Her First: A First Time Romance Box Set

by A. J. Wynter

  "I think I am now." He said. "The old man and I had a few heart-to-hearts once he found out that I had knocked you… I mean, that he found out that we were, um, expecting. If I can be half the man that Floyd was to our son, I'd be proud."

  Sydney gripped his hand, "Why does everyone think we're having a boy?"

  A stranger dressed in a well-tailored black suit approached the duo, "I'm sorry to interrupt Mr. Ryder, I'm Mr. Peabody."

  "Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Peabody," Russ said extending his good hand. Sydney held him around his waist, so he didn't topple over. "This is Sydney."

  "Pleased to meet you, Sydney," he said and shook her hand.

  "How did you know Floyd?" Russ asked.

  The man looked a little uncomfortable and pulled at his dark blue necktie. "Is there somewhere quiet we could talk?"

  "We can step outside if you'd like," Russ offered. "It is a little stuffy in here."

  As the man turned, Russ faced Sydney, pursed his lips and shook his head, signaling that he didn't know who this Mr. Peabody was, or what he wanted. Sydney grabbed Russ's cane and passed it to him, so they could follow.

  Once outside the stuffy room, the breeze provided a little respite from the heat and the three of them sat outside on a bench.

  "I'm Mr. Smithton’s lawyer. Should we speak alone?”

  “I tell Sydney everything anyway, so she might as well be here to understand what you have to say.”

  “Fine then,” he shook his head and continued, “Mr. Smithton came to visit me a few weeks ago to draft his will." Mr. Peabody set a soft-sided briefcase on his lap and pulled out a manila envelope and handed it to Russ. "Floyd's only heir is deceased. He left Blackgum to you, Russ."

  "Really?" Russ said. "I always thought that there had to be some long-lost family out there. Seems sad that Floyd didn't have anyone."

  "From what I hear, he had you. He's instructed me to sever off ten acres of the farm to give to a Mary Snodlen, and you're to keep her on as a cook as long as she wants to do it. You're the legal landowner, so you are going to have to proceed with the severance with my guidance."

  "Yes sir, I can do that. But I'm surprised that's all that he's leaving to Mary."

  The man took off his glasses and stared at Russ. "Son, do you know how much Blackgum and its acreage is worth?"

  "Hadn't really thought about it," Russ mused and stroked his chin. "The main house should probably be torn down, but I supposed the bison are worth a fair bit."

  "Mary's portion of the ranch is going to be worth one hundred thousand dollars."

  "One hundred thousand..." Russ's voice trailed off. "So, that means the rest of the ranch is worth..." Sydney could see the awe in Russ's eyes and was glad when Mr. Peabody interrupted. "Your ranch is worth at least two million dollars, Russ."

  "I can't…, I mean, what? Two million?" Russ stammered.

  "You will have to come in as soon as you can to start the paperwork," Mr. Peabody said and stood. "I'm sorry for your loss."

  Russ strained to push himself to his feet, he took off his hat and shook Mr. Peabody's hand, "Thank you, sir."

  Sydney and Russ watched the lawyer walk away. Russ had tears in his eyes, "I would give two million dollars to have Floyd back."

  "I know you would, Russ. I know." Sydney swept his hair behind his ear and kissed the tear off his cheek. "Should we go?"

  Russ nodded. "What about Lainey?" he asked.

  "Oh, I think that she'll be just fine," Sydney smiled, knowing that Lainey would be in her element with three cowboys fighting over her.

  The two of them walked slowly away from the church down the tree-lined streets until they got to Old Red. Russ hobbled to the driver's side and opened the door, "M'lady." He said and opened the door for Sydney.

  "You've got to be kidding. I may be pregnant, but you're the one with the broken leg. I'm helping you into the truck." Sydney shut the door without giving Russell time to protest and scampered over to the passenger side to tug on the heavy rusty door. Russ grimaced as he eased himself into the passenger seat.

  Sydney hopped into the truck, pumped the gas a couple of times and prayed as she turned the key. The old truck roared to life, and when it sputtered, Sydney pumped the gas, revving the engine.

