Hard Choices: An Erotic Romance

by Joan Farraneau

  HARD CHOICES

  An Erotic Romance

  Copyright © 2017 Joan Farraneau

  All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced or distributed in any form or by any means, including photo-copying, recording, or any other electronic or mechanical methods, without express permission in writing from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

  First Printing, 2017.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real places, events, people, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Hello, dear readers! First off, thanks for picking up my first full-length novel! Second, are you interested in learning the latest on all my new releases? Sign up for my newsletter today! As thanks, you’ll get access to a free, exclusive, 6,500-word short story “Rough Rider”.

  Thanks for being the most wonderful readers a girl could ask for! Let’s keep ‘em coming together, shall we?

  Happily, heartily, and hornily,

  Joan

  Table of Contents

  PART ONE

  1. Sam

  2. Sean

  3. Sam

  4. Sean

  5. Sam

  6. Sean

  7. Sam

  8. Sean

  9. Sam

  10. Sean

  11. Sam

  12. Sean

  13. Sam

  14. Sean

  15. Sam

  16. Sean

  17. Sam

  18. Sean

  19. Sam

  20. Sean

  21. Sam

  22. Sean

  23. Sam

  24. Sean

  25. Sam

  PART TWO

  26. Sean

  27. Sam

  28. Sean

  29. Sam

  30. Sean

  31. Sam

  32. Sean

  33. Sam

  34. Sean

  35. Sam

  36. Sean

  37. Sam

  Epilogue

  Second Epilogue

  A Moment With Joan

  More Stories

  About Joan Farraneau

  PART ONE

  1.

  Sam

  A Tuesday in late August – 6:15 a.m.

  I see him the moment I step through the door and am wet just as fast. He’s sitting at a booth in the far corner of the diner, his hands wrapped around a steaming cup of coffee, his head hanging over it. He’s wearing a tight black t-shirt, dark jeans and black boots. His hair is short and the same color as his shirt. A leather jacket is lying on the seat beside him. There’s some insignia on it, but I can’t make out what it is from this far away.

  I wipe my boots on the mat just inside the diner door as I pull off my rain jacket and hang it on the rack. It’s raining again, as it’s been doing every day for the last week. That’s the reason why I’m late, something I try hard not to be—with so much rain, every dirt road in this town has turned to mush. You know how that saying goes: when it rains, it pours.

  As I step behind the counter stretching from one wall of the diner to the other and grab my apron and pull it on over my head, I can’t help but look back at the stranger in the booth. His eyes are closed, though I don’t think he’s asleep. Every so often his foot taps or he shifts slightly. He’s a big man—6’3” if I had a guess—his shoulders and arms corded with muscle. One arm is covered in tattoos, swirling paintbrush strokes of red and blue and green and black swirling from wrist to bicep. His opposite arm is unmarred save for a tattoo of an outline of a heart on the inside of his forearm, and this is cut through by a long, thin scar, the seam smearing the ink. From the looks of it, he could be a biker. Or maybe even an ex-con. Not unusual in this part of Texas.

  But that’s not why I can’t stop looking at him. There’s something familiar about him, something I can’t quite place. I’m struck by the feeling I know him from somewhere, have seen him before. But for the life of me I can’t think where.

  Besides the familiar stranger, the only other customer in the diner is old Mort. He’s in his usual spot near the window, wearing his usual sweatpants, sitting before his usual pot of coffee and open newspaper, his head thrown back the same way it is every morning, his snores no louder nor softer than they ever are. In the eight years I’ve worked here, I’ve only ever not seen Mort for one day, and that was way back when the tornadoes ripped through here and a tree cut his house in half. He’s as much a fixture of this place as the lights or the tables or the years of homemade, comfort-food grease that’s seeped into the walls.

  When I’ve tied my apron and adjusted it, I continue on back into the kitchen. Mike, the owner of the place and head (read: only) chef, is standing over the griddle. Beside him is Sarah, my best friend since I was a kid and Mike’s long-time fiancé.

