Hoax Husband: A Hero Club Novel Read online

  Hoax Husband

  Copyright © 2020 by Candice Wright and Cocky Hero Club, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the authors’ imaginations. Any resemblance to actual persons, things, living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.

  Editor: Tanya Oemig

  Proofreading by: Missy Stewart @ Ms. Correct All & Gina Wynn @ Gina Writes Words

  Cover Design: Kirsty Anne Still @ The Pretty Little Design Co.

  Formatted by: Gina Wynn @ Gina Writes Words

  Contents

  Hoax Husband

  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

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Epilogue

  Other Books By Candice Wright

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Hoax Husband

  Candice Wright

  Hoax Husband is a standalone story inspired by Vi Keeland and Penelope Ward’s Stuck-up Suit. It's published as part of the Cocky Hero Club world, a series of original works, written by various authors, and inspired by Keeland and Ward's New York Times bestselling series.

  For Tanya, Missy and Gina

  Strong, smart, talented, and kind. Individually these ladies are amazing, but together they truly are my dream team.

  One

  Linda

  I stare at my hair in the mirror and wince.

  Welcome to Vegas, Linda.

  I might like the heat, but humidity is not my friend, and my naturally curly hair is twice the size it usually is, giving it an “I just stuck my fingers in an electrical socket” look.

  Fanfreakingtastic. I guess I should be grateful my stepfather insisted I dye it back to my mousy brown color from the soft baby pink it was before.

  Apparently, having pink hair sent out the wrong message at my conservative job as secretary to Graham Asshole Morgan. All I know right now is, given its current look, I would likely be mistaken for a walking, talking stick of cotton candy, so in a roundabout way, he’s done me a favor. Not that I’d ever tell him that.

  Using bobby pins, I try to tame some of the hair, but it's a lost cause. Eventually, I give up and pull it into a ponytail. It's not particularly fancy, but a glance at my watch tells me I’m going to be late if I don't hurry up.

  I quickly shimmy into a fitted dark-gray pencil skirt that cups my ass and fits tight to the knee with a small split in the back. I team it with a dusty-pink, long-sleeved silk blouse, ever conscious of my father's words in my head about hiding my tattoos as they look crass in an office environment filled with professionals.

  I brushed off his comments at the time, but even with my flippant attitude, his words always have the ability to leave a mark.

  Slipping on my black Jimmy Choo’s, I snag my laptop bag and key card from the dresser before heading down to the meeting room on the ground floor of the hotel, where Graham will be giving his presentation.

  Thank god for AC, or I’d be a puddle on the floor by the end of the evening.

  I take a deep breath as the elevator doors open and will myself to bite my tongue. I made my father a promise, and I won’t break it if I can help it.

  Just as I’m about to pull on the door to the conference room, it's forcefully pushed open from the inside, making me wobble on my heels as I’m nearly knocked over.

  “There you are, Laura, Jesus fucking Christ. How hard is it to be on time?”

  I glance at my watch. I’m five minutes early, but I don't point that out. Graham Morgan is a complete and utter asshole and won’t care what I have to say for myself. Men like him never do. Men just like my father.

  I look up at the dark-haired, dark-eyed handsome man and somehow manage to keep the scowl off my face. Graham might be pretty on the outside, but his personality sure leaves a lot to be desired

  “Sorry, Mr. Morgan. What can I do to help?”

  “Make sure every potential buyer has a prospectus and a fucking drink. That’s not too much to ask now, is it, Laura?”

  “No, sir, I’ll get right on that. And it's Linda…” My voice trails off as he walks away, clearly done with this conversation.

  Yeah, fuck you very much.

  Brushing my damp palms over my skirt, I plaster a fake smile on my face and stroll into the room to do his bidding. Ten minutes later, I’ve set up everything he asked for and seated myself in the corner with my laptop balanced on my knees, ready to take notes.

  Graham walks back in, talking to a portly man with a ruddy complexion. I’m too far away to hear what's being said, but it's clear from the scowl on his face the portly man likes Graham about as much as I do.

  I look away before I get caught and open the laptop, signing in to the hotel's Wi-Fi as people begin arriving and finding their seats.

  I’m so focused on what I’m doing, I don’t realize Graham has approached until he coughs obnoxiously, making me jump.

  “Tell me, Laura, how hard is it to get some fucking water in this place? I mean, I’m just dying to know.”

  I look at him in confusion, my eyes trailing down to the almost full glass of water in his hand, then back up to his face. “Sir?” I question quietly.

  He mumbles something I don’t catch before talking in a much louder voice than before, drawing the attention of those closest to us. “I have a three-hour presentation to give. Do you think in this heat that one measly glass is going to be sufficient?”

