Rough Ride: A Small Town Bad Boy Romance

by Cass Kincaid

Even though I know that there is no good reason for me to be here, about to go on stage and do what I do unabashedly, I still can't seem to shake the slight flutter of nervousness that washes through me at the thought of going on that stage and being in that limelight.

  I love it.

  Part of me lives for it.

  There's nothing more fun than letting myself be taken over by the rhythmic beat of the dance music, the hype, and energy and enthusiasm of the mostly female crowd as they drink and dance and let themselves be taken over by it, too. And I don’t care if that’s a good reason or not.

  Like I said, I live for it. There's only one other thing in this world that makes me feel more alive and brings me more pleasure and happiness, but I keep that part of my life separate from this one.

  Right now, I'm just me, Derek Christian. Dark brown hair, icy blue eyes, and more tattoos and taut muscles than you can count. I’m not being cocky or prickish about it; I’m just stating a fact. I work hard on my body—six days in the gym each week isn’t for the faint of heart—so that the ladies can appreciate what they’ve paid for.

  Let’s be honest, they don’t give a rat’s ass that I’m college educated, that I’m a good guy, or that I have people depending on me.

  Those rowdy, raucous ladies out there in the audience just want to hoot and holler while I roll my hips and let them eye-fuck me while I dance.

  And I’m cool with that. Because I’m quite a fan of eye-fucking the ladies myself.

  I’m an even bigger fan of actually fucking them, too, as most guys are whether they actually go through with it on every whim or not, but that’s not what tonight is about.

  “Let’s do this,” a voice says behind me.

  I glance back and see Chance, donning the same low-slung jeans, tight white t-shirt, and black leather belt as I am. He’s been with the Thunder And Lightning group longer than I have, and he’s got the dance moves, cockiness, and devout following to prove it. The difference between him and I is that he’s let the attention go to his head. We both might live for the show, but unlike me, he doesn’t have anything but the show. No family he keeps in contact with, no life to go back to when he’s not on stage.

  Life is the show, and the show is life.

  I'm not like that.

  I give him a curt nod, the corner of my mouth twitching up in anticipation. “Hell, yeah.”

  It’s showtime.

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