Gisele Vs. Guitar Hero

by Mona Cox

  *** It’s the cute single girl versus the Big Bad Outlaw in this sixth installment from Mona Cox. Guaranteed to be sweet, steamy, sassy, and fun. No cheating or cliffhangers. HEA? You know it, babe! ***

  Dedicated to Uranus. I love it so much. There is only one person who knows what that means, and this book is dedicated to them. - I love them so much.

  Dirty Lil’ Angels

  Hi ladies!

  If you’re like me, once you finish, you’re not going to want the story to end!

  To receive exclusive sneak peeks, (before anyone else!), bonus content not seen anywhere else, giveaways, and tons more swag, visit me and my Naughty Angels on Facebook at Dirty Lil’ Angels.

  We’ll make it worth your while…

  :)

  Kisses!

  Alexis

  A Note From The Woman Behind Mona

  Well hello there, ladies!

  Let me first begin by introducing myself.

  I write steamy contemporary romance. Steamy is another word, I guess, for dirty. And dirty is another word for fun. In fact, the dirtier the better because at heart I’m just a bad girl looking to have some fun.

  That’s why Mona Cox was created between some dear author friends. To create short, quick, fun, dirty tales that make you smile and get you to touch yourself.

  These tales supposed to be short, sweet, sexy stories that are a quick read that make you laugh and get you a lil’ wet. Kinda like me!

  Every week, Mona Cox (get it, Moans for Cocks?) will give you a short and sweet story about a young independent girl who goes up against something in her life that gets her stronger and makes her a better person. Maybe she falls in love too. But she definitely gets to cum lol!

  Having fun is why I do this. And, I’m just having fun in the next few hundred pages, doing what I do with a wink and a nod. It’s supposed to bring out some emotions and give you a chance to forget about your cares for a little bit. That’s all I’m looking to do.

  Some people want realism in their books. I say reality is too depressing. So you might see certain things as over the top or ridiculous in terms of never being realistically possible. Yeah, I agree. You’re coming into the world of Alexis by turning the page. Into a world where you have twin stepbrother quarterbacks with 12 inch …uhmm…appendages… that fall in love with their stepsister, where you have dragons who shift into billionaire BDSM rock stars and you get the picture. I think reality should take a second place to fun.

  So I just wanted to say that, in case you know, you were hoping for like super real. The men and women in the pages below represent the best, and worst, of all of us as a collective whole. This is all about leaving your cares for the world behind, as we hold hands, and just for a little while go on a journey that makes us smile. And hopefully a lil’ wetter than before.

  Kisses!

  Alexis xoxox

  58

  Lisa

  I swirl the gin and tonic in front of me as I listen to Christine sigh happily over Lover Boy.

  “Oh, and then, he bought me this!” She holds her arm out so everyone can admire the emerald-encrusted bracelet on her arm. It’s beautiful, even if a bit old-fashioned for my taste, but Christine’s eyes sparkle as much as the emeralds when she adds happily, “It was made in the early 1800s for the queen of France! Can you imagine?”

  I try not to roll my eyes in time with the swirling of my gin and tonic, but really, this is all getting to be a bit too much. Yeah, I want my friends to be happy, but the gushing and the gems? Can anyone say “over the top”?

  We're at the Boathouse, just three friends enjoying a Sunday afternoon together, but I have to admit, my oh-so-in-love friends are mostly just spending it outdoing each other by comparing Lover Boy stories.

  Ashley jumps in. Of course Ashley jumps in. She's just as bad as Christine, if not worse. “Apollo hasn’t given me anything that used to belong to the queen of France, but he did buy me a Maserati the other day. It’s so fun to drive; I should take you two out for a spin in it! One at a time, since it’s just a two-seater, of course.”

  “More than the gifts,” Christine sighs, and I swear to god, this is true; she clasps her hands in front of her as she talks, like an actress from the 40s or something, “it’s the love and attention he gives me. Anders is more attentive than anyone—”

  Okay, I can't help it anymore. The snort came out. It's loud and patrons three tables over turn to stare, but I just can't hold it in anymore. The love in the air is so thick, I can hardly see through it anymore.

