Sass style series book 3, p.1
Sass (Style Series Book 3), page 1
SASS
STYLE SERIES 3
JAY HOGAN
SOUTHERN LIGHTS PUBLISHING
Published by Southern Lights Publishing
Copyright © 2022 by Jay Hogan
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved.
This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution by any means is illegal and a violation of international copyright law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines and/or imprisonment. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Any ebook format cannot be legally loaned or given to others.
To request permission and all other enquiries contact the author through the website
https://www.jayhoganauthor.com
Trade Paperback ISBN:978-0-9951327-9-5
Digital ISBN:978-0-9951327-8-8
Digital Edition Published October 2022
Trade Paperback Published October 2022
First Edition
Editing by Boho Edits
Cover Art Copyright © 2022 Reese Dante
Cover content is for illustrative purposes only and any person depicted on the cover is a model.
Proofread by Lissa Given Proofing and L. Parks
Printed in the United States of America and Australia
For my family who read everything I write and keep on saying they love it all, blushes included.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Sass and the entire Style series are works of fiction. A great deal of research was carried out into the fashion industry whose regulation varies hugely from country to country. Copyright and Intellectual Property laws are examples of this, but also the regulation of talent agencies, modelling contracts and so on. Every person I spoke with had a different experience depending on where they worked in the world, which agency they were contracted to, which Fashion Week they were involved with, and so on.
I’d like to thank the models and designers and photographers who helped me craft the essentials of their often vastly different work experiences as accurately as I could. There is no one structure or approach to how things are done in the fashion industry, and no one way that a Fashion Week is organised in every country that runs them. As a result, my aim was to create an authentic feel to the story based on commonalities rather than detailed accuracy.
I also want to thank the survivors of sexual assault and sexual harassment who gave up their time to talk to me about their experiences. Each experience and process of healing is very different, and I am indebted to the honesty of these people. Sexual assault helplines are available in most countries. If you need to talk, please contact your local one.
As always, I thank my husband for his patience and for keeping the dog walked and out of my hair when I needed to work, and my daughter for her incredible support.
Getting a book finessed for release is a huge challenge that includes the help of beta readers, editing, proofing, cover artists and a tireless PA. It’s a team effort, and includes all those author support networks and reader fans who rally around when you’re ready to pull your hair out and throw away every first draft. Thanks to all of you.
INTRODUCTION
Note: This book contains limited discussion of off-page past trauma.
BLURB
For two years I’ve kept Leon Steadman at a safe distance, ever since the night he turned me down flatter than a pancake with a side order of syrupy disapproval. His loss. The world is full of sexy men. One and done is simply good math and efficient use of my time. Or it would be, if I hadn’t been lusting after the irritating, judgemental, gorgeous, mountain of a man, ever since.
The less I see of Leon, the better. Bad enough that his tattoo business sits next to Flare, the fashion store I manage, and that he’s friendly with my boss. But now he’s apartment-sitting above the shop, as well. Every time I turn around, Leon is there. In my store. In my space. Messing with my head. Being all nice and charming and acting like maybe he’s not the biggest jerk to walk the earth, after all.
Well, I don’t want or need Leon’s apologies, but maybe if I can have him, just once, it might put an end to this ridiculous hunger that sparks every time I lay eyes on him.
Yeah, I’ll get back to you on that.
CONTENTS
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
Epilogue
More by Jay Hogan
About the Author
CHAPTER ONE
Kip
I spun the wheel on my cherry-red Mini Cooper and smiled as it spat gravel and slid into the free parking space at the back of Flare, disturbing the grey early morning calm of the city. I cut the engine and frowned at Rhys’s van parked alongside. Damn. I should’ve guessed he’d be in early. A glance at the lights in the flat above Flare confirmed Hunter and Alec were also awake and moving about. Well, shit. There went my chance of slipping in unseen.
The three of them, along with Beck, were flying to New York that afternoon to scope out the Big Apple’s spring fashion week in preparation for Rhys’s formal invitation to the next one as a spotlight designer. Alec was walking for Berlini and a few other labels, and Hunter was shooting for Vanity Fair. Following the show, those two were off to London and Paris for more work, while Rhys and Beck were staying in New York for a much-needed vacation. I’d have given my left ball to join in the fun, but someone had to manage the store. And since Rhys had promised I’d be his assistant for the fall show, I wasn’t pouting too hard.
I grabbed my satchel and eased the car door open just enough to squeeze out without circumcising myself. “For fuck’s sake, could you spare the room?” I grumbled, firing a glare at Leon’s impressive Harley pulled just far enough to the side to let Delilah scrape by.
