From Manhattan

EXCLUSIVE – Chapter One Manhattan Sugar

( you get Gray for a special price ) 
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One tequila. Two tequila. Three tequila; floor.

Woe is me. I’d turned to liquor to lighten my mood.

Only, I think they switched booze on me, because it stopped working an hour ago.

I’m not one of those women who dwell on the crappy hands they’ve been dealt in life. Abandoned by a father. Depressed, emotionally catatonic mother and a dead brother thrown into the cement mixer to top the crap sundae.

They’re events that have shaped me, sure.

But I don’t let those negatives define me.

And other lies I tell myself.

Of course, I do.

But like any sexually-confident, in control of her own destiny woman of New York I could shove my head in the dirt and pretend everything is fine even when the room around me was blazing fire and I couldn’t see the exits.

I could ignore the emotional downpour and ignore the quicksand around me that was trying to drag me under.

I hated the feeling of inadequacy.

Nine days out of ten I could be the sassy, outspoken fun-loving woman I portrayed to the world. Sure, it was all a farce. But still…

India Josephine Rivera, twenty-six, and the youngest Chief Creative Officer in Marina Finch advertising agency.

That’s who I am.

I’m the type who played as hard as I worked and never … ever allowed the dominoes of the past get me down.

But, fuck me. Life was horrifically unfair sometimes.

That tenth day sometimes snuck up on me like a freight train without its headlights and every shitty hand I’ve ever been dealt weighed heavier until each breath became a chore under the crushing suffering.

Each breath I wondered why I kept working my lungs.

Sometimes it just felt as though every step of life was a different chapter of goodbye.

Let’s just say that’s why I was drunk in a bar on a Tuesday night, pouring my despairs into shot glasses of tequila and into the ears of a very patient Irish bartender.

It’s also why I did something foolish.

But then what drunk woman ever said; hey, this was a wonderful idea and I don’t have regrets at all.

I said I was sassy, not that I was smart.

I don’t even know if he’ll come.

But isn’t that the point when being as drunk as my late granny Dillie every Christmas Eve? The give no fucks were in strong force. Not like during the daylight hours when my rational side wouldn’t have allowed me to text him, let alone ask for help.

I never, ever ask for help.

I’ve abided by this one rule my whole life.

Because you can’t rely on people. The moment you do they let you down.

Jaded? Oh, hell yeah, I am.

I’m also realistic.

Pessimistic with a slight allure towards optimism.

I’m a contradiction to myself.

I sloppily texted the guy I sort of had an insta-crush on a year ago. You know the kind of guy, you see them for that one brief second with their sweep of hero hair and piercing sex eyes and hard-pouty mouth, and your heart beats out from between your legs and all you can think of is carnal acts down on the floor like the farm animals do.

I wanted to fuck him is what I’m saying.

I’ve thought about him too much in the last year at odd times until my belly cramped like a pretzel. Him and his imperial eyebrows and steadfast gaze that felt like he was digging into my psyche and grabbing at all my secrets.

I’m not a sloppy drunk, nor do I cry a lot or ever.

But what I am when inebriated is emotional.

My emotions flood back under all my perfectly placed guards, crumbling like crackers and it’s like being attacked by mosquito’s.

The sting was awful.

I didn’t drink to excess for this very reason, as I teetered on my stool, elbow on the bar, hand under my chin while I watched the bartender making drinks for a lively bunch of women down the other end. He managed to pour five different drinks in a matter of a minute, also wiping the bar, taking cash, handing over the change and doing this at the same time as flirting.

Color me impressed.

“You’re good at that.” I told him when he came back my way. I was nursing a tequila, but the taste wasn’t as nice as the first sip, so I mostly was stirring the black straw through the liquid. At that point when my stomach was refusing more liquor it’s a sure sign to get my ass home.

But I couldn’t face it.

Couldn’t face the letter terminating my tenancy in one short month because the building in the meat packing district I lived in had suddenly sold to a developer who was turning them into whatthefuckever I didn’t care what. I was going to be homeless on top of losing my job—because telling my boss where she could stick her demoted position wasn’t my greatest idea on the day my life fell apart. So, I not only burnt my bridge when I tossed that match, I smoked it to the ground.

No home.

No job.

And it’s the anniversary of my baby brother’s death.

I should be drunker than I am to deal with this because shit comes in threes.

“Good at what?” The Irish lilt, softer than a warm pillowcase straight from the dryer drifted through my ears and any other time I would have flirted outrageously with the hot bartender.

He’s just my type. Handsome and forgettable.

And I mean the bang his brains out type, not boyfriend material.

I don’t even know if I have a type for that since I’ve never done long term. Shocking. Not. It’s assumed all women want marriage right from high school. I went in the opposite direction as fast as I could and never once looked back.

Not since my freshman year of college have I tried being in a relationship and even then, it was hardly anything memorable.

Plus, the bastard cheated on me with no less than three cheerleaders I was friends with. I hope he gave them herpes. I hope those cheerleaders are fat with six brats hanging off each sagging tit.

I bet they’re happy though.

Am I happy? Debatable.

Maybe the tequila held the answer. I blinked looking down in to the glass. Nope, no answers there.

But quick flings with guys like the hot bartender? I used to think I was awesome at those.

Love ‘em and leave ‘em. Two weeks max had been my record for seeing the same guy. Leaving me less satisfied than ever.

God. I’m truly pitiful.

It might be the booze talking, but I felt cheap.

What the fuck was wrong with me?

The monosyllabic drum pounding through my temples answered to only one name and its tequila. That rancid whore.

I’m never drinking again.

There comes a time in every wild party girl’s life that the jig is up, and you have to admit you’re not having fun and haven’t in a long fucking time.

For me it was about two years ago.

But it’s easier to pretend you’re the soul of the party scene with the big hair, ruby red lips and loud personality than it is to admit why you’re not happy.

I went through the motions because while I did I could forget the reality of what my life really presented.

And that wasn’t much of anything.

A job I didn’t really like but was surprisingly great at with excellent money I couldn’t walk away from.

A circle of friends I didn’t let get too close to me.

And relationships? What were those?

I’d forgotten how to truly connect with another person.

I belatedly realized hot Irish barman was waiting on my answer. I tracked my gaze up his loose gray shirt over a white tee and keep on going up the strong jawline and piercing green eyes before I took a second look at his mahogany colored hair, shaggy in style. Perfect for hands to grip onto if—

But I felt nothing for that pretty face and it’s no point in pretending just to use him as a distraction.

