Drilled: (Hard 'n Dirty Book 7)

by Ava Sinclair

  “You from around here?” I ask.

  “No. You?”

  I sigh. “Wisconsin. Thought I was used to cold weather.”

  “And?”

  “Hell isn’t hot. Hell is cold and, November to May, it’s right here.”

  “What season is it now?”

  “Blackfly and mosquito season.”

  That gets a tiny smile.

  I shut up until they put food in front of us and motion for her to dig in. She tries to be dainty, but she shovels the cheap calories in. I order a second cup of coffee and wait until she slows to talk.

  “So, the job.”

  Her eyes flick up to mine. They’re green and striking, slightly almond shaped. Not one hundred percent Caucasian background then. Her face is decent enough, even pretty if it wasn’t so thin and hollowed out, but her eyes are fucking gorgeous.

  “I’ve got a crew of guys up in logging country. This is our busy season, and we don’t have time for off days. I don’t want my guys running down here to get our fix.”

  “By fix you mean ‘pussy.’” She doesn’t shy away from the word. “You want one on call.”

  I shrug. It seemed a good idea at the time. Now, I’m not so sure.

  “What does the job entail? Like, how many hours?”

  “You work every night. Other than that, the time is yours. Eat with us, sleep in, do girly shit—”

  “I’ll do it.”

  I sit back with a sigh. The booth creaks. “Have you stripped before?”

  “No. But I’ve waitressed. And how hard is it to take off your clothes?”

  I study her a moment. Her wrists are small with delicate blue veins. I could snap them with one hand.

  “I don’t look like much, but I’m tough,” she continues. “I catch on quick. I’ll be good for your guys, I swear.”

  “There’s more. The guys might want... more.”

  “I can do that, too.” She meets my stare head on. I have to admit; my dick perks up a bit at her boldness.

  “You have experience?” I ask, like this is a regular job interview.

  “I’m not a virgin, if that’s what you’re asking. My momma told me about the birds and the bees.”

  I snort. She’s blunt and honest. A breath of fresh air.

  “So you’d be willing to…”

  She shrugs. “I can do anything for that amount of money. Anything and anyone.”

  I stare at her. “You’d have to get tested. We’ll pay for the doctor.”

  She hesitates a moment. “Okay.”

  Fuck, what can I say to deter her? “There are seven other guys, all built like me.”

  “I won’t break. I can take you.” Her green eyes bore into mine.

  Now I’m sprung, my dick hard enough to punch through the table. “Fuck me,” I mutter.

  “That’s my job.”

  I wave to the waitress. This was supposed to be easy. A pity meal. I’d peel off some bills and send her on her way. But now I’m not so sure she’ll go.

  “Give me a chance,” she says. “I can do the job. Take care of me and I’ll take care of you.”

  Rough voices outside and the diner door flies open. A crew of men stomp inside, talking loudly. Sierra practically shrinks into a ball as they pass. And I know.

  She’s on the run. She’s hiding from someone. Fuck me, there’s no way I can say ‘no’ now.

  Maybe I can just bring her back for the night. I try to imagine what Saint will say when he sees her. He’s even bigger than me.

  “Did you spend the night here, in a motel?” she asks. “If you still have your room, I’d like to shower before we leave.”

  “Sure.” Maybe I can slip out of the motel. Leave her some money and pay for the room a few nights. Stop at a church or something to get someone to check on her. Little thing like her shouldn’t be alone.

  As we step outside the diner, a motorcycle revs in the distance and Sierra ducks her head, darting closer to me.

  A man definitely did her wrong. Maybe a few of them—out here motorcycle clubs own whole towns. In the MC world, men are men, and women are property. If a club member got hold of Sierra, they wouldn’t think twice about beating the sass out of her. The thought makes me want to destroy something.

  “This way.” I step between her and the road, keeping her on the inside of the sidewalk in case a truck splashes by. Such a damn gentleman.

  We’re halfway to the motel when I realize I’m not shortening my stride. She’s marched right along with me, head high. Not asking for anything.

  Fuck, I like this girl.

