Scott Hildreth's Blog, page 12

“HARD CORPS”, a stand-alone, and Selected Sinners Book VII, “A-Train’s Book” is LIVE on Amazon

Source: “HARD CORPS”, a stand-alone, and Selected Sinners Book VII, “A-Train’s Book” is LIVE on Amazon

Selected Sinners Book VII, “Hard Corps” A-Train’s Book releases January 18th

The first five chapters of “Hard Corps” were released two weeks ago, and now you can see the cover for this phenomenal book.

The book, undoubtedly the best of this series to date, releases the 18th of January. If you’ve followed this series, or even if you haven’t, this book will blow you away.

A true stand-alone, and as full of energy as any book I have ever written, Hard Corps is sure to please the fans who have followed A-Train through over ten books.

This is his story.

And he has one hell of a story to tell.

 

HUGE Christmas Sale and Giveaway !!!

HOLIDAY KINDLE FIRE 7″ GIVEAWAY, HUGE Kindle ebook SALE, and signed paperback giveaway!!!!!!!

I have placed every book I have written (23 novels) on sale for 99 cents from Christmas Eve through New Year’s Eve. That’s right, new releases, 99 cents, Selected Sinners Series, 99 cents, #1 Best Sellers, 99 cents. Everything is 99 cents for one week.

Share, tell your friends, send them a Christmas gift of a book for 99 cents. or get that one book of mine you’ve never read for 99 cents.

ALL my books can be found here: http://www.amazon.com/Scott-Hildreth/e/B00EJNZICE/

Broken People

Baby Girl I

Baby Girl II

Baby Girl III

The Tortured

Undefeated

Unstoppable

Unleashed

Unbroken

Karter

Finding Parker

The Alpha-Bet

Threefold

Making the Cut

Taking the Heat

Otis

HUNG

EX-CON

Moneyshot

Jessie Jayne

Confessions of a Smut Author

Blurred Lines

Pretty In Ink

I appreciate all you do for me, so this is what I am doing for you.

And, A Kindle Fire 7″, you ask?

Yes. The newest 2015 Kindle Fire 7″ (this is the newest one, with expandable memory stick). I will be giving one away with my book sale. there are three easy steps to enter. First, go to my Facebook page:

https://www.facebook.com/ScottDHildreth/ (once on the page, find my post regarding sale)

Then, Christmas night at roughly 7:00 CST, Jessica will pick a winner for the Kindle and so much more.

The random prize generator will pick winners in order, listing them from 1 through the last, and here is how the giveaway will work.

#1 will win a new 2015 generation Kindle Fire 7″ delivered to their door. Jessica and I will sign the box. (haha).

#2 will receive a signed paperback.

#3 will receive a signed paperback.

#4 will receive a signed paperback.

#5 will receive a signed paperback

#6 will receive a signed paperback

#7 will receive a signed paperback

#8 will receive a signed paperback

#9 will receive a signed paperback

#10 will receive a signed paperback

#11 will receive a signed paperback

#12 will receive a signed paperback

So, all my books on sale for 99 cents, a free Kindle Fire, and the twelve books of Christmas.

That, my friends, is a Christmas giveaway.

From Jessica Hildreth​, Scott Hildreth​ Scott Hildreth​ SD Hildreth​ we wish you a Merry Christmas

From my book, “Unstoppable”

“Chuck what?” I asked, not really sure of what he said.

“Chuck Fuckin’,” he responded.

He tossed his shirt over the arm of the couch and reached for the waistband of his shorts. I watched his hands as he fumbled with the button. His knuckles were covered with scars, and his hands were huge. If what they say about a guy’s hands being large is right, this could make for a really fun night. Something about a tattooed, muscular fighter with a sense of humor was a huge turn on; and this guy was all of the above.

“Oh my fucking God,” I gasped as his shorts fell to his ankles.

“What?” he said as he kicked his shorts free of his shoes.

“Your….uhhm…cock,” I stuttered as I pointed to the massive cock which hung between his legs like some other form of appendage altogether.

“The piercings?” he asked as he looked down and started stroking it.

“The what?” I asked as I watched his hand slide up and down the shaft.

“Piercings?” he said as he lifted his cock and exposed the underside.

“Holy fuck, what are they? Oh God. It’s getting hot in here. Brandee, come here,” I squealed as I waved my arms.

Brandee stood from the barstool and shook her head as she walked toward the portion of the room where we were standing. Her eyes widened as she saw Ripp standing naked, wearing only his shoes and holding his massive cock by the head. Although Brandee rarely spoke, she looked down at his cock, up at his face, back down between his legs, and almost screamed.

“Oh my fucking God, that’s hot. Are you going to fuck him?” she rested her hands on her thighs and bent her knees slightly, staring across the room at his cock.

Brandee and I had a rule. We never had sex with the same guy. We almost always traveled together and were quite close, but we never crossed those lines. Several guys tried, and many had fetishes, but we always stuck to our guns in that respect. She knew if Ripp and I had sex, she was out of the equation.

“Uhhm, yeah. He’s mine,” I mumbled as I licked my lips.

“Quit staring at me, you’re making me self-conscious. I’m ain’tt some fuckin’ circus animal,” Ripp laughed as he started to stroke his cock.

“What is it called?” I asked as I stared at the jewelry in the bottom side of his cock.

“This,” he pointed to a hoop that was pierced through the tip, “is a Prince Albert.”

He raised his cock up, exposing the underside. Four shiny shafts of metal with little balls on each end pierced the skin along the shaft. As if hypnotized, I stared while he spoke.

“And these are called a Jacob’s ladder,” he said as he held the head of his cock between his thumb and forefinger, stroking the tip of his other index finger along the underside of the shaft.

“Does it hurt?” Brandee asked.

“Go back in the other room,” I pointed toward the bar, “you’ve seen enough.”

“Fuck you, I wanna see it,” Brandee whined as she continued staring at his cock.

“Get. Go back to the bar, Brandee,” I demanded.

Ripp stood and smiled as he began to stroke his cock more aggressively. As his massive hand slid from the tip to his balls, it became apparent just how large his cock actually was. I wiped the sweat from my forehead and realized my pussy was absolutely soaked.

“Is it hot in here?” I asked again.

“It’s Austin, babe. It’s always hot,” Ripp laughed, “I feel like I’m in a bad porn movie. This is gettin’ weird quick. What are we doin here?”

“She’s going to sit on her bar stool, and you’re going to fuck me. Do you leave the stuff in, or take it out?” I asked as I pointed to the barstool and nudged my head toward the bar.

“I didn’t put all of these in here to take ‘em out during sex,” he shook his head and smiled as Brandee walked back to the bar.

“And you’re leaving your shoes on?” I asked as I looked up at his torso.

He was massive and tattoos littered his upper body, randomly placed on his arms, chest, torso and ribs. He stood in the center of the floor stroking his cock and smiling as he looked down at his Chuck’s.

“Well, I can’t Chuck Fuck without ‘em, now can I?” he asked.

“Uhhm. No,” I responded.

My pussy was uncomfortably wet.

I walked the few steps which separated Ripp from me, and kicked my shoes off as I approached him. With each step, I could feel the wetness between my legs. I’ve always joked     a wet pussy knows what a mind won’t always admit. My wet pussy knew it wanted his pierced cock inside of it. As I closed the gap between us, Ripp smiled.

He was as big of a man as I had actually ever seen, and covered in tattoos. His head was smooth shaven, and his muscles flexed when he walked. I’ve been going to MMA fights for five years, met a lot of fighters and watched many fights. I have never seen anyone punch as fast as he did when he fought Monkey or hit as hard with the punches he threw. There was something about him, something was just…

Adorable.

“Can I suck it?” I asked as I knelt in front of him.

“Well, I sure as fuck ain’t gonna bitch about it if you do,” he laughed as he looked down at his cock.

“I didn’t know with all of the, well…the stuff in it,” I whispered as I reached out and wrapped my hands around it.

“It’s still just a cock. If you’re scared…” he began.

“I’m not scared,” I said assuredly as I carefully reached for his cock.

As I wrapped my fingers around his cock, I grinned. My fingers wouldn’t completely make it around the circumference of the shaft. I stared in awe, wondering if it would even fit inside of me – and if so – what it would feel like. Gripping it, I glanced at my wrist and compared it to the size of his cock.

The exact same.

“You know what’s cool about you having little bitty hands?” Ripp asked as he looked into my eyes.

“Huh? What’s that?” I stammered.

“Your little hands make my cock look huge,” he chuckled.

“Your cock is huge,” I laughed.

Unable to last another moment, I opened my mouth and wrapped my lips around the shaft and flicked my tongue against his Prince Albert piercing. When I did, I looked upward to see his reaction. I watched as he placed his hands on his hips, leaned back, and began to moan.

“Fuck yes,” he groaned as he looked up at the ceiling.

“Holy shit, girl. You know your way around a cock, don’t ya?” he groaned as he looked down and bit the side of his lower lip with his teeth.

Pleased he was enjoying my mouth on his cock, I slowly slid my lips up and down, feeling the little steel shafts bumping against my lower lip as I worked my mouth up and down the length of his cock.

“Did that sound bad? I didn’t mean it to,” he chuckled as he looked down again.

His cock still in my mouth, I shook my head lightly and opened my eyes a little wider. The little pieces of metal in my mouth were starting to make me even more excited. Feeling them slide past my lips and along my tongue reminded me they were there. The constant assurance made me start to wonder how good they would feel as they popped their way in and out of my wet pussy. Surely the girth of his cock would make the jewelry much more enjoyable. Sucking it was starting to make me extremely and uncomfortably wet. I reached under the hem of my dress with my left hand, slid my fingers into my panties, and rubbed my index finger against my clit. The excitement and intensity of everything made me shudder.

“Wet as fuck, ain’t it?” he half whispered as he rocked his hips back and forth.

I nodded my head and forced my tongue against his piercings. His size, muscles, tattoos, good looks, childish nature and huge pierced cock had become more than I could take. I forced two fingers into my pussy as deep as I could as I sucked his cock slowly. As my fingers slid in knuckle deep, I closed my eyes and moaned against his cock.

“Whoa. Bored? You fucking bored?” the question came out in a half angry groan.

I opened my eyes and looked up at his face.

“If you close your eyes when you’re sucking my cock, I gotta think you’re bored. That’s one of my rules, sister. Stand up,” he commanded in a sharp definitive tone as he reached for my armpits.

His cock slid from my mouth as he picked me up from the floor.

“You on birth control?” he asked as my feet dangled a foot from the floor.

“Uhhm. Yeah. Yeah, I am,” I responded.

“I get checked once a month, I’m clean. It ain’t gonna feel as good for either of us if I wear a rubber,” he breathed as he started walking toward the kitchen.

“No. No, I uhhm. I want to feel that. Those,” I pointed down at his cock.

“In me,” I sighed in anticipation as he stopped on the tile floor of the kitchen.

He lowered me onto the floor and looked in my eyes almost as if he were going to interrogate me.

“You got any pussy diseases?” he asked in a matter-of-fact tone.

Although I didn’t intend to, I laughed as I started to speak. Quickly, I covered my mouth with my hand, a little embarrassed and fractionally disappointed I was laughing at this point of what was going to be our initial sexual escapade.

“This is serious. I ain’t looking to get any fuckin’ diseases,” he pressed his hands to his hips and cocked one eyebrow.

“I’m sorry. It’s just. Well, it’s tough to take you seriously. You’re huge, tattooed, and bald. And that,” I smiled and pointed at his face.

“That thing you got going on, the hair on your chin. It’s just. You’re like way hot. And you’re standing here naked, except that you’re wearing tennis shoes,” I giggled as I looked from his face to his feet.

“Well again, I sure can’t Chuck Fuck you without ‘em. And they ain’t tennis shoes, they’re Chuck’s,” he said as he grabbed his ankle and raised his foot up to the height of my chest.

“And you didn’t answer my question,” he stood with his ankle in his hand, staring at his shoe.

“Uhhm, no. No pussy diseases. I know you probably think I am a slut, but I’m not. I’ve had sex with two people in my life,” I lied.

I had been with far more than two people, but I didn’t feel a need to be truthful. Not at this juncture. I didn’t want to chance fucking anything up. I stood, stone-faced, and waited as he lowered his foot to the floor.

Nothing. He bought it.

“And I have been checked, because my last boyfriend was a douche. That was over a year ago,” I sighed.

“Well, sounds like we’re good to go,” he clapped his hands and pointed to the countertop.

“Hop up there,” he said as he motioned to the kitchen island.

I turned and looked behind me at the countertop, confused. As I turned to face him, he placed his hands under my armpits and hoisted me onto the island.

“Get undressed and toss one of those legs over my shoulder. I’ll hold you, and then you can throw the other one up here,” he spread his feet to a wider stance and smiled as he patted his shoulder.

“Excuse me? What…uhhm. What are we doing?” I looked down and couldn’t help but smile.

“Chuck Fuckin’. We been over this already,” he shook his head as if I had asked a ridiculous question.