  "That's so sexy. I'll never get tired of seeing you start this old truck," Russ smiled.

  "Where to, cowboy?" she asked.

  "Blackgum," said Russ. "Home."

  The end.

  The Biker’s Virgin

  A.J. Wynter

  CHAPTER ONE - OLIVIA

  Olivia picked up the electric guitar and marvelled at how heavy it felt in her slender hands. She ran her hands down the strings, they felt metallic; different, yet strangely familiar.

  “Don’t touch that.”

  She whipped her head around to see where the stern voice was coming from. Her dad’s friend Steve leaned against the open door-frame of the garage. He butted his cigarette out on the pavement and approached her.

  “Why do you have it in our garage?”

  “Your dad said that I could use this as rehearsal space for my new band until the barn is cleared out.” The tall, lanky, middle-aged man took the guitar out of her hands and replaced it on the metal stand.

  Olivia looked at the aging hippie and saw how Steve must’ve once been a very good-looking guy. His long gray hair had once been golden, and certainly a lot fuller, and he would’ve had a bronzed tan from all the time he spent surfing. Now his face was textured like leather from all the sun damage, and his silvery gray pony tail looked ridiculous with his bald head. She shook the vision of young Steve out of her head and noticed that with his long ponytail, his head looked like a raccoon that had been shaved, and she couldn’t help but giggle to herself.

  “What are you laughing at kiddo?”

  Kiddo. She was 21, and all the adults in her life still thought of her as a kid.

  “Nothin’ Steve, just thinking about a raccoon video I saw online.”

  “You actually watch videos for fun? I thought that you spent all of your time practicing that cello of yours.”

  Olivia was home from college where she was majoring in Classical composure focusing on the cello. She had been playing since she was a child when the massive hollow body of the string instrument dwarfed her diminutive frame.

  “The raccoon was playing the piano,” she replied slightly defeated.

  “Ha, thought so. Makes sense.” Steve parked his skinny butt on the stool behind the drums. “Have you ever played the guitar?”

  “A little bit of classical at school, but on an acoustic with nylon strings, nothing like that beast.” She pointed at the bright blue electric guitar.

  “Pick it up, let’s jam!”

  Olivia yearned to pick up the guitar, but her self-conscious nature took over.

  “Nah, if it doesn’t have sheet music, I can’t play it.”

  “That’s a shame, you should really learn how to feel the music, man.”

  ‘Zeesh, what a hippie. Go smoke another one, Steve’. Olivia thought to herself.

  “See ya, Steve.” She turned and left the garage just as Steve broke out into a raging drum solo.

  She ran upstairs and grabbed her cello, and instead of reaching for her sheet music, she closed her eyes and held the bow in her hand. She could hear the beat from the drum kit emanating from the garage and she started playing along with low notes and a slow tempo. As she doubled the tempo and started to tap her foot, she really felt herself getting into the rhythm. It was like someone else was inside of her trying to get out. Her playing became feverish as she combined her classical training with the feel of the bass from the drums. She was shocked when tears welled up in her eyes, and she dropped the bow to the floor. What was wrong with her? She was always stoic, emotions were something that she knew how to hold inside very well.

  Ever since she was a child, she was marked as a prodigy. She had been whisked away from home every summer to attend camps with mae
stros. She spent her childhood evenings, not hanging out with friends and playing outside, but inside, her cello between her legs. As a matter of fact, that’s the only thing that had ever been between her legs. She’d never had anything even remotely close to a boyfriend.

  She sat on her bed and let the tears flow freely for the first time in years. She was a skilled cellist, but that was it. She needed to experience life but didn’t know how. She grabbed the yellow crocheted blanket that her mother made before she died, clutched it around herself, and stared at her face in the mirror. Puffy, blood-shot blue eyes stared back at her. She never wore makeup and her long brown hair, although healthy, was long and shapeless. She had a smattering of freckles across her nose and a plain round face. She’d had a bout of acne in high school, but now her skin was like porcelain. She dropped the afghan to the floor and pulled her hair back from her face. Was she pretty? She didn’t know. She let go of her hair and curled up on the bed under the warmth of the yellow afghan and fell fast asleep.

