Wrecked: A Blue Collar Bad Boys Book Read online

  WRECKED

  A Blue Collar Bad Boys Book

  Brill Harper

  ¶

  PRONOUN

  Thank you for reading. If you enjoy this book, please leave a review or connect with the author.

  All rights reserved. Aside from brief quotations for media coverage and reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced or distributed in any form without the author’s permission. Thank you for supporting authors and a diverse, creative culture by purchasing this book and complying with copyright laws.

  Copyright © 2017 by Brill Harper

  Interior design by Pronoun

  Distribution by Pronoun

  ISBN: 9781537863115

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  About this Book

  Chapter One: Layna

  Chapter Two: Rogan

  Chapter Three: Layna

  Chapter Four: Rogan

  Chapter Five: Layna

  Chapter Six: Rogan

  Chapter Seven: Layna

  Chapter Eight: Rogan

  Chapter Nine: Layna

  Chapter Ten: Rogan

  Chapter Eleven: Layna

  Frosting for Your Reading Enjoyment

  Chapter One: Sarah

  Chapter Two: Anvil

  Chapter Three: Sarah

  Chapter Four: Anvil

  Chapter Five: Sarah

  Epilogue: Anvil

  About the Author

  More by Brill Harper

  ABOUT THIS BOOK

  I KNEW THE MOMENT I saw her bent over the hood of her car on the side of the road that Layna was trouble. It looked like the opening scene from a porno—a shapely blonde in a short skirt waiting for me to tow her sports car out of a ditch and dirty up that sweet, pure body with my filthy mechanic hands. I could hear the bow-chicka-bow-wow soundtrack in my head. Then she opened her sassy mouth and everything about my reclusive, sensible, quiet life changed because Layna is not reclusive, sensible, or quiet.

  Unfortunately, she’s also mine.

  We both knew it right away, whether we wanted it or not. But she’s got her demons, and I’ve got my work cut out for me.

  She thinks I’m big, surly, and overprotective. She has no idea. Whatever she’s running from, I’m going to fix. Whatever she needs, I’m going to give her. And the sooner she figures out what she needs is me, the better off we’ll both be.

  Author’s confession: Like all my Blue Collar Bad Boys, this hero is outrageous, excessive, overblown (heh), and overdone. Just the way we like them. He’s dirty; she’s sweet. He’s from the wrong side of the tracks. She’s a poor little rich girl. It’s trope heaven up in here. Also, not to spoil anything but there might be neckties and bedposts happening. What would you do if the dude on this cover was bound and determined to let you do whatever you wanted to his body?

  CHAPTER ONE

  LAYNA

  I’VE GOT NINETY-NINE PROBLEMS, AND one of them is that I just used my one phone call to ask the tow truck driver I met in a ditch yesterday if he’d be willing to bail me out of jail.

  It was the only phone number I could remember off the top of my head because 555-TOWR is kind of lame. I probably told him so at the time, too, but in retrospect, I guess it works as intended. After all, I did remember the dumb phone number.

  An hour later, the tow truck driver and I exit the county jail together, and the sunlight is jarring. Like when you get out of a matinee movie and you expect it to be dark but it’s still afternoon. But I bet to people already outside, the sight of the Hulk-sized muscle man in greasy coveralls next to the pint-sized sorority sister in an Amour Vert romper is equally discombobulating.

  I thrust my hand out to him in goodwill, my jail-issued paper bag clutched close to my body in my other. “Thank you, again, for everything. I’ll pay you back.” Somehow.

  He stares at my hand, then brings his hands to his hips and glares down at me. My tow truck driver, if you remember, is very large, and this pose is intimidating. Or it would be if I were not now a seasoned criminal with a rap sheet.

  Okay, he’s still intimidating, and I’m probably more “lightly” seasoned than anything. Though sometimes my language is salty.

  He’s glaring at me, so I pull my hand back. “You mad, bro?”

