by Olivia Chase
Rough Hand
(Rock Bridge Ruffians, Book One)
Olivia Chase
Favor Ford Publishing
Contents
NOTE
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Rough Hand (Rock Bridge Ruffians, Book One) by Olivia Chase
1. Alexa
2. Levi
3. Alexa
4. Levi
5. Alexa
6. Levi
7. Alexa
8. Levi
9. Alexa
10. Levi
11. Alexa
12. Levi
13. Alexa
14. Levi
Bonus Content: SMITH (The Beckett Boys, Book One) by Olivia Chase
1. Aubrey
2. Smith
3. Aubrey
4. Smith
5. Aubrey
6. Smith
7. Aubrey
8. Smith
9. Aubrey
10. Smith
11. Aubrey
12. Smith
13. Aubrey
Copyright © 2016 by Favor Ford Publishing
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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NOTE
This edition of Rough Hand (Rock Bridge Ruffians, Book One) contains the following bonus content: SMITH (The Beckett Boys, Book One).
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Rough Hand (Rock Bridge Ruffians, Book One) by Olivia Chase
Alexa
I examine the handwritten sign hanging in the window: RECEPTIONIST WANTED—APPLY WITHIN.
Please let them hire me. I desperately need this job.
When I passed the posting yesterday while walking toward my newly rented house, it seemed like fate was giving me a helping hand.
My savings are just about tapped. We’re not going to make it much longer if I don’t find a job this week. The clock is ticking, and my stress level keeps creeping higher.
“You can do this,” I murmur to myself as I smooth my palms down the front of my black skirt. I give my hair one last fluff, lift my chin, and push open the glass door.
The small bell right above the entrance dings as I enter the motorcycle shop. Auto smells fill the air of the large open room—grease, leather, metal, all mingling together. Along the walls are shelves bearing various types of motorcycle gear for sale. And on the floor itself there are several bikes strategically displayed, all chrome and tires and rich leather.
I don’t know crap about bikes, but even I can tell they’re high quality.
Behind the front desk in a room in the back, I can hear the sounds of work being done—drills whirring, hydraulics wooshing—along with a loud rock song playing. Must be where the motorcycles are made and repaired. The building looks large from the outside, and it’s clear that the sales area is only part of it.
“Be right out,” a deep voice says from the back room over all the noise.
My heart gives a sick thud of nervousness. I clear my throat and try to steady myself as I wait, strolling around on the tile floor. I’m qualified for this position and I deserve a fair chance. Well, kinda qualified, anyway. My newly minted English degree should count for something, right? Plus, I worked the same retail job all through college, so I have plenty of customer service experience.
The manager has to hire me. Then there’d be one less worry on my plate, and I could focus on my sisters more instead of on my pathetically low bank account.
Even now, standing here and waiting for someone to come out and talk to me, my mind is flooded with anxiety. It feels like I haven’t had time to process what’s happened over the past two months.
My new life feels so strange, like I’m stuck in someone else’s dark dream, a nightmare really—and somehow I have to come to terms with it.
Somehow I have to remain strong and optimistic even though everything inside me just wants to give up and crawl into bed for the next six months.
I’m vaguely staring at a pair of black leather gloves on a rack, lost in my thoughts, when a throat clears behind me. I spin, surprised that I didn’t hear anyone approach, and my breath lodges in my throat when I catch sight of the guy.
He’s insanely hot.
His thick, muscular forearms are covered in stunning, brightly colored tattoos that disappear beneath the rolled-up sleeves of his flannel. He has rich dark hair and bold blue eyes. He’s tall, lean and strong with strong shoulders that make it clear he hoists and carries heavy stuff all day long.
And he’s smirking in my direction.
Probably because I’ve been staring at him without saying a word for a while now. Shit. My face bursts into flame.
“See anything you like?” he murmurs.
I don’t know if he’s talking about the retail in the store…but I suspect not. I lick my lower lip and stick out my hand. “Hi, I’m Alexa. I’d like to apply for the front desk position you guys have posted in the window.”
One of his dark brows quirks up. He reaches out and grips my hand, and I swear, my body hums from the contact. I’m torn between wanting to snatch my hand free and wanting to step closer. I’ve never had this kind of instant physical reaction to someone before.
He drops my hand and eyes me up and down, a leisurely exploration from the tips of my sensible black pumps to my dark brown hair. It’s almost like a caress, and my skin warms under his scrutiny. God, this man is potent. “You want to work here.” The words are delivered evenly, even though I can hear the disbelief in his voice.
And the expression on his face isn’t much friendlier. But then again, he’s clearly one of the mechanics—so I’m not going to let it discourage me. Beggars can’t be choosers, after all.
I nod, then dig into my purse to pull out my folded resume. I thrust it toward him. “Yes. I’d like to schedule an interview with the manager. This is my resume. Can I see him, or can you give it to him?”