I pulled the straps of my dress over my shoulders and pushed it down my thighs and off my feet. As I unhooked my bra and pulled it off, he smiled and rubbed his hands together. While I pushed my panties down my thighs, he patted his shoulder again.

“Right here, toss your right leg up here,” he held his arms out and bent his knees, lowering his shoulders a little.

As I lifted my right foot over his shoulder, he reached for my left thigh and pulled it toward him. As my foot lifted from the counter and I started to fall backward, he slipped his left hand behind me and against my back to stabilize me. With both thighs over his shoulders and my pussy against his chin, it was now apparent what it was he had planned. As his other hand slid behind me, I sighed.

“I’m gonna suck on your clit and lick your pussy ‘till your good and wet. After you’re soaked, we’ll get to Chuck Fuckin’,” he said as he tilted his head back a little.

“Till I’m soaked?” I whispered.

“Yup,” he nodded.

“Shouldn’t take long,” I whimpered as I bit my bottom lip and gripped the back of his head with my hands.

“What’s that?” he asked as he started slowly walking across the kitchen floor.

I barely got the word, “Nothing,” out, and he buried his tongue into my pussy.

“Holy shit,” I squealed as his tongue flicked against my clit.

In a predictable but ever so pleasing pattern, his tongue worked from the bottom upward and into my pussy. Gradually he worked his way up and against my clit. As his tongue touched my clit, he flicked the tip against it a few times and then started all over again at the bottom.

“Oh holy…Jesus. I uhhm. Oh God. Oh God,” I mumbled as he licked and nibbled at my wet pussy.

After what was probably a minute at the most, I was done. My legs were shaking uncontrollably, and I had achieved orgasms no less than two times. I closed my eyes and bit my lip as I tried to focus on what I was feeling.

He groaned and moaned as his tongue continued to torture me.

Something about sitting on a man’s shoulders and having him lick my pussy was more than I could take. Coupled with the fact the person doing it was covered in tattoos and had a pierced cock, I was a literal mess of sexually tortured pleasure.

I felt my back slam against the wall and his face press harder into my thighs. His tongue slowly worked into my pussy, up against my clit, and stopped. Between his upper lip and tongue, my clit was now held captive to a humming, groaning, unexplainable vibrating tongue dance I am certain he had spent countless hours perfecting. As I began to reach climax, I felt as if my head were going to explode.

“Oh holy fuck stop. I am so serious. Stop. Oh…no. Fuck,” I opened my eyes and saw spots.

Everywhere.

Spots.

The orgasm continued to shoot through my body as his tongue and lip took ownership of my clit. I closed my spot-filled eyes.

Holy fucking Jesus fucking God. Fuck. Shit. Fuck.

A tingling sensation ran from my face to my crotch and up to my nipples. I felt as if I had a thousand feathers tickling me at once. I had no idea of what he was doing to me for certain, but it did not matter. He sure as fuck knew what to do, and he was damned good at it.

“Scrmmm,” his mumbling vibrated against my thighs and pussy.

I opened my eyes and looked down. My entire field of vision filled with grey spots, and my body trembling, I tried to remember how to make my mouth form a legible sound.

“What?” I blurted.

He continued to own my clit.

“Scrmmm,” he grunted.

I may or may not have had another orgasm as he grunted. I closed my eyes and opened them again.

Spots.

“Whaaaaa?” I shouted.

He pulled his face away from my pussy and looked up into my eyes.

“One more time. And this time, scream when you cum. It’ll feel good,” his lower face covered in cum, he smiled as he spoke.

I generally don’t know very much, and by most peoples accounts I am a dumb blonde, but I knew this much; I needed to buy some time or he was going to kill me. Death by orgasmic pleasure.

“What the fuck are you doing to me?” I looked down and whispered.

“Lickle,” he chuckled.

“Huh?” I muttered as I tried to catch my breath.

“Lickle,” he grinned as he licked cum from his lips.

“What the fuck is that?” I sighed as I tried to get my eyes to focus.

“Lickle, I invented it. It’s a tongue control deal. I make my tongue vibrate,” he stuck his tongue out of his mouth and held it still as the tip flicked up and down like a child’s wind-up toy.

“It’s like licking but it tickles. Lickle. You ready?” he asked as he squeezed my waist in his hands.

I had no idea of what to do, and was almost able to breathe normally again. As with anything else pain or pleasure related, it’s awfully easy to tell yourself once it’s over it wasn’t that bad. After he had stopped, I convinced myself I was able to take the Lickle torture again without incident.

I did all I knew to do, considering all things.

Like a cowboy preparing to ride a bull, I gave my sign. I inhaled, closed my eyes, and nodded once.

The vibrating immediately began again, followed by his moaning and groaning. Initially pleased with my ability to take the torture, I almost instantly felt a tingle in my nipples followed by an aching inside my pussy. His tongue in Lickle mode, my clit felt like it was growing in his mouth as he ground his face into my pussy. As if he knew exactly how I felt, he reminded me of our agreement.

“Scrmmm,” he no more than mumbled, and I exploded.

“Holy fuck Ripppppppp!” I let go of his head and slapped the wall with both hands.

“Oh my..”

“Oh my God.”

“Ripp…”

I opened my eyes to a spot filled room. The wall against my back, I had no means of escape. I bucked my hips against his face, attempting to move myself away from the wall. My entire body tingling and on the verge of dehydration from cumming my brains out, I pushed my hands against the wall, knocking him off balance.

“Yougottastop. Imgonnafuckingexplode,” I exhaled in two jumbled words.

He pulled his face back from my inner thighs as he stumbled backward. He looked up and smiled. His hands slid up my waist to my ribcage and gripped me tight. As he lifted me from his shoulders, I raised my shaking legs to clear his upper body. As he lowered me to the floor, I realized just how weak my legs had become.

“Lay your chest on the countertop and spread your legs a little,” he said as he motioned to the kitchen’s island.

“I need a minute,” I sighed as I placed my shaking hands on the counter.

“Hell babe. We ain’t even got a good start. You ain’t fuckin’ some punk MMA fighter. We’re Chuck Fuckin’ baby. Spread your legs,” he laughed.

To anyone who has ever jumped rope, this might make a little sense. Thirty seconds of jumping rope will exhaust you. It might take fifteen minutes to catch your breath after a minute and a half of exercise. I know boxers jump rope for hours on end. The stamina a boxer has is incapable of being compared to any other athlete. While I recalled just who it was I had signed on to have sex with, he began to stroke his jewelry filled cock.

I leaned my chest onto the countertop and laid my face down on the cold surface. After a second of catching my breath, I spread my legs somewhat and arched my back. As my ass lifted in the air, I felt his fingers begin to slide in and out of my pussy. I got lost as he gently and slowly worked two fingers in and out of my pussy.

God this feels good.

His fingers working in and out of my wet pussy began to feel so good, I felt as if I could fall asleep. My eyes closed, and my body exhausted from half a dozen intense orgasms, I relaxed my muscles and exhaled. The cold counter felt relaxing on my nipples.

“Ready?” his warm breath against my ear startled me.

“Whaaaa?”  I muttered as I opened my eyes.

“For?” I drug the word out for a good three seconds.

“The cock, baby. I need to show you a trick,” he breathed into my ear.

“A trick?” I raised my head from the countertop.

“Kinda like Lickle?” I asked over my left shoulder.

“Yup,” he answered.

We all yearn to be satisfied – to have the one earth shattering orgasm – to feel as if we have been teleported to sexual heaven, but I felt as if I was way out of my league with Ripp. I had no idea what else to do. I simply nodded my head and slowly lowered it onto the counter.

“Do it,” I whispered.

I suppose all along he knew how important the preparation was, the lubrication. The extreme wetness. The opening up of my pussy like a flower to prepare for him to enter me. His Lickle trick was just that – necessary preparation. In no way, however, was it enough.

“Oh my fucking God.” I raised my head from the counter and slapped my hands against the surface.

His cock slowly started to force itself inside of me. The pain wasn’t really a pain, but a pleasure combined with an odd feeling of pain. I felt as if I were sixteen again, losing my virginity to Reece. As my eyes opened wider, I felt his balls pressing against my swollen clit.

“We’ll go easy at first, then I’ll show ya,” he gripped my waist in his hands and slowly slid his cock out of my pussy.

As he carefully slid in and out of my pussy, I decided regardless of where this ended, whatever we were to have after this night was over, I could never ever be satisfied again by any other man who didn’t have a massive cock. Having your pussy full – stuffed absolutely full of cock was like drinking a fine Cognac. Once you’ve tried it, you’ll never be satisfied by the cheap shit.

“Oh my God, Ripp…I’m gonna…” I opened my eyes, unsure of what was about to happen.

“Scream,” he insisted as he continued to fuck me slowly and steadily.

His cock slowly worked in and out of my dripping pussy as my body began to shudder. As I felt his hips press against my ass, his balls massaged my clit. I closed my eyes as he slid it out and prepared for the in-stroke. Slowly, he began to force himself inside again as I tried to take a breath. A short and choppy one was all I could get.

“Holy…”

“Fuuuucccckkkk!” I screamed as my legs began to shake.

My body exploded with an orgasm to end all orgasms. Simply and slowly fucking me after a few minutes of Lickle, and this man owned my pussy. My legs shaking and my pussy throbbing, I opened and closed my eyes, once again, to spots.

Owned it.

Whack!

The sound immediately beside my head frightened me. I turned to the right, somewhat startled by seeing his very large canvas Chuck Taylor sneaker right beside my face.

“What the fuck?” I screeched.

“Dekk’s girlfriend read it in a book. Head steppin’,” he said.

“Uhhm, no,” I mumbled.

“I ain’t steppin’ on your head babe. But this shit’s awesome. Just hold on,” he explained.

With his right foot beside my head, and his left on the floor, his hips were at an awkward upward angle against my pussy. My position, however, had not changed. As his hips slowly worked up and down, I was quickly reminded the bottom of his cock was pierced.

Oh. My. God.

At this new angle, his Jacob’s ladder was just that – a fucking ladder leading to the land of orgasmic pleasure. Against my clit, the pieces of steel banged. On the in stroke; tap, tap, tap. And. On the out stroke; tap, tap, tap. I bit my bottom lip and counted as he gripped my hips and did what he seemed to do oh so well.

One. Two. Three. I inhaled sharply. One. Two. Oh my fucking God. I exhaled, followed by a severe head-rush.

His hips pressed against my ass.

Three.

With my eyes closed and my mind in suspension, I tingled. Over and over, with each stroke, my clit pulsated as his piercings tickled me into a heavenly bliss. Small orgasms continued, one after the other. I lost track of time, my existence and specifically what was going on. I wasn’t having orgasms.

I became an orgasm.

“What are we doing, babe?” he shouted as he worked his cock up and down, in and out.

“Whaaa?” I opened my eyes and exhaled sharply through the small opening between my teeth and lower lip.

“Chuck Fuckin’,” he hollered.

I closed my eyes and began to feel faint. The steel rods banging against my clit as his massive cock filled the inside of my soaking wet pussy, sliding in and out, tapping my clit further into ownership. The speed in which he was fucking me increased as the seconds passed. As my body started to tingle, the sound of his voice brought me back to earth.

“What are we doing?” he asked again.

“Chuck Fuckin’,” I screamed.

“God damned right, we’re Chuck Fuckin’ baby,” he yelled as he continued to pound in and out of my pussy.

My nipples began to tingle and my butt felt as if it were being electrocuted. I felt my pussy swell as if it were going to explode. I bit my lip harder and grunted, never having felt quite anything comparable.

“Oh God Ripp…”

The feeling of pleasure was more than I felt I could enjoy without collapse or brain damage. I was actually scared I was going to squirt cum it felt so good. Uncertain of what was happening, my mouth and eyes opened at the same time.

“Cum, I’m going to cum,” I stammered.

“Fuck yes. Do it,” he demanded as he slapped his hand against my ass.

As his massive cock filled me, the steel piercings made me melt. Without a doubt, I never want a man without a piercing ever…

“Oh…”

“Fuck….”

“Ahhhhhhhh Fucccckkkkkk,” my eyes opened and closed repeatedly.

My hearing went completely blank. He fucked me deaf. I opened my eyes, and saw nothing. Not even spots. Deaf and blind. As my ears began to ring, my vision repaired itself to seeing spots. A steady dull ring from my ears was a reminder of the intensity of the orgasm. I raised my hand from the countertop and stared at it.

Shaking uncontrollably.

“Gimme a minute,” I whispered as I pulled my hips toward the counter.

“We’re just getting started,” he laughed.

As his cock flopped from inside of me, I reminded him.

“Don’t fucking touch me. Jesus. I need,” I paused and looked around the room, “I need a minute.”

I looked down at my shaking legs. I turned to face Ripp, who stood smiling, his foot still fixed firm on the countertop.

Limber bastard.

“I need a minute, seriously,” I sighed as I attempted to catch my breath.

