Rowdy: A Scorched Souls Spinoff

by C. L. Riley

  Trina

  I make it into the hallway and collapse against the wall, locking my knees to keep from sliding to the floor. My heart thuds faster, and I have to remind myself to breathe.

  I shouldn’t feel betrayed, but I do.

  It’s ridiculous. I get that. I’m not Rowdy’s old lady (God, I hate that title), we’re not even dating, nor are we sleeping together. He is my patient, and if he continues to progress so rapidly, he won’t be that for much longer.

  The front door slams, and I experience a rush of relief. He didn’t want her in his bed either.

  I overheard most of their conversation. She came on to him with a certain familiarity that made me seethe...bitch, but he rejected her without hesitation, in spite of any past hook-ups. And his harsh dismissal had nothing to do with his ability to perform. Because I know for a fact his manhood is not broken. As his nurse, I’ve seen it standing tall and proud several times.

  So my guess is he’s waiting for the right woman, or maybe he’s still secretly hung up on Olympia or someone else I don’t know about.

  No. Olympia and Boone are undeniably hooked on each other, and if there was another woman in his life, evidence of her existence would have found its way to me by now. It’s got to be something else, but figuring out what is not part of my job description. I don’t have time to ponder the possible alternatives, not at the moment anyway.

  What I need to do is get the hell out of this hallway. I can’t let Rowdy catch me hiding here, glued to the wall. Just the idea of him finding me so distraught is enough motivation for my feet to move, hangover be damned.

  I make a beeline for the back door where I dump my bathrobe and swipe my jacket from the rack on my way out, not bothering with shoes.

  Ignoring the imaginary miners still hammering inside my head, I break into a jog and head for the ocean. The afternoon breeze wraps around me like a soothing blanket, and the sand beneath my bare feet is somewhat toasty.

  I’ve lucked out on one thing today—the weather.

  It’s mild for a spring afternoon, and I’m not the only one outside. There are human-shaped forms in the distance as people wander along the shoreline, some dashing in and out of the surf.

  Two barking dogs chase a squabble of seagulls, and several colorful kites fight to stay in flight, their ground-bound pilots doing their best to keep the lines from crossing. But even with those minor and mostly distant distractions, the area directly in front of Rowdy’s property is secluded, making it the perfect place for me to feel sorry for myself, away from any prying eyes.

  A big log has washed up on the shore, right along the line where damp sand meets dry. It’s surprisingly smooth and roomy enough for my butt.

  With my back to the beach house, I stare at the waves. The dreaded “how” questions waste no time crowding my space.

  How did my life end up at this point? How long will I be able to hide away in Seal’s Cove?

  My days are numbered the closer Rowdy gets to complete independence. I don’t doubt he could manage on his own right now if he wanted to.

  Thankfully, there are still things I can initiate that will help him improve even more between now and June. At that point, if he hasn’t done it sooner, he’ll mount the Harley he talks so much about and take it out on the open road.

  Rowdy riding off into the sunset will be my signal to disappear, unless I take a risk and open up to Olympia. I’d bet the million dollars I’m about to earn that Olympia Olsen would do just about anything to help me find my own butterfly wings and protect me from Dr. Martin.

  Last night I’d been ready to reveal my secrets to my newfound friends. How quickly that plan changed after Rowdy ignored my puckered lips.

  I must have misread his attraction to me, which proves beyond a reasonable doubt my read-a-man-meter has permanently malfunctioned, leaving me to assume Rowdy’s flirting was for fun, simple entertainment to add some spice to an otherwise tedious schedule.

  When I finally reciprocated, he took ten steps back, doing all he could to avoid humiliating me in the process.

  In spite of his gallant effort, it didn’t work. I wasn’t just humiliated. I was and still am mortified.

  I should have taken Rowdy up on his offer to leave the party immediately following my altercation with Buck, the pushy biker in the stairwell. But n-o-o-o...I had to have another beer.

  Picturing the strange biker who’d tried to hit on me, who I ended up slapping instead, reminds me of what I was fleeing from in the first place.

