Drive Me Wild (Ridden Hard, #4)

by Allyson Lindt

  Drive Me Wild

  Allyson Lindt

  Ridden Hard Book 4

  This book is a work of fiction.

  While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2018 by Allyson Lindt

  Cover by Hell Yes Design Studio

  All Rights Reserved

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  Acelette Press

  Table of Contents

  Copyright Page

  Drive Me Wild (Ridden Hard, #4)

  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

  About the Author

  For my eternal dragon...

  ...and Shannon, Elizabeth, and David, and each and every one of my readers who showed me this book was a good idea.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Ginny inserted her debit card into the chip reader a second time. She glared at the display. Go ahead. Deny me again, bitch.

  “I’m sorry, miss, it says your card is declined.” The cashier didn’t sound sorry.

  A heavy sigh came from someplace in the line behind Ginny. She glanced back at the people waiting their turn. Some more patiently than others. She flashed a thin-lipped smile at the girl behind the register. “Cancel the transaction. I need to call my bank.”

  Ginny didn’t feel nearly as cool and collected as she sounded. Her entire savings was in her checking account. Thousands of dollars. She should have no problem buying a can of Pringles and a Diet Coke.

  She dialed her cellphone as she strolled away from the register. The air conditioning didn’t cool the heat of frustration and impending anger rising under her skin.

  The voice of the automated system came on the line. Ginny listened as it listed her recent transactions, her gut revolting more with each dollar amount. None of those were her charges.

  The instant the system gave her a chance, she opted to speak to a live person. She leaned against a nearby wall. Please don’t be sick. Keep your cool until you have answers. Screaming at people never solved anything.

  She winced each time the phone rang in her ear. A recording told her there was a short hold time, and someone would be with her shortly.

  Fuck. She clenched her jaw.

  She’d graduated from med school just a few months ago. Finally, after nearly half a lifetime of college, she had her PhD. She was heading to California to start her psychology residency. She hoped to get a little experience over the next year to put her in the right specialty—working with victims of sexual abuse.

  Ginny was getting away from this place. Away from anybody who knew she’d stripped to put herself through school. She didn’t have a problem with the job—it was fun and it paid well—but the stigma that came with the work wouldn’t help her career.

  “I’m sorry for the wait, how may I help you?” A pleasant voice greeted her.

  Ginny grasped her thoughts. “I’m having some issues with my account. I believe my card has been stolen.”

  “I can help you with that. What’s your account number?”

  She wanted to scream at the woman for being so calm in the midst of a crisis like this. Instead, Ginny gave her the appropriate information. First for her account, then for the various purchases.

  “I’m sorry this happened,” the teller said sweetly. “I’ve canceled your card.”

  “And reversed the charges?”

  The woman tsked. “That takes a little longer. You’ll need to fill out the appropriate paperwork and wait for it to be processed—”

  “I don’t have time for that.” Ginny snapped off the words. Several people in the store glared in her direction. She swallowed her frustration. “I didn’t mean to yell. I need to know how to do this more quickly. I’m leaving town tomorrow.”

  “I’m sorry. There’s nothing else I can do. You need to complete a Dispute Charges form.”

  Ginny clenched her jaw and breathed through her nose, grateful the teller couldn’t see her growing anger. “Can you tell me why so many charges were allowed to begin with? Aren’t those supposed to trigger a flag?” If the system broke, maybe that was loophole for Ginny.

  “It looks like your account has been flagged. There’s a note that says you’re planning to travel. The flags are different in that case.”

  “Fuck.” Ginny stamped her foot. The shout and mini-tantrum earned her another round of stares from other shoppers.

  “Miss, if you can’t watch your language, I’m going to end the call.”

  She scrubbed her face, and stared up at the ceiling. “Please don’t hang up. Is there anything I can do to expedite the dispute process? Anyone I can talk to? I’m happy to pay a fee, if that’s what it takes.”

  “There are no options like that. I can add another note to your account, asking them to push things through faster, but there are no guarantees.”

  “I see. Tell me how to file the dispute.”

  Ginny made a note of the information. She needed her laptop, and it was home, packed up with the rest of her belongings. She’d sold her beater car, knowing it wouldn’t make the drive from Atlanta to San Francisco. That money had been in her bank account too.

  The grocery store was only a mile or so from her house. She thought the walk down here would be relaxing. The time it took her to get home on foot would feel like an eternity.

  To help pass the time, she called the movers and make sure they were still on track to pick up her things tomorrow. She’d paid a little extra to ride with them. It was cheaper than flying or taking a train.

  “We’re sorry, but this number has been temporarily disconnected or is no longer in service.” The recorded message mocked her.