“Lickle time,” he said as he lowered his foot to the floor and scooped me from my feet.

He raised me over his head and ducked under my legs, resting my thighs on his shoulders. As his mouth smashed against my soaking wet pussy, I felt the tingle against my clit and heard him begin to hum and groan.  Closing my eyes was the only thing I knew to do. I bit my lip and felt my eyes roll back into my head so far I felt they’d dislodge.

And. I. Came.

I have no real complete recollection of how long this lasted or when for certain it stopped. Although I had not had any alcohol or drugs, Ripp later told me I was Fuck Drunk. I’m sure he was right, Fuck Drunk I was. When I came back to consciousness, I heard him in the kitchen.

I looked around the room, confused.

“What happened?” I asked across the room.

“I walked in here to cook some eggs, I got hungry after you rode my cock while I was on the floor,” he said over his shoulder.

Standing naked at the stove and wearing only his Chuck’s, I wanted to take a picture of him.

“How’d I get here? To the couch?” I asked.

“You just sat there when I walked in here. You’re Fuck Drunk. Too much good sex,” he responded as if it were normal.

Light-headed, I walked to the kitchen and stood behind him.

My vision was blurred. I felt as if I had run six miles as fast as I could, and had stopped immediately and unexpectedly. Full of endorphins, emotion, and wonder, I wrapped my arms around his back and slid my hands to his stomach. I nudged my hips closer to his tight butt muscles and sighed.

I had never had so many orgasms in my life.

It was crazy, but one night of sex.

Just one.

And I was falling for Mike Ripton.

Well, at least falling for fucking him.

As he stood naked and scrambled the eggs, I hoped for a sign. Something. I wanted him to tell me I was different. That something had happened in a night filled with orgasms and sex which would separate me from the many others.

“Barbee,” he paused as he stirred the eggs.

“Yeah Ripp?” the words hung on my lips for a long second.

“You think your sister would be up for a three-way?” he asked without looking up from the stove.

Not exactly what I was hoping for.

My heart sank a little bit and I fought with what I wanted to say. My response needed to be something which might preserve a possibility of seeing Ripp in the future. I opened my mouth and closed it a few times, incapable of speaking. Finally, the words came.

“Brandee,” I screamed over my shoulder, “come in here for a minute. Mike and I have a question.”

As I heard Brandee’s feet coming down the hallway, an almost inaudible sound came from where Ripp was standing. I’ll never be one hundred percent certain, but it sounded like…

Fuck yes.

“Money Shot”, a stand-alone love story, and Selected Sinners Book VI, is being described as my “best book ever”

Reviewers are describing Selected Sinners MC Romance Book VI as “Scott Hildreth’s best book to date”.

It is a romantic, yet erotic tale of loss , friendship, and finding love in the place where you might least expect it.

Wine guzzling book reviewer and blogger Sienna Boyco, while reviewing a book and downing glass after glass of wine, has a knock on her door. After peering through the blinds, she sees the ultimate book boyfriend.

A handsome tattooed biker is standing on her porch, out of gas, and without a phone to call for help.

Not so reluctantly, she offers to assist.

She learns he is different than any biker she has ever read about in her MC Romance  novels. He’s a debt collector for drug dealers, has an attitude a mile ling, and a short temper. He loves to fight, and is quick to pull his knife or gun. But, he confides in her his weakness.

Romance novels.

He loves to read them, and is a true romantic at heart. His biker brethren don’t know it, but he sees no harm in being honest with Sienna.

And so begins a friendship between two people from opposite sides of the spectrum with a common bond.

Money Shot is a must read love story. It will make you laugh, cry tears of joy, and stand up and cheer for the “bad” guy.

It’s ranked a #1 Best Seller in (7) Amazon categories for a reason.

 

BUY LINK: http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B018EVHYMS

 

Selected Sinners Book VI, “Money Shot” is LIVE on Amazon

“Money Shot,” the BEST Selected Sinners book to date, or your money back.

Synopsis:

If someone would have told me there was a fully patched member of a one percent Motorcycle Club that read romance novels and was a true romantic, I wouldn’t have believed them, but one sure existed.

I met him by chance one night when he ran out of gas and rang my doorbell.

Covered in tattoos and muscles, he stood on my porch asking for a favor. He was a Selected Sinner, a debt collector for drug dealers, a criminal, a thug, and he loved to fight. He was quick to draw his knife and quicker to pull his gun. His temper was short, his beard was long, and he was as handsome as any man I had ever seen.

To hear him talk about the lost art of love made my legs go weak. I was sure he was a phony, a wannabe, a fake, and a player.

So I stuck around for a while to see if he was exactly who he said he was.

And he took me for the ride of my life.

I’m Sienna, and I review romance novels. This is the story of when I met the man who most women would describe as a unicorn.

I just called him Vince.

 

Buy Link: http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B018EVHYMS

 

Selected Sinners Book VI – First Four Chapters

PROLOGUE

June 6th, 2014

I believe there comes a time in every man’s life when he questions the loyalty of his wife or girlfriend. Right or wrong, it eventually happens. A pattern of strange disagreements, her taste in music changing drastically, and a constant need to stay late at the office had raised my eyebrows, but it was when she cut her hair that I actually knew.

Her long blonde hair had been her trademark since we met, and as many times as I asked her to change it, the answer was always the same. After ten years, I stopped asking. Roughly five years since I had last asked, she came home with her hair cut well above her shoulders and colored bright red.

I remember standing there admiring her as she walked in, wondering what had changed. As she walked past me and turned toward the bedroom with a bag of new clothes swinging from her elbow, it hit me like a ton of bricks.

She hadn’t done it for me.

She had done it for him.

Now, standing in his driveway glaring at him through the window of his truck as he fumbled to find what I was sure to be his gun, I felt incompetent, incapable, useless, and half sick at my stomach.

I lowered my chin slightly and shook my head. “If I were you, I wouldn’t.”

“Look, I uhhm,” he said as he shifted his eyes toward me.

“I told you once, get out of the truck, Motherfucker. Just get out, and don’t reach for that console again. I ain’t planning on killing you, but I sure as fuck will if I have to,” I said flatly.

I could have brought a few of the fellas, or the entire MC for that matter, but as far as I was concerned, my soon to be ex-wife’s lover wasn’t club business, it was personal. As much as I loved my club brothers, and as much as I trusted them to watch my back, I also knew the importance of keeping my personal life just that, personal.

He glanced down at my clenched fists and did his best to reason with me. “Look I don’t want to…”

I had never been a patient man. Even as a kid, I would peel the wrapping paper away from the Christmas presents and see if I could get a peek at what was underneath long before the day arrived to unwrap them. Often, while sitting on my motorcycle at a stoplight, I lose my ability to sit and wait, and simply ride through the red light.

My mother always said I had low tolerance.

I couldn’t agree more.

I pulled his truck door open with one hand and grabbed a fistful of his hair with the other. Although I had a reasonable amount of practice pulling men from their vehicles by their hair, attempting to pull him out by his provided an entirely new experience altogether.

As his head followed the force of my hand pulling him toward the open door, his eyes widened and he began to scream. A short second later, and I had his entire head of hair in my hand, and he sat free of my grasp in the seat of his truck.

And he was as bald as billiard ball.

Quite confused at what had happened, I gazed at my hair-filled hand and tried to make sense of it all. The amount of time it took my mind to understand I was holding his hair hat and he was now a free man was just enough for him to do what I had told him not to.

I tossed his toupee toward my bike, leaned inside his truck, and reached for his right arm. As I squeezed his right wrist with my left hand, preventing him from reaching for the open console, I began to punch him in the face repeatedly with my right hand, all the while continuing to pull him from the truck and explain why I was doing what I was doing.

I felt fifteen years of my life had been wasted, and that I had been devoted – and loyal – to a lie. With every ounce of frustration packed into each swing of my fist, I continued to pummel him until he was a bloody mess.

When I finally released him from my grasp he fell to the ground. Covered in blood and with both eyes swollen almost shut, he was still conscious. I stared down at him, wiped my knuckled on my jeans, and drew a long, slow breath.

Looking back on the events of my past, there seemed to always be things that I had done in fits of rage or in a moment of desperation that I later regretted. I’d always referred to them as brain farts, and I had plenty of ‘em in my days. Several of the fellas would later claim that this night produced a brain fart, but I didn’t agree with them.

I believed my actions were justified, considering I was married to the woman for fifteen years. If nothing else, what I had done should cause her to remember me for who I believed I was.

A very loyal man with an extremely short temper.

As I gazed down at him, I reached for my pocket, pulled out my knife, and flicked the blade open. As he continued to moan and attempted to roll onto his side, I pressed my boot down onto his shoulder and held him in place.

After glancing over each shoulder, I knelt down, pulled up his bloody tee shirt, and carved a very distinct “V” down from each of his nipples to his belly button.

With his screams of pain echoing into the night, I wiped the blade of my knife against the thigh of my jeans, folded it, and clipped it in place in my pocket. After leaning into his truck and taking his gun from the console, I shoved it into the waist of my jeans and walked to my bike as if what had just happened was a common occurrence.

But it wasn’t.

Natalie and I had been together since we were in high school. Although I never would have guessed we would have grown apart, it happened, and now I was forced to deal with the thought of her being with someone else.

I coughed a light laugh as I tossed my leg over the seat of my bike. Brain fart or not, I liked the end result of my actions.

Her new man had my initial carved in his chest.

She had always liked seeing me with my shirt off, but my guess was that she was going have the new guy leave his on in the future.

I released the clutch lever and twisted the throttle back. A thirty minute ride and I’d be back at the clubhouse; one day wiser, and with one less woman in my life.

With the street lights rushing past me, and the warm summer air pressing my cut against my chest, I thought of what my life had become; and what I felt I had thrown away with Natalie.

Fifteen fucking years.

The only relationship I had ever been in.

I knew one thing, and I knew it for sure.

The next woman, if there ever was another, would have one hell of a time proving herself to me.

 

SIENNA

Present day.

With my heart beating out of my chest and my mind racing in ten different directions, I brushed my hand across the face of the screen anxiously. The page didn’t move. I carefully pressed my finger against the screen and flipped the page in the other direction. After a quick study, and confirming it was page I had previously read, I swept my finger across the screen again and stared at the end of what appeared to be the last page.

There was no doubt.

I had reached the end of the book.

“Are you fucking serious? A cliffie? You bitch!” I screamed as I tossed my Kindle across the room and into the wall.

My favorite author had just become a worthless heap of steaming shit. After falling deeply in love despite all of their differences, being torn apart and then reunited, the hero proposed; and I was prepared for a wedding. Instead, in the last chapter, out of the fucking blue, the hero was arrested for murder. Who in the fuck would end a story in such a place, leaving the reader to wait anxiously with knots in her stomach for the next book?

A fucking idiot, that’s who.

Although I generally tried to give myself twelve hours to digest a book before writing a review, I rolled off the edge of my bed, grabbed my glass of wine, and commenced to downing it as I walked over to my desk. As I waited for the computer to go through its startup procedure, I walked to the kitchen with my empty glass and grabbed the remaining bottle of Barefoot Moscato.

After roughly two seconds of considering how much wine I should pour into the glass, I uncorked the bottle, raised it to my lips, and took a much needed drink. I tossed the cork on the counter beside my empty glass and stomped toward my bedroom with the bottle of dangling from my loosely clenched fist.

I walked into the room, sat down, slammed the bottle against the desk, and began to type.

*Kindle throwing alert*

I’ll be taking donations from anyone wishing to fund a new Kindle purchase, because after reading this book, my Kindle is in a thousand pieces.

Can you imagine the story Cinderella ending with the prince finding Cinderella’s glass slipper, but not searching for – or finding – her?

Or maybe in The Notebook, the story ending with Allie receiving Noah’s letters from her mother, but not acting on her feelings?

You can’t, can you?

Neither can I.

The reason I can’t imagine it, and I’m sure you’ll agree, is because most authors follow a proven pattern in the crafting of their stories for romance novels. They have a hero and heroine meet, fall in love, and eventually some type of conflict tears them apart. We frantically flip through the pages, saddened by their separation, and jump with joy when they eventually reunite. At some point the book ends, alluding to them living happily ever after.

I reached for the wine, drank a quarter of what remained, and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. I slid the bottle beside my monitor, inhaled a shallow breath, and commenced typing.

That, my friends and followers, is not the case in this book.

Not at all.

The author seems to have misplaced the memo explaining the necessity on not only writing a novel, but completing it.

When I reached the point where the book stopped (I refuse to call it an ending)…

I stopped typing, searched through my files, and inserted a .gif of a wide-eyed woman’s head exploding. After laughing to myself for a few long seconds, I took another drink of wine and continued.

As I read through this book, I was relieved that it had it all. A hero I could sink my teeth into. A heroine I wanted to sit down and have a glass of wine with. Scorching hot love scenes, more scorching hot love scenes, and conflict I saw coming, but hoped never came to fruition. After a hundred or so well-written angst-filled pages, the H and h were reunited, and then…

Something ridiculous happened and the book just fucking ended.