  CHAPTER TWO – BLAINE

  Blaine shivered and pulled on his gray hoodie over his oil-stained white t-shirt. He wished that they would turn up the damn heat in the garage at night; the only time he had to work on his bike. Even though summer was right around the corner, the night was crisp.

  He jumped as he heard the scattering and smashing of beer bottles and cans as they clattered across the concrete garage floor.

  “Fuckin’ guys.” A gruff low voice echoed through the garage. It was Zeb, the President.

  “Blaine, get over here and clean up these fuckin’ bottles.”

  Blaine jumped up, grabbed an empty beer case, and wished that he hadn’t just walked around the pile of bottles on his way into the garage.

  “You spend so much time working on your bike. You’re not going to like it when the fuckin’ tires are all full of glass are you?”

  Blaine was used to the yelling, he had been raised in the clubhouse. After his dad, the club’s secretary, died in a bike accident, he and his mom were taken in by the motorcycle club, the Brass Bonds, MC. His mom never got over the loss of her husband, Marty, and blamed the club life for his death. She took off when Blaine was four and the guys had raised him ever since.

  He knew that a biker club wasn’t the best environment for a kid to grow up in, but he loved it. He got to ride on the back of bikes, get his hands dirty fixing things, and stay up late. As a teenager, it had been amazing: women; booze; dope, anything he wanted, he could have. He didn’t have to go through the hazing process that all of the other new prospects had to go through, and he was thankful for that, the club put their prospects through the wringer.

  All that freedom at such a young age made him seem much older than his years. He was 24 and hid his baby face behind a scruffy ginger beard. Yeah, he had done some shitty stuff in his past, but now that he had senior status in the club he didn’t have to get his hands dirty too often.

  Once the bottles had been cleaned up, he grabbed a couple of cold ones from the fridge, fell into the leather chair beside Zeb, and tossed him a can of beer.

  “Thanks, kid.”

  They cracked open their beers and sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes. When they finally spoke, it was to admire the exhaust modifications that Blaine had made to his bike. It’s going to sound so fucking boss. Blaine thought to himself and took a swig of his beer.

  “Blaine, I’m putting you in charge of organizing the security and location for the next meeting of the chapters. Use the prospects for anything you need to get done.”

  “When is that again, beginning of September?”

  “Yep.”

  “I’m on it,” Blaine sighed. He hated the AGM. It was always a total shit show. The location changed every year as it was hosted by the different chapters of the club. This year was his chapter, Torver’s, turn. When all of the Brass Bonds got together, fueled by booze and coke, there were always crazy incidents, fights, and gunfire.

  Blaine leaned forward on his knees and shook his head as he realized the weight of the big responsibility that had just been tossed onto his plate. The first step in organizing the damn thing was going to be securing the location. What farmer or campground wants hundreds of Brass Bonds camping out on their land? They had a huge presence in Torver county, and everyone knew who they were, for good or bad. Landowners knew that they were better off agreeing to donate their property for the weekend, or face the alternative. Blaine always felt guilty strong-arming hard-working folk, but he got a kick out of beating up slick businessmen. He loved seeing them fumble around in their Italian leather shoes. Maybe he would try to find some property owned by a fancy developer and force them into hosting the club’s meeting. The second step was going to be getting the local authorities on board. That part wasn’t going to be tough, seeing as the Bonds already had the sheriff in their back pocket.

  He flipped open a spiral notebook and started his to-do list. He scrawled out: bust up slick businessman, and smirked as he reread it.

  He loved his club and he loved his brothers, but was starting to get tired of the lifestyle. He had gotten partying and wild experiences out of his system at a young age, and was feeling a little bored with it all now. He was even tired of the women. They were all the same. Usually blonde with huge fake tits, armband tatts, skinny as hell, and slightly orange from tanning beds. The gashes loved the MC and would do anything any of the members told them to do, without question. Sure, the girls acted tough, but if he snapped his fingers, the club girls would do whatever he said.

