Stone: At Your Service (Carolina Bad Boys #1)

by Rie Warren

  From her bright blue eyes to the long chestnut colored hair untouched by highlights or hairspray, she was unexplored territory. Fresh, good, clean, wholesome, and hot. She just needed to be uncovered . . . unclothed. And on his cock.

  He got a bad rap all around. Rich boy prince who lived off his daddy’s AmEx, drove a motorcycle, had a tat or two, and liked to run around. It wasn’t totally like that. Cut off from the trust fund tray at the age of eighteen because Daddy Everly was nothing if not a hard ass, Jase had put his other head to good use. Everly was raising an heir to the Texan oil field fortune, not a spoon-fed pussy with no business sense. Luckily Jase had the brains to match his brawn, as well as a few side projects that kept him flush enough to more than scrounge his way through college at A&M.

  Bad boy this, bad boy that, gossip about his ’hit the tail and run’ rep followed him like the exhaust fumes from his motorcycle. He didn’t really give a bunny’s cunt, unless it came to Ave. Until it had come to Ave . . . Avery.

  Jase had a sweet side to him, too. At least he’d been told his come tasted sweet by a chick or three. Whatever. He smirked into the mirror on his closet door, drawing on jeans that had been rumpled on his floor the night before when he kicked them off. Adding a T-shirt, his leather, a Marlboro Red dangling from his mouth, he made a clean sweep of the apartment on his way out.

  In the bathroom, Ave’s towel flopped over his. He shook them both out and hung them over the towel bar. Inhaling her scent, he closed his eyes. Her natural fragrance was jasmine or honeysuckle or some summer-sweet perfume. The same flowers his mama let free-range in the back forty, the smell swilled to his nose and percolated his prick.

  He wasn’t making a full-on chef fucking breakfast every morning for Ave because he was a nice guy. Hell no. He expected some payback in return.

  And he’d definitely expected a nice hard slap from across the breakfast table when he’d laid out his little dare. It would’ve been excellent to goad her out of her unaffected, smooth as ice shell, to see a spark of hot temper flare in her eyes. Instead, what he’d gotten was so much better he’d almost busted a nut in the breakfast nook. The lowering of her lashes, the tight hard peaks of her nipples—through another tent-like blouse, for crissakes.

  Ave could deny it all she wanted but she was game. And it was on.

  Striding outside, he smiled when he saw her standing beside his ride. She didn’t have a car or a bike, and barely held down her job at Starfucks because she was so intent on getting the grades. She rarely made rent and he always let it slide.

  The chinstrap of her helmet was so tight it cut into her neck. He loosened it, desperate to drag it off, push his fingers through her hair, make out with her right then and there.

  “Loosen up, babe.” He climbed on and patted the seat behind him.

  The aged leather groaned, and Jase did too as her thighs wrapped around his. Timid arms trapped his stomach.

  “I ain’t gonna bite ya.” He snapped his teeth in her direction, laughing when she swore beneath the helmet in garbled words. “Hang on tight.”

  Ave did. Her inner thighs gripping his legs through every corner made him hornier and hornier.

  Maybe he was a fuckup. Maybe he had millions at his fingertips. Maybe he’d let that all slip through his hands, but as he put the bike into full throttle and held Ave’s fingers at his waist, he knew he wasn’t gonna let her slip away.

  I recognized myself in Jase right down to the bad boy, fuck-that, take-this attitude. Not to mention the kid was as frustrated as me with his woman of choice. Life imitatin’ art? Leelee couldn’t have nailed me harder.

  Placing Ride aside, I unearthed the Con planner-brochure-whatever from beneath a pyramid of pick-me-up junk food. I checked the afternoon’s workshops and whatnots, circling one with my finger. Writers’ Widows: 2pm, Ballroom B. Maybe that was for me, with Nicky working the circus all the time. At the very least, I could use a change of scenery and more hiding out from Leelee after my latest debacle.

  ****

  Ballroom B. Second floor. I navigated my way there, following the road map in the Con folder. A piece of paper taped to a door with Writers’ Widows in blocky black ink let me know I’d reached my destination. Pushing through the double doors, I was faced with a mixed bag of bros and babes mingling around a Mr. Coffee burping out java-scented steam. Incomprehensible words streamed out of their mouths while they slurped coffee and munched from party trays.