I smiled and motioned to the crowd. “Handling a lot of people.”

He inclined his head with a twitch of a charming smirk and nope, I felt nothing.

I stewed on my seat and wondered how long I’d stay before I eventually had to go home and face the shit-storm life just crapped into my lap.

Maybe another hour.

After all I had a good sulk going.

No point in wasting it.

And my heart hurt.

I didn’t want to be known for being the woman with a string of one-night stands on her rap sheet because she was afraid of emotional intimacy.

I’m a serial dater. I lapped up any crumb of attention and do you know why?

Here it is. Get ready for it; I’m lonely.

India’s always good for a fast screw. Yeah, I overheard that mess on my way out of the office.

Any other day when I wasn’t holding my emotions together with duct tape I would have ripped shitface Dominic’s balls off in front of his tiny, little cackling friends. Asshole.

Was he right? Is that what people think about me? Fuck them. They can’t sex shame me. I’m so done with men though.

In the same vein I didn’t want to only be defined by my crippling anxiety either.

The chaotic stretch of island we’re all packed into didn’t afford me much shelter or peace on a night like tonight. Long stored grief was attacking my heart one hard guilt riddled thump after another.

I sat grasping my unwanted drink, with hockey fans cheering around me.

It’s always been easy to get lost in the heart of Manhattan.

The city that never sleeps packed to the rafters of people and all their own wants and needs. I could have moved anywhere after college, the choices were limitless, but I ended up right back here not far from my parent’s house because why? I didn’t want mom on her own in the grief we were trapped in.

And then when dad of the year took off suddenly one day because his grief was worse than everyone else’s apparently, there was no way I could leave mom.

Now I was stuck.

She refused to move into the city with me and being in the suburbs of Staten Island I would have died a slow, boring jam making death.

So, I existed in two worlds.

Belonging in neither.

Pathetic, right?

I’m twenty-six with the burden of everyone else’s problems on my plate and no one had a clue.

How I wish I really was the party girl I’m known for.

Good old India. Always up for a good time. Partying until dawn. Doing crazy things and hooking up with faceless guys.

That’s me.

I’m a closeted mess.

And I hated being me.

Okay. I don’t hate all of me.

I’m never going to shame myself for liking sex.

I like sex and I’ve liked sex with a lot of different men and women.

Some better than others.

I’m accomplished. I can get shit done on very little notice.

I’m reliable as a fucking mountain donkey carrying a back full of bricks.

My legs never buckled out from underneath me.

But emotionally? Mess dot com.

Most days I’m a contradiction to myself.

From who I outwardly portray to the anxiety peppered woman I truly am inside.

I’m like the duck.

Elegant as hell gliding his shit on top of the water, not a feather ruffled at all, just enjoying the shit out of his day.

But beneath the water his little legs are working madly just to stay afloat.

I can feel it now. Even as my brain swam drunkenly around its own intoxicated pond and the memories of things I’d rather forget started knocking on the door.

The anxiety was there waiting for the best opportunity to fuck me up.

My palms sweated.

And my breathing became irregular.

All I needed now was the deathly heavy sensation in my chest to make my head dizzy and we have the trifecta of an impending anxiety attack.

Oh, joy.

I tried to concentrate on the big TVs up above the bar.

Distract and refocus.

I drank to drown the pain, but the pain had learned to swim.

There’s so much shit crowding on my plate it’s insufferable to know which to deal with first.

Obviously, it needs to be the job.

Or my apartment.

Without either of those things I’m royally screwed.

I need a job to afford an apartment and I need an apartment because I’m not strong enough to be a bridge troll. Where would all my shoes go?

Suddenly I’m a mouth breather.

In and out I chugged air as the swell of panic rose.

God. Not here. I came out tonight for this very reason, so I could be surrounded in people and noise and commotion.

I couldn’t go into full blown anxious meltdown in an Irish bar full of fucking strangers watching hockey.

I’d rather die.

And isn’t that my motto in life; I’d rather die than let another human being see me being human with real human emotions.

I’m a fucking wreck.

I’m a god damn robot is what I truly am.

I locked so much away a long time ago that my storage key rusted, and I can no longer access it even if I wanted to free it.

“You okay, darling?” The barman asked and when I looked up his green eyes were masked in concern.

I think I smiled and nodded. “Oh, yeah. Just tired.”

I’m great at lying.

I wouldn’t be able to sleep for love nor money.

And especially not when I have two fat problems to worry over.

God, how laughable is this? I probably have twenty thousand buck’s worth of shoes in my closet and I’m contemplating where I could afford to live in a months’ time.

Where will I work now? I’ve been in advertising since I graduated college. It wasn’t something I wanted to do. I fancied myself in hotel management, but the job landed in my lap and I thought why not. I could do it for a year or so. Fast forward these years later.

I hated the job, but I liked the routine and focus of it.

Knock me off my routine and the swell of my worry became like a fucking tsunami.

“Looks to be you have company.” The bartender informed. My brow puckered confused. Until his gaze drew mine to the door and there he was.

Oh, fuck, shit.

He’d come

My text.

Suddenly the distraction I’d been looking for was gazing right back at me and my heart began hammering in a disjointed tempo inside my breast bone.

God. I’d just about forgotten that damn text.


India: Hey, mister sugar daddy shoe man, do you remember me? It’s India. We met one time in a café and you wanted to take care of me like a dirty old man. I’m in need of a white knight if you have ten minutes. I’m at O’Dooley’s.


He’s doing nothing but standing in the doorway.

I knew of man-spreading on the subway.

Is stand-spreading a thing?

He’s got to be at least 6 feet and more inches.

I’m desperate to ask if anyone had a tape measure so we could know the exact number of how gorgeous he was. I’d forgotten how lovely and big he was.

I clipped my ravenous gaze over his form.

A brown leather jacket I could tell would be well worn and soft to the touch, distressed jeans encased to his long legs, a white V-neck T-shirt and his ensemble was finished perfectly with scuffed Timberlands.

He was so casually fuckable.

His chin had the kind of scruff that made a woman weak in the knees and then I moved up to his hair and my fingers itched to thread through the dark locks. It was styled but messy enough to indicate he probably didn’t have a 200 bucks cut from his personal stylist.

Five minutes ago, I was done with men and now I’m slurping back drool before it could drip from my gaping mouth and hungry-eating eyes.

And just like that those low, intimate muscles between my legs tightened up in a fast clutch, my nipples turned to spikes beneath the thin cotton. Inside my shoes, all ten of my toes curled under.