Something close to amusement flashes in his eyes as he takes the paper and glances over it. “Alexa, have you ever set foot in a motorcycle shop before today?”
I push down the embarrassed flush that surges from my chest out to my limbs. “Um, I worked in retail for four years while finishing my bachelor’s degree,” I say instead, sidestepping the question. “I’m experienced with customer service, and I learn fast. I’d be a great asset to this shop. Can I speak to the manager please?”
Maybe going over this guy’s head will get me somewhere faster.
He hands me the resume back, then crosses his arms, and I try not to stare at the flexed muscles beneath the ink. “That’s me. Owner, actually. This is my place.” His voice is flat.
“Oh. Okay.” Shit. I can tell he doesn’t like me…and that he doesn’t think I’d be a good fit. But I’m determined to win him over. I need to stay positive and keep trying. “Mister…”
“Levi,” he fills in.
“Mr. Levi—”
“It’ just Levi.” His voice holds a tinge of irritation now. “Let’s cut to the chase, Alexa. You’re very clean-cut. You dodged my question about motorcycle shops, so I’m betting you don’t know jack shit about bikes. I don’t see any tattoos on your body…” He pauses and his voice drops as he looks me over again, “unless you’re hiding them somewhere underneath your sensible skirt.”
The way he almost purrs that last part makes my lungs tighten. I’m temporarily unable to respond.
Levi looks me up and down yet again. “So, given all of that, how could you be an asset to me?” he finishes, shifting to lean against the wall.
“Okay. Yeah. I don’t technically know much about motorcycles,” I admit, finally finding my voice.
There’s no point in lying about my knowledge. If he tried to ask me even one question about brands or different types of motorcycles or something, I’d just embarrass myself. “But if you gave me an actual interview, I could explain the skills I do have and how I can help your company.”
He murmurs under his breath something that I can’t quite catch. Sighs. “I really don’t have time for this. I’m in the middle of building a custom bike for a client.”
“Two minutes,” I push. “That’s all I’m asking for.”
He seems to take pity on me and relents. “Fine. Lay it on me.”
God, he’s distracting. Something about the rough tumble of his voice makes me think of how he’d sound in the bedroom…telling me to strip my panties off right before he pushes his dick into my—
Shit. With a mental curse, I push that wicked thought right out of my head. Peek over my resume to remind myself about why I should get this position.
I draw in a deep lungful of air. “I can start immediately. I have extensive experience dealing with a variety of customers over several years. And despite my…appearance,” I say delicately, “I believe I could hold my own here.”
That makes his lips quirk. “Oh, is that right?” He pushes away from the wall and stalks over to me. “What if a customer starts hitting on you? How would you handle that?”
I have to laugh a little. “How often is something like that even going to happen?”
He fixes me with a deadly serious look. “This isn’t a pre-school. We have some fairly rough customers that walk through the doors everyday. I need employees that can handle the kind of talk that goes on here.”
I’ve been hit on a number of times. It’s not like I believe it’s due to my looks—I’m okay, but not stunning or anything. But if you have a pair of boobs and you work around people, at some point you’re going to get hit on by someone wanting to hook up.
My voice remains controlled as I answer his question. “Well, I’d make sure I was polite, clear, and professional so they’d get the hint that I’m not interested.”
“What if it’s another employee?” The words are spoken low. He’s only a foot away from me, and I can smell the warm spice of his cologne. Feel the heat pouring from his body. He’s much taller than me, probably over a foot or so, and I feel delicate and small. “How would you handle someone at the shop coming on to you?”
My heartrate kicks up a notch. This is the most unorthodox interview I’ve ever had. I should probably walk away, but something about him makes me want to stay—makes me wish he would go even further with his questions. “I…guess I’d do the same thing.” But if it was him coming on to me, I don’t know how I could resist, even if he would be my boss.
“You guess?” he teases me, but there’s an intensity to his gaze that surprises me.
I give a carefree shrug. “I’d probably read whatever’s in the employee handbook first to guide me on how to respond.”
That makes Levi bark out a harsh laugh. He steps back and rakes a hand through his hair. It’s sexy and mussed and I want to dig my own fingers into it. “Employee handbook. Yeah, we don’t exactly have that kind of shit here.” The way he says this is so sarcastic that I stiffen. His face shuts down and he gives a slight shrug. “Well, thanks for stopping by, but I’m not going to hire you. I don’t think you’d enjoy working at my shop.”
The lack of interest in his voice, the clarity with which he utters his judgment, hurts. Stings worse than it should.
My jaw ticks, and I struggle to keep my voice even. “You barely looked at my credentials.” Maybe now I don’t want the stupid job anyway, even if I am desperate. This guy is so arrogant and rude, dismissive. But I feel like being stubborn right back to him.
“You don’t know fuck-all about bikes,” Levi counters. “That’s what we do here. What happens if you get grease on your pretty little skirt?”
“I’ve never been afraid to get dirty,” I lob back.
