Launching Curling Iron (A Bad Boyfriends Novella)

Kane runs a fitness center by day. By night, he services a different clientele.

Kane runs a fitness center by day. By night, he services a different clientele.

Kane leads a double life. By day, he pumps iron, running a fitness center, where jocks and Cougars flock for the burn and the ‘tude. By night, it’s something else entirely that gets pumped, as Kane swaps sweats for Armani to cater to an exclusive clientele, willing to pay well to indulge their special interests and tastes. His double life isn’t a problem until his conniving ex tightens the financial screws.

Finding and retaining suitable companions for his after-dark clients isn’t easy. David Black’s pole dancing performance at a friend’s club hints that he might hit all the bullet points on Kane’s list of requirements, in a way that could mean something other than “just business.”

David is out of work and out of options, so when he’s offered the choice of starvation or performing both on and off the stage, it’s a no-brainer. Kane’s offer of a position with the escort service is as attractive as the man himself, and David agrees to a trial period involving certain conditions. He quickly finds that he’s out of his depth.

Confronted with unanticipated roadblocks, one thing is clear… neither man is taking no for an answer.

KINDLE       ARe/OmniLit (50% off)      The Store (Sale!)




I stifled the urge to sneeze. Mold. I was allergic to mold.
Apparently so was the tall man staring at one of the boss’s art deco posters—Captain America, but modern, not an antique. He sneezed and reached into a coat pocket, pulled out a handkerchief and swiped at his face. From the back he looked familiar. Dark hair, broad shoulders, overcoat from a custom big and tall men’s store. He looked angry or pissed or just not happy to be there—body posture was one of my specialties. I don’t need to see the face to know which way the wind blows.
My heart sank. If he was a detective, that “only the one” was probably me ending up at the precinct for lewd and lascivious behavior. I’d taken Charlie’s advice. I’d courted the pole last night, in a prime and prissy way. Tonight, I’d gone full frontal assault, with more grind than bump, and got a hard-on from my efforts that bulged the pleather pouch to the breaking point.
My sixty-three dollars was now looking like bail money.
Clearing my throat, I plastered polite on my face, and asked, “You wanted to see me?” He wasn’t a customer. No point in pretending otherwise.
He turned.
I swallowed. My tongue thickened. Spit pooled in my mouth, threatening to drizzle down my chin.
He nodded. I nodded. I went to sit in the folding chair in front of the desk.
I didn’t.
The soft cashmere turtleneck was a dead giveaway. This was my too smexy for his shoes guy from the audience, the one sitting next to the stage, the one I’d copped a feel with my eyes at the end of the routine… That one. There. Giving me a once, twice, thrice-over.
The pouch bulged.
A grin played at the corners of his mouth. I hoped he had handcuffs. I really hoped he liked doing bad cop.
He held out a hand, said, “I’m Kane.”
We shook. I shook, mostly inside, but it was a close call. I had the presence of mind to ask, “May I see some identification?”
He looked surprised, but fished in an interior pocket and pulled out a small, flat metal holder. He withdrew a business card and handed it over.
I stared, not exactly processing much…


While I mouthed Bad Boyfriends, he said, “I have a proposal for you, Mr.—”
“Black. David Black.” It was tempting to extend my hand again for another shake, a formal one. One where I could maybe fondle the backs of those long, elegant fingers, do a few sweeps with my thumb, my tongue, my tongue tied in knots, brain in lockdown.
“You’re not a cop?”
I looked at him, really looked at eyebrows drawn together tight, stern, over eyes that were blue, but not. More like Smoky Mountains hazy blue, flat, intense. He was scary handsome, scary imposing, a total alpha, I eat interns for breakfast, sexual metro hunka way out of my league.
He chuckled. That made it worse.

About Nya Rawlyns

Crossing boundaries, taking no prisoners. Write what’s in your soul. It’s the bass beat, the heartbeat, the lyrics rude and true. Nya Rawlyns is the pseudonym of a writer who cut her teeth on sports-themed romantic comedy and historical romances before finding her true calling in the wilderness areas she has visited but calls “home” in that place that counts the most: the heart. She has lived in the country and on a sailboat on the Chesapeake Bay, earned more than 1000 miles in competitive trail and endurance racing, taught Political Science to unwilling freshmen, and found an avocation in materials science. When she isn’t tending to her garden or the horses, the cats, or two pervert parakeets, she can be found day dreaming and listening to the voices in her head.
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