Provocative Professions Read online

  Boxed Set

  Stirred Up

  Packaged

  Handled, Volumes 1 & 2

  S.E. Hall

  &

  Angela Graham

  Contents

  Stirred Up

  Packaged

  Handled, Volumes 1 & 2

  Stirred Up

  S.E. Hall

  &

  Angela Graham

  Copyright 2014 S.E. Hall & Angela Graham

  All rights reserved

  This book may not be reproduced in any form, in whole or in part,

  without permission from the author.

  This book is intended for mature audiences only.

  Editor: Erin Roth, Wise Owl Editing

  Formatter: Joni Wilson

  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

  Epilogue

  Coming together is a beginning;

  keeping together is progress;

  working together is success

  —Anonymous

  Chapter 1

  "Dylan!" I bang louder now, rolling my eyes, half-tempted to add in a few kicks as well.

  Every attempt I make to visit, he takes his sweet ass time opening the damn door. I usually don't let it rattle me but it was free spay and neuter day at the vet clinic where I work and I'm exhausted. All I want to do is peel these pinching shoes off my aching feet and sit down with a cold beer and a slice of pizza while catching up with my big brother.

  If he'd turn down his incessant video game and come answer the door, that is.

  My fist hammers against the wood again and still nothing. Heaving out an exasperated huff, I sling my work bag around my shoulder, balancing our steaming dinner and tall boys in my hands as I dig inside my purse for the spare key he gave me on move in day a year earlier.

  "Dylan!" Yelling again, I try to peer through the window. If he's got that headphone thing on that he uses to talk to other gamers, I could be here all night. With no luck on the hunt for his elusive key, I pull out my phone instead. He's so buying next time.

  "Addison, dear."

  I whirl around, startled, nearly dropping my phone and everything else I'm holding at the sound of the voice. It's sweet Mrs. Murray from the apartment across the way.

  "Your brother's gone," she continues. "He and that handsome friend of his were moving things out all day."

  Brady. Rescuing my meandering brother again.

  I shove my phone back in my purse, struggling to tame my aggravated scowl long enough to give the elderly, helpful woman a smile. "Thank you, Mrs. Murray, and sorry for the noise."

  The familiar ache builds in my temples, the one only two guys ever cause, consistently stressing me out with some shenanigan or another.

  "Not at all, honey. If I don't see you kids again, you all take care."

  My shoulders slump when she closes the door. Unable to contain my frustration, I stomp the entire way out of the building and straight to my car, where I toss the dinner and drinks onto the passenger seat a little too hard. Once I'm buckled up and ready to go, I inhale a deep breath and take my anger out on the steering wheel.

  What the hell is wrong with him? With both of them?

  I'm livid, and pretty sure most of my fellow drivers take notice as I weave in and out of traffic way too fast, risking my perfect driving record. I don't care and I don't stop, besides at the one red light that I swear is mocking me, all the way to Brady's house, ready to lay into them both. Far too annoyed to be bothered with knocking, I crash through the front door and slam the now-cold pizza and warm beer on the table in the entryway.

  "Jackasses, I'm home!" I yell out into the large house, balancing on first one, then the other leg to finally take off my shoes. Heaven forbid I traipse further into the way-too-big-for-one-single-man's house with my shoes on. Brady's by far the more hygienic one of the duo, my brother more of a quick rinse, anything on the floor not stiff enough to stand on its own is still wearable kind of guy. It's the main reason they've never made good roommates and the first point I'll be making if they think they can hole up together again.

  "In the living room," Dylan calls back, obviously too busy to walk the ten steps to greet me.

  Irritation climbs straight to homicidal rage in seconds when I turn the corner and see them. Seemingly unconcerned with his recent unannounced move, my brother is sprawled out in a beanbag, fingers tapping rapid-fire on his controller…not a care in the world. Brady, the enabler, is relaxed in the armchair with a white blanket spread over his lap, his head dipped back, eyes closed, a wicked curl to his lips. The girly feet peeking out from under the blanket tell me I'm definitely interrupting, not that I care, but I'm appalled that Dylan is so far lost in his game that he hasn't noticed the blowjob happening a few feet to his left.

