Getting Dirty: A Second Chance Menage Romance (Hard n' Dirty Book 1)

by Aubrey Cara

I card my fingers through my hair and notice the way her eyes track my movements in a show of very familiar female interest. She practically shoves her helmet into my hands before digging through her handbag and yanking out a set of keys. I put our helmets on my bike wondering again what the hell I’m still doing here. I should have tucked and rolled her ass and driven away.

  “So, are you going to tell me what this thing with my father and the Pontiac is all about?”

  My shoulders tense. “Nope. Forget I said anything.”

  “Sure. Like that’s going to happen.”

  Yep. I definitely should have left. I turn to do just that, and the little she-devil shoves me from behind.

  I stumble a step but still knock the helmets off the handlebars. Hell, I nearly knock over my bike.

  Seeing red, I cage her against the side of her rental. “You really want to know about the Pontiac? About how your precious daddy lost that car to me in a poker game then refused to pony up?”

  Instead of being cowed in any way, she glares back up at me. “You’re full of shit. My father was never into high-stakes gambling. And if he had been, he’d never have debased himself by playing with—” She abruptly closes her mouth.

  “Playing with who?”

  “Never mind.”

  “Oh no worries, honey. I can finish that sentence. Your father would never debase himself by getting into a poker game involving someone like me. A gearhead. A grease monkey. An average Joe worker with grit under his nails and grease stains on his jeans. Isn’t that right, princess?”

  She sniffs, sticking her nose up. “Those aren’t my sentiments, but they were his.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure they’re not yours. You seem real down to earth.”

  Her scathing glare could peel paint off a Buick. “You say you won some poker game, and I’m supposed to believe you?”

  “I’m an asshole, princess, but unlike your old man, I don’t lie. Hell, I wasn’t even surprised when I showed up to collect and he played like he had no idea what I was talking about.”

  A flicker of doubt passes over her expression before it hardens again. “So, is this why you’ve been such a dick to me? Because of some car bet?”

  Some car bet? My jaw flexes.

  “I’m a dick to you because you always have been and always will be a stuck up little bitch.”

  Her hand shoots up and slaps my face hard enough it turns my head. Her eyes flash before my mouth crashes down on hers. It’s an angry kiss involving teeth and tongues. A war over control and supremacy. The vicious bitch bites my lip hard enough to draw blood then sucks it into her mouth so hard my dick weeps in envy.

  I fist my hands in her hair and angle her head right where I want her, and she fists her hands in my shirt, pulling me closer. I. Can’t. Get. Enough. I want it all.

  I lift her by the waist of her jeans and wedge my thigh right up against her hot little honeypot. She grinds down on my leg with a needy moan, and damned if I can’t feel the heat of her on my thigh.

  I squeeze my big hand down the front of her pants and cup hot, wet pussy, so soft and perfect my head spins. I shove two fingers into tightest opening I’ve felt in years, and she comes. Just like that. I grind the heel of my hand into her clit to prolong it, pumping my fingers.

  Her head falls back, mouth open. Hips jerking, she grabs my wrist and holds me to her as she rides out her orgasm.

  “Fuck, princess. I want to feel you coming like this with my cock inside you.” I bet her sweet little cunt would all but strangle my dick.

  She whimpers as if in agreement, then her big hazel eyes pop open and lock on my face like she’s never seen a man before. “Jace.”

  “Yeah, baby.” I drag the thumb of my free hand over her bottom lip, but she starts pushing at my chest in a panic. I instinctively let her go, even though I’m not sure why she’s freaking out. Hands raised, I back up a step.

  I want to say something. Do something, but fuck, I’m as twisted up inside as she looks, her mouth red and swollen. Eyes wild.

  She doesn’t take her gaze off me as she opens the door of her car with a shaking hand and gets in without a word. The car comes to life, and she glances over at me, the vulnerability in her rich green gaze shaking me. She blinks it away and flips me off. Staring ahead out the windshield, she puts the car into gear, and I’m frozen in place as she drives away.

