by Melinda Minx
Single Dad’s Bride
A Fake Marriage Romance
Melinda Minx
Darkstar Press
Contents
Prologue
1. Deacon
2. Rita
3. Deacon
4. Rita
5. Deacon
6. Rita
7. Deacon
8. Rita
9. Deacon
10. Rita
11. Deacon
12. Rita
13. Deacon
14. Rita
15. Deacon
16. Rita
17. Deacon
18. Rita
19. Deacon
20. Rita
21. Deacon
22. Rita
23. Deacon
24. Rita
25. Deacon
26. Rita
27. Deacon
Epilogue
28. Extended Epilogue
Smolder by Melinda Minx
1. Andrea
2. Coal
3. Andrea
4. Coal
5. Andrea
6. Coal
7. Andrea
8. Coal
9. Andrea
10. Coal
11. Andrea
12. Coal
13. Andrea
14. Coal
15. Andrea
16. Coal
17. Andrea
18. Coal
19. Andrea
20. Coal
21. Andrea
22. Coal
23. Andrea
24. Coal
25. Andrea
26. Five Years Later, Christmas Day
Also by Melinda Minx
Also by Melinda Minx
About the Author
Prologue
I gaze into his ocean blue eyes, which are framed by his razor-sharp cheekbones. He grins down at me, and his dimples cut into his dark stubble.
My head is still spinning as the afterglow is wrapping its warm arms around me. He’s the first man who has ever made me cum. The second man who has ever slept with me.
And he’s my husband.
Well, sort of.
“Rita,” he says, gently pulling me by the arms off the bed. He presses me against the wall. His voice thunders like pure sin—what we just did was pure sin. Married or not.
His powerful body is pressing firmly against me. It’s covered in ink and muscle. His thickly cut abs and v-cut are slick with a thin layer of sweat from our earlier workout, and the light reflecting off his shiny skin draws my eyes lower. And then I see his thick cock, rock-hard and pressed firmly against his abs. It demands my full attention.
I can’t believe that huge thing was just buried inside me. I can’t believe that a good Christian girl like me married a tattoo artist, and I can’t believe I let him take me from behind. I even asked him—no, begged him—to do me like that.
I didn’t think this marriage would turn into the real thing. I thought I was just saying “I do” to help him get his daughter back.
But when I take in his cocky grin, and then he bends down and presses his lips against one of my overly sensitive nipples, I realize I’ve been lying to myself all along. I’ve always wanted Deacon Shepherd, I just never thought I’d have him. Especially not like this.
1
Deacon
“You sure you wanna do this all in one go?” I ask.
Rolf nods. He’s a big biker with huge arms, which means the tattoo takes even longer than usual to fill in.
“We’re almost done, ain’t we?” he asks. “Just finish ‘er up.”
I shrug and switch out the black ink for red in the tattoo gun. “I’ll do as much as I can, but I gotta pick my daughter up from school in an hour.”
He laughs. “What the hell, man,” he says. “Don’t you got an old lady to do that kind of stuff?”
I jam the newly inked needle into his flesh, much harder than what’s necessary.
“Ah!” he grunts. “So no woman? You don’t gotta stab me, man, just asking a question.”
My wife is dead. I don’t like to talk about it.
“If you stop asking questions,” I say, “I might be able to finish this up in an hour.”
The tattoo of the big skull is dripping blood, and I have to fill in the blood with red. There’s a lot of blood. Bikers love dramatic tattoos like this.
I can’t risk being even a minute late picking up Elsie. I loved my wife to death, but as much as I loved her, I hated her parents. As tragic as it is for your wife to die, you never really stop to consider that in-laws will still be there after she’s gone. Without Stacy there to mediate and keep my in-laws from being huge fucking assholes, her parents are...just that: huge fucking assholes to me. They don’t think I can raise Elsie by myself.
Fuck them. I’ll show them that she belongs with me. I’ll be the best father there is.
As I’m almost finishing up filling in the blood, I hear the bell above the door jingle loudly, and another biker stomps into the shop, the door banging shut behind him.
“We’re closed,” I shout, not pausing what I’m doing to look up. I can only tell it’s another biker from the outline of his boots in the corner of my eye.
“I’m not here for you, Deacon! I’m here for this fucking asshole!”
I pull the needle away from Rolf’s arm and look up. It’s Ryker. He’s part of a splinter gang that branched off from the Minutemen, and Rolf is a member of the original Minutemen.
The two of them used to be best friends.
“Ryker,” I say. “I don’t have time for this shit. Just chill out. I’ll let Rolf go outside, and—”
“Nah,” Rolf says, getting up off the chair. “Your shop is neutral territory, right, Deacon? This is the only place I can talk to this asshole without punching his teeth out.”
“No,” I snap impatiently. “My place is not neutral territory anymore! You want neutral territory, go to a fucking park!”
Before, when my shop was located right next to my house, I used to advertise it as neutral territory. Rival gangs and anyone with a beef to settle could meet up there knowing that no weapons or fighting of any kind were allowed. It worked out well for me because it prevented any fights from breaking out in the shop.