  Even the fucking was getting boring. Most of the club whores had been through half the MC. He knew that some of the girls didn’t want to do the dirty stuff, but did it anyway. The weakness of those women made him despise them. If a club girl stood up to him, he would actually respect her a lot more.

  Blaine threw his leg over his bike, an old pan-head chopper, and kick-started it to life. He smiled to himself and took a swig of beer, appreciating his bike’s new growl.

  CHAPTER THREE – OLIVIA

  Even though she had been playing for years, Olivia struggled to carry around her cello. She popped the trunk on her little Honda and heaved her instrument into the back as carefully as she could. Her dad had worked two jobs to pay for her cello, and she would be devastated if anything happened to it.

  The little car’s engine sprang to life and Olivia peeled out of her driveway, late for her lesson. Her instructor, Mr. Tunbridge, was a tyrant and Olivia needed to stay on his good side. Only the best students were chosen to audition for the city’s orchestra, a stepping stone to Olivia’s dream - to play First Chair in the Chicago symphony orchestra. Mr. Tunbridge held the coveted audition spots over his student’s heads. There were rumors that you could do ‘favors’ to get a recommendation letter for the audition selection committee. Olivia didn’t know if she believed these stories, and while he was creepy and a tyrant of a teacher, he had never been inappropriate with her. She chalked those stories up as wives’ tales, created by jaded students.

  “Darn it,” Olivia muttered under her breath when the gas light came on.

  Come on dad, seriously? Her dad always borrowed her car and returned it on fumes. Stopping to get gas was going to make her late for sure. Tears of frustration welled up in Olivia’s eyes as she signalled to get off the highway and turned into the gas station. She sighed in relief when she saw that there was one free pump. She could easily pump in ten bucks’ worth of gas really fast and be on her way.

  She shut off the car and clicked out of her seat belt, ready for fast gas pumping action. As she grabbed the pump, a motorcycle screamed into the station, one of those crotch rockets. It was obnoxious, colorful, and whiny sounding. Its leather-clad rider jumped off and grabbed the pump out of Olivia’s hand.

  “Thank you.” The rider said snidely, his voice muffled through his helmet.

  “Please, I’m in a hurry” Olivia pleaded.

  The obnoxious rider turned his back to her and shoved the nozzle i
nto his bike. Olivia shook with fury and anger, but didn’t know what to do.

  “Excuse me, Miss.”

  Olivia jumped at the deep voice that sounded out behind her. She turned to face a wall of a man on a mission. He strode past her and tapped the crotch rocket man on the shoulder. The small biker turned ready for a confrontation but recoiled when he saw the man who had interrupted his fill up. She couldn’t hear what the big man in the black leather vest said to him, but the little white leather-clad man nodded several times and held his hands up in front of him like he was in a stickup.

  The huge bearded man removed the pump from the crotch rocket, and wordlessly, walked to Olivia’s car and shoved the pump into her gas tank.

  “Get in the car.” He growled to Olivia and nodded at the door.

  Olivia scrambled into the driver’s seat, feeling thankful and scared at the same time. ‘Why was he doing this for her? What would she owe him?’ she wondered to herself.

  He was big and scary looking. The Brass Bonds logo was stitched onto the back of his vest. She had heard of the Brass Bonds, and everything she had heard about them was bad with a capital B. As she studied him in her mirror, she found herself admiring his tanned forearms. He leaned against her car with one foot up on the curb, his boot tapping to an invisible beat. He was wearing jeans and a black t-shirt under his leather vest, and he towered over her little car. His thick bicep flexed as he held onto the gas pump with his black gloved hand. Olivia couldn’t stop looking at him. His face was tanned, his cheeks chiseled and covered in light freckles. His long blonde hair splayed out messily from under his flat-brimmed baseball hat. At first, Olivia had guessed the man was in his thirties, but after her mirror stare session, she could see the youth in his face. She estimated that he was in his early twenties.