Fahrenheit Read online

  Fahrenheit

  Copyright © 2015 by Alex Rosa

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away. Any reproduction of this ebook is illegal.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Digital Edition

  Edited by H. Danielle Crabtree

  Cover Design: Alex Rosa

  Sexy Red Lips Illustration: © Darja Toranova | Dreamstine.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may reproduced, scanned or distributed in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in articles or reviews.

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  For my two best friends who pushed me to write this novel, and were as eager and excited as me about this book. Thank you, Jaycee Ford & Len Webster

  I hate the smell of latex.

  That’s exactly what I smell when I enter this place, that and bleach.

  Gross.

  I prod my finger into a bright pink tube of lube. An array of other lube options also line the shelf next to the entrance of this sex shop. I squint at it, confused how watermelon-flavored lube is supposed to entice women and make giving oral better—but making it bearable? I’ll give them that.

  Not that I’ve had any recent encounters with a penis. Vaginal or oral. Nope.

  I sigh, banishing the thought while cursing under my breath, hating my boss for so many different reasons right now.

  The most prevalent one is the fact she’s the reason I’m here.

  My eyes take a journey around the room. The walls of F-Street are lined with nothing I can seem to define other than the overly sexualized images of woman on packages of inanimate objects people can apparently have sex with. Mere minutes ago, when I entered, I learned what a flesh light was, and nearly cringed when the creeper behind the register all too eagerly watched me.

  I pull in a deep breath, recounting my meeting with Rebecca yesterday morning.

  Not because I want to bone her. I don’t swing that way. But because she’s my boss, and as a rite of passage to get the journalist position at Frenzy Magazine, she has tasked me with writing an article she doesn’t think I’ll be able to commit to.

  You might be asking yourself why someone who I look up to, hell, might’ve even been my mentor at one point, would try and hold me back? Political, selfish reasons, of course.

  I huff, smacking a neon green nipple tassel as I stroll through the store, scorning my boss, and her attempt to keep me as a copy editor at Frenzy.

  Maybe I should be bizarrely honored that my boss doesn’t want to lose me in my current position since I’m so damn good at it. However, it’s something I never really wanted to do. I’m bored with fact-checking, grammar Nazi-ing, and hugging my Elements of Style close, while still trying to keep the fun flirty feel of Frenzy Magazine.

  Rebecca, my boss, who’s witnessed my tendency for obsessive compulsive double-checks, my neurotic love of track-changes in Microsoft Word, and the delicate way I like to pile my post-it notes, as a sign that I won’t be able to write something for the women who read the magazine.

  Little does she know, she has made me into the person I am today.

  If I weren’t so organized, the ship would most definitely go down with its captain. I’m ready to shake off this claustrophobic veil of being put-together.

  I’m aching for freedom, and wordplay. Writing is what I did in college, and the want to write is what brought me to the magazine in the first place. I revel in the sexual innuendos, the bedroom advice, and the style recommendations Frenzy Magazine publishes. Why can’t she see that?

  However, when Rebecca asked me to write about the ever-growing popularity of sex meet-ups and the fetish clubs of downtown Los Angeles, I might’ve blatantly gasped.

  My sexual expertise is limited, and my knowledge of sexual positions ranges from missionary to doggy style … and maybe, The Wheelbarrow? I don’t know. I read it in the dang magazine I work for, and I know they make half their shit up.

  Regardless, failure isn’t an option, and I want the job. If I can somehow manage this, I’ll get my promotion to journalist, which I so desperately want and my sanity needs.

  I may not know anything about sexual fetishes, but I do have a little thing called determination, and it hasn’t let me down yet.

  Since I have no foundation to work from, I’m starting at the one place that makes sense. A sex shop. Well, first the Internet, and then sex shops.

  A place like this has got to have a door or a window to sex clubs, right?

  I peer at my notepad. I have seven sex shops listed in the area I could stalk in search of a sign. However, now that I’m here, I have no idea how I’m supposed to find this supposed sign. I consider eavesdropping, but there’s no one here. I even thought of asking the person who works here, but after seeing the guy and his less than savory smile, I think I’ll pass. Instead, I lurk, take notes, and hope for the best.

  I gulp at the thought as my feet come to a stop at a wall of paddles and whips. I’m not sure I understand people and their sexual desires when my mind trailblazes with the painful imaginings of the harsh braided leather hitting my skin. All I can think of is Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom.

  I continue on, in search of a more bearable aisle.

  Frenzy isn’t shy of the phallic-shaped items that line the row I approach, and I note that the dildos on the shelves display all the colors of the rainbow. How quaint.

  I nod, wondering why the hell I’m smiling at dildos.

  Looking around the shop, I realize I’m alone, and the employee at the front has now busied himself with rearranging the nudie magazines on the wall. It gives me the comfort I need to snoop.

  I lift my hand up to a large, purple penis-shaped silicon form. I am tempted to grab it, but I’m a bundle of nerves, so instead I poke at it. My hand knocks it to the floor with a cringe-worthy slap, igniting a loud buzzing sound.