Ever since I moved the shop into my home, I changed that policy. I don’t need people with a “beef” showing up around my daughter.
“Just this one time,” Ryker says. “It won’t take long, I just gotta get Rolf to tear that badge off his jacket! It’s insulting to the true Minutemen!”
“Outside!” I shout, flaring with anger. I point at both of them. “Get the fuck outside. Now!”
Rolf puts up his hands in a show of surrender. “All right man, have it your way. You gonna finish the tattoo after we finish up this business outside then?”
I look at my watch and take a deep breath. “No, I need to go.”
“Fuck!” Rolf shouts, pointing at Ryker. “You fucker, now my tattoo ain’t even finished!”
Ryker looks at the newly inked tattoo. “The fuck! That’s the Minutemen skull! I came here to get you to tear the badge off your jacket, but now I’m gonna flay your skin off!”
Ryker pulls out a switchblade from his jacket. He flicks it around with a flourish until the blade is out and gleaming under the beam of the fluorescent lights.
“Get the fuck out, both of you,” I roar. The veins in my neck and forehead are bulging out in anger.
Ryker takes a few steps toward me and points the knife at me. “Deacon, cover that tattoo up in black! If I can’t cut it off his arm, you’ve gotta undo it!”
He takes a step closer toward Rolf, and I grab hold of his arm. I twist his arm back—in the direction arms were no
t meant to bend—and he squeals as the knife clatters to the ground. I kick it with my boot, and it slides across the floor until it hits the wall.
“Alright!” Ryker shrieks. “I’ll stop.”
I pull his arm back further, crunching it tighter into his back, and he screams out in pain. I march him forward, toward the door, his arm still pinned. I shove him into the door, and it swings open. Once I get him outside, I pull his arm back a bit more for good measure, then I kick him square on his ass with my steel-toed boot as I let him go. He yelps and falls flat on his face.
“Don’t fucking come back here,” I growl.
I glance back and see Rolf grinning, a smug look on his face.
I point at him. “You, too! Get the fuck out. Tell your boys not to come here for ink! I don’t need these splinter group squabbles flaring up in my shop.”
“But,” Rolf says, jaw hanging open, “they’re the ones that splintered off! We’re the real—”
“I don’t give a shit! Out!”
“Who’s gonna finish my tattoo?”
“I don’t care! Out!”
He stalks out, scowling.
As soon as he’s out of the building, Ryker lunges for Rolf’s legs, tackling him to the ground.
Fucking hell. I lock the door behind me as I leave so that they can’t go back inside, walking around them as they punch and kick each other, fists flying and boots striking, into a ball on the pavement.
I don’t have time for this shit.
I get on my bike, rev it up, and hightail it toward Elsie’s school. I’m there with a few minutes to spare, but there’s a half mile’s worth of damn minivans and SUVs lined up.
Fuck that. Bikes were made to circumvent this shit.
I cruise past all the other vehicles—mostly moms. Some of them honk at me as I drive past, but it’s not like I take up any extra space compared to them. Fuck them.
When I reach the curb in front of the school, I see hundreds of kids with colorful backpacks and jackets standing along the sidewalk in front of the school, being herded by teachers.
I spot Elsie’s pink My Little Pony backpack, and I turn my bike to the right, cutting between an SUV and a van. I drive right up onto the curb, and all the kids point at me as my engine roars.
The teachers reach out their hands in a stop gesture, as if I’m going to just keep going and mow down all the kids. Why does everyone always assume the worst of me?
I stop the bike a good thirty feet before I’m in danger of so much as even touching a kid. I take my helmet off and cut the engine. “Elsie!” I call out. Ready?”
All the kids look at Elsie in awe, but the teachers glare at me.
“Mr. Shepherd,” one says. “You can’t drive up onto the curb like this. You’ll need to wait in line with everyone else.”
“Why?” I ask. I look back at the long line. “The line is only there because everyone’s car is so big.”
Elsie has reached my bike now. I pull her helmet out of the box on the back of my bike and hand it to her.
“And really,” the teacher says. “Do you think having a first-grader ride on a motorcycle is a good idea?”
The one doing all the talking is not even Elsie’s teacher. She’s probably not even a first-grade teacher. Why do I care what she thinks?
“I’m a safe driver,” I say. “Maybe you should look at getting a better system for picking kids up. Having this long line makes no sense.”
“Yeah!” an older boy shouts. “Lining up sucks! Why do we have to walk in a line to go to lunch, too? Grownups never have to walk in lines.”
The teacher shoots me a death stare.
I suddenly remember how I’m on such thin ice with the in-laws. I bite my lip. “Alright, I’ll follow the rules. I gotta set a good example for Elsie and the other kids, right?”
“Thank you, Mr. Shepherd.”
I’ll follow the rules next time. I’m already up on the curb, and Elsie’s got her helmet on ready to go. No way I’m going back to the end of that damn line.
I grin, and help Elsie up onto the bike. She grabs hold of my waist, wrapping her tiny arms around my middle, and I drive off the curb and down the road.
