Perky Read online

  Perky

  Julia Kent

  Contents

  Perky

  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

  A note for readers

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Julia Kent

  Perky

  by Julia Kent

  One hundred years ago, when I was young and impulsive (Okay, it was five, all right? Five years ago), I let my boyfriend take, let's just say... compromising pictures of me.

  Shut up. It made sense at the time.

  Surprise! The sleazy, backstabbing jerk posted them on a website and, well, you can guess what happened. That’s right.

  I’m a meme. A really gross one.

  You've seen the photos. And if you haven't, don’t ask. And don't look!

  As face recognition software improves, I get tagged on social media whenever anyone shares my pictures. You try getting a thousand notifications a day, all of them pictures of your tatas.

  So. I’m done.

  It’s time for revenge. Let him see how it feels! But how do you get embarrassingly intimate photos of your jerkface ex who double-crossed you five years ago?

  Especially when he’s a member of the U.S. House of Representatives now?

  Getting sweet between the sheets with a congressman is pretty much every political groupie's dream, right? I’m one in a crowd.

  Except... to this day, he swears he didn’t do it. Pursued me for months after I dumped him five years ago. Begged me to take him back.

  And I almost did it. Almost. I was weak and stupid and in love a hundred years ago.

  Okay. Fine. Five.

  But I still have the upper hand. Second-chance romance has all the emotional feels, doesn’t it?

  I can’t wait to punch him in the feels.

  All I need to do is sleep with him once, take some hot-and-sweaty pics of him in... delicate positions, and bring him down. That’s it. Nothing more.

  Pictures first. Revenge after. And then I win.

  At least, that’s how it was supposed to happen. But then I did something worse than all that.

  I fell in love with him. Again.

  Copyright © 2019 by Julia Kent

  * * *

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  * * *

  Cover designer: Hang Le

  Editor: Elisa Reed

  * * *

  Author website: http://www.jkentauthor.com

  1

  I am kissing my ex-boyfriend, Parker Campbell–yes, Congressman Parker Campbell–and I have no idea how the hell this is happening.

  But I really like that this is happening.

  Yet I hate Parker for what he did to me five years ago. He's my ex.

  And his tongue is unbelievable.

  One of his hands sinks into my hair, fingers threading through it, tugging just hard enough to make all the blood in my body rush between my legs, a tidal wave of–

  No! No! I can’t let this happen!

  I break the kiss. Parker’s eyes are still closed. Most guys would look stupidly awkward with that face, but not him, with blond hair cut fashionably close, enough wave to the bangs to make him, um…

  Bangable.

  His close shave makes his cheek so soft, but his jaw is strong and hard, the scent of aftershave and his natural musk making me weaker than I should be.

  He’s kissable and hot and one thousand images of his naked body mashed against my naked body run through my mind until they suddenly stop, like a slot machine going Ping! Ping! Ping!

  And the final ping! is a picture of me, naked on a bed, with my boobs on display.

  And two dogs humping on the pillow above my head.

  I'm not making this up. You’ve seen the damn meme.

  What would you do to the guy who posted that picture on the web? The one who ruined your life by turning you into an object of worldwide mockery?

  I do what any sane woman would do.

  I punch Parker in the gut.

  That’s right. And you’d do it, too.

  He whoofs slightly, but I’m the one who makes a louder sound. Pain radiates through my knuckles because this man has abs of steel underneath that fine, bespoke wool suit, the charcoal gray perfectly offset by a red and navy tie at the neck of his white Brooks Brothers Oxford. Is there a spandex S underneath my pained knuckles?

  I look at his face to double check he’s not Henry Cavill.

  Nope.

  Parker grabs my wrist before I can actually make contact with his cheek as I go for a good old-fashioned, outraged slap, even as my knuckles scream Uncle.

  His eyes are wide open, amused, the color of opals mixed with whiskey.

  “Predictable and impulsive. I always loved that about you, Persephone.” When one corner of his mouth goes up, I swear I can taste his lips again. I press my fingers against my mouth as if creating a barrier between us, a wall, a way to stop myself from letting him kiss me again.

  Because I'm weakening.

  “Don’t call me Persephone.”

  “Okay. Sweetheart.”

  “Definitely don’t call me that.”

  “What should I call you?”

  “An Uber. I’m out of here.” I turn to leave, but he grips my wrist. Not hard enough to hurt.

  Just enough pressure to make me halt.

  And my pulse race.

  “You just assaulted an elected federal official,” he informs me with all the sincerity of a frat boy, lips twitching. Sure, he’s right. He’s a thirty-one-year-old member of the United States House of Representatives now, but that’s not why he says it.

  “I also assaulted an asshole who ruined my life five years ago.”

  “One of those could come with jail time.”

  My heart has spent plenty of time in prison.

  I don’t actually say that to the rat bastard, because then I’d be admitting feelings for him, and being vulnerable to Parker Campbell comes with consequences.

