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  Pure Passion

  A Box Set by Horny Devil Publishing

  By Alex Cook, Indigo Sin, Taylor L Ray, and LaVerne Thompson Published by Horny Devil Publishing

  Copyright 2013 Alex Cook, Indigo Sin, Taylor L Ray, and LaVerne Thompson

  ISBN 978-1-62518-084-1

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  Pure Passion Copyright © 2013 Alex Cook, Indigo Sin, Taylor L Ray, and LaVerne Thompson

  Fifty-Seven Shades of Shit: Rude Awakening Copyright 2013 Alex Cook The Passion Series: Hindered Copyright 2013 Indigo Sin Red Hot Part One Copyright 2012 Taylor L Ray

  Skye High Copyright 2012 LaVerne Thompson

  Edited by Kat Marshall and Colette Stone

  Cover art by Dee Allen (www.deeallencoverart.com) Electronic book publication

  With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the publisher, Horny Devil Publishing LLC, P.O. Box 2508, Palm City, FL 34991.

  Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded or distributed via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s permission. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000. ( http://www.fbi.gov/ipr/ ). Please purchase only authorized electronic or print editions and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted material. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imag ination and used fictitiously.

  Fifty-Seven Shades of Shit

  Rude Awakening

  By Alex Cook

  Chapter One

  Before I could change, I had to wait for my wife to leave. “George? I’m going now.”

  “Ok dear,” Kate said she was leaving twelve minutes ago, why was she still here? “Drive safely.”

  “Don’t I always?” she called back.

  “Not always dear.” Oh shit. It was out before I could stop it. And then there was nothing. Not a single sound, but I knew it was coming. I’d blame it on waking up at the butt crack of dawn; hence my brain being out of sync with my mouth.

  “What did you say?” Kate’s voice dropped to a monotone. “Nothing,” but since you insist, if you carry on riding the clutch, it’s

  going to fall through the floor. Everyone will be calling you Fred Flintstone, including me.

  My ‘nothing’ bought me seventeen seconds, at best to pull something phenomenal out of my ass. At 6 foot 1, weighing in at 200lbs I was no lightweight but even my muscles sagged under the clogging dread. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a pussy by any stretch but… I wasn’t stupid either. Two words kept my good sense in check. SEX BAN.

  “Say it.” An impatient Labouty —why couldn’t they name designer shoes by color? — heel tapped expectantly on the hardwood flooring at the bottom of the stairs.

  Think, think, think, think. “You were right dear; we should have gone for the Chevy. Even Danica Patrick couldn’t drive our car.” I answered over chirpily as the bated breath I held mocked my lack of balls.

  “I blame the Japanese.” She said launching into a rant ab out how shitty our Mitsubishi was.

  Even Alex Rodriguez would have been proud of my home run. “Me too dear.”

  “Don’t be a slob. Get dressed. Bye, George” she ordered slamming the front door behind her.

  Kate argued that working from home was an excuse to dress down. To keep arguments to a bare minimum, which was my main goal in life, I avoided the fights by diligently doing as I was told. Unexpectedly, my ass vibrated. Wrestling my cell from the back pocket of the tight fitting man jeans that my wife insisted were a fashion statement, I grunted as I read the caller ID. John Pratt was calling for the third time today and it wasn’t even 8 O clock. What the hell did he want? I toyed with the idea of ignoring the incessant and very annoying Crazy Frog ring tone my daughter, Cassidy, had downloaded when a text message flashed across the screen. Could I even read it while I ignored his call or would the latest technology inform John that I had already skimmed his note, revealing my feigned lack of absence? I gave up trying to pull the jeans out of my ass. At this point they were asphyxiating my balls and they were turning fifty seven shades of black & blue. Finally, Kate left. I yanked off the second skin before my voice box permanently resembled the chipmunks and stepped into a comfortable pair of pajamas, otherwise known as my work uniform.

