Wrecked: A Blue Collar Bad Boys Book Read online

  Dating has been more miss than hit, but that’s on me, too. I’m not a misanthrope—but I am reclusive. The people I like, I like a lot. The rest I don’t expend my energy on.

  She takes in the front room of my cabin with a huge smile on her face. “There are a lot of books in here.”

  “I like to read.” I’ve always liked to read. Reading was my escape as a kid and my solace when my mom took off. I could always get lost in a book when real life got too hard. When I had to read by candlelight when the power was cut off. When I spent my first holidays alone because I couldn’t tell anyone she was gone.

  Now, life is better. I still read, but I spend holidays with friends, and I can pay my power bill.

  Layna likes everything about my house but my office loft. “What in the world is happening in here?”

  “You’ve never seen paperwork before, princess?”

  “Is this how you run your business?” Her hands go on those curvy hips, and she mimics my pose from the courthouse steps. “How do you track your profitability if all your receipts are in messy piles?”

  I lean against the wall and want to chuckle at her incredulous tone. “If money is in the bank, it’s profitable. If it’s not, it’s been a bad month.”

  “You have got to be kidding me.” She starts rifling through my piles. I should stop her. It’s not her business what I make or don’t make, and she’s still in stranger territory. But I don’t stop her. I watch her mutter to herself and say mean things about my ancient computer.

  “What kind of business software do you use?”

  “There’s a spreadsheet.”

  The look she shoots me is almost murderous. “This is a crime scene.”

  “What do you know about receipts and invoices?” I try to lead her back to the stairs, but she resists.

  “My father taught me a lot, actually. I’m good with numbers.”

  Her voice changes when she talks about her father. She gets this sad, faraway look in her eyes, so I change the subject. “Are you hungry?”

  “Famished, actually. I had a dry turkey sandwich hours ago courtesy of the Iron Bar Bistro. Last night I guess, now that I think about it.”

  “Sounds delicious.”

  She shrugs. “Almost.”

  I lead her away from my disaster of an office and to the bathroom. “There’s a clean robe on the hook and a towel in the cupboard. I don’t have any fancy princess soap, but you can freshen up while I put together something that is hopefully more appetizing than prison food.”

  “Why are you being so nice to me?”

  She’s looking less porn-dream right now. Her hair has lost some of its bounce, and the circles under her eyes mean she probably slept like shit in jail. For some reason, though, I don’t want to stop looking at her. She’s the prettiest thing I think I’ve ever seen. And I want to wipe away some of that tension and make her feel safe from whatever she’s running from.

  “Maybe I like you, Layna.”

  She snorts. “As if.”

  “I think you deserve a break.”

  Her eyes well up and she nods her thanks. I turn to leave her in peace, but she grabs my wrist.

  “Is it really Rogan?”

  “Lance Rogan, but everyone calls me Rogan.”

  “Thank you, Rogan. I’m not usually so lost.”

  I let her go without an answer. Truth is, I’m not usually so found.

  CHAPTER THREE

  LAYNA

  THE BATHROOM IS SMALL AND very lumber chic, but it’s clean, and though it’s probably rude to take advantage, the hot water tank seems pretty big.

  In lieu of princess soap, I’m left with an invigorating bar of green to use on my face, body, and hair. But squeaky-clean feels lovely. The problem is now that my immediate hygiene is taken care of, my brain has energy for ruminating on my many, many problems.

  What am I going to do now?

  I have no access to my credit cards or the money in my account. My phone works, but it’s probably not safe to use. I’ve got no wheels. And no friends except for the taciturn tow truck driver who is actually very nice.

  I’m pretending I don’t think he’s nice to look at, too, because that causes a whole slew of other problems I’m not ready to deal with at the moment. Being attracted to a completely inappropriate man is not helpful.

  I find some store brand lotion under the sink. Better than nothing. It’s goopy at the top like it hasn’t been used in a long time. Rogan is low maintenance, it seems. Bless him, though, for the spare toothbrush I find still in its cellophane package.

  When I feel human again, I open the bathroom door, and oh my God. Bacon. The man is cooking me bacon.