  Why I said that? I don’t know. I’m going to blame spending too much time on Greek Row. Or something like that. Because that was over-the-top dumb.

  I’ve never much thought about the word “seething” before, but that is what the tow truck driver is doing. He is seething at me. And it makes my heart race a little. A lot. Okay, I’m freaking out now. He is really big but so far just surly in all my dealings with him. But he’s the kind of guy whose button you probably can’t unpush once you’ve set him off into his gamma radioactive rage. Something I now wish I’d considered before calling 555-TOWR. And certainly before I’d asked him you mad, bro?

  I take a step back, and he takes a step forward. His dark eyebrows slash menacingly above his eyes, his dark beard not hiding the grimace on his face. “Thank you very much? That’s what you have to say?”

  “Would you rather I didn’t thank you?” I huff indignantly. Because how else does a person huff? “I appreciate you coming to my rescue. Twice in two days. So, thank you for being a friend.” I flash my pearly whites. That usually works on men.

  “A friend?” He looks to the heavens for support. He doesn’t find his answer there, but he does seem to calm after a breath or two. “Do you even know my name, Layna?”

  “Yes,” I scan his coveralls for the badge I’m hoping is there, “Rogan.” He’s glaring harder. “Wait, is that your real name? Is it your first or last? What kind of name is Rogan anyway?”

  Rogan yanks the paper bag of my belongings away from me. “You’re coming with me.”

  “Um, no. Please give me back my—”

  “Look, you have been a pain in my ass for two days, and I’d love to sever all ties with you. But I just paid a bail bond, and if you cut and run, which you are likely to do, then I’m out the money and the reputation I staked on getting you out today. I promised Sheriff Brand you’d be a model citizen. So, until your court appearance, you and I are stuck like glue.” He palms my shoulder. “Truck is that way.”

  I don’t really want to bring Rogan into my problems, but it’s not like I have anywhere to go just now, so I smile sweetly and head for the tow truck. Maybe he will take me to a diner because…oh my God, am I famished. This town is super small, but they have to have a diner, right?

  While we are eating, I will need to figure out my next step. I’ve never been on the run before. I’ve never crashed a stolen vehicle before, either. It would all be very exciting if I weren’t screwing up my entire life with every ticking minute.

  Rogan, or Mr. Rogan, gets in the tow truck after securing me in the passenger side for the second time in two days, and as soon as the door closes, he starts with, “What the fuck is even wrong with you?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Do you need a translator?”

  “Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?”

  “So help me, princess.” He does the breathing thing again and wrings the life out of the steering wheel. “Why are you like this?”

  Well, there’s the question we’d all like an answer to. But I’m not sure his this is the same as my this. “Be more specific, please.”

  He hardly even knows me, after all. Our dealings yesterday were not long and involved. It’s not like we traded life stories. He towed me out of the ditch. I pretended I was getting ready to pay him, but since I didn’t have any way to do that, I took off in the car that didn’t really run very well anymore. Well, it ran, but it didn’t ste
er the way it used to pre-ditch, so I ended up wrecking it for the second time on the first corner. Hence the police involvement and my evening in the pokey.

  But really, that’s not enough information for him to judge me about. I don’t really know what he thinks is so wrong with me. And I tell him so.

  You know how guys get that weird veiny thing in their forehead? Yeah. He gets that and says, “You stole a car.”

  “It was my car!”

  “Not according to the guy on the title.”

  The guy on the title is my stepdad, and we’re not going to talk about him. “I’ve been driving that car for three years. It was given to me by my father before he died.”

  “Where were you going?”

  “North.”

  “North,” he repeats.

  “Yes. North.” That was the extent of my plan. My now derailed plan. My need-a-new plan hasn’t shown itself yet, but I hope it is better than the old plan.

  “What is north?”

  “It’s a direction on a compass.”

  What would happen if that veiny thing exploded? It’s looking pretty close. “Have you ever been spanked?”

