Titles by Roni Loren
Crash into You
Melt into You
Fall into You
Caught Up in You
Need You Tonight
Not Until You
Nothing Between Us
Novellas
Still Into You
Forever Starts Tonight
Nice Girls Don’t Ride
Roni Loren
InterMix Books, New York
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either
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NICE GIRLS DON’T RIDE
An InterMix Book / published by arrangement with the author
PUBLISHING HISTORY
InterMix eBook edition / April 2015
Copyright © 2015 by Roni Loren.
Excerpt from Call On Me copyright © 2015 by Roni Loren.
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eBook ISBN: 978-0-698-19831-9
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Version_1
Contents
Titles by Roni Loren
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter 1: Natalie
Chapter 2: Natalie
Chapter 3: Monroe
Chapter 4: Natalie
Chapter 5: Natalie
Chapter 6: Monroe
Chapter 7: Natalie
Chapter 8: Natalie
Chapter 9: Monroe
Chapter 10: Natalie
Chapter 11: Monroe
Chapter 12: Natalie
Epilogue: Natalie
Sneak Peek of
Call On Me
About the Author
Chapter 1
Natalie
Happy birthday to me, happy birthday to me, happy
birthday, dear
. . .
I groan and lean back against the guardrail, shielding
my eyes from the piercing sunlight. How exactly should I
finish that?
Girl who currently smells like sweat and roadkill?
Girl about to go broke paying for this mess?
Girl whose boyfriend will not answer his goddamned
phone?
My fingers move over the screen as I text Caleb again.
Where r u???
I stare at my phone, willing a response out of it, but the
screen goes black before there’s any answering ding.
Caleb had warned me that he was going to be cutting it
close for our date tonight. And I know his internship at the
local campaign office sometimes runs late when they’re
prepping for a rally, but he should be out by now.
My fingers move over the screen again. R U secretly
Superman in ur off hours? Come on, u can tell me. If ur
saving the world, I’ll understand.
Of course, there’s still no response. And now my neck
is prickling with not just sweat but anxiety. What if
something happened to him? What if he was in an
accident? What if—?
I stop myself before the thoughts spiral, closing my
eyes and taking a deep breath.
Cool it, Nat
. But that little
exercise only gets me a lungful of the dead skunk that’s
roasting in the heat a few yards away from me on the side
of the highway.
Blech.
I press my fingers over my mouth,
fighting a wave of nausea.
I check the clock on my phone for what seems like the
hundredth time. The roadside-assistance lady said they
would contact a local garage and get me a tow right away.
But it’s been over an hour, and the only cars that have
passed by have either ignored me or sent catcalls flying my
way. Because, of course, my piece-of-crap car had to
break down when I’m all dressed up in a low-cut dress and
heels for my birthday dinner. Yay for timing.
One guy had at least offered to help and had seemed
nice enough, but I’ve seen how those horror movies end.
Girl on the side of the road accepts help from a seemingly
harmless stranger, only to have her organs carved out later
that night. No, thanks.
A grinding of tires on gravel draws my attention
upward. A black tow truck rolls past me on the road and
pulls to the side, sending a cloud of dust in its wake. I keep
my phone clutched in my hand, quickly check the can of
Mace in my purse, and then push off the guardrail. The side
of the truck says
Billy’s Custom Cycles and Auto Repair
.
There’s a tattoo-style logo of a motorcycle on fire, and I
know that it’s definitely not the name of the repair shop the
know that it’s definitely not the name of the repair shop the
roadside assistance service gave me. It had been some
big chain—AutoPlus or something like that. A little shimmer
of nerves goes through me and I stop where I am, my heels
sinking into the gravel.
The front door of the tow truck opens and a tattooed
arm appears before anything else. For some reason, my
eyes lock onto pieces of the man instead of the whole—like
I can’t handle the entire view quite yet, only snapshots. That
muscular arm as the driver slides out of the truck. The worn
black motorcycle boots that hit the ground. I force myself to
look up, tracking along the faded jeans and fitted black T-
shirt, until I collide with a dark blue gaze.
“Looks like you need a ride.”
The deep voice startles me for a second and snaps
me back into the moment like a slingshot.
Ping!
Pay
attention, Nat.
Now is not the time to let my guard down.
“No, thank you, I don’t. I already have another shop on the
way.”
His gaze tracks over my dusty dress, slow and lazy-
like, before he lifts a dark brow. “How long have you been
waiting? It’s pretty hot out here.”
The once-over makes me more than a little self-
conscious. He can’t be all that much older than me, early
twenties for sure, but something about him is intimidating
as hell. “I don’t know. Not long. I’m sure they’ll be here any
second.”
He crosses his arms over his chest and eyes my car,
which has chosen this moment to start smoking from under
the hood—as if it senses help in its midst and is crying out
for it. “What shop is coming?”
I brush at the skirt of my dress, trying to give my
nervous hands something to do. I don’t want to look worried
or scared or show him that I’m melting in this brutal Texas
heat. “AutoPlus, AutoMart . . .”
He scowls. “Autoland.”
“That’s it.”
“You might as well set up a tent then. They take forever
to get to calls, and they’ll charge you twice as much as we
would. Plus, they close at six. They’re just going to tow you
in and then lock up for the night.”
“Says the guy who wants to make a buck on a girl
stranded on the side of the road.”
The corner of his mouth lifts. “Hey, princess, I’m just
trying to be a nice guy and get you to your”—he looks me
up and down again—“sorority party on time. I get paid the
same either way.”
Princess?
Sorority party?
My eyes narrow and I give
him my own head-to-toe look, taking in the messy dark hair,
the tattoos, the heavy boots, the finely shaped . . . I snatch
the thought back before I can go there. “Look, Son of
Anarchy, I appreciate the
nice guy
offer, but how do I even
know you’re legit?”
He snorts. “You think I drive a tow truck around for fun?
Call the number on the side of the truck if you want. But
otherwise, I’ve got better stuff to do than stand here in the
heat, smelling roadkill. Two minutes, princess. I’ll be in the
truck. You want a tow and a ride? You get in. If not, good
luck with Autoland.”
He turns to go, and I feel a little dart of panic at being
left alone again—even if he’s not exactly the company I
want. This isn’t the best part of Austin, and the sun is on its
way down. “Wait, what’s your name? You know, so I can
verify.”
He doesn’t turn around but calls back, “Monroe.”
I dial the number to the shop and, of course, they verify
that Monroe works for them and is driving the truck today.
The guy on the phone sounds amused by my questions.
And his reaction makes me realize that I’m being paranoid,
that my nerves are officially frayed, and it’s making me act
like a bitch. I thank the guy on the phone, hang up, and take
a steadying breath. This is going to be okay. Not everyone
is out to take advantage. Some people actually do things to
be helpful without ulterior motives.
My mother would laugh her ass off at that logic.
Everybody’s got an agenda, Nattie.
I straighten the neckline of my dress, hike my purse up
my shoulder, and walk over to the tow truck with as much
dignity as I can muster for a sweaty girl in a dusty dress.
Monroe hasn’t climbed back into the cab, but is instead
leaning against the front bumper and watching the cars
zoom by on the overpass up ahead. He doesn’t look my
way. “Verified that I’m not a serial killer?”
“Verified that you work for Billy’s. The serial-killer part
is yet to be determined.”
He smiles out at the horizon. “Want to check the
backseat for weapons or body parts?”
backseat for weapons or body parts?”
“I have a feeling you’d be too sneaky to leave such
obvious evidence lying around. And if you aren’t that clever,
I’m going to be seriously disappointed in myself if I fall
victim to a
dumb
serial killer.”
He chuckles and it changes his whole face, warming it.
When he turns his head, his blue eyes meet mine and my
stomach tightens a little. I do my best not to let my reaction
show on my face. Last thing I need is him thinking that I’m
interested in him. Because, of course, I’m not. I’m totally
not. If there’s an opposite of my type, it’s this guy. And plus,
I have Caleb. Cute, smart, on-his-way-to-big-things Caleb.
Caleb, who won’t answer his goddamned phone.
Monroe pushes himself off the bumper. “I’m not sure if
that’s a compliment or an insult, princess, but I’ll take it
you’re going to ride with me.”
“Yes. But only because I can’t handle the dead-skunk
smell for another minute.”
“I’m preferable to skunk guts? The flattery just rolls off
you, doesn’t it?”
The jab lands squarely. I press my fingers to the space
between my eyes and rub. “Sorry. I’m really not trying to be
a bitch.”
“It just comes natural, then?”
My eyes snap open and I’m ready to hurl an insult
back, but I find him wearing a playful grin and clamp my lips
shut.
He angles a thumb toward the truck. “Get in . . .”
“Natalie,” I supply.
“Natalie. And kick the A/C on. Getting your car hooked
up is gonna take a few minutes. You may want to call
someone for a ride, too, because there’s no guarantee we
can get this fixed tonight. I’m assuming you have plans.”
I glance down at my outfit, suddenly self-conscious
about the sexy getup. It’s not my typical style, but tonight
was supposed to be special, and I had wanted to knock
Caleb on his butt. He’s been so wrapped up in work and
school lately that I’ve felt a little like furniture. So I borrowed
my roommate’s dress with its plunging neckline and treated
myself to the new risqué lingerie I’m wearing beneath. I’m
not exactly Ms. Vixen normally, so Caleb would’ve never
seen it coming. Now it’s all a waste.
“I have a date with my boyfriend,” I say to Monroe.
“Right. So, he can pick you up?”
“He’s not answering his phone. But I’m sure I’ll get him
soon.”
Monroe makes some noncommittal noise and nods.
“I’m going to get to work. You go and cool off. There’s
bottled water in the ice chest in the backseat.”
“Thanks.”
Before getting in the truck, I find myself watching
Monroe walk back toward my car. He’s easily over six feet
tall but doesn’t move in that awkward, hunched way that
most of the taller guys on campus move. There’s an easy
confidence to him, like he’s fully grown into his body and
taken ownership—a man’s walk. My eyes follow him as he
pops the hood of my car and leans over. The hem of his
shirt lifts as he bends, exposing a strip of tanned, muscular
lower back. I find myself wondering what it would feel like
beneath my fingers and if he has any more ink hidden
under there . . . I force my eyes away.
What the hell is wrong with me? I don’t have random
illicit thoughts about complete strangers. Especially not
strangers who have tattoos and call me princess.
I shake my head and pull open the door on the
passenger side. Maybe I have heatstroke or something.
I lay my head back against the seat and close my
eyes. But all I can see is the image of my new mechanic
pulling his shirt all the way off, sweat dripping off him, me
putting my hands . . .
I sit straight up.
Yep, definitely heatstroke. Has to be.
Chapter 2
Natalie
An hour later, I’m ready to climb the walls of the body shop
as I wait for the verdict on my car. Monroe disappeared
when we got here, and I’ve been stuck listening to the same
ten eighties songs over and over again with the occasional
Britney song thrown in for variety. I imagine it’s the
soundtrack in hell.
When I realize I’m peeling the protective cover off my
phone with my fidgeting fingers, I set it down on the ugly
orange chair next to me and peer at the clock above the
service desk again. Almost seven.
The reservation at Madrid is for eight. I’ve wanted to try
that restaurant for a long time, and Caleb had said he’d
treat me for my birthday. So I’d booked a table two months
ahead and had been counting down the days. The fact that
Caleb, Mr. Penny Pincher (despite having a fat trust fund),
is willing to shell out for an expensive meal has had me
wondering if he’s finally going to ask me to move in with
him. It feels like the right time since we’ve been seeing
each other for almost a year and we’ll both be graduating
soon. Plus, it’ll save me from having to move home for the
summer or find another place since my roommate’s sister
is going to be staying with her over the break.
If nothing else, Caleb is imminently practical, so
moving in makes sense. But now I have no idea where he
is, and even if he does get here soon, the plans are
probably off anyway because I can’t walk into a fancy
restaurant smelling like roadkill and auto repair shop—
which is turning out to be some weird combination of stale
coffee, those scented pine trees that hang from rearview
mirrors, and motor oil. Or is it axle grease? I’m not sure
what vehicular thing actually produces such a smell, but I
know I’ll forever think of the scent as
eau de broken car
.
I bounce my knee and fight the urge to gnaw on a
fingernail. Lyle, the guy in charge of the desk, had closed
up about twenty minutes ago. But when I’d basically
begged that they try to get my car fixed tonight, he said
Monroe was going to work on it a little longer. But Lyle
hadn’t stuck around to wait with me. He’d pulled the chain
on the flashing
Open
light and had waved good-bye. So
now it’s just me and that endless loop of songs.
Hit me,
Britney, one more time.
Of course, the longer I sit in the closed shop, the more I
start thinking slasher-movie thoughts again—the curse of
being a creative writing major with a penchant for horror
fiction. I can see the story line now . . . Stranded girl with a
boyfriend who won’t answer his phone. Mysterious but
strangely sexy mechanic probably rigging her car so it
would never allow a getaway. No weapons available except
a can of Billy’s Custom Cycles ink pens and an empty can
of Sprite.
I eye the grimy window that leads out to the shop but
can only see the top of my car. Monroe hasn’t given me an
update in a while, but I’m guessing the outlook isn’t good.
My phone rings, making me jump. When I see the name
pop up on the screen, I grab for the thing like it’s the last
phone on earth. “Oh my God, finally.”
“Natalie, hey,
so
sorry,” Caleb says, sounding out of
breath and barely audible over the hum of voices in the
background. “I just got all of your messages. We’ve been
buried. The rally site for tomorrow had to be changed and
Carolyn assigned me all these duties. She’s never given
me so much responsibility, and . . . well, I couldn’t let her
down. I thought I’d be able to get it all taken care of, but I
lost track of time and now I’m stuck out here. Man, I’m really
sorry. I know it’s your birthday. I swear I’ll make it up to
you . . .”
“You’re not coming to get me?” I say, failing to keep
the edge of you’ve-got-to-be-freaking-kidding-me out of my
tone.
He sighs. “I’m not in my car. I rode with Randy. Can you
call Jess?”
“She’s gone home for the weekend. I told you—”
“Baby, look, I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to call a
cab or something. They need me for a few more hours. And
I’ve got to go. But I promise, I’ll make it up to you next week,
okay? Love ya.”
“But—” The phone clicks before I can protest. I pull it
away from my ear and stare at it like it bit me. “Seriously?”
A cab?
Did he forget we weren’t living in New York?
This is Austin. Unless you’re at the airport or a downtown
hotel, there are no cabs rolling around looking for
passengers. I’d have to call a service, which would take
forever to get here. And it would cost me a fortune from this
far out.
“Your knight heading over on his white horse?”
The low, rumbling voice jerks my attention upward. I
automatically clutch my phone to my chest like I don’t want
anyone to see that it’s let me down. Monroe gives me a
ghost of a smile.
“I don’t need a white horse. I need my car.”
“Yeah, well, about that. I’ve been trying to work a
miracle.” He wipes his hands on a dirty rag and tucks it in
the back pocket of the grease-stained blue jumpsuit he put
on over his other clothes. The move looks smooth and
natural, like he’s been doing this forever and the towel is
somehow a part of him. “But I’m afraid there aren’t going to
be any angels singing tonight.”
“But that Lyle guy told me you were making progress.”
“Progress, yes. Success? No. Believe me, I tried to do
a few work-arounds to see if I could get her going. But you
need a part that we don’t have in stock. I’m going to have to
order it, and it’ll take at least a day to get here.”
My shoulders sag. “Son of a bitch.”
“I’ve been called worse. But it doesn’t change the fact
that I can’t do anything about it tonight.” He walks from
behind the counter to lean against the front of it. His arms
cross over his chest as he considers me.
I try not to notice how the grease smudge on his jaw
makes him look both menacing and distractingly attractive.
God, what is my deal tonight? This guy’s giving me bad
news, and my hormones decide to go rogue. Maybe it’s the
Britney songs.
“My boyfriend got held up at work. He can’t come pick
me up.”
“I thought you had a date tonight.”
“We did. But there’s some crisis at his internship.”
He frowns. “He’s leaving his girl stranded for a crisis at
a job that he’s not even getting paid for? Nice guy.”
I press my lips together, my defenses rising. “He takes
his job seriously. He’s not going to bail on his
responsibilities.”
Monroe takes the clipboard of paperwork I’d filled out
and left on the front counter. “Looks like he’s bailing on
you
,
princess. In my book, that’s dropping a pretty important
responsibility.”
My spine stiffens. If I had feathers, they’d be fluffed.
“Last I checked, it’s not 1952. I’m his girlfriend, not a
responsibility. I can take care of myself.”
“I’m sure you can.” His eyes skim over the yellow
papers. “But that doesn’t mean . . . Ah, come on, really?”
“What?”
He flips the clipboard toward me and points at a line
on the insurance verification form. “It’s your birthday. The
dude is ditching you for work on your
birthday
?”
“It’s not a big deal . . . I mean, we can do it some other
—”
He tosses the clipboard back onto the counter. “You
can lie to yourself, princess, but you’re not going to
convince me. Twenty-one is supposed to be one of the best
birthdays. And no girl gets herself all, you know”—he waves
a hand, indicating my outfit—“because it’s a no-big-deal
night.”
