Blue Collar Bad Boys Box Set 2 Read online

  He kisses my spine as he notches himself at my opening. Slowly, ever so slowly, he eases in like it’s our first time or something. I feel every single inch as he fills me, stretches me. He doesn’t pull back, but he flexes his cock and my inner muscles squeeze him.

  “Shit, baby. Ease up. I’m trying to make this last.”

  I look over my shoulder at him. “Fuck me hard and fast, Charlie. I want to be sore everywhere.”

  His eyes darken, and he wraps a fist around my hair. “I love you so goddamn much.” He tugs hard, pulling my hair as he rears back and into me hard. Then again. Then again. And then it’s not slow or measured. Our bodies are slapping hard, and he’s hitting my G-spot on every stroke. My legs start buckling, so he wraps an arm around me for support and start thrusting faster. Harder.

  Stars explode inside me, my pussy spasming around him.

  He groans. “Fuck, that’s it. Come around my cock just like that. You’re going to squeeze the cum out of me, aren’t you?” His fingers dig into me hard, and I can feel him ejaculate as he roars.

  We collapse, a tangle of limbs and sticky love.

  A short nap later, we go downstairs for leftover pizza, and we put out the gifts from Santa and fill the stockings. He’s got some silver at his temples, not a lot, but it catches the light from the tree, and just like that, I’m horny for him again. I can’t explain it, the way I love his laugh lines and his few gray hairs. But my core clenches, and I’m already setting out to seduce him again.

  I open his robe, to his surprise, and kiss my way down his body. This time, I’m going to get him in my mouth a lot longer than he let me upstairs. He’s just starting to get hard, so I can fit a lot more of him in my mouth than usual. I love the velvety texture of his cock. I love that I can have it whenever I want. I love that he swipes my hair off my face and looks me in the eye while I’m bobbing on him.

  But at the last minute, when I think I’ve got him exactly where I want him and he’s losing control of his hips, he gets me on my back on the floor before I know what’s going on. “Did you forget that I’m breeding you tonight, Mrs. Warner?” He’s seated all the way inside me and he’s thrusting, our bodies slapping together.

  “You’re such a family man now. For someone who never even wanted kids—”

  He shuts me up with a kiss. “I love the way you look when you’re pregnant. I love knowing everyone who sees you knows you’re mine. I love everything you’ve given me in the last five years, and I’m going to spend the rest of my life showing you every day just how much I love you.”

  I wrap my legs around him tighter, pulling him into me as much as I can. And then we have no more use of words. And when he pumps the last of his seed into me, I pull his head to my chest and hold him there, under the lights of our Christmas tree. In our home where everyone feels safe, important, and wanted.

  Where it’s okay to be alone in a room full of people but you never feel lonely.

  Plowed

  AUTHOR’S CONFESSION: Well, there’s a lot of plowing and seeding on the farm, yeah? Prepare yourself accordingly.

  Original copyright 2017 by Brill Harper

  Plowed: Chapter One

  Boone

  IT’S NOT LIKE I EXPECTED a homecoming parade when I rolled back into this dusty little town of Hazel in Eastern Washington. It would have been nice to have gotten a ride home from the fucking bus station though.

  I don’t know why Pops wasn’t there at the station to pick me up as planned. He hasn’t sounded like himself on our weekly phone calls, and he stopped visiting me years ago when Mom took sick.

  I hitched a ride as far as the mailbox on the main road, but it’s another mile up the driveway to the house. Which gives me time to think. Too much time.

  What might have been. If I’d never been falsely imprisoned. If my mom had lived to see me vindicated—the real criminal finally arrested. Damn. The familiar anger churns through my gut knowing my mom died without me at her bedside. At least I know her faith in me never wavered. Not once. She always believed I was innocent and never stopped praying for justice to be served. I only wish it could have happened when she was alive to see it. What I wouldn’t give for one more day. One last chance to hold her hand. To tell her they found the real criminal and let me out.

