did you get my email?” he asked as we stopped next to a vibrant image of a multi-pronged, neon green dildo. Who was this designed for? An alien with eight vaginas? I dragged my eyes away from the octodildo. “Um, no, I must have missed it. I get so many from the blog and everything.” “Yeah, I try to skip over mine, but my secretary makes sure I see the important ones.” He took a sip of his red. “I wanted to ask if you’d be interested in going to dinner with me sometime.” What had I played with him last weekend? Forward or frumpy? Damn, I couldn’t remember. He shrugged, his suit hugging his shoulders with tailored flair. “Sorry to come on strong, but women like you don’t stay single for long.”
I pressed my champagne glass to my lips and stared at him. Handsome, moneyed, everything a gal like me should want in a man. But I didn’t want a man, I wanted whatever brand new wallet he had tucked away in his suit coat. Men were a dime a dozen, but cash was forever. Stepping closer, I ran my free hand down his chest. “This color is amazing on you.” He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing quickly. “Thanks. My tailor recommended it.” My fingers tickled along the edge of supple leather hidden beneath the wool. How much money had he stashed in the replacement wallet? I was about to find out. I licked my lips slowly. He focused on my mouth as I deftly slid my fingers to his inner pocket. One twitch of my wrist, and I’d have taken this idiot twice. “Scarlet?” A man’s voice cut through my spell like a knife through a spider web. The same old cold splash of water rushed down my spine. I hated being recognized. I stepped back, and the wallet remained in Todd’s coat instead of in my hand where it belonged. Damn. Another man had walked up. Bigger than Todd, but nowhere near as well groomed, the man glared at me through a pair of glasses with black plastic rims. “Can I have a word,
Scarlet?” “Hi, I’m Todd.” He extended his hand. The newcomer ignored him. “I know who you are.” “And you are?” Todd stepped forward, shielding me from the angry glarer. “I’m Willis. Her date.” “Oh.” Todd deflated a bit. “Scarlet?” He turned back to me, a question in his eyes. I didn’t have a date, and certainly not with Willis, but something in his direct stare told me it was in my best interest to play along…for now. “Oh, Todd. I’m sorry. Willis is my PR guy’s boyfriend. He’s pretty much my secretary, to be honest.” I enjoyed the slight eye twitch from Willis at my assertion. “I told him I’d show him around the gallery. Can we raincheck?” “Yeah. Not a problem. I need to head out anyway.” He turned to me and pulled his phone from his pocket. “Can I get your number this time?” “Yes.” I rattled off the digits to my burner phone. “Great.” He tapped a few buttons. “I sent you a text, so you’ve got my number.” My clutch buzzed. “Got it.” I shook it for emphasis. “See you soon.” He dropped a kiss on my cheek, then nodded at the angry glarer. “Nice to
meet you, Willis. Have a great night.” Todd struck off through the crowd. Angry Glarer took his place, crowding me. “What do you think you’re doing?” His dark blue eyes tried to convey menace, but he seemed more like an angry, sexy teddy bear than a frightening aggressor. And the glasses definitely gave him a Clark Kent flair. Angry, sexy, nerdy teddy bear. “What do you mean, Sparky?” I opted for my innocent bystander routine. “I think you have me confused with someone else.” I took a few steps away, but Angry Glarer stayed on my heels. Had I stolen something from him recently? I couldn’t recall his face. “Cut the shit.” He grabbed my elbow and whirled me around. “You’re pretending to be Scarlet Rocket,” he whisper-yelled. “What?” I cocked my head at him. “No, I’m not.” “You’ve been telling people that you write the Scarlet Rocket blog!” His voice rose, but he quieted when some of the people near us began to stare. “And you’re a liar.” I sipped my champagne as he huffed, his clean- shaven jaw marred with random nicks from what appeared to be a hasty shaving job. His shirt was slightly wrinkled, the coat mismatched to his gray pants, and his shoes were far too shiny for this event. In short, he was a mess, but I couldn’t deny
he was a handsome one. Stony blue eyes, dark brown hair, and a decent build—if he cleaned up a little, he’d leave Todd in the dust. Todd. My fingers itched for his wallet, but I wouldn’t be able to make a move on it tonight. He was gone, and instead, I had Angry Glarer in my face. But maybe I could make up for the loss with whatever this guy had in his pockets. “Well?” He ran a hand through his unruly hair. “What do you have to say for yourself?” I tried a sweet tone. “Look, Sparky—” “Stop calling me Sparky. My name’s Willis.” “Sure. I go to parties sometimes, okay? My name happens to be Scarlet Rocket. It’s not my fault if people think that I write your blog or whatever it is you’re saying.” I blinked a few times, waving my fake lashes around like white flags as the lies rolled off my tongue. He scoffed. “Your name is Scarlet Rocket?” “Yes.” I turned to peruse the painting beside us. A man rode a woman from behind, the look on her face one of raw ecstasy. “Show me your ID.” He held his hand out. “What do you think of this painting?” I waved my champagne flute at it. His eyebrows drew together. “I didn’t come here for art. I came here for you.” “Just tell me what you think of the painting, and then I’ll show you my ID.” I had no ID, but he
didn’t need to know that. A little sexual misdirection, and I’d be out of this jam in no time. He glanced at the art, then did a double-take. His eyes widened. “What the hell kind of gallery is this?” “It’s sex. Couldn’t you tell from the name?” “I wasn’t thinking about the name. I was thinking about catching the jerk who was pretending to be me.” Ah ha. He was the real Scarlet Rocket…or as real as possible, since “she” was a “he.” I should have been walking away from him right then, but instead I asked, “You write the Scarlet Rocket blog?” He glanced around, as if afraid someone was listening. “Not that it matters, but yes.” “I knew it.” I grinned and finished off my champagne. “Knew what?” He stole another glance at the risqué canvas. “That the blog writer was a man.” He blanched, the color leaching from his smooth cheeks. “How could you tell?” “Relax. Only a handful of people would be able to tell. I just happen to be one of them.” “How?” “Doesn’t matter.” He shook his head. “I didn’t come here for this. Stop telling people you’re Scarlet Rocket.”
“Why?” He sputtered, his words jumbling together. “Because it’s a lie and you’re a liar and it isn’t right.” “Feeling threatened, Sparky?” I returned to the sexual distraction part of my plan. “Oh, look at that one.” I pointed to a painting in the corner at his back. “I’m not falling for that.” “For what?” I stepped around him and inspected the canvas. A man smiled from between a woman’s legs, her pert nipples the focal point of his gaze. He followed my stare. “Oh.” “He seems happy to be there. And those nips could cut glass.” His eyebrows lifted in agreement. “Yeah, they coul—” He shook his head hard. “No, stop trying to distract me. You have to promise me that you will stop pretending to be Scarlet Rocket.” His angry whisper cut through the air. I rolled my eyes. “Why?” “I already told you. Because it’s a lie.” “So what?” “Well, that’s not right.” He crossed his arms over his broad chest. “Isn’t you calling your blog Scarlet Rocket and pretending you’re a woman a lie?” He stared at a spot above my head, the cogs in