Rock Chick Reborn

by Kristen Ashley

  “Say what you gotta say, son, there’s important shit that’s gotta get done today,” Moses prompted.

  Roman focused on him in a way that Moses held his breath.

  “Nothing will ever harm her.”

  His tone was utterly inflexible.

  Moses’s throat closed.

  “And I will love and protect her and the children I’ll make with your daughter until the day I die,” Roman continued.

  “Roam,” Moses forced out.

  “She means everything to me,” Roman told him.

  “You haven’t hidden that,” Moses replied.

  And praise be to the Lord he had not.

  Not from the beginning.

  Roman examined Moses’s face before he nodded and moved back to the doors to the vestibule.

  He looked through the window.

  “Thank you for lovin’ her the way you do,” he said quietly.

  He was looking at his momma sitting in the front pew.

  “It hasn’t been hard,” Moses replied in the same tone.

  And that was the damned truth.

  Roman turned to him.

  “She made me believe in love,” he shared.

  Moses nodded.

  “And she taught me how to do it,” Roman went on.

  Moses knew full well the way Shirleen loved. He’d now had years of learning how deep that woman could love.

  “Then my baby girl is gonna get what she deserves.”

  “Yes, she is.”

  That was a vow.

  Moses moved to him and lifted his hand to rest it on that broad shoulder.

  “Son, go,” he whispered. “Go on. Marry my daughter.”

  Roman lifted his hand and took hold of the side of Moses’s neck.

  After a firm squeeze, he dropped it and Moses’s hand fell when Roman stepped away.

  Moses watched as Roman walked back to the door that led to the side hall.

  He moved through it.

  The door closed.

  Moses turned his attention from there to the window Roman had been looking through.

  The mother of the groom was sitting in her pew on her boy’s side, her head turned, leaned over the arm rest at the end of the pew, her eyes aimed through the window at her husband.

  They’d had a number of discussions about where they were going to sit.

  Shirleen Richardson was not to be deterred from taking her boy’s side.

  Since her mother was sitting on her side, his daughter was entirely down with her dad sitting beside her fiancé’s momma.

  “You’ll get to see my face from there, Daddy. Not my back,” she’d told him.

  That had decided it.

  He watched his wife tip her head to the side.

  She had some subtle glitter in that gorgeous ’fro.

  She looked beautiful.

  He smiled at her.

  Her pretty face got soft before she forced herself to toughen up so she wouldn’t lose it (again) and she smiled back.

  He watched her turn to face forward.

  Only then did he step away to wait for his daughter to come to him.

  It was his girl’s wedding day and Moses Richardson was not jittery. He was not worried. He had no reservations.

  He knew, from the beginning, that Roman Jackson would do anything to win his girl then hold her safe.

  He’d even proved it.

  Without a doubt.

  So Moses had not a single reservation.

  He loved that man like a son.

  And he knew Roman would make his girl happy.

  Though, through the ride that had brought them all right there, Moses could have done without the kidnappings.

  ~ THE END ~

  This concludes The Rock Chick Series.

  Thank you for reading.

  Discover the Dream Man Series.

  It begins with Mystery Man.

  Night time is the right time...

  Gwendolyn Kidd has met the man of her dreams. He's hot, he's sexy, and what started as a no-names-exchanged night of passion has blossomed into a year and a half-long pleasure fest. Sure, it's a little strange that he only appears in her bed at night, but Gwen is so sure he's the one, she just can't turn him away...

  Hawk Delgado knows more about Gwen than she could ever imagine. She's gorgeous, headstrong, and skittish about relationships. But Hawk is facing his own demons, demons that keep him from connecting with anyone. Yet when Gwen is drawn into Denver's lethal underground scene, Hawk's protective nature comes out full force. The problem is, when Gwen gets a dose of Hawk's Alpha attitude in the daylight, she's not so sure he's the one anymore....

  Turn the page to read the prologue and first chapter now!

  MYSTERY MAN

  Prologue

  Mystery Man

  I felt the covers slide down my body then a hand light on the small of my back. It was so warm it was hot, like the blood that ran through its veins went faster than the blood of any average man.