  Brady releases a low grunt, his hips shooting up, hands gripping the blanket, which is actually the head of Casper the Friendly Cocksucker, as she finishes him off. The thought of what just slid down her throat causes some bile to rise in mine; seriously, there's a guy sitting right beside you and your escapade soundtrack is squawking video game birds—talk about hot.

  I give the back of his chair a swift kick and move across the room, not wanting a close-up of that show. "Sorry to bust up the frat party," I chirp sarcastically, "but does anybody want to tell me why Dylan's homeless again?"

  "Hey, Moe." Brady's hands disappear under the fabric, pushing whoever's done there away and raising his hips to tuck what I can only assume is his dick back in a more appropriate place. Instantly, a busty girl crawls out from between his legs, wiping her thumb across her swollen lips. She stands, pushing the blanket to the floor, and I catch a glimpse of Brady zipping up his fly. He's all smiles when he looks over at me. "Do I smell sausage or pepperoni?"

  His guest attempts to sit on his lap, but is brutally rebuffed as he's already sauntering toward me with that signature cocky gait of his.

  Widening my stance defensively, I cross my arms over my rapidly rising and falling chest and narrow my eyes at him. "Why did Dylan move out of his apartment, and why the hell is he staying here?"

  He walks right past me, leaving me waiting, which I hate, until he reappears a moment later, beer and pizza in hand.

  "You're cute when you're pissy, Moe." He winks at me and taps the end of my nose.

  I make to knock his finger away but it's already gone. God knows where it's been today. I grimace at the fleeting thought.

  "Thanks for dinner, but the beer…you know I don't drink this girly shit. Although tonight…." He dangles the six pack of Bud Light Lime from his fingers like it's toxic.

  I try to grab it but he isn't letting go. I'm well aware they don't drink it, precisely why I brought it. I like to actually enjoy a drink or two, not watch them chug it all down, so I'm shocked when he cracks one open.

  "What the—"

  "All day in the operating room. Gimme a break. But if you say please, I'll pour one for you myself," Brady says smugly.

  "Let go and I won't spit on your slice," I quip back. No way am I saying please.

  He thinks it over, still holding the beer in one hand, pointer finger tapping his chin with the other. "Hmm, something tells me I've tasted your spit before and yet I still live so—"

  "Not like you never deserved it, Mr. Come On In, the Water's Only Waist D
eep!"

  His lips curl up into a reminiscent smirk, eyes bright as he releases his death grip on my refreshments. "Poor Dylan almost drowned, holding me up while you debated forever. Fuck, was that funny, though. Three steps and whoosh, you were totally under."

  "Bring me a slice already," Dylan yells, never breaking his trance on the screen.

  "Get your own!" Brady and I yell back in sync.

  I roll my eyes, laughing softly with Brady. The ease of our amusement is cut short, though.

  "Oh, that's my favorite!" the pouty lipped bimbo squeals, strolling over with a broad, eager beam, eyeing my beer. Hell no! "Hi, I'm Candace. You must be Moe."

  My scowl is back. "My name is Addison," I grit out.

  "Only since your hair grew out, Moe," Brady tugs on one of my curls playfully.

  "I don't get it?" Bimbo says, looking even more confused, if that's possible.

  "The Three Stooges? Moe used to rock a bowl cut when she was little." He grips his side, laughing.

  She still doesn't get it and never will, given her blank stare, and the whole conversation's grating on my nerves. "Let me guess, you go by Candy?" I ask her.

  "I do, yeah." She affirms proudly.

  Shocker. I have no words nice enough to respond with so instead I step around her, plopping down on the couch, tossing one of the pillows at Dylan's head.

