Long Hard Truckers
Sugar County Boys: Book 2
Madison Faye
Contents
Long Hard Truckers
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Epilogue
Also by Madison Faye
Mailing List
About the Author
Copyright Notice
Copyright © 2018 Madison Faye
Cover: Coverlüv
Photography: Wander Aguiar Photography
Models: Preston T, Natasha K. and Shane M.
Long Hard Truckers
Eighteen wheels, four rough hands, and two big…stick-shifts.
These two hard-driving, filthy-talking truckers are ready to ride all night.
And one sassy sorority girl is about to find out they’ve got more than just a big rig for her to ride…
The two of us? We’ve seen our share of hell. But after we left the Marines, all we wanted was our big rig truck, our own rules, and the freedom of the open road.
But when we see her - a pretty little thing in daisy dukes and cowgirl boots at the roughest truck stop around, there ain’t no way we’re not stepping in when trouble comes knocking.
Blonde, blue-eyed, and oozing innocence and temptation. Sierra McCree comes crashing into our world with trouble on her heels. She’s more than we ever bargained for – and more than we ever thought two roughnecks like us would ever find. And once we’ve got the teasing little sorority girl on our rig, she’s gonna be in it for the long haul.
Two big hard men like us should stay away from a flirty little tease like Sierra. Especially with the truck full of contraband we’re hauling for some very not nice people. But one teasing glimpse of her soft curves, and one taste of that bratty mouth, and we’re both addicted – obsessed, and driven to make her ours.
Cause the two of us? Well we share everything. Including her.
And out here?
Well, it’s not just the road that’s long and hard.
Let’s be blunt: if two rough, wild, completely over-the-top growly alpha heroes stopping at nothing to claim their heroine isn’t your cup of tea, you probably want to give this book a pass. But if it is your thing?
….well then, you’re in for a treat ;).
Buckle up, get those motors running, and get ready for one wild ride. This mfm romance is all about her - no m/m. As with all my books, this standalone novella is safe, with no cheating, and a HEA guaranteed.
Chapter 1
Tucker
It’s raining like hell as we climb back into the cab of the big rig. Big fuckin’ sheets of it coming down like southern Armageddon — that type of hot rain that doesn’t even cool you down and just makes things all muggy and sweaty.
Man, fuck Georgia.
Big neon lights from the truck stop flood over Walker and me through the windshield, the rain looking like fireflies or bombs or something. The Fuel Dump might be, well, a fucking dump, but it’s got the best coffee and pie for miles around. The coffee we’re going to need in order to keep on hauling through the night back to Kentucky. The pie? Well the pie is just a little extra.
Walker readjusts the wheel from where I had it on the last leg up from Tallahassee.
“You ready to—”
Shit.
I spot her at the same time as him. Through the rain, through the neon glow, through it all, there she is. Fuck, any red-blooded man in fifty miles has the scent of her. I spot her, and my whole world just sorta stops moving.
Blonde, slender, small, with soft, pouty lips. She’s standing under the eaves of the pawn shop — this little side business that Frank Moony, who owns the Fuel Dump, keeps on the side. It’s closed this time of night, but there she is, shivering underneath the porch overhang.
…She’s like bait thrown into the shark tank at this place.
She’s dressed to impress, but around here? Shit, she’s not going to impress dressed like that. She’s going to attract fucking predators.
Rough men. Men who’ve been on the road too long. Men who see a sweet little thing like that and know that tasty little slice of cherry pie she’s got between those pretty thighs is a might sweeter than anything you’ll get with a side of whipped cream inside the diner. Men who take one look and get to thinking all sorts of wicked, dirty, filthy thoughts.
…Men like us.
I groan at the sight of her, my thick cock growing in my dirty jeans.
“Fuck,” Walker growls, his hand dropping to cup the bulge in his own pants.
Yeah, we’ve been on the road far too long.
She’s soaked to the bone, and my eyes drop to the clingy white tank top she’s wearing. My cock lurches. Soft, pink nipples push through the soaking wet cotton, her areolas clearly on display as the dripping wet garment clings to her skin like wet paper. And with those tiny, frayed-edge Daisy Duke jean shorts and those cowgirl boots?
Fuck. Me. Sideways.
I could pull my cock out right here. Fuck, I want her on me. I want the taste of that sweet little cunt in those little flirty cutoffs riding my chin while I sink my tongue deep inside of her. I want her juices on my lips when I bend her over, rip her panties off, grab that tight little ass in both hands and bury every inch of my cock deep in her little pussy.
“The fuck is she doing here?”
Walker’s right. She’s not just out of place here. She’s in danger here. We both might be staring at her like men who’ve just seen water for the first time after months in the desert, but Walker and I have restraint, even with something that looks as tempting as her. Years in the Marines will do that. Me and my best friend? We’ll stare all right. We’ll fucking want her. We’ll want to tear those clothes off, spread her thighs and both get a taste of that honeyed little cunt.