His gray eyes—and I knew they were gray because I’d stared at them constantly when he was opposite me that day at brunch. The color magnetic—already trained on me, he’d watched me peruse him from top to toe.

I wouldn’t be unnerved by him.

No matter how utterly, devastatingly gorgeous he was.

My head swam as the alcohol coursed through me. It was hard to discern between fantasy and reality and the bar narrowed down to one man standing in the doorway watching me. My pulse thump-thump-thumped.

That stare. Holy god. It’s what intense was invented for.

He moved then.

Glided like a fucking Roman warrior parting the crowd with just his lean frame to get to me.

My brain too dazzled in internet shopping mogul Gray Ellison and watching the mechanical way his body shifted in alignment to get him from A to B that I’m overwhelmed now for a whole new reason.

And it has to do with the throbbing between my legs.

My god, could he hear my vagina humming?

Has walking ever been considered sexy before? Maybe in a Henry Cavill movie. Not real life. Not in a bar and not walking towards me.

Sexual longing jangled my bell and now it wouldn’t shut up.

Why the hell did I text him again?

He hadn’t replied, and I’d sagged a breath of relief that maybe I’d gotten the wrong number, or he was involved with someone and ignored it.

Oh, shit. What if he’s married? A lot could happen in a year. He could have a kid even!

I’m too drunk to rationally work through the logistics of why he came and if he’s entangled with a gorgeous brunette with legs up to her perfectly threaded eyebrows.

I have great sculpted brows, thank you very much. I paid enough for them from a little Turkish lady who almost always ripped off my skin.

My walloping heart nearly knocked me from the stool when he got closer.

I wouldn’t mind working up a good steam with him.

And then. Oh shit, Gray Ellison smiled from one side of his mouth.

Perfect fucking pillow soft lips and I felt it happen.

The crash and the tumble of my insides.

My belly turned and flopped over. A dead fish of lust.

One devastating smile and I was gone.

Reflexively my fingers grabbed the bar.

“Hello, sweetheart. Your message was better late than never. I heard you’re in need of a rescue.” He said just like that. A deep timber scratching over my skin making me warm and dizzy. A great bear growl from soft, pink lips surrounded in day old facial hair and I’m toast.

Gray Ellison with ten short words tied my tongue in knots and caused my clit to pulse.

Why the hell did I text him again?



PREORDER: ( you get Gray for a special price )


Taboo Love Duet

Exclusive – Chapter One: It Was Always Love

Happy Easter!

V. xxx


No one said dying was ever easy.

Like, it would be helpful if there was a leaflet on it in the doctor’s office.

Maybe in the subway.

It feels a lot like what the dictionary says; on the point of death.

Oh, yeah. I know I’m being Kardashian level of dramatic but with a baby in my belly and my gay best friend the baby daddy, not to mention running away from home with barely a clean pair of undies to my name. And what with the sudden influx of all day sickness I think I have a right to a minute of dramatic outburst.

“Hey, mama. When you’re done puking in there, do you want to brave the outside world and go for some lunch?” Called out my good friend India through her bathroom door.

I was currently camped at her luxury loft apartment in Manhattan’s meatpacking district and had been for the last four days while I got my fricking act together.

It was a lot of act to rally.

I was not a runner nor a confronter, falling somewhere in between, but here I was; hiding out and avoiding all messages on my phone.

I was being a chicken shit.

Part of me longed to switch my phone on and read the wall of messages I knew were on there from Noah. To listen to the full machine of voicemails he’d left me in the last few days. That part of me is so strong and I buried my phone in the bottom of my purse otherwise I’d crumble and see him before I’m ready to.

Before I’ve protected my soul against the feeling I have when I’m around him.

If he’s gonna tell me he’s back with Tom, the almighty overlord of the dickdouche’s as I like to call him, I need to have all my supportive walls in tact to hear that.

It won’t be easy.

It’ll destroy me.

And I’m back to feeling like I’m dying.

Around the same time my heart was crushed, the morning sickness descended on me like an unwelcome uncle at the Christmas party. I puked so hard that first morning I was sure I had an infestation of tapeworm inside me.

It was not pleasant.

It only seemed to worsen when I breathe so that wasn’t all bad…

I balanced on the side of India’s bathtub, my belly roiling with a slight case of the sweats, part due to the sickness attacking my system and part nervous expectation of having to bow down to the porcelain god any time now.

I don’t think my knees could take much more of me hurling myself onto the floor like I was a line-backer.

I recalled the horror stories from momma and her friends who talked of their morning sickness as though it was a monster overtaking their bodies and lasting for months.

God. I can’t deal with my Noah-torn erratic emotions plus this at the same time, it’s too big for one Southern woman, though my Aunt Sadie would call me a literal pussy if I dared admit I was broken over a man.

She was a card carrying man-hater after my uncle Cade was found to be cheating for ten long years with a woman from our local church.

One must give, and I know it’ll be my emotions.

I’ve already given it too much time.

What have I lost, really? A few good times in bed.

It was more than good, a tiny, slutty voice interjected inside my mind.

Yeah. I sighed. It was more than good.

That saying; the best sex ever wasn’t invented for nothing.

With Noah it was so true.

He not only rocked my body in ways I’d never experienced before, but we connected on a level that surpassed friendship.

We fucked with a single-minded need to extinguish and reconstruct.

Or at least, I thought we had.

Enter dickdouche Tom, handsome as he was sarcastic, Noah’s super-model ex from stage left to blow apart my confidence and now I don’t know what to think anymore.

I thought Noah was the one man on earth who would neither lie nor hurt me and in one night he’d done both.

I’m a coward for hiding out in a friend’s apartment.

But who wouldn’t engage defense mechanisms in my shoes?

I saw him with Tom.

They were close and intimate.

I don’t need to be a Sheldon Cooper to add up that math equation.

I shook my head of thoughts of Noah and him and rose to my feet.

It’s been more than twenty-two minutes since I last threw up, and I prayed it’s the last for the day. I can get through today if I knew food would stay on the inside of me.

Fortifying my lungs, I avoided the mirror as I swept my chin length poker-straight brown hair up into a bun. It’s lost most of the teal that dusted my tips. I liked to dye the ends different shades just because.

Maybe my next color should be blood red as a fuck you, Tom, and your gorgeous brown face and model pouty lips.

Ugh, I hate that guy.

He cheated on Noah, he doesn’t get a second turn to fuck him over again and I hate Noah for even giving him a chance at breathing the same air as him.

Noah was not a pushover. He’s not a guy to mess with.