I clench my jaw.
Monroe walks over and swipes the phone out of my
hand. “What’s Romeo’s name?”
“Hey, give that back.” I jump to my feet and reach for
my phone.
But he steps back and holds it up. “Smile.”
I grit my teeth. “Give. It. Back.”
“Pissed and mean, even better.” He grins and takes a
pic with my phone.
“What the hell?” I stalk toward him, but he backpedals
until he’s behind the counter, scrolling through my phone.
“There it is, Caleb with the little heart symbol next to it,”
Monroe says triumphantly. His thumbs fly over the screen,
typing. “Hope . . . work . . . is . . . worth . . . missing . . . this.”
“Oh my God.” I lunge around the counter, but Monroe
slides out of reach and shows me the screen. He hasn’t hit
Send on the message yet, but the pic of me is there—
cheeks flushed, eyes a little wild, and my cleavage on
prominent display. I don’t look like myself. I look kind of
dangerous. And hot. Go me.
He slides the phone across the counter toward me.
“Hit Send, princess. It’ll be good for the soul. Make that
dude suffer for blowing you off. Because, believe me, when
he sees that picture, he’ll suffer.”
My hand wraps around my phone. “I can’t. I don’t . . .”
“What?”
“I don’t want him to think I’m mad.”
He scoffs. “Come on. You
are
mad. May as well be
honest about it.”
“Yeah, but, we don’t have that kind of relationship, and I
don’t want to look like . . . needy or high-maintenance or
psycho or whatever.”
It sounds lame coming out, but I’m just not explaining it
well. Caleb always tells me how much he loves how calm
and cool I am, how nothing seems to ruffle me.
Very Jackie
O., Natalie,
he’s said more than once. And from Mr.
Political Science Major, there’s no higher compliment.
I love that he sees me that way and not as the girl from
that trashy Bourne family like I’ve been all my life. Caleb
thinks I’m elegant, a lady. And I want to be that for him. So
I’ve learned to tame my fiery temper when things don’t go
the way I want.
But, of course, someone like Monroe won’t understand
that. He’s probably never edited a word in his life.
He smirks and shakes his head. “Right. God forbid you
make him think
bad things
. You didn’t seem to have any
problem giving me an earful when we met.”
“You’re not him.”
“No doubt about that. You two must have a very . . .
nice relationship.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
He rolls his neck, looking tired all of a sudden, and
turns his back to me. “Nothing. Don’t worry about it. It’s
been a long day and I’m just talking shit. Give me a minute,
and I’ll take you wherever you need to go.”
He heads toward the office that sits off the main
waiting area and starts unbuttoning his coveralls, peeling
them down as he goes and revealing the cleaner clothes
beneath.
I follow him, phone still clutched in my hand. “No, go
ahead and tell me what you’re thinking. It’s not like you’ve
held back yet.”
He kicks his boots off and steps out of the coveralls.
“You just didn’t strike me as the type to be so worried about
making waves or telling it like it is. You damn near bit my
head off when you met me, and you don’t even know me. I
guess I’m surprised you’d let the boyfriend get away with
ditching you so easily.”
“He didn’t—” But before I can finish, my phone dings.
I glance down at the new email. It’s from the restaurant.
Damn, I probably should’ve called and canceled. Can they
charge you for not showing up? I slide my thumb over the
message.
Good news! Your request to move your reservation
from 8:00 to 8:15 has been approved. Thank you for using
TableOne to make your reservations.
I stare down at the message, reading it again.
“Something wrong?” Monroe asks as he leans over to
a small locker and pulls out a pair of beat-up black Chucks
to replace his boots.
“I’m not—” I shake my head. “Looks like there’s some
glitch with the dinner reservation I had tonight. I probably
should call and cancel.”
He shrugs. “Whatever. Mind doing it outside? I’m
going to lock up and set the alarm.”
I nod numbly. “Yeah, sure.”
He pulls on his shoes, and I head outside, dialing the
number for the restaurant when I reach the parking lot. I
listen to it ring and ring as I watch Monroe through the
window. He’s flipping off lights and checking doors. Finally,
someone on the other end of the line answers.
“Thank you for calling Madrid, how may I help you?”
“Hi, there was a reservation for two tonight at eight
under the name Caleb Dewhurst and—”
“Yes, ma’am, we moved it to eight fifteen, per request,
and even got you a table on the roof terrace.”
“But I didn’t make the request—”
“Oh, well, Mr. Dewhurst called a few minutes ago and
adjusted it. So you’re all set.”
“I— Wait, he called recently?”
“Uh.” The woman sounds a little flustered now, like she
knows she’s given something away. “Yes, a few minutes
ago.”
My skin goes cold, and in my peripheral vision, I see
Monroe stepping into the parking lot and locking the
outside door.
“Did you need anything else, ma’am?”
I shake myself out of the frozen state I’ve entered. “No,
that’s all right.”
I press End and my hand lowers to my side.
Monroe closes the distance between us. “Everything
okay?”
My heart is beating fast, and I’m chilled despite the
humid evening. Surely, it must be some mix-up at the
restaurant. But I find myself saying, “Could you drive through
downtown before bringing me home?”
His tilts his head. “Yeah, sure. How come?”
I take a deep breath and drop my phone into my purse.
“Because he kept the goddamned reservation, and
suddenly, I’m not feeling very nice at all.”
Monroe shakes his head, his mouth in a grim line. I
expect him to say
I told you so
, but thankfully he refrains.
Probably a good thing because I kind of feel like punching
something right now. And if he’d said that, it might’ve been
him.
“Come on.” He motions for me to follow him to the
back of the building, and I stalk after him, girl on a mission.
But my bravado and brilliant plan only last about thirty
seconds. Because what greets me in the back parking lot
is absolutely not an option. “Oh, hell no.”
Monroe swings his leg over the seat of a motorcycle
with handlebars that look way too high to be comfortable,
and tosses me a helmet. “Sorry, princess, this is the only
ride I’ve got. Lyle took the truck home.”
“I’m in a dress.”
“Just tuck the fabric underneath your legs to hold it
down. You’ll be up against me, so it’s not like anyone’s
going to see anything.”
Up against him.
God
. “I’m not riding on a motorcycle.”
He shrugs. “There’s a bus stop at the corner that will
bring you downtown. Though, this isn’t the best
neighborhood at night, so I wouldn’t recommend it. And
hey, if you’re really on a mission for revenge, riding up on
the back of one of these with your legs wrapped around
some other dude could be kind of badass.”
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I can feel my face flushing. Wrapping
my legs around him is
so
not a good idea. I scramble for an
excuse. “You know how dangerous these things are?”
He laughs. “Thanks, Mom. Duly noted. I promise to go
the speed limit and observe all traffic laws.” He raises his
hand in the Scout’s Honor mode, three fingers in the air.
“But have you ever heard that saying about beggars not
being choosers. You want a ride or not?”
“Goddamn it.” I shove the ridiculous helmet on my
head.
His smile screams victory. “Oh, and if you need me to
make out with you or anything for show when we drive up, I
can find it in my giving nature to make that sacrifice for
you.”
I give him a droll look. “Your generosity knows no
bounds.”
He nods solemnly. “I’m a giver, birthday girl.”
“Just get me over to Willows Avenue without killing
me.”
He pats the seat behind him. “Hop on, princess. You’re
safe with me.”
What a lie that is. I’m not sure I’ve ever felt less safe
around someone. I look down at my dress and then the
bike, trying to figure out logistics. “Turn your head.”
“Of course,” he says with a smug smile.
He turns to face forward, but when I adjust my dress
and swing my leg over the bike, I see a flash of red and
realize I’ve probably given him an R-rated show in the
rearview mirror. Fantastic. What a day to choose to wear
lacy lingerie. But if he saw anything, he gives no indication.
I situate myself on the seat, tucking my loose skirt
beneath my thighs, then look for a place to hold on. But, of
course, there’s nothing to grab onto except him. Feeling
more than a little awkward, I place my hands on his hips.
“Come on, you’re going to have to hold on better than
that.” He takes my hands and guides my arms around his
abdomen. His very hard, very flat abdomen. My body is
automatically drawn forward to accommodate the hold, and
my chest presses up against his back. God help me.
Warmth bleeds from him and through the very thin
fabric of my dress and bra. And I’m intensely aware of
every single place where my body is touching his. He
smells faintly of grease, like the WD-40 I used on my bike
as a kid, but somehow it smells good on him instead of
acrid like it did back then. I kind of want to press my nose to
his neck.
He turns on the bike, the beast of a thing rumbling to
life beneath us, and heat that has nothing to do with the
weather is quickly chasing away the internal chill that the
phone call caused. My thighs are pressed along the edge
of his, and there isn’t much of anything between the
vibration of the bike and the awareness building between
my legs. A faint
oh
escapes me.
“She’s got a lot of power,” he says, pride in his voice.
The noise and my own whirling thoughts are almost too
much to talk over, so I just nod.
“Ready?”
“No,” I shout back.
He chuckles and I feel it against my chest. “Relax, Nat.
I’ve got you.”
The bike jumps forward, and without thinking, I press
my face into his shoulder and squeeze tight.
Chapter 3
Monroe
This chick is going to kill me.
I merge onto the highway,
working hard to focus on the road, as Natalie’s hold on me
goes spider-monkey tight. Her face is buried against my
shoulder, and I can feel every damn curve of hers pressing
along my back. And though I’d actually attempted to be
decent when she’d gotten on the bike, I’d caught a glimpse
anyway. Now all I can think about is the fact that she’s got
fuck-me red panties on beneath that bring-a-guy-to-his-
knees dress.
But she’s not my date, and I’m not going to be seeing
those panties or anything else tonight. No, I’m just the idiot
going ten miles out of my way to help a sexy redhead meet
up with her jackass boyfriend.
I know better than this, know not to mess with girls like
her. The look on her face when I’d first gotten out of the
truck told me everything I needed to know. She doesn’t see
me as a member of the same planet she inhabits. She’s
one of those uppity chicks from Texas Methodist University
—the school that cost almost as much a semester as I
make in a year. In her eyes, I’m just the help.
Usually that would piss me off enough to tell someone
to go to hell, but Natalie had gotten under my skin back at
the shop. Something about her doesn’t seem as distant
and polished as the other debutante rich girls I’ve come
across. There’s a realness there, a vulnerable side, one
that had cracked wide open when her boyfriend said he
wasn’t coming to pick her up.
What a douche bag. Canceling on a girl on her
birthday is bad enough, but if this guy bailed on her to take
some other girl out . . . well, then he deserves whatever
Natalie’s planning to dish out. Though, part of me wonders
if she’ll react outwardly at all. Apparently, she’s highly
concerned with being nice and non-psycho and non-high-
maintenance. Where’s the fun in that?
I run in circles where girls don’t take that kind of shit
lying down. Most of my female friends go with the scorched-
earth philosophy if a dude does them wrong. Screw one
over, and she’ll make you rue the fucking day. I’d seen
more than one of my friends taken down after making a
stupid mistake. It’s one reason why I steer clear of
relationships and stick to the casual stuff. I don’t need the
drama. I like my life simple: take my classes, do my job at
my brother’s shop, and have a little fun in between. Perfect.
But that doesn’t mean a woman who isn’t afraid to spar with
me won’t turn my head. It’s what had captured my interest
with Natalie up front—well, besides the legs on her; those
had been hard to miss. But it’d been disappointing to see
her yield to some boyfriend.
Nice girls. Yawn.
Though, I admit the “do you know how dangerous this
thing is” bit pushed a button I didn’t know I had. That Miss
Priss vibe she’s got going on kind of does it for me. It
makes me want to get her dirty. Really, really dirty.
Images of all the things I’d like to do to her fill my brain
as I exit the highway, and my dick goes hard against my
zipper. I tighten my grip on my bike and try to rein in the X-
rated thoughts before I look like some hard-up pervert.
Thank God Natalie still has her face pressed to my back.
This is what I get for taking double shifts at the shop for
the last few months. All work and no play has left me wound
tight and sporting a hard-on for someone else’s girl.
Pathetic. This is exactly why I can’t wait to head out for my
summer trip. Open road. The beach. And no obligations but
housesitting my buddy’s condo and taking in the view. Next
week can’t come fast enough.
Before long, we pull onto the street Natalie requested,
and I circle the block twice before finding a parking spot
near the restaurant. I cut the engine and Natalie startles
behind me, like she has no idea where we are.
She peels her grip from my T-shirt. “That was quick.”
“You kept your eyes closed the whole time, didn’t you?”
She climbs off my bike, pulls off the helmet, and gives
me a sheepish grin. “Maybe.”
I shake my head then let my gaze trace over her
windswept form. That wild red hair is killing me. “You
missed a nice view of downtown when we drove in.”
She adjusts the neckline of her dress and hands me
the helmet. “You can show me next time.”
“Next time, huh? You asking me out, princess?”
She presses her lips together. So prim. “That’s not
what I meant. I was just saying it—”
“To be nice?” I ask, lifting a brow.
She catches my sarcasm and her eyes narrow. “I’m not
that nice.”
“I sincerely hope not.”
She sighs and glances toward the restaurant, worry
flickering over her features. “Well, I guess I’d better go in.”
“Want some backup?”
“No, it’s fine. I’m sure it’s a mix-up and will turn out to
be nothing.” But she’s still staring at the restaurant, looking
like she’d rather eat a pile of rotten sushi than take another
step.
“Too bad. I’m coming in with you anyway.” I climb off
my bike. “And for the record, the make-out offer still
stands.”
She turns to me, the tension on her face smoothing a
bit. “Try it and you’ll see just how skilled I am at self-
defense. Warning: they teach us to aim for the soft parts
first.”
“Kinky.”
“But if you’re going to come anyway, fine. Just don’t
say anything and let me handle it. Here”—she reaches
forward and swipes her fingers along my cheek—“you’ve
got grease.”
The warm touch jars me, and I have to fight not to grab
her hand and keep it against me. When she pulls away, her
fingertips are black.
“Hold on.” I grab the bandanna I keep folded and
tucked in my back pocket and take her wrist, turning her
hand palm up so I can clean her fingertips. “Can’t have a
princess getting her hands dirty.”
Her eyes are fixed on what I’m doing, but she doesn’t
say anything. And more importantly, she doesn’t pull away.
When I’m done, I take a chance and don’t release her hand.
I lace my fingers with hers and tug.
“What are you doing?”
“Let’s get this show on the road. What’s on the other
side of those doors isn’t going to change no matter how
long you stand here. Might as well see what’s what.”
She lets me pull her for a few steps, but when we reach
the restaurant, she quickly tugs her hand back, that tight
nervousness taking hold of her features again. “Remember,
let me handle this.”
“You won’t even know I’m here.”
The door is opened for us, and we head into the
swanky restaurant, soft Spanish music drifting around us.
The whole place smells like smoked paprika and garlic. It’s
an enticing smell, but I’ve heard this place is overrated and
overpriced.
The host lifts her head from studying the list on the
podium and offers Natalie a warm smile and me a crinkled
brow. Jeans and a T-shirt aren’t acceptable attire here, but
I’m not apologizing for my clothes. This is Texas. No
restaurant should ban jeans.
“May I help you?” That, of course, is directed at
Natalie.
“Yes, my boss Caleb Dewhurst is here, and he asked
me to stop by and drop off a document he needed for his
dinner meeting.”
“Oh, well, I can bring it to him.” The hostess holds out
her hand.
“Actually,” Natalie says, patting her purse. “It’s a
confidential document I have to deliver in person. You know
how bosses are. It’ll only take a minute.”
The hostess smiles in that overly bright way that’s
almost hard to look at. “Sure, not a problem.”
She scans the reservation list.
“He said he’d gotten a table on the terrace,” Natalie
adds.
“Oh, perfect. Stephanie can lead you up there.” She
points to a brunette who’s just returned to the stand.
“You’re the best,” Natalie says, all southern sweetness.
Natalie follows the woman, and I head that way, too.
The hostess gives me another look as I pass, but she’s
smart enough not to stop me and cause an unnecessary
scene. I’ve learned in life that if you act like you’re
supposed to be somewhere, most people let you stay.
I trail after Natalie up a set of stairs, my dread rising.
For Natalie’s sake, I hope the dickhead boyfriend isn’t
really here, that he’s given the reservation to a friend or
something. Birthday Girl has already had a shitty enough
day. But I have a feeling that’s not going to be the case.
And I have a feeling Natalie knows that.
When we reach the rooftop terrace, the hostess leaves
us to get back to her post downstairs. The minute she’s out
of sight, Natalie scans the dining area then stiffens like
someone has run a rod up the back of her dress.
Uh-oh
. I
follow her laser gaze and find the table she’s honing in on.
A guy with a too-neat haircut and a navy blue blazer is
sharing a candlelit table with a blonde in a tight black dress.
Appetizers and a bottle of wine are already on the table,
and lover boy has his hand draped over the girl’s. He leans
forward and kisses her. On the mouth. With a little tongue.
Damn. Douchebag status: confirmed. I called it. But I
hate that I’m right on this one.
Natalie hasn’t moved a millimeter. I touch her elbow.
“Hey—”
“You’ve
got
to be kidding me,” she says in a
dangerously calm voice.