  “I flounced that one.” A middle-aged woman with a frosted-blond blowout announced.

  “I know. Total DNF.” Her friend of similar age agreed, with whatever they were talking about. This one sported short black hair, impeccable legs, and horn-rimmed glasses.

  A tall, athletic-looking African-American man nodded. “I remember that book. Porn without plot plus no HEA?”

  “Fuck my life. What you need to read is Ride,” horn-rimmed glasses said.

  “Floved the UST in that book!”

  I grinned because they were talking about Leelee’s novel, even if I had no idea what they were saying.

  “So fawesome.”

  Huh? What the hell with the codespeak? It wasn’t enough I had to listen to Nicky banging on about hashtags and Facebook scandals? My retreat with a pack of people supposedly in the same boat as me, and I didn’t even understand the lingo.

  “You look a little lost. Are you new?”

  Ah, normal words. Thank Christ. A big guy with the corduroy pants, an elbow-patched blazer, and a whole lotta clashing plaid strolled up to me, followed by the rest.

  “First timer, yeah.”

  Corduroy slapped my shoulder in welcome. “I’m Fred, or as everyone else calls me, ‘The Hubs’. That’s Fawn, Felicity, and this here’s Devon.” He pointed at frosted hair, horn-rimmed glasses, and athletic dude in turn.

  The rest of them, about a dozen or so more, introduced themselves. We all made our way to a ring of chairs.

  Fred gave a jolly laugh, “So, does your partner refer to you as Mr. Pen Name online too?”

  I rubbed the back of my neck. “God, I hope not. That’d make me Mr. Love.”

  That got a laugh out of everyone, and I eased back in my seat.

  Fawn flicked her immoveable hair. “Tell us a little about yourself.”

  I had this part down pat. “Stone. Foreign auto imports.” I looked around expectantly and they all looked back unblinkingly—like Stepford Wives for writers or something.

  Big Devon smiled at me. “Not what you do but who you are.”

  “Uh, is this a therapy session?” Wiping my palms on my jeans, I eyed the fastest escape route to the door.

  A deep chuckled rumbled from Devon. “Nah, man, not at all. We just like to know who we’re getting in bed with.”

  From Writers’ Widows to Stepford Wives to Swingers?

  Felicity lifted her glasses to the top of her head. “Figuratively only, Stone.” She reached over to slap at Devon. “Why do you always have to frighten the newbies?”

  “Because it’s fun to scare ’em.”

  I decided I liked the Widows-Swingers group. “A little bit about me, huh? Well, my partner and I have a three-year-old son. The sun sets on his shoulders, we love that kid.” Everyone smiled encouragingly. “And a dog”—bitch—“but Viper is Nicky’s technically. I’m not too fond of the mutt.” Silence. “But we make it work!”

  Claps and nodding ensued.

  Phew.

  “What about your SO?” Fawn asked.

  My what?

  It was my turn to blank stare until Fred saved me. “Your significant other.”

  “Right, ’course. Nicky Love. We’ve been together since high school, and he started writing about six years ago. We really connect when we restore cars together though, it’s something we can do as a couple that doesn’t have anything to do with his work, ya know?” I decided I wasn’t half bad at this semi-made-up bullshit because everyone was eating it out of my hand.

  “O-em-gee, I know how that is.
John and I spend every Saturday antiquing up and down the Maine coast, a new stretch each time. It helps him get ideas for settings for his cozy mysteries, but really, it gives us a chance to just be together that doesn’t involve him being on his laptop at all hours of the night.” Felicity slipped her glasses back onto her slim nose.

  Murmurs of agreement and more mentions of what these writers’ wives, husbands, lovers did to make their relationships work on and off the page followed. There was hugging, high-fiving, and a lot of bitching.

  Fawn had just finished a story about her girlfriend’s recent all-week, all-nighter final deadline bender. She capped it off by saying that during the course of writing her latest western novel, her lover had filled their spare room with chaps, cowboy hats, spurs, and lassoes.

  “I’m not kidding, those spurs work almost as well as a Wartenberg wheel. And I won’t even tell you how much those ropes came in handy, if you know what I mean.” She winked.