  Life-crushing ones.

  “Go ahead. Call the cops.” I get right in his face, the taste of his kiss still on my lips. I lick them, welcoming his eyes as they track my tongue. Tracing slowly, I watch to see if he’s watching me.

  He is.

  While laughing.

  And still holding my wrist.

  “Let go of me.”

  “Promise not to hit me again?”

  “No.”

  His thumb slides against the soft skin of my wrist, slow, like a lover’s touch. I shiver. I can’t help it. The shiver is an entirely autonomous response that has nothing to do with the fact that my panties are wet and I’m throbbing for him between my legs like the opening bass lines to “Uptown Funk” and holy bejeezus, is Parker about to kiss me again?

  Not that I want him to.

  Really.

  Damn it.

  That wicked grin makes it clear he thinks he owns my reaction to him, like he knows he’s making it happen in real time as our eyes lock and I try to kill him with a death glare that I can’t hold because behind my eyes, inside my brain, a series of memories is being triggered by his touch.

  Five-year-old memori
es.

  Five years of not being touched like this.

  How the hell have I lived for five whole years without being touched like this by Parker Campbell?

  The whimper crouches in the back of my throat, coming out like an escaping butterfly fleeing a fairy, so light, so sweet, it’s like it didn’t happen.

  Except Parker heard it.

  And his smile fades, eyes serious. For a moment, I have reason to believe those same five years have taken their toll on his heart, too. He’s so focused on me, it’s like no one else exists.

  Until my best friend Mallory clears her throat.

  “Um, Perky, you okay?” Her words are soft, but the meaning behind them is titanium. I look at her, hating to turn away from being the center of Parker’s attention.

  I realize, though, that she and Will are a wall between us and the rest of the restaurant, all of the patrons streaming into the larger outside room in twos and threes, no one noticing us.

  Yet.

  Parker and I absolutely, positively should not be the focus of attention here. We’re gathered in a small room off the main dining room of this farm-to-table restaurant for Will and Mallory’s pre-wedding dinner, an eye-rollingly cheesy event that is all about them. Ten of us–the bride and groom and eight of the members of the bridal party–are gathered to “get to know one another,” according to Mallory, though most of us have known each other forever–long before the wedding itself.

  I’m making a spectacle. Mallory doesn’t need her best friend to suck all of the oxygen out of the room. I need to get a handle on my reaction to seeing the man who betrayed me in the worst possible way. I need to rise above it all in a display of maturity and focus on my friend’s happiness.

  But Parker totally deserved that punch.

  Will is giving Parker a deeply troubled look. I should know. He normally only looks at me that way.

  “Skip? What’s going on?” His eyes go to Parker’s fingers, wrapped around my wrist, his touch gentle but a clear claim.

  “Skip?” I wrench my wrist out of his grasp, hating the cold of my skin without his touch.

  “Perky?” The tone he uses makes it clear he doesn't like my nickname, the one I started just after he screwed me over.

  His opinion does not matter. “Like Skip is any better? You're Skip?” I demand.

  “Long story.” Parker doesn’t look at Will. He doesn't blink as he gazes at me, either.

  “I don’t care.” My words are a lie, of course, but I have to say them. Five years ago, his betrayal was so enormous. When someone hurts you that much, you can never be vulnerable with them again.

  Not even about a stupid nickname.

  “Can we keep this quiet?” Will asks, jaw tight, eyes jumping between me and Parker. “This is our wedding party event. Whatever past you two have needs to stay there for the next three hours, if you don’t mind.”

  “'Whatever past'?” Mallory gasps. “'Whatever past'?” Accusing eyes stab Parker like she’s got knives in her irises. Shoulders tense, lips curled back in a snarl, my goody-two-shoes, always-friendly BFF is turning into a street fighter, ready to unleash whoopass on Parker.

  Will takes her in like she’s shedding her human skin and turning into a demon before his eyes.

  Attention suddenly on Parker, she opens her mouth and hisses, “You show up here and waltz in and think you can–”

  “Hold on,” Will says, contradicting her, or maybe just cutting her off so he can regroup. “Skip’s invited. My cousin Fred was going to be a groomsman, but then he got a chance to join some dog sled team for a freelance article he’s writing and bagged out of the wedding. I asked Skip yesterday, and he flew up here from–”

  “Texas,” I say flatly. I know all about Parker and his life down there. Back there. After we broke up, I moved back home. He got a job as an aide with Representative O'Rollins' office, and then he saved the guy's life, performing CPR on national television after the congressman collapsed giving a press conference. O'Rollins told his wife he wanted Parker to run for the seat, then lived for five days.

  At that point, no one expected him to die, of course. But he did.

  My ex was suddenly the young, anointed heir. One special election and a write-in campaign now famed on the internet for the millennial turnout and bam–the guy who ruined my life became a sitting member of Congress.