  “Hey, you two.”

  “Hey, Sam, how are you?” Sarah responds, breaking off from the story she’d been regaling Mike with. As always, despite it being God-awful early in the morning, Sarah is as perky as ever. Her blonde hair is tied in a loose bun and an endless amount of gold bracelets jingle on her wrists. She’s 28, just like I am, though you wouldn’t know it by looking at her. I don’t know how she does it, but I swear she hasn’t aged a day since we were eighteen.

  “Wet,” I say, plopping down onto a stool. “And tired.”

  “Tim keep you up again?”

  “No, thank God,” I say, shaking my head. I brush back a loose strand of curly brown hair and tuck it behind my ear. “I haven’t seen him in a few days now. Hopefully this time he won’t come back.”

  At this, Mike turns from the griddle to face me. He’s a few years older than Sarah and I, though he too looks young for his age. Even so, the first bit of grey is starting to show at his temples. His bright blue eyes glimmer and the muscles in his cheeks ripple as his jaw clenches.

  “Has he signed the papers yet?” he asks, his voice gruff.

  “Come on, Mike,” I snort. “You know as well as I do what the answer is to that.”

  He doesn’t say anything but turns back to the griddle and cracks open a fresh egg. It’s a conversation we’ve had a thousand times in a thousand different places in a thousand different ways. Is Tim going to sign the divorce papers? No, he still refuses. He won’t even acknowledge I have them. Can’t we make him? I’m not sure how; I can’t afford the lawyers I need. Do you want me to make him? You don’t know Tim. He’s violent, angry. I don’t want anyone to get hurt.

  I sigh. Best not to think about it now. I should just be happy I haven’t seen him in over a week, not since the rain started. And if the rain is what is keeping him away, I hope it never stops.

  “Anyways,” Sarah says, breaking the silence. “As I was saying before you came in, Sam, Mike and I were talking about the wedding. What do you think of pink and green as our colors? Is that too close to watermelon?”

  Despite myself, I smile. Sarah has a knack for taking the tension out of any situation. One of the many reasons why I keep her around.

  “Is watermelon what you’re going for?” I ask, grabbing a mug from one of the dish racks and pouring myself a cup of fresh coffee. I don’t normally drink the stuff, but I’d been having trouble sleeping. Especially last night. Sometime around 2 a.m. a truck had pulled into the driveway. The light shining through the bedroom window had woken me. At first, I’d thought it was Tim returning from the bender he’d no doubt just concluded. Instinctively, I’d reached for the pepper spray I kept near the bed. But the truck had only idled for a few seconds before backing out and retreating the way it had come. Just someone lost, it seemed. Weren’t we all!

  “Hmm,” Sarah replies, her head cocking to one side and her
eyes glazing over as she imagines the wedding. “Maybe not. Some of my bridesmaids are already plump enough. No need to make that any more obvious by dressing them up as melons.”

  “Be nice,” Mike says. He flips the eggs on the griddle and tosses some shredded potato beside it. “They can’t help not being as perfect as you.”

  “Aww, honey, that’s so sweet!” Sarah squeals with that boundless energy of hers. She wraps her arms around Mike’s shoulder from behind, stands up on her tippy toes, and plants a kiss on the cheek. “That’s why you’re mine.”

  “Blegh. Can’t you two get a room?”

  “Aww, Sam, if you want, you can marry us, too.”

  “And what do you think of that, Mike?”

  “What do you think he thinks? What man wouldn’t kill to be married to two gorgeous women such as ourselves?”

  This last statement makes Mike chuckle.

  “I’m not sure I can handle two firecrackers at once. I already burn myself with one often enough.”

  “Oh hush,” Sarah says, pinching his behind teasingly. “You love getting burned by me.”

  “Anyway,” I continue, “I don’t want to steal your man. I’d rather just find one of my own.”

