The Holly Hearth Romantic Comedy Collection

by K B Cinder

  I guess the law is too, judging by the sexy ankle bracelet I’m rocking for the next few months.

  I’ve traded in groupie life for group therapy, where I met the man whose motorcycle and tats haunt daddies’ dreams everywhere.

  The man who’s as infuriating as he is sexy.

  In Lev Rebel, I might’ve finally met my wild child match.

  Every day I spend with him, I lose my mind a little more.

  But in the end, I might lose my heart, too.

  Prologue

  Raya

  Papa always said you can’t understand stupid. You’ll either go insane or end up stupid yourself trying to figure it out.

  But after this latest stunt, I couldn’t help but wonder where it all went wrong.

  Where exactly I’d decided that pushing the limits was worth ignoring common sense.

  Where it became okay to tune out that little voice that whispered hey dumbass before jumping off that ledge.

  That precise moment in time was why I was knee deep in shit of my own making yet again.

  “Aren’t we all just born to die?” Vic pondered the question aloud as he tapped his fingers to the beat of Nothing Else Matters on the steering wheel.

  I was half-tempted to ask if he had something special rolled in that cigarette, but that would only give him something new to blab about, so I kept my mouth shut and eyes on the Garden State Parkway ahead. There wasn’t much scenery to enjoy at night, but at least the darkness hid the eye rolls, and the music drowned out the occasional groans.

  If I were lucky, the Jersey Devil would swoop out of the surrounding marshland and fly away with me in its talons. It’d be a better place than the passenger seat of the Jaguar. It was a damn shame the buttery leather didn’t come with ear plugs. Or an eject button with a parachute.

  “Are we only meat suits barreling toward an expiration date in the grocery store of life?” The ash buildup on the end of his cigarette was half as long as the cancer stick itself, and when he spoke, the flapping of his pierced lips sent the cinders flying.

  I leaned against the door panel to escape the rain of ash, letting the gray flakes fall to the cream leather seat instead of my hair.

  This was batshit crazy. Did I seriously hop in a car with a stranger because he had tattoos and wore a Manson shirt? Was that all it took to win me over anymore? Christ.

  On a scale of mildly stupid to moronic, the move earned a solid moronic. I was lucky he wasn’t a serial killer with a drawer full of nipples at home.

  I’d be lying if I said the shiny sports car didn’t factor into the poor decision. Had he driven a rusted out van, maybe I would’ve headed home rather than hitched a ride to a mystery party down the shore.

  Now that we were somewhere between Egg Harbor and Sea Isle City, the shitty taste in men that my older sisters, Rini and Lita, always accused me of having was suddenly staring me in the face with bleached hair and a crooked septum piercing, and I couldn’t ignore the ugly truth any longer as it sat across the car.

  Not that Vic was ugly by any stretch of imagination. With full lips, a squared jaw, and cheekbones you could cut a finger on, he was nothing to sneeze at. But all that melted away as soon as he opened his mouth and the word turds poured out.

  Self love and arrogance were two different things, as were intelligence and poor attempts at philosophy.

  Once we made it to Wildwood, I’d order a ride-share home and cut my losses. I didn’t care if it cost my left tit in carfare or if I missed a party with every hot rocker under the sun. I wanted out.

  “Your spirit spoke to mine, you know?” he announced, suddenly talking to me rather than at me for the first time in at least twenty miles.

  I cast a wary glance at Narcissus meets Nostradamus. “That’s cool.”

  He flicked a chunk of ash out the window as he nudged his right snakebite with his tongue, making the lip ring flip back and forth. “It said you wanted to walk amongst the metal gods and find your king. That’s why we crossed paths: You’re my queen.”

  I raised a brow. Kings? Queens? A metal god? What an insufferable douchebag. “Weird. I thought I just wanted a Slurpee.”

  Specifically, a cherry Slurpee that I didn’t get. I ended up getting into his car instead when the rocker caught my eye in the 7-Eleven parking lot and promised a showstopper of a party.

  God, that sounded pathetic.

