by Kade, Teagan
Table of Contents
Title Page
COPYRIGHT
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ALSO BY TEAGAN KADE:
DEDICATION
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
EPILOGUE
Teagan Kade
* * * * *
Published by Teagan Kade
Edited by Sennah Tate
Copyright © 2019 by Teagan Kade
COPYRIGHT
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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ALSO BY TEAGAN KADE:
LIFE SUPPORT
TROUSER SNAKE
THE ROYAL TREATMENT
BALLSY
HOT PANTS
SAVAGE
VICE
RECKLESS
PUCK BUDDIES
FERAL
WINTER MIRACLE
ADAGIO
BRUTE
BLAZE
HUSTLE
LAWLESS
LONG GAME
DIRTY DEBT
LOADED
AMPED
DRILLED
DIRTY BRAWLER
WRECKED
SLAMMED
STROKER
STRIKER
THROTTLE
ROYALLY WRONG
HITCHED
CHASING STORM
DEDICATION
This one is for you Jamie, you big prick, you ;-)
CHAPTER ONE
GISELE
I pull over wondering whether this is a roundhouse, a random shack, or some combination of the two.
A step out of the car and I’m hammered by humidity. Sweat fills nooks and crannies I didn’t even know existed until now.
Why am I here? I ask myself.
The million-dollar question.
A ring of a bell signals my entrance into the roundhouse-slash-shack. I calmly make my way to the front counter where a somewhat obese gentleman sits so still he could be mistaken for part of said counter.
A desk fan aimed at his face causes the two hairs on top of his head to flicker. He looks up, sees me. “Hot out.”
You don’t say. “Sure is.” I smile.
He looks down at the counter, out the window, back to me. “Gas?”
“No,” I start cautiously. “I was actually going to inquire who owns the houseboat out back?”
This piques his interest. He straightens up and runs a hand over his two hairs, smoothing them out. “Well now, that’s a fine vessel and all, but I’m afraid it’s not for sale.”
I plaster on a look of disappointment. “Dang. It looked so pretty sitting out there in the water.”
Counter Guy shrugs, unsure how to proceed. “Ol’ Bear’s been there for years.”
“Bear?”
“Ah, Bobby,” the man continues. “He owns the boat—lives on it, actually.”
“And you’re sure he wouldn’t be interested?” I push.
“Well,” another run of the hand over the head, “I suppose you could ask when he’s back, but he ain’t a big fan of… well, people.” His eyes drop to my chest. “Unless you’re a fine-looking lady like yourself, that is.”
I resist a gag and smile. “Do you know when ‘Bear’ will be back?”
Counter Guy looks around the room for a clock that doesn’t exist. “Oh, shouldn’t be too long.” He reaches for a flyer from a pile beside the cash register. “How about a spot of fishing while you wait? Big ol’ prize if you catch the Beast.”
The Bear, the Beast… This place is starting to sound like an amusement park.
“I got all the gear here,” he continues, “special discount being a weekday and all.”
I point behind myself. “I’ll wait outside, thank you.”
“Suit yourself,” he shrugs, returning to his thousand-mile stare.
I head back out into the heat, a sudden ‘pop’ to my right that stops me in my tracks.
Leaning up against the wall is a platinum-blonde with bubblegum hanging out of her mouth. She looks about twenty years too old for such a pastime, but hey, who am I to judge?
She looks straight ahead, eyes hidden behind knock-off Ray Bans, the sun chiseling out the features of her face. “You looking for him?”
“Who?” I ask.
Now she turns to me. “Long Schlong Silver, of course.”
“I’m sorry?” I say, because surely I didn’t hear that correctly.
“If you’re looking for a lay, hon, you better get in line. Bear’s booked out for weeks.”
I gesture in the general direction of the river. “You mean Bobby, the man who owns the boat?”
She nods, her tongue tucking the bubblegum back into her mouth.
“I don’t blame you, of course. Cock like a donkey’s dick… Who wouldn’t want to see that for themselves? Ride the real Beast.”
When I woke up this morning I didn’t picture standing here talking to Daisy Duke about giant dicks, but hell, here we are. May as well milk it.
I lean against the wall, smother myself in a conspiratorial air. “Is he really that big?”
Her hands span apart… and keep going, and going. She nods. “Like I said.”
“He must be a real good lay.”
My confidant chews a little faster. “You have no idea. Most people around here know him as Bear, owing to his football fame, but us girls have another name for him.
After the first, I can’t wait for this.