  Devon got up and proceeded to spank his ass while he went bull-rider with a lasso like he was John Travolta in Urban Cowboy.

  Felicity snorted. “You dirty bitch, Fawn.”

  “You know it.”

  I couldn’t stop chuckling, even when I said, “I got one, y’all. Last October, we’d just started potty training JJ, and he was hoppin’ around on one foot like he was about to piss his pants. Now, Nicky writes paranormal, right? So sometimes he tries on goth makeup, fangs, the whole Bela Lugosi shit. Imagine that at Halloween time. So I’ve got the kid in the john, standing on his stool, and I’m waitin’, and waitin’, and he says, ‘The peepees won’t come out, Daddy.’”

  “Isn’t that adorbs?” Felicity piped up.

  “I’m watching paint dry by this time, but the kid needs to piss in the pot. Bribery with Skittles, M&Ms, the whole nine yards, and still nothin’. All of a sudden, Nicky the Vampire jumps through the bathroom door with red contacts and whiteface and bloody fangs. JJ screams, whirls around, and pees all over my boots. ’Course Nicky falls all over laughing, JJ gives him a pout that earns him a soup bowl fulla ice cream, and I get clean up duty, again.”

  True story. And that’s how we potty trained the kid.

  More sharing, laughing, complaining filled the next hour until I felt like just one of their group. We were from all walks of life with one thing in common: being tied to a romance writer, which brought an entirely new level of weird and wonderful into our lives.

  Finally, Fred decided it was time for wine instead of whining, and we headed to the mezzanine level bar. I was in the middle of a conversation with Fawn about self-publishing trends and what it meant for writers—all ears because I wanted to glean any amount of leverage I could to support Leelee against LaFucking Forge—when Jules Gem legged it up to me like a really a tiny steamroller. And she still wore her mic and carried the bullhorn.

  What the hell is she, some kind of roaming reporter?

  She cut through Fawn and grabbed my arm. “Can I borrow him for a mo?”

  “He’s with us.” Fawn went feral in front of me.

  Patting Fawn’s shoulder just in case she’d brought one of her girlfriend’s six-shooters to the convention, I said, “It’s okay, I’ll meet y’all in the bar.”

  As soon as they cleared the area, Jules looked me over. “Enough small talk. I just wanted to remind you about the contest. I need you, your bod, your smirk and designer stubble on stage tonight.” Her face dawned with evil delight. “These women want real men who walk the walk and talk the talk, trufax.”

  She shoved a sheaf of papers at me and marched off.

  “Ma’am!”

  Her back snapped straight but she didn’t turn around.

  “Sorry, miss. Miss Gem, could you wait a second?”

  She pivoted around and returned. “That’s better. Never call me ma’am again. I assume you’ve heard of my rep? It’s not all convention gossip. What do you need?”

  “Isn’t this a cover model competition?”

  “That doesn’t matter, you’re purrrrfect. We’re keeping with the RAWRing Twenties theme. Instead of Guys ’n’ Dolls, we’re doing Guys with Balls. And you, Stone”—she flicked my lanyard—“have ’em.”

  She wheeled away while I glanced at the papers in my hand. Guys with Balls: Questionnaire. Favorite place to kiss a woman? Lemme think about that. The cheek. Yeah, that would work with my gay persona. But to be honest, it was Leelee’s soft round ass cheeks I was thinking about as I scanned the rest of the questions.

  The papers crammed in my fist, I made my way to the bar and almost mowed Fred over as I entered. They’d gotten as far as the back of house and no farther. Felicity captured my hand and pointed at the bar. She jumped up and down on the balls of her feet like the kid did when he needed to take a piss but couldn’t be bothered to go all the way to the bathroom.

  “Fangirl squee!” Her squee pierced my eardrum and she gripped my hand so hard she almost broke bones.

  The guys and dolls erupted into squeals, giggles, manly mumbo jumbo that went in one ear and out the other as I peered through the packed bodies to the bar. Whaddya know? They were flipping out over Leelee.

  Fawn sidled over. “Do you know who that is, Stone?”

