Gradation: an enemies to lovers, steamy romance Read online

  Cover Design by Nautilus Graphic Design

  Cover Model: Kaz van der Waard

  Cover Photography by Arron Dunworth

  Copyright © 2019 By KC DECKER

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright

  reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced,

  stored in, or introduced into any type of retrieval system,

  or transmitted in any way, form, or by any means

  (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise)

  Without the prior written consent of both the copyright

  owner and the publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and

  incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination

  or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons;

  living or dead, businesses, companies, brands, locales

  or events is entirely coincidental.

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status, and trademark

  owners of various companies and brands referenced in

  this work of fiction, which have been used without permission.

  The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized,

  associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Gradation

  KC Decker

  Gradation:

  noun:

  gra•da•tion / grey•dey•shen

  Definitions:

  Gradation- A gradual change.

  Tattoo Gradation- A visual technique of gradually transitioning from one hue to another.

  Individual Gradation- A gradual progression in opinion, perception, or attitude toward another. Or, perhaps, a gradual change in your intolerance towards another human being—who, if we are completely honest, is really just a cocky bastard anyway.

  Table of Contents

  Gradation

  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

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Epilogue

  Chapter 1

  Friends. Ride or die, right? Always have your back. Know all your dirty little secrets. Love the shiny parts of you, and embrace the crappy ones? Yeah, well, I don’t know about all that nonsense because my friends are just a bunch of assholes.

  Granted, we have murdered a few bottles of overpriced Prosecco, which has vaporized their brain-to-mouth filters, but still—total assholes. I’ve long ago lost my ability to fight back, not that I ever stood a chance against their gang mentality in the first place. So, now I just have to sit here and take it. Actually, fuck that, I still have some fight in me yet.

  “Listen, you judge-y…. know-it-alls. It’s hard to date nowadays. Guys just want to exchange explicit texts and pretend to be single, and if they ever do decide to meet, they are only looking for a hook-up. Those are shark-infested waters out there, and you two know it,” I say, as I point to the other two single people at the table.

  “And you,” I redirect my clumsy focus to Arden and all her curly blonde hair, “Did they even have dating apps when you and Brady got together?”

  “Three years, Alabama. We’ve been together for three years, not three decades. Yes, there were dating apps.”

  “There were also speeding tickets. And evidently, off-site blowies to get out of those tickets,” Miles snorts. Which is precisely the type of thing Miles typically infuses into our happy-hour conversations—or any conversation, really.

  “Hey! I went to court over that ticket!” Arden defends herself as well as can be expected against Miles’ sanctimonious nature.

  “Miles’ affinity for dating apps is unquestionable. He would die of blue-balls if Grindr and Hornet were not at his fingertips within a moment’s notice,” Ivy laughs. She’s single too, so I don’t know why she insists on giving everyone else such a hard time about dating. The last few winners she dated were ones for the record book. One was on the seven-year plan for his undergrad degree in nautical archaeology, and the other huffed Scotchguard for fun.

  “If we could all just refocus for a moment, I believe Alabama still wants to defend her atrocious taste in men,” Miles states as he holds up an empty wine bottle and winks at our cocktail waitress. She, of course blushes, and I’m sure dampens her panties because that’s how people with heartbeats respond to Miles. He takes total advantage of it too, and really works hard to hone his skill.

  “Why should I have to defend my taste in guys? There is nothing wrong with what I’m looking for, the problem is with what they have to offer.” After I say this, I look around waiting for someone to argue. They all just stare at me for a second and then, as a unit of assholes, burst into laughter.

  “Remind us, Alabama…what has been the issue with the last—say, five guys you dated?” Arden asks with her happily-not-single, judgmental mouth.

  “There were various prob—”

  “Bullshit!” Miles barks, interrupting me before I can hardly open my mouth. “We all know the problem; you are just too stubborn to admit having one.” Now our waitress is back with another bottle of Prosecco, and it surprises none of us when she fills Miles’ glass first.

  “I’m gonna lump Ivy in here too,” Arden starts from her soapbox, “Both of you date hot guys, first and foremost. Neither of you looks for substance, and then when they lack it, you act all surprised.”

  “Nooo, it’s just that we can’t see their substance from across the bar,” I try, but it sounds weak—even to me.

  Ivy tries harder but has about as much success as I did. “We don’t actually seek out guys that want to have sex with a bunch of women while letting us believe we are the only one—that’s just how it shakes out. Guys our age don’t want to settle down, they want to fuck anything with tits and continue to advance their careers unhindered.”

  “Wrong.”

  “Ok then, Almighty Miles, what is the problem?”

  “Your pickers are broken.”

  “Huh?” I give a sort of verbal pause while I try to decode what he just said.