“Natalie, maybe we should—”
But she shakes off my touch. “Oh, no. This is gonna get
handled.”
She stalks forward, heels clicking on the copper
stained concrete. Shit. This isn’t going to be good. I stride
after her, hoping to intercept, but she’s already two steps
ahead of me, target in sight. She reaches the table and the
boyfriend, Caleb, glances up. His smile freezes in place
then sags like a wilting flower.
“Natalie?”
“Caleb,” she says, all poise and icy resolve.
“Oh, crap,” the blonde says, looking panicked. “This
isn’t—”
Natalie’s attention swings to the girl. “This isn’t what,
Rebecca? You just kissed my boyfriend. What exactly is it?
A dental exam?”
The girl looks ready to crawl under the table. “I was
just . . . thanking him for helping me pass my econ exam.”
Caleb stands, putting a tentative hand out. “Natalie,
baby, it’s fine. Let’s not make this a big deal.”
The chatter around us quiets and heads are turning our
way, which seems to make Dickhead supremely
uncomfortable. He offers the onlookers a weak smile but
comes off looking constipated.
“Not a big deal,” Natalie repeats, her voice rising and
some of that stoic mask cracking. “Not a big deal.”
Her tone says it all. I can hear the detonation clock
ticking down like on that TV show
24
.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
“Exactly. You know you’re important to me.”
“Important,” Natalie repeats, as if testing out how the
word rolls around her mouth.
“But, you know, we never really said we were
exclusive,
per se . . .
” Caleb continues.
Boom!
Bomb detonated.
The look on Natalie’s face morphs into quiet, seething
rage. She reaches out for the lapels of Caleb’s jacket as if
to smooth them. One, two strokes, totally chill, then she
yanks him closer. The guy never sees it coming when her
knee jabs upward.
I wince as the guy doubles over with a resounding
groan. She hadn’t been kidding about going for the soft
parts. But using the words
per se
in any context? The dude
earned that knee to the nuts.
The other girl tries to come to Caleb’s rescue and
sends an evil glare at Natalie. “Jesus, what is wrong with
you? This isn’t the trailer park.”
Natalie’s expression is what I imagine a bull looks like
when that red cape is waved. Wild, a little crazed. I kinda
like it. And I’m not wrong; she’s ready to charge. Natalie
plucks the bottle of wine off the table and steps around the
girl’s abandoned chair. A big leather handbag hangs off it.
Natalie opens the purse wide and pours.
The blonde screams some high-pitched primal shriek.
“You bitch, that’s Coach!”
The girl launches herself at Natalie, nails bared, but I
step in between them, blocking her attack. I catch her wrists
and ease her arms down. “Back off, sweetheart.”
“And who the hell are you?” she demands, glaring and
yanking out of my loose hold.
“Not your business.”
“The fuck it’s not,” Caleb says, his gaze going to
Natalie. “You’re with Natalie, it’s my business.”
Natalie scoffs then sidles up next to me and grabs my
hand. “He’s the guy who’s going to show me a good time
on my birthday.”
Well, then.
I school my expression into my poker face.
Caleb’s lip curls as he sizes me up. “Right. Who is he?
Your cab driver? Or did you pick up a stray at the bus
stop?”
My fist curls. I could take out this smarmy motherfucker
with one swift right hook, but I manage to keep my control.
Barely. I’d rather not spend the night in lockup.
Natalie looks to the girl, who’s back to having a hissy
fit about her purse. “I won’t be home tonight. Touch any of
my stuff, and I’ll call the cops.”
The girl is Natalie’s roommate? Ouch.
“Come on, Natalie, let’s not play this game,” Caleb
says, moving closer. “You’re not going home with some
stranger.”
“No?”
“No. You’re not like that.”
“I’m not, huh?” At that, she turns to stand in front of me.
Our gazes collide for half a second and her eyes are . . .
pleading for me to play along. Big, green, please-oh-please
eyes. Like I could say no to that. Whatever she sees on my
face she takes as consent because she reaches up and
cups the back of my neck, dragging me down to her. I don’t
resist when she presses her mouth to mine.
In fact, for a moment, I forget where we are and what’s
going on because
holy shit
. She isn’t going for a peck;
she’s jumping off the high dive and taking me with her. My
hands lower to her hips, and I bring her up against me as
she parts my lips, touches her tongue to mine, then strokes
against it. Full, openmouthed assault. And I’m so totally
down with this plan. Sign me up. Let’s do this.
Time seems to stop for long seconds as our tongues
and lips tangle, and her fingers curl in my hair. My blood
goes hot, and I have to remind myself that we’re in public
and that I can’t grab her thighs and wrap her legs around
me.
She pulls back with a soft gasp, leaving me blinking
and a little stunned. Well, that hasn’t happened in a long
time—a girl taking charge and leaving me speechless. I’m
usually the one making the moves. But I’m definitely not
complaining. She spins to face Dickhead again, and I keep
my hands on her waist, unsure if I’m doing it to keep her
steady or to keep me from tossing her over my shoulder
and carrying her out of here caveman style.
Meanwhile, Caleb is doing an excellent impression of
a fish, his mouth opening and closing but no sound coming
out—the yuppie guppy. Finally, he seems to come back
into himself. “You wanted to make me mad, fine. Mission
accomplished. Now let’s go home.”
“I’m going home with him, not you,” Natalie says.
“For what? To prove some stupid point?”
“I don’t need to go home with him to prove a point.
Apparently, I’ve been missing out on the benefits of our
open
relationship,” she says, her tone as sweet as Karo
syrup. “I guess it’s happy birthday to me after all. Good-bye,
Caleb.”
The staff has come up to intercept the disturbance, but
Natalie’s already pulling me with her and striding for the
stairs. Wide eyes follow our progress, but she doesn’t stop
until we’re back on the sidewalk in front of my bike. Her
proud shoulders sag instantly, and all the breath seems to
wheeze out of her.
She puts her hands to her face. “Oh my God. I can’t
believe I just did that. I am
so
sorry.”
I grin. “Well, I’m sure as hell not. Holy shit, woman.”
She peers up at me, wary. “Don’t get any ideas.”
“Oh, too late, princess. I’ve got ideas.
Lots
of ideas.
You don’t kiss a guy like that and expect him to forget it.”
“It was an act.” But her gaze flicks away and her
cheeks go pink.
I lean against my bike. “It was hot as fuck. You can’t
fake that.”
“I’m not sleeping with you.”
Ha. She wasn’t denying the hot as fuck part. “All right,
how ’bout I make you a deal? I won’t sleep with you unless
you ask me to.”
She snorts. “Would you like a sidecar for that ego of
yours?”
“Come on, seriously. Putting aside the question of
whether you’ll be able to resist my infinite charm or not, no
one should spend her twenty-first birthday alone, especially
after that spectacular throwdown upstairs. It’s time to
celebrate.”
“No, it’s time to get a pint of ice cream and do an ugly
cry. Because I guarantee you, as soon as this adrenaline
wears off, it’s not gonna be pretty. You need to get out while
the gettin’s good because it’s gonna be all snot and chick
flicks in an hour.”
“No fucking way. This is not a tragedy. You just got rid
of a dickbag boyfriend and a skank of a roommate. You,
princess, are a free woman and the town is yours tonight.
Plus, you told them you weren’t going home. You can’t lose
that poker hand.”
She groans. “I had to add that part, didn’t I? God, I just
want to curl up in bed.”
“No bed to go to except mine.”
“Opportunist.”
“Always.” I grab the helmet and put it in her hands. “But
there’s another option besides finding a place to crash.”
She shoots me a suspicious look, but I can tell she’s
working hard to keep it together. The girl has had the shit
day of all shit days. And the minute she slows down, it’s
going to take her down hard. So I know what my job needs
to be.
“The other option is you don’t go to sleep at all.” I pull
my phone from my pocket and show her the time. “It’s
almost nine. Sun’ll be up in about ten hours.”
“Ten?” She cringes. “That seems like forever.”
“If you’re going to mope around, yes. But you know
what they say about time flying. All we need to do is find
something fun to do each hour. Then you can walk into your
place looking like the badass wild girl you want them to
think you are.”
She gives me a skeptical lift of her brow. “You want to
spend the next ten hours with me? We don’t even like each
other.”
Wrong. “I’m liking you better all the time, princess.
Come on. Get on the bike. Hour one, I’ll take you to my
favorite bar, and you can tell ’em it’s your twenty-first.
Everyone will buy you a drink.”
“I don’t want a drink.”
“What about cake?”
“Cake?” She perks up a little. “What kind of cake?”
“The
best
cake.” I straddle the bike and pat the spot
behind me. “Let’s ride, birthday girl. I want to get out of here
before the cops arrive to charge you with death of a
handbag and ball bashing.”
“No promises that I’m done with the ball bashing.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
She sighs, but I can tell I’ve won. Cake was the
clincher. She eyes me for a moment longer then relents.
“Fine.”
But before she can get on the bike, I take her hand and
drag her close. Her leg brushes my thigh. She stiffens,
almost as if bracing for another kiss—one I probably could
take, based on the way she’s looking at me. But instead, I
put my mouth close to her ear and whisper, “And don’t
close your eyes this time. You’re missing all the good stuff.”
Chapter 4
Natalie
I manage to keep my eyes open for most of the ride since
Monroe chooses side roads instead of getting back onto
the interstate. I still hold on to him like my life depends on it
—and I guess it does—but this time it’s less from fear of
falling off and more about the fact that everything in my life
feels like it’s crumbling around me, and holding on to
something solid grounds me.
I can’t really process what’s happened. Every time I
picture the cozy scene between Caleb and Rebecca, the
anger rushes through me all over again, drowning me in
rage. I’m sure I looked like a lunatic, kneeing Caleb, ruining
Rebecca’s precious purse. Hello, Jerry Springer moment.
But it was like all the little annoyances I’d tucked away
throughout my relationship with Caleb had gathered
together in a ball of crazy and exploded all at once.
It makes me sick to think I reacted like that. That’s my
mother’s style—freaking out, making a spectacle. And she
at least has the excuse of being drunk or blitzed on her pills
when she has her outbursts. I acted like a psycho while
stone-cold sober.
And the worst part is that it had felt so damn good to
go off. Like my screwed-up genes had simply been waiting
for me to go into drama-queen mode.
But regardless of how I must’ve looked, the whole thing
might’ve been worth it just to see Caleb’s face after I kissed
Monroe. I’d shocked him. And my boyfriend didn’t ruffle
easily.
Ex-boyfriend
. I hope he’s still sitting at that table
I
reserved, completely distracted because he’s picturing
what I’m doing with Monroe right now.
Because I know I planted that seed in his brain and
then dumped fertilizer on it with my little show. The kiss
hadn’t been sweet; it had bordered on obscene. It was
definitely
not
how I usually kiss Caleb, and he knew it.
It had been a kiss that made me want things I
shouldn’t, and I have a feeling my response hadn’t been a
secret to any onlookers. Monroe had taken control halfway
through the kiss, and in that moment, I’d sort of forgotten I
was doing it for show. I’d lost myself. If he would’ve turned
and pushed me against the nearby wall to keep things
going, I probably would’ve let him.
So as we cruise along the roads of downtown Austin
now, my mind replaying that kiss over and over again, the
idea of a one-night stand is gaining some appeal. I’ve
never had one of those. White trash girls get white trash
reputations without even having to do the crime. In eighth
grade, I wore red lipstick to school one day and had gotten
called a whore for it. So after getting the hell out of my
nowhere Oklahoma town for college, I’d honed my image
and my behavior so that no one could ever make those
kinds of assumptions about me again.
But I’m almost out of college now, a grown woman.
And I like sex, dammit. Shouldn’t I be able to have it with
who I want, when I want, even if it isn’t with someone I plan
to have a long-term relationship with? The answer is
obviously yes. And Monroe would probably be the perfect
candidate. He’s made it clear that he’ll scratch that bad-boy
itch if I have one. And he sure as hell won’t be the type
trying to send me flowers tomorrow.
Hot sex with a stranger. It would be so very un-me.
Which is exactly what I need right now. I want to leave that
girl who has a cheating boyfriend, a conniving roommate,
and broken-down car behind at the curb outside that
restaurant. I’ll deal with her tomorrow.
But even with all that, I know I’m not going to sleep with
Monroe.
Because there’s one line I can’t talk myself into
crossing. If I ever have a one-night stand, I want it to be
about me and the guy. Not because I’m trying to prove a
point or get revenge or soothe my wounded pride. No one
deserves to be used like that, even if he’s a willing victim.
So I’ll go have cake with Monroe, thank him for trying to
cheer me up, and then I’ll suck up my pride and go home.
Let Rebecca have her laugh at my expense. I’ll survive. I’ve
dealt with meaner girls than her.
The bike slows as we cruise down a road lined with
eclectic shops and a few bars—South Congress, I realize.
Or SoCo, as most people refer to it around here. This is the
part of town where the city keeps its
Keep Austin Weird
motto going strong. Caleb has always hated it, declaring
that this was Texas, not California. But there’s one
that this was Texas, not California. But there’s one
breakfast place a few streets over that he likes enough to
brave the “hippy and hipster” zone on occasion.
Monroe parks in a lot between buildings and helps me
off the bike. Before I can ask where we’re going, he clasps
my hand and guides me around a building and toward
another parking lot. This one has lights strung everywhere
and colorful picnic benches half packed with people. Food
trucks line the edges of the lot, and a guy with a guitar is
playing in the front corner.
My stomach growls at the combination of smells
drifting from the lot—funnel cake, tacos, bacon. All the
happy food groups. “I think my stomach just realized I never
fed it dinner.”
“You and me both. Some high-maintenance chick kept
me late at work and made me skip dinner.” I poke him in
his side and he laughs. “Come on, let’s not live by cake
alone. That bright orange truck over there has these Korean
pork sandwiches that are so addictive I’m convinced
they’re laced with crack. And we’ll need to grab a fish taco
from Bueno’s. And then I know the girl who owns Sweet
Revenge, the silver one over there. She will give us the
cake hookup.”
His enthusiasm is so open it almost looks out of place
on him—biker dude getting excited about cake. But I find
myself smiling back. “A closet foodie?”
“Closet culinary student.”
My brows lift. “I never would’ve guessed.”
“That’s because you’re wildly judgmental and put me in
the box of former convict or potential meth dealer the
the box of former convict or potential meth dealer the
minute you saw me.”
“Riiight, says he who has called me sorority girl and
princess nonstop.”
“Fine. Are you or have you ever been in a sorority?”
My lips press together. I don’t want to answer, but I
know he’s not going to let me off the hook. “It was only
freshman year—”
“Ha!” he says, and tugs me further into the lot.
“But I’m no princess. No fairy godmother ever saved
me from anything, there’s no inheritance waiting, and my
prince just ditched me for a girl who thinks keeping up with
the Kardashians is a solid life goal.”
He slows down at that and I bump into him. The humor
in his expression softens into something more serious.
“That asshole was not a prince. He’s a punk. The way he
talked to you . . . like he wanted to
manage
you. Like you
were a task on his Day Planner to handle. Fuck that. I’ve
known you for three hours and know better than to try that
shit with you. You’d castrate me.”
I blink, a little stunned at his spot-on assessment of
how Caleb talks to me. I’ve never put it in those terms, but
manage
is the exact right word. And I’d let him. Maybe part
of me had felt like I needed to be managed, like he’d lead
me to some holy grail of fitting in with the “right” people.
“That dude was more concerned about what a dining
room of strangers was thinking than he was about what you
were feeling. If he really cared about you, he should’ve
gotten on his knees and begged you to forgive him for
being such a dick. But no, he tried to make you feel stupid
and put you down instead. Your fairy godmother did show
up tonight—with blonde hair, a fake tan, and a designer
bag. She saved you from continuing that bullshit. You
deserve better than being some guy’s Stepford girlfriend.
Let Blondie take on that job.”
I can feel my eyes filling up, my emotions, which are
already running high, trying to spill over because now I’m
embarrassed. “You must think I’m an idiot.”
His brows scrunch. “What? How did you get that out of
what I just said?”
“He’s a jerk, but I was stupid enough to stay with him.”
Monroe groans and releases my hand. “Stay right
here.”
“Where are you going?”
He doesn’t answer me. Instead, he heads toward the
guy who’s been playing guitar.
I panic, frozen for a moment, and then hurry after him.
But my heels slow me down and by the time I get there, he’s
already talking to the man and taking the microphone from
him.
What the hell?
Monroe plants his Chuck Taylor on a
nearby bench and propels himself up and onto the picnic
table.
“Attention, everyone!”
I’m at the edge of the table now, ready to pull him down
by the pant leg if necessary, but everyone is turning our
way. “What are you
doing
?”
He smiles down at me but doesn’t answer, just gives
me the
one moment
motion with his finger. He looks out at
me the
one moment
motion with his finger. He looks out at
the crowd again. “Listen up, today is my friend Natalie’s
twenty-first birthday.”
“Oh my God.” Where’s a shovel so I can dig a hole in
the dirt and crawl in? I try to scoot into the shadows.
