Make a Move Read online

  Make a Move

  How You Get the Girl

  Book 1

  by

  Meika Usher

  Make a Move

  Meika Usher

  Copyright © 2019 by Meika Usher

  First edition

  www.meikausher.com

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

  may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, institutions, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, events, or locations is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design by evatalia

  ISBN: 978-0-9991180-6-1

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Make a Mover (How You Get the Girl, #1)

  Also by Meika Usher: | BREAKAWAY SERIES: | Something So Sweet | Goodnight & Go | Ready to Run

  1: Nate

  2: Birdie

  3: Nate

  4: Birdie

  5: Nate

  6: Birdie

  7: Nate

  8: Birdie

  9: Nate

  10: Birdie

  11: Nate

  12: Birdie

  13: Nate

  14: Birdie

  15: Nate

  16: Birdie

  17: Nate

  18: Birdie

  19: Nate

  20: Birdie

  21: Nate

  22: Birdie

  23: Nate

  24: Birdie

  25: Nate

  26: Birdie

  27: Nate

  28: Birdie

  29: Nate

  30: Birdie

  31: Nate

  32: Birdie

  33: Nate

  34: Birdie

  35: Nate

  36: Birdie

  37: Nate

  38: Birdie

  39: Nate

  40: Birdie

  41: Nate

  42: Birdie

  43: Nate

  44: Birdie

  45: Nate

  46: Birdie

  47: Nate

  48: Birdie

  49: Nate

  50: Birdie

  51: Nate

  EPILOGUE: BIRDIE

  Note from the Author

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Sign up for Meika Usher's Mailing List

  To Christina, Erin, & Liz:

  YES DO, motherfuckers!

  Also by Meika Usher:

  BREAKAWAY SERIES:

  Something So Sweet

  Goodnight & Go

  Ready to Run

  1: Nate

  I could do this.

  As long as I didn’t talk, I could do this.

  After all, when I was allowed to talk, I tended to screw things up pretty epically. That was how I ended up here in the first place.

  So, yeah. No words. Good.

  I pushed my hands into Marissa’s—or was it Melissa’s?—hair and deepened the kiss, our tongues crashing into each other. Her fingertips dug into my shoulders and she arched her back, pushing her lace-covered breasts into my chest. Somewhere in the back of my mind, surprise registered. When I’d walked into that restaurant tonight, I did not expect the night to end here. If anything, I expected a borderline awkward, if sort-of enjoyable, meal full of inane, getting-to-know-you conversation. And maybe—maybe—a goodnight kiss.

  I had not expected Marissa-Melissa—god, I was a dick, not remembering her name—to ask to see my comic book collection. And I certainly had not expected that to be code for let’s make out.

  And now, here we were, half-dressed and tangled up on my couch. My mouth trailing over the lace edge of her bra, her hand slipping lower into my jeans.

  “Nate,” she whispered, her fingers tightening in my hair. “Talk to me.”

  I bit back a groan—one that had nothing to do with her warm hand slipping further into my jeans. Of course she’d want me to talk. Things were going too well.

  I could kiss that goodbye.

  “What—what do you want me to say?” I managed, my fingertips digging into the tender flesh at her waist. She was warm and soft in all the places she pressed into me and the last thing I wanted to do was talk. The absolute last thing I wanted to do was talk.

  “Tell me what you want to do to me.” She arched her back, and her breasts begged for my mouth.

  I leaned in to oblige. “I’d much rather show you.“

  “No, tell me.” She threaded her fingers through my hair and lifted my face to hers. Her brown eyes flickered with heat. “I want to know what you’re thinking.” And then her lips were trailing down my neck. Teeth sinking into my shoulder. I pulled her tighter against me and willed the words to form.

  What I was thinking was that I wanted to sink my hard cock deep inside her. What I was thinking was that I wanted to free myself of this burden I’d been carrying around for thirty-one years. But what I was thinking and what I said were not even in the same realm.

