WICKED
Ashlyn Mathews
Contents
Blurb
Chapter 1
Ryker
Chapter 2
Ryker
Chapter 3
Ryker
Chapter 4
Ryker
Chapter 5
Ryker
Chapter 6
Ryker
Chapter 7
Ryker
Chapter 8
Ryker
Chapter 9
Ryker
Chapter 10
Ryker
Chapter 11
Ryker
Part Two
Chapter 12
Harper
Chapter 13
Harper
Chapter 14
Harper
Chapter 15
Harper
Chapter 16
Harper
Chapter 17
Harper
Part Three
Chapter 18
Ryker
Chapter 19
Harper
Chapter 20
Harper
Chapter 21
Ryker
Chapter 22
Harper
Chapter 23
Harper
Chapter 24
Ryker
Chapter 25
Harper
Chapter 26
Harper
Chapter 27
Harper
Chapter 28
Ryker
Chapter 29
Harper
Chapter 30
Harper
Chapter 31
Ryker
Note from Author
Also by Ashlyn Mathews
Keep in Touch
Copyright © 2020 by Ashlyn Mathews
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
Edited by Courtney Umphress
Cover Design by Lauren @ The Cover Collection
Wicked/Ashlyn Mathews -- 1st ed.
Created with Vellum
“She’s mine. She will always be mine. You want her, you fight for her.”
Nail and bail, that’s me, Ryker Conway. A relationship is a complication I don’t need, the last thing on my radar. I’m too close to making my dream of playing ball professionally come true.
When a bet is thrown down—nail and bail on a girl I wouldn’t look at once, much less twice, and I’ll get my chance with the coed of my wet dreams—I readily agree.
What I’m not expecting is to get tangled in Harper Garrix’s messed-up life. Or for her to get under my skin in this hot and dangerous way no girl’s done before.
But the bet and my football dreams are the least of my worries. Something wicked from Harper’s past is coming for her, threatening my place at her side. I’m not having it. To get to her, the wicked of the world will have to go through me.
“By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes. Open locks, whoever knocks.”
~ Macbeth, William Shakespeare
1
Ryker
I don’t profess to be a gentleman. I know damn well I’m a douchebag. Ask the women I’ve nailed. Nail and bail. That’s me, Ryker Conway.
Gripping the bottle’s neck, I take a slow sip of my beer and assess my surroundings. It’s Friday night, the last Friday I’ll be partying in a long time. After tonight, Fridays are for lying low, prepping for Saturday games.
Yeah, football season is in full swing.
A rock song blares from the speakers. Stuffing my hand in my pocket, I nod in time to the beat, turn, and see a lone girl in the kitchen with a dark brow raised, eyeing the contents of her red plastic cup.
Didn’t she get the message? The party isn’t in the boring kitchen.
Before I can look elsewhere, her eyes slide upward and catch mine. Her brow lowers. I check her out. Black combat boots, the laces untied. Skin-tight jeans shredded at the knees. Body-hugging T-shirt.
Her onyx hair falls in waves over her shoulders, brushing where tits should be, except hers are so small . . . I shake my head. All black. What’s with this girl?
I’m staring so long and hard, her eyes widen.
I give another shake of my head. Slower this time. Sorry, babe, you’re not my type, I say with a look alone, a smirk on my face. She doesn’t have enough curves to interest me. And she’s tiny, about five feet two inches. Under my muscular build, she’ll break.
Doom and Gloom doesn’t get my unspoken message. She shamelessly takes in all of me, her gaze trailing up my body, starting at my feet.
I see what she’s seeing. High-priced sneakers. Loose-fitting jeans. Sizeable package under them. Snickering, I slide my hand out of my pocket and adjust my unaroused package, lingering longer than is necessary as I “accidentally” touch myself. She doesn’t blink, gasp, or lick her lips in anticipation.
Damn.
A thrill goes through me. Enjoying myself, I grab the hem of my shirt and lift. Slow. High. Higher. Cool air hits my skin, and I trail my fingers over the ridges of my abs. She glances up like she lost something on the ceiling.
No appreciation of my washboard abs whatsoever.
What the—?
Her attention returns to where she left off—my crotch. Ah, here we go . . . Her eyes skate upward. Keeps going. Doesn’t stop on my broad chest or wide shoulders. But when she gets to my face, the intensity in her gaze, her laser focus on my scruff . . . Surprise ripples through me. Doom and Gloom digs my fucking beard.
I cradle my chin in my hand. Run my thumb over the coarse dark hair. Stroke along my full bottom lip. She follows my movements. I tip my head up and down. Smile. Wink.
“You like, don’t you?” Oh yeah. I don’t give her the chance to answer. We know she does.
“Sorry, babe, but you can’t have this.” I gesture from my head to my waist. “This body is out of your league. Above your pay grade.”