  If this was true, it wouldn’t surprise me.

  I opened my eyes and it was dark. It was always dark when he visited me.

  I had a moment like every moment I had when he showed. A moment of sanity. A moment where my mind said to close my eyes, open my mouth and tell him to go away.

  But if I did, I knew he would. He wouldn’t say a word. As silently as he came, he’d leave.

  And he’d never come back.

  But this was the right thing to do. The smart thing to do. The sane thing to do.

  And I was thinking of doing it. Honest to God, I was. I thought about doing it every time.

  Then I felt his weight hit the bed and his body stretching out beside mine. He turned me into him. I opened my mouth to speak. Before I could do the sane thing, his mouth was on mine.

  And for the next two hours, I didn’t think at all.

  But I felt. I felt a lot.

  And all of it was good.

  * * * * *

  It was still dark when his shadow moved in the room.

  I lay in bed and watched him move. He didn’t make a noise. It was weird. There was a rustle of clothes but other than that, silence.

  Even as a shadow, I saw he had masculine grace. Powerful, masculine grace. That was weird too. Just watching my mystery man putting on clothes was like watching a badass, macho dance if there was such a thing. Of course, there wasn’t except in my bedroom when he came to visit. No, when he was getting ready to leave.

  It was so fascinating I should sell tickets. But if I did, I’d have to share. I probably already shared with half of Denver, all of them getting their own private show. That already messed with my head enough, that and the fact that he came at all. I let him come then he made me come after which he came. Then, often, like tonight, repeat.

  He moved to the bed and I watched that too. He bent low. I felt the heat of his hand on my knee, his fingers curling around the back. He lightly kissed my hip, his lips skimming across my skin, making it tingle. Then he slid the covers up my body to my waist where he dropped them.

  I was mostly on my belly but partly on my side. My arm was crooked, hand tucked under my face on the pillow. His body moved in that direction, his fingers slid under my hair, pulling it gently back and his lips came to my ear.

  “Later, babe,” he whispered.

  “Later,” I whispered back.

  His head moved infinitesimally and his lips skimmed the skin at the back of my ear before his tongue touched there. That made my skin tingle too, so much my whole body shivered.

  He pulled the covers up to my shoulder.

  Finally, he turned and he was gone.

  No noise, not even the door opening and closing. He was just gone. Like he’d never even been there.

  Freaking crazy.

  I stared at my bedroom door awhile. My body felt warm, sated and tired. My mind did not feel the same.

  I turned onto my back and tucked the covers around my naked body. I stared at the ceiling.

&
nbsp; I didn’t even know his name.

  “God,” I whispered, “I am such a slut.”

  Chapter One

  D-e-a-d, Dead

  The next morning I was sitting at my computer in my home office.

  I should have been working. I had three deadlines over the next two weeks and I’d barely begun the work. I was a freelance editor. I got paid by the hour and if I didn’t work that hour, I didn’t get paid. I had a mouth to feed, my own. I had a body to clothe, a body that liked all sorts of clothes, it craved them, so I had to feed the habit or things could get nasty. I had a cosmopolitan addiction and cosmos didn’t come cheap. And I had a house I was fixing up. Therefore, I needed to get paid.

  Okay, that wasn’t strictly true. I wasn’t fixing up my house. My Dad did some of the work. My friend Troy did the rest. So I should say that I had a house I was guilting, begging and emotionally blackmailing others into fixing up.

  But still, it needed fixing up and cabinets and tile didn’t march from Cabinet and Tile Land into my house and say, “We want to live with you, Gwendolyn Kidd, afix us to your walls!”

  That only happened in my dreams, of which I had many, most of them daydreams.

  Like right then, sitting at my computer, one heel on the seat, my chin to my knee, my eyes staring out the window, I was thinking about my Mystery Man, the Great MM. I was daydreaming about changing our first meeting. Being smarter, funnier, and more mysterious. Being more alluring and interesting.