  And I just assaulted him.

  In public.

  “WILL!” Mallory hisses through clenched teeth. “How could you do this?”

  Will isn’t looking at her. He’s looking at me, then Parker. “Me? You’re blaming me? What the hell is going on between you two?”

  It occurs to me that really, he doesn’t know. Has no idea at all.

  How can he not know?

  “Oh. My. God.” Mallory’s fists relax. She reaches for Will’s arm, stands on tiptoe and whispers in his ear. “You really don’t know who Parker is?” Clutching his biceps, Mallory's leaning in to her fiancé, brain running a mile a minute, trying to assemble all the parts of this completely unanticipated moment.

  “You mean Mr. Hotshot Congressman here? We met at Oxford. Then he worked as a DA in Texas and joined Congressman O'Rollins’ staff and got lucky when he died.”

  No sense of competition in that line.

  “'Luck' isn't the word I'd use,” Parker protests mildly, voice low and smooth, emotions utterly in check.

  “This isn't about you!” I practically scream.

  “No, Will. Not the congressman part. I mean Parker–Skip–is Mr. Meme!” Mallory insists, pert nose turned down, mouth tight.

  “Mr. Meme–oh, hell.” Now Will’s glaring at Parker like he’s ready to take him back into the alley and beat the crap out of him, which makes me suddenly love Will like a brother. He isn’t like most men.

  Bet he would never snap a nude pic of Mallory and post it all over the internet.

  Parker’s tongue rolls in his mouth and he leans toward Will. “Can we keep this discreet?”

  “You're Mr. Meme? You?” He's agog. Guys like Will don't rattle easily. I should know.

  Because Parker is one of them.

  “Mallory told me the whole story, but she never mentioned your name.” Will’s baring his teeth now.

  “How did she manage that?”

  “She used quite the string of profanities as substitutes. Smegmaface, Asshat, and my personal favorite, Twatwaffle.”

  Parker looks at Mallory like he’s impressed.

  “You came here knowing Perky was in the wedding party, man? You used me?” Anger goes up a notch in Will. There’s nothing worse than being played for a sucker by someone you trust.

  I should know.

  “It’s not like that,” Parker insists.

  I snort.

  “It's not. You called my office and got my assistant,” Parker says calmly. Will's face is turning an impressive shade of rage red.

  “I did. And she called back and said you'd accepted, but were too busy to talk.”

  “That's right. She scheduled this. I had no idea your fiancée was connected to Persephone.”

  “PERKY!” Mallory and I shout.

  Parker's eyes drop to my breasts. I swat him. Even that tiny bit of contact arouses me.

  My wiring is so messed up.

  “I think you should go, Skip. Parker. Smegmaface. Twatwaffle,” Mallory spews.

  “Douchenozzle,” I add.

  Will frowns. “I don't even want to think about what that means.”

  Parker clears his throat. “Look, everyone, I–”

  “Whatever your name is,” Will demands, the stare hardening as he inserts himself between me and Parker, “you need to leave. Now.”

  As people walk past us into the main dining room, glancing curiously, it occurs to me that this has turned into A Scene. Mallory hates scenes. Her older sister, Hasty, is the queen of creating A Scene. I have no desire to wear that crown. Miserable doesn't wear well on my best friend's face, so I need to make this stop.


  Make this all stop for her sake.

  Blood pumps so hard against the surface of my skin. Will is a few deep, angry breaths away from making an even bigger scene at his own event, and suddenly, I feel guilty.

  That’s a new emotion for me. Ouch.

  “No,” I say, stepping between them, giving Will a deeply grateful look as I splay my palm over my heart. “No. Please. Not because of me.”

  “I know what Mr. Meme did to you, Perky, and it’s disgusting. He nearly ruined your life. My twelve-year-old cousin uses that picture all the time to make new memes and post on Snapchat. You’re an object of public ridicule. No way am I letting Skip stay when he did that to you.”

  Will's words trigger a mixed bag of reactions in me.

  “I never did that to her!” Parker’s voice is on the rise. “That’s the whole point!” To my surprise, he doesn't look around to make sure he isn't hurting his political image. Emotion got the better of him.

  “Is that why you’re here? Why you’re using me?” The space between Will and Parker narrows, Will's hands curling into fists.

  “Will. No, man. I’m not. I swear.” Palms up, Parker's beautiful, multi-colored eyes widen, muted pastels and brown blending into a reflection of sincerity and perception. He's not afraid. I know he's not, because he doesn't take a step backwards.

  Parker was never one to avoid conflict. He was always good with confrontation. Great, even. This is the guy who mediated every friend dispute and somehow made it right.

  A perfect character trait in a congressman.

  “But you knew Perky was Mallory’s best friend.” Will's in Parker's face, defending me.

  “I didn't when I said yes. But I realized it about ten minutes ago.”

  “You should have said something right away.”