  “Shit, shit, shit,” I whisper, watching this wobbling dick bounce around on the linoleum. I’m hopping back and forth, because it’s rolling around as if it’s chasing me.

  I have to stop it, right?

  I bend down, forced to touch it completely, and the vibration is much stronger in my hands now that I’m holding it. I examine the thing, looking for an off switch to no avail.

  “What the fuck?”

  Finally, through deductive reasoning, I twist the bottom, and it stops shaking. I diligently place it back on the shelf, deciding I’m done with dildos for now, and turn around to face the other side. I’m more baffled by what I see than I was of the Technicolor vibrators.

  I grab for what looks like a necklace my grandmother would have worn with her knitted sweaters. The wooden beads are larger than I would have expected. I lift it off the rack, and I realize it’s not really a necklace, but a string of wooden bobbles. I bring it closer to my face, wondering what the hell—

  “So, do you like anal?”


  I gasp, flinging myself back a step at the brash question, but nearly fall over when my vision collides with an electric, hazel-gold stare looming over me. The man who’s asked me this blunt question has a dazzling shit-eating grin on his face, and I want to smack it.

  I can’t figure out how I didn’t see this monstrosity of a man among my scouring. I wouldn’t be able to miss him. His dark, 6’4” features beg to be noticed. His ruffled black hair and days of stubble on his jaw are hard to miss, but I can still see dimples under his scruff, which has me deciding against violence for the time being.

  I remind myself of my purpose, and examine his penetrating gaze, wondering if he’s the fetish, underworld type.

  That smile says maybe.

  “Excuse me?” I gasp, going crimson in the process.

  I pull in a deep breath when he takes two deliberate steps toward me, putting only twelve inches between us. I’m trying to fathom how I’m in this situation, because I’m positive people leave each other alone in Los Angeles. It’s like an unspoken rule. Heaven forbid we smile when we pass each other on the street.

  However, maybe when you’re in a place like this, you invite these kinds of questions. Obviously, they might be into what you’re into. Like a bookstore. You see someone holding The Hobbit in the aisle, you could probably assume he or she likes fantasy, and you could potentially start a JRR Tolkien conversation that the person would appreciate.

  When I put the argument together like that in my head, my eyes dart to what is sitting in my outstretched hand. I cringe.

  The idea turns me red. I try to remember my assignment, and that this might be a good thing. If I like JRR Tolkien, he might like it too. If I’m in a sex shop, maybe that means I like secret societies of sex dungeons like him, right?

  Good lawd.

  “Well, you’re holding anal beads, so it felt like a fair question. A bold one, but a fair one.”

  A cluck of laughter escapes me. Yup, like a chicken. Bakawk. I examine the round beads in my hand, noting that the idea of these large round balls entering through an exit is horrifying. I place them back on the rack.

  I am so sorry, grandma.

  “Um, no. I-I don’t like anal.” I lick my lips, feeling uncomfortable.

  “Anything particular?”

  I tilt my head to get a better look at him, and the twitch to the corner of his mouth matches the lift of his right eyebrow.

  “Particular?”

  “Yeah, that you’re into.”

  I look around again, having a hard time holding back another cringe when I realize there’s an inflatable sex doll hanging feet above me.

  “I just like sex, but I guess I’m curious, which is why I’m here.”

  I shake my head, baffled by my words. When did I get so honest, and when did I decide to take this assignment seriously?

  Maybe it’s the opening of this guy’s shirt, showing a little bit of chest hair, that convinces me, or it could be the fact that his eyes tell me he’s playful as much as he’s serious. It’s in the way his stare pulls me in, and then skips to a different surface of my body before pulling me back in again. It gives me hope he’s not that old. I can’t imagine him over the age of thirty. There’s no way. His un-jaded demeanor and blunt words tell me he has not hit a brick wall in life yet.

  “Curious?” he repeats.

  The way the word rolls off his tongue screams of possibility, and I don’t know how he’s done it.

  “Yeah, I’m always curious.” I smile.

  “Funny, because I’m always looking for an adventure.”

  My brows pull together. I have half a mind to ask him if that means multiple sexual partners, or general life experiences. By the way he fills out his black Henley, I think it’s more like option one.

  “I don’t understand how those two go together.”

  The corners of his mouth reach from ear to ear, and I get this weird, sinking feeling I’ve just issued a dare.

  “You come in here often?” he asks, ignoring my statement, even though I really want to know what this guy is all about and what he means.

  His eyes drop to my hand holding a pen and notepad, and I try to hide my embarrassment while trying to form a plan, but I can’t figure out what direction I should go. I feel like I’ve been spinning ‘round and ‘round, and when he asked me this question, I halt, trying to move forward, bobbing around with each step, dizzy, about to fall on my face.

  I try to remember Rebecca’s words from our meeting, and how she looked at me over her Gucci glasses with a stare that told me she’s sure I can’t do this.