  What grown man hangs out in beanbags, in the early evening of a workday, while his best friend, also grown, mangles a co-ed? Am I the only one (the youngest to boot) in our little trio who ever grew up?

  "Here," I look up to find Brady holding out the frozen mug he keeps in the freezer for me, "don't make me eat alone."

  I glance at the girl in his kitchen opening and closing cabinets, wondering what the hell she's looking for and when she's leaving.

  "Where's your plates?" she finally calls out.

  "You're far from alone but feel free to bring me a slice." I grin, then turn my attention back to my brother's game.

  Brady's hot breath hits the back of my ear. "I knew you'd be coming so I picked up your favorite."

  I tilt my head his direction, finding him bent down, his face inches from mine. I can't deny that the man drew the pretty stick. With enough alcohol in me, you might even coerce a confession that I once had a semi-crush on him. Thing is, when I say once, I mean over fifteen years ago when I was about eleven. That all disappeared when he decided to join my brother as the dynamic duo of tormentors who created their very own version of Fear Factor…where I was the only contestant every damn episode. Since then, he'd become the bane of my existence.

  "Strawberry Jell-O," he murmurs, his lips twitching upward.

  Damnit, I do love Jell-O and he's the only one that makes it exactly how I like, adding a thin layer of banana slices on top. Despite his massive kitchen, it's the only thing he can make and I've never been able to resist.

  Huffing loudly, I accept, allowing him to pull me to my feet and into the kitchen. "He get fired?" I ask lowly, as though my brother's even listening over his enthralling game in there.

  "It's not what you think." He grabs the biggest, cheesiest slice, shooting me the knowing grin that I took inventory and noticed. "Have a little faith in him, would ya? His manager's been gunning for him since he figured out Dylan's better than-"

  "I believe in him!" I shriek, interrupting and not caring. How could he suggest I don't? "But I also believe in getting the next door open before closing the last one," I continue. "He's always rebuilding, never moving up. And you," I glare and poke his chest, "make it too easy for him. He's thirty years old, for Christ's sake! Quit coddling him!"

  His features soften, as does the smile he throws me. "I'm just helping him get back on his feet. He can do great things, Moe, all he needs is someone to believe in him and the right opportunity to come along."

  Not a smart girl, Jezebel slides into my peripheral, plate in hand, and sneaks a piece of pizza. My eyes narrowing predatorily, I pin her in place.

  "One piece, got it? I don't have to buy ya dinner, Sweet pea," I seethe, meeting her shocked, widened eyes. "I didn't fuck ya."

  "Neither did I!" Dylan yells from the living room. "I'll take her piece if you throw her out!"

  Unbelievable. We discuss his life, he hears nothing. Bitch tries to short him food, he's all ears.

  "Cookie," Brady coos at her sickeningly. That's what he calls them all—Cookie—since we were teenagers, because he can't remember their names. "You better be going."

  She drops the slice back in the box and I return to my own cheesy goodness, satisfied and fully aware I've become a bitch. These two guys bring it out of me, so I place full blame on them and maybe a little on the fact that it's been over twelve months since I've had a man's hands anywhere near my body. I close my eyes, needing to unwind; unfortunately the yapping girl won't allow that.

  "But, we didn't finish studying," she pouts, hands on hips, obviously fake chest poofed out in offering to him.

  I swallow a bite and peer over at Brady, who's sitting across from me now, refusing to acknowledge her whining. "Another nurse?" I sneer, one eyebrow judgmentally raised.

  "Civic duty." He shrugs with a devilish grin, biting off a grotesquely big mouthful of pepperoni heaven.

  "Hmph," I scoff, "as if you teach them anything medicinal."

  "Oh, but he did," Blondie bounces, ticking the "lessons" off of her fingers. "He taught me the five points of restraint, how to take vitals and," she ponders, "oh yeah, breasts exams!"

  My head snaps to Brady, eyes narrowed. "Restraints and breast exams, really?"

  "Covering the basics." He winks.