Up until the last chapter, this was a five star read for me. After reading all the way to the abrupt ending, I’ll have to give it one and a half stars.

And I’m only doing that because I’m half-drunk and a hell of a lot happier than I was when I started this review.

I inserted a .gif of an obviously drunken woman sitting on the edge of her bed in her underwear with a bottle of wine between her legs.

As I read the review, I finished the bottle of wine. After rereading it, I wished I had another bottle, but knew I had no business driving to get one. Hoping a search of my kitchen would produce a bottle, but knowing damned good and well I had drank my last one, I published the review, excited at the thought of all of the comments I was sure to have when I woke up. I glanced up and stared blankly at the small hole in the wall, and filled with drunken regret for throwing my Kindle. After a few insanely long alcohol induced seconds of lusting over my newest book boyfriend, my doorbell rang.

The sound startled me, causing me to jump from my seat and almost pee in the process. Now, as my mind filled with thoughts of some mass murderer going door to door in search of his next victim, I pulled the blinds from my window and peered outside and toward my porch.

Dear God.

A big, rough, muscular, tattooed biker stood on my porch in his leather vest, jeans, and biker boots.

It was like an early Christmas.

I rubbed my drunken eyes with the tips of my index fingers, blinked a few times, and continued to admire him from the privacy of my bedroom.

He got more handsome with each passing second.

He pushed his hands into his pockets, shifted his weight from one foot to the other, and slowly turned around. After a few seconds of watching him walk toward the street, my curiosity – and the fact I was sexually deprived – got the best of me.

I glanced in my mirror, did my best to fix my hair, and ran toward the door. Dressed in a reasonably clean pair of Victoria’s Secret’s best sweats, I looked pretty presentable – at least for a late Sunday night. After clearing my throat and second guessing my thoughts for a few seconds, I yanked the door open and did my best to look sleep deprived. In my half-drunken state, it wasn’t much of a stretch.

“Hello,” I said in what I hoped to be a sensual whisper. The words escaped my lips as a raspy drunken cough.

Half way to his motorcycle, but fully illuminated by the security light in my driveway, he paused and turned around.

Holy shit.

He looked like no other biker I had ever actually seen, but exactly like the ones I had developed in my head from the MC Romance novels I had spent so much time reading. If it wasn’t for the warm and extremely humid summer air blowing in my face and making me half nauseous, I would have thought I was dreaming.

“Listen, this is going to sound like complete bullshit, but I ran out of gas and this is where I ended up,” he said as he waved his hand toward the motorcycle parked by the curb.

I glanced at the vintage Harley, shifted my eyes to where he was standing, and stared. Common sense, which was something I often seemed to lack, should have caused me to turn toward the house, go inside, and lock the door. Instead, I stepped from the house onto the porch and asked for more details.

After clearing my throat of the sweet wine that still heavily coated it, I widened my eyes at the sight of him. “So, you need a ride?” I asked in a fractionally more sultry tone.

He took a few steps toward me, crossed his arms in front of his chest, and sighed heavily. “Well, not exactly,” he said. “I don’t want to leave the bike here.”

I turned my palms up and shook my head from side to side. “I don’t have any gas. The maintenance men cut the grass and stuff, so I don’t have any need for it. But…”

I paused and studied him as I considered what else to say. He rocked back and forth nervously on the balls of his feet as he seemed to consider leaving his motorcycle in the street. He looked rough, but not in a homeless unkempt way. He seemed to be, at least by his appearance, stature, and stance to be a guy no one would ever want to cross, and I suspected very few had successfully done so. His hair was dark, short, and as close as I could tell in the dark, well-cut. His face was covered in a day or two of beard growth, and it complimented him quite well. His bare arms were nothing but muscle, and were covered with various tattoos.

All things considered, he was perfect.

I’m sure most women would have offered very little, if anything, to help him. A biker running out of gas in a residential neighborhood on a Sunday night in the summer wasn’t a common occurrence, and by most people’s standards, wouldn’t warrant much assistance. After what seemed to be an eternity of admiring him and thinking, I blurted out what must have been a subconscious thought.

“What? You don’t have a phone?” I asked.

“Like I said when I walked up, I knew it would sound like bullshit, but it’s the truth. I was riding down Central, and I ran out of gas. I wanted to coast off the main street and get under a street light. So, I kicked it into neutral and coasted as far as I could. That got me to there,” he said as he turned and pointed at his motorcycle.

“And no, I don’t have a phone. Long story,” he said as he turned to face me.

I nodded my head and grinned as if I understood. Half-drunk from my wine induced book review, and half-horny from the shitty romance novel without an ending, I gazed at the sexy biker and gave him my best resolution to his problem.

“Tell you what. Push your bike into my garage and we can lock it up all safe and happy and then we’ll go get gas in my car. Will that work?” I asked.

“Safe and happy,” he said with a laugh.

“Just wait until I get the car out before you try and shove your bike in,” I said.

Still facing me, he nodded his head in apparent appreciation.

Proud of my pearly whites, I smiled a tooth-revealing smile and nodded my head in return. The expression on his face reminded me that my teeth probably weren’t white, but wine soaked. The half-bottle of Madeira I had consumed while reading the second half of the book undoubtedly had my teeth looking like I’d just finished eating a raw steak.

“I appreciate it,” he said as he turned away. “I’ll owe you one.”

I turned toward the house and did my best to wipe my teeth clean with my index finger as he walked away. After carefully backing my car out into the driveway, I got out in enough time to watch him push the Harley into the garage. He situated it perfectly against the inside wall of the garage, studied it for a moment, and turned to face the car. As he walked toward me, I made note of the fact he wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, but I doubted many of his type did, even if they were married.

“This is your car?” he asked as he walked around it with his hand on his chin and his eyes glued to the flawless black paint.

“Only one I got, yep,” I said proudly.

“1966 or ’67?” he asked.

I shook my head. “It’s a 1965. Year my dad was born. He left it to me when he died.”

“Well, it’s a damned fine looking Continental, that’s for sure. And I’m sorry about your Pop,” he said as he opened the door.

He carefully got into the car, fastened the seat belt, and looked around the interior as I got inside and situated myself. His expressed appreciation of the car and his careful manner of opening the door and getting inside led me to believe he wasn’t only a big tough biker. At least a small part of him was kind and considerate, and it was apparent.

“I’m Sienna,” I said as I turned the key and started the car.

He coughed a laugh and grinned as he turned his head in my direction. “Call me Vince. And I’m guessing this fucker ain’t stock?”

The rumble from the exhaust made sneaking around in the car almost impossible. My father had built it as a show car, and planned on using it as a trophy of sorts, only driving it on special occasions. He had a 521 cubic inch 600 horsepower motor built by a local professional shop, and I helped him install it right before he died.

His instructions to me upon his passing were clear.

Drive the car, Sienna. Drive it and enjoy it. And if you ever decide to sell it, don’t sell it because you want something different; sell it because you don’t love it anymore. And only sell it to someone who does.

He had the car as long as I was alive, and actually had purchased it a few years before I was born. His entire life had been spent making the car perfect, and perfect was how I intended to keep it.

“521 cubic inches of earth shaking Big Block Ford, six hundred horsepower to be exact,” I bragged as I backed out of the driveway.

“No shit?” he said with a grin. “You know your cars, huh?”

“I’m an only child, and a daddy’s girl. The only time I spent with him was in the garage,” I said. “So, I know a little about cars, and a lot about this car.”

He nodded his head as he glanced around the interior of the car admiringly.

“So where were you going?” I asked as I shifted the car into drive. “You know, when you ran out of gas.”

“Nowhere, just riding. I go out on Sunday nights and just ride, it clears my mind before starting a new week. Had a poker run yesterday, and as that fucker started spittin’ and sputterin’, I remembered I forgot to fill it up after. I can get two hundred miles on a full tank, and not a mile more. Runnin’ out is the price I pay for not keeping track of my miles, I guess,” he said.

“Well, the station up on Douglas will loan us a gas can. Just remember, two hundred miles,” I said with a grin.

He stared at me for a moment, narrowed his upper lip, and revealed his teeth. As I gazed back at him rather confused, he narrowed his eyes and pointed to his teeth with his index finger.

“You’ve got a big piece of meat or something in your front teeth. Sorry, but it’s driving me nuts,” he said as he tapped the tip of his finger against his teeth.

I glanced in the rearview mirror and curled my lip upward. The side of one of my two front teeth was as red as a ruby. I had obviously wiped the other tooth clean with my finger on the front porch, but missed whatever wine-soaked matter was stuck between my other teeth.

“Shit, sorry,” I said as I alternated glances between the road and the mirror.

He shook his head and grinned.

“I was eating crackers and cheese and drinking wine. Typical Sunday night at my house,” I said as I turned into the gas station.

I pulled in front of the store and after a few annoying seconds of the engine running, shut it off. The sound of the motor running while parked against a brick building became annoying rather quickly, the low rumble from the high performance camshaft made the car sound like an old school race car.

“This fucker was shaking the windows,” he said as he opened the door. “Need anything?”

I shook my head from side to side. “A toothbrush,” I laughed.

“Be right back,” he said as he stepped out of the car.

After carefully closing the door, he walked into the gas station, talked to the guy at the register, and turned toward the back of the building. In the well illuminated store, I could see every detail of what he was wearing. The back of his leather vest had a patch of a winged skull with two crossed rifles sewn on it. I’d read enough books about bikers to know he was a one percenter, the vest was his cut, and he was a fully patched member of the club.

Selected Sinners.

I’d seen a few of the member of the club from time to time over the years, riding down the road or in a bar in Old Town. For a one percent club, they sure seemed to have their shit together, and never made the news for doing anything stupid, at least not that I’d seen. As I sat in the car and watched him walk toward the gas pumps, I recalled seeing on the news that one of their members stopping a bank robbery.

I opened the door of the car and shuffled toward the gas pump. With each well thought out step, I realized although I was far from sober, I was not as drunk as I needed to be to offer myself to him.

I was single, lonely, and really needed to be fucked, but I was far from a slut. The thought of being ravished by a biker was always something lingering in the back of my mind, but actually doing it was a different thing altogether.

“So, one of your guys stopped a bank robbery a while back. Took the gun right out of the hands of the robber, and held him at gunpoint until the cops got there. He was some special forces guy or something,” I said as I walked up to the gas pump.

“Sure did,” he responded.

I shrugged my shoulders as he placed the nozzle back into the pump. “Not the kind of thing most people think of bikers doing.”

“Probably not,” he responded.

Wow. Don’t feel like talking?

I stared down at my flip-flops and realized my toes were in desperate need of polish. Half embarrassed, I turned toward the car as he began to step past me. As I glanced up from my toes, I noticed a man standing beside my car with his hand on the front fender. Before I had a chance to say anything, Vince barked out a demand in a tone of voice that caused the hair on the back of my neck to stand up.

“Step away from the car, Motherfucker,” he growled.

The man, obviously drunk, turned his head toward Vince and all but fell into the fender of the car. After taking a few more steps, Vince placed the gas can beside the car, walked up to the man, and gently pushed him to the side by pressing his forearm against the man’s chest.

“Expensive paint job, Brother. Just want you to be careful,” he said.

“Get your fucking hands off me,” the man howled.

In a split-second, the man produced a knife and began swinging it toward Vince. Immediately, it was apparent Vince was no stranger to fighting, protecting himself, or disarming a knife wielding drunk.

Kick his fucking ass, Vince.

As the man grunted and lurched forward with the knife, Vince raised his left arm high in the air, wrapped it around the man’s arm, and quickly turned away from him. With his back against the man’s chest, and the man’s arm pinned in Vince’s armpit, he reached for the man’s wrist and turned it to the side.

The man wailed in pain and dropped the knife. As soon as the knife hit the pavement, Vince stepped on it and released the man.

As Vince stepped between the man and my car, he bent down, picked up the knife, and shoved it into his back pocket. I stood in awe at what I had just seen. No differently than the men in my MC Romance books, Vince was not only a biker, but a bad-ass biker. Standing and waiting to see his next Judo move, I was surprised to see a police officer walk from inside the store and onto the sidewalk in front of my car.

“Kid inside told me what happened. He saw it all. You want to press charges for assault?” the officer asked.

Still standing between the man and my car, Vince crossed his arms in front of his chest and shook his head. “Simple misunderstanding.”

“Kid said he pulled a knife on you,” the officer said.

“Nope. He took a swing at me. Didn’t see a knife,” Vince said with a shrug of his shoulders.

“Anyone here had too much to drink?” the officer asked as he glanced at each of us.

It had only been thirty minutes since I finished the bottle of wine, and although I wasn’t shit-faced drunk, I was definitely not as drunk as I was going to get. With each passing minute, I felt a little more incapable of standing without teetering over. A sobriety test would land me in jail for sure.

“Can’t speak for him,” Vince said as he tossed his head toward the drunken man. “But, she’s had some wine. Good thing I’m driving.”