  I had accidently walked in on a very hot...no, it was beyond hot, more like scorching, sexual encounter, taking place in one of the clubhouse’s upstairs’ bedrooms.

  Another biker, one with a tattooed ass I’ll never be able to wipe from my memory, was pounding into a busty blonde, his perfect glutes tightening with every thrust. Her wrists had been handcuffed to the bed frame, and she was writhing beneath him. Her whimpers and cries left no doubt how much she was enjoying a thorough fucking, something I have never experienced. Not like that. Not even close.

  I’m positive Rowdy could make me writhe and scream while delivering the fucking of a lifetime.

  Damn it! Why am I still thinking about him? Maybe I’ve gone completely mad.

  As if to confirm my crazy diagnosis, my arm hairs spring to life amidst an attack of goose bumps and a flash of paranoia that steals my attention.

  Someone is watching me. It’s like I can feel their stare. But I’m too scared to turn around.

  “Ridiculous,” I mutter. “I’m on a public beach.” There’s a good chance I’ve caught the interest of another beachcomber, nothing more.

  “Hey, you okay?” a male voice asks from over my left shoulder.

  I’m off the log so fast I twist my ankle and tumble into the dry sand, landing in a heap. Thank God I avoided the hard and wet variety, just inches away.

  It appears my instincts were on the mark this time, and I’m not overly suspicious or crazy after all.

  I shield my eyes and force myself to look up at the intruder. I’m shocked to see a handsome man, not much older than me. His eyes twinkle with a touch of mischief. And he reaches down.

  Eager to be off my ass, I accept his sizable hand, allowing him to pull me to my feet.

  The minute I’m standing, I brush off the sand from my leggings and meet my savior’s (or is it stalker’s) gaze. He shoots me a sheepish grin before planting himself on the log...my log.

  “I didn’t mean to sneak up on you. I figured you might be meditating or some shit and didn’t want to interrupt. Guess that didn’t work out the way I planned.”

  More curious than afraid, I sit again, making sure to keep a few feet of space between us.

  A family has stopped to feed the seagulls. They’re not far from where we’re seated, giving me courage to sate my curiosity.

  The man I’m sharing my log with has on a faded t-shirt that strains across his defined pectorals, reminding me of Rowdy and Boone. Unlike their dark hair, his is honey-streaked and pulled back in a man bun that in no way mutes his masculinity. His jeans are baggy and paired with white high tops. I’m surprised he’s not wearing a cut lined with patches. He’d look right at home in leather.

  “Checking me out, huh?” He raises a brow and smirks. “I’m used to it.”

  His cocky boldness has me sputtering, unable to come up with a retort.

  “Now you’re speechless. That’s not uncommon either. Don’t feel bad.”

  Is he for real?

  He chuckles. “Gotcha!”

  I find myself laughing with him. “I thought you were serious.”

  “Never. I’m a chronic jokester. It’s like a curse. I can’t help myself.”

  “Well, I’ve never met a real life, chronic jokester. I could use a laugh or ten.”

  We spend the next twenty minutes talking about nothing but laughing about everything. I almost forget why I left the beach house in the first place.

  “Can I buy you dinner?”
/>   His unexpected question sends me reeling. Maybe he’s still teasing, but his expression says otherwise.

  Uh oh. What do I do?

  He picks up on my uncertainty right away. “Oh shit, I’m sorry. Must have got my signals mixed. It’s happened before.”

  “No, you’re great. Funny, which we clarified is something I need. Definitely easy on the eyes, which is always a bonus. Shoot, why not? I’ll have to schedule it for one of my nights off though. I’m a live-in care provider.” I realize then I have pretty much committed to a dinner date with a complete stranger.

  “I should probably get your number and name.” He chuckles, clearly coming to the same conclusion. We know nothing about each other.

  “My phone is...out of order. Can I get your number instead?” There is no way I can turn my cell back on, not with Dr. Martin prowling around, waiting in the wings for his opportunity to take center stage.

  I do have the work phone Rowdy provided, but using it for this feels wrong on so many levels, like I’m cheating or something.

