Begging for Bad Boys

by Willow Winters

  As soon as I managed to stop, I jumped out of the car and tried to catch my breath as I rubbed my raw, stinging eyes. Eventually, I could see—and breathe—again, and I surveyed the damage.

  There was no fire, thankfully. But something wasn't right. The engine was ticking, and every now and then a small puff of smoke would escape from under the hood. It didn't look good, but I tried to remain hopeful. Mostly because I was absolutely screwed if the problem were as serious as it appeared to be.

  I waited for the smoke to clear before climbing back into the car and trying to start it back up. I turned the key and—nothing. Not even a sputter. I fell forward, my forehead on the steering wheel and sighed. This was it. This was how I was going to die. Out here in this dried-up miserable fish bowl.

  Years from now—which was about how long it would probably take for somebody to come along this god forbidden stretch of road—they were going to find me in the driver's seat, dried out and shriveled up. When somebody finally discovered me—there’d be nothing left of me but dust, bones, and my Jimmy Choo’s.

  Oh, the locals would have a field day about this, I was sure.

  I had a half-empty bottle of water—that was it in terms of provisions. Yep, I was going to die.

  “Why me?” I said, wiping the tears—and sweat—from my eyes.

  I also managed to wipe away the concealer that was hiding that ugly purple bruise. Thank God there was no one around. No one around for miles and miles. Nobody to see what that asshole had done to me.

  On the road up ahead, there was a sign—but I couldn't read it from where I was at. Once I'd managed to stop the pity party going on in my head and pull my shit together, I straightened myself up, climbed out of the car and walked toward it.

  It was hard walking that distance in heels and a pencil skirt. The stupid skirt kept riding up on me, and it wasn't very ladylike, but I had to keep pulling it down to keep from showing my ass. Not that there was anybody around to see it, but I still preferred to maintain some sense of dignity. I was sure that I was a sight to behold—a woman in designer clothes walking along the highway. All alone. In the middle of nowhere. Though, to be honest, it was more like stumbling, since the road was gravely, bumpy, and uneven. But eventually, I got close enough to make out the sign.

  As the sign came into view, I saw one name only—Milling. And it was ten freakin’ miles away.

  “Jesus Christ,” I said, wiping the sweat from my brow. Ten miles was a hell of a walk. I used the hairband around my wrist to pull my long hair back into a ponytail, just to get it off my neck while I stood there, sweating, wondering how long it’d take to walk ten miles when in the distance, I heard a sound.

  The rumble of what sounded like a motorcycle. And it was heading this way.

  Relief washed over me, but it didn't last long as paranoia and fear set in. I had no idea who might be coming my way, and a current of outright terror suddenly stole through me. I wasn't the type of woman who took rides from strangers or hitchhiked—even though that might be my only hope—but I knew it was just asking for trouble. And I found enough of that on my own without inviting it in, thank you very much.

  Far off in the distance, a motorcycle came into view, barreling down the road. I watched as he slowed and then pulled to a stop right beside my car, stirring up a small cloud of dirt and dust in his wake.

  I was standing about fifty feet from my car, and he had to have seen me. I walked toward him cautiously, and tried to look menacing just in case he might have the wrong idea about me being an easy target.

  The guy hopped off his bike and pulled off his helmet, displaying his dark, shoulder-length hair. His gaze fell upon me, and a smile crossed his lips. Yes, it was a predatory grin, but it was one of a man who liked what he saw as he gawked at me up and down—like I was a piece of meat—not the look of some guy who was going to skin me and hang me up in his refrigerator. For some odd reason, I didn't think he was a real threat to me. I was basing that on nothing but instinct and maybe a solid dose of hope. If he did turn out to be a chainsaw-wielding murderer, there wasn't much I could do about it now.

  “Car trouble?” he shouted to me as I was still a good twenty feet away, keeping my distance in case I had to take off running. I scoffed to myself. Where would I go?

  I had no fucking clue.

