Stepbrother Obsessed

by Devon Hartford

  “Hey!” I turned to shout at the motorcycle. “You almost killed me!”

  The psycho guy on the roaring black bike didn’t hear me. He rolled to a stop at the red light a few cars ahead of my VW, planted his boots on the ground, and revved his engine. I noticed his thin white T-shirt flutter in the breeze, revealing sculpted bronze back muscles that led to what was clearly an amazing ass hidden under his jeans. The way he straddled the racing bike made me blush. Was he wearing any underwear?

  I wish I was that motorcycle. Shut your dirty mind, girl! Thoughts like that will get you into all kinds of trouble!

  Maybe I liked trouble.

  His narrow waist led to broad shoulders that were equally amazing and stretched the cotton material of his shirt impressively. Yum.

  Hold up, girl! He almost beheaded you with his handlebars! No special passes for insane bikers. Even if they are hot from the rear.

  “Psycho!” I shouted. He didn’t hear me.

  “You made me miss the light, idiot!” I whipped my head around. Red Face had gotten out of his Mercedes and stood right behind my door, his fists planted on his hips. He wore a toupee and gaudy gold chain. His swollen gut, wrapped in a silk button-down shirt, hung over his expensive slacks.

  I might have liked trouble, but not this kind.

  “Don’t call me an idiot!” I shouted. “And quit yelling at me! I’m swimming in Lake Americano here!” My pulse raced. I knew guys like this. Asshats to a man.

  He eyed my coffee mess and smirked. “It’s stupid broads like you who cause all the accidents.”

  “Excuse me?” Broads? Was I trapped in a 1940s gangster film? A thatch of curly hair puffed out of his open shirt collar. More like a 1970s mafia movie.

  “Dumb bitch! Get off the road! Leave the driving to the men!”

  Bitch…

  How many times had I been called that in the last two years? I learned I didn’t have to take it from them, so I certainly wasn’t going to take it from this prick. I cranked up my window furiously. Half way up, Red Face grabbed the glass and pushed against it. “Hey! I’m talking to you! Get off the road, slut! You’re blocking traffic!”

  Slut…

  I knew that one, too. But I was no slut. Uh-uh. I flashed my teeth at him. If I were a werewolf, now would’ve been the moment when I bit his fingers off. No such luck. I tried to turn the window crank, but Red Face pushed down so hard on the glass, I couldn’t budge it. “Hey, asshole, get off my car or I’m going to pepper spray your face!”

  “Don’t back talk me, whore!”

  Whore…

  I glared at his insane eyes. I knew the look. He was trying to intimidate me. My face was suddenly hot, and I felt tears welling. I willed them to dry up. I’d promised myself no one would ever intimidate me again, and I certainly wasn’t going to cry for this sloppy bastard.

  But old feelings leaked into my awareness anyway. Red Face had managed to bring me right back to that night two years ago. The night that had started all the dirty looks, the labels, the name calling, and the ejection from high school society.

  For a second, I almost fell apart. But I had plenty of practice holding myself together under stress. I took a deep breath and shoved my old pain behind the emotional walls I’d worked so hard to build.

  When I regained my composure, I spoke to Red Face in a calm, commanding voice. “Remove your fingers from my window and get back into your car. Now.”

  He ignored my request. “Move it, skank!”

  This guy was plain crazy. He probably didn’t know what day of the week it was, let alone his own name. He needed a handler with a leash. Where was Animal Control when you needed them?

  What to do? I didn’t have pepper spray. Even if I did, it would be buried in my purse underneath the hoarder’s paradise I kept inside it. I considered biting his fingers once again. Until I noticed he had hairy knuckles. Ew. That made him the hairy werewolf in this scenario.

  I considered gouging his eyes with my nails, but the way he was standing, I couldn’t get an angle. I looked around for help. No one was jumping out of their cars. I was on my own on this.

  Shit, when wasn’t I?

  Red Face kicked my car door with his pointed loafer. “Hey! I’m talking to you, pinhead!”

  I noticed motion out the corner of my eye. Psycho Motorbike had put his kickstand down and swung his leg over his motorcycle. Helmet still on, he swaggered toward my car.

  Psycho Motorbike stopped short of Red Face, who hadn’t noticed him. Psycho Motorbike’s front side was as impressive as his back. His broad chest flexed under a V-neck t-shirt. The tanned edges of his sculpted pectorals danced in the open collar. Muscled arms covered in tattoos hung at his sides. Leather gloves covered his fists.

  I couldn’t see much of his face with the helmet on, but his sapphire blue eyes pierced my heart. “You gotta problem?”

  Was he talking to me or Red Face?

  Red Face swiveled to confront blue-eyed Psycho Motorbike. “Who the fuck are you?”

  “This guy bothering you?” Psycho Motorbike stared into my eyes, clearly talking to me. Sigh.

  “I’m talking to you, you fucking prick!” Red Face shouted at Psycho Motorbike.