  “Yep. Neither one of you could identify a good guy if one walked over and sat on your lap. Your pickers are broken.”

  “Why don’t you get off your ass and introduce us to some good guys then? I mean, if your picker is so pristine and all-knowing, why don’t you set us up with someone?” Ivy challenges, and if it’s possible for gentle, innocent, brown eyes to blaze with hellfire—hers do at this particular moment.

  “Trust me, you don’t want to be set up with my guys.” Then he coughs into his hand while saying, “And-they-don’t-want-to-be-set-up-with-you.”

  “Shut-up, you work with straight guys,” Ivy pushes before she takes a sip of her drink and glares Miles down with a squinty-eyed stare. She’s too sweet to pull it off though, and there is zero true animosity between them.

  “I work with finance guys. Let’s fish in a different pond, shall we?
” Then he sits up straight, suddenly all business and says cryptically, “I have an idea.”

  I jump in, “Can I pre-empt this by just saying, no? Last time you had an idea we all ended up on a party bike in ninety-five-degree weather, pedaling our asses off, and drinking gluten-free beer from a stale keg.”

  “Just so we’re clear, are you still mad about the cardio, or the gluten-free beer?” he asks, then waves his hands like he is trying to erase the question. “You know what? Never mind. Don’t you all agree that your friends know you better than anyone?”

  Reluctantly, we all look around before slowly nodding our heads. This is how Miles works, he hypno-glamours everyone into agreeing with his master plan. Before anyone can stop it, we are caught in his sticky web and dazzled by his hypnotically spinning eyes. I’m serious, he’s a fucking Jedi Master.

  “Ok, hear me out. If a person’s friends know them better than anyone, isn’t it reasonable to assume they know what works for you and what doesn’t?”

  “Miles, shit or get off the pot,” Arden says with the blow of one perfect curl out of her eyes. She may be impatient to hear his bright idea because it doesn’t apply to her, but I’m not. I have visions of speed dating with an earbud receiver in my ear and a cow prod at my back.

  “Ivy…Alabama, from now on, your friends are going to be your pickers.”

  Chapter 2

  After some initial staunch protests, Ivy and I get caught up in the negotiations because apparently, we still have standards when putting our lives in someone else’s hands.

  Arden and Miles are almost militant in their defined parameters, and it makes me want to find some sister-wives and forget about dating and men altogether.

  After more drinks and some questionable baked brie with fig and olive tapenade, the details seem to be in place. First, dating profiles will be made for myself and for Ivy. Here is the rub with that though, neither one of us can have any say or input whatsoever with our own profiles.

  Second, our friends will be the ones communicating on our behalf and lining up the dates. So, in this friend-encrusted universe, the first contact Ivy and I will actually have with the guys will be on our first date. Any pertinent information regarding the guys will be handed out like a frickin allowance right before we meet them.

  Next, any and all follow up communication has to be promptly addressed—all texts returned, all calls answered, and all subsequent dates agreed to.

  If for some reason, the Oracle of Delphi, aka my friends, no longer find the mark—I mean the date, worthy…only they can decide to end it. Otherwise, Ivy and I just have to keep playing along.

  Now, if you are anything like me, you’ve probably already figured out a loophole, right? I mean, how hard is it to be such a ghastly date that all you see are the guy’s ass and elbows as he runs away from you?

  Turns out, Arden and Miles were a little surprised by my sudden acquiescence to the whole ridiculous thing. They immediately sniffed out the rat, and promptly put a three-month clause in place. Three months! As long as the trifecta of those fools deem it appropriate, I have to continue the charade for ninety days!

  You know what that means, right? Sex. And because none of them have to offer up their vaginas—or in Miles’ case, his penis, they can work behind the scenes like fucking Geppetto.

  Back to the three-month clause, because I can throw a date better than anyone. I’d rather cry during the whole thing while talking about a non-existent fiancé that I’m still in love with, than fuck someone I don’t want to. Hell, I’d mention wanting babies right away if it kept someone douche-y from kissing me. Anyway, I digress, the punishment for throwing a date deemed “a good fit” by my friends, is having to date someone well below my station, as Miles puts it. And trust me, they will go out of their way to line up someone for the punishment round, if only to find amusement in my suffering.

  Somehow, SOMEHOW, my friends got me to agree to this nonsense. How, you wonder? I can answer that with one word.

  Prosecco.

  Chapter 3

  When you work in advertising like I do, you know better than anyone how important branding is, or more specifically, how that brand is presented. So, when your three best friends take the brand that is you, and present it to the world however the hell they please, it can be frustrating.

  The fact that I don’t even have the password to my own dating profile is an affront to basic human decency. However, Arden and Miles are on their way to my loft right now so they can debrief me before my coffee date.