  I’d hook him instantly with my rapier wit, my flair for conversation, my ability to discuss politics and world events intelligently. I’d tell my humble stories of expansive charity work all wrapped up with enticing looks that promised a lifetime of mind-blowing orgasms, making him declare his undying love for me.

  Or at least tell me his name.

  Instead, I was drunk when we met, and definitely not any of that.

  I heard my doorbell go, a chime then a clunk and I started out of my elaborate daydream which was beginning to get good.

  I got up and walked through my office into the upstairs hall making a mental note, again, to call Troy and see if he’d fix my doorbell for a six pack and a homemade pizza. This might mean he’d bring his annoying, whiny, constantly bitching new girlfriend though, so I changed my mind and decided to call my Dad.

  I got to the bottom of my stairs and walked through my living room, ignoring the state of it, which was decorated in Fix Up Chic. In other words dust rags, paint brushes, power tools, not-so-power-tools, cans and tubes of practically everything, all of it jumbled and covered in a layer of dust. I made it through the area without my hands going to my head, fingers clenching my hair and mouth screaming, which I counted as progress.

  I got to the entryway which was delineated by two narrow walls both fit with gorgeous stained glass.

  Two years ago, that stained glass was my undoing.

  Two years ago, approximately six months and two weeks prior to meeting my Mystery Man, I’d walked one single step into this ramble and wreck of a house, saw that stained glass, turned to the realtor and announced, “I’ll take it.”

  The realtor’s face had lit up.

  My father, who hadn’t even made it into the house yet, turned his eyes to the heavens. His prayer lasted a long time. His lecture longer.

  I still bought the house.

  As usual, I should have listened to my Dad.

  I looked out the narrow side window at the door and saw Darla, my sister’s friend, standing out there.

  Shit.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  I hated Darla and Darla hated me. What the hell was she doing there?

  I searched behind her to see if my sister was lurking or perhaps hiding in the shrubbery. I wouldn’t put it past Ginger and Darla to jump me, tie me to the staircase and loot my house. In my darker daydreams, this was how Ginger and Darla spent their days. I was convinced this was not far from the truth. No joke.

  Darla’s eyes came to me at the window. Her face scrunched up, making what could be pretty, if she used a less heavy hand with the black eyeliner, her blush, and if her lip liner wasn’t an entirely different shade as her lip gloss, not so pretty.

  “I see you!” she shouted.

  I sighed.

  Then I went to the door because Darla would shout the house down and I liked my neighbors. They didn’t need a biker bitch from hell standing on my doorstep and shouting the house down at ten thirty in the morning.

  I opened it but not far and moved to stand between it and the jamb, keeping my hand on the handle.

  “Hey Darla,” I greeted, trying to sound friendly and pretty pleased with my effort.

  “Fuck ‘hey’, is Ginger here?” Darla replied.

  See!

  Totally spent her days looting.

  It took effort but I stopped my eyes from rolling.

  “No,” I answered.

  “She’s here, you better tell me,” she warned then she looked beyond me and shouted, “Ginger! Bitch, if you’re in there you better come out here, right fuckin’ now!”

  “Darla!” I snapped, “Keep your voice down!”

  She craned her neck and bounced on her toes, yelling, “Ginger! Ginger, you crazy, stupid, bitch! Get your ass out here!”

  I shoved out the door, forcing her back and closed it behind me, hissing, “Seriously, Darla, shut up! Ginger isn’t here. Ginger is never here. You know that. So shut up and go.”

  “You shut up,” she shot back. “And you get smart. You’re helpin’ her…” She lifted her hand, pointed her finger at me, thumb extended upwards and then she crooked her thumb and made a gunshot noise that puffed out her cheeks and made her lips vibrate. I would have taken a moment to reflect on how good she was with verbal sound effects if the serious as shit look in her eye wasn’t scaring the crap out of me.

  So, instead of congratulating her on the only real talent I suspected she had, I whispered, “What?”

  She dropped her hand, got up on her motorcycle-booted toes so we were eye-to-eye and said in a soft, scary voice, “D-e-a-d, dead. You and her, you don’t get smart. You get me?”

  Then I asked a stupid question because the question was asked often and there was always only one answer. The answer being yes.