  “Oh my God, pull over and let me out.” Why did I not realize getting into a truck with an unknown dude was a bad idea? It’s like the first thing my parents probably taught me. Now, I’m trapped with a pervert who’s into who knows what.

  “Relax, if I ever spanked you, you’d be on board.”

  “Um, no thanks.” I shudder. Oddly, though, I do relax. I am beginning to worry about my state of mind. It’s not like me to be so cavalier with my safety. Also, it’s not like me to imagine, even for a teeny tiny little second, what it might be like to be bent over some man’s knee while he … okay, I need to stop this right now. Obviously, being in jail has poisoned my mind.

  “Why north?” he repeats.

  “North is further away from home.”

  I didn’t mean for my voice to crack there at the end, but when it does, Rogan’s head swings toward me, and I’m subjected to a very long look.

  You know what? I’m not the only one acting out of character here. I bet Rogan doesn’t bail strange women out every day. “Why did you come to the jail today? We aren’t friends. We aren’t really acquaintances. And technically, since I didn’t pay you yesterday, we’re not even in business together.” He nods as he’s making a left turn, but doesn’t answer. “So, why did you come to get me out?”

  “Honestly, I don’t know. You’re trouble. I feel like I walked into the middle of a movie scene and have no idea who the characters are or what the story is about when I’m around you.”

  I settle into my seat. “I’m pretty sure the movie we are watching is one of those straight-to-video deals with a convoluted plot and really bad actors.”

  Nothing makes sense. I’ve been trying for three years to turn my life into something that does. But since my dad died, it’s just been one horrible thing after another. At least before today, I thought I understood myself, even when everything around me seemed surreal. But now, sitting next to this stranger, I don’t even have a grasp on my own self anymore.

  CHAPTER TWO

  ROGAN

  I DON’T HAVE AN ANSWER for Princess Piss-Me-Off. Not really. When she called and asked me to bail her out, I’d like to say I was just curious. But that would be stupid, and I’m not a stupid man. Usually.

  Everything about her annoys me and has since I met her. But, oddly, I like her. A lot. And it amuses me that she pushes my buttons so easily. Amusement is a new feeling for me.

  I don’t get it. I don’t like it. I don’t want to. But there it is. Something about her spoke to me on a level I don’t get to with many people, and I couldn’t leave her in that jail cell.

  Even if she’d tried to stiff me for helping her. Even if she was some poor little rich girl with an attitude problem. Even if most people in this town would consider me a recluse.

  But I’m smart enough not to let her out of my sight now that she’s my responsibility. Not if I want that bond money back. Not if I want to make sure I know what happens to her. She’s a runner. She’s not the first woman in my life to be one.

  I turn off the highway, and she looks at me again. I don’t even have to see her looking at me to know she’s doing it. I feel it. Like there is some sort of tether between us. It’s kind of fucked up.

  “Where are you taking me, anyway?”

  “Home.”

  She inhales sharply. “No. I’m not going back there. I won’t. I don’t care how nice you’ve been to me or how much he paid you. You can’t make me go back there.”

  Adrenaline hums through my blood at the tone in her voice. That’s fear in there. And I don’t like my girl scared. She’s feisty and annoying and rubs me all wrong, but that doesn’t mean I’ll allow anyone to hurt her. “I meant my home. And sometime real soon, you’re going to tell me about the asshole that’s got you so upset.”

  I see her shrug in my peripheral vision. “It’s nothing you need to worry about.”

  “Forgive me if I don’t believe you.”

  “Why? Why do you care? You don’t even know me.”

  She’s right. I don’t. And yet, somehow, I think of her as my obligation.

  “I can’t explain it. I just do.” It’s quiet for a minute. Which I imagine doesn’t happen often with my little princess. “Why did you call me? Why’d you get into this truck with me? Whatever you’re running from must be pretty bad if you’ve thrown in with me.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Well, for one thing, you don’t know me. I’m driving you into the woods, and I haven’t given you your phone back, yet you’re more worried about me taking you home than to a possible serial killer lair.”