  Now I’m not just attracted to him, I want to marry him.

  I follow my nose to the kitchen. “Are you my guardian angel, Mr. Rogan?”

  He turns slowly, but where I’ve come to expect a brooking-no-patience-with-you-look, instead I get a long perusal. A long, intense perusal.

  Rogan’s eyes darken, and my nipples pinch tightly beneath his robe. Stop it.

  He breaks the awkwardness first by turning around to tend to the pan. “It’s just about ready. Have a seat.”

  “Can I help with anything?” He’s holding himself very rigidly. “No, I got it.”

  I sit at the bar, and he plates us a meal for a king. Okay, it’s eggs, bacon, toast, and juice. But it’s the best eggs, bacon, toast, and juice I’ve ever had.

  “Do you want coffee?” he asks after I’ve made too many indecent moans around my fork.

  “Oh my God. I would do anything you ask for a cup of coffee.”

  Our gazes catch, and my blush is four-alarm, but he moves his eyes to my lips and I sigh.

  He gets up quickly, almost knocking over his juice in his haste, and moves across the kitchen to start a pot of coffee.

  “So, you live here alone? Is there a girlfriend who isn’t going to be pleased that you’re harboring a known felon here today?”

  He doesn’t turn around but shakes his head. “No girlfriend.”

  I like watching the way he moves around his space. It doesn’t seem like he should be so graceful. His muscles bunch under his thin t-shirt, and I’m a little too captivated. His arms are covered in colorful tattoo sleeves, something I hadn’t noticed earlier as they been under coveralls or a flannel shirt. He’s also absolutely ripped. Like maybe he bench presses the cars after he pulls them out of ditches.

  “You seem like a catch, Rogan. Why no lady friend?”

  The color of his face darkens when he looks at me, and I think that it’s a blush, which tickles me to no end. “I think we both know I’m not a catch. Most women want a man who talks.”

  “You talk.”

  He holds up the sugar bowl, which I decline. “Not much. Not with new people anyway.”

  “I’m new people. You talk to me just fine.” I take the cup he offers and doctor it with creamer. “Lots of women like quiet guys. Then we don’t have to fight for the spotlight.”

  “You don’t feel like new people.”

  I’ve got the coffee mug to my lips, but I pause there as his words connect inside my brain. He’s blinking at me like he can’t believe he said that either.

  “You don’t feel like new people, either,” I admit and then take a drink. The guy may skimp on bathroom products, but his coffee beans are top quality. “I know you don’t usually bring your tow truck rescues home. I really appreciate everything you’ve done for me.”

  He takes the stool next to me again, his presence warm and safe. I haven’t really felt safe in a while, I guess. Not since my dad died.

  But even as I feel safe, there’s an undercurrent of energy that isn’t about safety. A zing I’ve never felt before. And I wonder if Rogan feels it, too.

  “You seem like a very capable woman, Layna, but something tells me you’re in over your head. I’d like to help you.”

  The clouds in my coffee don’t offer me much in the way of answers, but I continue to stare in
to the cup. I don’t feel capable. Not at all. But I don’t think I can share my burden with Rogan. He might try to help, and that’s the last thing he needs to do. The guy my stepdad owes money to is bad news. It’s better that Rogan just thinks I’m a flighty mess than try to step in and get involved. I’d never forgive myself if he got in too deep trying to save me. And he would.

  I twirl my hair and pretend my life is the way it was a few years ago. The old Layna. “I’m just your average spoiled princess running away from her princess problems, nothing for you to worry about.”

  “You could go to jail for the car.”

  I shrug and finish the coffee, setting the mug down like I’d just done a shot. “I’m sure I can just buy my way out of it, right?”

  He’s up and spinning my stool around until I’m caged between the mass of his body and the counter now behind me. “Wrong answer.”

  My heart rises in my throat. He’s so masculine it’s insane. A girl could climb him like a tree. A Testosterone Tree. “You don’t need to worry about me. I’ll be fine. I always bounce back better than ever.”

  My voice cracks on ever, and he furrows his brow. “Talk.”