  You bet your sweet ass I do. Leelee sat at the bar, a half-glugged glass of white wine in front of her . . . and unshed tears sparkling on her eyelashes. Aw, shit. Her mopey face was about a million times worse than the kid’s.

  “Give me a minute. I’ll see if I can introduce you all to Leelee.” I wasn’t about to bring the wound-up Widows to her if she wasn’t prepared to play the game.

  Shouldering to the bar, I came up beside her. I gently ran a finger along her neck. “Leelee?”

  One tear dropped onto the napkin she’d been folding and unfolding in front of her. “Stone.”

  “If this is a bad time, I can go away, but there’s a bunch of people over there—” I hooked a finger over my shoulder. The gang saw it and waved in response.

  Her wet green eyes slid past me to the doors. “Fans of Stone?”

  “Actually, they’re your fans. They just about burst my eardrums when they saw you.” Pride filled my chest as soon as a slow smile washed away the sadness on her face.

  “For me?”

  “They’re dying to say hi.”

  “Okay. Just give me a sec.”

  After she’d prettied up a face that was already drop-dead gorgeous, I wrangled the Widows over to her. The brilliant smile she gave each of them in turn as she shook their hands and signed whatever the hell they shoved at her really made me want to take her in my arms and kiss her.

  We hung out with her through a round of drinks. The room filled with laughter while Leelee’s eyes lit with happiness. She charmed every one of them just as she did me. Leelee didn’t need to worry about not being able to cut her own path or do her own thing. She just needed to be herself.

  And fucking hell, my heart squeezed tight.

  One by one, the Widows filtered away. I waved them off with a, “Yeah, I’ll catch you guys tomorrow.”

  Silence descended as soon as they left and I realized I hadn’t seen Leelee since my masturbation muck-up earlier in the day. Ah, so this is a WTF moment. I ordered a second beer, another wine for Leelee, thinking about all the ways this could be imminently awkward, but hey, at least my vocab had skyrocketed being around all these writers.

  “Hey,” I said. Or maybe not so much with the brainiac vocabulary.

  “Thank you.”

  “For what?” For busting my cock out in front of you? Don’t mention it.

  “For putting me at ease with your friends. Other people make me so frazzled. You have a way of relaxin’ me.”

  Well, good. Too bad she does the opposite to me. Standing beside her, being near her, ideas of everything we could get up to jolted through my body.

  “They were nice,” she added.

  “I think they’re nuts. Besides, how good you were with them didn’t have a damn thing to do with me.”
/>   Leelee’s hair cascaded in loose waves down her back, and I wanted to tangle my fingers in it, follow the curled ends to her skin beneath. Instead I slapped my hand on top of the bar, crumpling the papers Jules had given me.

  “What’s that?”

  Groaning, I dropped my head to the bar. “Guys with Balls entry form and shit.”

  “But you’re not a cover model.”

  I peered up from my arms. “That’s what I said. So you’d better be there later.”

  She spun toward me with a breathtaking smile. “You got it, hot stuff.”

  Framing her face in one hand, I ran a thumb over her lowered eyelashes that had glinted earlier. “The tears before, they weren’t because of me, were they?”

  She shook her head.

  “Because I’m sorry you saw me, heard me . . .” I jerked my hand away and flipped the beermat up until it twirled on its corner. “That wasn’t very gentlemanly.”

  “Probably not, Stone.” She drained her glass. “But it was so damn hot.”

  Oh Christ.

  DOWN BOY, JESUS!

  Four deep breaths and one telling off to my cock later, I tried to make my voice work. “That bastard agent hasn’t been at you again, has he?”

  She nodded, setting off fierce instincts that had never been at work for a woman before.

  “Tell me what he’s done now,” I gnashed out.

  “He came at me during the self-publishing panel I was on—Surfing the Perfect Wave. His questions put me on the spot. I couldn’t answer because I was so flustered, and what I did manage to get out just made me sound stupid. It was like bein’ under interrogation.” Her skin paled. “He knows how hard it is for me to be up behind the table, fielding questions.”

  An unreleased sob rolled through her body, and I just wanted to be there for her. Not Stone. Not fake-gay. But as a man for his woman.

  “ . . . and I have writer’s block and he’s right! I’m already twenty-seven and destined to be a failure. I can’t do this on my own, and . . .”