  “Are we making you ill over there?” Ashley asks, eyebrow cocked at me.

  “A little,” I mumble into my suddenly-very-important-must-drink-right-now gin and tonic. When they just continue to stare at me, I shift in my seat and sigh.

  “I just…” I look out over the lake as I try to pick the right words. “I haven't found anyone like that for me, you know? I wish that I liked soft guys. I want—”

  “There’s nothing soft about Anders,” Christine breaks in with a naughty wiggle of her eyebrows. Ashley titters knowingly and I only barely restrain myself from rolling my eyes again.

  “I want a Long Island tough kind of guy,” I say, trying to explain. “I want a man. I want a beast who'll come along and fuck me. I think all the real men died out in the 1950s and now they’re all too afraid to say what they really think. Everyone is obsessed with being politically correct.”

  I listen to the gentle lap of the water against the boat deck as Ashley and Christine outdo themselves, assuring me that their new, amazing boyfriends are not soft and weak, but rather hard and ready to fuck at a moment's notice. I listen, but they don't really seem to get it. They're too in love to realize that their men aren't perfect. At least, not the kind of perfect that I want. I want the perfectly unperfect. I want a man who makes me his, and doesn't ask questions.

  I don't want a polite businessman in a suit, no matter how expensive that suit is.

  I pull out my iPhone and check the time. Dammit, I better hurry! I have a pedicure across town, like, now!

  “Listen you two, sorry I have to run but I’m going to be late.” I throw some cash down on the table and give Ashley and Christine air kisses. “I’ll catch up with you guys later.”

  I hurry out of the Boathouse and across Central Park, shoving the idea of a future Perfectly Unperfect Just For Me fantasy out of my head. I have a manicure, dammit! If I make it over to the 81st Street subway station, I might still make it on time. My fingernails are getting ragged, and there's just no way I can make it till tomorrow to have them fixed. Plus, Chaz would punish me for a week for standing him up.

  I hurry down the stairs and into the subway. It's a little grimy but I do my best to ignore that. I only take trains under extreme circumstances, but even I know they won't actually kill me. I'll just have to scrub underneath my fingernails extra carefully today.

  Waiting for Train 6, I pull out my iPhone again, and instantly double tap the Instagram pic of the three of us that Ashley just posted. I may roll my eyes every time I hear them sigh about how happy they are, but seriously, they are some of my closest friends. I do want them to be happy. I just don't want them to be obnoxiously happy. That’s possible, right? I flip over to Facebook to check to see if—

  Someone runs into me. A small someone. My phone fumbles in my hands as I'm looking down to see a small boy running down the platform and my phone is going sideways and I'm going sideways, trying to catch it and then, I'm falling, falling...

  Wham!

  The breath is knocked out of me and I'm staring up at the concrete ceiling, trying to figure out what just happened. Where...

  I scramble to my feet, moving awkwardly because I hurt so bad but I didn't seem to have anything broken, so that was a good sign, right?

  Except...as I shove my phone back into my Coach purse, I realize—I'm on the fucking train tracks. And the platform is, like, waaayyyy tall. If I stand on my tiptoes, I can just barely see over the edge and onto the p
latform. A few jumps, a few times of grasping the edge of the platform and pulling, and…

  I've got nothing. I never knew that pull-ups would be the difference between life and death.

  So here I am, trapped, all because I hate doing pull-ups at the gym.

  Oh fuck.

  I can hear a train coming.

  Which is when the screams begin.

  59

  Diesel

  So there I am, walking through the subway, and I look over to see a lady just disappear. Flash – she's just gone. A little kid is running off, down the platform, but no one else is there.

  The top of her head appears and then disappears, then up to her chin and back down again and I realize that she's trying to jump her way out of the train tracks.

  I react then. There's no thinking, no contemplating the consequences, I'm just going. Fuck the turnstiles; I jump them with ease and I'm running, heart pumping, as I sprint across the platform and throw myself down into the train track area, the landing sending shooting pains up my legs.