But, like I said. Restraint. That and Walker and I aren’t evil men. Even if what we’re hauling might make us evil men. No, it ain’t construction materials, like what the truck manifest says. It’s what underneath all that — namely, surplus military guns from the black market, and whole shitload of weed.
…That’s the territory that comes with working for Lawson Banner.
Law’s the local crime lord of sorts back where we’re from — Sugar County, up in Kentucky. Working for him is hazardous enough, especially since some of our best friends from growing up are the Bronsons. And the Bronsons and the Banners have a sort of family feud thing going back generations. But then, money is money, and Law Banner pays fucking great for hauling his shit up and down the east coast — the Keys up through Appalachia. We’ve got a few rules of course — Walker and I won’t haul anything harder than weed, and no girls. Pretty sure Law ain’t into that these days, but it’s our hard line. We’re not hauling destitute, drug-addicted girls around to get pimped out, and we’re not bringing poison like meth or Oxy up into Sugar County. No fucking way.
Walker growls next to me, pulling me from my thoughts.
“She’s got trouble.”
Fuck. Sure enough, the wolves have descended on the little lamb. She’s hugging herself, wet, soaked, vulnerable. Sexy as fuck, but vulnerable. And three big, good ol’ boy looking motherfuckers have decided to waltz on over to her. One of them says something, and she shakes her head. They laugh, moving closer, even as she backs away against the side of the closed pawn shop.
I glance at Walker; he glances at me.
Yeah, we’re about to get involved all right, and we both know it. Part of it might be heroics, maybe. Maybe some holdout feelings from our Marine days, and seeing the injustice of a little thing like her getting harassed by these guys is bringing all that hero shit back to the surface.
But, there’s something more than that, and we both know it. Something more primal. It’s not just that we want to protect her.
It’s that we want her.
We saw her first. Those long, tanned legs disappearing under the frayed edge of those little Daisy Dukes? That soaked white tank top clinging to those perky little tits and those mouthwatering nipples? The ass that won’t quit, and those lips that are just begging for a thick cock to spread them wide?
Yeah, ours.
I know it’s caveman as hell, but I don’t give a shit. We’re just animals, after all. And seeing her? Well, now don’t that just bring out the fucking beast in both of us.
We saw her first, and its time to go claim what’s ours.
Ours.
Because Walker and me? We share everything.
…She’ll be no exception.
Chapter 2
Sierra
I need better friends.
That said, calling any of the assholes who just drove off and left me here “friends” is a pretty hard stretch in any case, that much I get. But if I ever get out of bum-fuck Georgia, or wherever the fuck I am? Alive?
Yeah, priority one is new freaking friends.
Spring break is supposed to be fun. And even if going into it, I wasn’t really into the idea, I went along. Because, well, it’s what I was supposed to do. A spring break road trip down to Palm Beach is “what Kappa Deltas do, Sierra!” Meghan had said, rolling her eyes. Meghan as in my “best friend” at my new sorority. My older pledge sister. Best friend very much in air-quotes.
When the trip had first started, I have to admit, it’d been thrilling. Me and my boyfriend Trent — a senior and a head brother with the Sigma Delta frat — Meghan, two other older sorority sisters of mine, and their boyfriends. All of us in one extra-large Winnebago motorhome heading down to Florida for a wild spring break. Alcohol, loud music — everything that I was supposed to be doing as a freshman pledge.
And like I said, it should have been fun, and maybe the drinking and the craziness had been for the first day on the road. But then, it’d all gone to shit.
Twenty-four hours into my epic road trip for the memory books, we’d parked at a campground for the night. After some pizza and beers, I’d ducked away from the campfire to pee…and walked right into Trent with his lips locked with Meghan’s and his hands all over her against the back side of the Winnebago.
Yeah, sucks to be me.
It’s not like I ever thought Trent was “the one” or anything like that. I mean, I might’ve had a somewhat naive background, but I wasn’t an idiot. I knew what he was, and I knew it wasn’t a forever thing. But, c’mon. I’d put up with his douchey attitude, his grabby hands, his horrible behavior and constantly checking out other girls. I’d put up with the most disappointing let-down of sex ever in the history of disappointing sex — especially since Trent had this reputation as a ladies’ man and a great body from football. Except under it all, Trent had about three inches he wasn’t quite sure what to do with.
Apparently, Meghan did know what to do with it though.
Trent had blubbered and apologized, claiming he was wasted. Then he’d tried to get me to join in. Yeah, right? I’d almost walked off right there, but one of the other Kappa sisters had convinced me to calm down. Meghan had even hugged me and told me how sorry she was and that she was just drunk, and how Kappas didn’t do that to each other, and sisters first, and go girl-power, and all this stuff.
And I’d eaten it up.
The next afternoon, this afternoon, we’d pulled into this shithole diner and truck stop for some late hangover breakfast. Five minutes in, when I realized we were all inside except for Meghan and Trent, I’d stormed out to the Winnebago, yanked the door open, and found Meghan bent over on all fours in the galley with Trent plowing her from behind.
I’d almost thrown up.