Not that I had a damn thing to complain about. As the leaseholders, Leon and Rhys had dibs on the only two parking spaces out back, and Leon didn’t have to make room for me at all. The fucker had just gone and done it, offering the space to me as soon as he’d learned I had a car that I actually gave two shits about. I should be grateful, right? Yeah, not so much. I hated the generous gesture with the heat of a thousand suns because it made me feel somehow beholden to him, something that rankled me like gorse up my arse.
Petty?
Abso-fucking-lutely. But I loved my little car, and I wasn’t about to turn my nose up at anything that kept it safe and off the road. I’d lusted over Leon from the first moment I’d seen him and jerked off to images of him on his knees for me far more times than I cared to admit. But that didn’t mean I liked the guy.
I sighed and pressed the fob to lock Delilah before allowing myself a final drool over what I knew lay under that bike cover—Leon’s sexy metal 883 Sportster Iron. The fact I happened to know the name of the model came from a time in my life I tried to forget.
Not that I was about to give Leon the slightest indication that I knew anything about the sexy machines or that I could actually ride a motorbike. It was way too much fun watching his eyes spin in his head when I repeatedly called it a nice little Honda. Wouldn’t want Mr Sanctimonious thinking I was remotely interested in whatever he rode, even if I fantasised about him riding me more times than was healthy for . . . let’s be honest . . . anyone.
But knowing it sat there like a dangerous cat alongside my cute-as-fuck, I-dare-you-to-race-me Mini, kind of said all there was to say about the difference between me and Leon. Fast, flirty, and underestimated, versus arrogant, grunty, and all show. Not that I was averse to a little grunt. Just saying.
I slid the strap of my satchel onto my shoulder, chanced a look at the softly glowing windows above The Tattoo House, and sighed. Regardless of how annoying the man was, it was hard not to feel sorry for Leon stuck up there with not much more than a mattress, chair, television, and a lot of dust. He’d been camping above his business for two weeks, waiting on settlement so he could move into his newly purchased house, and when Rhys and I had recently taken a look at the empty, unrenovated space with the brilliant idea of making it into Rhys’s studio, let’s just say comfortable wasn’t exactly the word that sprang to mind.
I heaved another hungover sigh, because Monday was a cruel bitch after a last-minute Sunday swipe right had taken a sharp detour into tequila shots and an entire album of Pink until one in the morning.
And whose fault is that?
A quick check in the Mini’s side mirror was a mistake. I winced. Dammit. The whole panda-eye thing hadn’t improved, and I should’ve gone with a fuckton more makeup. I should at least look competent. Then maybe Rh
The fact I was actually more than a little panicked at the idea myself—note aforementioned ill-advised shots and way-too-loud Pink interlude—was beside the point. Not to mention the hook-up left a fair bit to be desired as well, but the less said about that the better.
But now Rhys had beaten me into work—something he’d rarely done ever since he’d moved in with Beck, everyone’s favourite lumbersexual poetry professor—and I couldn’t help but wonder if he was more worried about leaving me in charge than he’d let on. It was a thought that did little to appease my own apprehension.
I sighed and donned my Oliver People sunglasses, because nobody looked bad in those puppies, and hoped the dark circles under my eyes would fade under the shop fluorescents.
I patted Delilah on her chequerboard roof. “Behave yourself with the sexy Harley. No tiny trike surprises, got it?”
I checked my phone and saw it was barely eight, which gave me a little time. I skirted the back entrance to Flare and headed up the alley instead. Pastries and coffee would afford some distraction from my obvious sorry state, plus it would give me some time to stop being pissed at the fact I’d yet again let the tattooist get under my skin. I snorted at the pun, but there was far too much truth in it.
Leon didn’t even have to be in the room to drive me crazy, and how the fuck did he even do that? I didn’t let people . . . I didn’t let men take up space in my head, ever. But the minute Leon walked through the front door of Flare in my first week on the job, my balls melted right through my new pair of Reiss puppytooth slacks, and nothing had been the same ever since.
Irritating as he was, Leon Steadman was the hottest damn thing I’d ever seen. Six-foot-six inches of fantasy-inspired, tattooed deliciousness. Waves of strawberry-blond hair tied back in a messy tail; a charming and extremely lickable spray of freckles across a slightly crooked nose; and a pair of light grey eyes that drilled right through me with some serious heat that set my knees to wobbling—and I didn’t wobble . . . for anyone. That should’ve been enough warning right there.