He’s the king of Manhattan nightlife for a reason and that reason is he doesn’t suffer fools lightly. So, why in the sweet hell he’d allow Tom back into his world is beyond me.

I think at this point it’s more than just me being involved intimately with my gay-best-friend. And it’s turned ugly.


A horrible, sickening word.

But it’s there.

It’s real.

It crawled over my skin every night when I tried to sleep.

Was it real? Were we real at all?

Should I have left the way I did without giving him a chance to explain what I’d seen?

Probably not and it’s not permanent. Just until I can slide into a pair of apathetic pants to hear the news Noah was rekindling his affair with dickdouche and probably moving up North to buy a puppy farm with him and they want me to be godmother.



I could almost forget the baby in my belly when I’m submerged in my own misery. What kind of future momma does that even make me? I’ll be that mom who forgets to pick the kid up from school. I can see it now.

Frowning at my reflection, dark circles made my eyes look sunken into my cheeks, hollowness looked back at me. I’ve probably lost a pound or two, through no fault of mine not eating. What I eat makes a return visit and I’m constantly hungry/nauseous. A merry-go-round of misery.

I’m going to have a baby. I repeated it several times in my head.

I know how it happened. Not the sex part, we did enough of that, but even though I was taking the pill I was also sick with vertigo for a few days and like a dumbass with no brain cells worth counting, I’m the idiot female who didn’t put two and five together and realized I might need a condom instead for a few days since I’d been sick and threw up like Jabba the hut on steroids.

If this was a friend of mine, I’d tell her she deserved the morning sickness for her stupidity. It’s contraception 101 and I fell for it for a good dick.

The best dick.

Ugh, no thinking of Noah’s monster dick. A dick so good it was a long club of perfectness.

I’m ruined for all future dicks. I know that. No other dick could live up to Noah and the pleasure he gave me.

Pulling open the bathroom door I almost collided with India who was standing there looking at me speculatively. The same green-eyed look she’d given me for the past few days when I turned up unexpectedly on her doorstep and asked for a room. 2018 years later I am Mary at the Inn. Jesus. I’m a hot mess.

“What are you doing loitering out here?” I asked. “Did you think I was going to OD on toothpaste?”

She smiled at me. That pitying smile.

I told Indie most of it. My pitiful story. And fortunately for me my friend was not judgemental in any way. She listened to me tell her I’d been having sex with a gay man and didn’t once laugh.

Maybe because at the time I was crying so hard she might have been more concerned for her cream colored sofa being stained in my tears and snot.


“What happened?” she’d asked when I turned up on her doorstep.

“Noah happened.”

“Don’t say you had an argument with prince moody! You guys never fight, you’re like the quintessential boring old couple who don’t fuck.”

“Plot twist.” I told her with a straight face. “We fucked.”

“WHAT! Get the hell out of here! Are we talking about Noah the gay?”

“His name is Noah Fierro, as well you know. Do I say India with the huge tits?”

She shrugged. “I wouldn’t mind. They are big D’s. Now can we get back to how you banged Manhattan’s sexiest queer, with what I imagine to be the best-looking dick this side of the Hudson? And don’t leave a detail out. Girth? Length? How long can he last?”


Even now she hadn’t rolled her eyes and told me how dumb I’ve been.

“You didn’t answer on the lunch front. I was giving you two more minutes in there and then chancing seeing you vomit to check on you.”

“No more puking, thank god. I need to Google again, this can’t be natural. I might have a unique case of sickness. Like Princess Kate, but worse.”

India snorted and handed me a glass of water. Water I can handle. It’s cool and I gulped it down in three. “You just want to bone a prince.”

I had a King. I think.

“So, Lunch?” She asked again, and she could tell by the grimace I couldn’t face going outside.

“I should go home and get out of your hair.”

“Shut your whore mouth.” She said in India’s sweet way. It brought a smile to my otherwise morose face as I plonked on her designer sofa dressed in simple pink sweats and ‘I love cheese more than I love you’ socks. “I told you already, you can stay as long as you want to. You and my god baby.”

She’d claimed godmother status and I can’t really argue with it since she took me in off the streets.

Not really. I’ve got a perfectly great apartment I love but it so happened to be Noah’s building as well so for the time being while I’m being a crappy, emotional human being I’m at the mercy of India’s generosity.

“Aren’t I cramping your style? You haven’t had any overnight guests since I’ve been here.” Indie chuckled as she pushed her feet into a pair of tan leather boots that are so gorgeous I feel the pull towards them. Maybe I’ll live after all if I’m coveting footwear. It’s the first signs of life.

Indie was a willowy blonde with boobs and looked amazing in whatever she wore, casual or formal, like she’d been styled by someone really paying attention to details.

She’s an Instagram model without ten filters.

She’s both intimidating and an allure to either sex.

She’s also a self-confessed bitch with a takes no bullshit attitude. She’s had to be working in advertising, it’s cutthroat trying to climb cooperate ladders, so she told me.

Her hazel gaze snapped to me and for a second, I thought she was going to vault over the glass coffee table and throttle me.

India took sex … or lack thereof very seriously.

She’d filled my brain with so many sexcapades over the years I’m well versed on every chapter of the Karma Sutra and a few she pasted in herself.

Issuing a sigh, she bent to tie the boots. “No worries on that front, your vagina is getting more action with a gorgeous queer dick than mine is from anyone. Oh, woe.” I blinked with surprise. “And while we’re on that subject, I’m still waiting for specifics. I’ve been patient, Sena, haven’t I? I didn’t beg for explicit down to the millimeter measurements and durability charts of just how your hubby worked that fantastic dick of his. Like, is he an animal or a gentle lover? And can he go all night? Does he prefer to give than take?” She winked and if I were in better spirits I might have laughed.

As it was I could hardly bring a grin let alone give her what she wanted because thinking of Noah in any fashion, especially naked was making me gravely ill.

I missed him more than I’d miss a lung.

He’s my person.

My everything.

I can’t function without a heavy dose of Noah frequently.

He’s my drug of choice.

My happy and my all.

And I feel like I’m mourning him.

“There’s nothing to tell.” I found the leg of my pants extremely interesting. Fingers picked at a non-existent thread. I heard Indie snort and she came to sit down by me.

She nudged my shoulder with hers. I sensed she’s going to use her sympathetic poor Sena voice on me before she does.

I didn’t want her to be nice.

I didn’t want anyone to be nice for all my foolish ways.