  “I trust you.” She twists in her seat to face me, and I risk a quick look at her. “I can’t explain it. I just do.”

  She’s pretty. I already knew that. But when she’s saying that she trusts me and looking at me with those amber eyes, it strikes me in the chest just how pretty she really is.

  I’m sure part of her trust lies in the fact that I’m a good ten years older than her, and she probably sees me as some old guy who helps people on the side of the road for a living.

  But I’m not that safe. And I’m not that old.

  That feeling in my chest is spreading lower now. She’s more than pretty. That sassy attitude doesn’t just piss me off, it also gets me off. Or it does now that I’m thinking about it that way.

  Shit. I should have left her in that cell. She mighta been better off.

  Not sure what I was thinking bringing her home anyway. I haven’t had a woman to my house since…well, since my mom took off when I was a teenager. The first three years after she left, I never had anyone over to the dingy trailer we lived in because I was afraid they’d figure out I was living there alone and make me go to foster care. After I turned eighteen, I guess it just never occurred to me to bring outsiders to my place anymore. I have friends, I’ve had women—I just don’t have them over to my house.

  Now I’m bringing a stranger home.

  We drive in peace for a few miles when she asks, “How far away do you live?”

  “A ways. I like my solitude. And my quiet.”

  “Then why on earth are you bringing me there?”

  It startles her when I laugh. I’m surprised by the laugh, too. I’m not a man without humor, unlike what I’m sure she believes about me, but there hasn’t been much to laugh at today.

  We pull off the main road, but it’s still two miles to my cabin. Two miles of thinking time. For my part, it’s spent on wondering what she’s running from.

  When I first met her yesterday, I’ll admit my first reaction was, “fuck yeah,” when I came upon her bent over the hood, her short skirt riding up those biteable thighs. Her ass is extra juicy—round and luscious. She’s got long blonde hair like a movie star, and the whole setup looked like the beginning of a porno.

  But as soon as she star
ted talking, I realized the situation was more Blair Witch than Tammy Does Tow Trucker.

  Layna speaks in circles. No, Layna speaks in crazy eights. Just when you figure out what the hell she’s talking about, you realize she’s already changed the subject and you’re behind again.

  It put me off long enough to purge my indecent thoughts—for all of two minutes. Then my thoughts got worse. Ways to keep that mouth busy topped my brain. Then when she started really speaking her mind, and I realized she was testing me for some reason, thoughts of leaving my handprints on her naked ass kept me uncomfortable in my coveralls.

  She’d been trying, yesterday, to see how far she could push me. So the harder she tried to get me to crack, the more control I pushed back at her. Which, for future reference, drove her batshit crazy. She didn’t like that I wasn’t someone she could manipulate. I have a feeling most men fall over their own feet trying to please her.

  So when she was finally out of my hair, and I should have been relieved, I found I missed her mouth, her ass, and even the attitude.

  Well, now I’ve got her. I don’t know what I’m going to do with her. But I’ve got her.

  When my cabin finally comes into view, I watch for her reaction. The car I dragged out of the ditch, her clothes, and just her general attitude show she’s from money. My cabin is probably smaller than her bathroom. She’ll probably make some redneck jokes.

  Not sure why I care, though.

  “I feel like Laura Ingalls Wilder,” she says jumping down from the truck before I can get to her side. “If I call you Pa, will you call me Half-Pint?” she asks as I round the front.

  “You call me Daddy, and I’ll call you anything you like.” Her eyes go round with shock, and I mentally kick myself. I don’t even know where that came from.

  “You’re kind of a dirty old man, aren’t you?” She’s not scared, just teasing me. It feels like a long time since I’ve been teased by a pretty girl.

  Woman.

  I open the front door. “You have no idea.”

  I’m keeping it light. I’m not that good at flirting. When I want to get laid, I usually make myself pretty clear and that has worked well for me in the past.