  What the fuck just happened?

  My phone vibrates from the inside pocket of my jacket and I heave a breath, wanting to break something. I adjust the uncomfortable cockstand in my pants and pull out my phone.

  It’s a text from Jess.

  Jess: Got home early. Where r u? And y the duck is maddie’s phone in pieces at the end of the driveway?

  It pings again, and I look down.

  Jess: *duck

  Jess: damn autocorrect *FUCK

  Fuck is right. For a minute there I forgot about my brother and how he’d feel about me moving in on a woman he’s obviously into. It’s always been a non-issue. But that was before. Before, when we did everything together. Before, when we were so in sync it was hard to believe we weren’t twins. We were two sides of the same coin…until we weren’t.

  We got into sharing early. Even in middle school, it seemed we always liked the same girl. Amy Ryhn was the first one who liked us both and didn’t want to choose. So, we didn’t make her. At first, it was kissing and touching. We’d see how far Amy would let us go. Often, Jess and I would take turns and the unoccupied one would act as lookout. After Amy, it was another girl and another. It wasn’t until senior year that Jess dated a girl who confessed to secretly fantasizing about wanting to do it with two guys at the same time.

  I had said no, at first, because of Madeline Fitzpatrick of all people. She had me all twisted up around her little fucking finger. Then she let me know I was nothing.

  And that was it. Jess asked again if I was down, and we blew his girl’s eighteen-year-old mind. Hell, she blew ours, too.

  It was fun, exhilarating, even. It felt natural, and eventually women started seeking us out because they knew we shared. Who knew there were so many kinky women out there?

  At some point we stopped texting to let the other know when we were bringing some random home. We stopped going to the bars together. Jess settled down and became the responsible business owner before I was ready. He loved the shop in a way I didn’t. I still felt like something was missing.

  Until I started building bikes. After I designed and built my first bike, it all clicked. Someone at a show asked where I got it and ended up commissioning one from me. I’ve been working off word of mouth alone while still trying to work at the garage with Jess. Last year, when it became clear my bike business was growing, I started dedicating more time to it, and things between us have been strained ever since.

  I stare at my phone, debating with myself before shooting off a text.

  Jace: Princess got fired from her job. Lost her shit on her phone. I dropped her off at her car.

  Jess: Shit. Thanks.

  Jess: Heading back to the shop. Want 2 talk business tonight. U free?

  The bar is airing a pay-per-view fight tonight between the up and coming Cuban boxer, Mateo Vega and Anthony Joshua. I was planning on sipping beer from the comfort of a sticky barstool and watching the match.

  I look over at the shabby cement brick exterior of The Den with its one widow and metal door with peeling green paint over black. The neon open sign in the window is dull and without life. Too bad. I really could use a drink right now.

  I also want to track little Miss Priss down, bend her over the side of my bike, and take what she denied me. Teach her what happens when she flips me off.

  Jace: Sure. Meet you at the shop around 6-630?

  Jess: *Thumbs up emoji*

  It’s a safe time. The shop closes early on Saturdays, so everyone should be gone by the time we start hashing things out. This talk has been a long time coming. Probably be good to clear the air. Maybe, if things go w
ell, I’ll bring up this little episode with Madeline.

  I shake my head at myself. Then what, dumbass? She’s Madeline Fitzpatrick. Things between her and Jess aren’t going to go anywhere, and things between her and I are nonexistent.

  Safer—smarter to keep it in the Never Fucking Happened category.

  Better that way.

  Senior Year

  The new girl looks lost and angry, per usual. Everyone thinks she’s a stuck-up bitch, but there’s more to her than that. She’s been trudging down the halls of Clover Creek High with a gray cloud over her head for weeks now. She always seems a little on the sad side.

  Normally, I’d leave her the hell alone, but for some reason I’m drawn to her. Yeah, she’s a knockout, with killer long legs and silky red hair. I’m not the first dude here to notice her, but that’s not why I’m into this chick. She’s different from other girls.

