Stand By Your Man: (Three Bad Boy Romance Novellas)

by Peter Presley

  Stand By Your Man

  Peter Presley

  Contents

  About Peter Presley

  Book 1

  1. Colton

  2. Abby

  3. Colton

  4. Abby

  5. Colton

  6. Abby

  7. Abby

  8. Colton

  9. Abby

  10. Colton

  11. Abby

  12. Colton

  13. Abby

  14. Abby

  15. Colton

  16. Abby

  17. Colton

  18. Abby

  19. Abby

  Book 2

  20. Jackson

  21. Cameron

  22. Jackson

  23. Cameron

  24. Jackson

  25. Cameron

  26. Jackson

  27. Cameron

  28. Jackson

  29. Cameron

  30. Jackson

  31. Cameron

  32. Cameron

  33. Cameron

  34. Jackson

  35. Jackson

  36. Cameron

  37. Jackson

  38. Jackson

  Book 3

  39. Gino

  40. Gino

  41. Sherri

  42. Gino

  43. Sherri

  44. Sherri

  45. Sherri

  46. Gino

  47. Sherri

  48. Gino

  49. Sherri

  50. Sherri

  51. Gino

  52. Sherri

  53. Gino

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  About Peter Presley

  Peter Presley is the alter ego of Piper Presley. Piper writes shorts; Peter writes novellas.

  Sign up for Peter and Piper’s newsletter and get a free eBook THORN OF A SOLDIER: An Army Wife Romance.

  Details are found at the end of Stand By Your Man.

  Book 1

  Colton and Abby

  One

  Colton

  There’s nothing in this abandoned warehouse, outside of Chicago, that’s not dark, dingy or depressing - the walls, the floor, the ceiling, everything. And it doesn’t help that there’re no windows in this moldy shit hole. But, it’s been my office for the last two years, and it’s served its purpose, one my mother wouldn’t be proud of if she knew what I was doing. In fact, she’d be horrified. My name is Colton Lang, I’m 27, and it’s safe to say I haven’t lived the life my mother hoped her only child would live.

  I was born in Kalamazoo, Michigan on October 9, 1989. Mom is Irish, and my father was German. We were just another white, middle-class family with a working dad who came home every night, and a mom who as a housewife kept a clean house and had dinner on the table promptly at six.

  By the time I was seven, I’d walk a mile to and from school with my book bag thrown over my shoulder because my parents wanted to teach me to be responsible and not lazy. I was safe. Back then you didn’t have to worry about some pedo messing with your kids when they walked alone.

  I made good grades, and my mom was convinced I’d become a doctor or a lawyer someday.

  But, when I was ten, my dad died, and his death changed my world. The life we led was over, and mom, now a widow and a single parent, was forced to take on a secretarial job and could no longer afford our home or pay the tuition for the Catholic school I was attending.

  Eventually, it got so bad, we couldn’t even afford groceries. Neighbors helped, but after a while, they just felt sorry for us. When we could no longer afford to stay, we packed up and ended up almost three hours away at an apartment in Detroit.

  And that’s where things went downhill for me. My school and my homework meant nothing. I was depressed about my dad, but I never cried. Crying was for sissies, and the kids I hung around didn’t do that, though they had lots to cry about. All I wanted to do was run the streets with these kids, do what they did. They didn’t have dads, and neither did I. They did whatever they wanted, and so did I.

  Pretty soon, my mom gave up trying to control me. At this stage, she was working two jobs just to keep things going.

  A big black guy named Demarco pulled me into his gang. He said he didn’t care if I was white as long as I did what I was told. I pushed with two black kids my age, Kevin, and Jamal. We worked the whole town, selling crack to as many people as we could. I’d come home with hundreds of dollars in my pocket. I tried to give most of it to my mom, but she said she wanted nothing to do with that “dirty money.”

  Eventually, mom saved enough to move us to another apartment, this time in the suburbs. Mom figured she could get me away from that “wretched” life I was living. Her brother died, and she was one of the beneficiaries. The money put me back in Catholic school. Honestly? It didn’t help much, no matter what the nuns did to me.

  By the time I was 15 I had muscles and tats. The girls would stare at me or tell me that they thought I was “cute,” even the goody-goody girls, the ones who hadn’t done anything yet.

  So I guess you can say I’m good-looking or at least that’s what the girls say. They rave about my cock, too. Yeah, it’s big. I could be a porn star if I wanted to be.

  Guys give me a hard time about my looks or are jealous that I can get any pussy I want when I want it. One guy told me that if I were gay, he’d go after me in a heartbeat. Well, I’m not gay. I’m into the ladies, a lot, and I made sure he knew that.

  Somehow, I graduated from high school, and by that time, mom had met a new guy, a real douche who thought he could tame me. He learned fast that nobody could tame me.

  One night, I walked up to my mother and kissed her on the cheek. She looked at me strangely, because it had been a long time since I did that. Then I smiled at her and went to my bedroom. Mom didn’t know it would be the last she’d see of me for quite some time. I wrote her a letter, told her I loved her, and then, at 3:00 in the morning, when they were asleep, I bounced.

  I’m good on my own; I’d made more money than I thought I’d ever make. By the time I was 25, I had worked a variety of jobs. I won’t get into what all of them were, but let’s just say none of them was legal.

  Now, I’m 27, and for the last two years, my crew and I have been boostin’ cars. We jack the fanciest foreign cars we can and sell them at a discount to guys who don’t care where we got them. Even with the discounted prices, we made bank.

  But things didn’t always go so well. Five-O nearly got us after our last job. Some pencil dick decided he would try and get revenge by reporting us to the cops, all because we wouldn’t sell him the Jag he wanted, even though we tried to tell him it was already sold.

