Bad Boys for Hire: Ryker (Bad Boys for Hire #1)
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Bad Boys for Hire: Ryker
Bad Boys for Hire Series #1
Rachelle Ayala
Amiga Books
Contents
Description
Praise for Bad Boys for Hire: Ryker
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Reading List
Many Thanks
Meet Rachelle
Description
“Sexy and explosive. A modern day Romeo and Juliet story with a surprising twist.”
Florist Terri Martin lives a calm and peaceful life. Maybe too calm and too peaceful because she can’t remember the last time she was in a relationship.
Terri calls Bad Boys for Hire to book herself a date for her thirtieth birthday party, but before she can hire one, she meets Ryker Slade, a biker hiding from his motorcycle club.
Old vendettas resurface and soon, Terri has more than she can handle when she learns that her and Ryker’s love is as doomed as Romeo and Juliet’s.
Ryker thinks he has a way out, but can Terri escape her fate, or will she find her lover dead before she wakes?
Praise for Bad Boys for Hire: Ryker
“This is a wildly unforgettable yet purely honest love story that will obliterate the strong defenses around your well-guarded heart.” – Amber McCallister
“Bikes, blood-feuds and love, a story of two strangers who meet and find out they started a blood-feud they now have to try to stop, before they get killed. A modern Romeo and Juliet story with a surprising twist.” – Angelica Berglund
“Chance meetings and sordid pasts prove fate knows what it's doing!” – Corissa Palfrey
“Love is immortal. Love is powerful and fearless. Ryker and Terri's love story is one of a kind.” – Jessica Cassidy
“Enjoyed this fun Romeo and Juliet like story.” – Marie Smith Fowler
“A refreshing change from most romance novels. Rachelle kept me wondering what would happen and the ending surprised me.” – Patricia A. Conley-Shepard
“Sassy, fun-loving and adventurous, which will have you asking yourself do you remember your first kiss?” – Terri Merkel
“The perfect combination of love, humor and steam that will keep you sighing from start to finish.” – Yomari Suárez-Rivera
“Fun, sexy, steamy.” – Kris Woltzen
Copyright © 2016 by Rachelle Ayala
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real events or real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
All trademarks belong to their respective holders and are used without permission under trademark fair use.
Cover Creation: Rachelle Ayala Publishing, LLC
Join Rachelle’s mailing list at http://bit.ly/RachAyala
Contact Rachelle at http://rachelleayala.me/author-bio/contact/
Check out her Reader’s Guide at http://rachelleayala.me/reading-guide/
To Terri Merkel, you make me smile and help my fan club sparkle. Thank you, darling.
Chapter One
“Bad Boys for Hire, how may I help you?” Rex Carter floated on a foam pool lounge in the center of his swimming pool. Life was good as he glanced at his palatial Mediterranean mansion in a secluded community outside of San Francisco.
“Mr. Carter, my name is Terri Martin, but you can call me Terr, because I’m either terrific or a terror, depending on who you ask,” a full-bodied female voice rumbled through the earpiece. “I’m looking to hire a bad boy.”
“You’ve called the right agency. What type are you looking for?”
“I was going through your website, and I must say, you do have quite a collection, but it’s hard to tell. They’re all so tempting, and I can’t make up my mind.”
“That’s what I’m here for,” Rex reassured. As owner of Bad Boys for Hire, Rex was responsible for hiring and training his bad boys, as well as matching them to potential clients. “Tell me about yourself and what made you decide to hire one of our Certified Bad Boys.”
“I’m turning thirty in a week,” Terr said, her voice too loud, as if she was giving a speech. “And I’m still single with not a relationship in sight. I’m sure you get many callers like me.”
Rex held the receiver slightly away from his ear and nodded, as if the woman were right in front of him.
“All the time. Wonderful, smart, and attractive women like you deserve the perfect escort to that special occasion, whether a wedding, party, or family reunion. Tell me the time and place, and I’ll fit you with the perfect Bad Boy.”
“Awesome. Can we start with my birthday party? My parents are putting on a surprise party at the country club next week. They’ve invited all my coworkers and classmates, including my Bumblebee preschool dance class. Everyone and their mates, dates, and plus ones.”
“We do parties all the time. What statement would you like to make?” Rex went through the inventory in his mind. “I’ve got a Bad Boy Billionaire finishing a gig in three days, a Bad Boy Doctor coming back from vacation tomorrow, and a Bad Boy Football Player in case your father’s a sports nut.”
“Actually, I don’t care for them to think I’ve snagged a successful man.” Terri’s voice lowered into a grumble. “I want your Meanest Motorcycle Club Bad Boy. You have several on your website.”
“Hmmm … I’m going to have to check on inventory. A convention of romance writers is in town and Motorcycle Club Bad Boys are booked solid. How about a Personal Injury Lawyer or a Punk Rocker? I even have one with a nose ring.”
“I had my heart set on a Harley.” This time Terri, or Terror, did growl. “I love the way those Hogs rumble.”