  Just because I don’t know a lot about sex and/or sex clubs, doesn’t mean I’m not a girl who’s willing to figure it out, especially when something like my dream job is involved.

  I’ll be dammed if Rebecca dictates my life. I will allow this stranger to lead me down this dark, seductive rabbit hole—if that’s his cup of tea—and especially if he has a cure for this new pulsing ache between my legs. Standing between dildos, this man, and anal beads is distracting for my libido.

  How long has it been since I had sex? Brian and I broke up, what, eight months ago?

  FOCUS.

  I attempt to hide my glance at my little notepad before stuffing it into my back pocket, blindly picking a shop name. “No, I don’t come here often. Normally, I troll Eve’s in Santa Monica. Closer to home.” I wince. This guy doesn’t need to know where I live. Plus, the Internet told me anonymity is key.

  Note to self: When sex is involved, keep the deets limited.

  He bobs on his heels, looking away as he smooths over the thick scuff on his jaw. “Huh.” He smirks. “Figures. I’ve never seen you in here. You still curious?”

  The question gathers my full attention. “Of course. You still up for an adventure?”

  The corner of his mouth twitches again, and my heart does this weird spasm thing in my chest. I want to pat myself on the back, maybe even fist-pump the air, or hell, call Rebecca and tell her that sometimes I can be witty and flirty, because right now, I was totally sexy-clever.

  He glances toward the register where the employee is chewing on a straw shaped like a dick. No one is paying attention to us. This rumbling feeling of fiery anticipation rolls through my body, wondering what this guy might say. How do I find a way for him to allow me to pick his brain?

  “You ever been to Fahrenheit?”

  My heart thuds hard in my chest, and I worry he can hear it.

  When the word Fahrenheit leaves his lips, I try not to go wide-eyed. It’s the only keyword I could find during my endless Internet research. Each message board, comment, blog post, tweet, etc. lead to this nightclub, and no one seems to know the details. Apparently, how to get in, where it’s located in L.A., and what happens inside is a mystery, and anyone who asks about it is trying to find a way in.

  Yet, here I am, twenty minutes inside an obscure sex shop in the valley, previously holding what I now realize were anal beads, talking to a guy who I don’t know, asking me about an invite-only sex club without a care in the world.

  It mustn’t be a thing, wondering who the other person’s identity is, when anonymous sex is involved. Noted.

  My stomach does a somersault as my eyes drag over the form of this brooding stranger, whose electric eyes are dancing with some private joke. I shake it off.

  I should probably look like I know what I’m doing, and if the Internet has taught me anything, I better fake it until I make it. And if life requires me to say, “Yes, sir, please tell me all about it, and take me to this underground sexual lair, Fahrenheit, so I can psychoanalyze it for the masses for professional gain, while hopefully getting some in the process,” then I’m game.

  How serendipitous. I hold back from rolling my eyes.

  Okay, I got this.

  “I’ve never been, but I’ve heard of it.”

  “Would you like to go?”

  This awkward, blinking-too-much moment happens, because I can’t stop wondering how this
assignment suddenly got so easy. It terrifies me, and in a way, it feels like a trick. I have half a mind to ask him if Rebecca Hines sent him to mess with me, but his serious eyes, which spark and ignite like a cut wire, tell me he’s for real.

  I’m tempted to poke the floppy, purple dildo to my right again, or poke at his abs, which I’m hoping are rock hard, as a way to get a reality check.

  I’m teetering with giddiness at the possibilities.

  Okay, so he could be a serial killer. This is also in the cards, but with the exclusivity of Fahrenheit, I’m hoping they do background checks.

  I grasp for that sexy-clever me who can only be utilized in short spurts.

  “So, is that a thing?” I ask with more confidence than I thought I had, playing with a wry flirtation technique that I might’ve read about in the magazine I work for.

  Be cool.

  “A thing?” He smiles, and I swear I’m getting addicted to the way the right corner of his mouth lifts in unison with his right eyebrow.

  “Yeah, inviting someone you just met in a place like this to Fahrenheit?”

  “It is.”

  Of course it is. “Then the answer is yes.”

  He chuckles, shaking his head while reaching into the back pocket of his snug-fitting jeans. He pulls out his wallet, and seconds later wields a card. It’s not stark white, like a business card, but a deep navy cardstock. He hands it to me, and I grab it.

  My eyes scan the small amount of gold foil text, and then flick up to his eyes, noting their glimmer matches the color of the lettering.

  I regroup, focusing on the card, reading the first line out loud.

  “Nathan Sanders.”

  “That’s me.”

  My skirting laugh escapes me before I can catch it. “Got that.”

  “Your name?”

  I lift my eyes to his, smiling crookedly. “Lauren Michaels.”

  “Nice to meet you.”

  I nudge my chin toward him to imply the same. He grins, and his eyes are all over my body, dragging over my face, down my chest, my hips, legs, and to my toes before making the same journey back up. I feel like his private gallery exhibit.