  “Here,” I stop in front of a general store. “I need a few things.” We enter and her eyes dart around. “Pick out some warmer clothes,” I order. “I’ll buy.” In case she was tempted to steal the things she needs. “And any girly shit you might need—enough for a month.” She can go to a safehouse fully stocked up.

  I kill time until she appears at the register with a little cart filled with way too few things. Pink toiletries and a few thermals, another pair of jeans.

  Muttering a curse, I grab a winter jacket that looks like it might be her size—or at least not make her look like she’s wearing her mother’s bathrobe. “Cold up in the boonies. Remember? Cold as Satan’s heart.” I toss the jacket in front of the cashier and add a few plaid shirts. “What’s your shoe size?”

  She tells the cashier, who heads off to grab what I instruct. Boots. No more soaked tennis shoes. As an afterthought, I add a few pairs of socks.

  “I thought you’d want me in less clothes,” she murmurs when the cashier is distracted. My dick jumps again.

  I shake my head. “This way the show lasts longer.” If I don’t think of her body under all these clothes, I won’t get a boner in the middle of the general store. I pay before Sierra has time to flinch over the total.

  When I unlock the door to the motel, it’s my turn to flinch. She deserves more than this faded place with stains on the carpet and the stale smell of cigarettes. In the dim light, her skin seems to glow.

  “Take your time.”

  “I won’t be long.”

  I put on the TV to mask the sound of the shower. If there was time to make my escape, this is it. But a cowardly ass way to do it.

  I stare at the screen and try not to imagine Sierra getting naked just a few feet away, behind a flimsy door.

  *

  Sierra

  Fuck, hot water feels good. The heat sluices to my bones. A nice, clean feeling plus the food and I’m ready to live again. I wish I could linger, but I’d bet ten thousand dollars Lincoln’s gonna dump me as a charity case. He’ll either walk out now or wait to drive me to a homeless shelter. Which means I’ve got to convince him I’ve got what it takes for this job, asap.

  I wash and shampoo in record time. Once out and wrapped in a towel, I mop steam from the mirror and stare at my reflection. Black hair slicked back. Green eyes, too large for my narrow face.

  It’s now or never. But I have a secret weapon. After drawing it on, I open the door, pausing to pose in the doorway. I timed it right—Lincoln is still here, eyes blank on the TV screen.

  He’s a big man. Young, strong, good looking. He’s got world in the palm of his hand. But I’ve got the one thing he doesn’t have. The one thing he needs. Pussy.

  I let the towel drop.

  Lincoln drags his eyes from the television and visibly starts.

  “I think you should sample the goods before you take me home.” I saunter over, letting him drink me in. I’m wearing an almost see through thong and bra—my stripper outfit. They didn’t sell anything sexy at the general store. Probably a good thing. Their idea of sexy underwear might be pink plaid.

  I move in front of the TV and Lincoln isn’t even tempted to take his eyes from me. Pretending the sports newscast is club music, I start to dance.

  This is my show. I’m in charge, swaying in front of him, dipping and swiveling my hips. I watched the strippers do this, and the wannabe old ladies a
t the Hell Rider’s clubhouse. His green eyes track my movements. He’s holding his breath.

  I may not be stripper material, but Lincoln’s probably not been with a woman for a long time. Such a shame. The sharp planes of his face are perfect, even under the wild beard. His muscles are solid under my hands. A man like this should be worshipped by a woman, often.

  I climb onto his lap and straddle him, knees on the bed, legs stretched over his large thighs. His large hands immediately slide to my back, supporting me, but he makes no move to go further. No problem. I got this.

  This close, Lincoln is a masterpiece, waiting to be enjoyed. I roll my body against his and let my hands explore the dormant power of his corded arms, his solid chest, his broad shoulders. He’s rigid and strong everywhere I touch. I get lost in him.

  Then I dip my head close to his face, angling my head to see how we’d fit if we kissed. My mouth hovers over to his, my lips just out of reach. Our breath mingles.

  A second later, he raises his chin, tipping his face up to meet mine. A slight move but it tells me all I need. I’ve got him under my spell. I rise up and turn, settling my ass on his lap and gyrating to a silent beat. I lie back like he’s my armchair, my little body draped over his powerful frame, and grind his cock against my soft ass. It grows even larger. A monster.