She looks at me dead-on. “The Cure.”
I stifle laughter, playing along. “Is he a doctor?”
“A love doctor,” my friend purrs. “They come from all over.”
“Who?”
“Girls who can’t… you know… hit the big ‘O’.”
I myself fall into this category, but I’m sure as shit not here for an appointment. No, I’ve got far more important matters to attend to than my sexual awakening.
My friend pushes off the wall, walking away. “Anyhoo, thought I’d let you know, being friendly-like and all. There’s a motel down the road. Grab a room. He’s worth the wait. Trust me.”
I don’t trust anyone, least of all a kiss-and-teller who looks like she just stumbled out of a Britney Spears video.
I watch her saunter off down the road before returning to my car.
I turn the key over and crank up the AC, but all it seems to be doing is pushing air around.
You’re here, I tell myself. Take a moment.
I pull out my cell and dial, bringing the phone to my ear.
The line’s picked up, silence heavy.
“It’s me,” I begin. “I’ve found him. I’ve found the prick.”
CHAPTER TWO
BOBBY
I wake up in a houseboat, but it sure as shit ain’t mine. The fact I’m staring up at a giant poster of Billy Ray Cyrus settles that.
I go to roll over and almost steamroll the petite blonde who’s spooned up against my side, her giant tits pressed against my ribs like a couple of water balloons.
Last night begins to filter back to me. Another girl. Another fuck. But the details are hazy, increasingly blurry around the edges. I know she’s got a vagina. I just can’t picture what it looks like or remember anything else apart from the fact it was wet and kind of warm.
I bring my hand up to my forehead. You’re losing it, brother.
Maybe I am? It wasn’t so long ago this life seemed so appealing—a different girl every night, a way to use my God-given gift, all ten inches of it.
I don’t normally do house calls, but this girl—with a name I can’t for the life of me recall—was coming on strong, practically fishing in my pants before we found our way to her car. Five beers down and my willpower was weakened enough for me to agree to this bullshit.
At the time I’m sure the sex was fine. She’ll go and tell her friends about her experience with Bobby ‘Bear’ Silver, how it’s not every day you get to fuck the quarterback.
Former, my head corrects.
Shut up, Head.
I sniff at the air. It’s so floral I feel like I’ve been sleeping in a funeral home, the after-smell of sex lingering in the sheets.
Not a great combo.
I don’t know why, but I check the poor girl’s pulse just in case, to make sure I didn’t fuck her into some comatose state last night.
It’s happened, trust me. Hell, some of them faint at the sheer sight of my cock.
I manage to slide out of the bed and find my clothes in various corners of the room.
Outside, it’s blindingly bright and humid. It’s then I realize I don’t have a way to get home.
I step into the shade and dial up Bart.
He answers, “Big night?”
I don’t even have to reply.
I hear him sigh. “Text me the address and hang tight.”
*
Bart’s truck looks like it was dredged up from the bottom of the river. Smells like it, too. Bart himself isn’t helping with his gut and general disregard for hygiene. The two hairs left on his head waver from the air channeling through the open window to his side.
“I’m supposed to be at the shop, you know,” he starts.
I smile and lean back, arm on the doorframe. “You’re telling me you’re actually expecting customers today?”
Bart might look like a hillbilly, but he’s actually whip-smart. He’s got a damn PhD for god’s sake. Sometimes I think the hick thing is all an act, a way to get away from the world and do nothing but fish. A lot of folks around here fall into that category, happy to be whisked away from the concrete and less physical, but just as draining confines of the city.
My mother always said not to judge a book by its cover, but it’d be pretty hard not to think of an older, fatter Huckleberry Finn when you first stumble into Riverside Gas & Tackle.
“Got a customer waiting back at the shop, actually.”
“For gas?” I ask.
He looks at me bluntly. “For you, big boy.”
I’m confused. “You tell her I’m all booked up?”
“I don’t think she’s lookin’ for a dickin’.”
“A bit of polite conversation then? A cup of tea? Maybe a tête-à-tête on the finer workings of the swampland ecosystem?”
That brings out a smile. “She wants to buy your boat, seems.”
“My boat?” I stammer. “For fucking firewood?”
“I don’t know. It’s got charm,” Bart enthuses.
“It’s got a hole in the roof and a list of problems as long as my arm—the third one.”
Bart chortles. “I said ‘seems.’” He taps his nose. “My intuition tells me she’s not here for your third arm or your boat.”
I throw my arms up. “What then?”