When I get home, I see a police car parked on the street outside.
Rolf and Ryker. Shit. I’d forgotten about them.
“Why are the police here?” Elsie asks. “Did you do something bad again, Dad?”
“Again?” I ask. “When did I do something bad before?” I change the subject. “How was school?”
“Boring,” Elsie says.
“You always say that.”
“I wanted to use my new markers,” she says, “but Mrs. Copeland said I had to use crayons.”
“Why’s that?” I ask, nervously eyeing the police car.
“She said it’s cause we had to glue everything, and glue messes up the marker.”
“Maybe that’s true,” I say. “You don’t want to ruin your new markers, right?”
“I guess.”
A police officer standing along the side of the car sees us and starts to walk toward us.
“There a problem, officer?”
“This your shop?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say.
He looks down at Elsie. “You want to take your daughter in—”
At that moment, my sister, Anna, comes outside. “Elsie! Want to go in and start your homework?”
“Okay, Aunt Anna.”
Anna gives me a look, one that means she’s pissed off at me, as she ushers Elsie inside.
“You run a tattoo shop out of your house?” the cop asks. “Not a great idea with a little girl living here, huh?”
I sigh. “It’s not actually connected to my house at all,” I say. “Just next to it. What happened?”
“Two bikers got into a scuffle on your property.”
“Oh?” I ask.
“Yeah, they said you kicked them out. You didn’t think to call the police?”
I smile. “I kicked them out because I don’t tolerate violence in my shop. I had to go pick up my daughter from school, and I don’t think a tattoo shop owner calling the cops on his customers is good for business.”
“No snitching, huh?” the cop asks, giving my bike and tattoos a once-over.
“I’m no biker,” I say. “I just ride a bike. No outlaw bullshit from me. I’m just a businessman.”
“Well,” the cop says, “next time call us. Most businessmen don’t want dudes with switchblades tackling each other in front of their shop. You want to press charges?”
“Nah,” I say.
He rolls his eyes. “Why did I even ask?”
“Thanks, officer.”
Even if I don’t press charges, he’s still going to file a damn report. Hopefully the in-laws don’t hear about it.
When I get inside, Elsie is eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and Anna is getting out Elsie’s homework from her backpack.
“Ohhh,” Anna says. “Math homework, your favorite.”
Elsie pouts.
“Sorry about that,” I say.
Anna glares at me. “You still think having the shop here is a good idea?”
“It lets me spend more time with Elsie,” I say. “Rolf and Ryker are big dumb idiots anyway, they aren’t really dangerous—”
“Rolf and Ryker,” Anna says. “Even their names make them sound like people you don’t want to have around Elsie.”
“Ryker is a dumb name,” Elsie says.
“I made an example out of them,” I say. “Everyone else will get the message.”
Anna tilts her head at me and points toward the living room. I follow her in.
“Your lawyer called,” she says. “He said it’s urgent. I’ll help Elsie with her homework, but you should go see him now.”
I grit my teeth. The last thing I needed today was a meeting with Aidan.
2
Rita
This is definitely the worst job I’ve ever had, and I’ve worked some awf
ul jobs. Majoring in art history—in hindsight—was not the wisest of choices.
“I think I want the At Ease package. My wife and I don’t make a lot of money...so we just want to make sure an accident won’t bankrupt us. We’re about to have a kid, so we need the security.”
I cringe. The “At Ease” package is the insurance plan this company has us push hard to sell. Almost all of the advertising pushes it, and it’s easily the worst thing you can buy. It has a low monthly premium, but the brochure is very misleading. If you aren’t an insurance expert, it’s easy to look at the numbers and think the coverage is pretty good. When you look at the fine print, though, no other plan offers the least value for the money. Half of my job consists of selling this crappy plan to nice people, and the other half involves telling people who have gone bankrupt after an accident that they should have read the fine print before buying this plan.
The customer pulls out his wallet from his back pocket and opens it. “That’s my wife. She’s a kindergarten teacher.”
I bite my lower lip.
I look around. None of my supervisors are nearby. I’m not supposed to do this, but I have such a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. If I don’t do this, I won’t be able to sleep tonight.
I lean forward and whisper, “Don’t buy the At Ease plan. If you had to get your appendix out, or if there were any complications during delivery of the baby...you’d probably have to pay over $20,000 out of pocket.”
“But it says it covers $50,000 for surgery—”
“But look,” I say, pointing to the middle column. “It only covers $500 for anesthesia, only 30 percent of one day’s stay in the hospital, many surgeries are excluded…”
“Oh,” he says. “So what should I do?”
I grab a different from off my desk, still looking around nervously in case one of the supervisors make an appearance. I slide it to him. “This costs $200 more per month, but it provides much better coverage. This is the policy I’d recommend.”
He walks away happy, with a big grin on his face. I sigh in relief. The middle management here is usually lurking around, trying to make sure we are screwing over as many people as possible. We are only to mention other plans if customers insist on it. Recommending plans with better coverage is a big no-no.
