Beauty and the Bad Boy

by Scarlett Dupree

  Beauty and the Bad Boy

  Scarlett Dupree

  Dedication

  To the Beauty who was taken too soon

  Chapter One

  Jake

  I was tightening up a bolt under the car, when I heard a heart-stomping rumble moving closer to the bay. Even though my sight was blocked, I knew the wheels riding up my path was a beauty. I slid out on the pulley and peered over. Yeah, I was right. As always.

  Mustang, '68. Gleaming black. A real car. And damn… in pristine condition. I jumped up, walked to the front of the bay, wiping my hands on a shop towel, and watched as the car drove up near and stopped.

  And then she stepped out.

  It had been a long time since I noticed a girl. Tina had been the last. And it had been several years since she had been killed. We’d fallen in love when I was barely eighteen. She was murdered only three years later.

  I hadn't spared a single second thinking about falling in love again. I didn’t notice women. I just played with them. A lot of them. I'd been pretty sure that that part of me–the part that felt real emotion–was in the ground with the girl I'd loved. Still loved.

  With each passing year, my heart had hollowed out. It seemed it was the only way I could survive the life destiny had chosen for me.

  But I was noticing the young woman who swung out of the driver's side and stood up. She couldn’t have been any older than eighteen, nineteen tops. As she closed the door and walked towards me, I took a beat and looked her over.

  At first glance, she was perfect. She was tall, not nearly as tall as me, of course, even with the heels of her black boots, but definitely taller than most women. She had a deliciously curvy figure, unlike most girls who thought the world would end if they didn't fit into size zero clothes.

  She was wearing a pair of jeans that fit her like a second skin. Fitting her snugly enough that I could tell those legs were toned and lusty, but not painted-on tight, like the ones bird feeders–what we call biker groupies–wore.

  Her sassy, dark brown hair was full, long and loose and stood out against her pink cardigan. It framed an elegantly beautiful, young face. She was wearing sunglasses. Her whole look was pure class. Damn.

  She was definitely not a bird feeder. And, she was definitely not from the Ghetto. She had to be from the Heights. One thing was clear: She was just another spoilt, rich girl–a really hot one in a hot car.

  I registered all that in the second or two it took her to approach. She stopped walking a little away from me, pausing. Just staring. Had she realised she was in the wrong place? Was she lost?

  There couldn’t be any other reason why someone like her was walking into a place like this. When I say someone, I mean someone who didn’t know the word, 'hardship'. I hadn’t met anyone who grew up in the Ghetto that hadn’t suffered one way or another. She’d probably taken the wrong exit on the freeway...

  Girls like her never walked into my world. And if they did, they’d never survive. And, apparently, she wasn’t able to walk. She still hadn’t moved. I headed towards her.

  "Something I can help you with? Are you stuck? Lost?" I asked. I was smiling way more than I wanted to.

  She finally removed her sunglasses up onto the top of her head, catching her hair back and exposing dark-fringed, diamond-green eyes. Fuck. Me.

  "Hi... I… Um…” She was nervous.

  “No need to be nervous, doll,” I smirked.

  Her expression changed instantly. “I’m not nervous, and I’m not a doll,” she said, harshly. She certainly had some spunk. It made me instantly like her. I still didn’t like spoilt, rich girls. No harm in having fun, right?

  “Oh, I can see that… My mistake. Allwoman.”

  “Bite me,” she smirked back. Damn, she really was feisty and that was turning me on. Her eyes were wandering up and down my body. I think she was flirting with me.

  “Not on a first date," I replied.

  “Date? I thought your type didn’t do dates.” Her smile broadened. She had the sexiest smile I had ever seen on any girl.

  “Maybe we do, maybe we don’t. You look like you need fun, so I might make an exception, and I thought your type didn’t drive. Shouldn’t you have a chauffeur or something?" She rolled her eyes. Fuck. I think I offended her. But why the hell should I care if I offend a Height’s chick?