  God, that hurt, but I didn't have time to worry about that. I pick up the blonde and throw her over my shoulder and then from there, throw her up onto the platform above us. I can hear a train coming, barreling down on us, and I'm motherfucking high-jumping my way out of this because if I don't, I'm going to die and the train is honking and screeching on its breaks and I throw myself up, up and away, and I'm rolling across the platform, through the dirt and the grime and the train is still screeching but goddamn, I'm alive.

  I lay there for a moment, gasping for breath, staring up at the ceiling, when the lady's face comes into view.

  “Tha—”

  “Oh god, Diesel, I have to take you in again?” a voice broke in and I looked over to see Sgt. Whitaker standing there, his hand on his nightstick. “The alarms for the turnstiles just went off. You just can't help from breaking the law, can you?”

  I push myself to get up and start wiping off the dirt, then put out my hand for the blonde to help her up. As she's standing and brushing herself off, I look her up and down, my dick instantly springing to attention. Yeah, she had a bit of dirt in her hair and her skirt is torn to shit, but daaammmnnnn, she has some nice legs on her.

  “C'mon, Diesel,” Sgt Whitaker says, clapping his hand on my shoulder. “Turn around.”

  He flips me around, facing straight at the lady, who protests. “Hold on!” she says. “Why is he being arrested?”

  I just shrug as the cold rings snap around my wrist. “'Cause I'm an outlaw,” I say with a naughty grin.

  My lawyer will tear this case into shreds the moment we get into the courtroom, so I'm not worried about being arrested. I'll be out soon enough and hell, sometimes, you just have to make the cops feel good, like they're doing their job, you know? Everyone wants to feel like they're making a difference in the world, and good ol' Sgt. Whitaker thinks that catching turnstile jumpers is just the ticket to make that happen.

  The lovely lady looks me up and down, inspecting my dirtied Polo shirt and Brooks Brothers khaki slacks. "Yeah, a real outlaw," she snickers.

  60

  Lisa

  I pace back and forth in front of the courthouse, a latte in hand. There’s a park bench for me to sit on while I wait, but…have you seen that thing? Pigeons have made it their home for the past ten years, at least, based on the shit quantity piled up there.

  “Why are you bailing this guy out?” Ashley asks, standing still as I pace in front of her. Notice, she isn’t sitting on the park bench either.

  “He saved my life, I’m telling you! There was a train coming and there I was, on the subway tracks and I’m about to die and then, he’s next to me and throwing me out of the tracks; it was amazing!”

  “But they arrested him,” Ashley points out. “He’s got to be some kind of a criminal. Or bad guy. Or something.”

  I shrug. “He said he was an outlaw, but c’mon, he was wearing fucking Polo when this happened. No outlaw wears Polo.”

  It would be awesome if he actually were an outlaw—finally, someone exciting to date! But I don’t share this observation with Ashley. She just doesn’t get it, her and her CEO fiancé.

  God, save me from suits.

  “But anyway, they arrested him for jumping the turnstile. I mean, what if he’d followed the law? I’d be dead right now. Dead! If this goes to trial, I’m going to testify for him. It’s the least I can do. I could be dead!”

  Ashley looks at me skeptically and I can tell she thinks she isn’t getting the whole story, but before she can argue with me further, the front door of the courthouse opens and here comes Mr. Polo Outlaw himself.

  Okay, I know I said that I don’t want a suit, but one quick up-and-down look confirmed that I did want a man in Brooks Brothers slacks. God, he was sexy. It really is too bad he isn’t an outlaw.

  A tribal tattoo is showing beneath the edge of his sleeve and I find myself wondering how far up the tat goes. Across his pecs? Over his back? Do I get to watch him lift weights and admire the tattoo dancing across his skin when he does?

  I find myself salivating for more than just the salad I just ate for lunch.

  “Well, look at the time!” Ashley says, ostensibly looking at her watch. “I better run!” And then she’s heading down the street, back to her Maserati.

