Stone: At Your Service (Carolina Bad Boys #1)

by Rie Warren

  “Yeah, I’m hiding from those vicious writers too.”

  She laughed, and then her gaze flickered over me, not with a quick glance but with the attention of a woman who liked what she saw. I held still, held my breath and felt like she electrocuted every one of my nerve endings until my muscles jerked in excitement rather than exertion.

  And that was all before she even stretched her legs to either side of her in a near split and began limbering up.

  What had I thought this morning about wearing a hard cup jockstrap? Yeah, that. I needed one now. My cock rose and the thin material of my shorts was not gonna hide a single goddamn inch of thick erection for very long.

  I covertly slipped the tank top over so it fell on top of my crotch. Resuming my workout on the pull-up bar, I watched Leelee as she watched me. I pumped up and down at a strong, measured pace. She performed some yoga-type moves that immediately put me in mind of inventive sexual positions. I hopped down and moved on to weighted squats, and she bent over from the waist, walking forward on her fingertips, round ass in the air.

  The tank top wasn’t gonna last very long concealing my raging erection at this rate either. And it was pretty damn hard to do squats with my dick as iron-hard as the barbell in my hands. I was so revved up, my only hope was to outlast her. My very, very best dreams come true . . . and my worst nightmare of the moment right in front of me:

  Soft, voluptuous Leelee

  Who writes fuck-hot, steamy sex

  And works out

  In tight ass Lycra and boob-hugging spandex

  Long wavy red hair

  Beautiful southern drawl

  Hard as nails and sharp as a tack underneath it all

  The kind of girl I could take home to Ma . . . and the kid. Fuck fuck fuck.

  “Spot me?”

  I almost fell on my ass when I heard her request. I brought the barbell slowly to my shoulders and then lowered it to the floor. “What?”

  “Could you spot me?” Her face was flushed from all the yoga cum Kama Sutra contortions.

  I groaned and pretended to massage a hamstring to cover the quick jerk in my shorts. Jesus. I’d spot her all right, all the way down to the mats. “Sure.”

  She lay back on the bench after calibrating the weights. I stood behind her, thighs opened on either side of her head. This was a very bad position for me to be in. If things went south, my cock was gonna end up in her mouth.

  Through deep and determined inhales and exhales while she pumped iron, she asked, “Did you get a chance to check out Ride?”

  I tried real hard not to think about where I’d left off reading: Jase and Avery desperate to fuck, yet deliriously as cockblocked as me. Every hot word written by Leelee. I definitely couldn’t admit I’d been about to tug my tackle over it either.

  “Yeah, a little. Not bad.”

  Leelee nodded her chin, signaling me to put the weight back on the rack. As soon as she was clear, she swiveled up and around. “Not bad?” She playfully punched me in the ribs.

  I couldn’t tell her what I really thought, so I shrugged. “The guy-girl thing doesn’t cut it for me, ya know?”

  “Hmm.” Leelee reserved her opinion on my opinion.

  After that, we went around the machines together. Sexual tension hovered on the sidelines, but it was broken down with talking, teasing . . . and sweating goddamn buckets.

  An hour later, we sat against the wall, arms hanging over our knees.

  “You remind me of my ’69 Camaro.” I had an oilgasm every time I thought about the muscle car I kept babied in the garage beside my house. Sleek, bright red, and just gritty enough, the car was an American classic, like Leelee. Not like the fancy foreign made motors I was making a fake career over.

  I braced myself for the backlash. The last time I’d said something similar was to Claire about her resemblance to my full-sized Bronco. I meant she could handle anything, not her post-baby weight. Shit got ugly after that.

  “That was supposed to be a compliment,” I added when Leelee made no comment.

  Her smile was slow in coming but it lit me up like the rays of the sun when it hit me. “I know. My daddy’s a gear-head. He always wanted to get his hands on one of those. I grew up with my head under the hood.”

  Lovely Leelee, a tomboy in grease-stained coveralls? Va va vroom and va va voom. Damn if she wasn’t the woman of my dreams.

  “You’re not the tough guy I first took you for, Stone.” She patted my leg.

  Begging to differ, I scowled in response.