  Her rage rose another notch. She checked her phone to make sure she’d pulled up the right number, and dialed again.

  Same message.

  She was going to be ill. There were other numbers though. One of the movers had called her a few days ago to verify some information. She looked at her phone’s history and dialed.

  “We’re sorry, but this number—”

  She hung up. The time it took her to walk the rest of the way to her apartment seemed like an eternity, but she was home less than ten minutes later.

  She unpacked her laptop and went to the movers’ website. The numbers there were the same as on her phone. She searched for their name, and several results came back, all dated within the last few days, for people who had contracted them and couldn’t reach them now.<
br />
  Ginny’s stomach churned as she read through a series of forum posts on a complaint site.

  “I woke up to a drained bank account.”

  “They took my deposit and vanished.”

  “I filed a police report. The cops told me I wasn’t the first, and I’d be lucky to get my deposit back.”

  It might have been nice if this mover’s history of scams appeared in searches two weeks ago, when she looked them up. Were the references they gave her staged too? She wouldn’t be surprised.

  Ginny wouldn’t panic.

  Correction—she was already panicking, but she could bring it under control.

  What were her priorities?

  Finding a way to get to San Francisco before her residency started.

  Making sure she didn’t lose her belongings in the process.

  When she broke things down that way, the to-do list wasn’t so daunting. She didn’t have solutions, but naming her next steps was better than The sky is falling and I’m going to die.

  She’d reclaim most of her money once the bank reviewed her dispute. If she could come up with enough to get her across the country and cover the cost of a storage unit for her belongings, that would hold her over.

  Ginny didn’t borrow money from, or lend it to, friends. A lesson learned too many times over between work and school. She couldn’t ask her parents. They were struggling as it was.

  She didn’t have credit cards. One of her goals during college had been to come out of it debt free, and she’d managed that. But that also meant a bank wasn’t likely to give her a loan, even a small, short term one.

  Some of the girls at work got those payday loans. They were high interest, but Ginny only needed it for a few days. She turned back to her laptop and typed payday loan into her search.

  A billion results came back. Or at least enough she didn’t know where to start.

  Eenie, meenie, minie, moe... She clicked a random link.

  Online application? Totally doable. She didn’t even make it past the Address part of the form before stalling. Did they want to know where she lived now, or where she’d be in a week?

  She dialed the number on their site, and asked her question of the person who answered.

  “I’m sorry, hon.” The woman spoke in a heavy drawl. “But’s not likely they’ll approve you if you don’t have a permanent address.”

  “But I do. I’m in the middle of moving.”

  “Across the country. Give us a call in six months when you’re settled.”

  Fine. She could deal with this. She tried two more random sites. Frustration bubbled to overflowing when they each told her the same thing.

  “FUUUUUUUCK!” Ginny threw her laptop bag across the room. It thunked against the wall and slid to the floor, mocking her with its lack of empathy. She was grateful no one would cast a nasty glare at her in here.

  She needed to get to California in the next seven days, so she could start work. She was broke. Her ride had bailed. And she had a house full of stuff, with nowhere to put it.

  What was she going to do?

  CHAPTER TWO

  Mason didn’t have big plans for his last few days in Atlanta. Frag some noobs online. Get fragged and called a noob. And drink too much Mt. Dew in the process.

  His brother said he needed a going away party. Jake’s voice echoed in his thoughts. “They don’t have the same kind of pussy in California as in Atlanta, and you need to remember what it’s like to be single, before you go chasing after your woman.”

  Mason wasn’t chasing anyone. He was going back to California to pick up the job and life he left behind more than a year ago. He was only attending his ex-girlfriend’s wedding because he’d stayed friends with her, and she was getting married after he got to Malibu.

  So Jake dragged him away from his Xbox, and to some strip club inside The Perimeter, to watch girls take their clothes off.

  When Mason thought about the situation in those terms, maybe he should loosen up and enjoy the show.

  The current song finished, and the dancer on the main stage gathered her clothes and strolled behind the curtain.

  The redhead who sauntered onto the main stage of the strip club was attractive. Pale, freckled skin, and eyes so green they shone even in the dim light. She swayed her hips as a new song blared over the speakers.

  The music had a heavy, driving beat that played out to electric guitars. She moved to the rhythm like flowing water. Even fully dressed, she was captivating. Though fully dressed was open to interpretation. Her plaid skirt left her round ass on display when she whirled, and her button-down top was a size too small, highlighting full breasts underneath.

  Heat raced over him, drawing his nerve endings to life. He was captivated by the way she moved. She knew the entire room was watching, and enjoyed drawing out the tease. It cascaded through her every movement.