  “And say what? What do you want to hear? I’m spoiled and a pain in the ass. I’m reaping what I’ve sown. Poor little rich girl.”

  He’s staring at my mouth, and my pulse kicks up. “I think that’s what you want me to believe. But you’re hiding something.”

  “I’m not your problem, Rogan.”

  “You don’t trust me.”

  At the moment, I don’t trust myself. He smells delicious and those hard muscles beneath his shirt make promises about what he’s capable of. The strength he possesses. I bet a girl in his arms wouldn’t be afraid of anything ever again.

  But that’s not for me, unfortunately.

  “I don’t trust anyone.” Not anymore. Not since my dad died and my mom brought Alan into our lives. Not since she died shortly after that. “It was nice of you to cook for me. I’ll do the dishes.”

  There’s a moment between us. He’s still too close; it’s too intimate. But somehow, he’s not close enough.

  “You need to trust someone.”

  If he would look away from my eyes, I might be able to think. Maybe.

  “You’re in my house.” He says it like that makes sense.

  “Yes, Captain Obvious.”

  The tic in his jaw is a work of art. “You’re wearing my robe.” He moves his head so we’d be cheek to cheek if we were an inch closer, and he inhales. “You smell like me.” He pulls back and all that broody focus is trained on my eyes now. “That means you’re mine. You can trust me.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  ROGAN

  IT’S EVENING NOW, AND I’M wondering why I backed off her in the kitchen earlier. It wasn’t what I wanted to do. I wanted to take her, right there, right then. Truth is, I wanted to mark her. Claim her. Keep her.

  But it wasn’t right. She’s got demons she’s running from, and I’m not a man who takes advantage of someone. She might need me, but she doesn’t need me pawing at her like a beast until she trusts me.

  She looks so small in my robe right now, curled into the corner of the couch and reading. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she’s fragile. But she’s got a spine of steel.

  I recognize the haunted look in her eyes. She’s not the spoiled brat she shows the rest of the world. Well, she’s definitely a brat, but spoiled I’m not so sure of.

  She’s got rich girl background, but her life is harder than she lets on.

  Or it used to be. Until she met me.

  Now she’s not alone. I let that sink in. At first, it feels heavy, and then suddenly light and warm. The second I let go of the resistance to wanting her, I feel free. There’s no reason to fight it. It can’t be stopped.

  New feelings inside me settle bone deep, and things clear up the way the sun eats the fog.

  She’s mine. Mine to protect. Mine to take care of. And it maybe seems too soon, but I think she’s mine to love.

  I never thought I’d feel this way. I’ve seen other guys fall. I’ve read books and seen movies, but I never believed it was something I was capable of. Life with my mom had never been easy, but after she abandoned me altogether, I’d pretty much put my heart in deep freeze.

  Until my annoying princess drove her Porsche Cayman GTS into a ditch. Shame, too. It was a really nice car.

  Damn. It sure as hell doesn’t make any sense. She’s ten years younger than me. College educated. Used to guys in sports cars with trust funds. And I want to throttle her nearly as often as I want to kiss her.

  I didn’t even know her before yesterday. I should try to rationalize this away. Explain it. Make sense of it.

  It’s not logical, I guess. It’s love.

  I get up and boil some water for tea. The storm outside is getting worse. That usually means I’ll get a call tonight. I already don’t want to leave her. What if she needs me? What if she takes off?

  “Whatcha doing in there?” She’s sitting up on her knees looking over at me from the back of the couch. Someday, I’m going to bend her over that couch. Someday when she trusts me. When she knows me. When she loves me back.

  “Making you tea. I’m hoping it will knock you out so you don’t take off in the middle of the night if I get a roadside assistance call.”

  “You make tea?” She wrinkles her brow like she’s trying to figure out an algebra problem in her head. “You going to roofie it?”

  “The thought crossed my mind.” I pull a mug down. “I’d rather just trust you.”

  “I’d rather you didn’t.”

  That’s strange. I tilt my head. “Why don’t you want me to trust you?”

  “I don’t want to disappoint you.”