  She poked a finger at my biceps that didn’t dent a centimeter. “Frown all you want, I’m still not convinced.”

  “It wasn’t a frown, babe, it was a glower.” I jumped to my feet and hauled her up with me, catching her when she stumbled.

  Leelee’s lips brushed my shoulder, her breasts skimming against my midsection. Her thighs hit mine as I clasped her waist. “Steady now.”

  Heat flared between us but I couldn’t act on it. I couldn’t swing her thigh up to my hip, grip her neck, grind against her. I couldn’t do any of the wild and nasty things I wanted to.

  I released her. Slinging a towel around my neck, I held onto its edges, shaking my head at the floor. I looked up just in time to see her pitch a fresh bottle of water at me. As soon as I caught it, I twisted off the cap and spilled it over my head. I shook my wet hair all over her, just like Viper gnashing my favorite, scuffed-up work boots. Maybe that pup liked me after all. Not to be outdone, Leelee tossed the contents of her bottle down my neck too, laughing as I rained more water on her.

  When I stopped, she looked at her top, which was almost as drenched as my hair. “You will pay for this, Stone.”

  “Lookin’ forward to it, Leelee.”

  Walking out of the gym, we both grinned from ear-to-ear. Smelly, sweaty, and wet, we waited for the elevator to arrive once again. Other convention-goers gave of us wide birth, packing into the first elevator like sardines.

  When the next one arrived, I bowed formally, bare-chested, wet body and all. “Going up, Miss Songchild?”

  She started into the car, beaming at me. Two steps inside, she pulled up short, her face blanching. Against the back corner of the elevator, the creeper agent slouched, a slimy smile on his mouth.

  Chapter Five

  Wednesday: It Takes Two to Tango

  THE AGENT DIDN’T LOOK so smug when I followed Leelee into the elevator. My bulky mass and heavy scowl put the fear of a beat-down in his deeply hooded eyes.

  The doors closed and he straightened his tie, brushed off his cuffs. He held out his hand to Leelee. “We meet again, Miss Songchild.”

  “So it would seem.” She gave him the barest amount of her fingertips to shake, and I tried not to chuckle. I didn’t bother to hold back my laugh when she used my tank top to wipe off her hand after he released it.

  From within his jacket pocket, he pulled out a business card, flipping it from finger to finger like a poker chip. “You know, you really should consider signing on. We have the power to get you where you need to go.”

  “Which is where, exactly?”

  “The Big Six, of course. One book out in the Ride series and success on Amazon merely makes you a one-hit wonder. Without big backing, you’ll likely be fly-by-night, forgotten-by-dawn just like millions of other writers.”

  Although LaForge appeared calm, there was something of a coiled snake in the way he sent his jabs, bearing his fangs before the strike. I was beginning to get an idea of how he worked, first using his glossed-over metro-man looks to hook his victims, and if that didn’t work, he sank his teeth into the first weakness he could find. I maintained my stance just slightly behind Leelee, making sure he didn’t forget I was there but letting her handle the scum herself . . . before I beat his head against the wall.

  “But self-publishing has made me an instant hit and puts bucks in my bank instead of your pocket.” Her braid swished back and forth across her shoulders in agitation.

  “And how
is that second manuscript coming along? Almost done, my dear? The fans are waiting. Isn’t the point of doing it yourself to get your work out faster?” His lips curled in a sneer.

  “The point of self-publishing is to retain control.”

  “Control, hmm? Is the lack of control around a lot of people why you’re not much at handling crowds?” He continued to needle her. “An agent could help you navigate conventions, press, promotions.”

  Leelee paled as he hit her weak spot, and my pulse hammered.

  The business card flew faster and faster between his fingers. “I can take you to the big leagues, Leelee.”

  “So you can take fifteen percent and the publishers can have seventy-five and I’ll get less than one dollar a book.” She threw her head back to glare at the numero uno asshole.

  Asshole kept pushing it, leaning forward, invading her space. “You should really bite now. Offers like this won’t last long, not with the non-stop crop of new writers popping up everywhere.”

  I broke from my self-enforced cage and rolled up in front of him. Menacingly huge, I was in his fucking face.