  “Speaking of men,” Sarah says, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Did you see the one out there?”

  “Which one?”

  “Oh, come on, Sam, I know you better than that. I know you noticed.”

  “Okay, okay,” I say, my hands held up in defeat. “I’ll admit it. I saw him.”

  “Isn’t he so sexy?”

  “I’m still here,” growls Mike.

  “Oh, not for me, silly. For Sam. You know how she likes the bad boys.”

  “I do not.”

  “Please. Every guy you’ve ever dated since I met you has had tattoos or owned a motorcycle. Name one who wasn’t a bad boy.”

  “Sean Hartwood.”

  “From high school? He doesn’t count. Y’all never even dated. If I remember, you just strung him along for a while and let him take you to dinner once or twice. He was before you found out you only liked bad boys.”

  “I didn’t string him along.”

  “You’re joking, right? That poor boy was lovesick for you and tied himself in knots trying to get you to pay attention to him. You finally gave in after he wouldn’t stop bugging you, only to tell him y’all were better off as friends two weeks—“

  “Okay, okay, okay,” I interrupt. “I get it. I was not very nice to him. But what can I say? I was eighteen. I didn’t know any better. Nice was boring to me. It wasn’t any fun having someone who would do whatever I wanted to make me happy. Though I’d kill for it now, of course. Where are the Seans when you need them?”

  “Everywhere,” Mike says before Sarah can answer. “You just gotta be open to seeing them. You never know which ones are the good ones.”

  “Yeah, but you can know which ones are the sexy ones,” Sarah jumps in. “And that one waiting out there is one of them. You should go talk to him.”

  “Do you know who he is? Have you ever seen him before?” I ask, draining the last of my coffee. With a fresh dose of caffeine in my veins, I’m feeling a lot perkier. Or maybe it’s just Sarah’s boundless energy rubbing off on me.

  “Nope,” Sarah says, shaking her head. “First time. He came in today when we opened and sat down at that booth and hasn’t moved since. The only word he said was ‘coffee’.”

  “Huh. I feel like I know him from somewhere. He feels familiar to me.”

  “Are you sure he’s not one of the bad boys you used to date?”

  “I don’t think so. I feel like I’d remember him.”

  “Well, the best way to find out is to go talk to him.”

  “What do I say?”

  “You’re a waitress, honey. Just ask him if he wants more coffee.”

  “Okay,” I say, suddenly giddy, though I don’t know why. Maybe it’s the coffee making my heart flutter. Or the guilt. I am married, after all. “And then what?”

  Sarah shrugs.

  “Make him fall in love with you.”

  “Sure, that’ll be easy.” I grab the pot of coffee and take a deep breath; with my other hand I flatten my apron. There’s no reason to be nervous, I remind myself. He’s just a man and you’re just a woman. Talking to him is perfectly natural. “Okay, then. Here goes nothing.”

  2.

  Sean

  I recognize her the moment I see her. It’s been ten years, ten long years, but not a thing about her has changed. She’s got the same shimmering brown hair down to her shoulders, the same graceful walk that still sometimes haunts my dreams.

  Our eyes meet and she blushes and looks away. I get the feeling she wasn’t expecting my head to be raised, that she’d already come in and seen me sitting her.

  I take a sip of my coffee, my eyes following her as she crosses the room towards the old man asleep at a table next to the window. Her eyes flash over towards me every so often. Each time, they see me staring and look quickly away.

  Does she recognize me? I can’t tell. I don’t look the same, not like her. It’s been ten years since I’ve stepped foot in this town. A lot has happened since then. I’m not the same naïve boy I was when I left. I’ve seen things. I’ve done things.

  I shrug my shoulders and move my head side to side, working out the kinks. It was a long drive in last night; I came all the way from Albuquerque. My legs are sore from riding my bike for so long. I’m dirty too, bits of grit from the road worked into my skin. All that work just to end up in the one place I promised myself I’d never go back to. And what do you know? The one who sent me running in the first place is one of the first people I see. Funny how the universe works. Fucked up if you ask me.

