by Jc Emery
I untie my bright orange apron that goes with absolutely nothing in my sparse closet and toss it in the laundry bin in the back of the café. Adjusting my cut-off jean shorts, my hand grazes my thigh, finding the scar that’s formed courtesy of my knife wound.
I fight off the impending yawn as I pull my personal items from my locker. I had classes this morning, which nearly wiped me out for the rest of the day.
When I found out what Chase had planned for me—a getaway for a few months to Florida—I thought he was nuts. But the more we talked about it, the more all right it sounded. He even convinced me to sign up for two classes—Introduction to Criminal Justice (his idea) and Modern Art (my idea). It’s only been a few weeks since I started my classes, but I have high hopes I’ll finish this term with high marks.
Eyeing the clock, I realize I’m about to be late. Chase is due to arrive at my room in about twenty minutes, and I had hoped to freshen up before I saw him.
I’ve rented a room farther away from the shoreline at a small, rundown motel. Chase wanted me to get an apartment, but that felt too permanent. It was like I was settling into a new life—one without him—and I just couldn’t stand that.
Besides, I really like having housekeeping, even if they only come twice a week when a local trusted cop from town swings by to make sure there’s no funny business, as per Chase’s orders. So until I can go home and be Shelby Brignac again, I’ll stay here in Florida as Shelby Connor, under the watchful eye of the Atlantic Bay Police Department.
But I don’t want to think about any of that now. I just want to get to Chase.
“I’m heading out,” I shout over the obnoxiously loud jukebox that only plays Jimmy Buffett songs.
Betty, my boss, an older woman who looks like a prime candidate for skin cancer, smiles wide. “It’s one of those weekends, huh?” she asks knowingly.
I nod my head, fighting off the blush that creeps in. Betty knows a little bit about my past, though not much. She’s an inquisitive woman whose children are grown and whose husband traded her in for a newer model.
I get the feeling she doesn’t have many people, because the ones she does have, she clings to. So we talk infrequently but enough for her to get the gist of it. Bad boyfriend plus legal trouble equals get out of town. She still can’t quite figure out where Chase came into play, but it’s not for a lack of effort. If Betty had her way, she’d know everything, including at what age I lost my first baby tooth.
“You should bring that man of yours by before he leaves this time. I’m still ticked you haven’t let me meet him, girl.”
I roll my eyes and wave her off, a grin overtaking my face, and say, “You’re liable to scare him off with all those questions you ask.” Shuffling the weight of the textbooks in my arms and affixing my satchel on my shoulder, I give Betty a teasing glare. This is a little game we play every time Chase comes into town.
She leans against the counter with a lofty sigh and glances at the open wall of windows at the other end of the cafe. “Come on, tell me about him,” she urges.
And just like the last time and the time before that, I do.
“Chase is good,” I say before anything else, just like always. “He’s strong and smart, and he loves me.”
“That’s what you always say,” she gripes, narrowing her eyes.
It’s true, so just this once, I give her a little more.
Leaning against the counter, we’re eye level, and I say, “He’s got this smile. It’s sickening how much I like his smile. He’s tall. And he’s well-built.” Before she can say anything, I shake my head ruefully and mutter, “He’s a gym rat.”
“And he’s got black hair?” she asks.
I pull back nervously. I’ve never told Betty what Chase looks like before. Any other situation and that comment would be unsettling. Considering Victor still hasn’t been found, it’s terrifying.
“Relax, Shelby,” she says, concern evident in her eyes. “Turn around.”
I gulp loudly and swing around. On the outside deck, just beyond the opened floor-to-ceiling windows stands Chase. His chiseled physique is accented by the fitted jeans and muscle shirt he’s sporting atop his flip flops. His arms are folded over his chest, and his mouth is upturned into that beautiful smile that helps me sleep at night. He’s never been to Stormy’s before, so this is quite the surprise. We had agreed to keep things quiet here in Florida, not wanting to arouse suspicion.
My heart nearly stops when Chase unfolds his arms and splays them out in invitation. Instantly, I drop my textbooks and my bag and take off at a sprint. I’m already flying through the air by the time I realize I’m actually squealing.
I slam into him at warp speed, making him stumble backwards. He never loses his grip on me. Wrapping my legs around his waist, I throw my arms around his neck and crush my lips against his. He responds instantly. Just like always, it’s a heady combination of give and take. When we pull apart, our lungs are fighting for air and I’ve covered our faces with my tears. I don’t want to lose a moment with him, so I don’t look back, but I know if I did, I’d find Betty open-mouth gaping at us.
“You’re early,” I whisper, placing a soft kiss to his jaw.