He smirks and says, “Somehow I doubt that.”
I don’t know if he means actual dirt or…something sexual. But it doesn’t matter. It’s clear we’re done here. I should leave while I still have a scrap of pride intact.
I exhale. “Thank you for your time.” Spin on my heel and head to the door. It dings when I open it.
“Good luck, sweetheart,” he says to my back. “Maybe try the ice cream shop down the street. It’s more your style.”
I was going to just walk out of here without saying a word, but some stubborn part of me turns back to face him. A smirk making his sexy mouth crinkle on one side. “Yeah, good luck to you, too,” I retort. “You’re gonna need it to find someone dumb enough to work here.”
With that, I exit, feeling a surge of triumph filling me. Take that, know-it-all Levi. What an ass. A jerky ass. A ridiculously hot, jerky ass. I can’t deny the way my body responded to his proximity. But I’ll be damned if I let myself think about it ever again.
The triumph fizzles away fast when I realize I’m still jobless with no prospects in sight.
Crap.
Morgan and Jenna are depending on me—I can’t let them down.
I trudge my way back to the house—so close by I can still see the shop if I turn and look over my shoulder—and open the door, slipping inside. The girls are at school, so I have some time to figure out my next step before they get home.
A hot lump of frustration sits square in the middle of my chest as I kick off my heels and slump onto the worn couch. The local newspaper I scoured last night rests on the dinged coffee table in front of me.
I look around the small house, fighting the urge to scream, to cry, emotions surging over me. I can’t let myself dissolve. I have to stay strong—my sisters can’t make it without me.
But two months hasn’t been enough time for me to begin to get past the tragedy of what happened to our parents. Even just thinking about it makes me feel raw and hurt. I try to tuck those dark memories deep back in my brain. Later. I’ll deal with it later.
I have to help us get settled here—that’s first and foremost. I put it all on the line to move, from our former home, our former town, to somewhere where we could have a fresh start without everyone knowing the details of our nightmare.
Morgan and Jenna are my priorities now, and if that means I have to push day and night to find a job, then that’s what I’ll do. No matter what it takes.
I stand outside the bar, Outlaws, and stare hard at it. Sweat dribbles down the back of my neck—late summer in southern Michigan is a bit hotter than up north, where we lived before.
I hope they have air conditioning inside.
Well, here goes nothing. I shove the door open and step in. Music greets me, along with golden light from above. Tables and booths are packed with people laughing and talking. Quite an eclectic place with a variety of customers, but it feels welcoming.
I weave through the tables and spy a free stool at the bar. Slide on it and eye what’s on tap. After several more hours of job hunting today—and having only one possible lead—I decided I needed to blow off some steam.
Since the night of my parents’ death, it’s been day after day of dealing with the shit-storm of my life.
I want a beer…or two…or three. I want to surround myself with happy, drunk people and remember what it feels like to be one of them. Hell, the house is only a half mile from here or so. It was an easy walk. I can get a little toasted tonight.
A handsome blond guy behind the bar gives me an easy smile. “Hey, what can I get ya?”
“Um, how about your seasonal on tap? Looks interesting.” I love a light, fruity beer in the summ
ertime.
“That one’s good—I think you’ll like it. Coming right up.” He deftly pours me a mug then puts it in front of me.
“Can I start a tab?” I go to dig out a credit card, but he smiles and stops me.
“Don’t worry. You can square up later. You look trustworthy.” He winks and then moves on to another customer.
I sip my beer, which is as good as he promised, and spend some time just scoping the room. Small clusters of people are laughing and talking, playing pool, drinking, noshing on food. Rock Bridge—my new home. Will I start making friends here? I miss Amanda and Rikki, my two besties from home.
My whole life has changed so drastically in just over two months.
As usual, my mind drifts back to the subject I can’t escape. And in doing so, I once again realize the dark chasm that is always there—the deep pit in my stomach that I try to ignore. Try to pretend doesn’t exist.
Because if I ever look into the darkness for too long, it might just swallow me whole.
Thinking about my parents for too long could do it.
The missing of them.
The devastation they left behind…
And nothing can ever be the same. The thought sours my mood. I stare down into my beer as the knot grows in my chest. Am I just fooling myself that I can make it on my own—and take care of two teenagers?
Tears sting the backs of my eyes. I swallow hard and try to shake off the depression. Tonight isn’t the night for drowning my sorrows. Tonight is for me to escape them, a desperately needed reprieve.
Fuck it. I take a massive chug of my beer and finish half the mug in one go. The alcohol sinks in quickly, helping my muscles relax, and when I see a good portion of the beer gone from the mug, a small chuckle slips out.
“That was impressive,” a warm voice murmurs from behind me. A guy shifts forward to stand against the bar on my right side—he’s wearing a red T-shirt and faded jeans, and he has a friendly smile. “Not often I see someone who can throw down that well.” He tips his beer in my direction.