  Technology had given birth to a new phobia that I would add to my already growing list of mid-life crisis crap to deal with. Trying to pretend you were not available was almost impossible, especially since your location from Nano’s diner to the restroom crap house was blasted all over Facebook. What was the world coming to when I couldn’t even take a shit in peace?

  I wasn’t answering his call or reading the tracking device, also known as text messaging. Firing up my laptop, I attempted to work. I sat down in my comfortable pretend- CEO’s chair and scrolled down the list of prison supplies I had to ship out. I made a few notes before I noticed the influx of new mail. Backed up with orders caused by the crashing of my website this past weekend, the complaints from government officials exploded in front of my eyes. I tapped madly at the keys, making a to-do list. I decided that I was my own fucking boss and work could wait a few minutes. I needed coffee and making the list was proactive, since I was planning ‘to - do’ it at some point. Later. Eventually.

  I didn’t hear the front door. “So you finally got off your butt?” a knowing tone floated from the kitchen and up the stairs without losing momentum before the sound blasted me with contempt. What ever happened to ‘Hi honey, I’m home?’

  “Yes dear.” I shot back, annoyed. What the hell was Kate doing back home less than an hour after she left?

  “I’ve come to pick up Cassidy’s lunch. She forg ot it when she left for school.”

  “Ok dear.” Was she psychic now too?

  “Don’t forget the mortgage payment. It’s due today.”

  countered

  Now, in our fifteen years of marriage I’d never forgott en a payment. Having no money to pay it was a completely different story. One Kate would never let me forget every time we managed to actually have sex, wasting a perfectly good hard-on.

  “Shut up George.”

  “Yes, dear.” I mumbled automatically.

  “It’s almost Valentine’s Day. Don’t forgee - eett” She finished on a sing song note. My head sagged before it crashed onto my mahogany work desk as the front door slammed shut. I reminded myself that a gun along with a fatal head wound, accompanied by a bloody mess for her to find and eventually clean-up was probably unromantic.

  Pulling on my proverbial big man boxers, I ran downstairs, grabbed a pop tart and a mug of coffee before getting comfortable again. I clicked onto Google and typed ‘romantic things to buy my wife’ in the search bar. I scrolled through the list and clicked on the flashing red ‘Sale’ icon which lead me to a list of ‘must haves’ Cosmopolitan insisted a woman could not live without. If she had to have it, and it happened to be last season’s half -price deal, no one would ever have to know. I mentally rejected the dildos and G-string panties since I could hear her disdain clear in my head. ‘You are not shoving that thing in me,’ or ‘Are you trying to make my ass look fat?”

  There were certain moments in a marriage when it was ok to lie. Th
e day you said I do, you didn’t just say I do. What you really said was, ‘I promise to love you for ever and never look at another woman, lie about your weight, honor, lie about your looks, obey, lie if it makes you feel better and let you call me an asshole without retaliation. The fact that she had piled on the pounds didn’t mean shit because relaying that information was dangerous ground, and should come with a warning label like Hazardous-Ninja-Throwing-Stars-Will-Appear-Out-Of-Thin-Air-And-Slice-Your-Balls-Off-If-You-Say-The-Fat- Word. And so the ‘I just had a baby’ excuse became customary thirteen years ago with a never ending sell by date. If I wanted to keep my one bang a month, thongs were a definite no-no.