  I close my eyes and mentally count to ten. “Sorry, sir, I’ll get right on that for you.” I offer him a weak smile and stand, placing my laptop on my chair before scurrying through the room and out the door.

  I make my way across the lobby and into the restaurant, signaling the pretty bartender at the bar.

  “What can I get you, miss?” she asks in an accented voice I can’t place.

  “A pitcher of iced water, please, with a twist of lemon.”

  She nods and busies herself with my request while I look around the room.

  It's modern and upscale, naturally. Only the best will do for Graham Asshole Morgan.

  The walls are dark wood paneling, the curtains a thick damask of red velvet and gold brocade. The same materials are echoed on the sumptuous wing-backed chairs and the seats of the dark wood stools that line the bar.

  All the tables and bar match the wood-paneled walls, and although everything is on the dark end of the scale, the room is bright and warm thanks to
the two dazzling chandeliers that light it from above.

  “Your water, miss.”

  I turn at the sound of the bartender's voice and offer her a grateful smile before thanking her and heading back to the conference room.

  When I get there, I find the doors locked and a sign hung upon them stating that admittance would not be granted now that the meeting is in session.

  “Fuck,” I swear, just knowing the reaming I’ll get for this later.

  With nothing I can do about it, I take the pitcher back to the bar and decide to head up to my room. That’s when it dawns on me that my laptop bag with my keycard and phone is still inside the conference room.

  “And isn’t that just the icing on the freaking cake,” I mutter, plonking myself down on one of the barstools.

  “Something wrong?” the bartender asks, eyeing the water.

  “No, I’ve just found myself locked out of a meeting I was supposed to be in, and I can’t get into my room because my stuff is still inside the conference room.”

  “Damn, that sucks. Do you want me to call the front desk and get you a spare keycard?”

  I’m so used to spending my days surrounded by vipers that it's nice to know there are still some kind people out there.

  “You know what? I think I’ll have a drink and wait for the meeting to finish. Then I can collect my stuff without causing a fuss.”

  “It's no problem if you change your mind, but I won't say no to some company before it gets busy. My name is Gina. What’s your poison for the evening? A cocktail, maybe?”

  “I’m Linda,” I smile. “It's nice to meet you. I’ll take a beer, please, whatever you have on tap is fine.”

  “Ah, a woman after my own heart.” She smiles and disappears down the other end of the bar when someone signals her, so I sit quietly and wait until she returns with my ice-cold beer in her hand.

  “Thanks, Gina, can I charge it to my room, please?”

  “Sure thing.”

  “Ha—” My words are cut off when a man steps up beside me and snags Gina’s attention.

  “Is there any way I can get into the conference room? I know I’m late, but it's important.” He bats his eyes at Gina, but she seems immune to his charms.

  “No can do, I’m afraid. Once it's locked, there is no going inside until after it's finished. I don’t have the keycard for it, regardless. Drink?” she offers, almost as an apology.

  “Fuck!” he grunts, dropping into the seat beside mine before nodding at Gina and answering her. “Whiskey, neat. In fact, make it a double.” He pulls his phone from his crisp black Armani suit jacket and focuses on that, effectively shutting out the rest of the room and the people in it.

  Well, okay then. I guess I’m not the only one having a bad day.

  I sip my beer, acutely aware of the man beside me, checking him out in the mirror that lines the wall behind the bar.

  He has tousled dark blond hair that looks like he has run frustrated fingers through it for the best part of his day. Slightly longer on top and short at the sides his hair is a style not usually seen on suit-wearing businessmen, but rather on a leather jacket and jeans wearing, Harley riding, hot as fuck—

  Okay, I take a big swig of beer and swallow it down while I corral my wayward thoughts and vow to stop watching Sons of Anarchy before bed.

  He’s tall, although it’s hard to tell how tall with him sitting beside me, and muscular with thick arms and big hands.

  “Would you like to take a photo?” he asks, his deep sexy voice making me jump and slosh my beer down the side of the bottle, coating my fingers in the process.

  Signaling for Gina, he orders another double whiskey before turning to face me.

  “Sorry,” I apologize quietly when his penetrating stare leaves me feeling unnerved.

  Now that he’s looking at me, I can say that the most remarkable thing about this guy, and there are a lot of impressive things, are his eyes. They are such a deep indigo blue that when the light catches them, they almost look purple. They’re hypnotic and just like the rest of him, utterly captivating.

  “You’re doing it again,” he points out, before thanking Gina when she places his glass back in front of him.

  I wait as she heads off to cater to the large group of businessmen that just entered before speaking.