  I whirl again and unbutton his jeans deftly. Jack was often drunk or high when we bumped uglies—I have plenty of practice stripping down a man of his jeans just enough to ride. Lincoln’s abs flex as I slip a hand in and explore. Sweet Jesus, he’s a nice handful. I try but can’t close my fingers around his thickness. My sex prickles as my body prepares to take him.

  “Sierra—” he says. Before he can slow this down, I stop his mouth with mine. I practically attack him, throwing my whole body into the kiss. His thick cock twitches in my hand; my other hand clamps on his neck, holding his lips to mine. I press against him, pushing until he leans back with a groan. I free my hands long enough to unbutton his shirt and skootch up his thermal. I’m naked, it’s his turn. I want to see what I’m dealing with. He helps me, whipping the shirt off. His arms fall around me, caging me but just holding me without applying pressure. He’s panting, jaw flexing as if he’s holding back something he wants to say.

  He’s giving me an out. I arch a brow and rolling against him, lazy and inviting. My sex presses closer to his. I’m wet, slipping over the coarse hair around his heavy length. A few inches and he’ll be inside me.

  “Shh,” I hush his unspoken doubts. “Let me take care of you.” His hips thrust upwards, seeking me. It’s too late to stop now. I lift up, point him towards my wet entrance, and drive down.

  A groan escapes. I was right. It’s been a long time for him. I wriggle a little, accepting his girth. It’s tight, a little uncomfortable, but not as bad as it would be if I weren’t so wet. I haven’t had a man inside of me since Jack… but this isn’t the time to think about Jack.

  We rock slowly together, eyes wide open. It’s a conversation between strangers. Hello, how are you, is this what you like? How about if I touch you now? Here... or here? Tell me what you like. Our hips align, move against each other in easy rhythm. Our bodies become fast friends.

  I close my eyes and give over to sensation. There’s a man under me again, but he’s nothing like Jack. Jack was a grown-up boy, goofy and heroin thin. Lincoln is all man, his body solid and powerful under mine. He cups my bottom, covering the whole of it with his large hands. You’re safe now, with me. I’ll protect you. No one gets through me to you. I’ve known him a little over two hours, and I already heard the silent promise. I want to believe...

  Flesh slaps against flesh. The conversation grows in intensity, the sentences curt. Faster, harder. Now. Please.

  My orgasm strikes, flashing up my spine. I stiffen and fall against him. He groans and bucks into me, once, twice, and grinds into me, rooting deep. We fall together, a jumble of limbs on the cheap, rickety bed.

  I rise first, pushing back my wet hair. Lincoln admires the flush on my chest and in my cheeks. I’m not a skinny-ass charity case anymore. I’m a fucking sex goddess, and he knows it.

  A furrow appears between Lincoln’s heavy brows as he regards me. I grin, wrinkling my nose a little as if to say, didn’t expect that, didja?

  No. His owlish gaze tells me. A muscle jerks in his jaw—an unwilling smile, then he gives in, rolling back his head and laughing, white teeth flashing against his dark beard. As the happy, carefree sound fills the room, I head to the bathroom, strutting like a salesman who has just closed the deal.

  *

  Lincoln’s truck hits a pothole and I jerk awake. A good fuck, a shower, a hot meal on top of a long month being on the run—I didn’t have a chance of staying awake. I barely remember turning onto the road leading out of town.

  Sleep, whispers the heat blowing from the vents. Safe, say Lincoln’s large hands on the steering wheel.

  “Sorry,” the man mutters, navigating the truck around muddy craters. The pavement is so bad, cracked and broken from icy winters, we might as well be off road.

  “It’s okay,” I sigh and close my eyes again. I haven’t been this comfortable in over a month. Maybe longer. It’s strange not to have fear gripping me. For weeks, fear has driven me forward, pushing me through the tough sleepless nights, the long bus rides clutching my backpack to me. I ate, drank, breathed it. It was my energy, muscles and bone, knitting me together. Now that we’re turning onto a long logging road, it loosens its grip a little, but I still need it.

