by Jordan Marie
The Perfect Stroke
Lucas Brothers Book 1
Jordan Marie
Contents
Copyright Information
Jordan’s Early Access Links
1. C.C.
2. Gray
3. CC
4. CC
5. Gray
6. CC
7. Gray
8. CC
9. Gray
10. CC
11. Gray
12. CC
13. Gray
14. CC
15. Gray
16. CC
17. Gray
18. CC
19. CC
20. Gray
21. CC
22. Gray
23. CC
24. Gray
25. CC
26. Gray
27. CC
28. Gray
29. Gray
30. CC
31. Gray
32. CC
33. CC
34. CC
35. Gray
36. CC
37. Gray
38. CC
39. Gray
40. CC
41. Gray
42. CC
43. Gray
44. Gray
45. CC
46. Gray
47. CC
48. CC
49. Gray
50. CC
51. CC
52. Gray
53. CC
54. Gray
55. Gray
56. Gray
57. CC
58. Gray
59. CC
60. Gray
61. CC
62. Gray
63. CC
64. CC
65. Gray
66. CC
67. Gray
68. CC
69. Gray
70. Gray
71. Gray
Epilogue
Epilogue
Epilogue
Other works by Jordan Marie
Author Links:
Copyright © 2016 by Jordan Marie
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including but not limited to being stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the author.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, groups, businesses, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cover Design by Robin Harper of Wicked By Design
Cover Model by Thomas DeLauer
Photographer by Michael Stokes
Editing by Daryl Banner
DISCLAIMER: This book is intended for mature audiences. It contains adult language and explicit sexuality. Not intended for readers under the age of 18. Reader discretion advised.
Jordan’s Early Access Links
Did you know there are three ways to see all things Jordan Marie, before anyone else?
First and foremost is my reading group. Members will see sneak peeks, early cover reveals, future plans and coming books from beloved series or brand new ones!
If you are on Facebook, it’s easy and completely free!
Jordan’s Facebook Group
If you live in the U.S. you can text JORDAN to 797979 and receive a text the day my newest book goes live or if I have a sale.
(Standard Text Messaging Rates may apply)
And finally, you can subscribe to my newsletter!
Click to Subscribe
Dedication
To all the people who took a chance on me, read me, and encouraged me. I owe you the world.
XOXO
Jordan
1
C.C.
The trouble with being from a small town is that everyone knows everyone. I’ve lived here my whole life. It’s not been good, but it’s not been bad. We didn’t have much—just me and Banger. Banger was my dad. Well, sort of. He’s actually the old man that my womb donor shacked up with. She ran off with a traveling vacuum salesman when I was seven and it’s just been me and Banger ever since. Yes, I know my life has been pretty cliché. I deal. Banger was a former POW. He’s a big, growly, bearded mountain of a man who never made me feel unwanted. He didn’t know much about having kids—never mind if that kid was a girl—but we muddled through.
By the time I was ten, I could change oil, rotate tires, and rebuild carburetors. By the time I was fifteen, I could rebuild an engine. I mastered transmissions at the age of sixteen. Banger said I was a natural, but the truth was that I just wanted to make him proud. He owned the only garage in town, and I wanted to make sure I helped him as much as I could.
He found out he had cancer on my seventeenth birthday. We got drunk together. Banger was many things, but he wasn’t worried about legalities or society rules. It’s probably one of the things I loved most about him. He passed away the summer I turned nineteen and I just kind of found myself taking over the garage. Now at the age of twenty-six, the people in Crossville, Kentucky know me pretty well. They’ve learned to trust my work, and Claude’s garage stays busy. That’s my name, by the way. Claudia Cooper. Banger always called me Claude and it just stuck. If it ever bothered me, I’ve learned to accept it now. I’ve found that with life, you just have to deal with what it gives you. Things could always be worse.
But back to why I’m in Lexington tonight. Lexington is probably the closest city to Crossville. It takes me almost three hours to drive here. I do it every so often, and I do it for one reason: If I don’t escape Crossville from time to time, I’d probably end up being one of those nut cases on the six o’clock news who goes postal. Really, it’s a public service I’m doing. People should be grateful.
“Ready for a refill, darlin’?”
