by Aria Ford
Copyright 2018 Aria Ford - All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.
THE REBEL
A Bad Boy Romance
By Aria Ford
TABLE OF CONTENTS
TITLE PAGE
THE REBEL
MOUNTAIN MADE BABY
TAKEN
AGAIN
BROTHER’S BEST FRIEND UNWRAPPED
PREVIEW OF ARIA FORDS BOOKS
THANK YOU!
ABOUT AUTHOR
Prologue
“Kyle! No!”
I turned around, just as the bigger, older guy swung a punch at my head. I felt the blood trickle quickly down my face, and the rusty taste of it enter my mouth. I caught sight of Shane, my friend, who’d warned me. Then I let out a hiss of breath as the big guy’s fist came at me again.
I swore using words that the other kids used—words that would have made my dad go gray if he’d heard them—and then punched out hard.
The big guy grunted and swung back. I ducked and the punch hit my upper bicep. It sent me backward against the wall, and I slid down, my left arm lame and throbbing.
“Kyle!”
Shane was screaming at me again and I spat, spitting out blood and other things and fell on the older guy, hitting and kicking. He had tattoos from the Benson bunch. We were the Skifflers. We hated them. I kicked him, and he swore at me and reached up, gouging at my eyes. I felt hands on my shoulders.
“Kyle, come on! Get off. Look!”
“No!” I yelled, furious. I was winning. I would finish this and make a name for myself. Dammit! I was seventeen, and this guy was maybe twenty, and I was winning.
“Kyle!” Shane dragged me back and the big guy got up, glaring at us. “Look there.”
I looked around and caught sight of Darrel, the boss of our gang, a guy somewhere between eighteen and twenty-two. He was there, but it wasn’t at him that Shane was looking, but just behind him.
I followed his gaze and saw the car. I froze.
“Kyle Beckham! Get here now.”
I felt my heart race.
“No,” I said.
Shane threw me a look. “See? I did warn you,” he added. He looked really upset. “I did try.”
I looked around once more. The other guys had melted away. The gang who had become my family for the last two weeks. I was alone on the street, with Shane and the black car.
A Mercedes E-class, latest model, with a street value that any of us could have estimated as more than our skins were worth on the black market, had stopped. The man behind the wheel had his eyes on me.
I swallowed hard under his gaze and let out a long sigh. I then walked forward into the alley.
“Kyle!”
I had planned to face them down. But in the last minute, I couldn’t. I ran. I tried to dodge up a side street. But I hadn’t understood how powerful the acceleration of that Mercedes could be. It sped up behind me. And it was a blind alley. I was trapped.
“Kyle Beckham. You will come here.”
I looked into those commanding flint-pale eyes. I sighed. In some lights, they were the image of my own.
“Yes, Dad.”
That was the day my freedom ended and my life as I knew it now began.
I blinked, looking up from the paper as that memory shattered on the sound of feet on tiles. I was in the living room at Beckham Hall—my dad’s pretentious name for his country escape. I stood up from the designer couch and faced the man who entered.
“Dad,” I said.
The memory of my youth—my misspent shameful years—was vivid. In that moment I could have been a seventeen-year-old runaway and my dad a forty-seven-year-old man with a cold temper and an iron heart.
“Son,” he said thinly. “So? What do you say?”
I sighed. “I don’t want it.”
His gray eyebrow raised and fell fractionally. His face—chiseled cheeks, long, straight nose, high forehead—was mine. The only difference was the hair coloring. And some thirty years.
“You are my son, Kyle Beckham,” he said thinly. “I know you’re not a fool. Or a coward.”
I closed my eyes. Whoever said “words will never hurt me” had never faced my dad. The sticks and stones I had faced as a runaway had never wounded me half as much as one of his words could.
“I’m not a fool,” I said tightly. “Or a… a coward.”
My throat was closing up, years of pain—of that cold contempt he leveled at me—shutting me down. My fists were clenched and I could feel my biceps tighten. I felt rage build up inside me. I’ll show you. Everything you’ve built can break. I’m strong and young and powerful. I’m not a coward.
He just smiled thinly. “So you accept?” he said.
I closed my eyes. What could I do? Dad might have been older than me, but he was wily. He could tie me up in knots with his words and I was hopeless against him.
“Yes,” I said. “I will.”
He smiled. I couldn’t believe I’d done it. But I had. As I signed on the dotted line I felt like I was signing away my life.
Chapter 1: Bethany
“Rodney?!” I yelled down to my brother. I was trying to put on tights and do my lipstick at the same time. Not clever, I really needed additional arms. I sat down heavily on the bed. Why did I let Rodney talk me into this again? I sighed.
“What?!” He called up the stairs. “Bee? What’s up?”
I shook my head. “Nothing,” I said mournfully. “Just checking—when are we leaving, again?”
“At six thirty. I promised Uncle Ray we’d be there by seven.”