  “Cocky git.” She was snickering at me. And the way she said ‘cocky’ well, she was definitely flirting with me. Flirting with a guy from the Ghetto, hey? It was probably her way of seeking thrills, fulfilling rebellious fantasies and getting back at a strict father. She didn’t have a clue how dangerous I was.

  “Spoilt rich girl.” Uh-oh. She looked really pissed off with me. To save myself, I gave her my best can’t-resist-me-look. No girl could resist. I think it worked. She coughed nervously. Jeez, even her coughing was sexy.

  “Anyway, I think Indie’s tim–”

  “Wait, what? Indie?” I asked.

  “Yeah, I call him”–she pointed to the Mustang–“Indie. After Indiana Jones, you know the–”

  “–You named your car after a movie character?” I grimaced. This car was wasted on her.

  “Yes. Why? Do you have a problem with what I name my car?” She was offended.

  “First off, who names their car? Secondly, everyone knows cars are female.”

  “Firstly, I do, bucko. Secondly, I didn’t realise cars had vaginas.”

  I gulped for air. Her slight posh voice uttering the word ‘vagina’ made me sweat. What was happening to me? She was just a girl. I mean, I’ve used far more graphic words to name the same thing.

  “They don’t–as you know–but it’s tradition,” I grinned. Bringing back my game.

  “Tradition in a man’s world, yeah?” she said, raising her eyebrows and tilting her head slightly. She was obviously one of those stuck up, feminist types. I hated those types.

  “Tradition is tradition, babe.”

  “Don’t call me babe,” she said in a serious tone. I laughed at the movie quote.

  “Shouldn’t you be wearing more leather if you’re gonna say things like that?” God, the thought of her in leathers was making me swell a little.

  She blushed and looked away for a few seconds before continuing. It was rare to meet a girl that was both sexy and cute. She nailed it hands down. Maybe one, hot night helping her rebel wasn’t a bad thing after all.

  “So… I think the timing chain is going out on Indie, and I was wondering if you could take a look." Holy Shit. I was a little blown away. What looked evidently like a rich, teen girl–knew a little about cars. I was pretty sure her rich father had given her the car, so why wasn’t Daddy dearest taking care of it himself in some snooty garage?

  Only one explanation: My sex-god reputation had traveled to the Heights and she wanted a piece of me. Posh girls loved a bit of rough. She’d obviously schemed this before coming here. Reading up on car maintenance to impress the renowned bad boy mechanic in the Ghetto. I was more than happy to help.

  I headed to the car, and she followed. "My pleasure," I said, deepening my voice more than usual and making sure I strung out the last word. "Though I heard you drive in, and that engine sounds pretty sweet. Timing chain would make a ruckus."

  She was beaming. Her smile was full and bright, but she appeared to be in deep thought. She probably wasn’t clever in the head, and was trying to remember what she read up on before she came here. She was so easy to read.

  "Instinct…” she said in her daze.

  “You what?” I asked, confused. Was she high? That explained a lot.

  “Er… Sorry, it’s a saying… ‘Instinct saves us in the end’. I learned it in my studies… Instinct. I just know coming to you n
ow is the right thing to do.” I bet you do, doll. “I'm hearing a little rattle when I start it up, and I don't want to wait until I get caught out someplace. You never know what might happen."

  Intelligent, know it all, huh? Well, if she thinks I’m just going to drop everything else and push her right to the top of the waiting list, she’s sorely mistaken. "Fair enough. No problem. But, I need to finish that truck," I gestured into the bay, "before I can work on it. About two hours or so. And it's getting late, so if you're right, it'll be tomorrow before it's done." She probably thinks because she’s rich she’ll take priority. Not here, darling. You can wait.

  "That sounds great. I’ll get a lift home tonight, and I can work all day at home tomorrow." I didn’t expect that response. I presumed she would make up a bratty fuss. I guess she was trying to charm me.

  "Okay. I'll just need to get some information." I walked around to the side of the car, bent over and peered into the interior. "It's a great car. Did your dad buy it restored?"

  "Fuck you," she laughed, "it's all original." All that beauty and grace, and the mouth of a sailor... I was completely charmed.