  “I...ah...” I traced my palm over her smooth thigh and every muscle in my body tensed in anticipation. Come on, Nate, I thought. You can do this. Just tell her what you’re thinking.

  “You what?” she whispered, arching into my touch. “Say it.”

  “I...”

  Her hand delved further south, wrapping around me. My hips jerked in response. “Come on,” she whispered as she stroked me. “Tell me what—”

  “I’m a virgin.”

  Shit.

  Fucking goddamn shit.

  Every.

  Time.

  Marissa-Melissa’s hand froze mid-stroke. Her eyes—eyes that had been on fire twenty seconds ago—widened. “What?”

  “N-nothing,” I started, leaning in to kiss her neck. She’d liked that earlier.

  She wasn’t a fan now.

  “Not nothing.” She leaned back and narrowed her gaze on my face. “You’re a virgin?”

  “Is that what I said?” I pushed a hand through my hair and smiled. Or, at least, I attempted to smile. “I meant...fur...shin?”

  In that moment, I swore my brain grew eyeballs just to glare at me. What the fuck, Nate?

  “What the fuck, Nate?” She leapt up from the couch, her blond hair flying around her pretty face. “That’s kind of something you should tell a girl before she has her hand on your dick.”

  “See, I’ve tried that before,” I replied as I stood, too. “That doesn’t go over well, either.”

  “A virgin?” She shoved her hair away from her face. “How does that even happen? You’re...you’re famous!”

  Famous.

  I winced. I’d never consider myself famous. Not in any real sense of the word. A small group of people knew who I was, yes. Well, small in the grand scheme of the universe. But...I got her reaction.

  After all, you wouldn’t expect Joss Whedon to be a virgin, right? Not that I was comparing myself to Joss Whedon.

  I would never.

  “No, but seriously.” Marissa-Melissa began tossing throw pillows aside, hunting for her shirt. “I don’t get it.”

  “Well, see...” I pushed a hand through my hair and searched the air for the right words to say next. I could tell her the long version—that I’d been in a four-year relationship with my college sweetheart, who was saving herself for marriage, and I got dumped before we got that far. Or, I could stick with the standard...

  “It...just happened.”

  She blinked, slow and skeptical. “Just happened.” Turning from me, she reached for her shoes. “Uh huh.”

  I grimaced. Wrong vers
ion. By now, she was assuming that there was some huge, fatal flaw in my character that repelled all women until the end of time. Either that, or she thought I was a sappy, True Love Only, chastity-belt wearing weirdo. Not that those people were weird. I fully supported one’s desire to wear a chastity belt. I just wasn’t one of them.

  “So, look, Nate.” She tucked a long curl behind her ear and my fingers recalled the silk of it between them. “Nothing against your...beliefs, but I’m just not comfortable being the one who...” She waved a hand over me instead of completing the sentence. “We barely know each other. That,” another hand wave, “should be saved for someone special.”

  Virginity-saving weirdo it was.

  I bit back a sigh. “That’s not what—“

  “You’re a nice guy,” she continued, taking a step toward the exit. “I’m sure it’ll happen soon.”

  And then she swung open the door and propelled herself forward. “Virgin,” I heard her mutter under her breath as she hit the hall. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

  Once the door shut behind her, I sagged onto the couch and threw my head back. Every. Single. Time. I had perfected the art of self-sabotage. My cock was one more blue-balled incident away from abandoning me forever. Completely detaching itself. I’d look like a Ken doll down there.

  For the best, really. Not like I was using it, anyway.

  I pushed away from the couch and headed for the kitchen. An ice-cold beer. That was what I needed.

  As I stared into the overly organized contents of my refrigerator, one thing echoed in my brain:

  “I am never getting laid.”

  2: Birdie

  That was bad. That was real bad. There were no words for how bad that was. Like, couldn’t-keep-it-up bad. Which, yeah, it happened. But coupled with open-mouthed, eating my face kisses and way too many, You like that, baby’s?