“No one has sung to her yet. She’s had no cake. And
worse, no alcohol. In fact, so far today she’s survived being
broken down on the side of the road in the heat, has caught
her boyfriend cheating and knocked that boyfriend’s nuts
into his throat in public, and turned the purse of the chick he
was with into a designer punch bowl.”
Eyes swivel toward me. I want to die. But someone
claps, and there’s a
You go, girl
from an elderly lady at a
nearby table. That makes me smile.
“And yet she still looks this hot after all that,” Monroe
declares.
A wolf whistle comes from someone on the far side of
the lot. I laugh and put my hand over my face.
“So”—Monroe raises his hand in a mock toast despite
having no drink—“happy birthday to Natalie, one badass
bitch!”
The crowd toasts back and then the guy with the guitar
starts a rendition of
Happy Birthday
. A chorus of diners
serenades me.
Monroe hops down from the table, singing along with
them and grinning. “Happy birthday to you, happy birthday
dear Nat-a-lie . . .” He leans over. “So, in answer to your
question, no, I don’t think you’re an idiot.”
My hands go to my hips, and I give him my are-you-out-
of-your-mind face. But I can’t help the swell of emotion that
comes from the simple act of being sung to by a large
group of people. There’s some weird power in that. I never
really had birthday parties—even as a kid. Mom wasn’t
organized enough to put something together. So I’d get a
few presents and a trip to McDonald’s with my cousins.
This is so much better.
I close my eyes. Because I will not cry, dammit. “If you
think this is going to get me to kiss you again, prepare to
be disappointed.”
“As if I would have ulterior motives,” he says, and I
open my eyes to find him watching me with an amused
expression.
And son of a bitch, I
do
want to kiss him. Because he
looks so damn good standing there. Because unlike Caleb,
he isn’t afraid to look silly in front of other people. Because
he called me a badass and meant it.
I make a sound of frustration. “I’m still not sleeping with
you.”
I step into his space, and I’m not sure who kisses who
first. All I know is that before the birthday song ends, his
hand is in my hair and his lips are on mine and my body is
melting against his.
My lips part and his tongue is stroking mine, devouring
any remaining resistance. Hungry sounds escape me, and
my fingers seek something to hold on to, eventually knotting
in his T-shirt. There’s a frantic edge to both our movements,
like we don’t know which way to go next, like we want to do
everything all at once. We’re going to bump noses; I know
it. But somehow we work it all out. His hands slide to my
waist, and I’m pushing onto my toes. My arms loop around
his neck, and we’re kissing, kissing, kissing.
Somewhere in the background people are clapping
and catcalling. And finally my mind registers where we are.
There are people. We’re being watched. I break away with
a panting breath. My cheeks are on fire, and I press my
face into his shoulder. “Oh my God.”
Monroe seems a little blitzed for a moment, too, but
takes a breath and seems to come back to himself. He
releases his tight hold on me and keeps his back to the
crowd. “Uh, yeah. That wasn’t exactly my plan. Should we
take a bow?”
“I think we’ve done enough.”
“Right. Pork?”
“You’d better be talking sandwiches.”
He laughs and loops his arm over my shoulder. “Come
on, birthday girl.” He gives a wave to the crowd. “Show’s
over, people.”
There are a few boos.
Half an hour later, my cheeks have finally cooled, and
I’m happily finishing off the last bits of a taco. “You were
right. This is freaking delicious.”
“Right? Who needs Madrid when you can get this
wrapped in greasy paper?”
“Word.”
“And now for the finale. Cake!”
“You rang?” A girl with spiky, bright orange hair and
possibly more tattoos than Monroe stops at our table. She
sets down two cupcakes in front of us. They’re as big as
softballs and smell like baked heaven.
“Wow,” I murmur.
She nods as if to say,
Yes, I know they’re beyond
fabulous.
She pushes one toward Monroe. “Blue Velvet for you
because it’s new, and I need your honest opinion. Cory
says people are naturally freaked out by blue foods, but I
think he’s making shit up just so we put his newest creation
on the menu instead of mine. It may stain your teeth blue for
a while, by the way, but I think it’s worth it.”
Monroe eyes the bright blue cupcake with the fluffy
cream-colored frosting. From the looks of it, he may be one
of those people freaked out by blue foods.
The girl sticks a candle in the other cupcake. This one
has deep red frosting. “And Blood and Chocolate for your
girl because getting cheated on requires chocolate.” I must
look worried because she adds, “Don’t worry, no real
blood. It’s a dark chocolate cupcake with Blood Orange
Buttercream frosting.”
“Right. Got it. Thanks.”
“Tyra and her brother like naming their baked goods
after movies. Preferably horror films,” Monroe says, swiping
his finger through the frosting on his cupcake and taking a
lick. His eyebrows lift. “Damn, that’s good.”
“Right?” She seems pleased and adjusts the candle in
my cupcake. “I want to bathe in that frosting.”
“Well, I’m not sure I’d go that far,” he says, but he’s
taking another swipe.
taking another swipe.
Tyra holds out her palm to him. “Give me your lighter
for your girl’s candle.”
“No can do. I quit smoking, heard it screws with your
taste buds,” Monroe says, breaking off a piece of his
cupcake. I try not to get distracted by the way he licks a gob
of icing off his thumb.
“Taste buds,” Tyra says dryly. “Because the cancer
thing just wasn’t that compelling?”
I decide I like her.
“Thanks for the cupcakes, Ty,” Monroe says, his teeth
already turning a pale shade of blue. “I owe you an oil
change. Just bring it by before Thursday.”
“Cool. You hitting the road after that?” she asks.
“Yep. Three months. Try not to slit your wrists from the
grief of missing me.”
She sniffs. “I’m sure I’ll manage.”
I want to ask questions, participate in the conversation.
But I feel a little on the outside looking in right now. So I bite
into my cupcake. I can’t keep the groan of pleasure from
escaping, though.
Tyra’s face lights up. “You like?”
My mouth is full but I manage a garbled, “Ohmigod.”
“Look at that, the girl has good taste, despite her
questionable choice in men.” Tyra gives Monroe a pointed
look.
“Hey,” he says, putting his hands out, affronted. “I’m a
good guy.”
She taps the spot in front of me with her palm. “Have
fun tonight, sugar. Remember, birthdays are like trips to
Vegas. Whatever happens doesn’t go on your permanent
record.”
I laugh. “Did he pay you to say that?”
“Didn’t have to. I saw that kiss.”
With that, she strolls off, leaving me blushing all over
again.
Monroe leans onto his elbows and smiles. “Ready for
alcohol now?”
“God, yes.”
Chapter 5
Natalie
I stare out at the smooth surface of the lake, leaning back
on my elbows and soaking in the view. I’m still a little
buzzed from the big-ass margarita I had at the bar we
walked to after the cupcakes, but the fresh air feels good
and the park is quiet. I’m feeling more relaxed than I have
all night. I turn on my side.
Monroe is on his back in the grass, looking up at the
stars. His eyes are half-mast, and I realize it’s two in the
morning and I’m keeping him up after what was probably a
long day at work. “You can go home, you know.”
“Don’t try to bail on me now, princess,” he says, his
voice sleep-soft. “We’ve still got four hours left until sunrise.”
“You’re not going to make it four minutes.”
“Talk to me then. Keep me awake. Dance, monkey,
dance.”
“Where are you going for three months?” I ask, folding
my arm under my head and resting on it.
“A little bit of everywhere¸ hopefully, but eventually I’ll
end up in South Carolina.” He closes his eyes fully. “A
buddy of mine has a place on Myrtle Beach, and he needs
someone to house-sit and take care of his two cats in
August while he does some contract job overseas. I
volunteered.”
“And before August?”
He crosses his arms behind his head. “I’m going to
see as much of the eastern part of the country as I can. I
love dive restaurants and regional food. Those are the
kinds of dishes I want to put twists on if I ever open up my
own place. But I haven’t eaten enough of the real thing out
in the wild. So I figured I’d do my own Americana culinary
tour.”
“And you can just leave your life for three months?”
There’s a judgmental sharpness to my tone that I hate, but I
can’t help it.
“School’s out for the semester. And my brother’s
getting a part-timer to pick up the slack at the shop while
I’m gone.” He rolled to face me. “So, yeah. I figured when
else in my life am I going to be able to pick up and spend a
summer doing exactly what I want? Driving through the
Smoky Mountains, seeing the coast, eating like a king, then
kicking up on the beach for a month at the end—what’s not
to like?”
I stare at him, the concept of chasing some whim so
completely out of my realm I can’t even wrap my brain
around it. “What are you going to do for money? Where are
you going to stay?”
“I’ve got some savings, so I’m good for a while. Once I
get to South Carolina, I’ll probably find something in a
restaurant part-time to get more kitchen experience and to
add to the funds. As for where I’m staying, I’m bringing
camping gear for when the weather’s good enough. But
when it’s not, I’ll be driving a conversion van I refurbished. It
has a bed in the back if I need it.”
“Wow, so just get on the road and figure out what’s
what after you get to wherever you’re going?”
He smiles like I’m being cute. “You make it sound like
I’m hopping in a spaceship to venture to Mars without
supplies. This is America. If I need something, I’ll go to the
store. I can make do wherever. I don’t need that much to get
by.”
I consider him. He’s being totally serious. “I can’t
imagine jetting off to wherever for the summer just for the
hell of it.”
“How come? What do you usually do for the break?
You taking summer classes?”
A breeze ruffles my dress and I smooth it down.
“Usually I go home to Oklahoma and stay with my mom, get
a waitressing job, and do my best not to commit matricide.”
He lifts a brow.
“It means killing your mother.”
“I know what it means, smarty-pants. Believe it or not,
mechanics read books on occasion, too, even ones with
big words.”
I grimace and look down. “Sorry, I didn’t mean it that
way. God, I do come off as a judge-y bitch sometimes,
don’t I?”
“Hey.” He reaches out and taps me under the chin to
get me to look up. “I’m just messing with you. And why do
you go home if you and your mom don’t get along?”
I snort. “Because she’s the master of guilt trips and it
saves me money to stay with her. I actually was going to
break tradition this year. I wanted to stay here and take this
creative writing intensive thing, but my scholarship doesn’t
cover it. I thought . . .” I stop myself and blow out a breath.
“Never mind, it’s not important.”
“Sure it is. You thought what?”
I sigh. “I thought Caleb was going to ask me to move in
with him tonight. Since he wouldn’t have charged me rent, I
could’ve used the money I saved to sign up for that
workshop. Work on my writing during the day, waitress at
night. But obviously that plan’s not going to work. And the
cash I saved will need to go to fixing my car. So I’m thinking
it’s back home for me.”
He frowns. “The part you need for your car will probably
be about four hundred bucks. I’ll make sure you don’t get
charged for labor. And my brother would probably work out
a payment plan with you. He does it for friends, so I can
vouch for you.”
I shake my head, touched by the offer. “You,
Monroe . . . Hell, I don’t even know your last name.”
“Hawkins.”
“Well, you, Monroe Hawkins, are a sweet guy.”
“Oh, God, please don’t let that rumor get out,” he says
with mock horror. “And maybe this is all still a massive ploy
to get you to sleep with me.”
I laugh. “Sexual favors in exchange for car repairs?”
“I’m totally not above that kind of bartering system.
Let’s see, what act would be equivalent to a two-hundred-
dollar labor charge? I’m thinking a blow—”
I shove his shoulder before he can finish and he rolls
onto his back, chuckling.
“You’re terrible.” I straighten my bra strap, which has
slid down my arm. “And believe me, I’m worth more than
two hundred, mister. I’m at least in the two fifty range.”
He laughs harder.
“Because I know how to do this thing with my tongue
that—”
He rolls back to his side and puts his hand out, fast as
a striking snake, and covers my lips. “Please, don’t finish
that. I’m lying here, trying to be a decent guy, and you’re
going to paint those kinds of pictures in my head. So not
fair.”
I curl my fingers around his wrist and move his hand
away. “Like those pictures aren’t already in your head. I
think you had me naked in your mind ten seconds after we
met.”
He grins, unrepentant. “Seven seconds. And I’d feel
guilty about it if you hadn’t done the same thing.”
I huff. “I did not.”
“So you just stood there and watched me walk away
because you like my brand of jeans?”
I bite my lip and try to shove him again. “Shut up.”
Great, now I’m acting like a twelve-year-old.
But when I push him this time, he grabs my arm, pulling
me with him, and rolls me half on top of him. I land with a
soft
oof
. The playful mood of a few seconds ago dies on the
spot. Because now I can’t concentrate. My upper body is
pressing into his, and all of my mental energy diverts to
mapping every hard plane beneath me. God, he’s warm.
And solid. And he smells like beer and cupcakes, which
somehow works. I don’t move away.
He looks up at me, his blue eyes almost silver in the
moonlight. The humor has faded from his face, too. He
pushes a lock of hair away from my face and tucks it behind
my ear. “I want to kiss you again.”
“Yeah?” I say, my voice so soft I’m not even sure it
made it all the way out of my throat.
“But I also don’t want you to worry that I’m going to
push you too far. There’s no real pressure here, Nat. Yes, I
like kissing you. And yes, I think you’re hot. Like unfairly hot.
But I’m also having fun just hanging out with you. Honestly,
it’s been a long time since I’ve done that with a girl and
enjoyed it so much.”
The words send this buzzing feeling through me. A very
dangerous buzzing feeling. “What, you’re more of
hey,
what’s up, let’s bang
kind of guy?”
“Truthfully? Yeah. Though, someone should punch me
in the face if I ever use a word as lame as
bang
. Hookups
are easy. Everyone knows what’s up and has a good time.
No drama.”
“I don’t hook up.”
“I know,” he says, his hand coming to rest on the small
of my back. “I can respect that.”
“Really?”
“Of course. I’m a smartass, but I try not to be an
asshole. And seriously, if you’re tired, you can crash at my
place without stressing about what that means. I’ll take the
place without stressing about what that means. I’ll take the
couch. I’d much rather that than worrying about you roaming
the streets until dawn or going home to that psycho
roommate.”
I stare down at him. His months-past-a-haircut hair is
flopped across his forehead and there’s the beginning of
stubble on his cheeks. With the tattoos and the attitude he
comes across tough, dangerous even, on first glance, but
the way he’s looking at me right now is so genuine and
sincere that my chest squeezes tight. I’ve been with Caleb
for almost a year. I’ve shared things with him I’ve never told
anyone else. I’ve opened myself up and tried to be
everything he wanted me to. But Caleb has never looked at
me like this, with such . . . care. Like I matter. Like my
concerns and feelings are more important than his wants.
And all I am is a stranger to Monroe. If he shows this
much kindness and protectiveness toward some girl he just
met, what must he be like when he loves someone? I can’t
even imagine.
“I think I’m tired,” I say. “And that bed sounds nice.”
He tilts his head, clearly surprised. “Yeah?”
“But if you really turn out to be a serial killer after all, I’m
going to be
so
pissed.”
“Just because it’s your birthday, I’ll keep the carving
knife and plastic sheets in the closet.”
I smirk and give in to my urge to touch him, tracing the
curve of one dark eyebrow. “And I know you’re being noble
—gold stars for you, by the way—but I think I want to kiss
you again, too.”
His lips curve. “Is that right?”
“You have no idea.”
His hand slides to the back of my neck. “Well, who am I
to deny a birthday girl her wish?”
I let him draw me down to him, and my lips part easily
for him this time. Even in a few short hours he feels familiar
in the best way possible. He feels right. The kiss is slow at
first, like the lazy lake water lapping at the shore behind us
—a gentle, caressing dance. His hand threads into my hair,
and he’s in control, moving me where he wants me, taking
the kiss deeper. And I’m falling into it, the warmth of his
body, the feel of his mouth, the taste of him. I want to drown
in this.
I find myself shifting more on top of him and sliding my
knee upward. His free hand catches the back of my thigh
and draws me onto him fully. I straddle him and don’t care
that we’re in a public park. He groans into the kiss and now
both his hands go to my hair. We’re drinking, drinking,
drinking from each other. All the stress of my day, all the
worries of tomorrow, all the concerns of a few moments
ago seem to drain from me, the scary stuff sloughing off
and leaving only this minute behind. This really spectacular
minute.
I press myself fully against him, and my body tightens
at the brush of his erection against me. I want to reach
down and feel him against my palm, feel if his skin is
getting as hot as mine. But I know if I do that, there’s no
turning back. So I satisfy my need to touch by running my
hands over his shoulders, his sides. My fingers find the
edge of his T-shirt, and I let them slip beneath it and trail
along the firm muscles beneath.
The groan from him this time is louder and he pulls
back, his head landing against the grass. He’s out of
breath. So am I.
“I think we need a time-out, princess. I’m not
that
noble.”
I splay my hands over his chest and push upward to
get some space between us, but I don’t climb off of him.
“Neither am I.”
“Natalie . . .” His tone holds warning.
“Why did you take me out tonight?”
A little wrinkle appears between his brows. Whether
it’s from the subject change or the question itself, I can’t tell.
“Because I wanted to. I like you.”
“Okay, but why? I was kind of a bitch to you.”
“No, you were—are—feisty, and I’m into that. I like
women who aren’t afraid to say what they’re thinking. Polite
girls bore the shit out of me. And I could tell you weren’t
going to let me get away with anything. I’d have to work for
it.”
