by Dark Angel
“Nothing so drastic,” she finally responds, an easy smile blossoming in her face. “I’m going back to the Hamptons.”
“The Hamptons?” Cody cuts in, leaning against his seat and grinning. “You know I’m not there anymore, right, Lisa? Ouch!” I punch his arm fast, and he just leans into me and kisses me.
He’s teasing Lisa and I about what happened in Alicia’s engagement party; they were flirting before I jumped in and got Cody out of there. No hard feelings, of course. Lisa and I have been friends for years, and she had no idea about what was happening between Cody and I at the time. And, to be honest, the fact that they were flirting was one of the things pushing me toward Cody. So, in the end, I just have to thank her.
“Very funny, Cody,” Lisa shoots back at him, but her cheeks flush as she says it. Then, without even a breath to recompose herself, she continues: “Yeah, New York guys are too crazy for me. Maybe I’ll find an Island man. Someone to sing me ballads and cook dinner for me. Maybe take me to the fair and win one of those giant stuffed bears for me. That’d be nice.”
“Yeah, like that’s what you’re looking for,” I tell her, rolling my eyes in their orbits. I doubt Lisa cares about a man who knows how to sing his way through Rod Stewart's best hits and can cook pasta; she’s more of the bad boy type, if you know what I mean.
Of course, there’s a reason bad boys are called… well, bad boys. They’re bad. But, oh, they’re so much fun! I guess that she’ll eventually find her bad boy, but she’ll also have to take her rosy sunglasses and face reality.
I was in that same position not to long ago. You see all your friends getting these amazing rich boyfriends, and you think their story is like something out a storybook fairy tale. Only when you go down that path do you realize that the road to love and happiness is one full of bends and turns, twists and precipices. But if you remain calm and keep a steady hand, taking one step at a time, you might just reach the end of the road.
That’s what I did and, in the end, it worked out.
I reach for Cody’s hand and, under the table, I grab it. He squeezes it gently, wrapping his finger around mine, and turns to look at me. He’s smiling softly, and I can almost see my reflection in his eyes. He doesn’t even need to say it; he loves me.
I mouth the words to him, moving my lips so slightly no one else can see it, and he just leans into me and kisses the corner of my mouth.
“Love you too, babe,” he whispers, and I feel that gentle feeling of happiness opening its wings inside of me. Who knew that our story would end like this? A happy ending to call my own.
“Let’s get out of here?” I whisper back at him, and his face lights up with a grin.
“I thought you’d never ask.”
Happiness and love—I got it all.
And now it’s time we fade to black so I can go enjoy my HEA, know what I mean?
;)
Becca Vs. Biker
Getting kidnapped by a motorcycle club? I should be so lucky…
My boyfriend is cheating on me. My job is killing me. My commute sucks.
So when Harlan Masters kidnaps me and holds me hostage one morning, my reaction is…
WOOHOO!
Seriously, now I’m the center of attention!
Lil’ Princess waited on hand and foot by big, bad, bikers.
They give me everything I want…I mean, literally, everything I want. Yes, even that. It’s amazing.
No job. No bills. No responsibilities.
A girl could get used to this.
The Black Fist MC thinks they’re tough?
Wait till they go up against the power of pink. We’ll see who’s left standing.
*** It's the cute single girl versus the Big Bad Biker in this installment from Mona Cox. Guaranteed to be sweet, sassy, and fun. No cheating or cliffhangers. Happy Ending? Always, babe ***
Becca
I wake up with a groan, whacking my iPhone into submission. I stare up at the ceiling. God, I am starting to hate my job. Three weeks ago, my law firm had me start working with some clients on Long Island, and the commute … it’s murder.
I roll over and stare at my boyfriend, Tye, for a moment. Speaking of murder...
I push myself out of bed before my body can relax back into sleep. I pad into the bathroom and pull out my toothbrush. Brushing my teeth through a haze of exhaustion, I stare back at Tye, snoring loudly in my bed.