The officer cocked an eyebrow. “You’re driving?”

“That’s what I said,” Vince responded.

The officer pointed his finger at me. “Kid inside said she drove up…”

He turned and pointed his finger at Vince’s chest. “You got gas…”

He swiveled to the side and pointed at the drunk. “And he attacked you with a knife when you walked up to the car.”

“Believe only half of what you see and nothing that you hear,” Vince said.

Wow. He just quoted Edgar Allen Poe.

The officer turned to face me, pressed his hands on his hips, and sighed. “So what happened?”

Raised by a father who was wrongly accused and subsequently wrongly convicted of a crime he didn’t commit, I had very little respect for police officers, especially our city’s finest. I shrugged my shoulders and smiled.

“Exactly what he said happened,” I responded.

“How much wine did you drink tonight?” he asked.

“Not so much that I’m blind or stupid, but too much to drive,” I responded.

He nodded his head in confirmation, apparently disappointed he wasn’t able to make a few arrests.

“How’d you get here?” the officer asked as he turned toward the drunken man.

Obviously not an intelligent man, the drunk tossed his head toward a truck parked a few stalls away from where we were standing.

“Have a nice night,” the officer said with a nod as he grabbed the man by his upper arm and pulled him onto the sidewalk.

After carefully placing the can of gas in the floorboard between my feet, we got into the car and turned to face each other.

“Keys?” Vince asked as he held his hand out.

I reluctantly dropped the keys into his hand. Other than my father and me, he would be the only one to ever drive the car.

“Any secrets to starting it?” he asked as he pushed the key into the ignition.

“Pump it once and turn the key,” I said.

He started the car and slowly backed out of the parking stall. Relishing in the recollection of Vince’s one-sided fight, I glanced out the window and toward the building. The officer was giving the man a sobriety test on the sidewalk, and it was pretty obvious he wasn’t going to pass it. As I shifted my eyes toward Vince, I wondered just how well I would have performed the same test in my flip-flops.

“I appreciate you saying you were driving,” I said.

“No problem,” he responded. “I appreciate you taking me to get gas.”

“No problem,” I said in a mimicking tone. “But we’re not even.”

“Oh we’re not?” he asked over his shoulder as he pulled into the street.

The muscles on his tattooed bicep flared as he turned the steering wheel.

I shook my head and swallowed a mouthful of desire. “Nope. I want a ride on your bike.”

He turned his head in my direction as the car came to a stop at the traffic light. After cocking an eyebrow comically and fixing his eyes on mine, he responded.

“I don’t give just anyone a ride on my bike,” he said flatly.

“Well,” I said as I raised my eyebrow slightly.

“I’m not just anyone.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

VINCE

I had told myself over the course of the last year that a woman would have to prove herself to me to get me to even give her a moment’s notice, but in the end, that wasn’t necessarily the truth. A stupid mistake on my part had landed me in an upper middle class neighborhood, and within an hour, I had a gorgeous half-drunk brunette on the back of my bike, and was riding down a county road on my way to nowhere.

As interesting as she was, and as different as she seemed to be, she was still a woman, and without a doubt would have all of the characteristics of one – and a woman wasn’t something I needed in my life no matter how cute she was, how well she filled out her filthy sweats, or how cool her car was.

In the end, she was a woman, and women were evil.

For a short ride through the county at midnight, however, having her on the back of my bike was enjoyable. It reminded me of better times, the feeling of being complete, and not necessarily living with much desire to do anything but exist.

The city quickly turned into a few randomly placed rural housing developments, and eventually the developments diminished into a few sparse farm houses. After a matter of minutes, we were ten miles from the city and riding into the path my headlight cut into the otherwise completely dark road ahead.

As I became almost hypnotized by the bouncing beam of light, her hands lightly gripping my waist reminded me of Natalie. The thought was equal parts comforting and sickening at first, and after a few minutes, comforting was the clear winner. The fast approaching rural stop sign reminded me not only had we reached the highway, but that I needed to maintain my focus on the road, and not my passenger’s hand placement.

I stopped at the intersection, pulled out along the side of the highway, and rolled to a stop on the paved shoulder of the road.

“Is something wrong?” she asked as I kicked the heel of my boot against the kickstand.

I flipped the ignition switch off and reached down and turned the key, killing the lights.

“Nope, just stopping for a bit,” I responded.

We both stepped off the bike at the same time, and stood staring at each other illuminated only by what little moonlight escaped through the low passing clouds. I broke her gaze, glanced toward the ditch, and nodded my head in the direction of the large concrete storm water drain passing underneath the intersecting road.

“Grab a seat,” I said as tossed my head toward the large piece of exposed concrete.

Being subtle had never been one of my strengths, and I wasn’t going to try and change things now. In being honest with myself, riding with her on the back of my bike rekindled feelings I was sure had long since passed. Natalie hadn’t been on the back of my bike for a year before we divorced, and she’d been gone for roughly a year.

The last two years I had ridden alone, and although I had many requests to take women on rides, I never fulfilled them. Now that I had decided to, for whatever reason, I wasn’t sure I liked the result.

“I got to be honest with you,” I said as I sat down on the edge of the concrete.

“Okay,” she responded as she crossed her arms and gazed down at me.

“Sit,” I said as I patted the concrete beside me.

“I’ll stand,” she responded.

“I’m thirty-three years old. Married for fifteen years, and divorced a year ago. I’m a different kind of guy than you’d probably ever meet, and a damned far cry from most bikers you’d ever run across.” I paused and patted the concrete again.

She stood, staring down at me, and shook her head lightly. Standing there in the moonlight, still dressed in her sweats and flip-flops, no one could dispute her beauty. As I gazed up at her and fully realized just how beautiful she was, I reminded myself that external beauty acted as a distraction to what was on the inside.

“I was faithful. For fifteen years. I didn’t spend time at strip clubs with the fellas, or any more time at the bars than I had to. When I did, I always played it cool, and never let myself do anything stupid, short of fights and stuff. You know, never messed around. Then, I found out she was in a relationship with a guy. Hell, I guess I should have known, considering the way she treated me…” I hesitated and started to stand up.

She pointed to the concrete. “Sit.”

She walked to my side, sat down, and turned to face me. “Go ahead.”

“Well, fuck. I don’t know why I’m even telling you this. It’s just. Hell, I don’t know, having you on the back of my bike made me think of her or something. I mean, I’m done with her, but you grabbing my waist in your hands reminded me of her. I either liked it a lot or I hated it, I just can’t decide which it was,” I said.

She brushed her ponytail over her shoulder and twisted her mouth to the side. “Did you actually think of her, or did having my hands there make you feel something you haven’t felt in a while?”

I considered what she said, turned toward her, and wrinkled my nose. “You a fucking psychologist or something?”

She shook her head and grinned. “Just read a lot.”

“Yeah, me too,” I said as I gazed down at my boots.

“Really?” she asked.

Still focused on my boots, I nodded my head. “Like I said, you’ll never meet another like me. I sit at home every night and read. Probably five books a week. Rarely sleep. I’m either at the clubhouse, home reading, or somewhere in between.”

“A soft-hearted biker who loves to read,” she said.

“A soft-hearted biker with a short fuse and quick fists,” I said as I kicked the toe of my boot against the concrete.

“I noticed that,” she responded.

“Been an outlaw all my life. Figured joining the MC was my best bet at finding my true calling, and it seems I was right. They put my Pop in prison when I was a kid on a conspiracy to commit murder charge, and he died of pneumonia after a few years. When I turned eighteen I bought a bike, ten years later I joined the MC, and now I finally feel at home. Don’t care much for the government, can’t stand cops, and most of the time I think the country would be better off if Axton Bishop was President,” I said.

“I’m sorry about your father. That’s crazy. My dad did five years for a burglary he didn’t commit. He was at home asleep at the time, but because of an old assault charge, he was in the system. Someone picked him out of a lineup. I’ll never forgive them for what they did to him. He was gone the entire time I was high school. Motherfuckers,” she said as she tossed a rock into the ditch.

“You said he passed,” I said as I shifted my eyes toward her. “Can I ask?”

“Colon cancer,” she said with a nod.

“Sorry,” I said.

“Yeah, me too. And who is Axton Bishop?” she asked.

“Huh? Oh. He’s the president of the MC,” I said with a laugh.

“I’ll write him in Next November,” she said.

“You won’t be the only one,” I said.

“How about when we leave, I’ll wrap my hands around your neck? Maybe that’ll make you feel more comfortable,” she said.

“Wrap my hands around your fucking neck if you ain’t careful,” I said.

“Don’t make promises you aren’t willing to keep,” she said as she stood up.

Just saying it caused my cock to begin to twitch. Realizing it had done so made me to worry about it, and my worrying kept the thought in the forefront of my mind. Within a few seconds, I had a full-blown hard on, and although I wasn’t necessarily embarrassed, I wasn’t proud either.

But, as I had said many times in the past, subtlety wasn’t a strength I possessed.

“You ready?” I asked as I stood.

She turned to face me, and her eyes quickly fell to my crotch. After a short pause, they worked their way up to meet mine.

I grinned and nodded my head toward the bike.

“Guess so,” she said.

As I walked toward the bike, she continued.

“So what’d we decide? You going to wrap those hands around my neck?” she nonchalantly asked.

As I threw my leg over the seat of the bike and acted as if I didn’t hear her, I knew if I ever chose to see her again, I’d damned sure have my hands full.

And I wasn’t totally convinced that would be a bad thing.

Not totally.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

SIENNA

I sat in my living room flipping through Netflix’s available shows. After thirty minutes of searching for something new, I decided Netflix never had anything new, and chose to watch another episode of Orange is the New Black.

For some reason, the thought of being tossed into a women’s prison was a constant fear of mine, and watching the show was a good reminder of how much I did not want to be in prison. For me, and I was sure for many women, the show had proven to be the best deterrent of crime ever invented.

Three episodes later, I was bored, horny, and as always, lonely. It really didn’t seem to matter who I had chosen for a boyfriend in the past, every one of them wanted the same thing in the end, access to my late father’s wealth. I wasn’t a rich woman by any stretch of the imagination, but I could easily live the rest of my life without working, as long as I was careful about what I spent my money on.

I lived in his home, had only utilities to pay, and had no car payment. Most would consider me wealthy. I, on the other hand, considered myself fatherless, and no amount of wealth would ever replace the void his death left inside of me or in my life.

I seemed to have some type of attraction to douchebags. Old ones, young ones, skinny ones, gym rats, I had dated them all. The common threat between them all was that they were douchebags. Either unwilling to commit or incapable of doing so, and always a liar, they seemed to flock to me like bees to fucking honey.

I suppose it was quite possible it was me who was attracted to them, and somehow in a subconscious frenzy of idiocy I chose them, knowing they would eventually pull some douche move and be tossed aside like the others, but I didn’t quite believe I was the one at fault. I liked to blame them, because in the end, they were the douchebags.

I sat and blankly stared at the little squares of Netflix choices frozen in time on the screen of my television, angry that I hadn’t received my Advance Review Copy of a new Erotic Romance novel I was supposed to review. After a few moments, I began to think of Vince, how out of nowhere he appeared in my life, and how much it ended up we had in common.

My father described fate as the unexpected result of the natural development of life. I guessed Vince’s appearance was nothing short of that, and as I continued to sit and stare at the television, it angered me that he didn’t have a phone. He explained how he decided he didn’t want a phone after his divorce, and that he had lived for the last year without a television, and relied solely on music for at-home entertainment. At first I didn’t want to believe him, but after talking for a while about it, I realized he was being truthful, and more than likely imposing some weird type of punishment on himself for something he didn’t even do, or deserve to be punished for.

Now sitting on the couch gripping the remote control like I was trying to squeeze the last unavailable ounce of toothpaste from an empty tube, I became mad as his ex-wife for treating him the way she did. No one deserved to be heartbroken, and even bad-ass bikers were included.

I seriously doubted I could ever be in an actual relationship with someone like Vince, and I further doubted that I would ever see him again, but the thought of it was pretty satisfying for the time being.

I relaxed onto the couch and daydreamed about riding on the back of his motorcycle in cut-off jean shorts, sneakers, and a ripped up tee shirt. With one hand wrapped around his waist and the other resting in between his thighs, we’d ride across the country without a worry, fucking at every place we stopped.

His ex-wife would call him back, and after a few angst-filled weeks of separation, we’d end up back together and his ex would get ran over by a train. Together, we’d go to the funeral, only to meet newest ex-husband, who would be with a girl twelve years his junior.

A true romance novel in the flesh.

The sound of a motorcycle woke me from my not-so-deep sleep. I sat up on the couch, confused as to whether the sound was something from my dream or reality. The silence provided all of the proof I needed that the motorcycle was in my dream. Frustrated and in need of a drink of some sort, I rolled from the edge of the couch and wiped my eyes.

A thud against my front door startled me, and the sound of the doorbell that followed did more of the same. Slightly confused and maybe a little overanxious, I ran to the window and pulled the blinds.