  Psycho Motorbike never took his eyes off me. I gazed into his two blue oceanic jewels and nodded slowly.

  “The lady wants you to leave,” Psycho Motorbike said to Red Face.

  “What? I don’t take shit from you, punk. Get the fuck outta here,” Red Face growled.

  Psycho Motorbike took a step toward him. “Back off, buddy.”

  “Fuck you, prick!” Red Face lunged toward Psycho Motorbike.

  In one fluid motion, Psycho Motorbike side-stepped and punched Red Face in the gut. The fat man went down in a crumpled heap. Nope. this wasn’t a gangster movie or mob drama. This was an old west showdown! Woo hoo, Psycho Blue Eyes! I almost clapped. Almost.

  Psycho Motorbike leaned over, grabbed Red Face by the back of the shirt and pulled him to his feet. The muscles in his tanned arms bunched and stretched beneath his intricate tattoos. Wow. Red Face coughed and sputtered as blue-eyed Psycho Motorbike led him somewhat politely to the curb and dropped him there like a sack of rice.

  “You need an ambulance?” Psycho Motorbike asked Red Face while towering over him.

  Still coughing, Red Face’s eyes bulged from their sockets. Surprise, embarrassment, and anger warred on his fat face. He looked up at Psycho Motorbike and shook his head no, then hung it between his shoulders in defeat.

  I rolled my window down as Psycho Motorbike walked over and leaned onto my car. I noticed the material of his shirt was an expensive knit, and slightly transparent. Quiver. One of his well-toned forearms rested on my windowsill.

  I inhaled the faint scent of his cologne, which hit the manly sweet spot somewhere between dusty cowboy and crowned prince. Strength and style. That’s not the only spot it hits. Down, girl!

  There was no way he could see anything beneath or through my knee-length dress, but I squeezed my thighs together, just in case. Just in case I jumped him. Rawr!

  Now that he was my knight in see-through armor, maybe I should stop thinking of him as Psycho Motorbike and call him Motorknight.

  “You okay?” A dimple twitched beneath his cheek. I detected a cocky smile. I couldn’t see his lips beneath the helmet’s face mask, but I could imagine them. Swoon. He looked at me expectantly.

  “Uh…” Pick up your panties and grow some ovaries, girl! Loosen that corset or you’re going to faint right here! “Thanks, yeah, I’m okay.”

  His face twisted. “Why do you smell like coffee?”

  “Um…new body spray?” I said hopefully.

  He noticed my legs and the coffee spill. He chuckled. “Looks like you had an accident.”

  Boy, he was really looking at my legs. I wanted to squirm. “Yeah. Accident.” I sounded like an idiot.

  “What’s your name?” His eyes melted my good sense, like Superman’s laser beam eyes, except blue
.

  “Sam—”

  Cars started honking again. The light had cycled back to green.

  “—antha.”

  “My work is done here. Sam. Antha.” More dimples. Wow. Was this guy for real?

  He slapped the roof of my car, swaggered back to his bike and rocketed down the highway. I wanted to shout “My name’s Samantha Smith! My cell phone number is—” but I had a small fragment of self-respect remaining.

  I started my car and tried to follow, but he was long gone. All I had left of that horrible-magical moment was a car floor soaking in coffee and my outfit equally in need of a wash and detailing.

  Psycho Blue Eyes had made me forget all about Red Face. But Red Face had brought back everything else.

  Bitch.

  All because of something I did…

  Slut.

  A mistake I could never undo…

  Whore.

  Something I would regret for the rest of my life…

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  Horribly late, I pulled into the north parking lot at SDU. Coffee sloshed around the soles of my flat sandals every time I braked or accelerated. I would have to deal with it later.

  The parking lot was the size of a small town, and packed with cars. I grabbed the first available space. I had to shoehorn my VW between the two jackholes who had parked Daddy’s BMW and Mommy’s Lexus over the white line on either side of the space.

  My car door bumped into the Lexus when I opened it, leaving me no more than a mail slot to squeeze through. I was by no means fat, but I barely made it out of my car.

  I jogged across the lot toward the business school. My feet stuck to my sticky sandals, peeling off with very step. Lame. My book bag felt like it was loaded with bricks. Sweat would be running down my face by the time I made it to the lecture hall. Stupid traffic.

  At the end of the lot, a black motorcycle parked with the others caught my eye. Was that the bike blue-eyed Psycho Motorknight had ridden? I wasn’t sure. I doubted a guy like him went to college. He was probably heading to an early-morning drug buy or gang fight, by the looks of him.

  My cell phone jangled. A text from my first and only friend in San Diego, Madison Lockhart.

  Where r u? Class has started!

  I texted her back. Late. Running. No pun. >:|

  Her reply: Look 4 me at the back. I’ll save u a seat.

  I shoved my phone in my pocket and maintained a fast walk. Although I knew where everything was, I didn’t remember things being so far apart.