  Running a hand through my distressed bed- head I wasn’t in any fit state to purchase anything, since one of my eyes was still fused shut. Coffee ignited a false adrenaline, so I tried to tackle the mess that was waiting for me. I tapped angrily at the keys because I actually had to work instead of following my still glued eye back to bed. Compiling the supplies with each order I emailed the list to the delivery guys with the correct addresses and locations while promptly ignoring the doorbell. A few minutes later the melodic Bing-Bong designed to get my attention transformed into a distressed pounding that was hard enough to splinter the wood. Images from The Rocky Horror Picture show flashed in my mind and suddenly I could see a distraught couple soaked to the bone, desperate and begging to use the telephone hammering away at the front door. If we lived in Romania, instead of a New York suburb I’d take a pick axe along for the ride. Sliding out from behind the desk, I dashed into the bedroom to grab some pant s; I didn’t want to freak anyone out with my super hero pajamas and jogged down the stairs. A quick glance in the hall way mirror confirmed that half of my too-long wavy jet black hair was stuck to the side of my head while the other half looked like it had just wrestled with the electric chair. Fingering the strands made no difference and I wasn’t going all the way upstairs again, risk a heart attack from over exhaustion, just to comb it. I gambled that it was probably the delivery guy with a parcel and he wouldn’t remember me tomorrow which pushed the decision in my favour. Grabbing the handle, I pulled the door open and stared into the thick bottle type glasses of John Pratt. Jesus, could the man not take a hint? He barged through the threshold and stormed into my living room.

  “Come in, won’t you?” I spat sarcastically as I closed the door and followed him in.

  John Pratt, husband to Macy, best friend to Kate, was lean with a receding hair line. Even if he argued that he wasn’t balding the evidence was c lear. They’d been our neighbours for eleven years. That however, didn’t make John my buddy, and I’d tried all ways known to man to get rid of him. Nothing worked. Naturally blonde, nearly 6 feet tall and lithe with a killer body, Macy was the opposite of my Kate’s 5 foot 4 frame, long dark hair and deliciously curvy physique.

  “What are your plans for Valentine’s Day?” he asked I sunk down into the leather couch and flicked on the TV. Muting the

  sound so I could deliver a quippy comeback. I skimmed the channels before stopping on The Today Show.

  “I’m touched Mr Clean, but you’re not my type.” As expected, a cushion I had housed and treated kindly by not farting on it became a traitor as it attacked my head.

  “Stop fucking around. Macy is sweating my balls about the infamous V day and the very special present she is expecting. And she insists it had better not be anything like last year’s crockpot disaster,” he paced the length of the room giving the carpet, carpet burns as he rubbed his head, “That shit is heavy duty. I can still feel the dent in my head.”

  “Did you tell her what I told you to say?” I asked carefully. I wanted to see if it would work before I used that excuse on my own wife.

  Another traitorous pillow smacked me in the face. “Yeah, jackass. Remind me to never ask for your advice again.”

  I arched a brow and laughed “And isn’t that exactly what you are doing now?”

  The supply of ammunition in the form of couch cushions had run out. “I’m asking a question. Please and do explain this in depth. Ho w is

  telling my wife that Valentine’s Day is a big publicity giant designed to rob the poor helpful?”

  Scratching my cheek, I searched desperately for the logic. “And did you add the most important part at the end? The bit where you say that you don’t need one day a year to show her you love her, and that you love her every day?” I shrugged confused, because I had nothing if that shit didn’t work. No matter what old couples, who had been wed when dinosaurs roamed the earth said, you never got to know the opposite species; you just gambled your way through most of it and hoped for the best. John’s shoulders sagged in defeat. He followed suit by falling backwards onto the opposite couch. “No, I never got that far. She called me an unromantic tight ass.” The gla re he gave me was nothing compared to the look the wife would have given me if I had dropped that spiel in her lap. Thank fuck!

  My gaze flicked over to the soundless screen. Matt Lauer flashed that dazzling smile as he held up a book. A Valentine’s Day spe cial banner flashed across the screen. The camera zeroed in on the women clapping in the audience before snapping back to the host for a close up. Squinting, I barely caught the title let alone the authors name but I was sure I could recognise the front cover at the local Barnes & Noble.

  “Did you see that?”

  John frowned, “no, what?”

  “There’s a book women are getting excited over for Valentine’s Day. We could swing down to the local mall and pick it up as a gift.”

  “What if it’s shit?”

  John made an excellent point. “Well Matt endorsed it, and the women looked like they really liked it.” I stood up. “I figure it’s got to be better than a vacuum, washer/drier or dishwasher right?”

  Throwing his hands up in the air, John gave in. “I’m not going anywhere with yo u looking like a twelve year old superman groupie.”