  The fields along the driveway are sick. I don’t need to use my bachelor’s degree in ag science to know that. Why hadn’t Pops gotten more help with them? As I round the last corner, my childhood home looms in the distance. It seems sad. Forgotten. Jesus. I’ve only been gone for five years—I didn’t think a house could change so much. Though five years on the inside seemed a lot longer to me, too.

  There are no flowers anywhere the eye can see. Mom used to keep up the beds circling the house so there was always color no matter what the season. I wonder what happened to the furniture that used to be on the front porch. That was the place I was always guaranteed to find my folks in the evening after supper, at least until the weather got too cold for even cocoa and lap blankets to keep them warm on their porch swing. Now the screen door is propped up against the wall to the right of the door, and all the windows are closed despite the pleasant spring breeze. No curtains are open to let in the light, either.

  I open the door and it creaks like a damned haunted house. I take a few steps in. It’s musty when it used to smell like lemon furniture wax with hints of cinnamon from the kitchen. There are newspapers and magazines stacked haphazardly down the sticky hallway floor that used to shine like a mirror.

  “Pops?” I yell out. “You home?”

  I stop at the wall of portraits. I hardly know the young kid smiling so big with his first fish, his first blue ribbon, his first prom date. There he is with his football championship trophy. Another with his high school diploma. Look at him standing between his parents in his university graduation gown. He’s got the whole world in front of him.

  Six months later, all that promise would be gone. Taken from him. Wrenched out of his life.

  The last time someone took my picture, it was when they were booking me on bogus charges. I haven’t been a free man since. I’m not sure I feel free now.

  “Pops?” I find him in his recliner. Stacks of newspapers and empty beer cans circle the chair. He’s snoozing while the baseball game plays on the television with no sound. I gently shake his shoulder. “Pops?”

  He snorts as he wakes up, trying to place where he is and who is talking to him. “Boone? Is that you?”

  “Of course, it’s me.”

  His eyes don’t seem to focus. “I thought I was picking you up tomorrow?”

  He smells like he’s been bathing in old beer.

  “That was today, Pops.”

  His skin is too yellow and his eyes too red. He looks doughy and slow, so unlike the man I remember. Five years. How could everything change so much in five years? He grunts. “Sorry, son. I guess I lost track of the days. I was going to clean up this mess today...before you got here...” He trails off as we both take in the mess and realize it would have taken him far more than one day to clean up.

  My guess is he’s been living in this chair since he buried Mom three years ago.

  “What do I care about a little mess? It’s good to see you,” I lie. I love him more than I can say, but it’s not good to see him. Not like this. This man is broken.

  Just one more thing taken from me. My childhood hero.

  “You look...”

  I chuckle. “Big. Yeah, I had a lot of time to exercise.” I’d been in good shape for my entire life, the way an athlete is, but in prison, I had to get stronger. Bigger. Meaner. I’m one scary son of a bitch now. The golden boy this town remembers died the day he was arrested. This man I am now is the kind of guy you find in a roadhouse biker bar, not the quarterback on the field or the prom king on the dance floor.

  “You hungry, Pops? I could sure use some grub.”

  He shakes his head. “I’ll just have another beer.”

  “Sure thing. I’
ll bring it to you.”

  My mom’s kitchen is destroyed. Garbage everywhere—mostly food wrappers and beer cans. A lot of flies are circling the sink full of dirty dishes. Rage fills my chest instead of air. Not at my dad—he’s obviously sick. I knew he was depressed when we spoke on the phone, but to be confronted with what it looks like in real life, to see how lost he’s been without his wife. Without his son.

  No, the rage is at the unfairness. The life I was supposed to have compared to this one. This dirty, neglected place that used to shine. The house without its heart. I know my mom still might have gotten cancer and died if I’d been here—but Pops and I would have had each other to get us through it. Instead, he got sicker and I got meaner.

  I bring him his beer and make a meal out a couple cheap frozen dinners cooked in a microwave so heavy with grime I wonder why it hasn’t caught fire. Later, I get my dad in his own bed instead of the recliner I’m afraid he sleeps on every night. I don’t sleep in my old room. I can’t even go in there yet. I can’t face the old Boone right now. He’s a ghost. I sleep in one of the guest rooms instead. And I start making plans.