  When I finally reached the business school and crept into the back of the immense lecture hall, nobody paid any attention to me. The professor didn’t even notice. Yes, I half-expected the entire class to stand as one to point and name-call at the new girl, but no one did.

  The nice thing about giant schools like SDU was that I could disappear into the crowd. Nobody cared about Samantha Smith.

  I was finally anonymous.

  I hoped it would stay that way.

  I slid into the seat next to Madison. She and I had met last week during the orientation tour. She was total BFF material. When I’d told her I was from D.C., she’d offered up her SUV to haul the new furniture I needed to buy, and helped me set up and decorate my apartment. “Hey, Mads,” I whispered.

  “What took you so long?” she hissed.

  “I got stuck in traffic.”

  Madison wrinkled her nose. “Why do you smell like coffee?”

  “Long story,” I groaned. I considered skulking to the nearest bathroom to rinse my feet in the sink, but my coffee odor would have to wait.

  “Don’t worry,” she whispered, “I’ll email you my notes later. You haven’t missed much.”

  That was for sure. Fundamentals of Accounting. One of the lower division classes for my major. Gag. I was on the fast track. I couldn’t wait to graduate and get my CPA. My mom and dad would be so proud. Yay. Sort of. Who really wanted to be an accountant?

  I pulled out my laptop and turned it on. I had a moment to look around at the other students in the room. They all seemed to be earnestly following the professor’s every word. Was I the only one who didn’t really want to be taking accounting? I mean, I know college is an amazing opportunity that not everyone gets. But why did my major have to be something sensible and boring like Accounting?

  Because you’re good with numbers, my mother had encouraged. Rah, Mom. Because accounting is a safe, dependable career, my dad had said. Go, Dad. Maybe they were right. I screwed up everything else I tried. I had the scars to prove it. Maybe something safe and dependable was exactly what I needed.

  Might as well make the most of it.

  Samantha Smith, CPA.

  Groan. My name was as boring as my major.

  THANKS FOR READING!

  FEARLESS

  The Story of Samantha Smith #1

  AVAILABLE NOW!!

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Devon Hartford spent most of his life in Southern California frequenting many of the locations in One Year Love. Devon drew upon his passion for foreign languages while writing One Year Love. He is also an artist and musician, and drew upon his experiences with both while writing his previous romance series The Story of Samantha Smith and The Story of Victory Payne.

  OTHER BOOKS BY DEVON HARTFORD:

  ROMANTIC COLLEGE COMEDY:

  Fearless (The Story of Samantha Smith #1)

  Reckless (The Story of Samantha Smith #2)

  Painless (The Story of Samantha Smith #3)

  ROCKER ROMANCE:

  Victory RUN 1 (The Story of Victory Payne)

  Victory RUN 2 (The Story of Victory Payne)

  Victory RUN 3 (The Story of Victory Payne)

  BILLIONAIRE ROMANCE:

  ONE YEAR LOVE - Part One

  ONE YEAR LOVE - Part Two

  ONE YEAR LOVE - Part Three

  ONE YEAR LOVE - Part Four

  ROMANTIC HIGH SCHOOL COMEDY

  Stepbrother Obsessed

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  A HUGE thanks to all my passionate and fantastic beta readers: Emaleth Morrigan (mermaid), Neicy Cassidy, The REAL Julie England, Hayley Picknell, Sandye, Tamara Clark, Renee Julian, Kimber, Mandy Jamerson, Michele McKenzie, Maria Combee, Jordan Bault, Crystal, Mylinda Abraham-Powell, Natasha Slater, Michelle Crane, Wendy Boyer, Rosanne Triegaardt, Muriel Garcia, Stephanie Svajgl, Steffini Walker Texas Ranger, Tania Clark, Sarah Patton (Yak enthusiast), Jini Perez, Her Highness Samantha Sheeley (Queen of All Typos), Bethanie Melander, Mandy Karsa, Nicki Hewitt-Hart, Megan C Christmas, Anna Lamonica, Julez, Jackie (Nikki), Gloria Herrera, Elizabeth P., and The Ever Special Mel Bushell for invaluable feedback and encouragement! You guys rock the typo sauce!

  Becs Glass for dedicated book pimping love!

  Chrissy Zent Sharp for awesome book pimpery via The Book Whore-der's Delights. Be sure to check them out if you’re a Romance reader.

  Hayley Picknell for awesome reviews everywhere!

  Everybody’s ever luvin’ cowbag, Lindsey Melia for ghetto ghood pimpin’.

  And last but not least, for last minute typo-snyping of the highest order and in the face of great personal danger, I award a Typo Heart to Colonel Melanie Starr, the one and only Comma Bomber, who saved this mission from certain disaster at the 11th hour, but not without significant personal sacrifice on her part. Colonel, I salute you!

  Thanks to everybody else who has helped make this book a reality!