  For one, she hasn’t given me or my brother the time of day, and not to brag, but most hetero fems wanna hook up with one or both of us.

  Not her. She’s barely even glanced in my direction, and I wanna talk to her. Maybe even make her pouty lips turn up in a smile. I’ve been waiting for the right time and divine intervention bathes me in sparkling light as I stand down the hall from her.

  I’m half listening to Ryan and Matt prattle on and on about some party at Megan Everly’s house this weekend—which will no doubt get busted—and covertly watch her switching out books. Her locker won’t close.

  Pushing off the lockers, I walk down the hall and to her rescue. “There’s a trick to this locker.” I had it freshmen year, and it drove me nuts till I figured it out. I jiggle the door, lift up then slide it closed.

  “I don’t think we’ve been introduced.” I hold out my hand. “I’m Jace.”

  She looks at the appendage in obvious distaste and hikes her backpack higher on her shoulder.

  “Ooookay.” I drop my hand. “You’re not a hand shaker. Noted.”

  She points her freckled little nose in the air and walks away.

  No introduction.

  No thank you.

  Nothing.

  But then, she slowly turns back around, takes two steps closer to me. Stops. Huffs a sigh.

  “I’m Madeline. Thanks for fixing my locker, or whatever.” Her narrow shoulders lift. Drop. She pivots on her heel and strolls her cute ass down the hall.

  Yeah. I didn’t get her to smile, but I’m ten feet tall and walking on air the rest of the day.

  6

  Everyone should get sacked at least once. It forces you to look at yourself… It is important to have setbacks, because that is the reality of life. Perfection doesn’t exist. ~Anna Wintour

  M adeline

  Present day

  Shit.

  Shit, shit shit, shit, shit.

  I function on autopilot as I drive back to the lake house. While I’m in the shower and getting ready. While I look up places around here I can get another phone. All the way to my father’s law offices in Shelbyville, about thirty minutes from the lake house in yet another sleepy—albeit bigger town where everyone seems to know each other.

  Shit.

  What was I thinking?

  Casual sex? Yes, please. I’ve always purposely avoided the emotionally involved kind, with good reason.

  Casual is a lot less messy.

  Getting finger banged in a parking lot, in broad daylight, by the brother of the man I was with last night?

  Messy.

  Not just messy. Crass.

  I wasn’t planning on sleeping with Jess again, but I was at least going to be able to meet his eye when I picked up my father’s car from his garage.

  Now, not so much.

  The condemning, judgmental tone of my father’s voice rings inside my head. His sneering face looks down at me. I mentally flip him off.

  By the time I pull up to the law offices of Fitzpatrick & Mayhue, guilt and embarrassment have formed a burning ball in my stomach. Luckily, I’m familiar with the sensation and keep antacids in my purse. It’s been a stressful year.

  I walk up to the familiar brick building smack dab in the center of Shelbyville and narrowly miss getting run over by a kid barely taller than my knees, being chased by a little girl with pigtails.

  “Sorry,” the mother says with a wince as she passes and they head into Debby’s Diner. That’s when I notice the going-out-of-business/owner retirement sign. A wave of nostalgia and sadness hit me out of nowhere, and I shake it off and replace those feelings with logic.

  Debby’s had too many things on their menu. I’m shocked they made it this long. Someone smart would buy up this block, slim down the menu then put in a frozen yogurt place next door and apartments upstairs.

  Shelbyville isn’t exactly a bustling metropolis, but there’s enough people here to warrant a cinema, Starbucks, and a super center open until midnight. Today, there are quite a few young families and couples out and about, making me wonder if there was a farmer’s market in one of the squares around here. A low-end trendy café and froyo place would be gold in this postage-stamp town. It has that vibe.

  It’s quaint— one of the things my mother loved about Shelbyville.

  My mother.

  It’s hard getting away from thoughts of her. Memories of when she was alive. And once those start intruding on my day, my mind whispers questions like, what if, and what would my life be like had she lived… It’s one of the reasons I’ve been happy to stay away for as long as I have, and why it’s well past time I leave. There’s no use dwelling on the past. She’s gone. The man she married, the man I called father even after I found out he wasn’t, is gone.

