But how do you expect me to react? I always have my parents’ support on major life decisions. My life was good, and I never really needed to get out of my comfort zone much. I thought it’d always be sunshine and rainbows in my perfect little life.
Mommy and I spent an entire year preparing for this wedding. Now, I’ve got to put together an entire new life in one freaking night.
Maybe if I wasn’t such a perfect girl my entire upbringing, I’d have some skill at rebellion. But nah, let’s just stay obedient and wait until your wedding day to give it a go, Avery!
All my life, things have been moving in one direction on a path that was already laid out for me. Now, I’m veering off that path and taking the scenic route. Plan B: no plan at all.
I’m going to drive and drive until I can’t see signs, billboards, or brochures at my stops for that resort wedding location.
That is, if I don’t die first. With roads this slick and the state my driving is in, there’s a very real possibility that I’ll die first.
Maybe Mommy can reorganize the wedding reception caterers to make all that fillet mignon for my funeral.
My thoughts return to Adam. And, I guess, to Daddy as well. I haven’t fully stitched together what I read in their correspondence with each other, but I got the freaking gist.
Sweet little Avery’s virginity for a great deal on machine guns.
Machine guns that, judging by what I saw in Adam’s emails, might not even work .
How am I supposed to trust anyone at all after this? My sense of good judgement is shattered and I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to let someone in like that again.
I grip the steering wheel tighter and push down on the gas again.
Which is stupid. It’s freaking dumb. It’s probably the second worst decision I’ve made in my life.
At first, my car listens to me and glides along the road evenly.
Which is good. I’m starting to feel like I might not be all that bad of a driver after all.
But of course, as I marvel at my own driving skills, my car fishtails hard over some black ice on the road. I turn my wheel with it, trying to recover control.
It doesn’t work.
I jerk the steering wheel in the other direction in a panic, and—knee-jerk reaction—I slam on my brakes.
The next thing I know, my car is flying off the side of the road, over the guardrail and onto the bare mountain.
I scream and let go of the wheel. Not like I can correct this now. Instead, I reach my arms over my head and protect my skull, bracing for impact. In my mind, I’m torn between figuring out how to move forward from this, and just praying that I make it out of this car alive at all.
The car starts to tumble down the mountainside. I cry and scream, kicking and jerking every direction as I plead and beg to survive. The car rolls for what seems like an eternity to me.
Luckily, I thunk my head against the steering wheel, blaring my now-broken horn. My body goes ragdoll at the sensation, and then everything is a blur.
But suddenly, I’m stopped. I’m alive. The car is upright, stuck halfway down the mountain. My headlights are even still intact, reflecting blindingly against the snowy terrain.
I lower my arms back down to my side and wince every second as they fall and rest against the back of my seat. I’m panting hard, my head is pounding, and my throat is scratched from all of my screaming.
I can’t believe I’m even still breathing at all. There are some people that don’t get to walk away from an accident.
As I attempt to count my blessings on what I have here, I hear a big CRACK . Subsequently, smaller, frequent, spreading cracking noises follow, and before I can even look around to see what’s going on, a large oak tree comes crashing down to the roof of my car.
The impact hits the passenger side of my car, leaving the damage just millimeters away from my head.
My heart should be racing right now, but instead it’s steady and slow. My vision is blurring out. Blackness creeps around the edges, moving in.
This is it. I’m going to die here.
I start to make my peace with the world and everyone in it, except my father and Adam.
I smell smoke. The engine must be catching fire.
Those bastards can burn.
Jack
I’ve lived in the wilderness for more than a decade now. That means I’ve done my share of heavy lifting.
Hauling a goddamn log to the edge of a river, standing it on end and shoving it over to the other bank to form a makeshift bridge? I’ve done it a thousand times. Moving freshly fallen trees to my chopping stump to turn into firewood? Daily fucking occurrence.
Picking a tree—and I’m talking an entire fucking tree—off a burning, twisted car? No, this is a first.
But that doesn’t mean it’ll be any trouble.
I can still see that pretty little number in the front seat, knocked out cold. I thought maybe I’d get used to her beauty after I got over all that love at first sight bullshit, but every time I lay eyes on her it still takes the wind out of my chest.
I’m doing this for her. And if it’s for her, this will be no trouble for me at all.
I stomp my big, heavy boots down into the snow, planting them firmly. Sounds stupid, but once I’ve got my stance set, I open my mouth and let out a yell that echoes down the whole fucking mountain, fists beating against my chest.
Sounds stupid, but it gets your blood pumping. And right now, my blood is pumping just right. My cock is rock-hard, my muscles are rippling in anticipation of a challenge, and I’m ready. I’m going to tear this massive-ass tree off this little lady’s car and get her somewhere safe.
My meaty fingers curl around the old oaken bark. The smell of fresh splintered wood fills my nostrils. This is a hearty, healthy tree—or at least, it was until this hot little piece’s car came crashing into it.
I squat down under its trunk and push up high. I can smell the fucking pheromones pouring off me in my sweat. The scent only charges me further. I lift that sucker up and toss it straight to the side. It feels like it shakes the very ground I stand on when it hits.