I process that. “So you like a challenge.”
“I do, but I wasn’t looking at you like some prize to win
or anything. Just thought we’d have fun together, if I could
get you to let your guard down a little.”
The answer affects me more than he probably realizes.
He likes that I’m a challenge. He likes that I talk back. “You
know why people like me?”
“Same reason?”
“No, they like me because I’m really good at doing
what’s expected of me. I’m responsible. I’m practical.
Nice
.
You don’t have to worry about me being unpredictable. I do
what I’m supposed to because I’m way too concerned
about what everyone thinks about me. But the minute you
picked me up today, that seemed to fall away. I didn’t have
this need to impress you.”
He gives me a wry look. “Gee, thanks.”
I shake my head. “No, it’s not like that. It’s just . . . I
didn’t need to put on some mask. You saw me, the
unedited, not-so-polite side, and liked me anyway.”
He lifts my hand from his chest and kisses my palm. “Is
that bad?”
“No, it’s not. It’s very, very good.” I lie down again,
bringing my face close to his. “Because no one’s ever
taken the real me to bed, and I’m thinking it’s way overdue.”
His blue eyes widen. “What?”
I shift against him, settling myself along his body.
“You’re going on a road trip for the summer because you
want to, because it will be fun and an adventure. You aren’t
worried about anyone else’s opinion. It’s
your
whim.”
“Right,” he says slowly.
“I want
you
to be mine.” I let my hand drift between us
and cup his erection, loving the sound he makes in the
back of his throat when I do. Never have I been so bold. I
don’t make first moves. I’ve been the nice girl behind
closed doors just like I have been in the rest of my life. But
right now, all I want is a whole lot of bad. “Take me home,
Monroe. And to hell with sleeping on the couch.”
Chapter 6
Monroe
I’ve never made it home so fast in my life. All those traffic
laws I agreed to follow earlier this afternoon? Yeah, well, I
got her home safe, that’s all that counts, right? But now I
can barely get my key in the door. What the fuck? I’m like a
damn teenager again, getting ready to cop his first feel.
This isn’t me. I’m the guy who keeps his cool. Women
are great, sex is fantastic, but I’m not one to get all urgent
about it. We’ve got all night. But I’ve got no fucking shot at
slowing myself down and acting like a normal human being.
The minute we’re inside the door of my house, I’m
grabbing for Natalie and pushing her against the nearby
wall. She’s been rubbing that body up against mine on the
ride over here, and I’m about to combust. My mouth
crashes against hers, and my hands reach for her thighs.
She doesn’t fight it. She wraps her legs around my
waist, letting me lift her up, and is kissing me back just as
hard. I press her against the wall and her nails score my
scalp, the resulting tingles going straight to my dick. I want
to swallow her whole.
And happy day—I think she wants to devour me right
back. Whatever reins she’s been holding on to have been
cut. She’s letting go. And I get the feeling this might be the
first time. I can’t wait.
I pull back for half a second to grab a breath. “Tell me
you’re sure.”
Her eyes are dilated, her lips puffy. She’s fucking
gorgeous. “I’m so sure.”
My fingers dig into her thighs, my restraint on a weak
tether, and she winces. I soften my grip. “Sorry.”
She shakes her head. “No, I like it. I want . . .”
She rolls her lips inward, and her gaze skates away.
Old fears are obviously creeping in. I tighten my hold on her.
“No, princess. You want me to fuck you? Then tell me how
you want it. No room for being scared right now.”
“I like how rough you’re being.”
Oh, hell yeah. “Feel free to be rough right back.”
I bury my face in her neck and press my teeth to her
throat. Her head tilts back, and the gritty moan that
accompanies the move makes me so damn hard I worry
I’m going to have a permanent zipper imprint on my cock.
My hand coasts up her body and I cup her breast, the
full, soft flesh heating my palm. I need to get her out of this
dress, but I don’t want to put her down long enough to do it. I
rub my thumb over her nipple, and she shudders in my hold.
God, she’s sexy. Even the slightest touch gets a response. I
want to find all her hot buttons and press them over and
over until she’s out of her mind from it.
Her lips are on mine again and the long, deep kiss has
me feeling wild and frantic on the inside. And I’m down for
being rough. But I don’t want to hurt her or fuck this up in my
rush to get us naked. I pull away and ease her down from
the wall. “This will be better on the bed.”
She nods and kicks off her shoes. “Good idea. I have
condoms in my purse.”
“I’ve got us covered.” I grab her hand and lead her
down the hallway, hoping to hell I put away all my crap
before I left for work today. Nothing like a pile of dirty
underwear to ruin the mood. Luckily, when we walk in, the
place looks mostly presentable. The bed isn’t made but
other than that, we’re good.
I turn to Natalie and kiss her again, my hands going to
the tie on the side of her dress. But when I tug, she puts her
hand over mine. “Should we shower? I mean, I probably still
smell like skunk and . . .”
“You smell amazing,” I say, and mean it. She smells
like the grass from the lake, baked goods, and girl. There’s
even a hint of some fruity shampoo lingering.
“Liar,” she says, but she’s smiling.
“Maybe I just like you dirty.”
“You would.” She cocks her head in challenge.
“There she goes again. Judging.” She laughs and I
gather her flush against me, putting my lips close to her ear.
“Lose the dress, beautiful. There’s only one scent I want you
wearing.
Mine
.”
She groans softly and steps back to finish unfastening
the tie on her dress. The fabric falls open, and I forget how
to speak.
Chapter 7
Natalie
When I let my dress drop to the floor, I have the immediate
urge to run into Monroe’s closet and slam the doors shut to
hide. I’ve never felt more exposed. The red lacy bra and
thong are somehow worse than being naked. Because this
says—
Hey there, I totally planned on getting laid tonight.
And oh, I bought these to impress someone. Not you, by
the way. Though, I’m really happy it
is
you who’s here.
Awkward.
Plus, I don’t know what kind of girl Monroe usually
dates. I’m not exactly a size-two model. No quarters are
bouncing off this belly. And what if I look ridiculous and like
I’m trying too hard and—
“Fuck,” Monroe breathed. “I knew you were going to kill
me, but
jeezus
. You look . . . wow.”
Monroe steps into my space again, claiming my waist
with those big hands of his, and I’m no longer out there
alone and self-conscious. The heated look on his face says
he approves. No, not just approves. Fully endorses. He lets
his hands drift down over my ass and draws me against
him.
“You have way too many clothes on,” I declare.
He smiles and kisses along my collarbone. “Patience.”
But when he lifts his head, he reaches back and tugs
his T-shirt over his head. And damn, the view’s even better
than I expected. I could totally leave the quarter-bouncing up
to him. I take my fill, my gaze tracing over all that bare skin
and smooth muscle. The guy is beautiful. Like art. And the
ink is even more stunning without clothing in the way. The
tattooed arms are the showpiece as they give way to a
mostly unmarked chest—but the small bluebird that seems
to be flying away from a branch inked on his shoulder
captures my full attention. I reach out and run my fingers
over it, fascinated for some reason. He presses his hand
over mine and smiles.
I want to ask if the bird has any meaning to him, but
he’s kissing me again and I sort of forget about
conversation. Tattoo analysis can wait. Especially when
those long, calloused fingers have unhooked my bra and
are caressing me beneath it, tugging and teasing. I reach
between us and unfasten his jeans. He makes a sound that
seems like relief, and I smile into the kiss as I dip my hand
inside his fly.
I wrap my hand around his warmth, and we both make
dirty sounds simultaneously: him because I’m sure it feels
good, and me because my body clenches everywhere, the
need punching through me like a fist. I curse under my
breath, the desire almost too much to process. I’m no
virgin, but I can’t remember ever feeling this all-consuming
need to have someone.
Monroe lowers down my body, trailing kisses along the
way, and shoves my bra all the way off to take one of my
nipples into his mouth. I grip his shoulders hard and
electricity runs right from the point of the connection straight
down, where I’ve gone wet and warm and desperate.
He gives the other side the same sensual treatment,
and then he’s gripping my waist and guiding me to the bed.
He gives me a gentle shove, and I fall onto the mattress
with a bounce. When I start to scoot back to get farther up
on the bed, he grabs my ankle and drags me forward. “Not
quite yet, princess. I’m not done tasting.”
“Oh.” It’s a dumb response, but I’m not capable of
much more. Not when he’s lowering to his knees and
slipping my panties down my legs. The strip of red lace is
swept away with a flick of his wrist, and I’m spread out
before him with nowhere to hide. But the anxiety doesn’t
have time to fully form because he’s stroking my thighs and
kissing a path upward and making me forget my name. All I
can think is—yes, yes,
yes
. I don’t know what my name is,
but that’s his new name—
Yes
. And when his mouth finally
reaches its destination, pleasuring me in a way that has my
fingers curling into the sheets, the world seems to
disintegrate around me. There’s only his tongue and his lips
and the decadent sensation of being consumed one nibble
and lick at a time by a man who knows what he’s doing.
Monroe doesn’t rush anything. This isn’t a duty. A step
in the checklist. Not like with Caleb, who seemed to think
this part of the sex procedure was cumbersome and only
for special occasions. This is a man who relishes this
privilege.
His lips tease my hot button, making my hips tilt
upward, and he slides his finger inside me. It glides in
easily, my body clamping around him. I feel like I’ve been
aroused for hours. Ever since that first kiss, it’s like my
body has been on standby, just waiting—hoping that this
would be at the end of the journey. He moves with easy
confidence, stroking inside me with one and then two
fingers. I feel the pressure building low and fast.
Oh, shit. No, this is too fast. I’m not ready for it to be
over yet.
Use your words.
But I’m having trouble finding the right
ones. “Monroe, wait, I’m going to—”
He pauses for a moment. “I know, princess. That’s the
point.”
“But I don’t want it to be done.”
He gazes up at me, lips glistening with my arousal as
they curl into a wicked smile. He looks obscene and so
fucking gorgeous I can’t stand it. “Over? Not even close,
princess. This is just the first one.”
“The first?”
But he’s dipping his head down again and his fingers
are curling inside me, rubbing at the perfect spot. I can’t
speak anymore. I can’t think. All I can do is feel.
Monroe
. I
go over, losing the battle.
My back arches off the bed, and my fingers lock in his
hair. I cry out like a crazy person, the sensations fanning out
like the waves of a bomb blast. I can’t even try to be
demure or sexy about it. I just freaking lose it. I’m calling his
name. I’m begging him to stop, to keep going, to
yes, yes,
yes
. I don’t even know what I’m saying anymore.
And when I’m finally left in a gasping, panting lump
made of The Girl Formerly Known as Natalie, Monroe gets
up and shucks the rest of his clothes, and I’m ready to die
all over again. Good God. Men shouldn’t be allowed to look
that good.
Usually after an orgasm, I’m done. Tension released,
let’s move on and watch some late-night TV. But right now, I
feel far from done. I don’t just want him. I need him. Inside
me. Preferably now.
Lucky for me, he seems to have the same idea. He
wrenches open his bedside drawer and comes up with a
foil packet. The condom is rolled on in record time. “You
okay?”
“So very okay,” I say, and scoot up the bed.
He smiles and climbs onto the bed, and I realize just
how big of a guy he is. I feel small beneath him. I like it.
“I want to kiss you.”
It takes me a second to realize he’s asking
permission. And maybe I should be weirded out that I’ll
taste myself, but somehow it doesn’t feel strange. Because
I want to kiss him, too. We’re sharing all of this. And nothing
feels awkward or gross or out of bounds. I wrap my hand
around his neck and draw him down to me.
He makes a greedy sound in the back of his throat and
we kiss, long and languid. He grabs my knee, situating
himself between my thighs, caressing me along the way.
I’m melting into the bed. I feel him at my entrance, and my
fingernails dig into his back. I want to absorb him. I almost
can’t take the anticipation.
“Please,” I whisper against his lips.
And he answers my plea, pushing inside me—easy at
first, making sure I’m okay, and then sliding deep when I tap
his back like he’s some racehorse who needs to pick up
the pace. I make some
oh-God-yes
noise at the feel of him,
at the way my body stretches to accommodate him. Sweet
pressure and fullness. We’re joined. Me and this stranger
who wanted to make my birthday a happier one. For a
moment, we stay that way, him inside me, our lips kissing
whatever they can find, hands mapping.
I’m having a one-night stand
. Somewhere that thought
floats through my head. But this doesn’t feel anything like I
expected. I thought it would be a fun thing—wild, physical.
And this
is
physical. But it feels like so much more than that.
Because when Monroe braces his arms alongside me and
holds my gaze while he moves inside me, I feel like this is
bigger than a hookup. This is what sex is supposed to be
like. Not just a whole-body experience, but a whole-mind
one. And even though this will only be one night for us, I
know somehow that there is a bar being set in my life.
There will be no going back to the world of Before.
I will want this.
I deserve this.
“You feel so good,” Monroe says as he reaches back
and grips my thigh, somehow sinking even deeper. “And
you’re so damn sexy when you come. I can’t wait to see it
again, to feel you lose it around me.”
I close my eyes, drunk with the feel of him. “I’m not sure
I can. I’ve never done that twice in the same night.”
“Mmm,” he says, obviously getting lost in his own
sensations. “Maybe you’ve just never had a guy who was
dedicated enough to make that happen. Just let go and
trust me to take care of you.”
If Caleb had said something like that, I would’ve felt
like it was some edict. Like if it didn’t happen, it would be
my fault somehow. But with Monroe, I don’t feel any
pressure. And really, this isn’t about reaching some
destination for me. The journey is more than good enough.
Monroe teases my earlobe with his teeth, sending
goose bumps across my body, and then he whispers, “Turn
over for me.”
“What?”
He leans back, slipping out of me, and gives me a
devilish grin. “Hands and knees, princess.”
Okay, this is new for me. “I—”
Monroe leans down and kisses me. “Trust me. If you
hate it, you can turn back over.”
I nod, getting a little nervous, and roll over into position.
Good God, if I felt vulnerable and self-conscious earlier, that
had nothing on this.
Meet my naked ass, Monroe Hawkins
.
I drop down to my forearms and bury my face in his pillow.
Monroe strokes down my hips and plants a kiss on my
tailbone. “You look so damn sexy like this. The minute you
climbed on my bike, I had really dirty thoughts about
bending you over it. About seeing you surrender to me like
this. All that red hair fanned out over your back.”
I groan into the pillow. The pillow that smells like him.
And another flood of arousal goes straight downward. I
know I have to be embarrassingly wet at this point. There’s
no hiding anything in this position. But I have a feeling
Monroe will just see that as a job well done.
He tilts me more toward him, putting a deeper sway in
my back, and I feel his fingers against me. He slides his
thumbs along my folds and spreads me open. I tense,
imagining what I must look like to him right now. But then
his tongue is on me again, and I lose all motivation to be
modest. I whimper into the pillow, the feeling altogether
different at this angle. Everything is already sensitive, and
the lush sensation of his mouth on every tender spot is
making me feel a little crazed inside. The ball of need is
building again, tightening.
And when it almost feels like I’m going to go over
again, he eases back, situates himself behind me, and
thrusts forward. I arch with the pleasure of him filling me
again, my fingers knotting in the sheets.
“Still on board with a little roughness, princess?”
Monroe asks, and I can hear the strain in his voice now.
He’s charging up his own mountain.
“Yes,” I manage, angling back to meet his thrusts,
needing just a little more to send me into the stratosphere.
“Good.” He wraps an arm around me and finds my
sweet spot with his fingers. Then he’s rocking into me with
more speed and force. The bed is squeaking and the
headboard is rattling. And everything inside me goes
electric and hot.
I’m sweating. He’s grunting. I might be drooling.
It’s the sexiest I’ve ever felt in my life.
And with one more stroke, I’m breaking apart, the
orgasm crashing over me and stealing my breath. I can’t
even make noise. I’m gasping.
Monroe’s left hand is in my view, and the sight of his
knuckles going white against the sheets as he finds his
release is so unbearably hot I can hardly stand it. He thrusts
deep into me and lets loose this long, gravelly moan that
holds pure, unadulterated lust and satisfaction. I want to roll
around in that sound and bury myself in it.
I ride the release with him, my own orgasm seeming to
go on and on until we finally collapse into the sheets
together. His full weight presses me into the mattress, but
at the moment, I don’t care. I’m flying in the afterglow.
Happy birthday to me, indeed.
Chapter 8
Natalie
I wander into Monroe’s living room, wearing a pair of his
boxers and a T-shirt that has a picture of a pig with all the
cuts of meat outlined on the body. I still can’t believe he’s
such a food nerd. And I’m kind of sad that I’ll never get to
taste his cooking.
I go into the kitchen to find a glass and get some
water, taking in my surroundings since they were only a blur
when we came in earlier. It’s a compact house but it has a
homey feel to it—like it’s been lived in but loved. After I
drink my water, I wander back into the living room where a
plush leather couch and worn recliner take up most of the
space. It would’ve been a perfectly nice couch to sleep on.
I’m glad neither of us ended up there.
The pinkish-blue glow peeking through the front
windows tells me it’s almost dawn. My birthday adventure
will be over soon. And so will the magic of tonight. But I’m
okay with that. I have no regrets.