Well, his bed. His apartment. Not that he’s doing anything, like pay the rent. He lost his job at Carter Jeffries, an investment bank, like a month ago, and fuck all if he hasn’t just started spending his time partying and drinking. The bills are all on my shoulders now, and I just don’t have enough energy to keep paying for them.
I spit into the sink and then turn back to stare at Tye, brushing away. Should I wake him for a morning fuck? I mean, fucking him lately has been about as much fun as going to work, which is to say exactly no fun whatsoever, but damn, it’s the only thing we have left. I usually just close my eyes and think about Paris in the springtime. You know, the kind of trips I used to be able to take before all of our household bills landed squarely on my shoulders.
I move on to a shower and then a PowerBar for breakfast, leaving Tye to continue sawing logs in bed. Fuck it. He hasn’t been able to keep it up lately anyway. Talk about a turnoff. Not only is his dick on the small side, but his adventurous side has totally disappeared. I can’t even remember the last time he talked dirty to me, let alone gave me a nice spanking.
I paw through my closet, looking for something to wear—anything even remotely appropriate—and realize that I haven’t done laundry in like three weeks. Dammit. I have no lawyer clothes left—you know, beige skirts with matching jackets, that sort of thing. The sort of thing that a lawyer should be wearing.
Instead, I can only find my party clothes or my gym clothes, which says a lot about my life that the only clean clothes that I have left should either be worn to a yoga class or on a dance floor because lately, I haven’t been able to spend much time at either place.
My hand hovers over my bright purple Fabletics yoga pants, and I imagine walking into my client’s office in them, but with a sigh, I move away. As much fun as that’d be, and as comfortable, I really don’t think Mr. Williford, my boss, would appreciate it.
Which only leaves my party clothes. I eye my skirt choices, trying to judge which one is the longest. I usually don’t go out with much covered on a Saturday night—c’mon, what’s the point in that?—but I really don’t want to spend the day trying to keep from flashing my clients accidentally by simply leaning over. They probably don’t need to see my thong panties, and I’m thinking that if they did, I should start getting paid more for this gig. Just sayin’.
I finally pull a black miniskirt with silver threads running through it off the hanger and pair it with a low-cut black silk blouse. There would be no bending over today. This is my punishment for sleeping on Saturday instead of doing laundry. I shimmy into the skirt, taking care not to breathe too deeply—the whole point of it being to show off every curve I have, so it’s…a little on the clingy side.
Saran Wrap would be less form fitting, really.
I put on some low-heeled black pumps. The least I can do is not wear stilettos. Mr. Williford’s tongue is already going to be hanging out of his mouth when I come walking in.
With a sigh, I head out. Now comes the worst part of my commute: The driving. Seriously, who drives in New York? It’s madness, I tell you. But ever since they started me on this Long Island job, I’ve had to rent a car every Monday morning and then return it on Friday nights. I’m lucky I even know how to drive a car. Half my friends have no clue. Owning a car in Manhattan is just stupid. But taking a taxi cab from Manhattan to Long Island every day? Even dumber.
I walk into the rental office.
“Hey Becca,” Roger says, looking up from his paperwork. He’s like 19—a kid, which means that I’m usually able to flirt my way into an upgrade. If I’m go
ing to be stuck driving in NYC traffic, at least I get to do it in style. God bless hormonal teenage boys. And this week…
I walk in with a sultry sway to the counter, leaning over and giving him a nice eyeful of my tits. I figure if I’m gonna wear it, I might as well get mileage out of it, right? With this much cleavage showing, I figure I’m probably gonna walk out of here with the keys to a Porsche 911.
Today is already starting to look up.
“Hey, Roger,” I say with a flirty smile. “What do you have for me this week?”
“Uhhhhh…” His pimple-covered face falls, and I look at him, worried. That isn’t the response I wanted, and it sure as hell doesn’t bode well for me.
“So, we had a spate of tourists this weekend, and…well…allIhaveleftisaminivan.”
It comes out in a rush and it takes my brain a moment to process what he just said. I really need to add more coffee to my morning routine if Roger is going to start talking like an auctioneer.