  “Hi.”

  A timid voice sounds above my shoulder. I glance up. It’s her. She’s standing slightly behind me. When my eyes meet hers she blushes again and looks down at her feet.

  “Would you like more coffee, sir?” she asks, holding out the coffee pot, her arm shaking ever so slightly. Inside, I smile. She’s nervous as hell, that much is plain to see. But why? She obviously doesn’t recognize me, which I suppose is for the best. Just seeing her makes my heart tighten and an old anger well up. Huh. Didn’t expect that. I’d have thought I would have let go of all that a long time ago, somewhere on the road between here and Alaska. A man’s heart never quite stops beating, even if he does his damnedest to shut it up.

  I nod and hold up my mug. Her eyes flit down to my forearm.

  “Where’d you get that?”

  I follow her gaze down to the scar on my arm.

  “Fight.”

  She takes a deep breath.

  “Oh.”

  Ever so slowly, I raise my eyes up the length of her body. She doesn’t say anything as she watches me take her in. She’s the exact same, not a lick different from my memories. Same curvy hips, same perky chest. She looks good, real good. God, remember how badly you wanted to fuck her? And remember how she strung you along? Remember that date where you got all dressed up and took her out to the most expensive restaurant only to have her tell you she’d rather be friends?

  I do remember. As I said, the sting is surprisingly fresh. Not that I can really blame her for how she treated me. I was a loser. A puppy dog. I’d never fucked a woman before, didn’t know how to get them to like me. I thought the more you gave, the more they would give back, the more they should care. Turns out, the real world doesn’t work like that. You have to take what you want. No apologies. No compromise.

  “Are-are you from around here?”

  I shake my head.

  “Up from San Antonio.”

  The lie spills out before I can stop it. If she doesn’t know who I am, I’d rather keep it that way, though I’m not sure why. Am I scared?

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Business.”

  I look her over again, noticing as I do how she squirms beneath my gaze. Her breathing is shallow. She
likes it; she’s turned on. I laugh to myself. If only she knew who I was! The same guy, who after begging her to give him a chance, she promised she’d never in a million years sleep with. And yet, here she was, ten years later, practically salivating at the mouth.

  “What kind of business?”

  “Personal.”

  My short answers throw her off and she hesitates for a moment, unsure what to do. I can’t imagine she’s too familiar with getting rebuffed. I stare up at her, never blinking, my hands flat and still on the table. She straightens her apron and turns to go, sighs, and turns back.

  “I’m Sam,” she says, holding out her hand.

  “I—“ I almost say ‘I know’ but catch myself just in time.

  “Luke,” I answer instead, giving her the first name I can think of.

  “It’s a pleasure, Luke. We don’t get many new faces around here, so I’m always eager to meet the ones we do get. How long do you plan on staying?”

  “A week. Maybe two.”

  “Well, I hope I see you around some more. Can I get you anything else? Want some breakfast?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Let me know if you’d like, I mean, if you want me. Or, I mean, want me to get you breakfast. Or anything. Lunch too. Or…” She blushes and stammers to a stop. “Sorry. I’ll leave you alone now. Let me know.” Without another word, she turns and walks away. I watch her go, my eyes glued to her ass. Exquisite. For a moment I picture her bent over the counter, her legs splayed open as I pound her from behind. The pussy that got away. Ha, I’m certainly not that romantic little boy anymore, too scared to take what he wants!

  I down my coffee in two gulps, toss a few bills on the table and stand up. I pull on my leather jacket, adjust the collar. Maybe it’s not so bad having to come back to this old town of mine after all. Especially because I know within the week—hell, maybe even the day—I’ll be fucking Sam Atley—the Sam Atley—senseless. And the best part? She won’t even know it’s me.