  I turned to her at the expletive, and I’m pretty sure I caught her checking out my ass. I smiled broadly letting her know I didn’t mind. I mean, who could blame her? “Like what you see?”

  She blushed lightly. "I… What? …Sorry, that was saltier than was necessary. Sometimes I forget my manners. Um... anyway... My dad bought it new. It came to me when he died."

  Shit. I felt a pang of guilt when she mentioned her father had passed away. Losing a dad was something I knew all too well. My immediate judgment about an easy life had been wrong–she had lost something.

  "This is the last place you need to worry about saying 'fuck.'" I laughed trying to make her feel more at ease. "And you're doing your dad proud with the car." I watched her mouth as she smiled at me. It was full and moist and... I cleared my throat. "Let’s go into the office so I can get your details."

  She pulled out her phone from her pocket. "Just gonna call for a ride, and I'll come in."

  I nodded and walked to the office to start the paperwork. I watched her on the phone making sure she didn’t see me. One of the garage lights glowed from behind her. She looked like an angel. I felt disorientated for a second. This was not my way of thinking.

  She headed towards me, and pointed to the bays as she entered. "That's a sweet bike you're working on back there. It's a panhead, right? Like '64 or so?"

  Now I really was stunned. Who the fuck was this girl? Maybe the guys were playing a trick on me. "…'65. You know Harleys?" I asked her, my astonishment clear. She had completely blown most of my misconceptions of her.

  She laughed fully at my surprise. "Yeah, a little. The gear head thing is an inherited trait. And my husband rode, just solo, not in a gang or anything," she made a sweeping gesture around her, indicating the compound. "But he had a sweet '66 shovelhead."

  The strength of my negative reaction to the word ‘husband’ gave me pause, and it was difficult to hide it from her. But I also noted something else: Past tense. Maybe she was divorced? She was way too young to have had both married and divorced. I glanced at her left hand. There was a ring there, but it clearly wasn’t a wedding ring. I took a flyer, asking what seemed like the safest question. "Doesn't he ride anymore?" I cleared my throat.

  I regretted asking her this as soon as I said it. Her angelic smile faded instantly. "No. He died almost two years ago," she said. For a moment, an intense feeling soared through me and connected me with her. We had both lost our dads andthe ones we loved…This was unreal.

  "I'm sorry," I murmured. I could see real suffering in her beautiful eyes. It killed me to see anguish in such beauty. I wanted to hold her. I didn’t understand the need since I’d only just met her. Her, being only moments ago: The rich, rebellious, maybe-on-drugs Heights girl. But now I wanted to wrap my arms around her and keep her safe from any more pain. This was so messed up. I don’t have anything in common with a fucking Height’s girl…or so I thought.

  Amongst the sudden confusion, the only thing I knew to be true was the pain I recognized in her eyes. I flashed to Tina, lying on the street awash in her own blood and brains, and felt doubly guilty. There was more to this high-class girl than I could have ever imagined, and it drew me to her like a magnet.

  The guilt must have shown on my face, because she looked at me with real concern and compassion, though she couldn't know how deep my remorse really went.

  "Hey, it's okay. Really. It was an innocent question. It wasn’t your fault. It's okay, really." She ducked a bit to meet my downcast eyes and smiled at me. Caught up again in her enchantment, I smiled back.

  I handed her the clipboard with her paperwork. She filled out her name, phone number, and address and handed it back. Dakota Demonte. Even her name was beautiful. She wound the Mustang keys off her ring and handed them over. I fed them through a paperclip and hung them on the clipboard.

  Just then, a cab pulled into the lot and honked. Dakota turned and waved, then turned back to me. Her ride was here. I didn’t want her to leave. I wanted her to stay. Not for rebellious, biker-fantasy sex. No. I just wanted to talk to her some more.

  "Okay, Miss Demonte. I'll call you later today with an estimate.”

  She smiled at me again. "Call me Dakota. And thanks." She held out her hand.

  I caught it in mine and held it an extra couple of beats, holding her eyes, too. "You're welcome, Dakota. I'm Jake. Jake Rider."