  “How about we take an old fashioned beach stroll and get to know each other a little better? Then you can decide if I’m dinner material.”

  Maybe I’m still a little drunk from last night, because I want to know him better too. The men who abused me were men I trusted, so perhaps hooking up with a stranger is the solution.

  His puppy dog expression makes me laugh again, so I give in. What the heck? A quick walk, on a public beach, seems safe enough.

  “Since you made me forget my hangover, I think I can manage a stroll.” It’s true. My symptoms have vanished, courtesy of aspirin, ocean air, and a funny guy who uses the word, stroll—a guy who wants to take me out.

  I let him take my hand for now.

  There are no tummy tumbles or sweaty palms for me, but it feels nice enough I want to explore our connection. I’m not expecting to feel like I do around Rowdy, but my nameless hand-holder just might grow on me, given the chance. And there’s no denying his interest is a healing balm for my wounded pride.

  We don’t get far before a jogger closes in from behind. It sounds like he’s going to run straight through us. My future date tenses and quickens our pace.

  Before I can comment, his hand is ripped from mine, and he’s in the water with another man, the jogger maybe, who is on top of him.

  I scream at them to stop, but they don’t listen and continue to grapple and roll in the shallow surf.

  It takes another minute, but I recognize the jogger.

  It’s Rowdy.

  He’s gone completely berserk.

  And I thought I was crazy? “Rowdy!” I scream louder, rushing to the water’s edge. “Stop! Please!”

  I start to reach for him when I’m knocked over from the side.

  “You stupid bitch,” my attacker, definitely female, screeches. She tosses a wet sand-clod in my face.

  I realize then who I’m fighting. “You should have gone home when he told you to!” I grab my own handful of sand and shove it in her mouth.

  She squeals like a pig, and I roll on top, gaining the advantage.

  Looking down, I confirm it is indeed Rowdy’s recent reject, Twila. I easily overpower her and pin her arms with my knees, trapping them by her sides.

  My workouts with Rowdy have paid off. I’m in the best shape of my life. All this bimbo has are boobs, perfect boobs only surgery can create. But she can’t fight with those.

  “I’m going, man. Fuck,” my future dinner date groans in obvious pain.

  “Stay away from Trina, you hear me? I’m not playing. You’re officially done with The Guardians. Don’t even think of going back. It’s a good thing you’re not wearing your cut...either of them.”

  I scramble off Twila and direct my rage at Rowdy. “You’re not in charge of what I do!”

  He glares at me. “Let’s go. By now someone has called the police. I’d prefer to be gone when they arrive.”

  Glancing at the man I’d been ready to share a meal with, I’m shocked to see him with his arm draped over Twila’s shoulders. They know each other?

  He gives me an apologetic look and shrugs before turning away. The two of them stagger up the sand, nursing their injuries.

  Oh crap! Injuries! “Rowdy, are you okay? Why did you do that?” With a jolt of worry, my frustration dissolves as my medical training kicks in.

  He doesn’t answer. Instead he takes three long strides and grabs my shoulders. Anger rolls off him in waves...anger and something else. “The question is, are you okay?” He scans my body, searching.

  I try to step back, but he tightens his grip. “You’re hurting me,” I whimper.

  His hands leave my shoulders and he cups my face. His warm breath brushes over my lips like a caress. Before I can protest, his mouth crashes against mine, his tongue demanding entrance.

  Rowdy

  Fuck. At last.

  Her lips part and our tongues duel as we battle to find our perfect rhythm. In seconds our duel becomes a sweet but intense dance of longing. We are in sync, exploring each other without restraint.

  I’m glad I told Boone’s watchdogs to let me handle Crusher, who I’d recognized by his arrogance alone, because otherwise, I’d be missing out on this kiss, and Trina would have discovered our always-present protectors, something I’ve managed to conceal for longer than I ever imagined possible.

  I release her face and reach for her ponytail, desperate to free her hair. With care not to pull too hard, I remove the tie and let her curls tumble over her shoulders. In an instance, my fingers are buried in the silky ringlets.