  Currently, Ivy is sitting cross-legged on my bed while I apply lip gloss and try to dig deep for an ounce of desire to meet this mystery dude. They have all been pretty tight-lipped about the whole thing and Ivy, the traitor, was unmoved by my begging and threats of violence to gain my password.

  I even wrote hers on a folded piece of paper and slid it over to her so she could do some quality control on her own profile. She didn’t bite. Then I resorted to pulling the damn thing up and turning the laptop toward her. She was unaffected. She wouldn’t even glance at her own locked-down profile.

  It’s possible she is even having fun with this, which is the polar opposite of how I feel. However, if I were to concede one thing about the process and my involvement in her profile development, it’s that we, her friends know her really well and probably answered the questions better for her than even she would have.

  When Miles and Arden arrive, I have put next to no effort into getting ready and already view this date as a walk down the green mile. None of which sits well with Miles, who rounds the wall behind my bed to the open space considered my closet.

  Arden flops down on the bed next to Ivy. They are both ready for the show, which is preceded by Miles’ sharp reprimand from behind the wall.

  “No, Ma’am! I have put too much into this process for you to approach it like a limp tuna. Now get up, take off the sweatshirt, lose the ponytail, and go plug in your curling iron.” When he emerges, it’s with a skirt, knee-high boots, and a sweater that would have been perfect ten pounds ago. He eyes me with amusement then points to the bathroom, “I suppose you need to go shave too, right?”

  ***

  Once I’m put together to their satisfaction, and far too primped for a Saturday, mid-morning coffee date, I have gleaned that my intended is a Scorpio and that his name is Gavin. That’s it. I’d get more information from a fortune cookie.

  “Are you serious? How am I supposed to identify him when I get there?” I ask after spitting toothpaste into the sink. “He thinks I’ve seen his pictures. Plus, if I have been communicating with him for two weeks, I should really know more regarding what I’m about to step in, right?”

  “Good point. I’ll show you a picture,” Miles says as he pulls his phone from his back pocket. What he holds up on the screen makes me gasp and then take off my jacket and throw it at him.

  “Nope,” I say dismissively, as I lean down to unzip my boot. Then I notice that Ivy and Arden have both suddenly sat bolt upright on the bed.

  “Why not!? He is perfect for you!” Arden demands, completely offended. I scowl at her, surprised I would even need to explain my resistance. Our answer comes from Miles, who doubles over laughing.

  “Naw, that’s not him. I’m playing, but you are communicating with this guy as well, just in case you have any reservations about making a good impression on your real date. I’m serious, Alabama, you can’t sabotage this. Do you understand?”

  I’m so relieved that the photo isn’t of my real date that I find I’m suddenly more compliant. “At least tell me what we know about each other, I can’t go into the lion’s den without some basic knowledge of the guy I’ve been communicating with for two weeks.”

  Arden pipes up from across the loft, “He knows you work in advertising, are spiritual but not religious, and despise mayonnaise. He owns his own business, is very artistic, and prefers introverts.”

  “He is also really sexy, but—” Miles hesitates, and I wait for the
hangman’s noose.

  “He is not your usual type. I mean…at all.”

  Chapter 4

  Within a minute of stepping foot inside the café, a man approaches me and asks, “Alabama?” He has messy blond hair, moody blue eyes, and a tattoo on the side of his neck that immediately puts me off. I go for clean-cut, Wall Street types, and this guy is—not.

  “Hi, Gavin,” I say, and it sounds disappointed, even to me. He doesn’t even shake my hand as etiquette demands, but instead places his palm presumptuously on my lower back and directs me to an empty table by the window.

  “What are you drinking, whiskey? Tequila?” he asks as he takes his jacket off and then leans forward, resting his forearms on the table. His, heavily tattooed forearms. Did I say he’s not the Wall Street type? What I meant was, he is on the complete other end of the spectrum. This guy beat-up Wall Street and then backed his motorcycle over it.

  “Huh?” I ask. My dad would have a stroke if I brought a guy like this home to meet him. How could my friends have been so far off? This has to be a joke.

  “I’m teasing, how do you like your coffee?” he modifies as he straightens his posture.

  “Oh, right. Cream and sugar please,” I say as I pull my wallet out.

  “Don’t worry, I’ve got this. It’s not like you ordered a quad or a Kyoto cold brew—those would really tip the scales,” he says as he smiles and gets up to head over to the counter.

  Why in God’s name did I agree to this? I’ve been given a grueling forty-five-minute minimum as part of the rules. I’m still inside of the first five minutes, and I already want to leave. He’s nice, but that’s it. He’s too gritty for me. He is no one I would ever date without my meddling friends forcing me to.

  When he slides back into the booth, I quietly thank him, then he sits back and eyes me as if he’s daring me to take a sip of the coffee. I feel like we are in some sort of a standoff and the silence crackles between us like staticky sheets.