  I did it. I got the job. I’m the new ‘entertainer’ for a crew of lusty lumberjacks. Eight men, strong and strapping as Paul Bunyan. Every night, seven days a week. I’ll be getting it once a day, twice on Sundays.

  Epilogue

  Iris

  Five years later

  Colorado isn’t Texas. I still stare in wonder at the sun peaking over the craggy mountains. It’s a beautiful one this morning and I’m enjoying the sight of it as I sip my herbal tea.

  Back home, it’s probably already eighty degrees. But on this summer morning, the thermometer on the back porch registers sixty degrees, cool enough for my favorite wrap.

  “Good morning, beautiful.” A hand touches my face. I lean into it. Cal’s hands smell faintly of oil, but now it’s from fixing the tractor. My handsome oil man makes a handsome farmer.

  “You didn’t wake me,” I say.

  Cal sits down, his hand moving to the swell of my pregnant belly. “I didn’t want to wake you.”

  He’s wearing a chambray shirt and jeans and my heart lurches at how beautiful he is. Even after all we’ve been through, I still can’t get enough of my strong husband.

  “Do you want some coffee?” I ask.

  “Nah, I’m good.” He smiles. “I felt a kick.”

  I laugh. “I did, too.”

  The baby is a boy. Cal falls quiet, a shadow of sadness crossing his face. I know what he’s thinking. He’s said more than once how much he wishes his mother had lived to see him happy, to see her grandson. I know how he feels. I like to think my father would have appreciated being a grandfather. He learned too late how much family mattered. After I walked out of his life, I didn’t hear from him for two years. I kept up with the news, which chronicled the legal woes he could only blame on himself. Just as he feared, Tremaine Oil & Gas was forced into bankruptcy and sold to a competitor. My father avoided prison time and still had enough personal wealth that his lifestyle didn’t falter.

  My mother, who calls from time to time, has filled me in on other details amid attempts to rebuild what relationship we have. I think she’s the one who talked my father into trying to rebuild our relationship. He was planning to come visit us at the apartment complex where we’d settled in Denver when he suffered another heart attack, this one fatal.

  I mourned him, or the idea of what could have been. I didn’t expect anything beyond an awkward relationship. I certainly didn’t expect an inheritance, given that I’d refused my t
rust fund. By the time he offered it to me, I was happy to be working as the editor of a small local magazine. Cal had found work on another oilfield.

  That all changed after my father died. To my surprise, he left me everything. It wasn’t as much as it would have been in its heyday, but my inheritance meant I’d never have to work again. Neither would Cal.

  The night we heard from the lawyer, Cal and I stayed up and talked until dawn. I felt like a different woman from the one who happily drew from a seemingly endless reservoir of cash. Having lived without it, I appreciate how the trappings of wealth can warp a person. So does Cal, having heard my story. We both worried about what it might do to us, how it might affect any children we had. I have felt safe every moment I’ve been with Cal. My only fear is that I’ll not be the parent I want to be.

  In a way, getting the inheritance when I did was a blessing. Cal and I ultimately decided to use the money for good. We decided to buy a little ranch, and were riding in the mountains one day when we saw the perfect place. As soon as we saw the For Sale sign, we both knew it was what we wanted. A large two-story house falling into disrepair, cross-fenced pasture, and a tire swing swaying under the branches of a huge pecan tree in the front yard.

  Renovating it has been a chore, but it’s almost finished, right down to the nursery for Keenan Tremaine Beaumont, who will make his arrival in two and a half months. We plan to turn this place into a working farm where we’ll offer internships for disadvantaged youth.

  When I first rolled up to the mechanic shed on my damaged tire, how could I have known the handsome man approaching my car would become the center of a new life I never dreamed of? I could not have imagined a better life.

  I’m grateful that at the end of his life, my father overcame his anger enough to recognize me as a daughter deserving of what remained of his legacy. I can think of no better way to honor his memory, and make peace with it, than to do just as Cal and I have planned. We are keeping the money in the bank, living simply and only spending what we need.

  Ultimately, my relationship with my father opened my eyes to the difference between money and true wealth.