I grin up at the bartender, who admittedly is the only reason I stayed at this bar. It’s not my speed. I’m more into the biker bar about three streets over. One of my customers recommended this place because they have a live band on Saturday nights, so I said to hell with it. Ten minutes in, when the band started singing a Black-Eyed Peas song that I could barely remember, I knew I was in trouble. Then Mr. Tall—blue eyes, in faded jeans with holes, black t-shirt, and curly sandy-brown hair—smiled at me. He got me a drink and I’ve been here ever since. Sure, he got me a drink because he’s the bartender, but he keeps looking at my boobs.
I think it’s pretty clear what’s going on here.
“Hit me,” I tell him with an easy grin. Easy, because after a shot of Jack and then a glass of Jack and Coke on top of that, I’m pretty damn loose—so loose, that with this second drink, I’m pretty sure my ass will be finding a hotel to snooze the night away. Maybe I can convince the bartender to go with me. Again, do not judge me. The last time I had sex, I’m pretty sure, was two presidents ago. If you want to do the math, we’re talking six years. Six years. Women can say what they want about vibrators, but they do not, under any circumstance, take the place of the real thing. And the bartender who keeps smiling at me definitely looks like he could be packing the real thing.
“Damn, babe. You’re busy tonight,” I hear a deep voice say in front of me. When I look up, another man who looks like he just stepped off the pages of the Sexiest Man Alive magazine is talking—unfortunately, to the bartender I’ve had my eye on. They share a quick but heated kiss. I cry a little bit inside, giving up my dream of me and the bartender tonight, and go back to my drink.
That saying about all the good ones bein
g married or gay is so freaking true. It’s probably why I am still single and my friend Raymond has a great guy at home.
“Can I buy you another, sweet lips?”
Sweet lips?
“I don’t think so,” I tell him, barely looking up. It doesn’t matter what he looks like; being called sweet lips is enough to turn me off immediately.
“I’ll have a scotch and get the lady whatever she’s having.”
“The lady is just fine. Persistent, aren’t you?”
“Sometimes, it pays to be,” he says, and finally his country twang and the aw-shucks-good-old-boy-vibe makes me look up. He’s tall and broad, with brown, sandy hair shaved close, a five o’clock shadow—which is so dark I’d say it’s closer to six—brown eyes, and a face that looks like a sculptor chiseled it from stone. A god, maybe. He’s that pretty. Though he fires everything feminine up inside of me, his good looks are a turn-off. I’ve dated a perfect guy before. The only thing perfect was the reflection in the mirror. I don’t need to go back down that road again—ever.
“I was just getting ready to leave,” I tell him, and that’s not completely a lie.
“Don’t leave yet. You’re the first thing I’ve seen that gives me a reason for being in this town. What’s your name?”
“Well, it’s definitely not ‘sweet lips’,” I tell him, picking up the new drink the man of my dreams bartender—though gay and taken—puts down. The guy smiles at my comment and sits down beside me, then leans into me like we’re long lost lovers. I try to ignore the way he smells, but find it’s a little impossible. He wears a cologne that I’ve never smelled before. It must feed every pheromone I’ve got, because combined with his rugged male scent, it’s making a woman like me drunk… and horny. Dangerous. He’s definitely dangerous. I may want a good time, but this guy screams “player”—rich player. The bartender is much more my speed. It’s not that I’m a snob. Just the opposite, really. I find that rich people are obnoxious as hell.
“I bet your lips are sweet though, darlin’.”
Obnoxious—even if guys like him are cute when they’re trying to get laid. I lean into him with a smile. I run my tongue over my lip, just for good measure.
“That’s something you’ll never find out,” I whisper and take another sip of my drink.
He stops for a minute, like my reply shocked him, and then he gives me a deep grin that even makes his brown eyes twinkle. Damn.
“I always did like a challenge,” he says, and I can feel excitement thrum through my system. I hear the alarm and danger bells going off… I just don’t seem able to stop staring into his eyes.
Did I mention…damn?
2
Gray
She doesn’t know who I am.
It’s a strange feeling—although not at all unpleasant. Let’s face it, I realize golf isn’t the most exciting sport. The major draw here in the state of Kentucky is horse racing or college basketball, so odds were in favor of me not being recognized, but it surprises me just the same. Still, it’s almost tourney time and golf has been monopolizing the news. It’s not that I’m bragging or anything, but fuck, I’ve seen my face so often on the sports shows, I just assumed everyone else has. There can be no mistaking that this woman clearly doesn’t know who I am. I haven’t had a woman want me just for me and not my name or my bank account in longer than I can remember. There’s just one problem. Sweet lips here, doesn’t seem to want me. Challenge placed and accepted. I won’t give up until I have her under me, screaming my name.
