Drop Dead Gorgeous. Kimberly RayeЧитать онлайн книгу.
by the river.
Ten minutes in the backseat of his daddy’s Chevy listening to recaps of the Cowboys vs. Redskins game, and she’d had enough. She’d thrown her arms around him, pressed her body up against his and offered herself shamelessly. Other than a few initial moments of shock and a frantic “What are you doing?”, he’d finally given in to her persistent lips. She’d lost her innocence along with one of her new hoop earrings and her undies.
Yes!
Not that the experience itself had been all that great. While he’d given in, he hadn’t taken the initiative and swept her off her feet. Rather, she’d taken the lead, pushing and urging and giving a whole new meaning to her nickname Manhandler Meg.
Still, it had been the principle of the thing. It had been the beginning of a new chapter in her life. A chance to start over. To completely forget the tomboy she’d once been and embrace all that was feminine.
Change.
That’s what it had all been about. Meg had grown up being a carbon copy of her father. He’d been a single parent—her mother, a diabetic, had died of renal failure shortly afterMeg’s birth—and an athletics coach at the local high school. Growing up, Meg had been determined to follow in his footsteps. She’d watched him, learned from him, idolized him, and then one day he’d been gone.
She’d been barely seventeen and it had been the start of the summer after her junior year. She’d gone home early to pack (they were going camping to celebrate the end of classes) and he’d stayed late to finish cleaning out his desk. He’d been in a hurry to get home, not wanting to lose their camping spot at a local state park. He’d failed to stop at a nearby intersection and had been hit by an approaching car. That had been the end of him.
And the end of Meg.
The old Meg.
She’d gone to live with her grandparents and, much to their surprise, had packed away her soccer ball and kneepads. She’d ditched her favorite baseball bat and glove, her autographed Troy Aikman football and her lucky San Antonio Spurs basketball jersey. Even more, she’d packed away her all-time favorite sweats and the lucky Dallas Cowboy T-shirt her dad had bought her. She’d taken out a subscription to Cosmo and had learned all the latest fashion trends. She’d even forfeited helping her granddad on his tractor so that her grandmother could teach her how to sew.
In one summer, she’d traded in her love of sports for an infatuation with shoes and clothes and all things feminine, and had started her senior year as a different Meg. A woman determined to forget her past, to bury it right along with her father.
When Oren had chronicled their night on the wall of the boys’ locker room, her undies hanging from one of the locker pegs as proof, she’d been thrilled. The male population of Skull Creek High would finally see her as more than just a competitive edge during game time. She’d been so good at sports that she’d become the best buddy of every male athlete in school. They’d asked her advice on everything from touchdowns to golf putts.
They’d never, however, asked her out.
She’d been convinced that that one wild night with Oren would be enough to change her image.
She’d been wrong.
This was Skull Creek. The classic small town where people left their doors unlocked and the sidewalks rolled up at six o’clock every evening. Forget crime. The most exciting news centered around the occasional boob job or cheating spouse. Strangers were scarce and everyone knew everyone.
And that meant that once she was Manhandler Meg, she’d always be Manhandler Meg.
While she’d managed to change who she actually was, she’d never been able to change everyone’s perception of her.
Not way back when Oren had written about her and the entire football team had assumed it was a really great practical joke—she’d gotten so many high fives that her hand had been raw—and not now that she wore high heels and sexy clothes and ran her own dress boutique, It’s All About You, a small, exclusive shop located on Main Street, smack dab between Dillon’s computer repair shop and the town’s one and only full-service spa, Pam’s Pamper Park.
People still saw her as a chip-off-the-old-Sweeney-block. The women rarely felt threatened and the men…Well, they actually respected her.
While she knew that most females would kill to be valued for their minds rather than their bodies, once, just once, she would like to have a man actually see her as a sex object.
So make a real change, pack your bags and get out of Dodge.
She’d thought about it. But the notion of leaving her grandparents—even though they now lived an hour away in a retirement community outside of Austin, and she only saw them a few times a month—was even less appealing than being known as Manhandler Meg for the rest of her life. They’d helped her through her father’s death, loved her, raised her, and she intended to return the favor. They’d been there for her when she’d needed them the most, and she intended to be there for them when the time came and they eventually needed her. She couldn’t do that if she was God knows where.
Which meant she was here and she was staying.
Walter had been her second romantic entanglement. One that had continued over the years, on during football season and off after the Super Bowl, which kicked off the start of tax season—he was an accountant. While she knew Walter found her attractive, he also liked to pick her brain for betting advice (he spear-headed the weekly football pool at his office). When he won, he got very happy and the sex was pretty good—if she initiated (Walter wasn’t one for making the first move). When he wasn’t making money betting on his favorite sport, he was so boring he made a wedge of cheese look exciting.
He was neck-deep in IRS forms and for the past three months, she’d been flying solo.
A good thing, she reminded herself. Walter wasn’t the man for her and so she’d broken things off for good after the last Super Bowl. She didn’t want a man who only wanted her some of the time. Even more, she didn’t want a man who didn’t want her enough to make the first move. She was through initiating sex.
Hence the classes.
They’d originally been given by Dillon’s sister, Cheryl Anne, who’d been desperate to break out of her shell and do something wild and crazy with her own life. She’d succeeded for a few weeks before she’d realized that actually having sex was much more preferable than talking about it with a bunch of clueless women eager to spice up their relationships. She’d handed over her classes to Winona, the owner of the only motel in town, and had married her long-time boyfriend. Cheryl Anne was now living the American dream.
Not that Meg’s goal was to get married. Maybe. Someday. If the right man came along. Right now, however, she simply wanted to have sex with a man who really and truly wanted to have sex with her. A man who couldn’t keep his hands off her.
A man who wanted her badly enough to make the first move.
The classes would teach her how to increase her sex appeal to the point that she was irresistible. Hopefully.
Meg finished documenting her results, closed her Pleasure Manual and headed back upstairs to her bedroom closet. After careful consideration, she settled for a hot-pink shell, a frayed blue jean miniskirt with rhinestone trim and a pair of high-heeled sandals she’d picked up on her latest shopping trip to Austin. The outfit met all of her must-haves—feminine and sexy and ubertrendy—which was why it had made it into her closet in the first place. As owner of the one and only upscale boutique in town, she wanted her own personal wardrobe to reflect her business image. While she might be striking out when it came to changing everyone’s perception of her personally, professionally she was batting one thousand.
Her shop had become the go-to place for every special occasion—from proms to anniversary parties to the occasional hot date.Women sought her advice on clothes, shoes and accessories, and her shop had even been named Business