Yesterday, I woke up thinking I had everything in place.
Like that board game
Life
. My little car was on the set path,
my peg person happily riding along in the passenger side
to a predetermined destination. Today, all the game pieces
have been thrown into the box, shaken, and then dumped
out completely. I should probably be freaking out. Instead, I
feel . . . relieved.
There’s something oddly freeing about not having a
plan.
I let my fingers trail over the back of the couch as I
make my way to the wall of bookshelves on the far side of
the living room. One seems to be packed with a
hodgepodge of novels, encyclopedias, and knickknacks.
But the other is impeccably neat and organized. I scan the
spines. Cookbooks. Of course.
There are so many of them—brightly colored new
ones, faded older ones with worn spines, fat ones, skinny
ones. I touch one labeled
From Canapés to Casseroles
. It
looks more well-loved than the others. I imagine it having
splatters on its pages and notes in the margins, marking
the evidence that the recipe was tried.
“That one was my mom’s favorite.”
I jump, startled, and turn around. Monroe is leaning
against the doorway to the living room, wearing only a pair
of pajama pants, his hair sticking out three different ways.
He smiles and nods at the shelf of books. “You’ve
discovered my dirty addiction.”
I grin. “The truth is out.”
“I have three more boxes in my closet.
Hoarders
will be
here any minute to interview me for the show.”
I look back at the shelf. “Have you cooked from all of
these?”
“Nah, not all of them. Half of those were my mom’s.
She suffered from the same addiction.”
“She’s recovered, I guess, if she gave them to you?”
He walks over and wraps his arms around me from
behind. He sets his chin on my shoulder. “No, she died
when I was nine. My dad held on to her stuff for me and my
brother.”
My chest constricts. “I’m so sorry.”
I can feel him shrug against me. “It sucked. But I’ve
made peace with it. She was a great mom. I was lucky to
get nine years with her.”
The comment makes me sad all over again. “So was
she a chef?”
“She loved to cook, but no, not a chef. She got
pregnant with my brother too young and kind of got locked
into the mom thing. So, she taught herself the old-fashioned
way by cooking every recipe she could get her hands on.
The month she worked her way through that casserole
cookbook scared me off of cream of mushroom soup for
life.”
I laugh, then put my fingers to my mouth. It seems
wrong to laugh while we’re talking about his dead mother.
But when I turn in his arms to apologize, he’s got a warm
smile on his face.
“She always talked about one day opening a
restaurant and how me and my brother could work in it with
her. She wanted to name it the Bluebird Cafe because
bluebirds are the symbol of happiness, and the kitchen was
where she was happiest. But she got sick before our family
ever had the kind of money to do something like that.”
I look down and put my hand over the bird on his chest.
“So this is for her?”
“Yeah. And a reminder for me that dreams don’t wait
for us. You have to chase them. Take your chances at
happiness when you have them or you may not get more.”
I wrap my arms around him and lay my head against
his chest, this melancholy feeling sweeping over me. “Your
mom would approve of your summer road trip.”
He kisses the top of my head. “Well, all except the
motorcycle part. If she was still around, she’d kick my ass if
she knew I rode one of those ‘death traps’ and would be
ticked that my brother is so obsessed with them, he
opened his own shop.”
“You mom sounds very smart.”
He sniffs. “Yeah, you two would’ve gotten along well.”
I sigh and lift my head. The room is already brighter
than it was a few minutes ago. “The sun is up. Time for
things to start turning back into pumpkins.”
He tucks my hair behind my ears and cups my face. “Is
the princess calling last night a fairy tale? I don’t think I’ve
ever gotten to star in one of those.”
“So you usually just stick with starring in porn, then?”
He laughs and kisses me. “Well, there was some of
that, too.”
“True. But seriously, thank you. I had an amazing night.”
“Back at ya, gorgeous. But before you give me my
send-off, how about some breakfast? I cook a kickass
French omelet.”
“You don’t have to—”
“Shut up,” he says and plants another kiss on me. “I’m
cooking for you. No way you can trust the food at your
place. The Evil Roommate probably sprinkled it all with rat
poison.”
“You just want to show off your mad cooking skills.”
“True that,” he says, herding me into the kitchen. “My
ego needs feeding. Prepare to be stunned and amazed.”
I smile. Because I’m already there. Stunned. And
amazed. And a little sad now.
Because he’s not mine.
And this is good-bye.
At least it’s a really good omelet.
Chapter 9
Monroe
There’s a BMW in the driveway when I pull in front of
Natalie’s house. She lets loose a slew of colorful language
from behind me. And I know immediately whose car it is. I
want to cruise away and take her back to my house. Keep
her from this. Keep her with me.
But, of course, I can’t. I’m leaving in a few days, and
she has her own life to live. I’m not supposed to want to
keep her. That’s not what this is about. And she made that
clear when I asked her to spend the day with me today. I
could already feel her shutting me out, closing that chapter
of her life where my name appears on the pages. I was her
wild-night adventure. Now it’s done.
I park at the curb. “Do you want me to go in with you?”
She releases a breath and presses her forehead
against the back of my shoulder. “No, that’ll just make it
worse. Maybe he just slept here with Rebecca to rub it in
my face. As if I give a shit.”
“You don’t have to go in there, you know. You can hang
at my place until he’s gone,” I say, hating that I’m probably
coming off as clingy. What the fuck is wrong with me? I
don’t cling.
“Thanks. You’re sweet¸ but I’m going to have to face
this eventually. And I need to start packing. I’ve only got a
few days to figure out if I’m finding a new place or heading
home.” She gets off the bike and hands me the helmet.
“What do you think you’ll do?”
She gives me a half-smile and slips out of her heels on
the sidewalk. “I have no idea. Maybe I need to be like you
and say fuck it all and find a beach somewhere.”
“Or you can just come to mine.” The words are out
before I realize it.
She stares at me for a second, looking a little
dumbfounded, then seems to shake free of it with a quiet
laugh. “Right. And interrupt the slew of bikini-clad girls that
will be lined up for your entertainment? Even I’m not that
mean.”
“Well, you’d be required to stay in a bikini for at least
fifty percent of the day. So I wouldn’t need that line.” I don’t
even know what I’m saying. A summer of half-dressed
women is exactly what I’d had in mind for my vacation. But
suddenly, that fantasy seems completely lame and . . .
boring.
Natalie reaches out and touches my jaw. “You don’t
have to do this, you know? Make me feel better. I’m all right.
I know what last night was.”
I grab her hand and decide what the hell, why not be
honest? What do I have to lose? Bluebird on the loose.
Give chase. “I’m not trying to make you feel better. I’m
being serious. If you’ve got no one counting on you for the
summer, you could come with me. Creative writing is your
thing, right? Instead of being stuck in one place trying to get
inspired, why not go out and see the country? Imagine all
the stories waiting out there for you.”
She’s watching me with this kind of wonder. “You’re
being serious.”
“I am.” And I realize that’s the damn truth. I want to take
her with me.
“You don’t even know me.”
“I know enough.”
She puts her forehead to mine. “You’re crazy.”
“Yep. Totally. Want to be crazy with me?”
“Monroe, God, I can’t just—I don’t know, flit off with
someone I just met for the whole summer.”
“You can. If that’s what you want,” I say, and tip her face
toward me to kiss her. “But I’m not asking for an answer
now. I’m giving you an open invitation. I’ll have your car fixed
and delivered to you by Tuesday. I leave on Thursday at
seven in the morning. I want you to come. If you want that,
too, meet me at my place. If not, I’m glad we had last night. I
won’t forget it. Or you.”
Her eyes shine a bit at that and I’m worried I’ve made
her cry, but she blinks it away and smiles. “You’re trying to
wreck me, Monroe Hawkins.”
“No, I follow all traffic laws.”
She smacks my chest, and I catch her hand and kiss it.
“I’ll see you around, princess.”
She backs up onto the sidewalk, and her hand slips
from mine. I pull away before I can hear her say good-bye.
Chapter 10
Natalie
I must be delirious from no sleep and great sex because as
Monroe rides away, I kind of want to cry. And call him back.
And tell him yes. But even though I know I’m going to make
some changes in my life, I can’t imagine that going on a
three-month road trip with a guy I met less than twenty-four
hours ago is a wise idea.
What if, by week two, we hate each other?
What if last night was a fluke?
What if . . . it’s amazing?
I put my hand over my eyes at the last thought.
Shut up,
Nat. Get some sleep and get it together.
This is not an
option
. Maybe I can just tell Monroe to look me up when he
gets back in town, and we can see if our chemistry really
means something more than a one-nighter.
I dig my keys out of my purse and head toward the
front door, praying that the asshole formerly known as my
boyfriend is curled up with the skank. I can’t handle him
right now. But, of course, when I walk in, he’s on the couch
in the living room like some overbearing parent waiting on
the rebellious teenager to come home.
He gives me the up-and-down look, taking in my
wrinkled dress and bare feet. “Seriously?”
For some reason, I find this comical. I want to laugh. I
want to sing that P!nk song about the walk of shame.
Something about looking like a hot-ass mess and wearing
last night’s dress.
I’m walking, I’m walking
. I snort.
“Are you
drunk
?” he asks, his lip curling in disgust. “If
that guy got you hammered and—”
“Shut up, Caleb.” I drop my shoes by the door. “I’m not
drunk. I’m tired and want to go to my room without having to
deal with you.”
He inhales slowly and releases a God-grant-me-the-
patience sigh, pushing to his feet. “Fine, you’re right. That
didn’t come out the way I wanted. I’m here to apologize.
Any mistakes you made last night were my fault. I drove you
to it.”
“Oh, how big of you,” I say, heavy on the sarcasm, low
on the patience. “But the only mistake I made was not
realizing how much of an asshole you are sooner. Anything
that happened after that was far from a mistake. Best.
Night. Ever.”
The expression on his face goes tight as he stalks
over to me. He puts his hands on my shoulders and
attempts a sincere look. “Listen. Nothing happened with
Rebecca. After you left last night, I brought her home. Let’s
talk about this. We can work on things.”
I shrug out of his grasp. “You think I care what you did
or didn’t do with Rebecca? You two can have each other.
Go wake her up for a morning fuck. I don’t care.”
His lips part. He’s probably shocked that I cursed. I
usually keep that in check around him. He thinks it’s
unladylike. “What did that guy do to you? I don’t even
recognize you.”
I shake my head with a bitter laugh. “You never did,
Caleb. That’s the problem. And what that guy did to me is
none of your business.” I push up on my toes and get close
to his ear. “But it was fucking
fantastic
.”
And with that, I stroll past him into my bedroom and
shove the door closed behind me.
The reflection in my dresser mirror greets me from
across the room.
I don’t recognize that rumpled, confident, smiling
person either.
Hello, Me. Meet the new girl.
Chapter 11
Monroe
“Is that all of it?” my brother asks, tossing a duffel bag in the
back of the van.
I check the clock on my phone. Not for the first time.
“Yeah, all I’ve got left is hooking up the trailer for my bike.”
Will braces his hand on the roof of the van and leans
in. “You did a damn good job on this, little bro. Though, you
should’ve kept the blue shag carpeted walls. That shit was
awesome.”
“No fucking way. I would’ve felt like I was sleeping
inside of Cookie Monster.”
He snorts and pushes off the van. “You got all the food
out of the fridge?”
“Yeah, there’s a box of stuff from the pantry on the
counter. Take what you want and ditch the rest. You sure
you don’t mind keeping an eye on the place?”
“I’ve got it covered. No worries.”
“Cool.” The house is the one we grew up in, so I know
he knows all its quirks and the things that could come up.
He closes the rear door and turns to me, arms
crossed, that I-am-the-all-powerful-all-knowing-big-brother
look on his face. “What’s with you? You’ve been talking
about this trip nonstop for the last few months and now you
look like you’re on the way to a funeral.”
I shrug. But the move feels stiff, forced. “I’m fine. Just
didn’t get a lot of sleep. I’ll be good once I get some
caffeine.”
His eyes narrow, but he doesn’t push me on it. “I’ll take
care of hitching up the trailer. You go inside and make sure
you didn’t forget anything.”
I tuck my phone in my pocket and go back into the
house, knowing I need to get my head out of my ass. I have
three months ahead of me. No obligations. No work. And a
different view every day. Being in a shitty mood because a
girl isn’t as insane as I am is pointless. I know what I’m
doing is out there. And the fact that I asked a near stranger
to come with me probably makes me certifiable. So why
should I be surprised that she isn’t on board?
God. I’ve turned into one of those
Hey, Girl
memes
everyone’s always posting on Facebook.
Hey, Girl. Get in
my van. I’ll show you the country while I feed you
delicacies from greasy spoons.
Lame.
No wonder Natalie bailed.
I wander through each room, checking and double-
checking everything, then grab my backpack. Enough of
this crap mood. I just need to get on the road and put all this
drama in my rearview. Hanging around is only making it
worse.
I step outside, closing the door behind me, and am
happy to see the trailer all hooked up and my bike already
on it. Excellent. Time to roll.
I look for Will, but he’s no longer in the garage. Voices
drift from behind me, and I turn around. My brother is
laughing about something. I set my backpack down and
step around the front of the van. At the end of the driveway I
see my brother. And a girl.
My
girl.
Something inside me loosens.
She came.
Chapter 12
Natalie
The expression on his face is all I need to know. I came
here with a bag packed but my mind not one hundred
percent made up. This whole thing still feels crazy and
reckless and has high potential for being a disaster. But
ever since Monroe dropped me off that morning after my
birthday night, I haven’t been able to think of much else.
I told my mom that I’d visit her sometime this summer
but that I won’t be moving back in. It felt liberating.
And when I’d gotten that obligation off my summer
agenda, I’d tried to make other plans. I’d looked for
apartments. I’d skimmed through job ads online. But over
and over again, I found my mind drifting to eating cupcakes
under strings of lights and making out by the lake and riding
a motorcycle with my eyes wide open. And Monroe. Always
back to Monroe with his pretty eyes and badass tattoos
and pig parts T-shirt. The guy who wasn’t going to let life
sail by without him. The guy who chased bluebirds.
And so last night, I’d found myself packing a bag,
putting in things a girl needs for a long road trip and
camping and long walks on the beach. I’d even bought a
new bikini.
But still, I haven’t been sure until right this moment,
looking up and seeing his smile—the genuine joy on that
too-handsome face. He’s been waiting for me.
He strolls down the driveway, and I lose track of what
the older Hawkins is saying. Monroe stops a few paces
from us, tucking his hands in his back pockets. “Hey.”
I feel a goofy-ass smile lifting my lips, and I can’t stop
it. “Hey.”
“You’re here.”
“Apparently, I’ve lost my mind.”
He laughs. “Perfect. Sanity is overrated.”
The brother’s eyebrows disappear beneath his
hairline, and he jabs a thumb toward the house. “I, uh, will
go lock up. Nice meeting you, Natalie.”
“Same here. Thanks again for the discount on the car
stuff.”
“No problem.” He pats Monroe’s shoulder as he
passes him, and there’s a look exchanged between the
brothers.
I have a feeling I’ve been given some stamp of
approval.
Monroe moves closer, his hands slipping out of his
pockets. “So . . . you have a bag.”
“I do. Is this still an open invitation or did you pick up
some other girl off the side of the road to replace me
already?”
He smirks. “That invitation was only for you, princess.
Of course, if there’s not a skimpy bikini in that bag, then the
deal’s off.”
“Will you settle for slightly skimpy?”
“Done.” He wraps me into a bear hug and kisses me
soundly. “I can’t believe you’re actually here. And I can’t
believe you waited until
five minutes to seven
to show up.
Way to make a guy sweat.”
I laugh, a weird giddiness rising in me, like I’m filled up
with champagne bubbles. “My sane side put up a good
fight.”
“And then your crazy side decided I’m just way too
good in bed to pass up.”
“Exactly.”
“Damn, Nat, I’m so freaking happy you’re here.” He
kisses me again. “I can’t even be cool about it.”
I grin. “I know exactly how you feel. But listen, if we’re
really going to do this, we need to set some ground rules
first.”
He sets me down and puts on a serious face. “Okay.
You’re right. There are probably things we should know
about each other since we’re going to be trapped in small
spaces together for a long time.”
“Right. I’ll go first.” I step back a little but keep my
hands on his chest because I have this need to touch him
after denying myself the privilege the last few days. “For
road trips, I require beef jerky and Twizzlers at all times.
And I have very high standards for public bathrooms, so I
get to make the call on where we make pit stops. And I
have an affinity for weird tourist attractions so plan on
National Lampoon’s Vacation
–style detours.”
“Like the largest ball of twine and shit?”
I nod, my tone grave. “Exactly.”
“I can work with that. Now my turn. Let’s get the biggest
bomb out of the way first. I am a relentless morning person.”
I grimace. Ugh, mornings. “I’ll take that into
consideration as long as you don’t expect
me
to be a
morning person.”
“And I’m a complete control freak about driving—worst
backseat driver ever.”
“I happily cede my feminist right to be behind the
wheel.”
“We will go to restaurants that look like dives, but I
promise you I’ve done my research and it will be worth it.
And I will sometimes be completely annoying with my
opinion on the food.”
“Understandable.”