Bart spits on the window, shrugging. “Beats me, but I’d put my guard up if I was you. No one comes down here wearing five-hundred-dollar pumps looking for a houseboat to buy.”
Did I mention Bart likes to play dress up behind closed doors?
Bart nods his head at the windscreen. “See for yourself.”
The truck pulls in and I see her waiting under the awning. She steps out into the sun. Bart was right.
This is no local floozy looking for a quick-fuck.
No, this girl’s something else—cherry red heels, simple blouse pulled tight over plump breasts, a black skirt sitting all kinds of right on the sort of hips born to be held onto. Dark, chocolate curls fall around her shoulders, full lips giving nothing away. She looks more like a lawyer than a tourist.
Guilty, Your Honor, I smile.
I swing out the truck and slowly walk over, taking my time all sweet-like, thick on the swagger. “Well, hi there.”
“Hello,” she says with a smile. “My name’s Gisele. I’ve been waiting for you.”
And by God I can’t help but bring out the line.
I take her hand and plant a kiss on the back on it. “And I’ve been waiting for you my entire god damn life.”
CHAPTER THREE
GISELE
I have to force back the sick that rises to my mouth at that one. I mean, seriously, what does he think? That a line like that is instantly going to make me forget my senses, drop down on my knees, and suck his cock?
Think again, bucko.
I can see the appeal. He’s a handsome guy with tousled hair, tall, certainly well defined in all the appropriate areas with cobalt eyes that have probably broken more hearts than Justin Bieber. But as soon as the mouth opens…
Then again, I don’t imagine these women ‘booking him in’ are looking for a deep conversation about the finer points of American politics.
He seems to be waiting for me to swoon or drop to my knees, but I simply stand there with my hands on my hips. I take a glance over at Counter Guy. “Is there somewhere we can go that’s a little more private?”
Bobby’s smile widens. “Now you’re talking,” he says, and he winks. I knew I’d come across some clichés in this backwater town; I didn’t expect this cardboard cutout of Matthew McConaughey. What next? A whimsical monologue and a shot of his ass?
I follow Bobby around the back of the shop where his boat sits at the side of the river.
I’m conscious of Counter Guy watching us. The way he darted off to pick up Bobby when he called, from god knows what kind of night, has to mean something. There’s certainly more to him than he’s letting on.
As much as I resist, I can’t help a quick glance downwards as Bobby unlocks the door. Well-worn Levis have never
had a better home. Great ass, yes, but I’m pretty sure that’s the better view than the talking mouth ahead.
He steps aside. “Please, enter my humble abode,” he says, plastering on McConaughey again.
The doorway’s narrow. I have to brush up against him to get through—no doubt a practiced maneuverer.
The interior of the houseboat’s something of a mess, a floating bachelor pad complete with beer cans and takeaway boxes. Bobby kicks away a hot pink pair of panties, smiling and directing me to a recliner. “Take a seat.”
Carefully, I seat myself and pull my skirt taut.
He walks over to the kitchen, opening an overhead cupboard and withdrawing a bottle of Jack. “Drink?”
I wave it off. It’s not even past twelve. “I’m fine.”
He finds a grubby tumbler and pours two fingers, dumping himself in the recliner opposite, his legs spread wide.
And there it is—the definite outline of something lurking below, and I ain’t talking about Loch Ness.
I clear my throat. “So, my proposal.”
He takes a swig of his drink, smacking his lips. “You want to buy Roxanne, do you?”
“You named your houseboat Roxanne?”
“Sure,” he shrugs, completely at ease, “like the song.”
“The Police song?” I fill.
He breaks out into said song with a surprisingly good voice. “Roxanne, you don’t have to put on the red light…”
“O-kay,” I continue, “but my original question, is ‘she’ for sale?”
He reaches across and strokes the wall dividing the living room from the bedroom. He continues singing, “I have to tell you just how I feel. I won’t share you with another boy…”
I’m tempted to inform him I’m more certainly of the female sex, but I’m pretty sure he’s got that given the way he keeps ogling me.
Suddenly he stops and leans back, eyeing me down. “My question, why?”
“Why do I want to buy the boat?”
“Well, yes,” he smiles, letting the silence hang.
“Why not?” I offer, prepared for this. “Maybe a girl just wants a change, a river-change.”
“You’re from the city?”
No shit. “Does it matter?”
He holds up his hand with the glass, extending a pointed finger at me. “Oh, I like you. You sure we can’t forget this business and step into the bedroom? I’ll blow your mind.”