I just wanted to be alone, so I could puke and cry and get my life together because I’m going to be a fucking mother whether I planned for it or not and the past days I haven’t been able to give it the proper head space it deserved.

And again, I felt like shit for not being mother of the year.

If this was my momma she’d have a nursery painted and the baby registered in a pre-kindergarten plus a college fund set up all while baking a plum cobbler.

I wished I was my momma.

“Sweet girl, you can lie to yourself all you want but you don’t fool me. Now tell me how fucking spectacular the sex was then I can feel okay about telling you he’s called me four times already.”

My head snapped up with shock and I flinched as if I’d been smacked.

Every neuron in my brain woke up at once like we hadn’t been thinking about him this whole time.

I’m suddenly desperate for any mention of him. Such an idiot. But that was the cold, hard truth. Just because my heart was hurting didn’t make my love for him any less.

It’s not out of the realm he’d call her and, yet my heart rate picked up until it stirred my blood. Not quite queasy but my belly rolled a little.

It’s like the tiny fetus was reminding me hey, momma, I’m here.

“W-what did he say?”

“So, no queer-dick specifics then? Fine.” She huffed good naturedly. “But I’m coming back to this, Sena, don’t think I won’t.” I accepted that she will.

“He said, and I quote;” She lowered her voice into what I assumed was meant to represent Noah’s gruffness. Again, if I were in a better mood I would have laughed at the imitation. “It’s Noah. Have you seen Sena? I told him sure. Don’t fret, my little prom queen, I didn’t let him know you’re here, but I wasn’t going to lie for a simple question, now if he’d asked if you were currently puking in my bathroom I would have said I hadn’t clapped eyes on you in ten years. He was stoic as always, but I could tell he wanted to grill me like I was a Russian spy.” She gave me another shoulder nudge, this time I met her gaze.

I could tell she felt sorry for me.

Why wouldn’t she? I would in her place.

I was a fool believing foolish things.

“Why don’t you just answer one of his calls?”

“I will.” I lied.

“Tonight?” I shook my head and looked away.

“At least let him know you’re not dead in the gutter somewhere. Don’t be cruel that way to him, babe.” Something in her voice stabbed my belly and I instantly felt shitty when I suddenly remembered India lost her brother in college, he went missing for days. India said it had been a really bad time. I tried to reach and hold her hand, but she smiled and shrugged me off before grabbing her jacket. She wouldn’t thank me for sympathy or reminding her of her brother.

“Okay, I will.” Not sure if I meant it.

“All I’m saying is, you’re punishing the man for a crime he doesn’t know he’s committed yet. Whether it’s true or not, you ran with your tail tucked between your legs and it’s not like you, Sena.”

I frowned.

Doesn’t it fricking suck when someone tells you the ugly truth. Ugh. Spit in my pickle juice and call me Doris, Ugh. I hated when someone said what I clearly didn’t want to hear.

“The Sena I know wouldn’t stand for a sexy black man moving in on her friendship with Noah. No way no how. Get your fucking boy-toy back. I’m down for a street fight, but after bagels. I’ll bring you food, you’ll eat.”

She grabbed her purse and left me on her couch contemplating if I wanted to watch Wendy Williams today or The View. I DVRed both so I’m spoiled for choice while I sulked in my unhappiness.

I could do some work. I have clients waiting on me.

For more than thirty minutes I sat holding my phone. The moment I switched it on it went nuts. Ping. Ping. Ping. Ping. Ping. Ping. Ping. Ping.

Every text message Noah sent appeared on the locked screen.

None mention Tom. All showed concerned and wanted to know where I was. Some ranged from how he’d kill me if I didn’t get in touch to; Please, baby. Pick up the phone. Tell me where you are, I’ll come.

Baby. Baby. The endearment mocked since he’s only ever used it a few times before during sex.

I had zero control over the speed in which my heart accelerated.

I was an idiot clinging to hope.

There’s a few messages from momma but I’d wisely told them I was under a deadline so not to expect to hear from me.

I soaked up his words like they’re fresh air. I couldn’t help myself.

He’s a drug and I haven’t had a fix in days. I absorbed them in, taking them through the eyes and savored with my whole body.

Love wasn’t a choice for me.

It’s not even a conscious decision.

It happened and now I’m caught in its web.

Please, baby. Pick up the phone. Tell me where you are, I’ll come.  

Before I could censor my feelings, I thumbed out a message in the long text thread I have with Noah.


SouthernBelle: I’m fine.


Worst lie in history.



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#TabooLoveDuet #WhatchuDoingTom #WantMoreGray


Renegade Souls MC


Hi biker babes!

With the release of Preacher Man only hours away now I wanted to share an exclusive chapter with you all before that dirty biker manwhore is out in the wild. I hope you enjoy his journey with Ruby. For me it was a story of healing, dealing with mental illness and coping with the pressure of grief and learning to lean on someone else, to know the right people will always have your back no matter what. It was a rough road for Preacher and Ruby for a lot of years, until they meet each other and then the epic dirty love began.

—- V. xox

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Same dirty bikers. New HEA. June 26 —

“The only good advice my mama gave to me was never eating mayo with fries, and stay away from a man who treats his bike better than you.” – Ruby Steele.