“Also, I have more than one pig T-shirt.”
“I have more than one Justin Timberlake concert T-
shirt.”
He puts a fist over his heart like I’ve stabbed him. “I
think I’m out.”
I shove his shoulder. “Shut up. But, seriously, we
should probably cover that, too. Music could be a deal
breaker. That’s a lot of hours on the road.”
He grabs my hands and laces his fingers with mine.
“Yes, this
is
serious. Here goes. Our fate lies in this. I hate
hip-hop, techno, and modern country. I can tolerate some
pop and like hard rock. Old-school country is good
sometimes.” He bows his head. “And I have a deep,
completely un-ironic love for eighties metal.”
I snort. “Seriously?”
“Yes, it’s true. Even the hair bands. My dad raised me
on that stuff. Are you cutting me loose now?”
I use our linked hands to pull him against me. “You’re
really lucky you’re good in bed because that . . . that’s just
appalling.”
“You will learn to love it. I promise.”
“I’ll make you a deal. For every one of those songs I
have to listen to, I will subject you to Katy Perry or Taylor
Swift.”
“I accept this deal.”
He guides my arms around his waist, and I bury my
face in his T-shirt. “God, Monroe. This could turn into such a
disaster.”
His hands slide into my hair and he tips my face
upward. His blue eyes are clear and earnest. “This is going
to be amazing.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because
you’re
so good in bed.”
I roll my eyes. “Right.”
“It’s going to be amazing”—he takes one of my hands
and puts it over his heart, right where his tattoo is
—“because we’re chasing our bluebirds, Nat. And nothing
feels better than that.”
I swallow hard. “Think we’ll catch them?”
He lowers his face, a breath away from mine, his
palms cupping my jaw. “Yeah, I think we will.”
And then he kisses me, and any doubts I have left are
lost in the rush of emotions.
This feels good.
This feels right.
This feels . . . like happy.
I may have even heard a bird sing.
Epilogue
Natalie
I close my eyes and listen to the rise and fall of the waves,
the quiet roar of the ocean so much a part of me now that
soon my breaths are matching the beat. In and out. In and
out.
Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh
. My late summer
soundtrack.
I may never be able to sleep again without that sound.
“How’s the inspiration break coming?”
The voice behind me brings a smile to my face. I open
my eyes and roll over. It’s dark out, but the porch light from
the beach house gives off just enough of a glow for me to
see the outline of Monroe heading toward me in the sand in
only a pair of board shorts.
“I wrote for a while then needed a break and started a
letter to my mom instead.”
Monroe plops down next to me in the sand and leans
over to kiss me. Comfortable. Familiar. Effortless. That’s
how we are with each other these days. “Yeah? How’d that
go?”
I prop up on my elbow. It’s still a little strange to be
talking openly about my mom and her problems. Usually, I
do my best to not let anyone know where I came from and
all the problems in my family. But I’ve spent endless hours
with Monroe. On the road. In our tent. And for the last few
weeks, in his friend’s beach house. And everything has
been talked about at some point. He’s amazingly easy to
talk to. We even made a brief stop in Oklahoma for me to
check in on my mom.
Monroe, of course, insisted on being introduced. I
thought I’d die of embarrassment when he saw the beat-up
trailer we called home and met my mom, who was clearly
one too many pain pills past her limit for the day. But he’d
been kind to her and hadn’t given any signs that he was
disgusted by anything. Even when Mom pulled me aside
and told me none-too-quietly, “What is wrong with you,
Nattie? That’s the kind of boy who will use you up and leave
you on your ass, little girl. Don’t you be stupid like me and
fall for a pretty face. And you better be on the pill because
I’m not raising some baby for you.”
I’d almost laughed at that. Like I’d ever let her near a
kid. But when I had walked into the next room and realized
Monroe had heard the whole exchange, I’d wanted to fall
into a crack in the floor. He pretended like he hadn’t heard,
but I knew he had.
So when we got back on the road after the three-day
visit, I’d felt more than a little strung out and ashamed. But
Monroe hadn’t let me get away with my moping. He’d
driven us straight to a place that served the “Best Banana
Splits in the South” (according to the sign) and fed me ice
cream (that did turn out to be pretty damn good). And when
we settled in later that night, he’d pulled me into his arms,
kissed me, and told me, “You, Natalie Bourne, are an
amazing girl. I’m sorry that your mom has too many of her
own problems to see that, but know that I see it. And the
rest of the world will see it. You are not that past.”
I’d cried. And he’d let me get all snotty all over his
sleeve.
Then when I got control of myself, he’d added, “And we
would
so
not let her raise our baby.”
That had made me laugh. And after that, I hadn’t felt
any fear about telling Monroe anything at all.
I shift on my elbow, trying to sit up a little more, but the
sand beneath the blanket is fighting me. “Still a work in
progress. How’s your mission for the ultimate crab
bisque?”
His expression sours. “I can’t get the texture right with
this batch. It’s too thin. But I think I’ve nailed the seasonings
down. I could go get you a bowl if you want to—”
“No.” I hold up my palm. “Seriously, I love you, but one
more bowl and you’re going to cream of mushroom me like
your mom did to you. I’ll never be able to eat crab again.”
I’m smiling, but I realize I’ve made some mistake when
his playful expression goes slack and he just stares at me.
I quickly rewind what I said in my head, trying to figure
out what’s wrong. Did I hurt his feelings about the soup? He
can’t think that—
Oh, shit
. Now it hits me. I realize what I’ve
let slip out. The L word.
That’s not at all what I meant to say. Even if it’s the
truth.
“Nat . . .”
I put my hand to my mouth and sit up. “Shit. I’m sorry. I
didn’t—”
“You didn’t what? Didn’t mean it?”
“I didn’t—” I shake my head. I’m not going to lie. That’s
not fair. “I didn’t mean to say it.”
“But did you mean it?”
“Monroe—”
“Because I so fucking love you back,” he says, taking
my hand.
Now it’s my turn to gawk like an idiot. “Wait, what? You
do
?”
I feel like I might throw up. In a good way.
He laughs, sounding more than a little relieved. “Of
course I do. Can’t you tell? You think this is still one big,
long hook-up?”
“I—I don’t know. I wasn’t sure—”
“Then be sure now, Nat,” he says, kissing my knuckles
and meeting my eyes. “I’m completely stupid over you. Like,
losing-my-mind into you.”
I can’t even speak.
“And now it looks like I’ve freaked you out.”
I stare at him a moment longer. Then I tackle him.
We crash into the sand, and I kiss him with everything
I’ve got. I’m not even sure I’m landing my mouth in the right
places. I’m murmuring
I love you, love you, love you
in
between. Hands go everywhere and soon we’ve moved
from yay-we-love-each-other making out to something more
urgent.
His hand slips under the neck-tie of my bikini top, and
the string slides free of the knot. My body goes hot and the
waves seem to increase in volume.
Whoosh. Whoosh.
Whoosh.
Or maybe it’s blood rushing through my ears. His
kisses trail down to my breasts, my nipples hardening in the
night air and begging for his mouth. We’ve never done this,
not on the beach.
But it’s a private beach for residents, and it’s late and
dark. I haven’t seen anyone out here for at least two hours.
And right now, I kind of don’t care if we’re seen. It’s too
good to want to stop.
Monroe rolls me beneath him, putting me back on the
blanket I’d been sitting on, and kisses down my body.
We’re moving fast and frantic, but it feels so right. When he
reaches the apex of my thighs, he runs his tongue along the
outside of my bathing suit, the heat of his touch burning
through the thin material like a firebrand. I make a
desperate sound and angle my hips upward without
conscious effort. His finger plays at the edge of my bikini
bottoms and he looks up at me. “Trust me?”
I know if I say I’d rather move it inside, we will and he
won’t mind. But I don’t want to. I want to be with him on this
beach where we’ve spent so much time together. I want to
taste the salt-laced air and hear the ocean as he moves
inside me, as we make love. But then a practical thought
gives me pause. “Condom?”
He smiles. “I have one in my pocket. Call me hopeful.”
Relief moves through me. “Then I don’t want to be
anywhere but here.”
And that is as true a statement as I’ve ever made.
Here . . . is perfect.
He kisses my hip and eases my bottoms down. The
warm breeze coming off the ocean is like a caress to every
naked spot on my body. Everywhere Monroe has kissed
lights with awareness. And then he’s over me and pushing
my hair off my face, looking at me in a way that says he
loves me more than words ever could.
I don’t want to cry. I want to hold on to this moment and
not have it be filled with tears. He runs his hand along my
thigh and opens me to him. We’ve spent so many nights
together this summer, but when he pushes inside me, it
feels new all over again.
He touches his forehead to mine and smiles that bad-
boy smile of his. “Want me to give you a ride, princess?”
I wrap my arms around him, loving the weight of him
against me, the scent of him, the feeling of being so
completely his. “Nah, I think I’ll just wait for Autoland. You
look like trouble.”
“Oh, I most definitely am.” He sinks deep inside me
and his lips brush my ear. “And so are you. Sweet, perfect
trouble.”
Keep reading for a sneak peek at the next
Loving on the Edge novel
CALL ON ME
Coming July 2015 from Berkley Books!
Chapter 1
“Are you touching yourself?” The voice in Oakley’s ear
sounded labored and overeager—like a Saint Bernard
attempting phone sex. He was probably drooling, too.
Lovely.
“Yes, you make me so hot”—she quickly checked the
sticky note she’d put on the kitchen island—“Stefan.”
Stefan. Literature professor. Single. Six foot five.
That was the info he’d given her. Which probably
meant:
Steve, unemployed, married, and five-six on a
good day.
He groaned. “You’re so sexy.”
Sexy? Two points off for lack of originality, Mr. Lit Prof.
Though even the suave guys tended to forget their
vocabulary when they got to this point in the conversation.
Oakley covered the mouthpiece on her headset and turned
off the timer on the oven. If nothing else, she was
impressed the guy had lasted through the full baking time.
“Thanks, sugar,” she said, letting her tone drop into a
lower register.
“God, your voice is so fucking hot.”
That she heard a lot. A record company exec had once
deemed her voice “smoky, X-rated perfection” when he’d
heard her demo. At the time, she hadn’t considered how
inappropriate it’d been for a grown man to tell a fifteen-
year-old kid that. But her raspy voice had gotten her the gig
then, and it’d gotten her this one now. Though, admittedly,
the bar wasn’t set quite as high for this current one.
“I’m gonna give it to you so hard, Sasha,” Stefan
ground out. “I can feel your hot mouth closing around me.”
Oakley donned oven mitts and leaned down to pull out
the tray of brownies. The smell of chocolate and the heat of
the oven hit her with full force. She inhaled deeply. “Mmm,
that’s
so
good. I could just lick up every last bit.”
“Yeah,” he panted, the sound of his slick, pumping fist
obscenely clear through the receiver. “That’s right. Show
me how much you want it.”
There you go, Steve, you go on and get your money’s
worth.
Oakley set the tray of brownies on a trivet and tugged
off the mitts. Her stomach rumbled. She’d stayed up late
enough that her body was looking for dinner number two.
But these weren’t for her.
She glanced toward the darkened hallway and the
stairs beyond. Well, maybe one little corner piece wouldn’t
be missed. She cut a small square and dipped her fingers
in to grab it. But as she lifted the brownie, her knuckles
grazed the searing hot pan.
“Ah, shit!” she hissed, jerking her hand back.
“Oh, yeah, let me hear it,” Stefan said on a moan.
“Come with me, baby.”
Oakley shook out her hand, sucking air through her
teeth, and tried to keep the pain out of her voice. Her phone
companion thought she was mid-orgasm. She threw in an
oh, oh, oh
and ran to the sink to plunge her fist into the
dishwater she’d drawn to soak the mixing bowl.
Stefan made choked sounds as he reached his own
release. In another world, maybe it could’ve been an erotic
moment. She’d talked a guy into an orgasm. He was calling
her name. But the name was fake and so was the talk. And
though she held nothing against the guys who called—they
helped her pay the bills—her libido had long ago crawled
into a dark corner to die a peaceful death. Even if she
imagined the guy on the other end of the line looked like
Johnny Depp or Justin Timberlake or something, she
couldn’t drum up one ounce of interest.
Stefan panted heavy, wet breaths right against her ear,
resuming his resemblance to a Saint Bernard. Maybe she
should offer him a “good boy” or a Milk-Bone.
“That was amazing,” she said, using her husky, after-
sex voice as she soaked her hand in the water. “Thank you,
Stefan.”
Panting. Panting. That was the only response.
Then a tight, high sound—whistling.
No.
Wheezing.
Uh-oh. “Stefan? Are you okay?”
Those squeaking breaths continued for a few seconds,
then: “Yes . . . I’m . . . fine.”
He didn’t sound fine. “Stefan, if you’re having an
asthma attack or chest pains or something, you need to call
for help.”
“Can’t . . .” He gave a ragged cough. “My wife . . . can’t
know . . . I’m down here this late. She’ll know I’m up . . .”
He coughed again.
Jesus Christ. Oakley shook the water off her hand.
“What’s she going to think when she finds you dead in the
basement? Hang up the phone and dial 911.”
“I—”
“Stu?” a sharp voice said in the background. “What are
you doing down here?
Stu?
”
“Oh, shit,” Stefan/Stu said between wheezes.
The dial tone buzzed in Oakley’s ear a second later.
She pulled off the wireless headset and sagged
against the fridge, exhaling a long breath. Okay. It would be
all right. Stu’s wife might kill him when she found him with
the phone to his ear and his underwear around his ankles,
but at least the guy wouldn’t die of a heart attack on
Oakley’s watch.
She could handle a lot of stuff—callers threw all kinds
of bizarre shit at her—but she couldn’t be responsible for
helping kill one. It was bad enough that she’d just
contributed to strife in another marriage.
Gold star for her.
It shouldn’t bother her. The guys who called were
grown men making a conscious decision to seek out paid
phone sex. She was simply the tool of choice. Another
night, they might download porn and watch a dirty movie
instead. If she’d learned anything during her year of doing
this job, it was that it wasn’t personal. She had a job to do.
The callers needed a faceless someone to fill in for their
fantasy that night. The relationship was purely transactional.
And hell, she’d been used for free by enough men in her
past. Now she was at least paid for it and not getting
emotionally annihilated in the process. But, still, sometimes
she felt like the drug dealer, giving addicts easy access to
their vice.
She rolled her shoulders, trying to shrug off the stress
of the call, and dug a tube of antibiotic ointment out of the
junk drawer to slather on her burned knuckles. It was past
two and she really needed to get to bed, but there was no
way she’d be able to sleep after that burst of adrenaline
from the call.
Plus, she’d never gotten her dessert. And right now,
she could use a big honking piece of chocolate.
She went back to the brownies. They’d cooled enough
by now, so she cut herself a bigger square than the original
corner she’d planned and took a bite. She closed her eyes.
Yeah, that’s the stuff.
After pouring a big glass of milk, she brought that and
the rest of the brownie to the table. She glanced at the
walkie-talkie she’d placed on the table, the soft white noise
relaxing her, and leaned back in the chair to enjoy the
solitude. She was used to pulling the night shift by now, but
usually she fell into bed after the last call, grasping for any
shreds of sleep she could get before the alarm went off to
start her real job. But it was nice to sit for a moment and
simply be.
She polished off the last bit of brownie and milk and
brought her glass to the sink. The exhaustion was settling in
full force now. She braced her hands on the edge of the
counter and eyed the soaking dishes. Her mother had
always had the rule to never go to bed with a dirty sink—as
always had the rule to never go to bed with a dirty sink—as
if a bright, gleaming, empty sink was some sign of how
together the household was. Maybe it was.
Oakley turned away from the dishes. They’d have to
wait until tomorrow. She didn’t have it in her.
She put plastic wrap over the rest of the brownies and
grabbed the walkie-talkie and her headset. She should be
able to get at least four hours of sleep. But right as she
flipped off the light, the walkie-talkie beeped.
“Mom?”
Oakley halted, startled by the sudden voice in the
quiet. She pressed the button on the side of the device.
“Yeah, baby?”
“What’s that smell?” Reagan asked, her voice groggy
from sleep.
Oakley shook her head and smiled. She should’ve
known the bionic nose would pick up that scent even in her
sleep. “It’s just the brownies for your bake sale tomorrow.”
“It’s not my bake sale. It’s the school’s,” Reagan
corrected.
“That’s what I meant.”
“But that’s not what you said.”
Oakley leaned against the wall in the hallway. This was
an argument she’d never win. Reagan was into exactness.
“I’m sorry I said it wrong the first time. Now go back to
sleep, sweetheart. I don’t want you to be tired in the
morning.”
“Did you put nuts or caramel in them?”
“Of course not. I know you’re a brownie purist.”
“Okay. Good,” Reagan said, and Oakley could almost
hear her daughter nodding. “Thanks, Mom. Love you.”
Oakley pressed the walkie-talkie to her chest for a
moment, warmth filling her. “Love you, too, Rae. Good
night.”
Oakley headed to her bedroom, listening to the
footfalls upstairs and the flush of the toilet as Reagan made
a quick trip to the bathroom. She must’ve really had to go
because Rae hated getting out of bed in the middle of the
night. And she outright refused to come downstairs after
dark because there weren’t enough places for night lights.
