Marco (The Men of Indecent Exposure #1)

By: Raven St. Pierre

a Men of Indecent Exposure standalone

Book One

Chapter One



I stared, hoping the letters on the test would magically rearrange themselves to spell something else, but….

With shaky hands, I tore open another box—a different brand this time. Following pretty much the same steps as with the last, I peed on the stick, and then waited.


Waited some more.

What felt like the longest two minutes of my life finally passed and I took slow steps to the edge of the sink. The “P” word stared back at me, confirming the same news as the first test, which made it official.

Bracing the edge of the counter, I felt my knees get weak. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Things were going really well and now… this.

What am I gonna do?

My face was wet with tears when I looked into the mirror, feeling sorry for myself despite this completely being my fault. I had to be dreaming, though.

Had to be.

“I’m so stupid.” It took everything in me not to curl up in a ball right there on the bathroom floor as my entire life came to a screeching halt.

Reaching for my cell, I scrolled down to a name in the contacts, one I never dialed before—Marco. I vaguely remembered him taking my phone to lock it in as we parted ways, but I’ve been asking myself for weeks why I didn’t just delete him. It wasn’t like I intended to call after that, after we hooked up, mostly because I was so embarrassed by my reckless behavior that night. I honestly just wanted to forget it ever happened. However, this test just made forgetting how impulsive I’d been impossible.

Slumping against the wall, I cradled my face in my hands. “Brynn, you’re a damn idiot.”

I couldn’t even remember this guy’s face really. We were both so drunk… so drunk and so stupid. All I had to go on were flashes of him that stuck with me—my hands roaming over the bronzed skin of his neck and arms, his slightly diluted, Hispanic accent as was prevalent here in Houston, the sweet taste of liquor on his breath when he kissed me, how his cologne made my mouth water…

Okay, so maybe I did know why I held on to his number.

The alarm on my phone let me know recess was just about over and I needed to head to the playground to pick up my students. Pushing off from the wall, I took a deep breath at the thought of having to call this guy. Even if we were virtually strangers, he deserved to know what was going on. After all, this was just as much his issue as it was mine.

As I took slow steps down the hallway, I also thought about having to break this news to my friends and family—my brother, Cedric, my best friend and sister-in-law, Mona… and then there was Naseem.

I let out a deep breath filled equal parts ‘Oh my gosh!’ and ‘What the hell were you thinking?’ None of this was going to be easy. None of it, including having to confront this ‘Marco’ guy. He, too, was about to get the shock of his life, because I, Brynn Palmer… am having a baby.



Three twenty.

Three forty.

Carlos grinned from the passenger seat. Aside from the hum of the engine, the only other sound to be heard was that of crisp five, ten, and twenty-dollar bills passing through our fingers.

Three fifty.

Three seventy.

Three seventy-five.

Carlos finished counting and I caught a glimpse of him scowling when he realized I wasn’t done. This was his idea; counting to see how much we each made before leaving the lot. When I came out on my own, or when I was with one of the other guys, I typically waited until I got home to add it all up. However, Carlos never let it go down like that when we did events together. He was too damn competitive. Had been since we were kids.

The second we stepped foot outside the venue, this time and every other time before, he challenged me to pull out my stash to see who’d done better. $390 was what his tips totaled tonight, not including his half of our $600 charge just for showing up and committing a couple hours of our time. So, he ended up with $690 in all. Not bad considering these private gigs were just icing on the cake outside of our regular club hours.

No one to cut in on our earnings. No middle man. Just fast, easy money.

I continued to count—four twenty, four forty…

The truck swayed with Carlos’ movement when he shifted in his seat.

First, he shot me a cold stare, and then came the sound of his gruff voice when he questioned me, the words soaring from his mouth in Spanish like they usually did when he was pissed. It was like his filter malfunctioned at the first hint of anger and he suddenly forgot how to speak English.

“How the hell did you get so much more than me?”

All I could do was laugh at his reaction for now, not wanting to lose track of my number. Eventually, I finished, reaching a grand total of $980, including my half of the fixed fee.

The casual shrug I gave only pissed him off more. A breath of frustration hit the air and I was cracking up at the sound of it.

“You’re laughing, but I’m serious. We get out there, do practically the same thing, and somehow you always end up making more than me,” he complained. “Un-freaking-believable.”

Carlos’s eyes went to his slightly smaller stack of cash before stuffing it in the pocket of his dark hoodie. Little care was taken to conceal it safely in his wallet or bag because, in our business, cash tended to flow faster than we could catch it, which lessened its value for some of the guys. That wasn’t the case for me, though; my responsibilities made me less frivolous with mine. Honestly, the only reason he was even moaning about me making more tonight was because he couldn’t stand to come in second place. Not to anyone in any situation. As long as I’d known the guy, which was practically my whole life, he’d been the same old Carlos.

Also By Raven St. Pierre

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