“A minivan?” I finally repeat, having pulled the words apart enough to understand them.
With a guilty look plastered all over his face, he nods.
Ffffuuuucccckkkkkkk…
Minivan? A minivan?
I wonder if my ovaries are going to start spontaneously producing children if I drive a minivan for a whole week. Is parthenogenesis a thing in humans? I could be the first human in history to end up prego from driving a fucking minivan. Will I lose my ability to speak in complete sentences and only leave the house in sweat pants and a sports bra?
Will I stop highlighting my hair?
With a sigh, I hold out my hand. “Give ‘em to me,” I say, and with another guilty look, he hands over the keys.
“Red, back of the lot,” he says and I head out the door without another word. Usually, I like Roger, truly I do. Mostly because I can show him a generous amount of cleavage and I’m in a sports car for the week.
But this morning?
It’s a little questionable.
I spot the minivan—not hard to, since there’s hardly anything else in the lot—and mentally revise that to “a lot questionable.”
I unlock it and climb inside, instantly feeling my ovaries going into overdrive. I get a mental picture of having two squalling babies in the back, and shudder. I’d let myself dream about that when Carla’s boyfriend, Chase, first came into town with his riding partner Jason, but as soon as Carla told me that Jason had a wife and 2.5 kids at home in Oklahoma City, I squashed that dream real quick. Me and kids just aren’t going to be a thing.
I throw the van into reverse and back out of the parking spot.
I can do this. I can drive an Aerostar Ford minivan for a week.
It won’t actually kill me.
Right?
Right?
I take the Midtown tunnel to the Long Island Expressway, which is when I hit a traffic snarl. Fuck. I don’t know what god I pissed off to earn a day like this, but I decide to take up virgin goat sacrificing, or at least incense burning sometime this next weekend. Something for a little luck. I’m sure as hell not producing any luck on my own.
I blast my horn at the guy idling in front of me. Traffic has started moving again, and he’s just sitting there, staring off into space.
“C’mon, motherfucker, let’s move!” I yell through my windshield.
Always an effective way of communicating with others, I know.
He flips me the bird but his brake lights flicker off and he starts to move forward. I begin to inch forward—
My driver’s side door flies open and some guy in a leather jacket is yelling at me and I slam on my brakes in total shock.
“Throw it in park and move over!” he demands.
His jet black hair is unruly, like he’s just come out of a wind tunnel, and his leather jacket and chaps scream biker. Normally, if I saw a guy like this on the sidewalk, I’d get the fuck out of his way. He’s big and he’s scary and he’s tatted up and he’s yelling at me and I know I should be scared, but instead...
All I can do is laugh.
Harlan
Fuck, what a morning. I haven’t had such a shit show of a morning since that time my MC got ambushed in Jersey and we almost ended up with half our club dead. We barely escaped with our lives.
But no matter how pissed off I am about today, I know that what’s most important is getting these papers to my president.
Except now, I have some mom in a minivan just laughing at me. Some smoking hot mom wearing a skirt about three inches long and a shirt made out of two band aids and some string. Do mothers really wear shit like this? I mean, I haven’t seen my own mom since I was 17, but I don’t remember her leaving the house in this kind of getup.
I’d picked a minivan on purpose, expecting that the mom would have her kids with her and thus would be willing to do whatever I wanted her to do, including driving me back into the city so I can deliver these damn papers, but a quick survey of the van shows me no evidence of children—no toys, no booster seats, and sure as hell no kids.
God-fucking-dammit.
“Listen lady, don’t make me force you,” I growl.
I really hate threatening women, but on the other hand, these papers are life and death. I don’t have time to play nicey-nice with some lady. Even if—my eyes flick over her body—she’s usually someone I’d be doing my damndest to talk into my bed. She has a rack on her that’d test the patience of a saint, and that super short black skirt that shows miles of smooth legs. I feel my dick harden but I push that thought away.
Papers first and only. Fucking can come later, or never. I can’t be sidetracked by … well, by one hell of a broad.