  I pinned him with a level glare as I backed out the room and up the stairs to get dressed.

  Chapter Two

  If you weren’t married, Barnes and Noble was one of the best places to pick up lonely and delusional women. And if you were married and in need of an affair, you’d better have the damn good sense to remove your wedding ring because that was the first thing these desperate romance loving readers hunted for. No way could you be their knight in shining armour with fifty seven kids and a ton of alimony payments. These fanatical woman were as smart as shit, we simple men didn’t stand a chance. We moved swiftly like the FBI through the different sections desperately scanning the shelves for the book with the infamous tie picture. Within seconds of our arrival we were ambushed by an anorexic red head flashing a veneer smile. John looked like he just shit his pants, which sparked off another laughing fit as I patted his shoulder. “Don’t worry, I’ll save you.” I m ocked.

  “Hey there Munchkin,” she purred, eyeing Johns puny arms. Munchkin? He was 6 foot 4. What kind of paranormal crack was this crazy lady smoking? I slapped his arm and flexed my hip, capturing her attention. How I knew that particular move is a story for another day, but it involves emotional terrorism from Kate and Wesley Snipes in a dress. I displayed a charming grin from my 6 foot 1 short ass and raised my voice a little. “My boyfriend is such a womenphobe. He gets all choked up and doesn’t know hat to say when one speaks to him,”— I glared at John before I fluttered my eyes for her benefit —“Right Elton baby?”

  If John’s mouth could drop any lower, an elephant would have mistaken it for the entrance to Noah’s Ark. He gurgled once and I gave her a p ointed ‘see’ look. She laughed and fanned us with her breath. John turned green from the toxic gas. Entwining my fingers with his, her eyes zeroed in on our wedding rings. “Promise rings,”— I assured her —“we’ll make it official when Vegas sanctions gay mar riages” I finished before I pulled the statuesque John behind me and headed for the best sellers section.

  I think John punched me in the head. I was a little dizzy for a fe
w seconds, but I couldn’t be sure if it was his feeble blow or the death breath of said red head still lingering on my shirt and face. I eyed our immediate area, making sure we were clear of any predators looking to elevate the divorce rate, using us as examples before I glared at John.

  “Did you just pummel the back of my head?”

  “Friendly warning,” he confirmed.

  “Then I’m either a pussy or you are a fucking wimp.” “I’ll take pussy for 500 please Alex.”

  “I bet you paid way more than that in college.”

  John hissed back like a man handled Cobra “You just told her I was gay!”

  “No shit, Sherl ock. And now the Queen of Anthrax is gone. We can shop for five whole minutes before we will reach the point of no return.”

  “What point is that, stupiditus?”

  “Close,” I concurred. If you asked any woman on the planet, she’d insist we were born with the disease. Not true, it took years to perfect the balance between stupidity and semi-funny. Shopping however, was a member of the torture family and not to be confused with blatant stupidity. At 35 going on dead, I was old enough to remember the torture of school punishments before the stupid ‘don’t spank the children’ rule came into play.

  “So what are we looking for?” John asked as his fingers trailed along the top of the book spines lined up for sale.

  “A dark blackish cover with a tie on it, I think.”

  “You and thinking never helps any situation.”

  “It’s all we have, unless you count rubbing your bald patch while you wait on inspiration.” I shot back.

  Subconsciously, John rubbed his head, comforting the shiny skin I’d just offended. He cursed once before he turned on his heel and headed for a sales clerk. I waited on his return, pretending to look thoroughly interested in a book that happened to be upside down.

  Marching behind the female clerk, John pointed unnecessarily to the back of her head like I coul dn’t see help had arrived. Mrs B&N stopped a foot short of me, and smashed her too-thin-no-point-wearing-them glasses back into the bridge of her nose, almost dislocating it. Obviously she was as blind as a bat because she was looking up and over my shoulder like I was a giant whose eyes were suspended in mid-air near the ceiling.