“Fine,” I said miserably. I looked at the clock. It was ten past six now. Why did my little brother always do this to me? He insisted on springing things on me at the last minute. I had really thought that this weekend was meant to be a relaxing family get-together. Not a surprise party for Ray and Claudia, my aunt and uncle who’d been married for twenty years. It was sweet nonetheless I suppose.
I reached into my suitcase, grateful that at least I’d brought along one dress suitable for going out. An ivory lace creation, it was perfect for a fancy event like the one they’d got planned.
Rodney? I thought again, despairingly. If you were going to plan a surprise party, did you really have to book us tables at the Abruzza Hotel?
The last thing I felt ready for was to go to such a fancy place right now. I looked at myself in the mirror, brushing long honey-colored hair out of my eye. I looked tired. I was tired. I had flown from Miami to San Diego yesterday. It had been too long since I saw my family, so I’d decided to take a week of leave after my birthday to come down and spend some time with them.
It would have been one thing, I thought vengefully as I combed out my hair, if Rodney had told me about this. But it was another thing entirely having it sprung on me at the last moment.
It’s so like Rodney. I should know to expect the unexpected by now.
But how can you expect the unexpected? The problem with the unexpected, I thought grimly, applying a pale rosy lipstick and gray eyeshadow, was that it sneaked up on you. Unexpectedly. My younger brother Rodney—currently a computer programmer and doing very well—was the prince of unexpected all his life. As his big sister, I should have gotten used to him pulling some last-minute change of plans out of nowhere at the last moment. But oddly enough I hadn’t, because it was unexpected!
Mom always said we wer
e opposites.
That made me the quiet, serene one. And for the most part I was content with that. Rodney was four years my junior, and the fact that he was lighthearted and mercurial had always been seen as a product of his being so much younger than me. Now that he was grown up, we had to accept that it was just his nature, like being calm and quiet was mine.
Well, calm and quiet is a good quality for an artist to have, I guess.
Not exactly an artist—I had studied design at college and now I worked for a small exclusive company called Insider News, designing furniture and accessories for homes. I loved it. All my life I had enjoyed to make things lovely, and now it was my job. Which was, I guessed, why Rodney sometimes rubbed me up the wrong way. Making things lovely and perfect, I thought wryly, takes time. Or it does usually, anyway.
Now I arranged my hair in a quick style that managed to look like I’d spent time on it. Then I donned a discreet necklace and put my head at an angle.
Not too bad.
The woman in the mirror had a soft face with big eyes, a brown color that contrasted with her hair. Her full lips were painted pale rose and the overall effect was soft and feminine.
Not bad at all, Bethany Hayworth.
I smiled at myself, an ironic smile. I was looking okay—it was a pity I was heading to a family gathering. Not likely to meet new people there, now was I?
I shook my head and stood, reaching for my clutch crossbody bag. As I slung it over my arm I told myself, harshly, to stop being so incurably romantic. I was thirty-two now, and I might as well settle down like so many of my friends were doing. I wasn’t going to meet Mr. Stunning anytime soon.
At this point, I thought grimly as I headed down the stairs, I actually didn’t mind what the man looked like if he could manage to treat me with basic decency. I was starting to think that I might never actually find someone who could meet that basic criteria.
“Stop it, Bethany,” I said harshly to myself.
“Bee?” my brother called as I appeared on the landing. It was weird to be at my mom’s home again. I had headed here for what I thought was a pleasant catch up with Rodney and Mom, and which was now fast turning into a whirlwind Rodney adventure.
“Hey, Rodney,” I called down. “I’m ready. Are we going?”
He grinned at me. Dressed in a white blazer, blue shirt and jeans, Rodney somehow managed to look boyish and stylish at the same time. One thing I had to say for him was that he steer cleared of the Dress-Like-a-Programmer movement (logo-emblazoned T-shirt, scruffy pants, ultracasual hair), and managed to make his own style niche. I smiled into his hazel eyes and he looked sheepishly up.
“Bee, you look awesome.”
I blushed. At least my little brother still thought I was beautiful. Something in my heart melted a little.
“Thanks, Rodney,” I said fondly. I patted his shoulder. “You look great too.”
“Guys?” My mom appeared, one foot in a high heel, the other bare. “The flats or the heels?”
I grinned at her and Rodney laughed. “Mom, you better decide.”
She gave him a wide-eyed, exasperated face. “Rodney, you know I can’t decide.”
I smiled gently at her. “The heels look pretty stylish. And I like the color with the white slacks.”
“Oh.” She gave me a grateful look. “Thanks, Bee. I don’t know how I’d make choices without you.”
I squeezed her shoulder. “You’d manage.”
She chose the red high heels—they were the same cherry color as her coat—and we headed downstairs.
Mom drove; Rodney went in the back. I glanced behind me as we navigated the busy streets toward the venue. He was on his phone, but now and again he looked up sheepishly. I knew that look.