  I have a lot of living to catch up on. A lot of work to go along with it. Work is good. It will keep me from thinking about what I used to have. What I should have now by all rights.

  Thanks to the internet, I know my ex-girlfriend is married with one kid and one on the way. Her husband is a high school friend. Or was. Neither he nor Amy ever visited me in prison. They have a farm, and I have fallow fields. They have kids, and I have an aging hero in a recliner who looks ready to be put out to pasture. They look happy. In love.

  I have my hand for companionship.

  As I rub one out, for necessity not pleasure, it sure feels like I’ve traded one damn prison for another.

  Madeline

  I’M GOOD AT A LOT OF things. Okay, not really a lot. But waiting tables isn’t one of them. Lord knows I try, though. I hate being on the receiving end of Big Mac’s tirades.

  I’m pouring fresh water for table four when I hear Mac from the kitchen. “Madeliiiinne!”

  I flinch. And knock over the water glass. Which of course lands in the lap of my customer. Who jumps up and starts yelling at me. Which causes their baby to start crying. I should be grabbing a towel or apologizing or running to the exit never to return. Instead, I stand there. With my mouth open at the havoc I’m causing.

  I am the worst waitress in the world. It’s not news to anyone that eats here. And Big Mac is pretty aware of my shortcomings, too. He only keeps me here because his wife won’t let him fire me. Not that Vera cares about me all that much, either. It’s just that she has misplaced loyalty to me. Or maybe it’s guilt.

  Strangely, as I’m trying to apologize to the people at table four, everything in the diner gets quiet.

  Like those old westerns on TV when the gunslinger enters the saloon and all heads turn and the music stops, everyone in Big Mac’s Diner pauses in mid-action like we’ve been practicing the mannequin challenge for a week. The radio is still kicking out a classic rock song from the ‘80s, and something sizzles loudly on the grill, but those are the only sounds. Even the baby snuffled up her last wail.

  We’re all looking at the door—just a regular glass door, not the swinging shutters from an old-time saloon. Standing there, blocking the sun, is the Hulk, I think. Well, he’s not green. He’s just huge. Muscles bulge out from places mere mortals don’t have muscles.

  I’m equal parts in awe of him and in fear of him. In fact, I’m mapping my way to the kitchen exit and looking for cover in case there’s violence. His expression doesn’t exactly say he’s here for a cheeseburger and a Coke.

  Oh my God.

  I recognize him. That’s Boone Barker. Word is that he was released from prison last week, but sightings have been scarce. Not that anyone could blame him for staying away since nobody got out the welcome wagon for the poor guy. The opposite, in fact. It would have made everyone feel a whole lot better if he’d just never come back. Then they wouldn’t have to face how badly they treated him. How everyone just forgot about him and left him to rot in that cell only to find out he’s not guilty after all.

  Which is pretty shitty, when you think about it.

  He doesn’t make eye contact with anyone as he starts walking the rest of the way inside. When he takes a seat at a booth, I realize maybe he really is here for a cheeseburger and a Coke.

  Shit! He’s in my section.

  I shoot a pleading glance at Marion to cover me, but she shakes her head. Most days, I expect her to say things like, “Kiss my grits,” with that nicotine voice she’s got. But despite the hard lines on her face, she’s usually pretty nice to me.

  I mouth the word “please” but Marion shakes her head.

  Damn.

  I already suck at this job when I’m not half scared to death. I can’t imagine how many ways I’ll find to screw this up.

  Boone Barker is seven years older than my twenty. I remember following his championship football season when I was in middle school and he was a senior. Every girl with a beating heart had a crush on Boone Barker. He was the quarterback, the prom king, the valedictorian—basically he was the kind of guy that nobody believes exists in real life. Perfect. Handsome. Smart. Friendly. Talented.

  They took his picture out of the trophy case at the high school when he was arrested.

  I just assumed he was guilty. Otherwise, it would have been unbearable to think about—our hometown hero in prison for no reason. It was easier to believe he’d gone rogue than to accept that life could be that unfair.