  I suppressed a shudder and grabbed my bra from the bedside lamp. What did a girl have to do to get an orgasm around here?

  “I should really get going,” I said as I looped my arms through my bra straps.

  “Oh.” The dude in question sat up and reached for his own pants. “Well, let me walk you downsta—“

  “That’s all right.” I hooked the bra behind my back and attempted a smile. “It was fun, though.” The lie was sour on my tongue, but still not as bad as his cheap-beer-and-cigarette breath had been.

  He stood and yanked on the sweats he’d found on the floor, giving me a smug smile. Which, dude. You didn’t even get laid. What did you have to be smug about? But he reeked of I Am Man, Pleaser of All Women. AKA the type of man who couldn’t take a word of instruction, because he knew what he was doing. Of course he was smug.

  I stifled a snarl. I Am Man was the worst type. How had I missed it?

  “I can see myself out,” I continued, pulling my sheer black shirt over my head. I glanced at him. “Thank you again for...” I waved a hand between us, unsure of what to call the events of the evening. I decided not to fill in the blank. Spare the dude a little dignity. “See you around.”

  “Hold on,” he said, digging through his discarded jeans for his cell phone. “Can I get your number? We could do this again sometime.” He said it with an arrogant, I know you want it, smile, and I nearly laughed out loud.

  Oh, honey, I thought. Oh, honey, no. I do not, in fact, want it.

  I tossed my purse over my shoulder and stuffed my feet into my pink stilettos. Did I want to crush his tender male ego and tell him this was officially a no fly zone? Old Birdie would have played along. Given him her number, then responded politely to his messages thereafter. But Old Birdie would’ve never climbed out of bed mid-hookup. No, she’d have had terrible sex, and she would have pretended to enjoy it.

  Good thing Old Birdie didn’t exist anymore.

  I gave the dude a quick once-over. He looked like the persistent type. Easier to play along and GTFO.

  “Yeah. Um. Sure.” I said, pulling open the bedroom door. I backed down the hall as I rattled off a stream of digits that were definitely not my phone number. In fact, I was pretty sure it was Stu’s Chinese Depot, a number I’d committed to memory years ago. Their Kung Pao was out of this world. I was doing him a favor, if you asked me.

  Not that he’d see it that way. But that wasn’t my concern.

  The crisp autumn air greeted me as I hit the sidewalk and I welcomed it, allowing myself one last shudder and a glance backward.

  What the hell was that?

  The night had started out with so much promise. Hot, can’t-keep-our-hands-off-each-other promise. A girl’s bra only ended up dangling from a lampshade if things were promising.

  But then...that promise went out the window along with the orgasm I never got.

  This was the third dude in the last four months that totally bombed in the bedroom. I mean, damn. A girl needed her orgasms!

  Swallowing a sigh, I turned left on Riverview. It smelled like rain, and these shoes were not made for walking, but I needed some time before I went home. Evelyn, my elderly—and nosy—landlord was likely still up, waiting to hear all about my evening. And, sure, there’d probably be milk and cookies. Or hot fudge sundaes. But I wasn’t feeling up to divulging the dirty, and disappointing, details of my evening.

  No, I’d rather wallow in private.

  Though junk food did sound good.

  Up ahead, the neon Shrimpy Dick’s sign beckoned. At the thought of honey barbecue wings, my stomach growled. Yes, please.

  Half a block closer to the restaurant, my phone sang from somewhere in the bottom of my purse. “Pocketful of Sunshine.” I smirked and reached for it. If Sunny knew this was her ringtone...

  “Hello, darling sister,” I said by way of greeting. “Isn’t it past your bedtime?”

  “Have I told you how much I hate the you’re old jokes? Because I do. I hate them.” Sunny’s wry voice trickled through the phone. “Besides, it’s only eleven.”

  “I’m just saying. Maybe you’d be less cranky if you slept more.” I smiled to myself. “Though I don’t understand why you’re so cranky. I mean, you’ve been banging Ben for years. I’d be thrilled if I were banging Ben.”