  “Guard dog?” He stepped back.

  Leelee opened her mouth, but I shoved the agent’s shoulder before she could get a word out.

  “Yeah, that’s right. I’m the protection detail, so you might wanna rethink it before you open that mouth again.” I grabbed Leelee’s hand and gave it a squeeze of reassurance.

  A frown formed between LaFuck’s brows while he watched her hand gripped in mine. Then his face brightened. “You’re Nicky Love’s partner, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah. What’s it to you?” Sliding my fingers from Leelee’s, I crossed my arms over my chest.

  The gleam in his eyes turned positively predatory. “So you, and Miss Songchild . . .”

  “Are friends.” I prodded him back into the corner, not liking the two-and-two connection he was making. It wouldn’t be good for Nicky, Leelee, or me if he figured out the lie. I picked up the business card that had dropped from his hand. Andrew LaForge. LaForge and Associates Agency. Helping you LaForge ahead with your writing career.

  “Clever.” I slipped the card into my waistband and muscled up to him. “But don’t you forget, I will LaFuck you up if I catch you skulking around Miss Songchild again.”

  The elevator pinged. Whether it was his floor or not, the dude slithered out. But he stood outside the doors, watching us until they closed.

  Shaking him off, I looked over at Leelee. She stared at me, mouth agape.

  A smirk playing on my lips, I leaned against the wall opposite her. “Still not buying the tough-guy image, babe?”

  ****

  After dropping Leelee upstairs, I banged through the door of our room. Nicky was in the bathroom, steam pouring from the shower. I reached in and shook the shower curtain. “I’m home, lover.”

  He yanked it back far enough to stick out his head. “You smell like a gym rat.”

  Perfect. Just the scent I was aiming for around Leelee.

  I flipped him off and stalked to the bedroom area where my phone danced on the nightstand, lighting up with missed messages. Janey, Jamie, all the samey . . . plus the chick I’d fucked Friday night. Samantha, that was her name. Delete, delete, delete.

  My finger hovered over the screen when I got to an attachment from the goons at the garage. Did I really want to know? I groaned into my hands before squinting at the image that popped up on my iPhone.

  Someone—and my best bet was on Ray or Javier—had detailed their picture like they better be detailing the cars. Whoever the ha-ha-so-hilarious fucker was, he’d gotten his Photoshop on. Red flowers ringed every one of the guys’ hairy assholes with the words Stone’s Roses curlicued across the bottom of their butts.

  Definitely delete, forever. I was never gonna recover from that picture. I put in a call to the office, trying to perform a mental brain scrub while the phone rang.

  “Stone’s, at your service,” Ray answered.

  “Next time y’all send me a photo of your fuckin’ puckers, I’ll pluck every single pube out and—”

  Ray must’ve had me on the speakerphone because Javier yelled out, “¡Ea diantre! Tweeting that, Stone!”

  “Wow, the thought of you tweezing our asses is really disturbing.” My second in charge whispered in a horrified voice.

  It truly was. I banged my forehead against the wall and said in clipped voice, “Just get back to work.”

  “It’s closing time,” Javier chirped.

  “Then close up already ’cause I’m not paying overtime for shits and shenanigans.”

  “Sure thing, boss.” Ray replied before I cut him off.

  Imbeciles.

  Nicky’s head appeared around the bathroom door. “Grease monkeys?”

  “They’re fuckin’ evil, man.” Walking over, I lounged against the door. “How’d the rest of your day go?”

  “Not bad. I spoke with my editor about the new series—the one with the witches—and shot the shit for a couple hours with some readers.” Dark circles ringed his eyes from our late night and his early morning. “We have to hustle though, the hens are expecting us in the lobby in an hour.”

  “Okay, stud.” Moving into the bathroom, I shoved off my loose-tongued sneakers and watched his face. “Never seen you like this, Nicky.”

  “Like what?” Foaming his face with one hand, he ran his razor under the tap.

  “In your element.” I air-quoted that shit. “It’s kind of cool seein’ you in action.”

  “You ain’t seen me in action yet.”