Hence the walkie-talkies. Oakley had gotten tired of
Reagan yelling from afar anytime she needed something at
night. And leaving every light blazing through the house all
evening wasn’t an option either. The electric bill was
already high enough.
Bills.
No, she wouldn’t think about that now. Even
though she could see the stack staring at her from her
desk. The gas bill. Rent. The quarterly installment for
Reagan’s private school and therapies. She couldn’t face
that tonight. Plus, she knew the due dates by heart so she
could hold on to her money until the very last minute without
being late.
She closed her bedroom door and walked over to her
computer to wake the screen. Her sign-in page for the
service she used to get her calls was still up. It showed how
many minutes she’d logged tonight. Not bad. But she was
six minutes shy of hitting the bonus level where she got an
extra fifty bucks for the night. Stu’s health scare had cost
her more than stress.
her more than stress.
She sighed and sagged into her desk chair. Fifty extra
dollars could pay for that pair of lime green Chuck Taylors
Reagan wanted for her birthday.
Oakley yawned and checked the box that indicated
she was available to take a call. Her cell phone rang within
seconds and she slipped on the headset again. “Hello, this
is Sasha. Ready for a fantasy night?”
“So ready,” said the deep-voiced caller. There was
male tittering in the background.
Great. A frat-boy call.
“What are you wearing, Sasha?”
Oakley looked down at her oversized T-shirt and yoga
pants. “A sheer robe with nothing underneath.”
“Aw, yeah,” the dude said. “How big are your tits?”
Oakley put her head to her desk. Six minutes. She only
needed to keep them on the phone for six more minutes.
Six.
Five.
Four.
Three.
They hung up at two, laughing in the background as the
phone went dead.
Their Truth or Dare game complete.
And she was short.
She lifted her head and checked the
Available
box
again.
“Hello, this is Sasha . . .”
Chapter 2
The chick in his living room was taking a selfie next to his
gold record. Pike leaned back, watching her through his
half-open bedroom door. “Fantastic.”
“What’s fantastic?” his friend Gibson asked on the
other end of the line. “Did you even hear what I said?”
“No, I didn’t. And what’s fantastic is that I have a
seriously hot B-list actress in my living room, who was all
kinds of cool after the show tonight, but is now snapping
duckface selfies in front of my shit.”
Gibson snorted a laugh. “At least she’s not using you
just for your body.”
“That I’d be okay with. But this . . .”
“Hey, if there’s no selfie for proof, the event never
happened. At least that’s what my niece tells me. It’s like a
tree falling in the woods.”
Pike sighed. “Observation: Duckface is a friend to no
one.”
The longer Pike watched, the more he regretted his
decision to bring this woman home with him. He’d been
buzzing off the energy of the performance tonight and had
wanted to keep that feeling going. Darkfall had kicked ass
onstage and had impressed the promoters putting together
the big Summer Insanity tour. If Darkfall landed that spot,
they’d have a chance to recapture some of the traction
they’d lost when their lead singer had to take extended time
off between albums to get surgery on his vocal cords. In
some ways, tonight felt like a rebirth of the band, and he
wanted to celebrate.
And usually the only thing more exciting than pounding
the drums, making thousands of fans scream, was making
just one scream. But as he watched his date take another
photo of herself, he was losing his enthusiasm for his plan.
Maybe a chill night at home with the dog would’ve
been a better idea.
Monty barked from somewhere in the living room,
protesting the fact that Pike hadn’t given him his requisite
belly rub and dog biscuit when he’d come home. He’d been
too busy pouring a drink for his guest.
“What’s her name?” Gib asked.
Pike scrubbed a hand through his damp hair. “Why
does that matter?”
“Come on, tell me that you’re not that big of a dick and
you remember her name.”
Pike grimaced at Gib’s tone. This is what he got for
hanging out with businessman types instead of fellow
musicians. The suits had a different code of conduct. With
the dudes in his band, remembering names was only
expected
after
you slept with someone. Luckily, Pike’s
memory was good. “Lark Evans.”
“All right. Hold on a sec.” The clicking of a keyboard
sounded on the other end.
“Gib, look, can we talk about whatever you were calling
for tomorrow? I’m ignoring my company.” He walked away
from the door and dropped the towel from around his waist
to pull on a fresh pair of well-worn jeans. “I told her I’d only
be in the shower for a minute.”
“Ha! I knew it,” Gibson said, triumph in his voice.
“What?”
“Your girl’s on Instagram. And guess what pics are
making their way around the world as we speak?”
Pike sighed.
“Damn, she is hot, though,” Gibson said. “Duck lips
notwithstanding.”
“Which is why—”
“Ah, shit. You’re gonna love this. Wait for it . . . caption
to the pic:
Hanging out with Spike, the drummer from
Darkfall!
Hashtag:
hawt
.”
“Hold up.
Spike?
”
Gibson burst into laughter. “Spike! Man, she doesn’t
even know
your
name. How very rock-star of her.”
Pike looked to the ceiling, letting that sink in. Karma’s
a fucking bitch. “You are totally ruining my hard-on here.”
“Now don’t kid. I know my deep, brooding voice makes
you hot,” Gib said. “Want me to talk dirty to you, Spikey?”
Pike grinned. “So it’s finally happened. You’re going
gay for me. I’m flattered. Of course, it was inevitable. I
mean, have you seen me? But I hate to break your heart,
Gib, I only play for one team.”
He sniffed. “If I were gay, I’d have way higher standards
than you. That record would need to be platinum.”
“Aw, love you, too. I’m even making my duckface for
you.” He made a loud kiss sound. “Now I’m letting you go
because, unlike you, I’m about to get laid, son.”
“Fine. But call me back in the morning. I have a charity
thing I need to run by you.”
Pike tucked the phone between his shoulder and ear
and pulled his bedside drawer open to check the condom
supply. “The Dine and Donate event? I told you the band’s
in again this year, if you need us.”
“No, this is for something different. More of a favor than
anything else.”
“Sounds ominous. But yeah, call you tomorrow.”
“Cool. Now go rock her world, Spike.”
Pike snorted and disconnected the call. He tossed his
phone on the chair by the window and padded to his closet
to grab a T-shirt. But when he stepped out of his room,
ready to block out all the information he’d learned—selfies,
Instagram, Spike—in order to enjoy his date, he was
greeted by a shriek instead.
Lark hadn’t seen him come in because her gaze had
zeroed in on a growling Monty.
“Give it back, you stupid mutt!” she yelled, and jabbed
a closed umbrella at Monty. Monty yelped.
“What the fuck?” Pike hurried forward and grabbed her
wrist, stopping another poke. “What the hell’s going on?”
She pointed at Monty, rage twisting her pretty face into
something ugly. “Look at him! Your idiotic dog is eating my
Jimmy Choos
!”
She said it like Monty was murdering her kid. Pike
glanced at Monty who was in defense mode, baring teeth,
two little paws on one of Lark’s high heels. Pike shrugged.
“Well, the brand does say
Choo
. Maybe he’s just following
directions.”
Lark gasped and looked at Pike like he’d lost his
mind. “Do you know how much those
cost
? What is wrong
with you? Do something!”
The grating tone of her voice made his teeth clamp
together. Being yelled at by anyone pushed his buttons. But
messing with his dog pushed the ugliest of them. He took a
breath, trying to keep his cool. “Do you know that my dog
was
abused
as a puppy? And that jabbing him with a sharp
object is fucking traumatizing to him? I’ll buy you another
pair of your goddamned shoes.”
Her head snapped back a bit at that, and she had the
decency to look chagrined. She glanced down at the
umbrella still clutched in her hand. “Oh. Shit, I’m sorry. I
didn’t know.”
And he didn’t care. Abused or not, you don’t poke an
animal with something that could hurt them, especially over
something as stupid as a shoe. He could put up with her
using him for his fame or whatever. They would’ve both
been using each other. They each knew the score. But he
wasn’t going to let anyone fuck with his dog.
“Monty, release,” he said, in the firm, dominant voice
that worked best on the feisty dachshund/schnauzer mix.
Monty looked up with big, sad puppy eyes and backed
away from the shoe. But just when Pike was about to send
him off to his bed, Monty trotted over to Lark and gave her
the
I’m sorry
look.
Lark’s expression softened, and she reached down to
pat his head awkwardly. “It’s okay, buddy . . .”
Monty lifted his leg and pissed all over her bare foot.
“Monty, no!” Pike said.
But chaos ensued after that. Lark hopping and
shrieking. Monty barking and spinning in a circle. And Pike
doing his damnedest not to laugh.
He wasn’t entirely successful, and that earned him a
glare from Lark and a happy, yipping bark from Monty.
Finally, he gathered himself together enough to direct
Monty to go to his crate so he could help Lark.
He showed her to the bathroom so she could rinse her
leg off in the tub, and he cleaned up the mess in the living
room—after sneaking Monty his treat and a belly rub.
He was halfway through a beer when Lark stepped into
the kitchen a few minutes later, wearing nothing but a pair
of lacy pink panties and a bra that made her breasts look
like icing-covered cupcakes. His dick jumped to attention—
the response automatic.
She leaned in the doorway, posing like she was at a
Victoria’s Secret cover shoot, and gave him the inviting
smile she’d given him from the audience tonight. “Sorry
about all of that. How about we start over and get back to
why we’re here, hmm?”
Pike still had the bottle of beer pressed to his lips. He
lowered it and set it on the counter.
Lark’s smile spread wider and she sauntered over with
a heavy sway in her hips. She pressed her hand to his
chest. “I have all kinds of ways we can apologize to each
other. For getting mad at your dog, I was thinking this would
make it up to you.”
She dragged her hand down and lowered to her
knees. Pike stared down at her. She looked like a fucking
porn star at his feet. Pouty lips with a fresh coat of pink
lipstick, blond hair flowing down her back. A wet dream of a
woman. But when she put her painted fingernails to the
zipper on his jeans, he put his hand over hers. “Stand up.”
She blinked, the sultry look shifting to a perplexed one.
“What?”
He helped Lark get to her feet. “Be right back.”
Her smile returned, though it had a confused tilt to it.
“O-kay.”
He headed back to his bedroom for a minute, then
returned to the kitchen. She was drinking his beer, putting
lipstick marks on the bottle. He draped her dress on one of
the bar stools, set a pair of his flip-flops on top of it, and
handed her a few hundred-dollar bills. “For the shoes and a
cab.”
She stared down at the money in her hand. “What?”
“This isn’t going to happen tonight.”
“Wait, you want me to
leave
? But I thought—”
“It’s time for you to go.” He was tempted to take a co-
selfie with her. Hashtag:
HookUpFail
.
She stiffened like a rod had been shoved up her back
and made these little sounds of disbelief—like she was
trying to come up with a really good insult but couldn’t think
of any.
When she obviously couldn’t string anything worthy
together, she shoved on his flip-flops, which looked like
flippers on her small feet, and yanked her dress over her
head. “I can’t fucking believe this.”
He dumped the beer in the sink, bored.
His lack of response brought a new level of hatred
glowing in her eyes. “Is this about the dog? Because that’s
just stupid. How was I supposed to know he was abused?”
He walked to his front door and pulled it open. “You
never know where anyone’s scars are. Doesn’t mean you
get a pass to hurt them.”
She reared back like he’d slapped her. Then her lips
pressed together and she flounced out the door, muttering
something about hoping that the dumb dog kept him warm
tonight.
He shut the door without watching her go and leaned
against it, absorbing the quiet of the condo, relief instead of
disappointment settling in. Hookup fail, yes. But even he
had standards. He’d rather fuck his fist than spend another
second with Duckface the Puppy Poker.
A year ago, he might’ve just written it off and taken her
to bed anyway. What did it matter if a woman was shallow?
It wasn’t like they’d be seeing each other again. Plus, he’d
always hated sleeping alone in a house. But now he
couldn’t stomach the thought of spending another moment
with a woman like that.
Maybe he was getting used to being by himself. After
his roommate, Foster, had moved out to live with his
girlfriend last year, Pike had felt that old need to always
have people over. Mostly of the naked female variety. But
for the last few months, he’d been so busy with band stuff
and working at his music studio on the side that he hadn’t
sought out that brand of companionship very often. He
hadn’t even gone to The Ranch, the kink resort he and his
friends belonged to, in at least three months. Tonight had
been the first night he’d done the hookup-after-a-show thing
in a while.
Now he remembered why he’d backed off from this
kind of thing. He had no issue being someone’s one-night
stand. Most of the time, he preferred things that way. But
now that he’d seen how Foster and Cela were together,
how explosive the chemistry could be when two people
connected like that, he could see how superficial this other
shit was in comparison. Women fucked his type. The bad
boy. The drummer. Whatever. They didn’t fuck
him
.
And he’d been guilty of the same. He’d fuck the
groupie, the model, the B actress. If not for Monty chewing
Lark’s shoe tonight, he would’ve never known that the
woman was capable of hurting a dog for something as
inconsequential as a shoe. Because he didn’t
know
her.
For some reason, that dug into him like a burr,
annoying the shit out of him.
He sank onto his bed and Monty jumped up to join him.
He scratched behind Monty’s ears. “Good job, Monts.
You’re making me grow a goddamned conscience.”
Monty licked his chops. There were pieces of red shoe
leather stuck in his teeth.
Pike chuckled and kissed the top of Monty’s scruffy
head. Monty rewarded him by releasing some noxious gas
and dog-grinning at the effort.
“Jesus, Monts.” He put his hand over his nose and
mouth. “Take that stuff somewhere else.”
Monty, of course, took that as his cue to settle next to
him on the bed. Pike waved the poisonous fumes away,
coughing, and grabbed his cell phone.
Gibson answered on the second ring. “Please tell me
you last longer than that because, seriously, any thoughts of
going gay for you are definitely out of the question
otherwise. I require stamina.”
Pike let his head fall back to the pillow. “Shut the fuck
up and stop flirting. It’s not going to work.”
“So you kicked her out?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. You’re better than that,” Gib said, no sarcasm
in his voice. “You need to stop dipping into the groupie
pool, anyway. You’re too old for that shit. Find yourself
some normal women who are your own age.”
“Normal women have too many expectations.”
“What? Like remembering their names and calling
them the next day?”
“Exactly. Plus, I’m best in limited doses. I’d send
normal women running for the hills after too long.”
“I don’t know. You haven’t scared off your friends yet. I
mean, yes, I thought you were an egotistical douchebag
when I first met you, but now you’ve grown on me. Like a
fungus.”
“So you’re saying I should try to infect some normal
woman with my fungus? Good talk, buddy. Good talk.”
“Dr. Phil gets all his best stuff from me.”
“Just tell me about this charity thing so I can get to bed
and think about the sex I won’t be having tonight.”
Gibson paused as if ready to push the topic, but then
relented. “Fine. The charity project would involve music.”
“Excellent.”
“And would be helping my lovely sister-in-law-to-be
out.”
“Making sexy Tessa happy. Good.”
“You’d be working with kids.”
“And . . . I’m out.”
Gibson scoffed. “You have something against kids?”
“I’m inked up, curse like a convict, and have piercings
in questionable places. Parents don’t want me near their
children, and the kids freak me out.”
“Bullshit. How can you be freaked-out? You’re one of
them.”
“Sorry, Gib.”
“Are you being serious right now?”
“I’m not a kid person.” He could still smell the stench of
the house he’d grown up in. The overstuffed diaper pails.
The spoiling government-issued baby formula. His younger
siblings seeking him and his sister out when their mom
couldn’t keep up.
“This would be the older group, not the little ones.”
“Can’t I just write a check or donate proceeds from a
show or something?”
Gibson blew out a breath. “No, they need your
expertise, not your money. Just hear me out. Tessa has a
great idea for a fund-raiser, but she needs someone with
experience in producing music. All the money would go
toward the college fund and resources for the after-school
program. You know what the charity’s about. These kids
don’t have a lot, man. You and I both know what that’s like.”
Fuck. “You really going for the jugular here, Gib.”
“Just speaking the truth.”
Yeah, that and Gibson was a brilliant PR guy who knew
how to how to pitch things. Monty laid his head on Pike’s
chest, and Pike scratched behind Monty’s ear. “You’ve
even got my dog giving me the don’t-be-a-bastard look.”
Gibson chuckled. “I sneak him treats when I’m there.
He’s on my side.”
Pike ran a hand over his face. “What exactly do they
want me to do?”
He could almost hear Gibson’s victory grin over the
phone. “It won’t be a big deal at all.”
Pike closed his eyes. Famous last words.
Roni Loren
is the
New York Times
bestselling author of
the Loving on the Edge novels which include
Nothing
Between Us
,
Not Until You
,
Need You Tonight
,
Caught
Up In You
,
Fall into You
,
Melt into You
, and
Crash into
You
. She lives in Dallas with her husband and son. If she’s
not working on her latest sexy story, you can find her
reading, watching reality television, or indulging in her
unhealthy addiction to rockstars, er, rock concerts—yeah,
that’s it. Roni loves to hear from her readers. Find her on
Twitter, Facebook, or on her website at roniloren.com.
Looking for more?
Visit Penguin.com for more about this author
and a complete list of their books.
Discover your next great read!
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