Cocky Romantic:A Cocker Brothers Novel

By: Faleena Hopkins

(Cocker Brothers of Atlanta Book 4)


As we stroll through the renovated warehouse with club lights pulsing across hundreds of halos and horns, my twin mutters, “Apparently God decided to overlook my past and send me to heaven. MmmMmm, look at the ladies...” Pale ice-green eyes that are identical to my own lock onto me before he adds, “To think I almost didn’t come to your overblown party.”

As he drops his gaze to watch a thong-covered-ass prance by me, red tail bouncing, I dryly tell him, “Like you had something better to do.”

On a blasé smirk he counters, “A pre-record release party? Who gives a shit? And I always have something better to do than celebrating your successes, Jason.”

If there’s one thing he’d never do it’d be to miss something that was important to me. But he wouldn’t be Justin if he didn’t give me a hard time.

Amused, I shoot back, “Dick.”

He growls, “And now it’s time to get this dick licked,” scanning my party.

Well, it’s not exactly my party, but it may as well be.

With its closely guarded guest list, fantastic DJs, and people parading around in costume, this rager is to incite buzz for Simone Ross-Taylor, the stunning singer-songwriter about to explode into people’s minds, hearts and speakers.

I’m producing her new album.

Like how a director guides a film to greatness, a music producer sculpts an artist’s songs into something better than they imagined when lyrics and melody were first put to paper. Or laptop. Or whatever the hell they prefer to use for capturing magic when it hits them.

They’re the diving board and the swimmer. But I move their bodies as they’re flying through the air, adjusting their dives so they make the biggest splash, not the smallest.

When an artist is thinking too inside-the-box I’ll light it on fire. “We need violins here.”

“Violins on a rap album, Jason?”

“Fuck yeah. Right here.”

Next thing they know they’re climbing the charts with a new sound no one expected of them.

Without me they’d crack their gorgeous, genius heads open on the concrete of mediocre-pool.

But we producers remain anonymous for the most part. This party is all hers as far as the world is concerned.

Fine by me.

I could give a fuck if you know my name.

Justin’s ecstatic that the theme Simone chose was Angels & Devils. Everywhere we look are women so scantily clad they make your dick twitch. When most girls hear ‘costume party’ that means it’s time to compete for how little they can wear without getting thrown in jail.

“God bless you,” Justin smiles to an angel with cleavage so low you want to bury your face in it and search for water.

She waves at him and disappears into the crowd, eyes heavy.

“Going to chase her?” I ask, knowing the answer before he even has to say it.

“No way, and you know why.”

“Too drunk.”


The ‘angels’ are really the bad girls, or the secretly crazy. The ‘devils’ are the good girls who wish they were bad. Wouldn’t be a costume otherwise, would it?

In an all-black Hugo Boss suit with no tie, top two buttons open, I look damn good as Satan. Deep down, I’m one of the good guys. Most of the time.

My brother is wearing all white, proving my theory. Justin pretty much is Lucifer. His spotless white suit, matching vest and slender tie are doing their best to hide the dark glint in his heart.

Two white-winged beauties spot us and start gliding over with purpose behind their long eyelashes. Mmm. Look at them. We can actually see dark nipples through those lacy white bras. One turns around to say something to the other, but it’s really just to show us her thong.

Justin cuts an evil grin. “Wanna tip a halo with me?”

I’m spoken for, which he knows.

You think he gives a shit? Fuck no.

Justin’s favorite hobby — outside of hot and very casual sex — is to thwart my relationships. Or hook ups. Or whatever it is Simone and I have been doing for the last four months. He has no respect for it, whatever it is. And even though I’m a one-woman man and always have been, my twin would love to kick me off that horse.

As the pale-skinned brunette attaches herself to him and purrs, “Oooooo, twins,” I shoot him a look.

“What?” he asks.

“You know,” I mutter.

The chocolate-skinned ‘angel’ presses her breasts into my side and purrs, “Hi Satan. Have I been a good angel?” Fuck, that feels good. Her bedroom eyes are telling me, all you have to do is say is yes.

“You’ve been a very good angel.”

Hot Read

Last Updated


Top Books