  Turns out life really is that horrible.

  He was innocent the whole time.

  His sentence has been overturned, and he’s a free man now. He should look a lot happier than he does. If I were him, I’d have settled someplace new. Where they didn’t used to know and supposedly love me and then turn their backs on me. Where they wouldn’t turn their eyes away in guilt at their own shame whenever I come near.

  But I don’t have a family of my own anymore, and Boone does, which is probably what brought him back. He’s got his dad and that farm. Both are a mess from what I hear, but at least it’s something. Me? I’ve got a crappy room above Big Mac’s garage out back, a job I’m no good at that makes less than nothing, and a family of me, myself, and I.

  I swallow hard against the ball of fear in my throat. Everyone around me gets back to their business, though their tones are hushed. Marion brings out a towel for my soaked customer, and I shuffle slowly to Boone’s table.

  I pull the pad out of my pocket and the pen from behind my ear. “Welcome to Big Mac’s,” I say, too loudly I bet because my ears are ringing, and I’m probably going to throw up on him or faint dead away on the floor, “What can I get for you?”

  He studies me for what seems like a really long time. He’s still handsome, but it’s grittier now. My heartbeat fills my ears, which is better than the ringing, I guess. His stare is so intense, though. Like I can physically feel the testosterone emitting out of his gaze.

  I break eye contact, but there’s no safe place for my gaze to roam. His square, stubbled jaw. The thick column of his throat. His broad shoulders stretch the very limits of his T-shirt seams. His barrel chest. His...

  He coughs, and I blink back my perusal. Is he smiling at me? Just a little? You can’t really tell by his mouth, but his eyes soften just a bit. “A menu.”

  “Huh?” I sputter.

  “You asked what you could get me. I’d like to start with a menu.”

  “Of course.” Stupid, Madeline. “Sorry. I’ll...” I point to the counter. “And then...right back I’ll be.”

  Right back I’ll be?

  I repeat my stupidness all the way to the counter, where I manage to remember to grab a menu and the coffee pot in case he wants some, and back to his table. Right back I’ll be. I really am hopeless.

  I hand him a menu and ask if he wants coffee. He eyes my shaking hand and says no. I le
ave him to take care of my remaining tables and try to compose myself.

  Why am I so flustered? He’s the one who is trying to get his life back after a horrible mistake. Everyone should be trying to make him feel at home instead of ostracizing him because they feel bad they weren’t on his side when he needed them most.

  “Have you decided?” I ask when I work up the nerve to go back to his table.

  “Cheeseburger and a Coke.” He did not just say that. Did he really? “You have a nice smile,” he adds.

  I hadn’t realized I was smiling. “Thanks. You have nice hands.”

  Oh. My. God. Seriously, I need a muzzle. I’d just been looking at his hands, and so it came out. I can’t even fathom what I’d meant to say.

  “Thanks.”

  Count it off, Maddy Mae. Three. Two. One.

  I take a breath after my silent counting and try again. “I’m sorry. I’d love to say that I’m not usually so awkward, but this is pretty much how I just am. So, I’ll just go and put your order in.”

  “And right back you’ll be?”

  I can’t help but laugh. “Something like that, yeah.”

  When I bring his Coke, he’s staring out the window. It doesn’t seem fair that he looks so sad when he should be happy to be out of prison. “Has very much changed? It always looks all the same to me. Day in, day out.”

  He blinks at me. Wow. I don’t know that I ever realized how deep a green his eyes were. Probably not since this is the closest I’ve ever been to him.

  “It’s kind of weird. It’s the same but different. That probably doesn’t make any sense.” He slides his drink closer. “Thanks for asking. Not many people have acknowledged that I’ve been gone or that I’m back.”

  “You deserve better than that. I’m sorry, Boone. I’m so sorry that you had to go to prison and that it took so long to find the evidence to prove your innocence. I’m sorry for all you’ve lost. And I’m really sorry that people don’t know how to treat you now. It’s not your fault.”