  “Yeah, I think it overheated.”

  “Looks like it.” The guy opened my car door and unlatched the hood. He walked to the front of the car and lifted the hood which unleashed a huge cloud of smoke. “Looks like you blew your engine.”

  Crap. Just what I needed.

  He looked over his shoulders at me and for some stupid reason, I noticed he had gorgeous eyes. A light blue that contrasted with his otherwise dark features. “You gonna stand back there all day? I'm not going to bite, I swear.”

  I hesitated, unsure of what my options were at the moment. Honestly, even if I stayed back where I was, if he wanted to kill me, he wouldn't have too many problems doing just that. He looked to be in great shape—muscular and strong. The type of guy who worked out. No way I could outrun him, even if I'd wanted—or needed—to. The car keys were in my hand, so I anchored them between my fingers, ready to fight back if needed. I wasn't going to be a victim again. Not twice in one day. If he was going to kill me, he was going to get a fight.

  I walked toward him as he continued tinkering with stuff under my hood, not even bothering to look at me again as I approached. My gaze fell on his nice, tight ass as he bent over the hood of my car. His jeans hugged it perfectly, really accentuating his positives. What could I say? I was a warm-blooded woman and I couldn't help but look. Although, I was a bit horrified with myself for doing it—given the current situation and all.

  “So uhm… what's your name?” I asked, sauntering up beside him. “I'm Isabelle.”

  He turned around and wiped his hands on the front of his dark jeans, before pushing his long, scraggly hair from his face. I looked him over—not too bad on the eyes. Not bad at all.

  “Jameson,” he said.

  He placed his hands in his back pockets and just stood there looking at me with a cocky expression on his face that said he was waiting for me to ask him for help—which I desperately needed in that moment.

  “Well, Jameson, do you happen to have a phone I could use? Maybe to call a tow truck or something?”

  “A pretty girl like you, all by yourself, and you don't have a phone?” he asked, shaking his head. “Sorry. Phone died awhile back, haven't been able to replace it.”

  “Mine sort of died, too,” I said, biting my lip. “On the side of the highway, that is. Just like my car.”

  Jameson let out a low whistle and shook his head. “Sure sounds like someone's having a shitty day.”

  “You can say that again,” I muttered.

  “I'm guessing you need a ride, sunshine?”

  I looked at the bike then back at him. “Uhm... I don't think so. But thanks. I just need to call an Uber or something”

  Jameson shrugged, scratching the stubble on his chin, laughing softly. “I don't know if you have much a choice,” he said. “It doesn’t look like you have too many options, considering Milling is a good ten miles away from here. And trust me, they don't have Uber out here.”

  He had a point. Dammit.

  Biting my lip, I stared back at the bike, continuing to shake my head. “Could you maybe just run into town and get me a tow truck?”

  “And let you wait out here? By yourself—in the middle of the desert?”

  “Sure, why not? It wouldn't take you long—”

  “Have you ever been to Milling, Isabelle?”

  “Nope, can't say that I have.”

  “Didn't think so,” he said.

  He leaned up against the hood of my car and pulled something from his front pocket. Lighting up a cigarette, he took a long, deep drag from it before exhaling a thick plume of smoke. I stepped back away from it, grimacing. If he noticed my disgust, he ignored it.


  “Milling is a town of about oh…five hundred people,” he said. “At most.”

  “So?” I said.

  “So? There's not a whole lot there. And there definitely are no tow trucks in Milling, sweetheart—”

  “Don't call me, sweetheart.”

  He snorted, obviously amused by me. He took another drag from his cigarette and exhaled again before continuing.

  “So, there's no trucks in Milling. The nearest town with a tow truck is probably an hour away. I mean, you're welcome to wait out here all by your lonesome. But just know, it's Sunday and most businesses don't operate on Sundays around these parts. So your wait out here all alone might be a hell of a lot longer than you were banking on.”