The force of her sigh hits me from across the room. I chuckle under my breath. Now she gets I’m not into her.
She marches out of my line of sight and disappears around the corner, toward the bathroom. I don’t recall her at our parties. Who invited Doom and Gloom?
“I see you’ve met Harper Garrix. No guy’s nailed her.”
Yet.
The word hangs in the air between us.
No chance I’ll be the one nailing her. I turn my back on where she disappeared and eye the coeds clumped on the couch, vying for my guys’ and my attention. Their flirty red-lipstick smiles and heavily made-up eyes promise a good time, drawing me and my guys in like moths to the light.
Then why the hell can’t I dismiss Doom and Gloom from my mind?
“Maybe she’s seeing a dude who doesn’t go here,” I say. Here is Prescott University in southern Oregon. “Or she bats for the other team.” There’s nothing wrong with that.
“No and no.”
I glance sidelong at Brett. Beer in hand. Baseball cap sitting backward on his big noggin. Guns for arms, crossed. Brett lives in this house with me, along with four of our teammates.
“You know this how?” I shouldn’t be curious. There’s a reason for the saying, “curiosity killed the cat.”
“Missy Hayes. She
keeps tabs on Harper. Doesn’t like her much. They had a row junior year.”
“She’s holding on to shit from last year?”
“Missy doesn’t forgive or forget.”
Brett would know. He and Missy are tight.
I’ve been wanting in Missy’s pants since she caught my attention at a party over summer break. Legs that go on and on, hair the color of honey, big green eyes, huge tits . . . Yeah, she’s my type. Too bad she isn’t giving me the time of day. What will it take to get Missy to give me a chance between the sheets?
As though reading my mind, Brett leans in, and out the side of his mouth, he seals my fate.
“Nail Harper. Get her to tell me you fucked her, and I’ll convince Missy to give you one night with her.”
“You’re serious?”
“As a heart attack, bro.”
Don’t do it.
You’re better than that.
I’m not listening. I’m seeing, visualizing Missy writhing and moaning beneath me as I pound my rod deep inside her.
“How long do I get?”
He laughs. “I’ve been trying to nail Harper for a year. You get two weeks.”
What Brett said would’ve brought my lust-laden brain to a screeching halt, but I don’t hear him. I’m busy formulating and strategizing this bet in my favor. Time is the winning factor.
“Well?”
“Give me a month, and she’ll happily tell you we screwed like rabbits, man.”
We fist bump.
My inner conscience shakes its head.
My heart folds into itself in shame.
I don’t listen or feel.
I visualize.
Missy. Me. Fucking.
2
Ryker
On campus Monday, I see her crossing the parking lot of the quad. For someone with short legs, this girl can beat feet. I hurry after her. Want to call out to her.
But I don’t want anyone to see what I’m about to do—speak with a girl I wouldn’t be caught dead with. My long legs giving me an advantage, I reach her before she can slide into her car.
“Hey, I’d like to apologize for my bad behavior Friday night.”
I resist the urge to shake my head as soon as the words leave my mouth. Being the douchebag I am, I’m not in the habit of apologizing.
She’s wearing an outfit identical to what she wore Friday night. All black, including her boots. In the full sunlight, I’m drawn to her face.
Bare of makeup. Smooth and creamy skin with a hint of color on her cheeks. Too bad I can’t take credit. We’re three weeks into August, and the temperature induces a sweat.
Her eyes are a clear blue, contrasting with her onyx hair. There’s a smattering of freckles on the bridge of her nose and across her cheeks. Her lips are full, set in a perpetual pout that gets me hot down there.
And oh, shit, there are more freckles, faint ones along the corners of her bottom lip. Freckles on a girl is my weakness.
I groan low in the back of my throat. Cram my hands inside my pockets. I shouldn’t be paying so much attention to her looks. I’m not interested.
“Look, I’d like to make it up to you for being a jerk. I’ll do anything.” I wince. It’s not in my nature to grovel, either, no matter how badly I behaved.
“Anything?”
“Yeah.”
“Why should I agree? I don’t know you.”
“You don’t know who I am?” Did that come off too cocky?
“Oh, I know who you are. Let me put it a different way.”
She shrugs her backpack off her small shoulder and hugs it to her chest.
“I don’t know you, Ryker Conway. We’ve never had a class together. Never so much as run into each other on campus. We happen to lock gazes from across the room, and suddenly you, Mr. Douchebag Galore, is willing to do anything for me? How absurd.”
Is this girl for real? What time period is she from? Or is she practicing lines from a stupid play? Seriously, lock gazes? Absurd?
I clap. “Great rephrasing, Harper Garrix.”
Her blue eyes widen. Her full lips purse. I should look away. I shouldn’t stare. Again, I’m not here for her. I’m talking to this girl who’s not my type, who doesn’t interest me one iota, so that I can be with the girl who does—Missy.