I’d stormed to the bathroom to scream or punch a wall or something or just yell at myself for being such a moron. Ten minutes later, I’d walked out just in time to see the Winnebago pulling away with Meghan giving me the finger from the window.
Like I said, sucks to be me.
No money, a torrential downpour, and a dead cell phone later, here I am. No luggage, no clothes except what I’m wearing. Oh, right, and the only people who know where I am just drove off and left me here. Even my dad thinks I’m staying with a friend and her family near campus in Mississippi, since I wasn’t about to tell him that I was driving in a beer-soaked Winnebago with my frat boy boyfriend down to the biggest college spring break party around.
I shiver, hugging myself. My choice in braless tank top is feeling less and less cute and flirty and more and more insane as night closes in. By day, this place was just a crappy diner. At night though, it’s getting scary. Trucks pull in — trucks with big, rough, dirty looking guys who ogle me like I’m the entertainment on the way to dinner.
A few have catcalled. A few have yelled worse.
I swallow as I see three who’d hooted at me earlier walking back out of the diner. They glance at each other, and then at me. And slowly, they smile.
Fuck.
The guys jog towards me through the rain, and I hug myself tighter as I step back even more under the awning of the pawn shop.
“You lost out here, little girl?”
“No.”
I shake my head, and the three of them laugh.
“You sure look lost,” the same guy says — a bit younger than the other two, and a little bigger and more built. But just as mean and skeevy looking.
“I’m fine, thanks,” I say quickly.
“Yeah you are.”
I swallow, the fear starting to burn inside of me. “I’m just waiting for my boyfriend.”
“I bet you are.”
One of the first guy’s two friends steps closer, licking his lips, his eyes locked on my chest.
“Well maybe we keep you company ’til he gets here, huh?”
“No thank you.”
“Honey you need a new boyfriend,” the third guy mutters. “Leavin’ pretty you out here all by your lonesome? Well shit, anyone could come along and just run off with you, now couldn’t they?”
My face pales as they leer at me, moving even closer.
“How about we keep you warm and ready for him, cutie?”
The second guy cups his dick through his pants, grinning.
“Why don’t you give us a peek, baby?”
“Look,” I force the words out, hoping they sound less terrified than I actually am. “I’m waiting for my boy—”
“And when he gets here,” the first one says darkly. “He can watch.”
“Please—”
They move towards me, and I’m about to scream when suddenly, the second guy grunts as he trips forward and goes splashing into a puddle on the ground.
I gasp as the other two guys whirl, and there, standing behind them, are two more men.
…These ones look different though. Way, way different.
They stand tall in the pouring rain — dark silhouettes with the neon light of the diner behind them. But there’s just enough light to see the rough, hard looks on their faces. The men look hardened, wearing tight t-shirts soaked from the rain, jeans, boots, and baseball hats. But, they’re not grungy looking like these three.
They’re bigger.
They’re more muscled.
And holy crap are they hot. I shake my head at how silly it is to notice that at a time like this, but the thought is there. The two new guys are nothing like the frat boys I know from college, or the preppy boys I knew from school before that.
No, these two ooze masculinity. They scream “alpha.” Hardened, rough, sexy.
>
I blush.
The first guy — the younger, more built of the three who was harassing me before, turns. Suddenly, there’s a flash of metal in his hand, and my hand flies to my mouth.
“You’re trying to join the wrong fucking party, fellas,” he spits.
“Step away from her,” one of the two new guys growls lowly — unblinking, unflinching, and seemingly unphased by the knife in the guy’s hand.
“Wait your fucking turn,” the guy with the knife mutters.
The two new strangers glance at each other before turning back. The second one nods.
“Step. Away.”
“Make us.”
One of the two new guys shrugs and pulls a baseball bat out from behind his back.
The ringleader sneers. “You think you can score us off with—”
He screams as the bat crashes into his hand, his fingers bending in horrible directions as the blade drops to the rain-soaked parking lot. The other guy lunges, but the tall, dark, gorgeous stranger with the bat catches him in the ribs, sinking him to his knees. The guy they shoved first is up and running at them, but the second stranger snatches the bat from his friend, twirls it, and swings, catching the other guy in the shoulder and making him squeal as he drops. The stranger follows through with a fist to his face, sending him to the ground.
“Fuck you! You fucked up my hand!”
The ringleader runs at them, and I scream as he yanks what looks like a gun from his belt with his good hand. But the dirty blond stranger just grins, twirls the bat again calmly like he’s waiting for the perfect pitch, and swings.
The guy with the bleeding hand screams as the bat catches him in the knee, this horrible snapping sound echoing from the hit that makes me cringe as he drops to the ground.
I blink, speechless as I stare at my three would-be attackers lying groaning on the ground.
“You—”
The two strangers step towards me, and I gasp. They were hot before. Closer, they’re freaking gorgeous. Brawny, rough, built like trucks with muscles for days. One’s got sandy brown hair and brown eyes. The other with darker hair, blue eyes, and whole sleeves of tattoos running down his arms.
Long Hard Truckers: Sugar County Boys: Book 2 Page 1