  I turn back to Blondie. "Candy, did he show you anything that's actually on your test, or did he just want to grope your tits?"

  "No, no, no, breast exams are super important. He taught me a lot, want me to show you? I could use the practice!"

  Is this child for real? I may only be twenty-six years old, but I was smarter than her at, say…five.

  My penetrating glare moves from Brady to her. "If your hand comes anywhere near my girls, Goldilocks, you'll be pulling back a nub."

  Brady snorts, choking through his laughter, and Nurse Whore is immediately at the ready to clap him on the back.

  "Like, really though," she looks at me, pleadingly, "they're super important. You need to do them. Right Brady?"

  "I appreciate your concern, but I have a doctor for that," I deadpan.

  She bounces again. "Who?"

  "Yeah, Moe, who?" Brady asks, recovered and lethally serious.

  Shit, how did we get on this subject exactly? "Um, just a doctor." I glance away instinctively. "It's none of your business anyway," I add on a mumble, grabbing another slice and stomping off to the couch.

  This day quickly went from hectic to bad to downright nightmarish. Brady reads me like the back of his hand, he's had sixteen years of experience, so I know that he knows I'm full of shit…a lecture is definitely on its way. Bracing for it, I stuff my face, dipping my head to conceal my staring as I watch Brady help Ditzy gather her things and lead her out.

  The minute I've relaxed a bit, Brady drops beside me. Ugh, way too close, so I can smell her over his classic scent of confidence and man. "You still mad at me?" he leans in and whispers in my ear, earning him a swift elbow to the ribs.

  "Is she old enough to drive herself home?"

  His head falls back, exposing his taut, tan throat with his laugh. "Yep. Smart enough to have regular exams too. I know you, Moe, your try at evasive doesn't work on me." His voice levels to a chastising, low timbre, his green eyes boldly holding mine. "It pisses me off to think you don't take care of yourself. Women's bodies are complex, fascinating things; there's lots to take care of."

  "Why is it such a big deal? I'm only twenty-six years old and it's not like I'm working the streets at night."

  "It's a big deal." His stern voice leaves no room for argument.

  "Sir, yes, sir, I'll get right on that," I salute, shutting down
the conversation. I go grab Dylan another slice, his hand already out when I arrive at the beanbag throne.

  "You bet your ass you will," Brady calls out and I try to ignore exactly what that means. He's the most persistent man alive, scarily stubborn and renowned for getting his way…especially when it comes to his friends' health.

  Chapter 2

  "Well hello there, Mimi," I coo at the brilliant scarlet macaw when I walk in the next morning. The clinic "pet," she's allowed to roam free overnight. "Who's a pretty bird?"

  "Mimi's a pretty bird," she responds, flying over to perch on my shoulder.

  I flip on the lights and set down my bags, turning the blinds to open as my cell phone begins trilling from my purse.

  "Tell her I'm not here, tell her I'm not here," Mimi sing-songs.

  I roll my eyes, snickering. Dr. Burns, the town vet I work for, married almost sixty years now, taught the bird that phrase as a passive-aggressive dig at his beloved wife. He thinks it's hilarious.

  "Hello?" I answer, slowly, unsure of the caller.

  "Ms. Porter?"

  My brows pinch. "This is Addison Porter."

  "Good morning, this is Whitney from Dr. Reynolds' office. I'm calling to confirm your appointment for tomorrow morning at 10 am."

  Appointment? It hits me in two flat seconds. Brady. Shaking my head, I blow out a breath. I should have known that condescending bastard wouldn't let up, but making an appointment for me?! Why am I even surprised? And because this tiny, off the grid town has only one gynecologist, of course it's at Dr. Reynolds' office! Never been and never planned to go, but suddenly faced with it, I need to take a minute to consider my options.

  There are only two choices—drive thirty-five minutes to the next town, the closest thriving metropolis, defined as such because it boasts both a Taco Bell and a Wal-Mart, and bring Brady back a "proof of pap" note, or…