  There are no what ifs. Only what was and what is.

  The door to the law firm is old-fashioned wood with a big glass window on the top half with their company name and logo.

  The offices are exactly as I remember them. The rug in the hall has aged, but is still stately. The huge oak desk sporting the firm’s logo in brass, is still front and center. The same secretary, Lucille, is perched behind the desk. She’s also aged but is dressed nicely if in rayon and polyester.

  I don’t even have time to sit in a leather wingback chair in the waiting area before Harold Mayhue comes out with a kind smile on his jowly face.

  Mr. Mayhue has the look of a man who has enjoyed his wife’s cooking a little too much and is happier for it despite being very gray. Kind gray eyes, gray hair that has been deserting his head for years, and a gray two-piece suit that, while nice, isn’t as high quality as the suits of my father’s I’ve been boxing up. He’s tall like my father was, his handshake as sure and firm. The bergamot and leather undertones of his cologne are comforting.

  “Madeline, I wanted to say again how sorry I am.” He takes a seat behind his mahogany desk.

  I wave off his condolences. “You lost him, too. You two were friends for a long time.”

  His gray eyes get misty. “Since our Yale days.”

  Mayhue is likely grieving his death on a deeper level than I’m capable of. Edward Fitzpatrick has been dead to me since I was seventeen years old.

  “I had no idea it had been that long.” I’ve always assumed they met later in my father’s career.

  “I thought we’d lose him after your mother died, but he finally pulled back around…” He shifts. Scratches his chin. “You know he felt bad about how he handled himself the year after she passed. I believe he regretted pushing you away.”

  “Hmm. Did he?” Doubtful.

  “When he got sick, I thought he’d reach out. Mend fences.”

  “What do you mean, got sick? They told me he had a heart attack.”

  His gray brow furrows. “He did. But he had been going through chemo for liver cancer. No one told you?”

  “No. We lost touch over the years and since he passed, it’s been about making arrangements. Packing up the house…”

  “Yes, well…of course.” He clears his throat and taps the stack of paper on the desk before
handing the packet over to me. “Here is your copy of your father’s will, my dear. It’s all been updated. Everything that’s left is going to you.”

  “Everything that’s left?” I flip through the pages doing a quick review. My father hadn’t just been a successful trial lawyer before he retired, he’d come from a long line of money. The trust fund bequeathed to me on my twenty-first birthday was seven figures.

  He’d deposited it my bank account and sent an accountant to my door, who proceeded to lecture me on investment, highest yields, and bonds.

  “There’s no money,” I murmured. Not that I needed his money, but still…

  “Not exactly.” Mayhue fidgets with his pen. Click. Click. Click.

  I hate clicky pens.

  His chair squeaks as he sits forward. “He did run into some bad investments. An accountant was skimming off the top. The way he drank…even before your mother died. He’d lost his place at the firm and was draining money. Then, when your mother passed…it’s one of the reasons he moved up here.”

  “This all happened before my mother died?’

  “Yes.”

  The world around me tilts. The office walls narrow and expand. The buzzing in my ears is back.

  My father, the man I’ve built my life around beating, was a failure. A washed-up drunk of a failure.

  His only remaining property was the lake house. My grandparents’ estates are gone. The home I grew up in in New Canaan is gone. Our share in the Gulf Stream Jet he owned with two other families, gone.

  The only other thing remaining is the pension from my father’s old firm when he was a big-deal attorney.

  Jace’s angry words ring in my ears. I’m an asshole, princess, but unlike your old man, I don’t lie. The vehemence in his words was raw. Honest. And full of things left unsaid.

  “Do you happened to know of any poker games where my father wagered a car?”

  Mayhue heaves a breath. His eyes go sad. His shoulders lift and fall. His hands splay wide. “It was a local charity event for the family clinic. All the business owners were invited to a casino night, and one of the poker games ran after hours.”