I take a step back and clap my hands against each other to dust off the bark. Piece of cake. My muscles are aching with the exertion, but it’s a good kind of ache. The best kind.
Now for the car.
Thick black smoke is pouring up from beneath the hood. It mars the freshness of the winter air with its oily, cloying scent. Black smoke doesn’t bode well for this runaway bride’s future—or mine, if I don’t get us both out of here and away in time.
I climb on top of the hood of the car and squat down, leaning myself in through the freshly busted windshield. It’s all bent out to hell from that fucking tree.
I spit on my hands and rub them together. If I was a smarter man, I’d have my gloves on me, but time is of the essence—and she’s worth the risk of picking a little glass out of my palms later. I find a couple spots where the glass is completely knocked out and I pry the rest of the windshield open, enough to grab her by the arms.
I pull her out slowly, careful not to jostle her head too much. Even as I do it, I feel the hood of the car go hot with flames beneath me. I’m being torn between my need to make sure I don’t hurt her more than she’s already been hurt and the reality of the situation: if I don’t hurry the fuck up, we’re both going to end up dead.
I pull her against me, cradling her body to my chest to keep her away from the ragged bits of metal and shattered pieces of glass.
Unconscious still. Not a good sign. Beautiful as ever—I have to keep myself from staring at that lovely face just to keep myself in the right state of mind—and barefoot. Barefoot in this weather, with no fucking coat.
Her wedding dress is ripped down the front, and it doesn’t look like any car crash did that. No sir—that tear looks man-made. Makes my blood fucking boil at the thought of some man putting his grimy hands on this beautiful little angel and ripping her ridiculous little dress.<
br />
But this isn’t the time to get all pissed off at whatever hypothetical aggressor she might have been fleeing from. This is a time for action.
Don’t think. Act.
I take my coat off my own back and wrap it around her, sliding us both off the smoking car.
As I bundle her up in my arms, I hear something crackle nastily, then the smell of burning oil fills my nose.
That’s the point at which I just fucking run.
This little angel is covered in oil and gasoline, plus enough hairspray in that pretty blonde hair of hers that she’s not much more than a lovely little matchstick in my arms.
When this fucker blows, I need to have her as far away from it as possible.
We take flight back up the mountain, my big boots finding purchase on even the smallest of footholds. Seconds into our trek, the car erupts in flames. I turn back and see the bright yellow and orange embers escaping the sides and the big black cloud of smoke at the top.
That hot air traveling up with us feels good. It has me sweating harder and is making my smell stronger. I take in a big breath of it, easing my shoulders back with the satisfaction of a mission successfully completed... then, we really take off.
As fast as she tumbled down this mountain, my feet fly us back up the side. I traipse us through thorns and brambles that rip at the shins of my coveralls to do it. They could tear clear through and slice up my skin and I wouldn’t care.
The snow has started to fall down around us in tiny little ice crystals. They gather on her long, dark eyelashes and flutter down into her pale hair.
Up this way, once the snow starts falling, it doesn’t fucking stop. My brain is dead set on getting us back to my cabin as fast as possible, before the pretty little princess bride in my arms catches cold or before we find ourselves stranded in a fucking blizzard for the next five days.
The girl’s weight adds virtually nothing to me. I’ve carried deer heavier than this back up to my cabin. Suddenly I’m reminded of my fish I left cooking—the smell of it is still in my beard, although the snow has probably smothered out the fire and started to bury it by now.
It fuels me even harder to get back home. Once this fallen angel is somewhere safe and warm…dammit, I’m going back to get that fucking thing. A man does not waste a fish, especially not one caught with his bare hands.
It’s not long before my cabin is in sight. Not too far off the main road, but tucked away down a side path lined by evergreens that most people easily miss. First thing I hear is my dog, Buck, barking happily at my return.
Dumb mutt has been sitting right there on the porch where I left him this whole time, pouting. Would have taken him with me, but the big bastard would’ve eaten every damn fish that I caught and then some.
Buck is big, black and just as shaggy as I am. Scares some people, which is fine by me. I found him as a stray when I first came up here—skinny, dirty, half-starved, chasing squirrels for his supper, but too hungry to have the energy to catch them.
Now, Buck eats what I do. If I’m being honest, he’s turned into a bit of a porker, but that doesn’t bother me none. I figure he’s earned it, after the life he’s had. Sheriff in town thinks he might be part wolf—wouldn’t surprise me a bit if he was.
As I clomp up the porch steps, Buck perks up and pants excitedly. Silly mutt is usually pretty excited to see me, seeing as I usually have the courtesy to bring him back a consolation fish. But when he sees the woman in my arms, I watch his ears stiffen and his nose twitch with curiosity.
Don’t I know it, boy. We don’t often get visitors up here, least of all, beautiful unconscious brides-to-be.
Buck sniffs at the foot of the angel with his big wet doggy nose and I cluck at him with my tongue.
“Down, boy,” I say. “This ain’t no fish.”
Tentatively, Buck licks at her toes anyway. Can’t even say I blame him. If I was a dog, I’d want to lick this beauty too.