  At twenty-five, wasn’t I too old to be chasing boys and adrenaline highs like a teenager? My ass belonged in bed, asleep. I had a long shift ahead in the morning at the bakery, and I knew I’d end up stuck on register. The morning manager, Beth, liked to hog the decorating station despite cake decorator being my job title. Not a cashier.

  “If you’re a good girl, I’ll let you give me a Slurpee once we get to the party,” Vic said with a wink. “Unless you’re down for road head.”

  I swallowed disgust as I crossed my legs, regretting the hell out of wearing skinny jeans as the clasp rubbed against my belly button ring. “No, thanks.”

  A clump of ash landed on the center console, the cigarette dangling from his lips while he reached to unzip the fly of his threadbare jeans.

  “What are you doing? I said no!” I retreated against the passenger door to put as much space as physically possible between us in the tiny sports car. “Stop!”

  I’d never met a man more incapable of reading a situation. I’d ignored him for almost an hour, and literally just told him no. Did I need to scream it? Carve it into his forearm next to the crappy smiley face tattoo?

  “Come on, baby,” he cooed, extracting a floppy pink penis from the mouth of stained boxers. “I’ve been dying to try those lips out.”

  I pressed my lips together at their mentioning, hiding the prize he sought. “Not happening.” I’d rather live out the rest of my days as a swamp witch in the marsh than touch his pants noodle.

  His go-go gadget arm spanned the car to slide his knuckles tenderly over my cheek, even as I turned away. “I drove almost two hours to get to this party, baby.”

  “To a party you were already going to!” I snarled, swatting his bony hand off of me. “I’ll give you gas money, dude. Don’t touch me.”

  The nerve of this fucker.

  He reached for me again, this time snagging my braid and hauling me against the center console. Despite its leather padding, it dug painfully into my hip, stealing my breath.

  “I did you a favor. You were looking for excitement, right? I’m bringing you to the wildest party of your life. Now you give me a party in your mouth. It’s only fair.”

  He pulled me closer, the stench of cigarettes unbearable with each passing inch. It seemed like he grew extra fingers by the second to grip me tighter.

  No. No. No.

  Embracing my inner Thor, I brought a hammer fist down on his grimy pink worm with all my might, earning a howl and freedom when he released my hair.

  The scream of the car’s tires joined his as he slammed on the brakes, my seatbelt snapping me into the passenger seat with a vicious thud.

  We must’ve gone from over eighty miles per hour to a dead halt—all in the middle of the parkway. We were lucky we weren’t rear-ended into the next millennium.

  Cars whizzed by on either side with blasting horns while Vic slumped against the leather-wrapped wheel, his hands cupped over the organ I’d smashed thanks to self-defense lessons with my brother-in-law, Sage.

  If we weren’t in the center lane, I would’ve hopped out and ran, but I didn’t want to end up like one of the countless roadkill carcasses we’d passed on the shoulder.

  “Pull over!” I screeched as another car passed with a wailing horn. The sound cut through me, vibrating every nerve. “We’ll get hit!”

  “Fuck off!” he coughed, his hands still cradling his pulverized jewels.

  A moving van flew by, faster than the others. The rush of air sent the car rocking as a semi passed on the right, its horn blaring like a freight train.

  “Vic!” I screamed,
clutching my seatbelt for dear life. “Pull off to the side! I’ll get out!”

  I swore the fucker smiled, not moving an inch. It was hard to tell in the dark, but when passing headlights streaked across his face, the corners of his lips tilted up. Sick bastard.

  Before I started begging, a flash of police lights behind the car lit a fire under his ass and likely saved us from certain death.

  “Son of a bitch!”

  He sat up and hit the gas, but rather than pull over, he excelled. Hard. Hard enough that I slammed into my seat and felt my insides scramble.

  “What the hell are you doing?” I shouted, my eyes flicking between him and the dashboard. “Pull over!”

  Air roared through his open window like a hurricane as the speedometer sailed passed the marked speed limit of sixty-five, and in seconds we touched the three-digit mark.

  The seatbelt bit into my skin as he sped up, the force pinning me to the seat. I closed my eyes, the blur of taillights sickening as he buzzed by car after car. “Vic! Stop!”