“Hey, God. It’s me, Ruby Steele. I know, it’s been a minute since we last talked, no excuses, I avoided coming back. You got time to chat?” Sitting in the fourth pew from the front of the Gospel Baptist Church in the heart of Armado Springs the dark-haired woman sighed like she had the weight of the world on her slim shoulders. Ruby might as well have for all the good her choices were right now. She had diddly and squat to choose between.
Turning to God in times of need was for the stupid and the desperadoes, both of which she was, but she was out of options and what could it hurt, she’d thought, as she’d turned into the parking lot on a whim. The church was a beacon in the early morning skyline and she’d headed towards it before reasoning had sunk in. Sins clung to her like a rosary bead necklace trapped around her neck.
Sins she could deal with, it was every other problem that weighed her down.
Thanks to the state of the economy Ruby found herself up that proverbial shit creek without a paddle. Not that she minded so much being poor, she could eat ramen morning noon and night, and she wasn’t a MAC freak, didn’t want designer clothes, okay, she did, but was fine living with knockoffs, but no health insurance, for fuck’s sake, thank you, America.
The money she was sending to her sister was drastically going to have to be cut somewhere unless she could find a second job in the next minute that worked around her bar hours.
Praying to God might not be the best solution for time management when she could be home filling out job applications, or better; winning the lotto. But that would mean buying a ticket and really when it came down to it, ramen won out, she was overly fond of eating every day.
Ugh, she hated that despondent feeling that festered in her belly day and night, it was never ending and altogether annoying at the same time, not having a solution plucked from thin air was quickly becoming her least favorite foe.
Now she was turning to Him like the hypocrite Christian she and most of the population was. He only became relevant when people needed something. Healing, wealth, a nice pretty face. She’d make do with the elusive happiness.
Ruby sighed until her lungs were full to the brim of old stale musty church air, a touch of candle wax, incense and pure despair. Sitting back in the pew, the harsh wood bench biting into her butt, she gazed up at the front of the church with the epic sized stained-glass window depicting the last feast, and in front, a wooden statue of the man himself on the cross.
Rather than bringing her any comfort, her belly tightened. Anxiety in 3..2..1.
This was what her life was coming to, expecting miracles in a fucking church.
“I’m not asking for anything for me,” she said finally, looking directly at cedar oak Jesus. Was He listening? Was He even there? Her faith had waned so much, all mixed up in her mind for a long time, but if she didn’t put her problems into the ether so she could focus on what needed to be done then she might go insane.
Not literally insane, because she didn’t have the damn medical cover for that.
Go fricking figure, you even had to have a fat bank account for a six-week stay at the funny farm.
Those celebs with their vacations at rehab didn’t know how good they had it.
Ruby’s desperate plea was made worse by the fact she hadn’t missed going to church. Sure, it was something to do on a Sunday, and she always enjoyed Pastor Danny’s sermons, he was never a fire and brimstone man of God, rather, he spoke of kindness and love to one’s fellow neighbor. But even that was not enough to have her rolling out of bed at the butt-crack of dawn on a Sunday to listen to him, not when she’d worked until four AM. And not when she’d had an existential crisis and lost her faith.
For that reason, He should probably kick her out of His house.
After a long silence staring up at the statue, serene and terrifying, she supposed she best get on with it if she was to use some of her day off to look for second employment. She could hear a vacuum somewhere in the back rooms. But other than that, she was blissfully alone.
“If you have time, do you think you can look in on Sebastian? He’s not having a good time lately and I…” She inhaled, wishing some of the tension on her shoulders would dissipate as easily. “He means everything to me. If you can do something to make it better for him, I’d be grateful and do my best to not be a bad Christian as I have been.” Understatement. Sebastian was her life. God knows what would have happened to her these past six months if she didn’t have him to get out of bed for.
It might be May, but some days it was November again and she was up at that cabin with a psychopath for five long days.
Kyle. She shuddered with revulsion.
What a piece of shit that lunatic had been.
And better off not in her mind. Ruby popped up from her seat, made her way down the pew, only to come face to face with the pastor carrying a stack of bibles in his arms.
Daniel Murphy — Yes, those Murphy’s. Which Murphy’s Ruby was yet to know but it seemed to be a running joke for the Irish-born pastor — was the reverse of what you expect from a man of faith when he looked like Tom Hardy and Chris Hemsworth, on an ugly day, had a very good time together and spawned something very Irish and steeped in religion.
She smiled, hoping to slip out without much conversation because if she knew anything the pastor would use his skilful charm and godly guilt for her to return to church this coming Sunday.
“Can’t stop, pastor Danny. It’s good to see you.”
“That is a shame. It’s been but a minute since we last saw you, Ruby. You are well?”
Internally sighing, she smiled. Caught in the Irish gaze. Who could tell God’s bestie she had things to do without being a rude bitch?
The short answer she couldn’t.
“I am.” Lying to God’s emissary, shit, she really wanted that ticket to hell. “How’s it going with you, still playing the guitar?” It was known Daniel Murphy was a disastrous guitar player, could hardly carry a note, and what notes he did know were never in any order, thrown out at random, but his Armado Springs parishioners adored him so they suffered his musical contributions when the mood struck him.
He grinned a roguish smile that did not belong on his face, more like a movie set. “Aye, that I am, though I have a sneaking suspicion no one has missed me at choir these past weeks.” Rich Irish tones, as if from the valleys of Galway, glided through his amused voice. “Ruby.” That same tone changed to something serious, she saw it wash across his face before he went on. “I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation with Him. I wasn’t eavesdropping but sound travels in a building this old. Is there something I can be doing for you?”
Ruby frowned. That’s the blessing about people of faith, it didn’t matter the time lapse, they would always offer a hand.
The guilt multiplied in her breastbone.
It was on the tip of her tongue to lie and say she was fine and walk on.
What was it her uncle Silas said; God moves in mysterious ways, we often miss the signs for looking. Uncle Silas also said there was always a rattlesnake in the grass, so who could truly believe him.
It couldn’t hurt, maybe this was her sign.
“You seemed troubled. Can I help?”
She’d be there all day if she offloaded her issues to the pastor. Instead she smiled and answered vaguely. “Just dealing with unneeded anger.”
“Ah.” He replied, nodding. “You know, if you hold onto hate, it will eat at you. You alone have the capacity to forgive and to shed angers skin.”
Easier said than done these days.
“If you could put a good word in for me with.” She looked up. Pastor Danny chuckled a deep noise, walking to slot bibles in the pew seats. “I don’t think I’m his favorite person lately.”
“Aye, I can do that, but if you ever took note in Sunday school, Ruby, you would recall He loves all his children every single day through good times and struggles. Don’t underestimate His understanding to know when one of his children steps away for a time and why. And to have the grace and patience awaiting their return.”
A sharpness in her chest caused her to inhale quickly. God 1 – 0 Ruby.
“Surely some of us test that endless patience though?”
He grinned brushing a mop of straight brown hair from his blue eyes. In his simple black clothes and the superhero roguish looks, Pastor Danny was a test of many poor women’s eternal souls.
Fortunate for her she didn’t get even a tingle of attraction in his direction.
“Oh aye, that we do, but He has eternal endurance in these matters.” Beginning her walk back down the aisle, she turned and smiled. “I’ll keep that in mind if I ever rob a bank. Have a nice day, pastor.”
He chuckled, maybe he thought she was joking. “Don’t be a stranger now,” he added and waved her off.
Having done what she set out to do, Ruby was about to head to her car when fluttering paper caught her eye.
She detoured to the right where the bulletin board hung outside. It was used for bake sales, choir practice, or yard sales and lost puppies.
All of which didn’t interest Ruby, what she was hoping to see as her eyes scanned each A4 size notice was a nice fat job that made a thousand bucks an hour.
It could happen. She’d just had words with the big guy.
The way irony works, life screws you over and then you assume it can’t get any worse. Fat chance. Life made her bend over ready to take it up the ass one more time as her eyes drifted to one notice with a photocopied face of a man who instantly turned her blood to ice.
A greasy tension coiled in her belly, that unease she hated, the constant dreaded companion in the back of her mind, not allowing her a full restful night’s sleep in weeks. If she had the time she’d totally give into an anxiety disorder, but as it was too many people relied on her to keep her shit together, so she indulged in marginal freak outs before she pulled up her big girl panties and got on with things.
But this…
It was him.
Oh, god. It was him.
Kyle. That fucking lunatic from her cabin was blazed on a wanted poster. Or more accurately Be on the Lookout poster.
She hadn’t realized she was backing up until the print of the notice became unreadable. She forced her feet to stop, to breathe, to read it again.
He was called Kyle Williams and a biker with the Raging Rebels. Didn’t they sound like a basket of kittens? All bikers should come with warning labels if it was up to her.
She heard about it, of course, the local cops on a wide manhunt for a dangerous guy responsible for the fire and mass murder over in Westbank a few months ago, but it hadn’t penetrated her life so hadn’t given it much thought after that.
What vomit inducing kind of coincidence was it being the same lost hiker she’d helped in the woods that night and paid for it by being raped? Fucking hell. The weight of her baggage was growing heavier by the second. You don’t realize how heavy it is until your back is broken.
Letting air into her lungs, she ripped the poster down and tore it into a million pieces, eradicated that animal for good, let the police catch him, she wasn’t afraid, if anything she was livid. He’d done something terrible for her sympathy in a time she’d wanted peace and quiet, she’d allowed a stranger into her domain because she was always taught to help those less fortunate and how did the fucker repay her, by forcing her to enjoy something no women asks for.
It was that fact that chewed up Ruby’s mind more than anything.
Maybe she was sick in the head.
In any case, she didn’t plan to do anything about this new information.
She had that thousand bucks job to find.
Halfway back to her car an almighty roar drew her attention, recognizing the sound before it came in sight, it was one lone Harley. Ruby felt a clutch catch in her belly when she saw the guy turn slightly. Unable to gauge it was him for sure, but she was sure he swiveled his head and looked her way for a second before he took the curve.
Ridiculous. How would the legendary manwhore Preacher know to gawk at her? All bikers were bad news, she repeated, the Harley thrum drifting off in the distance.
She shrugged and slid into her car, it took three tries before the engine turned over with a lot of coaxing from her to just damn well work already.
Yet another hard-fast reason she needed money five minutes ago.