  “It’s just—” I cough, feeling a little flustered. “Your eyes are beautiful.” I admit, feeling silly.

  Instead of being put off like I’d anticipated, a smile gradually spreads across his face. A smile that takes this man from out of my league handsome to out of this world gorgeous. If he weren’t watching me so intently, I’d wipe my mouth to check for drool.

  “So, what brings you here?” he asks, swirling the ice in his glass.

  “The same meeting as you, actually. It looks like we both got locked out,” I tell him with a light laugh, trying to hide how nervous his closeness is making me.

  “Well, fuck. Here, it looks like you could do with a shot of this too.” He tries to hand me his drink, but I shake my head and indicate the glass in my hand.

  “Oh, no. Today calls for something stronger than beer.” He makes a face at me, a cross between a pout and puppy-dog eyes, and I realize with startling clarity that this man has trouble and bad decisions written all over him. I should steer clear.

  It isn’t until twelve hours later, I realize how right I was.

  Two

  Asher

  I wake up and open my eyes, regretting it instantly, before I snap them shut with a groan. Okay, shit, light is bad. What the fuck did I do last night?

  I remember getting into an argument with my father about his upcoming wedding to the latest in a long line of would-be stepmothers—each one younger than the model before her.

  As per usual, the stubborn fuck wouldn’t listen to reason, so I stormed out. By that point, I was already late. Arriving to find the meeting in progress, and me locked out, was just the perfect end to my fucked-up day.

  I remember thinking that getting smashed was the way to go, and judging by how I’m currently feeling, I’d say I was successful in that endeavor. Anything after that is just a blur.

  I roll to my left and freeze when I realize I’m not alone in my bed, and that’s confirmed when my hard cock suddenly finds itself nestled between the globes of two ass cheeks. I attempt to slide away when a breathy moan has me pausing again before moaning along with the mystery woman as that ass slides against my dick.

  Fuck it. I reach blindly to the bedside table, remembering there was a little bowl of complimentary condoms and snag one, surprised to realize the bowl is almost empty.

  Huh, well, it's nice to know I don’t suffer from whiskey dick as well as alcohol-induced blackouts.

  I quickly rip open the foil packet and slide on the latex sheath, my headache all but forgotten as I nudge my cockhead at her entrance and surge forward, happy to find her slick and ready. I grip her hip and pound into her, pouring out my frustrations, fucking her hard, reveling in the little mewling sounds she makes as she comes awake more fully.

  Sweat coats my skin and hers as I continue to surge inside her. She lifts a colorful arm and reaches back to tug on my hair and gasps when I hit a particular spot inside her. I don’t think I’ve ever fucked a girl with tattoos before. Not a lot of women have them in the circles I’m from, but I have to admit they are rather beautiful. She yanks my hair hard and lets out a scream, her pussy pulsing around me as I roar, spilling myself inside the condom with so much force, I swear I almost black out again.

  “Wow.” Her soft lyrical voice sounds from in front of me, making me grimace.

  I know that sound, that soft tone of voice. I’ve heard it used a dozen times before, always when they want something more from me than I’m willing to give. It's dumbfounding to me how many women think a couple of fucks equates to a relationship or, even worse, a ring. Nope, after watching my father get married over and over like it's a fucking sport, I decided it was a game I wanted
no part in playing.

  After pulling myself free from her, I turn my back and climb from the bed, removing the condom and knotting the end. I snag my wallet from beside the depleted bowl of condoms and pull two twenties from it. I toss them on the bed and take my wallet, just in case, and the used condom to the bathroom with me, hoping to fuck I haven't ended up with a stage five clinger.

  I call over my shoulder as I leave, “It's been fun, sweetheart, but my flight leaves soon. I’ll see you around. I’ve left you some money for a cab.”

  I hear her suck in a sharp breath and take that as my cue, quickly locking myself in the bathroom and standing under the scalding water for the next fifteen minutes until I feel somewhat human again. Although, if I’m completely honest with myself, it was the fuck that did that. Just because I want her gone didn't mean that wasn’t some of the best sex I’ve ever had. So much so, I get myself off once more to the image of her colorful skin and the memory of her soft, sexy moans.

  When I emerge from the bathroom, I’m relieved to find that the room is empty. Noticing she made the bed, I spot the two twenties I left for her sat on top of a garish, snot green gumball ring, a handful of condom wrappers and a torn lacey thong. I feel myself start to harden once more at the lacey black material standing out in stark contrast to the pristine white sheets and shake my head to clear the fog. Damn I wish all women were that easy to deal with the morning after. Without sparing the random woman another thought, I get dressed, collect my shit, and head to the restaurant downstairs.