  Touching her hair has been at the top of my to-do list since the day she walked through my door. I never expected the thick waves to be so soft.

  An unexpected thrill courses through me as she sways closer and allows her hands to drift up and over my chest, finding their home around my neck.

  She trembles and moans into my mouth.

  Holy. Sweet. Fuck. My cock is ready to bust through my jeans. We need to move this party somewhere more private. I’m not opposed to fucking in front of an audience, but I somehow doubt Trina would be onboard. And I’m not sure I want another man seeing her luscious curves.

  “E-hem...children present.”

  Trina pulls back, panting. “God, I’m sorry. I—“

  I don’t let her finish. “Why are you sorry? I’m not. If I’m sorry about anything, it’s the fact we were interrupted.”

  The young couple and their two giggling kids notice my accusing stare and quickly turn away.

  Why didn’t they do that to begin with?

  “Can we talk?” Trina asks, her voice softened by desire. “I think we need to, if we’re going to do more than...” she trails off before turning her head.

  She’s not quick enough for me to miss her cheeks. They’re not just flushed, they’re enflamed, evidence she’s every bit as eager to continue as I am.

  “More than kiss,” I finish her sentence. “If we can do more than that, I’ll talk about anything.” I realize as the words come out, I’m serious. I want to talk to her about everything.

  There is no doubt I have inside club business that will never make it from the cell in my head past my lips, but I don’t think the club is what she wants to discuss.

  I reach for her hand, feeling both chivalrous and possessive, but the moment’s magic is almost spoiled by an uninvited vision of her holding Crusher’s hand. The too-fresh memory prompts a surge of fury that roars to the surface, warring against my more positive emotions.

  Seeing her with Crusher—talking, laughing, holding hands, and looking so comfortable—sent me sailing off sanity’s safe edge into uncharted waters. I’ve never felt so jealous. The feeling was something deep and primal. I wanted to kill him for making her smile.

  Seeming to sense my emotional descent, she grasps my hand, giving it a firm squeeze, and the resentment recedes, replaced by an unfamiliar yearning—a yearning to possess her body and soul, to make her mine.
>
  Crusher will get what’s coming, I’ll make sure of it; but right now, I want to walk through the door Trina has finally opened.

  I give her hand a squeeze back, and we make our way up the sand to the beach house. There is no sign of any police or our guards, but the cats are waiting just inside the door, and I’m surprised when Trina uses her bare foot to push them back.

  “Is that cat abuse?” I tease.

  “You should know,” she teases right back, a smile forming.

  I realize then she has sand on one cheek, no doubt from her skirmish with Twila.

  I brush it off with my thumb, and it hits me...I mean really hits me. We were both fighting in the sand. In reality, I’d been in the surf, half drowning my former club brother. How crazy was that? And Trina, holy shit. She’d kicked Twila’s ass. My nurse is a bonafide brawler. First she slapped a visiting nomad and then this latest tangle with Twila.

  But there’s no time now to wonder about Twila and Crusher’s motives, because Trina has her hand on my arm and her smile has vanished.

  “Why did you follow me?” she asks, all traces of our teasing gone.

  I sigh. “Because I wanted to explain what happened with Twila and why I didn’t kiss you like I wanted to last night.”

  Her lips part and it’s her turn to sigh. “Oh, Rowdy. I felt so foolish, like I was throwing myself at someone who didn’t want me.”

  “I’ve wanted you since the day you showed up on my doorstep, acting like a royal pain in the ass.” I can’t believe I confessed my feelings, and I don’t stop there. “You’re a princess, Trina. My perfect princess.”

  She wrenches her hand from mine and jerks back. “What did you just call me?” Her eyes narrow and she studies me like I’ve sprouted horns while passing noxious gas.

  “A prin-cess?” I repeat with caution. I have no idea how one endearing term can create another chasm between us.

  She turns to walk away.

  I reach out and grab her arm, spinning her towards me. “Oh, no you don’t. No more running. No more hiding. And no more hot and cold. We’re dealing with this, whatever this is between us, right now.”