Vince’s bike sat in the driveway.

I ran to the door and yanked it open.

Vince was leaning against the frame of the door, and his shoulder pressing against the wooden frame seemed to be the only thing holding him up. His head hanging down, and his face out of view, I suspected he was drunk and was making his version of a bootie call.

As a mild version of flattery filled me, I reached for his wrist to guide him in. As my hand touched his wrist, he glanced upward.

“Holy shit!” I gasped.

Someone had beaten him half to death. Both eyes were swollen, and his face was covered in blood. As he fell into my arms, I noticed both of his lips were mangled. Far too much for me to hold up on my own, he eventually fell from my arms and onto the floor.

As he tried to stand, he turned his mangled face toward me and did his best to smile. His once white teeth were covered in blood.

“You should…” he mumbled.

“Shhh, let me call an ambulance,” I said.

“No!” he grunted.

“You should…see…the other guy,” he murmured.

And he collapsed on the floor.

 

 

 

“Pretty In Ink” is LIVE on Amazon, and if you’re ready for a modern day Cinderella….

Pretty In Ink is a modern day adult Cinderella story of a foul-mouthed female tattoo artist who meets a handsome millionaire.

What a tale of love, loss, lust, sex, passion, and ultimately…the happiest of HEAs.

What a story this is. A must read book if you love a great erotic tale.

BUY LINK: http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B0178VNZ2I

 

Bodies Ink and Steel Book II, “Stevie’s Book” first four chapters

I have attached the first four chapters of Stevie’s Book, which will be released the 26th. The title will be released the 19th.

Enjoy…

STEVIE

His very muscular shirtless torso caught my eyes as he walked out of the bedroom. As I stirred my much needed coffee and peered toward him, he sauntered into the living room as if he didn’t have a worry in the world. Hell, maybe he didn’t as far as he was concerned. While he glanced around the unfamiliar surroundings, I attempted to shift my focus from my cup of coffee and catch his attention before he got too close.

“Where’s your shirt?” I hollered.

His body swiveled toward my voice. Upon seeing me, his eyes went wide. “I didn’t know where you went.”

I glanced down at his bare feet, chuckled, and shifted my eyes upward. “Well, now you know. Where’s your fucking boots?”

He tossed his head to the side. “They’re in your room.”

I really wish you would have lasted long enough to make me have an orgasm…

I really do.

He had the body of a Greek God. Muscles on top of muscles, no body fat, a ripped mid-section, and a prominent “V” at his waist – the “Fuck me V” I preferred men to have. Actually, it was much more than a preference. To be honest, I required it. Anyone could see he was well equipped in the muscle department, and he described himself in the bar as being hung like a horse. He didn’t lie in that regard, his cock was massive.

But.

He had no sexual stamina.

I took a sip of coffee and shrugged my shoulders. “Well?”

“Well what?” he asked as he continued to walk in my direction.

“Well, you aren’t going to want to ride home like that,” I said as I nodded my head toward him. “Go get ‘em.”

“I ain’t plannin’ on leaving just yet. Thought we could go at it again,” he said with a laugh as he flexed his massive chest.

I nodded my head and widened my eyes comically, like he’d revealed one of the greatest ideas I had heard in the last decade. Although I hadn’t originally intended to do so, as I lowered my coffee cup to the counter, I burst into laughter.

“What?” he shrugged as he stepped into the threshold of the doorway.

He would have been most women’s dream come true. A Harley riding hellion who was tall, muscular, handsome, rough, had a few tattoos scattered about his upper arms and a cock the size of a large cucumber. To me, however, the man was as useless as a snooze button on a smoke alarm. Having him standing in the same room as me made me slightly uncomfortable. I really wanted him to leave; the thought of him now that the night was over included no desire on my part to continue anything sexually. I suspected most women would have at least got a little more dick from the guy before he left. Hell, it wouldn’t have cost me anything.

Well, nothing but a little pride.

“Listen. Go grab your shit and hop on that HOG of yours and just go on home,” I said as I turned toward the sink.

“Somethin’ wrong?” he asked as he walked into the kitchen.

Okay, that’s too close.

I placed my cup on the counter and turned to face him. “Other than the fact you’re in my kitchen? No.”

I tilted my head toward the doorway. “Listen, just go.”

And it was then that he grabbed my shoulder. It wasn’t the kind of grab a girl likes. Not the one that makes her go weak in the knees or feel butterflies. Hell, it wasn’t even the one where a guy forces his woman to commit the act.

The way he grabbed me reminded me of my ex.

The “I’m getting what I came here for, regardless of what you just said” grab.

One clear benefit I could see in moving from San Diego to the Midwest was the effortless yet completely legal means of owning a firearm. California sat on one end of the spectrum mirroring communism while Kansas sat clearly on the other. Considering the amount of people I witnessed carrying guns on the streets since I’d moved to Kansas, it was almost as if I had moved to the Wild West. To comply with the state’s gun laws, a concealed carry permit could be obtained, allowing you to conceal your pistol and carry it at will. Or, a legal owner of any firearm could choose the “open carry” option – requiring no permit – and carry the weapon on his or her hip.

Personally, I chose the cabinet carry method.

I spun the side, pulled open the kitchen cabinet, grabbed my newly purchased .45 caliber Colt pistol and leveled it at his head.

“See, you could have left. You really could have,” I said as he began to walk backward, raising his hands a little higher with each step.

“What the fuck…”

“What the fuck is right. What the fuck did you grab me for? Huh?” I asked as I continued to force him closer to the door.

“I wanted to…”

“Shut up. Now you get to ride home barefoot. Get the fuck out,” I fumed as I tilted my head toward the door.

“Hold on,” he said. “You uhhm. Fuck, you really need to…”

“You’re all fucked up on where you are,” I said. “I make the rules in this house. You really need to go.”

“I can’t ride without my boots,” he shrugged as he continued to nervously eye the barrel of the pistol.

“You’d be surprised. Get out,” I demanded. “And I’ll leave whatever you’ve left here at the door of the bar where we met last night on my way to work.”

“You crazy little…”

“Bitch? Yeah. I am,” I said with a grin as he stumbled into the door.

“Now reach around and open it. It’s unlocked,” I said as I nodded my head toward the door.

‘You’re really going to…”

“Yeah, really,” I said as I reached past him with my free hand and opened the door.

“Crazy bitch,” he said over his shoulder as he walked to his Harley.

“You fuck like a girl,” I hollered as I slammed the door.

I walked into the kitchen and set the pistol on the countertop. After warming my cold coffee in the microwave I made some toast, sat down, and began to eat my light breakfast. Half a dozen beers, a few margaritas, and who knows what afterward had led to a night that was a blur of a memory at best, and now my stomach was in turmoil; anything more than toast and I’d yack for sure.

And I hated barfing just about as much as I hated men with no stamina.

As the sound of his Harley faded into the distance, it was almost as if a small part of my confidence went with him. A girl with my looks, body, sexual appetite, and my attitude should be able to find a man compatible with her.

But try as I might, I always seemed to choose the losers.

I had decided after leaving Bart that the next man I settled down with was going to treat me right, fuck me right, and be able to stand on his own two feet without my income as a crutch.

And I really didn’t care how many men I had to force out of my house at gunpoint to find him.

 

WILSON

As a child, I dreamed not of obtaining material things, toys, or property of any kind, but of spending time with my parents, playing in the yard, and being allowed to enjoy life as the kid I desperately wanted to be. My childhood slipped away from me, somehow without so much as a trip to the park, a single soccer match, or a birthday party with my friends.

I was raised in a disciplinary home by parents who placed tremendous value in protecting their only child from the drugs, violence, and mayhem they believed to be prevalent in the streets of the city I grew up in.

Receiving my education at home, having little exposure to other children, and being raised by a caretaker while my parents either worked or mingled with the business partners of my father should have left me mentally deranged or yearning for even an ounce of affection. For some reason, it didn’t. As an adult I would describe myself as cocky, confident, and extremely wealthy. Most who didn’t know me portrayed me as being an arrogant man, but nothing could be further from the truth.

I viewed myself as being extremely disciplined, capable of exercising control in almost any situation, and slightly weary of outsiders attempting to enter my otherwise private life. The fact that I was human and male assured me there would always, however, be exceptions to these rules.

As I stood under the overhang and gazed out at the parking lot, the unmistakable high-pitched complaint of an angry woman caused me to shift my eyes toward the sound of the well-chosen string of expletives.

“Son of a fucking cocksucking motherfucking bitch.”

Standing beside what I suspected was her bicycle with her hands full of groceries; she widened her eyes and appeared as if she was ready to start a fight. “What are you looking at?” she snarled.

I tried to keep from laughing and eventually shrugged my shoulders and simply grinned. She was five foot tall at best, weighed maybe a hundred pounds, wore jean shorts, a sleeveless tee-shirt – which she obviously made at home – and hair that resembled the color of a peach. As my eyes darted from her gorgeous face to her remarkably colored hair and back to her tattooed arms, I realized she was covered from her wrists to her shoulders in the colorful ink.

I had always perceived tattoos to be an interesting form of art, but found them quite distasteful on women.

Yet she was remarkably beautiful.

“I was looking at the rain,” I said as I shifted my eyes once again to the parking lot. “But your expressed displeasure caught my attention.”

“Expressed displeasure?” she said mockingly as she rested her bike against the long string of shopping carts.

“Mmhhmm,” I responded.

As much as I wanted to turn and admire her tattoos, I forced myself to gaze into the parking lot at the late afternoon deluge that fell from the summer sky. My choice to stare blankly at the rainstorm didn’t satisfy me for long, but considering her striking good looks and the fact I enjoyed ogling people’s tattoos, it was no surprise I eventually turned in her direction and smiled.

“I like your tattoos,” I said. “They’re fascinating.”

She lowered her groceries to the concrete, crossed her arms, and tilted her head to the side. “Really? You’re the first person to ever tell me that.”

I cocked an eyebrow and feigned surprise. I was still quite lost in her beauty. “Is that so?”

She narrowed her eyes and leaned back slightly. “No, it isn’t so, you idiot. You’re like the tenth person this week who’s said some shit about them. I fucking swear, do guys just think mentioning a chick’s tattoos is the best way to get in her pants?”

Arrogant or conceited may be inaccurate descriptions of me, but naïve could be used at times, and accurately so. I often wondered if my sheltered childhood prevented me from obtaining all of the real-world exposure that left most men with the keen sense of human nature which I seemed to lack.

“I wasn’t trying to get in your pants. I merely made an observation,” I responded as I turned away.

The rain continued to come down in a manner resembling a hurricane, something typical of a Gulf Coast fueled summer rain in the Midwest.

“Here’s an observation for you. It’s fucking raining,” she said as she waved her hand toward the parking lot.

It certainly wasn’t small talk, nor did she appear to be the slight bit interested in anything more than getting home with her groceries, but to me it was enough of an exchange to encourage me to press a little further.

“Well, it doesn’t look like it’s stopping any time soon, so…” I paused and turned toward her. “I can offer to toss your bike in the back of my car and give you a ride.”

With her eyes still fixed on me, she waved her hand toward her bicycle. “I don’t toss my bike around. It’s my only ride, so I take care of it.”

“I didn’t mean…nevermind. Let me run and get my car and I’ll pull up here and pop the hatch. I’m Wilson,” I said as I held my hand out.

“Like Tom Hanks’ little buddy, the volleyball?” she asked with a laugh.

I pursed my lips and nodded my head, guessing I had heard the comparison made as many times as she’d had people make a comment about her tattoos. Considering all things, it was far from practical for me to toss the bicycle of an unknown tattooed girl with the mouth of a sailor into the back of my SUV and give her a ride home. Nonetheless, I stood and stared at her admiringly, hoping she would agree to my offer.

“Okay, Wilson. I’d tell you normally I don’t do shit like this, but it’d be a fucking lie. I’m Stevie. I appreciate the offer. Thanks,” she said as she shook my hand.

As she released my hand my mouth curled into a smile. As much as I liked the thought of a girl with a unique name like Stevie, I couldn’t help myself.

“Like the blind singer from the 1960’s, Stevie Wonder?” I asked.

“Good one,” she said. “Now go get your car before you say something stupid and I decide to ride in the rain.”

I gazed down at my one week old Allen Edmonds Oxfords. I doubted the rain would actually harm the shoe, and even if it did, in the grand scheme of things it didn’t matter – but something about running through the six inches of water standing in the parking lot in my newly purchased $400.00 shoes didn’t seem sensible.

And, for the most part, I was always sensible.

I turned toward her and grinned. “Be back in a minute.”

I reached into the pocket of my pants, gripped the key fob in my hand, and dashed through the parking lot as fast as I was able. By the time I reached my vehicle, I was soaked from my feet to mid-thigh. I yanked the door open, flopped down into the leather seat, and stared down at the rain-soaked pants as they clung to my legs.

A far cry from my typical day at the office.

As I pulled the SUV alongside the curb in front of the store, Stevie stood and stared. I pressed the hatch-release button on the dash and rolled the passenger window down slightly.