  I snagged a towel off the rail and snapped it between my hands. “God, I hope not.”

  Whipping the terrycloth against his ass to get him to move over, I braced for the tussle to come. He didn’t disappoint, going for a headlock skull-rub combo before he pushed me away.

  “You still stink like a locker room.”

  I stripped down and staggered into the shower. The hot water eased my muscles, just not the one in dire need of relaxation. By the time I got out—no tugging, fantasy fucking, or raging hard-on release had—Nicky had shaved, dressed, and dabbed himself in fancy cologne.

  “And you smell like a hooker.”

  “Get off my back.” He spritzed one more time.

  “I thought you wanted me to get on it.” I slapped him, hard, between his shoulder blades.

  “I lied, not into hairy bears.”

  I toed up to the fogged-over mirror beside him and rubbed the tat on my chest. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “You shouldn’t,” Nicky sniggered.

  Unzipping the garment bag on the back of the door, I began dressing. “I’m supposed to wear this getup tonight, right?”

  “Yeah.” He fingered the silk tie while I pulled out a pressed white shirt and put it on. “Nice suit, man. Tom Ford?”

  “Yeah, yeah, I figured I’d splurge for a change, ya know? Not that I know jackshit about Tom Ford, but hey, it’s a Ford one way or another.” The new suit tailored for my big frame was the first I’d bought since my wedding, which had been the first I’d had to get since my dad’s funeral.

  Pulling on the slacks, I rasped a few fingers over my shadowed jaw. “By the way, dude, we’re not doing this when we get back to Chucktown.”

  “What? Sharing the john?” Nicky stood at the toilet, shaking off and tucking in.

  “No.” I glanced at him. “Talking about clothes and crap.”

  He fistbumped me in reply to that, thank fuck.

  Buttoning my shirt and tucking it in, I leaned a hip against the counter. “Ma said to tell you Viper’s doing fine.”

  “Did you tell her I love her?”

  “Yeah, I kissy-faced your pooch over the phone, asswipe.” I started working on the tie.

  Nicky brushed my hands aside and I tilted my chin up to let him do the honors. “I meant your mom, you dog hater.”

  I wasn’t a dog hater, I was a Cujo hater.

  He tightened the knot at my th
roat and ran a finger underneath to straighten the tie. “There you go, handsome, all set.” He passed me my jacket.

  And the fact that we’d just gotten ready in the bathroom together with him fixing my tie didn’t feel weird at all, because we were as close as brothers even if we weren’t wholly embracing the true lovers role. I wandered into the other room to hunt down my shoes.

  Nicky called out, “Did you get Leelee to her room all right after lunch?”

  “Uh, yeah.” At least one more time than everyone else knew about, too.

  “Uh, yeah?” Appearing in the doorway, Nicky’s voice rose and his face dropped. “Aw, shit. I know that sound. That’s the Josh Stone gonna-get-laid sound.”

  “I haven’t touched her, haven’t kissed her.” And I’d only eye-fucked her as little as humanly possible. “I’m not gonna mess this up for you, man.”

  Walking over to my side of the bed, he poked the lascivious book that lay face up and spine split on my pillow. “Wanna tell me about this, then?”

  Frustrated—in more than one sense—confused, and completely out of my mind over Leelee, I swiped up the offending book. “She’s not even my type, Nicky.”

  “Since when have you had a type? Your type is pussy.”

  “Hot pussy,” I muttered.

  He had a point, one I didn’t like to admit at all when I thought about Leelee. The women I went for were easy on the eye, highly sexed, and ready and willing. A sense of humor helped, especially when I showed them out the door thirty minutes after our final fuck on a Friday night.

  I slapped Ride against my thigh. “She’s demure and sweet and really funny. Bonus? Her dad’s into cars. She spent most of her childhood hanging out in the garage with him.”

  Ass planting heavily onto the bed, Nicky sighed. “Sounds like she’s just your type.”

  I shook my head, hard enough to loosen a few brain cells, because I wasn’t ever looking for more than a quick hook-up when the kid was snug as a bug at Ma’s. I didn’t need his heart getting torn apart again. “Nah. It’d take too much work to get into her panties.”