“And you’re perfect,” he says. I quirk an eyebrow at him. “Well, minus your felonious tendencies and morning breath.”
I throw my head back and giggle. Because when I’m with Chase, I’m that girl.
“Walk with me?” Chase asks as he loosens his grip on me, letting me slide down to the deck.
His demeanor has changed. Suddenly, his jaw is tight and his eyes are darting every which way but at me. It’s like in those final moments before someone breaks up with you. A mixture of guilt and displeasure covers their face. And just like in those moments, my stomach drops. I look down and nod my head, then excuse myself, going to pick up my books and satchel.
When I return, Chase takes my hand and leads me down to the beach. The wind is strong tonight, throwing my braided hair every which way and sending chills up my spine. Being early evening, the sand is mostly desolate except for a few stray visitors. From the looks of it, I’d say a rain storm is rolling in.
We stop halfway to the water, and Chase sits down, pulling me into his lap. Still worried about his demeanor, I take my time setting my things beside us. When I can’t postpone it anymore, I meet Chase’s eyes. He gulps and does this thing he’s prone to do when he’s nervous where he cranes his neck in different directions. Truth be told, he looks spastic when he does it.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, fearing the worst.
Since Becca and I were found in that apartment, she hasn’t spoken to me. Last I heard, she’s staying with her aunt in Ohio. She did write me a letter, wishing the best for me but asking for space. After all my poor choices that she had to pay for, I can’t be selfish with her.
Still though, I think about her every day. Becca has always loved Florida, and I know she’d think Stormy’s Café and Betty are awesome. There’s so much I wish I could share with her, but she’s not ready. My mother says she still has scars on her face from when Victor cut her in the warehouse. Her face may one day heal, but I don’t know if the scars I placed on her soul will. For that, I may never forgive myself.
“Nothing, baby. It’s good news. It just suddenly hit me that pretty soon I’m going to get you every day. I won’t have to leave you like I do now.”
His words make me take pause. If they mean what I think they do, then soon this will all be over.
“Every day? Does that mean—” I stop, unable to say the words. If they’re not true, it’ll crush me.
But he nods his head, the smile returning to his lips. “We got him,” he says, clearly taking pride in his part in Victor’s capture.
Since Chase assisted the FBI that day in not only getting me and Becca out of the apartment but also in taking down Sarge and a slew of other dirty cops, they’ve used him as his department’s FBI liaison. According to my father, it’s a pretty big honor, espe
cially for a rookie. But that’s my Chase—he’s going places.
“And,” he says, regaining my attention, “Don wanted to tell you, but I demanded the honor . . .”
Don Blick, my attorney, has been working through a deal with the FBI for me. I gave the feds some information, and the FBI agreed that if they found it useful, they’d cut me a pretty sweet deal. Considering I waved an unregistered handgun around the Quarter like it was a strand of Mardi Gras beads, I’m pretty grateful they’re willing to work with me. But as Chase says, I’m not the big fish.
“Those addresses you gave Agent Brown? The feds recovered over a million dollars of coke in forged oil paintings. You’re scot-free, baby. All you have to do is sign the paperwork, then you’re all mine.”
I burst into tears at the news, unaware of how heavily a prison sentence was weighing on my heart. It takes a while for me to calm myself down, but when I do, there’s a newfound calm in my soul.
Chase places featherlight kisses along my jaw and whispers, “What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking I want to change my last name,” I say, already deciding on a winter wedding. We’ve been through this. Chase normally calls me crazy and tells me we’re breaking up if I buy one more wedding magazine, but we never do. And I have a subscription to five of them.
“This again? You’re crazy, woman.”
And I am, so I don’t squabble. Never before have I been this way. And sometimes I’m horrified by the things that fly out of my mouth. But instead of running away or freaking out, Chase just laughs off my wedding fever and tells me I need medication. He’s wise not to fight it too much. We both know that one day we’re going to share his last name. It’s only a matter of time.
“I know,” I say by way of apology and nuzzle into his neck.
He tightens his grip around my torso and clears his throat. “When are you going to ask me good and proper, huh?”
It takes a moment before I realize what he’s said. Even when I’m certain of what he’s said, I don’t react, fearful I’m actually going crazy.
But then he continues in a nasally voice, “I’m not going to be giving it up forever. You’re going to have to make an honest man out of me soon or the Church Ladies’ League is going to start praying for my soul.”
The giggle begins quietly and builds into a raucous laughter. I’m still trying to fight back the overwhelming glee when I meet his eyes. Neither of us is laughing now, and I know it’s the perfect time.