  “Please don’t talk about banging my boyfriend,” Sunny replied, sounding even crankier. “That’s just weird.”

  “Ben is hot,” I said. “It would be weird if I didn’t talk about banging him.”

  “God,” Sunny replied, and I smiled. She had reached peak cranky even faster than usual. I was good. “What is wrong with you?”

  “That’s a very long list, sister dear.” I paused to readjust my purse strap. “And I’ve got places to be, so...”

  Sunny laughed. “I don’t think we’ll ever cover everything on that list.” There was a teasing edge to her voice now, and I smiled. It’d taken years—lots of years—for us to get here. We used to hate each other. Or, at least, we didn’t like each other much. Sibling rivalry and resentment and such. But we’d worked through it. And now we were...friends?

  Yeah. Friends.

  And it was nice.

  “Anyway,” I said as I hit the crosswalk. I was one block away from deliciousness. “What’d you call for?”

  “Oh. Yeah.” She paused and I could hear Ben mumbling in the background. Sunny laughed at whatever he said, and I warmed. After years and years of pining, he’d finally gotten the girl. And they were stupid cute together. “Ben wanted me to remind you to bring the dip tomorrow,” she said when she returned her attention to me. “You forgot last time and he was sad for a week.”

  “Dip?” I jammed my thumb into the crosswalk button and waited for the signal to change. “What is this dip you speak of?”

  I was fucking with her. I made a kickass seven-layer dip for our bi-weekly game night. Ben loved the shit. Last month, I’d gotten stuck at work late—I was a tattoo artist at Rusty’s Nails, and I had been in the middle of an epic back piece featuring the dragons from Game of Thrones. I couldn’t just leave. Especially since most of the wor
k I did at Rusty’s was of the inspirational quote and infinity symbol variety. I savored the cool shit.

  “Ben says he will let you tattoo Sponge Bob on his ass if you bring it tomorrow night.” Sunny’s voice was dry, and I didn’t have to work hard to picture the face she was giving her darling boyfriend. Really? it said. Sponge Bob?

  As if she hadn’t come in for a tattoo right after I’d gotten my apprenticeship two years ago.

  Sunny was the only family member that fully supported this sudden shift in my life. When I first told my family that I’d dropped out of college and booked a one-way ticket to Budapest, it’d caused quite the uproar. After all, my sister had literally just hit them with the I write zombie comic books thing. My poor parents didn’t know what to do with a second daughter switching gears on them.

  And then, I came home from Europe and decided I wanted to stab people with ink and needles for a living, and...let’s just say they were in the middle of an adjustment period.

  “Tell Ben I’ll bring the dip,” I replied, rerouting my thoughts. “And I’d prefer Squidward on his lower back. Wouldn’t want to ruin that perfect ass of his.”

  “Oh, my god, Birdie. Really?”

  “What?” I heard Ben say in the background. “Is she bringing the dip?”

  I laughed. Why was it so fun to antagonize her? “I’ll see you guys tomorrow.” Then, I hung up before she could lecture me one more time on the awkwardness of her little sister objectifying her boyfriend. Because it wouldn’t do any good anyway. It never did. I had too much fun wringing reactions from her.

  The glowing white fella flashed on the sign across the street, indicating it was safe to cross, and I stepped off the curb. Straight ahead, a familiar form moseyed down the sidewalk. I grinned and sped up, closing the distance.

  Once I reached my target, I grabbed a handful of ass.

  What were boundaries, anyway?

  3: Nate

  It was a fact commonly known to mankind that not having sex worked up more of an appetite than actually having it did.

  Pretty sure.

  After Marissa-Melissa left my place, I stared into the empty apartment, listening to the hum of the fridge, the ticking of the clock, and the screams of desperation coming from my crotch region, and decided I had to get out. And what better place to wallow than Shrimpy Dick’s?