  Mr. Outlaw looks back at me and grins. “She’s subtle.”

  “As subtle as a fireworks display,” I agree drily.

  And then we’re just standing there, looking at each other and I’m a little thrown off because I realize that I don’t really know what to say to him. “Thank you” didn’t seem to be enough.

  “It’s a nice day today and I’ve been cooped up for a bit. Want to walk with me?”

  Walk with this sex god? Yes, please!

  61

  Diesel

  “So what’s your name?” I ask as we wander down the street and around the corner. This part of Manhattan isn’t the prettiest to look at, but whatever. The girl walking next to me is all the scenery I need.

  “Lisa Boltiador,” she says. “And thank you. Thank you so much for saving me. I've never been so terrified in all my life and I’m sorry you got in trouble over it. I’ll pay for your legal fees and testify at your trial and—”

  “No need,” I tell her. God, my father would laugh himself into a coma if he heard someone offering to pay for my legal fees. Since when did Midas need help paying a bill? “It’s all taken care of. My lawyer already came in and convinced the cops that saving a beautiful woman’s life isn't a crime.”

  She looks at me, blushing, and I nod to myself. Yup, just like putty. I’ll have her panting and begging for more in minutes. Women love flattery—every last one of them. Lisa Boltiador is no exception.

  “So what’s your name?” she asks. “I have to know the name of the person who saved my life.”

  “Diesel.”

  “What?” She comes to a full stop and stares at me. “That's not your name.”

  “Sure it is!” I say. Not only is Lisa sexy as fuck, she’s also fun to tease. What a sweet combo.

  “Let me see your driver’s license,” she demands, holding out her hand.

  Fuck. I reach into my back pocket and pull it out of my wallet.

  “I told you,” she crowed, staring at my god-awful driver’s license. I’ve never met anyone who looks good in those mug shots they insist on taking. “It’s Carlton Caldwell. Oh my god, I've never heard such a white boy name in all my life!” She’s laughing as she hands the license back to me.

  I liked it better when she was oohhhiiinng and awwwwiiinnggg over my compliments.

  I shove the license back into my wallet. “Well, obviously, no one actually names their kid ‘Diesel,’” I told her as we started to walk again.

  “According to my Kindle, a lot of parents name their kid Diesel,” she countered.

  “Are you trying to tell me that you read those naughty bad boy novels on Amazon?” I’m shocked she’s admitting thi
s. Most girls liked to pretend that their friends did, but not them.

  “Oh hell yeah,” she says with a grin. “And I’m waiting for my own Diesel to arrive. A real Diesel.”

  “So other than changing my legal name to Diesel, what would make me into a ‘real’ outlaw?” I ask as we cross another street. This walk has gone on WAY longer than I’d intended, but I don't care. It’s fun to banter with Lisa. Not usually something I care about with the women I fuck. Long legs? Check. Big tits? Check. Humor? Never really mattered to me much. Laughing in bed isn’t really my thing.

  But with Lisa? She’s intriguing me with her quick mind and her even quicker mouth and I’m not ready for this walk to end. Yet.

  “Well, first off, where do you live?”

  “Upper East Side.”

  “Condo?”

  “Yeah.” I’m not really liking where this is going, but I can’t lie to her ‘cause with any luck, she’ll be joining me in the bedroom of that Upper East Side condo real soon.

  “Your name is Carlton Caldwell, you live on the Upper East Side in a condo, and you wear Polo shirts,” she ticks off on her fingers. “Ever heard the saying, ‘Three strikes, you’re out?’ I’m pretty damn sure you’re no outlaw.”

  “But are you sure?” I ask her, taunting her. “You won’t know for sure unless you have dinner with me. Just think, your chance to go on a date with your very own real-life Diesel. Three days from now. I’ve got some shit I have to take care of, and then I’ll be back in town. Will you be here?”

  We’ve circled back around and are in front of the courthouse again. Hesitating for a moment, Lisa finally nods. I pull out a business card that simply has an embossed phone number on it. “Text your address to this phone number,” I say. “I’ll pick you up at 8:00.”