“I might be able to get you a basset hound dog named Harley,” Rex said. “I’ve got several puppies, or how about a Great Dane? I’m sure your parents and friends will be impressed with Dane the Great.”
“I want a man, not a dog.” Now, Terror sounded like she was stomping her foot. “If you can’t deliver, I’ll call across town. I’m sure Jazzy Gems has some bikers left.”
“If you’re really into shocking your folks, sure. She’s got a few Bad Girl Bikers who’ll be glad to give you a whirl or a spin.”
“I really, really want a Bad Boy,” Terror rasped like the Godfather on steroids. “And if you can’t find me one, you’re it, Rex Carter.”
The call ended, and a tiny cloud floated over the swimming pool, blotting out the sunshine. Rex flung his arm over his head in a dramatic gesture befitting Hamlet betrayed by his best buddy, Horatio.
The foam pool lounger tipped, dumping Rex, his tablet, his cell phone, earpiece, sunglasses, and his drink into the
bright blue swimming pool.
Chapter Two
Ryker Slade flipped through his wallet and emptied his saddlebags, scattering a few coins on the floor he’d slept on inside an abandoned barn. His tank was almost empty, but when it came between eating or filling his Harley, well, his bike came first.
It had been five years since he left the Metal Wolves Motorcycle Club. He’d joined the Marines and deployed to the Middle East to serve his country. He’d fought militia groups bent on destroying western civilization, rescued orphans, and freed hostages. It all ended three months ago when he caught a piece of shrapnel in his left thigh. Now, he was just another war veteran back home looking for a job in an economy that soured shortly after he was discharged from the VA hospital.
He lined up a few crumpled bills, five ones and a ten, then rolled up his secondhand sleeping bag. In a few minutes, he’d packed all his belongings in his saddlebags and clipped his handgun into the holster attached to his boot.
The inside of the barn was still chilly in the morning, despite it being the beginning of April, and he wouldn’t be surprised if a bank of fog hung around until noon—so different from the stark days and nights in Afghanistan.
Ryker pulled his pant legs over his boots and zipped up his leather jacket. He had several leads for security guard positions, but with his aching leg, that would be his last resort. He’d already been to every military job fair in the state, before heading home to the San Francisco Bay Area. He figured if he had to be homeless, it might as well be near home—nestled between the redwoods, small farms, and scenic vistas along the crest of the Santa Cruz mountains.
Not that he could show his face in La Honda, where his mother and three brothers still lived. He’d made his choice and turned his back five years ago. Made his bed with Uncle Sam, and that was that.
After gathering his belongings, Ryker walked his motorcycle onto the asphalt drive. He never failed to thank his buddy, Axe, who’d kept his Harley in riding condition while he was gone. The chrome shone, and the leather was well-oiled. Ryker pulled his helmet in place and gunned the rumbling engine.
He stopped at a convenience store and filled his tank, leaving him with a little less than two dollars worth of change, not enough for even a small coffee.
Ryker’s stomach growled in protest as he paid for the gasoline and strode away from the pretzels and doughnuts languishing in the plastic display case.
He could afford to wait a little longer, because today was the day he was getting a job.
Four hours later, his luck hadn’t changed, and his stomach ached at trying to digest itself. Ryker hid his bike behind a stand of redwoods. He removed an empty coffee can and a well-worn sign, “Hungry Veteran. Have Compassion. God Bless You,” decorated with a cross and the American flag.
Donning a pair of scratched sunglasses, he smoothed his sweat-plastered helmet hair and pulled a baseball cap low over his brows.
He tried to look proud and confident, like a Marine should, as he ambled to the median divider on the left turn lane into Cooper’s Hangout—a roadhouse diner tucked under giant stands of redwoods where bikers, hipsters, local artists, and Silicon Valley entrepreneurs came together to enjoy pancakes, burgers, beer or wine, and rustic scrambles—all environmentally friendly, sustainable, organic, and expensive.
As the lunch crowd turned into the parking lot, Ryker stood as still as a statue, holding his sign. He didn’t make eye-contact with any of the drivers, but silently waited for a kind-hearted soul to lower a window.
He always thanked them with a simple, “God bless you,” and quietly pocketed the money. Sometimes, a window would slide down and an entitled son of a bitch would sneer. “Get a job, lazy bum.”
Once a woman dangled a twenty, but when he went to thank her, she snatched it back and hit him over the head with a rolled up umbrella. “You’re what’s wrong with America,” she’d said. “Always wanting handouts.”
Ryker watched the parade of Mercedes, BMWs, SUVs, and late model cars turn into the parking lot. The sun had risen over the redwoods, and it was getting hot on the pavement.
No one lowered their window.
Chapter Three
Terri glared over the top of the menu at her best friend, Jolie Becker. “I will not wear a baby pink dress, even if Vera Wang were the designer. No way.”
“But my theme is pink fantasy fairytale.” Jolie put her menu down and blinked at Terri. “Pink is my favorite color.”