There was no better feeling than to ride up through those steel gates into the Renegade Souls MC compound. Known to his family and ex-army as Asher Priest, but to buddies and club brothers as Preacher, felt the air of satisfaction as he brought his bronze and chrome Harley Davidson FLSTF Fat Boy to a purring stop, his girl had gotten him home on the long journey from Nebraska in record time without one hitch. She deserved the good juice tonight.
But man, was he hurting inside his old bones like a motherfucker.
Friends came out of the bike shop, a thriving business now, slapping his palm in turn, welcoming back their road captain.
“The prodigal bastard returned at long last, what is it, Preach, you went through all the chicks in Lincoln and now there’s a national shortage of orgasms?” Joked Snake, toothpick held in his teeth, eyes lit up with humor as he advanced forward and met Preacher’s outstretched hand. Both men went in for that fast bro-back slap lasting no longer than three seconds because then it was a cuddle fest.
“Something like that,” smirked Preacher. It was far from the truth but he had a reputation and why ruin Snake’s fun. “How’s it been around here? I heard the Russians had gone quiet. Let’s hope they got buried in a snow drift back in the cold country.”
On Snake’s left came Grinder from inside the shop dragging an oil rag over his stained hands, a smile on his bearded face, the familiar black beanie hat on his head. Preacher met him halfway their hands connecting in a loud slap of deep friendship between the two men. “Bro.”
Preacher had missed his boy. Having been in Lincoln Nebraska sorting out some finance issues for the chapter there, technically it was their deal if they were in the red, but Rider being the kind of mother chapter president he was couldn’t and wouldn’t see any part of his club go down the toilet, he’d asked Preacher to take a ride through, this was only the third time he’d been back in Armado Springs Colorado in six months, once for his mom’s birthday, the second time being when Rider called him back for a weekend before Preacher and Red Light came to blows and killed one another.
But enough of that earache in his tired mind the better.
He grinned at his friend, got the lay of the land for a few minutes before he unbuckled his saddlebag and prowled his six-foot-six frame inside the clubhouse.
The usual noises and smells greeted him, like a hug to the face of everything that meant home to him.
Doing the rounds of greetings with more club brothers and prospects, he was dog tired and therefore unaware when a pair of slim arms tackled him from behind, tits and face squashed into his spine.
“Preacher! You’re back!”
“Hey, Marietta, darling.” Untangling himself from the woman he smiled down at her beaming face. Dark hair, tight jeans, and wearing a shirt that said ‘I don’t mind your screaming kids. You don’t mind my dick sucking.’ His lips twitched. “Nice shirt.”
“You like it?” She was a sweet groupie. He couldn’t attest for her dick sucking … that he could remember. “Slider got me it for my birthday. Are you back for good?”
“For now, darling. I’m dead on my feet, catch you later, okay?” He winked and set off to let Rider know he was here before he face-planted directly into his bed. He should ride home and fall into his own bed, and if his legs and brain would get him there he probably would, but his flop here would do.
He caught up with the boss in the kitchen making out with his old lady sat on his lap. Rider and Zara were disgustingly in love he noted, watching them unawares with a grin in his eyes. Good shit had happened to the prez and his old lady the last year, and Preacher was glad for them. Clearing his throat alerted to his presence before a dick was exposed. As he knew, he watched pink fuse onto Zara’s face. It didn’t matter that the entire club had heard the pair going at it like cats in heat, if she was caught making out it embarrassed the hell out of the MC queen. He smiled at her and slapped hands with Rider. “Still knocking around with this one, Z-girl? I thought you would have grown some taste in my absence.”
Always fun to rile the boss who glared at him. Zara chuckled.
Seeing the change in her these past months, there was strength in Zara’s eyes now. Her core was all club queen. Good for her, he thought. He’d known there was a fierce woman underneath her scared skin. And now the cock-for-brains Hades was well and truly out of the picture, thanks to Hawk’s samurai skills with a flick knife.
“Someone had to take him on, Preacher. I volunteered as tribute.” Lifting off Rider’s lap, Preacher was pouring his coffee and caught the tender moment between those two as she kissed Rider’s forehead and murmured something only for her man’s ears. “I’ll leave you boys to your catch up.” Zara touched his arm on her way out and smiled that Icelandic smile of hers. “It’s really good to have you home. Stop by the house, Rider will charcoal you a burger, it’s his new thing.”
“I don’t know whether to punch you for the sickening sight or feel jealous, Prez.”
Rider smiled smugly. Preacher took the bench opposite, not really wanting the coffee, he could hear his bed like a siren, but he had to catch Rider up on everything from Lincoln first.
“You’re a big bastard, but I’ll take you down, Preach.” Unfazed, Rider’s smirk had a give-a-fuck quality about being ragged for his sappy love.
Being hooked to only one woman for the rest of … ever. Talk about your common disease of the dick. Preacher couldn’t comprehend it, not when there was so much pussy to try out. He liked all pussy, but single pussy was his favorite.
“H is happy as a pig in fresh shit. Already the repair shop has a mark-up of more than sixty percent this quarter.”
“That was Red Light’s doing.” Offered Preacher slurping on the hot brew. “I just scouted around for the competition to see where we could undercut and made a few calls for supplies.”
“How was it, with Red Light?” Rider’s tone was easy enough, but he knew of what had gone down years ago with that nomad. He made a shrug look like a meh and left it at that. What was he gonna say, that Red Light still hated his guts and they’d nearly come to blows more than once? Old news with the same shit on a different day.
Preacher was coasting thirty-three years old, too damn old to be having school yard fights with kids who didn’t like him.
He’d once been good buddies with Red Light.
Not anymore.
Not ever again from the way things appeared between them now.
He’d accepted it and moved on.
“I gotta get my head down for a few hours, Prez. Me and the boys are gonna head to Otis’ tonight to welcome the prodigal handsome fucker home, that would be yours truly. You coming, or you prefer the smooching on the couch these days?” For a tired motherfucker, he could still move fast and out run Rider when he made to get up and kill Preacher.
A minute later, fully clothed, he was face down on his bed, legs dangling over the edge and he let sleep claim him.