  Her eyes didn't stray from me as her slender fingers gently squeezed my much-bigger hand. "It's very good to meet you, Jake." It was the slight curve of her sexy mouth that gave me a pounding pulse. Jesus, she exuded so much confidence, which was so damn sexy.

  “That’s what all the ladies tell me,” I smirked before winking.

  She coughed as she shuffled her feet and rubbed the back of her head. Instantly, she pouted her lips, straightened up her shoulders. “Whatever,” she said with a poker-face. Her playful countenance had gone. She pushed her sunglasses down over her alluring eyes, and pouted again. God, her pink, glossy lips were so sensual I had to do everything in my capacity to not kiss them. She turned, and headed towards the cab.

  My focus was complete as I watched her walk away. I knew she was way out of my shitty, ghetto league but… damn. Her ass was firm and shapely. She definitely worked out. A lot. It swayed just right. Confidently. Not like she was selling it. I got a vivid image of wrapping my hands around her hips and pulling that perfect ass hard against me. Fuck. I shivered as my cock swelled even more.

  I saw her pause just as she reached the cab. She stayed there for a couple of minutes. She was stuck in the exact same place as before. I wondered if something sticky had spilled something on the floor.

  But then she turned and headed back towards my office. Holy shit. I was grateful that the top of my coverall hung loosely around my waist. Presently, it was covering more than the manufacturer had probably intended.

  She halted her footsteps in the doorway. “Missed me?” I said, cocking an eyebrow.

  "Er… This might seem like an awkward request, but I haven’t touched my husband's bike since he passed away. It’s just sitting there, hiding under a cover in my garage. I'm sure all the rubber needs replacing, at least. Do you think sometime you could come by and take a look, see if it can be fixed up enough to be road worthy again? I feel so guilty I’ve neglected it." She said that all in one breath.

  It was crazy how much the request pleased me, and I tried not to let it show. But I was pleased that we’d spend more time together soon. "Of course I will. Just let me know when you want me to have a look at it." I pulled a generic Auto-Fire business card out of the plastic holder on the counter and wrote my name and cell number on the back. "Call me anytime."

  I stepped forward and handed her the card, relishing the quick thrill of her fingers touching mine again. They were softer than a cloud. Shit. I never thought like that. What the fuck
was wrong with me?

  "Thanks, Jake. I'll talk to you soon."

  I was right. Beauty did just pull up on my path.

  My memories of the past were and would always be vivid enough to be my undoing if they were shared. As I watched her walk away, again, I could feel myself unbinding…

  Chapter Two

  Dakota

  I was attempting to grade exams, but my mind was too preoccupied with willing my phone to ring. I'd been ruminating on Jake, the sexy, gorgeously tanned mechanic working on Indie, since I'd dropped the car off the day before.

  Jake… What a perfect name for a perfect, sex-god.

  I was contemplating on how on Earth I’d managed to ask the new guy I thought I might like to come over and check out my dead husband's motorcycle. Bloody hell. What had I been drinking that day?

  Even though I was a woman who could handle herself, there had been some trepidation driving into the rougher sections of the city. I’d never stepped foot inside of what’s called the Ghetto. I’d heard some pretty bad things over the years involving gang activity and violence.

  I just didn’t have a choice.

  I knew the reputation of the Fire Birds–a biker gang–the guys who owned the Auto-Fire garage. You couldn't live in Shadowbeach City and not. But it didn't bother me. Nothing much fazed me anymore… And, I made a point not to judge people on "reputation". As far as I was concerned, "reputation" was nothing but gossip in fancy dress.

  It wasn’t an easy decision to make, going there. But I couldn’t let the only thing I had left of my father’s to fall apart because I was weak and scared.

  My mechanic had retired, and they were the only people around with classic car expertise. That kind of reputation I could count on.

  If I had known what was waiting for me in the garage, I don’t know if I would have gone. Whom am I kidding? I would have gone, but I would have taken some whipped cream and a high-end camera along with me.