“It’s too much. Who knew there were more than fifty shades of pink?” Terri said, her gaze shifting to their mutual friends and fellow bridesmaid victims, Nikki, Leanna, and Sherelle. “Besides, I don’t want to look like a pink elephant.”
The five friends were seated in a booth near the front window at Cooper’s Hangout, their favorite frou-frou meets lumberjack restaurant serving burgers from bison to vegan.
“Isn’t the correct term white elephant?” Sherelle Edwards frowned while flipping through the swatch book. She was the brain of the group, having gotten straight A’s from Montessori onwards, but suffered from constant foot-in-the-mouth disease.
“Last I checked, my skin is pink or light peach colored, not white. Besides, I don’t want to look like any kind of elephant.” Terri slapped the menu on the table. “This color is bordering on salmon. It’ll make me look too washed out. If we’re doing pink, we should go with blush.”
“Blush is too light,” Nikki Chu interjected, tapping her dark purple fingernail tips at the swatch book. “I’d rather have magenta.”
Magenta would look majestic for an Asian woman, but not for Terri who was a pale blonde. If salmon was already overpowering, then magenta would be a disaster.
“I don’t want anything too dark,” Sherelle held the swatch book against her mahogany forearm. “Fuchsia is just right. No one looks good in blush.”
“Fuchsia’s too saturated.” Terri had to hold her ground. With her milk-white skin, she’d look like a mannequin next to her friends. Well, a curvy mannequin who needed to lose twenty pounds. “Leanna? What do you think about the salmon?”
“It’s equally ugly for all of us,” Leanna Rivera said, although she only had to lose ten pounds. She was a Latina with warm brown skin, big dark brown eyes, and wavy black hair. “That’s exactly why Jolie chose it.”
“It’s not ugly. It’s neutral and looks great on all of you.” Jolie, a professional makeup artist, swept her hand in an arc from Terri to Sherelle. “Besides, I like the orange undertones.”
She was a strawberry redhead, a size six, with a slim, willowy figure, and she’d look good in anything, especially standing next to Terri, the pink elephant, or should she say salmon elephant, or whale, or whatever.
“Too much orange,” Nikki argued, most definitely not wanting to look like a saffron robed monk. “Are you serving salmon for the reception? Atlantic or sockeye? Or farm-raised pale? Aren’t you allergic to seafood?”
“You know that farm-raised stuff is gray before they add the dye?” Sherelle was always the fount of irrelevant trivia. She owned a catering company that sourced only organic, sustainable, environmentally friendly, and dolphin-safe seafood.
“Pink salmon will look great on all of you,” Jolie paid no attention to Sherelle’s interjection or Nikki’s question on her many allergies. “It’s not too bridesmaidsy. Just think, you can wear it again.”
“Only if we get rid of the ruffles.” Nikki pointed out. Being petite and around five feet even, she’d look like a fluffed out Rhode Island red hen do-si-doing at a square dance. “A simple sheath design would go far.”
“But I like ruffles,” Leanna said. “Ruffles are in style this season.”
“It’s too baby doll,” Sherelle argued. “A rose colored lace dress is more feminine. I’d definitely wear that again.”
“You sure you want to go with a pink theme at all?” Terri huffed, exasperated. The five of them were in various businesses in the wedding industry. She was a florist. Nikki did photos and videos an
d worked as a travel blogger. Leanna was the baker, and Sherelle was the creative mind behind her eco-friendly catering company.
“I’ve always wanted a Cinderella wedding,” Jolie said. “You knew that.”
Of course, they all knew. Back when they were in dance class together growing up, Jolie lost her starring role of Cinderella to a bout of vaccination-induced chicken pox. She’d never quite recovered from that disappointment.
“I’d rather have a Maleficent-themed wedding, if I were ever to take the plunge, which I’m not,” Sherelle grumbled, picking black enamel from the backs of her fingernails. “Are we going to order or what? Some of this stuff looks suspiciously unsustainable. You know Chilean sea bass is actually Patagonia toothfish?”
“Does it matter?” A spire of frustration bloomed in Terri’s stomach. “I’m not wearing a salmon colored dress full of ruffles. Why don’t we all get our own dresses in whichever shade of pink we like and do something different? Who says we all have to match?”
Jolie slammed her coffee cup on the thick oak restaurant. “Am I the bride or am I not the bride? I want a Cinderella fantasy wedding all in pink.”
What was she doing? Trying out for the canceled Bridezilla show? Terri fumed, but held her breath. Being maid of honor meant she should be supportive, although the argument over the floral arrangements the day before had her wondering whether she’d survive both her dateless birthday party and the even more pitiful wedding where Jolie had promised to toss the all-pink bouquet her direction.
“Uh, I hate to break it to you.” Nikki arched one slender eyebrow and parked her skeptical gaze on the would-be Cinder-bride. “But in the Disney version, Cinderella’s dress was silver and blue, not pink.”