“Will you marry me, Mr. Guilliot?”
He doesn’t respond with words. Instead, he grabs the back of my head and smashes my lips against his. In between breaths, he mumbles, “About time.”
And while I’m focused on the way his tongue slides against mine, a cool metal band finds its way onto my left hand.
The End
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Acknowledgements
Every book is such a unique experience, but I consider myself lucky to have an incredibly strong support system that just seems to keep growing. Regardless of the project, I never worry that I’m in this alone. I can’t even believe the wonderful people I’ve met along the way. Adrianne James, Amy Shearer, and Amy Rivera—thank you for all the encouragement, laughs, and late-night crit. Books—you rock for reading my mushy stories when I know you’d rather be reading Batman. Michele Milburn, for editing this, and occasionally stepping out of the copy edit box to laugh at me. You always go above and beyond. Thank you for making my work readable. To those who took a chance on Marital Bitch and showed such amazing support of my work—thank you from the bottom of my heart. Huge hugs to Dawn Johnson, and Dawn Bourgeois for pre-reading and offering your thoughts. I strive to make you both smile. Brenda at Gonet Design—you did it again. What a gorgeous cover. I hold you personally responsible for the Scriptina trend. To my girls at Indie Ignites—you ladies are always so awesome about letting me talk things out. I heart you all!
Mom, thank you for believing in me even when I didn’t believe in myself. Making you proud is my greatest accomplishment yet.
About the Author
As a child, JC was fascinated by things that went bump in the night. As they say, some things never change. Now, as an adult, she divides her time between the sexy law men, mythical creatures, and kick-ass heroines that live inside her head. A San Francisco Bay Area native, JC has also called both Texas and Louisiana home. These days she rocks her flip flops year round in Northern California and can’t imagine a climate more beautiful.
Find JC Emery on the web . . .
http://www.jcemery.wordpress.com
http://twitter.com/jc_emery
http://www.facebook.com/jcemeryauthor
http://www.goodreads.com/jc_emery
Ride (Bayonet Scars, No. 1)
Release date: October 28th, 2013
Death comes in Armani. Salvation comes in leather.
Principessa to the Mancuso crime family, Alexandra knows a thing or two about living outside the bounds of the law. Suffocated by the future her father has laid out for her, she makes a choice she can't take back, changing the entire trajectory of her life.
Thrust into the dark and dangerous world of the Forsaken Motorcycle Club for her own protection, Alex finds herself faced with the last thing she needs right now: the man of her dreams. He’s sex in leather, the devil incarnate, and one hell of a kisser. But he’s also off-limits. Ryan Stone can be her friend, but he’s forbidden to be her lover.
Third-generation Forsaken, Ryan knows nothing other than life on two wheels, and he wouldn’t have it any other way. He enjoys the many privileges that come with the patch, and the only laws he recognizes are the ones set-forth by his club. That is, until who he wants more than anything isn’t allowed on the back of his bike —or in his bed. Balancing his desire for her body, and need to keep her safe, Ryan tries to keep Alex at a distance. Finally having made a choice for herself, she’s done hearing the word “no” and will push boundaries even Ryan himself doesn’t dare cross.
Love is never more tempting than when it’s forbidden.
Excerpt from Ride
“I want to have fun,” I say. Duke tightens his grip around my neck and gives Ryan the cockiest smirk I’ve ever seen.
“Princess wants to have fun,” he says, leading me toward the kitchen, past Ryan and that stupid bitch who still hasn’t let go of his neck. With every step that brings me closer to Ryan, my heart rate speeds up little by little. Brushing past them, a calloused finger reaches out, wrapping itself around my pinky. His touch sends waves of heat and bolts of anger through my entire body. I don’t want him touching me, but my body craves it. The more distance I put between us, the farther our arms must stretch to keep the contact. And we do for as long as possible. A quick look back, and I find Ryan’s arm reaching out, his index finger slipping from its grip on my pinky. We lose contact, and suddenly I’m not nearly drunk enough for this shit. Turning my attention toward the kitchen, I bring the bottle of whiskey to my lips, intent on making everything so blurry I won’t be able to remember what Ryan’s touch feels like.
“What are you up for?” Duke’s breath washes over my face, an olfactory reminder of how high he is. I check my nerves in the hallway and bring my face to his.
“Anything,” I whisper, letting the word drawl out in a husky breath. Really, I could fall over right now with how terrified I am of my own actions. If I thought I was in over my head with Ryan, I’m not sure what I’m thinking as I lead Duke on.
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Contents
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<
br />
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Excerpt from Ride (Bayonet Scars, No. 1)