  “She’s hot, right?” One of Jake’s friends leaned in close and draped an arm around Mason’s neck, jarring him from the show.

  “Definitely.” Mason’s eyes watered at the tequila on the guy’s breath. Mixed with the perfumes already clogging the air, the scents threatened to give him a headache.

  Jake rounded the table and dropped into chair on the other side of Mason. “You want a lap dance?”

  “No. I’m good.” He was biding his time, looking for an opportunity to leave without getting too much shit for it. After this dancer was done.

  Jake waved her to the edge of the stage, and slipped her a twenty.

  “Ooh. Big spender.” She never stopped her seductive dance.

  “That’s not all that’s big about me.”

  Mason scrubbed his face at the line.

  The redhead didn’t flinch. “Hon, do you know how many times I’ve heard that tonight?”

  “It wasn’t true for anyone else,” Jake said.

  “And that?”

  Mason laughed, and she flashed him a smile. “Talk some sense into your friend. Tell him buying a bottle of champagne is far more impressive than bad one-liners,” she said.

  “Fuck that.” Jakes scoffed. “I don’t want your private time.” He pulled out his wallet. “You can keep my brother company for an hour though.”

  She nodded at Mason. “Are you the brother?”

  “Yes, but you don’t have to...”

  “You’re right, I don’t.” She shimmied away. “Be back after my set.” She tossed the words over her shoulder.

  Mason let the club fade into the background as she moved. She turned taking off clothes into an art form. At the end of the first song, she’d shed her shirt, and by the second song, she’d lost everything but her underwear.

  Her hair draped past her shoulder, and became part of the hypnotic dance. How she managed to take three minutes to remove her bra and panties escaped him, but he wasn’t complaining.

  Her entire body was pale, with no tan lines, just more smatterings of freckles. Pert pink nipples, and a thin red landing strip between her legs.

  When the music ended, cheers interrupted his trance, and he snapped back to reality.

  Wow. There were a list of reasons he didn’t care for strip clubs. At the top was sharing the intimate moment with a room full of other people, and that it wasn’t actually an intimate moment.

  But she’d made it one. She probably did that for every guy she danced for.

  The thought marred the idea of sharing a private room with her. He preferred his women to be with him because they chose to, not because his brother paid them for an overpriced bottle of champagne.

  Not that he’d had a lot of women, but he wasn’t completely inexperienced.

  “Hey, puddin’. You ready?” The playful voice near his ear, and the warm breath that brushed his skin drove straight to his cock. He spun in his seat.

  The redhead had changed into red satin hot pants, and a skin-tight white shirt with red sleeves. It said Daddy’s Little Monster on the front. She’d tied her hair into twin pigtails.

  Fuc
k. On the surface, she was almost perfect. He was torn on whether or not he was glad to have met her here and not in a normal place. On the one hand, there was that whole sharing-an-intimate-moment thing. On the other, he’d never talk to a girl like this on the street. She wouldn’t have anything to do with his entry-level tech support job and tiny bank account.

  And she was waiting for an answer. He should tell her no thanks and be on his way. “Sure.”

  She grasped his fingers, pulled him to his feet, and led him upstairs. For the first time that night, he was grateful for the dim light. It hid the outline of his erection under his jeans.

  They walked down a hallway, past a curtain covered door, and stopped in front of a second that was the same. She pulled him inside.

  The room was barely as big as his bedroom, with a leather couch, and a picture window that overlooked the stage. Music filtered into the room through hidden speakers.

  “Have a seat.” She gestured.

  He didn’t want to think about what else had happened on that couch. “I’m good, thanks.”

  She swayed her hips to the beat and ran her hands down her sides. “What do you like?”

  “No offense—”

  “Let me stop you there.” She rested a hand on his arm. “You know any statement that starts that way is guaranteed to be the opposite.”

  He had no idea what to make of this woman. One moment it was clear she was flirting for her paycheck, and the next it was as if she didn’t care. “I don’t mean it to be,” he said.

  “They never do. Let’s hear it.”

  “You’re beautiful. I mean wow.” He frowned. Was it okay to say that? “I’m not in the mood for a lap dance though.”

  “What would you rather do instead?”

  His brother told long, rambling stories about how these rooms were best for blow jobs and things everyone knew happened, but no one discussed. Mason wasn’t interested in that, either. Or rather, he was, but not under these circumstances. “I don’t know.”

  She held up a finger. “I have an idea. Don’t move.” She disappeared behind another set of curtains, and re-emerged with two wooden stools. She sat on one, and nodded to the other. “Make yourself comfortable.”