  The police car’s siren echoed in the night air, and no matter how hard I squeezed my eyes shut, I still saw the dance of red and blue lights.

  I didn’t want to die.

  I had a family that loved me. A family that didn’t need to bury me before I had the chance to tell them I loved them. The chance to apologize for always being the fuckup.

  I’d never see them again. Mama. Papa. Rini. Lita. My beautiful nieces. My parents’ decrepit dogs.

  “Why aren’t you stopping?” I asked, cracking an eye open to study him as tears pricked.

  I had to talk him down. It was better than sitting there silently waiting for death in a twist of metal.

  Vic ignored me, sitting rigid as he drove with his jaw tense and eyes fixed on the road ahead. Unlike me, he didn’t look in the rearview mirror once. If it weren’t for the stiffness of his body, you’d think it was just another Friday night to him.

  The Jaguar’s engine roared as the car barreled down the highway, the late-night hour at least clearing the roads somewhat. He swerved around the occasional car, each turn of the wheel making my stomach sink deeper.

  The speedometer read one-twenty, and as exit signs flew by, I knew we were running out of parkway. Once we hit Cape May, we would spill onto regular roads and up went my chances of never seeing the sun again.

  “Vic, you need to pull over!” I pleaded. “Please!”

  “Not happening. I can’t go back there.” He stomped on the gas harder, making the engine snarl.

  I glanced in the side mirror, noticing that two more cruisers had joined the first in pursuit. “Back where?”

  Honey Hills wasn’t that bad. Sure, the suburban town wasn’t rolling in as much action as Philly or New York, but everything you needed was within its borders. A mall. Some diners. Mom and pop shops.

  Then the truth dawned on me.

  Oh, shit.

  He was talking about jail.

  I tried to calm my nerves, angling my body toward him. Television therapists always did that, right? “Vic, I’m sure it’s a mixup; you’ll just get a warning. Maybe they’re looking for someone else.”

  I’d tell him anything he wanted to hear to get him to stop the damn car. Hell, I’d accept a marriage proposal. Following through with anything was a different story.

  “I don’t get warnings, babe. I go away.” He chucked his cigarette butt out the window before gesturing at the pack and lighter in the console. “Light me another. Now.”

  I reached for the items as directed, but my hand lingered over the gearshift.

  What would happen if I…?

  God, I wished I’d paid attention during those Fast & Furious movies that Sage watched on loop.

  I knew not to pull the E-brake, but what could I do? Something. Anything. Or I wouldn’t see my family again.

  I lit the cigarette before staring at the gearshift one last time. It was now or never.

  With his eyes focused on the road, I acted—yanking the car into neutral and making the engine scream at the lack of fuel.

  “What the fuck?” he growled, reaching for the gear, but I was ready and waiting with a glowing cigarette. As soon as his hand neared, I pressed the smoldering side into his skin, and good ole Vic produced a yowl that rivaled a castrated alley cat. “Ah, fuck! What are you doing, you crazy bitch!?”

  He tried to grab it from me, but I greeted each reach with another burn until he was swearing, snarling, and calling me names that I couldn’t repeat without earning a one-way ticket to hell.

  The car still soared ahead, but with each second we slowed. By some miracle, it worked.

  Hell yeah. Sage would be so fucking proud of me, and Papa would too once he finished ranting about how stupid I was for getting in the car in the first place.

  In the distance, more red and blue lights flashed, the beams slicing through the night.

  Finally.

  Once the car stopped, I’d run to them screaming, crying, and thanking them until the end of time. I’d flip off every person who called them pigs for the rest of my life too.

  As we barreled passed a police car on the shoulder, there were what seemed like a hundred pops, and I sunk low in my seat as the sports car shook.

  Fuck. Were they shooting at us? That wasn’t supposed to happen. They were supposed to save me.

  Who the fuck was this guy?

  Vic jumped on my gear shift abandonment and pulled the lever back into drive, but it was no use.

  A horrible flapping sound filled the air, and within seconds of those fateful pops, the car fishtailed.