“Rodney?” I frowned. “What is it?”
“Nothing,” he said. “Hold on—just gotta reply to this message…”
He typed frantically away. Being a little younger than me meant he was part of the two-thumb texting brigade. To my private amusement, I still used my index finger of my right hand. He teased me about it. Mom and I teased him.
“Rodney,” I said as we pulled away again, getting closer.
“What?”
“You look stressed,” I said mildly. If that look didn’t have Rodney-made surprise written all over it, I would be amazed.
He shook his head. His thin, handsome face looked tense.
“Almost there,” Mom said, breaking my concentration. “Where’re we supposed to turn left, honey?”
“We’re supposed to turn right in a three hundred feet,” I said quickly. “Um…now.”
“Whew!” Mom turned sharply and then grinned as someone sped out from behind us, clearly mad at the casual driving style she used. “Lucky we were in the right-only lane, hey?”
I smiled and patted her hand. “I guess.”
We drew up to the hotel.
“Here we are,” Rodney said. He was fidgeting with his tie—he was wearing a tie, a pale one that tied in the faded blue jeans very nicely—and he looked uncommonly nervous.
“Rodney,” I said, drawing him aside as my mom effusively greeted Uncle Ray and Aunt Claudia. “What’s up.”
“Nothing, Bethany,” he said. Something was really on his mind, I could practically smell his worry.
“Well, then,” I said, “if it’s nothing, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
I looked about, feeling my own nerves get affected by his tension. He glanced fractionally to his right. I followed his troubled stare.
“Uh, Rodney?” I asked carefully. “Who’s that?”
Rodney licked dry lips. “Um, that’s the person I was texting,” he said carefully. “Someone I want you to meet.”
“Oh.” I closed my eyes in mild exasperation. This was supposed to be a family event! Mom’s brother and sister-in-law and Cousin Allie and us. There hadn’t been any mention of anyone who wasn’t family, and the arrival threw me badly.
Rodney, you crazy boy! You might have warned me.
I was about to say something to my brother—something pointed and frustrated—when the stranger came into focus.
He had walked up confidently. For a guy who was about to attend an anniversary event only partly by invitation, he was really contained. He was wearing a brown jacket that fit him perfectly, hugging those big, muscled shoulders, and dark pants and a cream shirt. He walked with a swagger. I felt my feet sweat as he reached up to remove the Ray-Bans in a crisp, curt move.
I stared into his hard eyes. I was lost.
“Um, Bethany, I’d like you to meet Kyle. Kyle, this is my sister, Bethany.”
I put out my hand and his firm, muscled one gripped it. I felt as if the whole earth moved slower. I felt my fingers warm in his firm, brief shake and then released. I glanced sideways at my brother, who swallowed fretfully. If this was a Rodney Special Surprise, I thought with a wry grin, this was certainly the best one he’d managed to give me.
And the worst, I thought, feeling my heart pound as we all headed up the stairs together. It meant I was going to spend a whole evening in the company of Mr. Stunning. And I had no idea at all gwhat to do.
Chapter 2: Kyle
I always feel uncomfortable at parties.
I guess it’s stupid—after all, I am the son of Dylan Beckham, one of the wealthier guys out there, a transport industry boss. I’ve attended so many parties by now that I should feel like a pro. But I don’t. Every time I get dressed up to go to a party, I am suddenly a fifteen-year-old withering under my father’s cold appraisal. My throat closes up and I stutter. I feel like a fool.
At my shoulder, latest employee and sometime friend, Rodney Hayworth, grinned at me cheerily.
“This is my sister, Bethany,” he said.
I stared. My throat went tight. She was so beautiful. With a soft, oval face, wavy pale hair and those big, melting eyes, she was all the sweetness, all the safety, my world had never had. I felt my heart thud.
“Hello,�
�� she said. She looked down at our hands briefly. She spoke in a soft voice, like a small dove. I bit my lip, willing my stupid body not to do anything too forward. Something like get aroused.
I couldn’t help it—she was so gorgeous.
“Hi,” I said. I coughed.
She gave me a weird look—a somewhat nervous expression, like she thought I might catch fire. I closed my eyes briefly.
Kyle, what are you doing? You are standing here with your hand out like some kind of crazy person. The poor woman probably thinks you’re losing your mind.
I coughed again and put my hand stiffly at my side. I could almost hear my father’s voice. What will you ever make of yourself?
“Excuse me,” I said, letting my face drop into carefully arranged neutrality. I turned to Rodney. “You reserved a table?”
There. Just the sort of frosty politeness Dad would have encouraged. If you always look a bit aloof, he’d always said, people will know you’re the real deal. Cold, aloof, uncaring.
“Yeah,” Rodney nodded. “In my name. Uh, for eight.”
“Fine.”
I squared my shoulders and walked past Bethany and her brother, striding to the door of the restaurant.