  She’s lost too much. It’s painted all over her face. Whatever forced her “north” is going to answer to me someday. “You aren’t going to disappoint me.”

  She shrugs and turns back around, opening her book and leaving me with more questions than insight again. I wish I understood her better. I wish she’d let me in. But as a well-known recluse, I understand her barriers.

  I’m just handing her the tea when the pager goes off.

  “You have a beeper? That’s very…retro.”

  “It’s issued by the roadside assistance company.” I make the call, get the details, and give my guest the once-over. “Lines are down all over the place. I don’t have to explain to you how dangerous it would be for you to take off on your own tonight, do I?”

  Layna raises one eyebrow at me, and it’s sexy as hell. “I don’t really want to wander around the woods at night during a storm. I left my hiking boots in the trunk of the Porsche.”

  “Do you even own hiking boots?”

  “No, not really.”

  “I don’t want you to go, Layna. It’s dangerous out there. You don’t know the terrain, and bad things could happen to you before I even knew you were gone.” She opens her mouth to argue, but I interrupt her interruption. “I can’t keep you here if you don’t want to stay. I want you to want to stay.” I point to the hooks near the door where all my keys are hanging. “If you run, don’t go on foot. Steal my car. It’s in the left bay of the garage outside. Keys are on the wall and marked.”

  Her eyes get real big. “You are giving me the keys to my escape?”

  “No, I’m showing you where they are and hoping you don’t use them. I’m hoping you’ll be passed out and snoring when I get back, safe in bed and drooling on my pillow. But if you need to endanger yourself, I’d rather have you endangered in a vehicle than on foot.”

  “I kinda thought you would just tie me up or something.”

  “You wish.”

  She blushes, and I want to pull open my robe and see how low that blush goes. Instead, I kiss her forehead. “Stay.”

  ______

  Hours later, wet, tired, and grumpy, I open the cabin door and find Layna sound asleep on my couch. I exhale the breath I’d been h
olding since I left her.

  She’s still safe.

  I’m drawn to her like she’s reeling me in on her fishing line. I lean down and press another kiss to her forehead.

  As I pull back, she blinks her eyes open. She frowns for a second as she comes to, then she throws her arms around my neck. “You’re home.”

  She’s sleep-warmed and perfect, so soft and lovely. And then she’s kissing me.

  I don’t think either of us expected it.

  Her lips are amazing. I try just sipping at her sweetness, but I want more. I need her softness, so I clutch her hard and she swings into me like we’ve been kissing for years instead of barely knowing each other. She angles her head, and I deepen the kiss. I want in her mouth, in her body.

  She pulls back, confused I think. Maybe she was sleep-kissing, but I don’t think so.

  “You’re soaking wet,” she says. She’s not accusing me of accosting her in her sleep. That’s a good sign.

  “Yeah. Raining. Outside.” This girl has made complete sentences a challenge.

  She bites her lip which I find adorable. I’m not usually a guy who uses the word adorable. “I should be ashamed of myself. I totally just attacked you, didn’t I?”

  “Yeah. You want to do it again?”

  She nods and tightens her hold on me as she dives back in for another kiss. She’s petite enough that, with little effort, I pick her up and settle us back onto the couch with her on my lap.

  I’m trying to keep this light. Keep us in this sweet spot to savor, but with each pass, my hands grasp her tighter, my mouth pushes harder. I’m feeling my heartbeat in my cock when she opens her mouth and moans as my tongue accepts her invitation inside.

  Her fingers tunnel through my hair, and she rocks her hips, grinding us together. The robe is gaping in the front, and I catch glimpses of the perfect curve of her tits and I’m lost. I can’t stop my hand as it reaches in to palm one breast while my other grasps the back of her neck and holds her still so I can fucking plunder her mouth.

  Her skin is so smooth beneath my callused hand. I feel like a hulking beast let loose in a store of fine, expensive china. I don’t want to hurt her or scare her. I’m sure her college boys don’t maul her so roughly, but when I pinch her nipple she throws her head back and lets out the hottest sound I’ve ever heard.