“I always did like a challenge,” I tell her with a practiced grin. It’s not really bragging when I admit that this grin has literally gotten me into the pants of hundreds of women, and some were even prettier than the beauty staring at me now.
She’s a banging little redhead with green eyes who has legs that go for miles, curves that should be illegal, perfect tits, and an ass that I’m sure make men beg. Hell, I want to beg now. That aside, there’s something about this particular woman that appeals to me in ways no other woman has for far too long. I could say it has to do with the fact that she doesn’t know who I am. Perhaps it is, and the novelty will wear off—after I fuck her brains out.
“It wasn’t a challenge,” she says, taking a sip of her drink.
“It wasn’t a yes,” I tell her.
“Odd, I wasn’t aware that was a yes or no question.”
“Everything boils down to yes or no. ‘I bet your lips are sweet’, definitely means I intend to find out. You letting me boils down to yes or no.”
“So my answer here would be… no?” The way she tilts her head to the side and pulls her eyebrow up as if daring me sends a fire through my system. Is it really because her reaction is such a change from the way women usually throw themselves at me?
“I’d prefer if your answer was to bring your mouth to mine and let me taste your lips,” I tell her, lowering my voice and angling my head so only she can hear me.
I watch her closely. I think I can see a slight shudder move through her. She’s not completely unaffected by me. Is it a game for her? Playing hard to get to try and keep my interest? That’s not out of the realm of possibility, though if true, it would disappoint me. Not that I truly give a damn. The endgame is just like it always is: I’m getting between her legs.
“You should at least get an A for effort.”
“I’d rather show you what else I can earn an A in.”
“There’s a point where trying too hard comes into play,” she points out, getting up.
Fuck. I’m losing her? Has this ever happened before? Hell, I don’t think so, not even before I made it big.
“At least have a dance with me,” I tell her, doing my best not to sound desperate. Shit, I feel a little desperate here and I still don’t know what it is about her.
She looks me over and I hold still, letting her take her time. I make myself a promise that if she turns me down, I’m done chasing. She might have my interest, but I don’t need to work this hard for it. When she inclines her head to indicate she’s agreeing to the dance, I hold out my hand to her, standing. She puts her hand in mine. As I lead her onto the dance floor, I feel a zing of heat move from our joined hands and flood through my system. I almost wonder if I’m the only one who felt it until I hear her quick intake of breath and feel her hand jerk against mine. When she tries to pull away, I tighten my hold.
She’s not getting away. Not yet.
3
CC
I should probably have my head examined. I can’t even fully blame it on not being with anyone in, like, forever. No, I think it might be pure madness that has me walking out to dance with this guy.
“Am I allowed to ask your name?” I ask to distract myself, because when he wraps his arms around me and pulls me into his body, that electric current runs through me again. I look up into his eyes and see something flash in them.
He hesitates, then finally answers, “Gray.”
“Gray? Like the color?” I ask.
He gets a strange look on his face, before he grins again. “You don’t like it? I happen to think it will sound beautiful when you’re screaming it out tonight when I f—”
“I wouldn’t finish that sentence if you want a chance in hell at getting lucky tonight, Gray.”
“So you’re admitting there’s a chance?”
“It’s getting slimmer.”
“I can work with that,” he says while I’m busy ignoring the way he smells. It’s good. Not all cologne; there’s something else, something deeply male that makes my insides quiver. Maybe I will go for it and end my long dry spell. It’s just one night, right? It doesn’t matter if he is too perfect. That doesn’t mean I’m repeating history. I’d never have to see him again.
“You’ve gone quiet,” he whispers against my ear as we’re swaying to the music.
“I was listening to the music,” I lie. “Is your name really Gray?”
“Is that so strange?”
“I don’t thin
k I’ve ever met one, so yeah. Though, my old man was named Banger, so…”
“You’re shitting me? Banger?”
“I think that was his road name, but if he had a different one, he changed it years ago.”
“I think I like him.”
“He was a great man,” I agree with a smile, feeling the familiar ache of sadness at the memory of what I lost.
“What happened?”
“Cancer,” I whisper, hating that damn word.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart.”
Everyone always says that, and I hate it just as much when this guy says it. It’s fake. They might be sorry, but they don’t truly understand. Very few do.
“So… the name?” I prompt him.