So yes, Leon was hot, ridiculously and annoyingly so, at least to me. But hot in no way made up for the arrogant, self-righteous, judgemental son of a bitch who’d revealed himself at a mutual friend’s party about a month later and ripped the scales from my eyes.
Was I being a whiny prick simply because Leon turned me down flat when I’d asked if he fancied going somewhere quieter to get . . . better acquainted? Yes. Yes, I was. Because it wasn’t the fact Leon said no. It was the fact that his rebuff came with a steaming shitty side-order of disrespect, like my slutty self wasn’t good enough for him.
“Sorry, not interested.” Leon smiled down at me.
“Are you sure about that?” I winked, pressing my luck, because, damn, he looked scorching hot, dressed in all black with a short-sleeved T-shirt that showed off his amazing ink, along with some impressive biceps. Half the partygoers were eyeing him up, men and women. Then again, I knew I didn’t look too shabby myself, and I’d sunk one or four gins for courage, so what the hell. Go big or go home, right?
I went up on my toes and leaned in. “I think we’d be fucking hot together. Don’t you want to find out?”
He stepped back, his expression unreadable. “Still not interested.”
Huh. I frowned. It wasn’t like no one ever turned me down, but I’d seen the way he’d been watching me all night. He wanted me. “You don’t like sex?” I offered a teasing smile.
He looked at me for a long minute, like he was deciding something. “Yes, I like sex, Christopher. Although if I didn’t, I’m not sure I’d appreciate the implication behind the question from someone I hardly know.”
Ouch. But also . . . fair enough. Still . . . “Kip,” I corrected, feeling pissy mostly because he was right, but also because the name thing had become a bit of a dance between us since we’d met. For some reason, Leon refused to call me by my nickname. “But if you’re not averse to the idea of sex—” I side-eyed him, grateful for the loud vocals of Oasis filling the smallish lounge. “—then I guess it must be me you’re not interested in.”
He shot me a pretty solid for-fuck’s-sake glare and his gaze swept the room. “Look, Christopher—”
I rolled my eyes.
“—I’m sure you’ll have no trouble filling your bed for a night if that’s all you’re after. You’ve got a slick, well-practiced game, and there’s plenty of hot options here for you to cast your net at. It just won’t be me.” He smiled thinly, raised his beer in salute, and then dismissed me with, “Go knock yourself out.” But yet, there wasn’t an ounce of humour in his eyes. Instead, there was something that smacked too closely of . . . disapproval?
It took me a stunned moment to respond.
It wasn’t quite slut shaming, not the actual words, but the implication was close enough to shock and then piss me the fuck off. One thing for sure, I wasn’t going anywhere. And when I finally gathered some words to fire back, I used every one of them in quite a long spiel that included phrases such as, “What the fuck is that supposed to mean? Who in the hell do you think you are?” And, my personal favourite, “What crawled up your arse, you sanctimonious prick?” All quite loudly as it turned out, judging by the curious looks we received, but I’d had too much to drink to give an actual fuck.
When I was done, Leon sighed and leaned close, the crisp heady scent of his beard wax doing strange, unwelcome things to my stomach. “I’m not judging you, Christopher, I’m just not—”
“Kip,” I snapped. “What is so damn difficult about that?”
He stared at me for a long minute, and just for a second, I thought I read apology in his eyes. But it was quickly replaced by that familiar cool detachment. “I didn’t mean to offend you. I’m just not interested in being a notch on your bed. On anyone’s, for that matter.” Leon’s gaze lingered on my face and there it was again, that look I’d seen whenever his gaze landed on me. The one that screamed desire and set my heart pumping.
It was at total odds with the words coming out of his mouth, because no matter what he said, Leon wanted me. He’d watched me like a hawk as I’d flirted and danced with other guys. Every time I turned around, he’d been watching. So, what the fuck was the stick up his arse?
I lifted my chin. “Well, do you know what I think?” I ran a finger down that tight black T-shirt. “I think you do want m—”
“Have a good night, Chr . . . Kip.” He hesitated as if he was going to add something, then snapped his mouth closed and headed for the front door.
Which left me standing with my finger still in the air, reeling in his wake, the focus of a few knowing smirks, and feeling like the trash someone had thrown out the week before.
As I said, self-righteous prick.
And who the hell needed another one of those in their life? Not me. I’d dealt with enough arseholes in my short twenty-six years to last a lifetime. The fact that everyone else seemed to love the guy? Well, there was no accounting for taste. And it didn’t mean I was wrong about him.