  I couldn’t hear my screams over the shriek of the tires, but they were there. It burned like I swallowed glass every time I opened my mouth, and my lungs ached as if I’d ran a marathon through mile-wide smog.

  Life as I knew it flashed before my eyes as we cut through darkness, the car hooking violently to the left. A kaleidoscope of lights blanketed the vehicle with every spin until everything stopped with a jolt and a crunch.

  Silence filled the air, and relief flooded through me.

  Until the pain.

  1

  Six Months Later

  “Soraya Nunes?”

  Judge Morton peered through coke-bottle lenses with a permanent scowl souring his face.

  I forced my eyes to his face despite wanting to slither beneath the oak defendant’s table and lick my wounds. “Yes, your Honor?”

  I almost slipped and called him your Highness, but caught myself at the last second. All the royal romances I’d devoured while bedridden had fudged up my vocabulary big time. Soon I’d start calling fuck boys rakes and out my favorite past-time.

  I was itching to correct his massacre of my full name but stayed quiet. I didn’t want to poke the man who held the executioner’s ax over my future.

  Sor-eye-ah. Not So-ray-uh. Didn’t someone relay that kind of message? If I mispronounced a name at work, Karen with a C would’ve lost her mind.

  The man wasn’t what I’d expected in a judge with his disheveled white hair and ruddy, cratered skin. It was as if he’d rolled out of bed, threw on his robe, and said fuck it.

  Wearing a collared shirt would’ve helped immensely, especially since he passed for naked beneath, which trust me, wasn’t a good look with his rounded shoulders and thatch of unruly body hair peeking out the collar. Ten bucks to anyone that could figure out where the chest hair stopped and the back hair started.

  If I was being honest, it fit a judge proceeding over my case, though.

  “You’ve never been in trouble with the law before, have you?” he asked, folding his hands atop his judicial perch.

  I shook my head before remembering Papa’s coaching.

  Speak clearly and address the judge.

  I cleared my throat. “No, your Honor.”

  I’d never been caught before, but that wasn’t the question. Besides, I did nothing to warrant standing before him unless stupidity was a crime. I’d paid the price already with
an ugly scar and a lifetime of pain ahead. Not to mention losing my job and apartment.

  The thieving jerk that had caused it was gifted a cushy stay at a rich kid babysitting facility where’d he’d learn not to be naughty one saltwater pool lap at a time. It was hard to equate catered gourmet meals and tennis lessons with punishment. And that was just what I’d seen on the center’s site.

  The judge’s scowl deepened into catfish territory. “How did this happen, dear? You went from a clean record to motor vehicle theft and fleeing a police officer.”

  I shifted my weight between heels; the patent leather pumps brutalizing my arches after waiting an hour in the lobby. “I didn’t know he’d stolen the car, your Honor. Vic and I met shortly before the accident in passing.”

  I didn’t know that Victor Salmon had a warrant out for a list of charges longer than my arm, either, but there was no sense bringing that up in front of the packed courtroom that included my parents.

  It made no difference.

  I was guilty of poor judgment: Nothing more, nothing less.

  I’d learned a lot since the crash, when a spike strip sent the shiny Jaguar careening into a guardrail, shattering my leg.

  For one, life wasn’t fair.

  Paramedics wheeled me from the car on a stretcher after being cut free, while Vic walked away unscathed and right out of police custody within an hour thanks to his parents’ deep pockets.

  And second, people looked at you a hell of a lot differently once accused of a crime. Innocent until proven guilty was a crock of shit.

  The bakery I’d worked at for five years laid me off—claiming they were downsizing—but I knew it was because of the accident. They watched my every move until I finally got the ax, my “work family” reduced to strangers.

  “Mr. Salmon alleges that you were there at the time of theft, but between you, me, and everyone in this room, I think Mr. Salmon is full of fish.”

  A bubble of laughter sounded from the rows of spectators, but I couldn’t muster up a whisper of a giggle. Nothing about that day was funny. Not the bullshit charges hanging over my head. Not the itchy turtleneck dress Mama insisted I wear. Not the pathetic state of my life.