“Just wait there, I’ll get it,” I said through the open window.

As she nodded her head I rolled up the window. After getting out and running around the car, I picked up her bike and carefully placed it in the back of the SUV and closed the hatch. Without speaking, we made eye contact, and she quickly leaped from under the overhand toward the vehicle in two long strides.

Now sitting in the car drenched from head to toe, I turned to face her. She was equally soaked, her orange and pink hair a darkened wet mess matted to the sides of her face. After a short time of surveying the interior of the vehicle, she reached for her seatbelt.

“So, a Porsche? You haul your kids around in this?” she asked, improperly pronouncing the word “Porsche” in one syllable.

“Yes,” I said as I pulled away from the curb. “And no.”

She glanced up from situating the bags of groceries at her feet and narrowed her eyes. “Huh?” she huffed.

“Yes, I drive a Porsche,” I said, pronouncing the word Por-sha. “And no, I don’t haul kids around in this. I’m single, and I have no children.

“I thought it was Porsche,” she said, improperly pronouncing the word once more.

I shook my head. “It really doesn’t matter. I was being facetious. Almost everyone pronounces it like you do.”

As I waited at the exit for a break in traffic, she sat sideways in her seat and studied me. After a moment, she shifted in the seat, faced forward, and stared out into traffic.

“‘Expressed displeasure.’ ‘Merely made an observation.’ ‘Por-sha.’ ‘I was being facetious.’ You sound like you went to Harvard,” she said, pronouncing the word Hah-vahd.

“I did not attend Harvard,” I said as I checked traffic in each direction. As I glanced to my right, my eyes once again became fixed on her.

She raised her hands and began raking her fingers through her wet hair as her eyes fell to her lap. Her forearms seemed to be much more colorful now that they were wet. After enjoying watching her for a short moment, I pulled out of the exit and accelerated into traffic.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

She continued to toss her hair. “You know where Riverside is?” she asked as she glanced in my direction.

I did my best to focus on the road ahead of me and not stare at her, although doing so was difficult at best. The more I studied her, the more I wanted to continue.

I nodded my head as I approached the highway. “I sure do.”

“Well, head that direction,” she said.

As she peered out the side window, seeming to take each passing car and the few distant buildings into memory, she cleared her throat.

“So, were you lurking at the store waiting for some poor girl to need a ride?” she asked as she turned in my direction.

“Excuse me?” I responded.

“You were leaving, and you didn’t have a bag, weren’t holding anything, and you don’t have a bulge in your pockets, so what were you doing there? Is this something you do frequently?” she asked.

Her eyes were an almost transparent brown, and her skin was dark, but didn’t seem overly dark like some of the women who spent countless hours in the sun or a tanning booth. As I formulated my response in my head, I wondered what color her hair would be if she hadn’t colored it the combination of blonde and pink.

“I was mailing my sister a package on the way to my office,” I responded.

She gazed down at my still soaking wet pants, peered into the rear of the vehicle, and turned to face me.

“So what is it that you do, Wilson?” she asked.

“I buy and sell stocks,” I responded.

“So, you’re a stockbroker?” she asked.

“No, not a broker,” I responded, shaking my head. “A broker works as an intermediary of sorts, making trades on behalf of retail clients. I buy and sell securities in the same day, normally in large quantities, hoping for a small increase, but making a large profit due to the amount purchased. It’s a fast-paced business.”

“Day trader?” she asked.

“Exactly,” I responded, surprised she had even heard of the title.

“You don’t look like a day trader. Not that I was looking, but you’re built like a body builder,” she said.

I grinned and nodded my head. “The wet shirt gave it away, didn’t it? Thank you, I’ve studied martial arts my entire life, and I’m quite dedicated. My parents insisted on it. A man should be able to protect himself and the ones he loves.”

“You don’t ride a Harley, do you?” she asked as she shifted her eyes toward my chest.

“I sure don’t,” I responded with a laugh. “Why?”

As her focus stayed fixed on my mid-section, I realized not only were my wet pants pasted to my legs, but my soaking wet shirt was stuck to my arms and chest, and was almost transparent.

“Just wondering. I only date guys who ride Harleys, and I just moved here, and I’m single, so I was just, I don’t know…”

“Wondering…”

The thought of being in a relationship with anyone caused me tremendous grief. Although I had been with women sexually, I had never been in an actual relationship with anyone. My parents, financial status, aggressive work practices, and frequent travel all but prohibited me from being in an effective relationship.

No one would ever suit my parents, unless I married someone from another state. Their thoughts of people in the Midwest were that they weren’t good enough for me, even though they had lived in the Midwest for the majority of their adult lives. Over time, their constant fear of a woman taking my fortune in whole or in part became my fear.

As hard as I had worked for my money, I often felt I would be willing to forfeit it all to have a normal life with a normal woman; far away from the watchful eyes and constant questioning of my parents.

“What do you do?” I asked.

“Tattoo artist. Just got a job at Blurred Lines, it’s a pretty new shop in Old Town,” she responded.

I nodded my head as I exited the highway. “It’s an awful shame about the Harley thing.”

She wrinkled her brow and raised one eyebrow slightly. “What do you mean?” she asked.

“Well, I only date tattoo artists,” I responded. “So it’s a shame you only date guys who ride Harleys. I guess I could buy one.”

“You can’t buy the personality,” she said.

“Oh, so I don’t have a personality?” I asked.

“Turn here,” she said as she pointed at the upcoming street.

As I turned the corner, the rain slowed to a light sprinkle. I realized what she meant in her comment about my personality, or at least I felt that I knew what she was trying to say. The back and forth banter regarding a relationship was a nice change of pace, and I found it to be not only interesting, but quite entertaining. As my mind floated away to thoughts of having a petite tattooed girlfriend with a foul mouth, she answered my earlier question.

“You’ve got the personality of a rich brat,” she said. “And what I was saying is that you may buy the Harley, but you can’t buy the personality I want.”

I immediately took exception to her remarks. I was far from a rich brat, and my actions, our dialogue, nor my dress made me appear to be so.

“Rich brat?” I said. “I take exception to that statement. If I would have been dressed in jeans and boots and pulled up to the front of the store in a truck, would you say the same thing?”

She shook her head. “No, but you didn’t. You’re dressed in slacks, a nice button down shirt, and dress shoes. And you pulled up in a Por-sha. Oh, and you’re a day trader. You buy and sell securities in the same day, normally in large quantities, hoping for a small increase, but making a large profit due to the amount purchased. Or whatever it was that you said,” she said mockingly.

I was thoroughly impressed at her capacity to retain information, primarily her ability to recite word for word what I had said earlier. Even so, her comment was without warrant, and wasn’t supported by her claims.

“So, I don’t have the personality of a rich brat, I have the perception of one. My dress, my choice of vehicles, nor my profession would be indicative of the personality I possess. I have a great personality,” I said.

“Maybe if you pulled that stick out of your ass,” she said. “Turn here, on Eleventh. Then a right on Lewellen.”

Her personality was as colorful as her tattoos and her hair. Contrary to anything sensible, and without a doubt against the beliefs and potential support of my parents, I decided to press even further.

“I would like to take you on a date,” I said.

“Right here,” she said as she pointed to a small brownstone on the left side. “1229.”

“Would you now? Well, I might consider it, but you’ll have to dress in something different. I don’t own any clothes like that, so you’ll need to get some jeans and a tee shirt,” she said.

“I have jeans and tee shirts,” I responded as I turned into the driveway.

I gazed out the windshield and out into the sky. The rain had stopped, and the sun was shining through a gap between the clouds as they slowly rolled away. As I shifted my gaze from the sky to the driveway in front of me, I realized the home had no garage, and there wasn’t a car in sight. I shifted the gear selector into park and turned in her direction.

“Is your vehicle broken?” I asked.

“My vehicle is in the back,” she responded as she tossed her head toward the rear of the car. “I don’t own a car. I’m from San Diego, and it never fucking rains there.”

“Oh,” I responded, quite shocked to learn that she had no vehicle.

She opened the door, grabbed her groceries, and stepped out of the car. I pressed the button to release the hatch, stepped from the car and quickly followed.

“So, when do you prefer to try and do this?” I asked as I walked toward the rear of the vehicle.

“Do what?” she asked.

For having an almost photographic memory of our previous dialogue, she sure seemed to forget the details of our recent discussion about going on a date in a matter of minutes. Maybe it wasn’t as important to her as it had become to me.

“Go on a date,” I responded as I pulled her bicycle out of the back of the car.

“Oh that,” she said. “I don’t know. How about tonight?”

Short of being slightly over an hour later to arrive at my office than I had planned, I knew my day’s schedule was as slight as any other. My evening would be spent at the office, gym, and home, in that order.

“Tonight sounds great,” I said as I pushed her bike toward where she stood.

She glanced upward and grinned, eventually revealing a smile which made her appear slightly more beautiful than she seemed to be without it. Her tattoos set aside, she was certainly as or more beautiful than any other woman I had ever seen.

Yet.

After seeing her with the tattoos, I could not imagine her without them. In the past I would have turned my nose upward at a woman with as many tattoos as she had, but for her, they only added to her already outgoing personality. And, although I had yet to decide for certain, I was almost convinced they also added to her beauty.

“Alright. I’m not giving you my phone number if that’s what you’re standing there waiting for. Just pick me up here, tonight at oh, let’s say, six thirty. How’s that sound?” she asked.

I grinned and nodded my head. “I’ll see you at six thirty.”

“Bye, Wilson,” she said as she turned away.

I waved as she pushed her bicycle toward the side of the house, but it appeared she paid no attention. Slightly disappointed in her lack of expressed interest, I reluctantly walked to the side of the car, got in, and backed out of the drive.

As I shifted the car into gear and prepared to pull away, I peered over my shoulder and toward the front porch just in time to see the door swing closed. My final effort to catch one more glimpse of her obviously wasn’t meant to be.

Her image, however, was clearly etched into my mind.

And my entire work day was spent thinking not of short sales, securities, stocks, options, or futures, but of her.

And the seemed to drag on forever.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

STEVIE

For some reason I had spent the majority of the afternoon of my day off thinking of Wilson. It was unlike me to spend any time daydreaming or contemplating the possibilities of life – or men for that matter – I had always been a “by the seat of your pants” type of girl. When things happened, I reacted, and I didn’t really worry about what may be or what might happen, focusing only on what had happened and what I should do as a result. For whatever reason, I seemed to be intrigued by Wilson, his kind and caring nature, and his matter-of-fact personality. He was completely the opposite of what I had always been attracted to in a man, but something about him sure seemed to have captured my interest.

A large part of it had to be his handsome looks. He was a very attractive man with an extremely strong presence. His wet shirt clinging to his well-defined chest and muscular biceps as he ran through the rain may have played a large part in my subconscious attraction. Realistically, there wasn’t anything wrong with him that I could see; only that he wasn’t a biker, and I had always dated bikers.

I straightened my work station and cleaned my drawers free of trash as I tried to convince myself a change in pace wasn’t necessarily going to be a bad thing. Maybe going on a date with a rich brat was just what I needed.

Riley’s heavy sigh from across the shop caught my attention and shifted my focus from thoughts of Wilson to the reality of cleaning the shop. Riley was the fiancé of the owner, Blake, and didn’t have a job. I guessed she must not need one, because she came into the shop and worked as a half-assed receptionist on a daily basis. She seemed to be a little bit of a lost soul, but she fit Blake’s scatterbrained personality perfectly. As broken as they were apart, together they seemed to somehow correct all of their individual faults and shortcomings.

Well, almost all of them.

“The pictures are all fuzzy. It’s supposed to take really clear pictures, but it freaking sucks,” she said as she stared down at the screen of her new phone.

She had just completed taking another series of photos of the shop, and was attempting to make a Facebook page. After I finished sweeping my floor I walked to the reception area and glared at her as she continued to flip through the grainy pictures on her phone.

I reached for her phone. “Let me see it.”

“It’s stupid. I swear, you’d think for six hundred bucks it would take better pictures than my old phone,” she said as she handed me the phone.

After looking over a few of the terribly blurry photos, I turned the phone over and glanced at the camera’s lens. The clear plastic protective film was still affixed to it, making obtaining a clear photo nothing short of impossible. I turned toward her, shook my head, and peeled the film from the lens.

“Here, dumbass,” I said as I handed her the phone. “My guess is it’ll do a lot better now.”

She chuckled as she reached for the phone. “Oh, wow. Now I feel stupid.”

“You are stupid,” I said as I turned away.

Riley was far from stupid, but I liked teasing her. She had quickly become my favorite person, and was my only girlfriend. She was a fairly quiet person, listened well, and was easy to frustrate, leaving me no alternative but to tease her. Her sense of wit was pretty keen, but a little slow at times.

“I am not,” she shouted as I sat down on my stool.

I reached for my drawer, pulled out a box of cellophane wrap, and pulled about ten feet of it from the roll. After folding the wrap into a two foot square, I held it directly in front of my face, and attempted to peer through it toward where she was standing.