  “Is Ginger in some kind of trouble?”

  Darla stared at me like I had a screw loose. She lifted her hand, did the gun thing with the sound effect, finger pointed at my head. Then she turned around and walked swiftly down my front steps.

  I stood on my front porch staring at her. My mind absently noted that she was wearing a tight tank top, an unzipped, black leather motorcycle jacket, a short, frayed jeans skirt the wearing of which was a crime in several states for a variety of reasons—both fashion and decency—black fishnet stockings and motorcycle boots. It was around forty degrees outside. She didn’t even have on a scarf.

  The rest of my head was caught up with my sister and Darla’s sound effect.

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  * * * * *

  As I drove, I kept trying to tell myself this was a good plan. Knowing that my first plan, the one where, after Darla left and I went back into my house, I walked directly to the phone and called my father, was the right plan and this plan was garbage.

  But my father and his wife Meredith had disowned Ginger a while ago. It was approximately ten seconds after they came home from a vacation to Jamaica and lost their happy, island holiday mojo when they saw their daughter. She was on her knees in the living room, her head between the legs of a bare-chested man, his jeans opened, his head lolled on the back of the couch because he was passed out. Ginger was so whacked on whatever she was taking she had no idea her activities were getting her nowhere.

  And, incidentally, the living room was a disaster as was the rest of the house.

  As you can probably see from this story, I was loath to bring my father into another situation involving Ginger. Especially since this wasn’t the worst story I had, it was just, for Dad and Meredith
, the last. They were currently living a carefree, Ginger-free existence and I didn’t want to rock that boat.

  Therefore, I didn’t call Dad.

  Instead I thought of Ginger’s boyfriend, Dog. Dog was a member of a biker gang and Dog was as rough as they come. But I’d met Dog. I liked Dog. Dog was funny and he liked my sister. She was different around him. Not a lot, but at least she was palatable.

  Okay, so Dog was likely a felon. As ironic as it was, he was a good influence on Ginger and those didn’t come around very often. As in never. Not in twenty-five years. So, since I was getting the hint from Darla, Ginger’s one and only friend, that Ginger’s trouble was a little worse than normal, I needed firstly to do something about it. Secondly, since this was Ginger, call in reinforcements or better yet, lay the problem on their door.

  Enter Dog.

  I drove to the auto supply store on Broadway and found a spot on the street. Even before I knew Dog, and thus figured out this was probably a front for a biker gang’s nefarious dealings, I knew about this store.

  It was called Ride and I’d shopped there mainly because I could find an excuse for shopping anywhere. But Ride was awesome. It had cool stuff in there. I bought my windshield wiper fluid there. I bought new car mats there last year and they were the bomb, supreme car mats, the best I’d ever had. And when I was in my twenties and going through one of my many phases, in an effort to pimp my ride, I went there and bought a fluffy, pink steering wheel cover and a glittery, pink Playboy Bunny thingie to hang from my rearview mirror.

  Everyone knew Ride had a triple-bayed garage in the back but it wasn’t for normal cars and motorcycles. It was for custom-built cars and motorcycles and it was world famous. They built cars and bikes and they were extremely cool. I’d read an article in 5280 magazine about the place. Movie stars and celebrities bought cars and bikes from there and, from the pictures, I could see why. I wanted one but I didn’t have hundreds of thousands of dollars so that was a bit down on my List of Things I Want, right under a Tiffany’s diamond bracelet which was directly under a pair of Jimmy Choo shoes.

  I got out of my car and walked down the sidewalk to Ride hoping my outfit was okay. I’d put my hair in a girlie ponytail at the top back of my head, I was wearing low-rider jeans, low-heeled boots and my biker jacket. Mine wasn’t like Darla’s. It was a distressed tan leather, had a bit of quilting around the high waist, was lined with short, warm fur and had a six-inch tuft of fluffy fur at the sleeves. I thought it was hot and the deal I got on it was hotter. However, I wasn’t sure about the fluffy fur. I didn’t think bikers were concerned with animal rights. I thought they’d think it was an affront to their brotherhood and they might garrote me.