  “Dammit,” I said, kicking the rocks at my feet again. “What a great day to—”

  “A great day to do what?” he asked me.

  “To go for a drive,” I muttered.

  I looked over at Jameson's bike and realized my options were very, very limited. He was starting to look like my only option.

  “Is there even a place to stay in Milling?” I asked. “Like a bed and breakfast? A hotel? Because there's no way I'm staying—”

  Jameson shrugged. “There's a motel. A shitty one, but it should have rooms available.” He took one last long drag before stomping out his smoke under his boot. “But my place is cozier—”

  “You wish!” I replied, hands on my hips, my chin raised defiantly. “I'm not that type of girl.”

  “Suit yourself, Isabelle.” He walked toward his motorcycle. When he got to his bike and mounted up, he turned to me and asked, “Are you comin' or not? I'd hate to see you stranded out here for a few more hours until some trucker happens by. Hell, they probably won't be as nice as I am either. Some guys will expect a little somethin' for the effort, if you know what I mean.”

  Sighing, I had to admit that I needed something cold to drink, and sitting out there for several more hours—or possibly even overnight—didn't sound too pleasant.

  “Fine,” I grumbled. “Let me just lock up my car real quick.”

  Jameson put on his helmet and waited for me. When I reached his bike, he helped me climb on and instructed me to wrap my hands around his body—to which I protested.

  “You wanna fall off the back?”

  “Of course not,” I said, rolling my eyes.

  “Then hold onto me,” he demanded. “Because once I take off, you'll fall right off the back if you don’t.”

  “Fine,” I grumbled.

  I placed my arms around him awkwardly and held on for dear life. My pencil skirt rode up so my panties were pressing against him, which only made things more awkward and embarrassing for me. But before I could stress about it too much, the bike roared to life, thrumming with vibrations beneath me.

  I screeched as the bike took off down the road, feeling like my heart jumped into my throat. Squeezing my eyes shut and gritting my teeth, I prayed that I wouldn't die out here. My parents would be so ashamed if they heard their daughter died while riding on the back of a motorcycle with a tatted-up thug. I’d rather die in the car with the buzzards circling.

  Hell, I'd be ashamed of myself. I wasn't that type of girl, but desperate times call for desperate measures. My chances on his bike were better than a night on the side of the road, so I held on for dear life as we drove the ten short miles into town.

  Chapter 2

  Jameson

  When I saw her on the side of the road, I knew there was no way could I keep driving. Not if I didn't want some big stain of guilt on my conscience. And I already had enough of those. I was raised better than that. Besides, she was hot as hell in that tight little skirt and fancy-schmancy blouse. I would’ve been a fool to drive past that. Her red hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail, and I knew that milky white skin of hers might burn in the hot sun.

  As I pulled to a stop, I couldn't take my eyes off her. What could I say—I'm a sucker for redheads. Sure, she seemed a little prissy for my taste, but I’d managed to get her on the back of my bike, didn't I? I was sure I could make her loosen up a lot more—once I had her alone. I saw the way she'd looked at me. It might take a little schmoozing, but it was as good as in the bag.

  We pulled into Milling within a few minutes, and I drove her over to the motel, as she'd requested. We'd get her all checked in, and she could see firsthand just how crappy rooms were. And maybe—just maybe—if she got a good look at just how gross and shitty they were, I could convince her to come back to my place. And after that...

  “Thanks, Jameson,” she said, hopping off the bike, her skirt sticking to her tight, little ass, giving me a view unlike any other. “I appreciate the ride.”

  I shut down the engine and climbed off. “Anytime,” I said, surprising the hell out of little miss Isabelle.

  “What are you doing?”

  “What kind of man would I be if I just left you here? I want to make sure you get checked in and to your room safe and sound. Believe it or not, I am a gentleman.”