“Fuck, I can’t see a thing. Everything’s all blurry,” I whined.

“Fuck you, Stevie,” she snapped back.

I wadded the cellophane into a ball and tossed it toward the trash basket in the front of the store, a good twenty-five feet from where I was sitting. It fell directly into the trash as Riley pivoted in a circle, snapping photos of the shop with every ten degrees or so of rotation. I nodded my head in confirmation of my skills, half aggravated that Riley didn’t witness the almost impossible basket.

“You didn’t see that, did you?” I asked as I waved my hand toward the basket again.

She continued to pivot a few inches at a time, snapping a picture each time she stopped. “See what?” she asked.

“Forget it,” I sighed.

“So, why are you in such a shitty mood?” she asked as she leaned against the stool and began flipping through her newly acquired photos.

I shrugged my shoulders and tossed my head toward the door. “It’s fucking raining again.”

“I can take you home,” she said without looking up from her phone.

“Hopefully it’ll stop here pretty quick,” I responded.

She glanced up and peered toward where I was sitting. “I can’t believe you came in on your day off just to clean your station.”

“I can’t believe you came in on your day off to take pictures. Me? I love this place,” I said in a sarcastic tone.

Truthfully, I did enjoy going in to work, even on my day off. It was a really cool shop, and Blake and Riley were as good of people as I had ever met. Being at work was soothing for me, even if I wasn’t actually working. The shop was a place I knew I could find peace, and no one messed with me when I was there. There were the occasional idiots who came in and wanted some stupid tattoo, but seeing them, hearing their stories, and giving them a piece of artwork – even if it was stupid – was always pretty entertaining. Today, as odd as it seemed, I was apprehensive about my upcoming date with Wilson, and seemed to be trying to waste time until six o’clock rolled around. At times, I wished Blake would just keep the shop open seven days a week; at least I would always have something to do. As the buzzer for the front door sounded, I glanced toward the entrance.

“Is there a Stevie here?” the man asked as he entered the shop.

“Right here,” I said as I walked toward him. “Actually, we’re closed, but what can I do for you?”

“Here you go,” he said as he dangled a pair of what appeared to be key fobs from his fingers.

“Here you go what?” I shrugged as I glanced down at his hand.

“Mr. Wilson was afraid you’d be riding your bike in the rain. He sent this for you,” he said.

I wrinkled my nose and stared. “Mr. Wilson?”

“That is correct, ma’am,” he said.

He appeared to be in his mid-twenties, was an attractive guy, and was dressed similar to Wilson, wearing slacks, a pressed shirt, and dress shoes.

“Wait a minute. Mr. Wilson? So his last name is Wilson? And he sent me a fucking car?” I asked, half confused and slightly excited.

“I’m not at liberty to say, ma’am. And that is correct, he sent you a car,” he responded with a nod of his head.

He reached toward me and shook the key fobs as if they were a bell.

I glanced toward Riley and widened my eyes. As she began to walk in our direction, I shifted my eyes toward the man with the keys. “He rented me a car to drive so I wouldn’t get wet? And what do you mean you’re not at liberty to say? Who the fuck are you?”

He stood stone-faced with his hands on his hips. “I’m Andrew, and associate of Mr. Wilson’s. And no, ma’am, he didn’t rent a car. He purchased the car and had me pick it up for you. I was advised to deliver the car to you. Mr. Wilson was afraid the rain may hinder your ride home and prevent you from being on time for your meeting later this evening.”

“So you’re giving me this car to drive so I don’t get wet?” I asked, attempting to contain my excitement.

As much as I was against cars and associated them with confinement, living in Kansas was a far cry from living in San Diego, and not having a car was proving to be impossible.

“No ma’am. Not exactly. It appears Mr. Wilson purchased the car for you. He was under the understanding you didn’t have a car, and he wanted you to be able to get out of the weather. He said…” He paused and glanced down at his feet.

As he shifted his eyes upward, he continued. “He said it was the closest he could get to providing you with San Diego’s weather.”

“So you’re giving her a car?” Riley asked as she reached for the keys.

He pulled the keys toward his chest. “No ma’am. Mr. Wilson is giving her a car. I’m sorry, there’s a cab waiting, and I need to get back to the office. Mr. Wilson’s card is in the passenger seat. You may call him if you have any further questions.”

I glanced at Riley and grinned. As strange as it seemed, I extended my open hand and shifted my eyes toward Andrew. He released the keys into my hand, nodded his head, and turned toward the door.

“It’s the white coupe parked by the door,” he said over his shoulder.

I glanced down at the two key fobs.

BMW.

Riley looked up with wide eyes after studying the keys. “Uhhm, those are keys to a BMW.”

“I can see that,” I said as I walked toward the window.

“So the guy you met at the grocery store bought you a fucking car?” Riley asked.

I shrugged my shoulders.

She chuckled, covered her mouth, and turned to face me. “You sucked his cock, didn’t you?”

“No I didn’t suck his fucking cock,” I snapped back. “He just gave me a ride.”

It was slightly out of character for me not to suck his cock, but for some reason I hadn’t. Maybe it was because it was ten o’ clock in the morning, and I hadn’t been drinking yet. One predictable pattern of mine was that sex seemed to always follow the consumption of alcohol.

With Riley at my side, I stood and peered through the glass. A white two door BMW sat beside the curb in front of the shop. The window sticker from the dealership was still on the passenger side window. Without speaking I walked to the front door of the shop, opened it, and waited for Riley. Together we walked to the curb and stared at the car. After studying the key fob for a moment, I pressed the button to unlock the car.

“Get in,” I said as I opened the driver’s side door.

The inside of the car was a combination of light tan and black, and smelled of new leather. In slight shock, I sat in the seat and stared at the gear selector. A short but confusing moment later, I leaned back in the seat and stared down at the pedals.

As Riley got into the passenger side of the car she handed me a business card, obviously the one Wilson had left on the seat of the car for me. The name “Wilson” and a phone number were all that was on the card. It was simple but mysterious in an odd sense. Maybe it was because I wanted it to be. I dropped the card into the center console, turned to face Riley, and shrugged my shoulders.

“It’s a stick shift, but there’s no clutch pedal,” I said as I glanced around, trying to make sense of the many dials and levers. “How the fuck do you make it go?”

“It’s just like mine,” Riley said.

Riley’s ex bought her a new BMW for her birthday, and when they separated, she kept the car. She seemed to love driving it, and her knowledge of the futuristic spaceship like cockpit would certainly be useful to someone used to riding nothing but a bicycle.

“It’s a manual shift with no clutch pedal. It’s fun. See those paddles on the steering wheel?” she asked as she motioned toward the center of the steering wheel.

On each side of the center of the steering wheel was a small silver lever. The one on the left was clearly marked with a minus symbol, and the one on the right with a plus symbol. After studying them for a moment, I nodded my head.

“The one on the left shifts down and the one on the right shifts up. You just click them up and down, and there’s no clutch pedal, the levers do it all,” Riley explained.

“No shit?” I asked.

Riley opened the door, stepped onto the sidewalk and leaned into the car. “Let’s lock the shop and go for a drive.”

I continued to glance around the car, nodding my head mindlessly as I tried to make sense of everything. A few minutes later Riley opened the door, lowered herself into the seat, and buckled her seatbelt.

I had always explained how I hated cars, and rode my bicycle to make a statement regarding my opinion of the freedom it represented. As much as I did enjoy riding my bike in California, riding it in Kansas was an entirely different experience. The wind, varying temperatures, and rain made riding it on a daily basis almost impossible. For me to buy a car, however, would have been impossible. My rent, utilities, and booth rental at the shop was about all I could currently afford. To think some man I didn’t even know had bought me a car was impossible for me to comprehend, but him allowing me to use it for the afternoon wasn’t so much of a stretch.

“Ready?” Riley asked.

I buckled my seat belt, turned her direction, and shrugged my shoulders. I knew how to drive, but it had been a long time since I had done so. The futuristic cockpit of the BMW made me a little nervous to say the least. Riley having one and knowing the intricacies of it helped make me slightly more comfortable.

“Yeah,” I said as I looked at the rectangular key fob.

There was no key on the fob.

“As long as the key is in your pocket or purse or whatever, all you do is push the button on the dash. It’ll start it. And you push it again to shut it off when you’re done. So, push the button and start it,” she said.

I pushed the button on the dash and started the car. The low rumble from the engine echoed against the long line of brick buildings along the street. The rain had all but stopped for the time being, but the windshield was covered in droplets from sitting outside from what had now been no less than fifteen minutes. As I nervously searched for the windshield wipers, Riley reached over and pressed a lever on the right side of the steering wheel. I glanced up in time to see the wipers wipe the windshield once.

“They sense the rain in that mode,” she said. “If it starts raining, they’ll wipe it off.”

As strange as it seemed, I was nervous. “So…”

Riley reached toward the lever in the center of the car and wiggled it.

“Just push the gas, and flip those little levers up and down. You’ll get the hang of it here pretty quick,” she said.

I situated my foot against the accelerator pedal, checked over my left shoulder for traffic, and pressed the pedal down after seeing no traffic approaching. The car felt as if it had been shot out of a cannon, lurching into the street with so much force it pressed my body into the seat. Within an instant, the engine was revving so high the sound from the exhaust was a loud shrill.

I pulled against the lever on the right side of the steering wheel. The car lurched forward once again and the RPM’s came down slightly. I pulled the lever again and the car lunged slightly and the engine slowed down to a light drone. I glanced down at the speedometer.

In the few seconds of driving, and without doing anything but trying to pull away from the curb, I was going 80 miles an hour.

“Shit,” I shouted as I pressed against the brake.

Riley laughed. “You’ll get used to it.”

Living on the cusp of being poor white trash and seeing he clearly lived somewhere in complete contrast made me believe the differences between Wilson and me were enough that I would never get used to the things he may do to, for, or with me.

However.

I was anxious to find out.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

WILSON

I doubt many thirty year old men worried about what their parents thought regarding the woman they were going on a date with, but I couldn’t seem to keep from doing so. As a child, my parents were protective of me, and as an adult they weren’t necessarily protective, but they were certainly eager to learn about my every move and decision when it came to women.

I was still, and would probably always remain, their little boy.

Their expressed belief of their hopes – or requirements – regarding my choice of female companions prevented me from being in a meaningful relationship for my younger years based solely on my fear of disappointing them alone. My own fear of making a decision which could ultimately crush me financially, or the possibility of encountering a gold digger who was much less interested in me than she was my finances all but prohibited me from acting on my infrequent sexual desires as an adult.

And then I met Stevie.

After I dropped her off and drove to my office all my common sense and fear of parental retribution seemed to be cast aside. I found myself all but dwelling on her current situation and not having a vehicle in what appeared to be the beginning of a three day rainstorm. As fate would have it, it was enough of an issue for me to act on it.

There was no doubt I could have done things differently. I could have very easily rented her a car, provided her with a far less expensive car, or even given her one of my own vehicles to use, but for whatever reason I did not.

I believed in looking back on how I handled the situation, I was no different than most extremely wealthy men. I wanted to be recognized as being so. As pretentious as it may seem to others for me to have sent her a new BMW, in reality it wasn’t pretentious at all. My current financial status would have allowed me to send her half of a dozen similar cars without noticing the deficit from my personal account. I was an extremely wealthy man, and I wasn’t acting beyond my financial means. If anything, I probably should have sent her a new Ferrari.

Never having felt the way I felt about Stevie seemed quite out of place considering my knowledge of her, but that lack of knowledge was partially to blame for my reaction. I wanted to know more about her, and for whatever reason, I felt a burning desire to take care of her any or all costs.

Now concerned with my parent’s reaction to my decision, but harboring zero regret, I pulled into the driveway of her home. Although I had already made a mental note of the fact she had no garage, seeing the vehicle sitting out in the weather was a reminder of her lack of some of the luxuries I took for absolute granted.

Dressed in jeans, leather loafers, and a V-neck tee shirt, felt slightly out of sorts, but not nearly as out of sorts as I felt picking up a girl for a date. My stomach was a mess, my face felt flush, and my nerves were on edge.

I turned off the ignition, swallowed my mint, and opened the door. Before I was able to step from the car, Stevie walked out onto the porch, turned to face me, and smiled. She wasn’t dressed in jeans and a tee shirt, and if she didn’t previously own clothes to match what I was wearing when we met, she had apparently gone out and purchased some.

Dear Lord, please allow this woman to see me for who I am, and not what I appear to be.

As she stepped from the porch and began toward me, I stood and stared, incapable of doing much else. Somehow, however, I managed to stumble toward the other side of the vehicle and open the door. Standing beside the car with my mouth agape and my mind reeling from a newfound beauty of her, I gazed in her direction with wide eyes and rapidly beating heart.

As she leaned a little closer, she raised her hand to my cheek, stood on her tip-toes, and kissed me on the cheek.

And my heart stopped completely.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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