I go for my knife in my boot but before I can pull it out, the woman just shrugs with a huge smile on her face. An almost … unhinged smile.
“Do it,” she says blithely. Not a care in the world. “After the day I’m having—no, the month I’m having—a little stabbing might be nice. Or is it a gun in your boot? Whatever. It doesn’t matter. Right now, I’d welcome a vacation in a hospital. Just lie around and watch TV and get high on morphine? Yeah, I’ll take that. So do it.” She spreads her arms wide. “You can’t miss at this range.”
I just stare at her, confused as fuck. I just got ambushed and almost died in the process and I have the Dark Tribe on my tail and they’re gonna catch up to me at any moment and this lady is just laughing at me? Begging me to shoot her?
I’ve managed to find the one crazy-but-sexy-as-hell bitch in all of New York who was excited about being stabbed.
Fuck. I may have just jumped out of the frying pan and into the fire.
The traffic is flowing around us, horns honking at us for holding them up, but I just give them all the one-finger salute and keep staring at this crazy lady. What do I do? She seems so nuts; the Dark Tribe might be safer than her. She looks perfectly normal (i.e, fuckable as hell) but apparently, looks are deceiving.
Something my dick seems perfectly willing to ignore. My eyes fall back on her gorgeous, smooth legs, and I feel my cock get harder still.
Yup, if nothing else, my dick is still in perfect working order, and right now, it’s begging me to kidnap her.
Becca
“What’s your name?” I demand. If I’m going to be hijacked by some motorcyclist, I at least ought to know his name.
“Harlan,” he says gruffly, flipping the bird at another honking car passing us. We both ignore the irritated commuters who are working their way around us. Right now, I have more important things to do. Like chew this biker out, dammit.
“Well Harlan, here’s the dealio: My boyfriend has lost his job and just parties day and night, coming home just often enough to drunkenly paw at me before falling asleep. My law firm has basically transferred me to Siberia, and I’m now stuck commuting every day into Long Island. Fucking Long Island! I mean, who intentionally goes to Long Island, let alone on a daily basis? And,” I say, really warming up to the task, “I’m sleeping like shit, if I’m lucky en
ough to sleep at all, so I’m practically a zombie, and theeeennnnn, I get stuck driving a minivan to Long Island this week. A fucking minivan! I’ve pissed off a god and I don’t know which one, and I’m not sure what I did to piss him or her or it off, but I’ve about had it. A nice, long stay in a hospital, where they give you sleeping pills and Oxycodone sounds like a fucking vaycay at this point. So, bring it on.”
I finally finish, panting, and stare at him, mentally daring him. He’s just staring back at me, speechless, and I realize in a small part of my brain that he probably didn’t expect this reaction when he decided to hijack me. But whatever. I don’t even care.
“Listen lady,” he finally growls, and my stomach flips unexpectedly at the sound. God, he may be a hijacker and a biker and an all-around bad dude, but that didn’t mean he isn’t sexy as fuck. Especially the deep timbre of his voice. I think I could listen to him all day long. “I don’t have time for this. I have to get into the city. Are you going to move over into the passenger seat or what?”
“Gladly,” I say, throwing the minivan into park and moving over. Hell, it isn’t my minivan. I pay enough in insurance every week that whatever this jackass does to the van will be covered. Plus, talk about the ultimate excuse for not showing up to work on time. Sorry Mr. Boss, I got hijacked on the way to work today.
Yeah, I think he’ll let that one slide. I didn’t want to work on the Walter file today anyway. Or any day, but usually, I’m not handed such an awesome excuse to get out of it.
He climbs inside and throws the van into gear, smashing the gas pedal to the floor as we execute a U-turn on two wheels.
“Whoa there, sunshine,” I say, buckling myself in. “Surely getting to … wherever … dead isn’t gonna help, right?” I mean, I’m willing to get stabbed, but that’s because I want a vacation, complete with pain pills. I don’t want to be dead. There’s a difference. With the second one, you don’t get to enjoy the endless sleeping …