Even as a man, it’s a tempting prospect.
But I need to shove those thoughts out of my head and get this poor girl warmed up and cared for. She’s been through a lot tonight. Last thing she needs right now is some grizzly old bachelor nosing between her legs.
I lay her down on the couch and am pleased to discover she’s still breathing. Well, that’s something, at least. Buck curls up on the floor in front of her, occasionally casting glances up at her beautiful face.
“Behave,” I tell him, not that I need to. Buck is a good dog. A nosy old mutt, but a good dog. And I can tell he’s already just as protective of this girl as I am.
Blankets. She’ll need blankets, enough to lose herself in. When she comes to—if she does—we’ll sort out what to do with her next then.
I cast a tentative glance to the window, watching the snow pour down harder than I’ve ever seen it.
I just hope her plans don’t involve going anywhere—because this shit won’t be letting up any time soon.
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Hard Pressed
A Billionaire In Disguise Romance
By Vivien Vale
Copyright 2017 by Crimson Vixens
All rights reserved
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons is entirely coincidental. This work is intended for adults only.
If you want to read more of my stories, be sure to sign up for my mailing list, Behind the Veil .
Vivien Vale
Xavier
I try not to do this too much. ‘This’ being whisking people up and away, taking them to far-off lands for multicourse dinners. It’s a little too Aladdin . It’s a little much and, honestly, not the glamorous fun it seems in the movies.
Here’s the basic truth: I drop more than a hundred grand to make people feel uncomfortable. They’re rarely enjoyably wowed. This might be my fault.
I don’t tell people to bring their passport, bustle people into my private (but shared) plane, and get a last-minute reservation to a Michelin-starred restaurant overseas all because I love them and want more of their company.
I do it only because I see doubt in their eyes. Or, no. It’s not doubt I see, but a look of discovery when they suddenly realize who I am is not what I seem.
Like this one sitting across from me. Her name is Jane, but she seems like an Amber or Topaz. Someone either born into luxury or someone so hungry they grab at opportunities, determined to make one stick.
We met at an event at a TriBecA gallery yesterday. She handed me a glass of sparkling wine and when I went to grab a cocktail napkin, she handed me her headshot folded into a sharp square, small enough to slide into my trouser pocket.
She winked at me. I laughed. Chutzpah can be sexy, but mostly it’s annoying.
Later, I followed her as she walked around the room with a tray full of canapés, each one capped with perfect mounds of shining caviar. When she stopped and turned to look at me, I took one and, before I popped it into my mouth, I asked if she’d get a drink with me when she got off work.
Jane-Amber-Topaz smiled and then she nodded. She turned on her heel and walked to the back of the gallery and through the doors hidden behind a towering sculpture of a faceless man carved in onyx.
A minute later she was next to me. She was wearing dark lipstick and her navy trench was belted tight.
“Let’s go,” she said. I arched a brow and smiled down at her; she was tall, maybe six feet, but I’m taller still and bent slightly toward her.
“Your boss is okay with that?” I asked, my voice low.
“I’m hoping to convince you to be my boss,” she said.
We left, slid into a cab. I let my hand brush her thigh.
“This is about work,” she said, so I removed my hand and nodded, looking out the window. I brushed my hair out of my eyes and tried not to be annoyed. “Ok, let’s start wit
h work. Which one of my businesses are you trying to break into?”
“I’m an investigative reporter,” Jane said, “and Hard Pressed has one of the best teams working right now: the Russian dossier, the CH Jones scandal…well, I guess, I don’t have to tell you about the scoops your team has racked up over the past few years.
I nodded curtly.
“No,” I said, “You don’t.” Jane’s forefinger pulsed on her thigh. She was nervous, but her eyes gleamed with excitement. I asked her, “Are you good? Where have you published?”
“Mostly in mid-market newspapers, but yeah. I’m really good. I’ll send you my clips. But also consider the facts: We didn’t just run into each other, obviously. I sought you out. I hope it doesn’t make you uncomfortable,” she said. She wet her lips with tip of her tongue and continued. “In order to find you, and get you to talk to me, I had to do a small investigation.”
“You could have just made an appointment with my assistant,” I said, feeling fascinated and wary. The air in the cab had gone still.
“We both know you wouldn’t have seen me,” Jane said.
The cabbie leaned on his horn. The moment broken.
The evening went on. We didn’t talk about her investigation. I planned to leave her at the bar and head back to my apartment alone. But she was beautiful and tenacious. I found myself fascinated and curious about what she wanted to happen next.
I listened to her talk and answered some of her questions. We both drank our bourbon neat. When the server brought the bill, I put down my black AmEx card over the bill for our drinks.
“I’m not going to hire you,” I said. “Not like this and not for that team. You want me to admire your gall and I do—to an extent. But finding out where the CEO of a major media group will be on a Wednesday night isn’t a deep dive investigation, a two-penny PI could have done just as well.
“On our investigative team, there are five Pulitzers between them. By asking questions and digging through thousands of files, they brought down one major bank and an online sex trafficking ring. What do you know about these kinds of investigations? You’re a cub reporter, tenacious but green.”
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