This was what he needed, he thought, striding into Otis’ bar and grill hours later, with his boys in tow, and a bar full of chicks. While he’d had some forgettable action down in Lincoln the last couple of months, that town was scarce on women he wanted to spend a few hours fucking, so he’d returned home, hungry and wanting.
He’d get laid tonight before settling back into his normal routine tomorrow, clear his fucking cobwebs out before his dick assumed he was a corpse.
“Nice to see things don’t change too much,” he noted watching every waitress’s eyes turn his way, he smirked at Grinder who only rolled his eyes at Texas. Brothers be hating. Not Preacher’s fault the ladies liked them big and built.
He slid himself into a booth, sitting in the far corner, all the better to survey the bar.
Some Pat Benatar song was playing on the jukebox. His tattooed fingers tapped the table.
The place wasn’t so busy yet that he couldn’t see everyone on a slow scan, mostly his green eyes browsed over the heads of people, didn’t even stop for the guys, but oh, shit… he’d forgotten about her.
Nah, that was straight up lie.
She was not the type of woman you forgot easily. The popping curves made a man thirsty.
His eyes drifted to the bar and stayed there, barely aware of a perky little red-haired thing bouncing over to the table to take their order, he vaguely remembered asking for a bourbon, but he couldn’t be sure until she brought his order, maybe it would be a cola, because fuck him, Preacher’s eyes were glued to Ruby’s slender back behind the bar.
She was stretched up on her toes trying to reconnect a fresh bottle of booze, the motion had the hem of her shirt riding up to reveal a patch of slim column of caramel colored spine and two of the cutest back dimples right above her butt where her jeans lay dangerously low.
His mouth went bone fucking dry. Straight up Sahara city.
No, he hadn’t forgotten her at all, though the last time they’d spoken she was a bitey thing snarking his head off for no damn reason.
Without realizing, he was mentally undressing her like a deviant while she was unaware his eyes were on her. Fuck, stunning.
“Yo, fucker, you wanna re-join earth any time?” Grinder punched the top of his arm to grab his attention and Preacher broke the spell between him and Ruby’s biteable-kissable-fuckable ass.
Damn. What an ass she had. All peachy shaped and made for squeezing hands. He was going to take that ass.
He remembered the last time they spoke, how she’d breathed fire and brimstone out of her eyes at him, so maybe he’d scratch fucking her ass…for now.
“You’re such a needy chick, G. What next, you want to start a book club?”
“Oh! I heard the new Chris Brookmyre is worth taking a look at,” announced Texas. Scotch in one hand. Under his leather cut, he wore a pristine white shirt and a fat blue tie. If Preacher wasn’t used to seeing the model attire on his brother he would have rolled his eyes a couple dozen times. But it was Texas. He was slick hair, slick clothes, and a slick manner.
“Let me guess. You and Lawless have actually got a fucking book club together … didn’t we talk about this; do we have to revoke your outlaw membership?”
His eyes were magnets with only one directional pull and they strayed behind the bar time and again. Damn, she was back on her toes, hiding that perfect ass from him.
He followed her, a dirty slick gaze watching as she served and smiled at people, leaning over the bar, showing off the mounds of perfect tits under her shirt. Fuck.
Preacher licked his bottom lip.
“It’s not a club per say.” Texas’ cultured voice explaining whatever new bullshit he was into now. “Lawless just tells me what to read and I read it. He’s never led me wrong yet.”
“Sounds peachy.” He added absently.
And now he was back to thinking of Ruby’s ass. He was up out of his seat before he realized. “I’ll be back.”
Or not. Depending on how it went.
Long legs took him across the bar in a few steps, through the food smells and the noise of the customers getting drunk out of their minds. It was pay day for most, what else did the masses do? Preacher fucked.
“Good to see you, baby.” A tiny blonde waitress attached herself to his hip out of nowhere, Preacher moved her easily, his path already chosen like a damn missile. “You want some company later?” Hope in her saccharine voice. What was her name? no clue.
“Sorry, darling. Not tonight.”
“Aww. Keep me in mind, baby. Any time. You know my number.” He didn’t.
It paid to be taller than most when Preacher easily got a spot at the bar, straddling a stool he waited.
Not even twelve hours back in town and he knew he’d missed two things; his club and the woman currently walking towards him trying to set fire to his eyebrows with her glare.

Book One: Dirty Salvation.

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