“So back to that anything I’ll do for you. What will it be?”
Her eyes narrow. I stare back and show her a mouthful of straight white teeth. This is how I get the women to swoon at my feet. Except, this girl is showing no signs of being affected by my charm. She doesn’t clear her throat. Doesn’t break eye contact. Her cheeks don’t turn a shade of pink.
“And I should trust you why?”
A dark brow arches. I have this crazy urge to smooth my fingertip over the arch, knowing full well her brow is as soft as what her onyx strands will feel like if I reach out and grasp them between my fingers. She’s expectantly waiting for my answer. Glaring, even.
I smirk.
“To be honest, you shouldn’t. I’m a complete jerk. But I’m up for being reformed.”
I smile wider. Rock on my heels. I haven’t had this much fun talking with a coed in a long time.
She opens the car door and tosses her backpack in the passenger seat. “Why do you think I’m the right girl? Or that I want to touch you with a ten-foot pole? That’s what it’ll take to reform you properly. I’d have to spend time with you.”
Being seen with me doesn’t appeal to her? O-kay. And, she continues to pummel my ego to the cold, hard ground.
“I don’t have time for your head games. Unlike you, who is here on scholarships, I work to pay for rent and food. I’m also in an intense major that takes up much of my time. Find a different girl.”
She gets in the car and starts to shut the door. I stop her and do something I never thought I’d do. I get down on my haunches and proposition a girl I’d never look at once, much less twice.
“Let me ease a burden for you. I can take you out for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Or if you don’t want to be seen with me, give me a list, and I’ll keep your fridge stocked.”
“Is this separate from the earlier ‘anything’ ask?”
“Yes.”
It has to be. I can see it on her face.
“Fine. Helping me with food is . . . I can accept that. But no funny business. We are not friends. Nor will we ever be friends. I don’t have jerks for friends.”
“That’s fair. Now what’s this anything?”
“Wednesday nights roller skating and Thursday nights trampoline jumping and dodgeball. You do this with me for a month.”
My eyes must be wide. It’s not the kind of answer I’m used to. After I get over my surprise, I tell her I’m in.
“Are you sure? You’re huge, a giant.” She runs her gaze over my thick thighs, cords of muscles for arms, and wide shoulders. “You won’t look pretty out there on skates or bouncing in the jump rooms. Women and your teammates will question your manhood.”
My manhood? Again, what time period is this girl from?
I rise to my feet and cross my beefy arms. “When I say I’m in, I’m in.”
She looks my body up and down. Something gleams in her eyes, and it’s not interest. Ruthlessness? Does she know something I don’t know? I don’t give a flying care. What Harper says and does next threatens to derail my plan of nailing this bet and Missy.
“Commitment. I like that.”
She smiles, and her face transforms into this . . . I suck in a breath. When Harper smiles with her mouth and her eyes, she is, damn it, she is fucking beautiful.
I’m in deep shit.
3
Ryker
Scowling, I glare at the double doors of the skating rink. I shouldn’t be this put out with the idea of going round and round in skates, but I am. This is juvenile.
I stick out my mammoth palm and shove open the glass door. Harper’s words from two days ago come rushing at me like the opposing team’s defensive line. Commitment. I
like that. She likes that about me, a quality a girl’s never noticed, and that lightens my mood.
It takes me a few seconds to adjust to what I’m seeing and hearing. Pop music blares from the speakers. A strobe light dangles from the middle of the rink. The carpet is a pinwheel of pink, purple, and blue lines intersecting.
Fucking-A. Shoving my hands inside the pockets of my jeans, I make my way to the girl dressed in—you guessed it—black. The T-shirt she’s wearing has the word “empowered” stretched across her chest.
With breasts that small, does she wear a bra? I shelf that douchebag thought and swing my attention to the girl next to Harper. It’s like looking at Harper’s mini-me. She’s skinny, with long, jet-ink black hair and big eyes set in a thin face. Except this mini-me has brown eyes rather than blue.
“April, meet Ryker. Ryker, April.”
The small girl rises from the bench they’re sitting on, and with her arms crossed and her hip jutting out, she asks, “Are you Harper’s boyfriend? If you are, you’ll have to get my dad’s okay if you want to see her again.”
This is what I have to deal with for my commitment? I better make it clear right off the bat who will be ruling over this skating roost. I bend at the waist until she and I are eye to eye. Man, this kid is short.
“First off, I don’t need your dad’s permission. Harper and I are adults. We’re adulting, kid. For the record, how old are you?”
I quirk a brow and pin her with my most intimidating stare-down. Her gaze doesn’t waver. Man, this girl’s got spunk.
Wicked (Dangerous Liaisons Book 1) Page 1