  She looked away from me, biting her lip, as if she wanted to tell me to get lost, but at the same time, I could see something had unnerved her. And I had a feeling it had to do with the black eye she'd tried so hard to cover up. Being familiar with the effects of domestic violence, I immediately felt for her. But I wasn't going to bring it up unless she did—and she hadn't.

  “I'm fine,” she said, her voice cracking.

  “I know the look of woman who's fine, and that's not you,” I said. “Come on, I'll introduce you to Jerry, maybe get you a good deal.”

  “Jerry?”

  “The guy who runs this joint,” I said.

  “You know the owner on a first name basis?”

  Sure, I could tell her that's how small the town of Milling was, but there was more to it than that. “Let's just say, I've stayed a few nights here myself.”

  “Don't you live nearby?” she asked me, following me inside the motel lobby.

  The air conditioner was cranking out the air, but it wasn't cool and it wasn't cutting through the miserable damn heat. Not even the slightest bit.

  “I do,” I said. “Down the street, actually.”

  “Then why would you stay—” She looked confused but let it go. Probably didn't want to know the answer to the question, which made me grin.

  Jerry was sitting behind the counter, the little hair he had left clinging to the sides of his bald head. Large beads of sweat dotted his forehead and upper lip. He looked up from a newspaper, cigarette dangling from his lips, and smiled.

  “Welcome back, Jameson,” he said, looking over at me with a wink.

  He turned to Isabelle and let out a low whistle as he checked her out. Subtle, Jerry. Very subtle. Isabelle looked uncomfortable, crossing her arms in front of her chest as if she wanted to hide. Not that I blamed her, Jerry was a creepy looking dude.

  “A room for one night, then?” he asked. “For you and your lady friend?”

  “I'm not his lady friend. And it's just for me, thank you,” Isabelle said, holding her head up as she spoke. Her arms were still crossed in front of her, though. Jerry's unwanted, pervy scrutiny had made her feel self-conscious, but she tried to hide it behind her tough girl act.

  Jerry looked over at me and shrugged. “Whatever you say, miss,” he said.

  He took the cigarette from his lips and snuffed it out in an ashtray nearby. Isabelle looked disgusted.

  For the first time since we entered the motel, I saw her examining the lobby, and she didn't look happy. As Jerry stepped into the back to run her debit card, she whispered to me, “Please tell me the rooms are in better shape?”

  “Not really, but I'll tell Jerry to make sure you get a room with good air conditioning.”

  “Thank you,” she muttered.

  Jerry came back out and handed her a room key. I made sure to ask about the air conditioner, keeping my promise.

  “Just replaced the unit in that room last month. It'll feel like the North Pole in there
if ya want it to, no matter what you're doing,” he said, a pervy smile on his lips.

  Isabelle shuddered as if the lobby was cold, but it wasn't. Had to be the way Jerry looked at her. As we stepped outside in the desert heat, I turned to her and offered her an apologetic smile.

  “He's harmless, I promise,” I said.

  She nodded, not meeting my gaze as we walked toward her room.

  She stopped before entering, turning to me. “Thanks. I can take it from here,” she said. “I really do appreciate all of your help.”

  I stared into her emerald green eyes, wincing at the black and blue bruising. Someone had busted her up good. “Sure. Are you sure you're okay? Do you need me to call someone?”

  Isabelle looked shocked, her mouth open in a perfect O and her eyes seemed wet with tears, but she nodded again. “I’m okay and no, you don’t need to call anybody.” She ran a shaky hand through her loose tendrils of hair. Without thinking, I took her hand, more to make her feel safe than anything, but as she turned her giant eyes up at me, I saw nothing but fear.

  “Stop.” She jerked her hand away. “I've been through enough already.”

  “What happened to you?” I asked, my voice taking on an unintentionally demanding turn. “Are you safe?”

  “I'm safe,” she said. “He won't find me here.”

  “Who won't?” I asked.

  She didn't answer.

  “What are you running from? Who are you running from?”

  No answer still. She just looked at me like the proverbial deer in the headlights and remained silent.