  I’ve done time - a year for passing bad checks. I told myself after that I wouldn’t get my ass in jail again.

  So here we are in this dingy warehouse, and I’ve decided it’s time for the crew and me to scatter. Guys like me don’t make money for long if we don’t know when to get the hell out-a-dodge.

  Two

  Abby

  It’s almost noon, and I’m just waking up. I took almost a year to get used to working nights after I bought the bar. But I got used to it, and I enjoyed it. That is until recently.

  I wish I could stay in this bed for the rest of the day, but I can’t. I have to face my responsibilities.

  How did someone like me, Abby Fork, someone who used to have it all together, get into such a mess? I sure can’t lay the blame on my upbringing like so many others do.

  I was raised in a good home and according to what’s often considered good, old-fashioned family values. You know the kind of thing I m
ean. My dad was an executive, the traditional earner. He worked hard, taught me the value of money and possessions and how to earn them instead of taking them for granted, making sure I was never spoiled. My mom was a homemaker, devoting her life to caring for her family, house always clean and tidy, laundry up to date and pristine, home-cooked meals on the table every night and us all sitting down together as a family to eat, waiting for dad even when he had to work late so we could all talk and share our day.

  I grew up in Lake Forest, Illinois. It’s a good area, wealthy, and I was surrounded by other families just like mine, lots with the average two kids, some more, some less, like mine.

  I was an only child. So I got all the love and attention a kid could want. I had a good relationship with my folks, even through the horrible teenage years we all go through. I wasn’t so bad though, never feeling any need to rebel. My parents led by example, and I always did a pretty good job of following their lead, studying hard, getting good grades, never going off the rails like some of the other kids in my neighborhood. I actually thought it was pretty idyllic.

  In fact, it pains me now to think about how great it used to be. I still remember the way I felt when I decided that buying a bar was a good move for me. I had bartended in many bars before and saw how they were managed. I didn’t like working for someone when I knew I could do just as good a job on my own, if not better.

  Then that property popped up and being the no-fear gal that I am, I decided I’d go for it. I’ve always been good with money; I had saved quite a bit over the years. Plus, my dad pitched in $25,000 to help me get started.

  My own bar at 22. How proud I was of myself for making the move. How excited I was when I managed to hire a staff; get everything cleaned up; get the place renovated and stocked, all within a year.

  Fast-forward to three years later, and buying that bar is the biggest mistake I’ve ever made. It pains me to say it, but I might as well tell you. I’m over $100,000 in debt.

  How did it happen? Well, there’re a couple of reasons that I can pinpoint. The first one is that I hired an accountant who pretty much fucked me over even though she claimed to be my friend. The second one is that two new bars opened and they managed to snag some of my regulars.

  But it wasn’t just because new bars popped up. Some of my regulars left me because I don’t put up with a lot even though they figured I would because I’m not some big boned girl with big muscles.

  I’m a tall ginger with long hair and long legs. They say I have a pretty face, and that I’m attractive, even though I think I’m a bit pale. Maybe I’m pretty or maybe I’m not, but the one thing I’m not is a doormat. I will not let guys walk all over me just because they think they can. So, if I have to raise my voice and swear, I’ll do it. It seems to do the trick. I never intended for my bar to become some place for drunken brawls. I take care of unruly behavior, on my own despite being a girl, and so now I have a reputation. The guys I’ve thrown out have no problem calling me the “bitch with the bar.” I don’t care.

  I want to keep the bar, but I don’t know how I will manage it. God, I’ve never been so depressed.

  Three

  Colton

  My crew has officially dismantled, and I’ll never have to step foot in that shitty warehouse again. The guy that let me use it took it back. I never want to see it again.

  I’ve got money saved from my previous gigs, and I’ve got investments, but I still need to come up with a plan for new cash. If there’s money to be made, I’m making it. I never slack.

  Until then, my best buddy Axel and I are shaking it off and going to get a drink. What’s done is done, and jackin’ foreign cars is in the past, at least for now.

  “Where do you want to go man?” says Axel. He’s driving a Porsche 911, and I’m in the passenger seat. The windows are rolled all the way down, and the air blows my thick dark hair. Axel’s got a shaved head, so nothing is blowing on his side.

  “I don’t care,” I say. “There’s a bar right there.”

  “Where?”

  I point. “Right there, fool. Pull over!”

  “Yeah, yeah, okay.” Axel pulls his car to an empty section of the curb. “I can taste that PBR right now.”

  I climb out of the car and slam the door. “You’re the only guy I know who drinks that shit.”

  “Pabst Blue Ribbon is the best beer on the planet, bro. The best beer on the planet.”

  “So you say.”

  When we get inside the bar, we see people, but not as many as I would think for a Friday night. It’s not a big place, and it’s not fancy. Everything is pretty much average for this type of joint, furniture designed to be easy to wipe down at the end of a long night, the décor in need of some serious renovation. It’s not a dump, just tired-looking.

  Beneath my feet are wooden floorboards, scuffed and even with small chips in places. Still, the place is a lot cleaner than many I’ve seen. There are a couple of backsides perched on barstools and a few others scattered around the tables, maybe twelve or so at most.

  But the bar and the scarcity of the patrons isn’t really what’s got my attention right now. What I’m noticing is the hot bartender with the long red hair. She’s wearing a tight plaid shirt and blue jean short shorts. Damn, I haven’t seen legs that long since I fucked that blonde two months ago.

  “You’re done, Sam,” screams the lady bartender. “No more!”

  “What the hell!” says the man named Sam. He’s a big guy in blue jean overalls. He’s standing on two legs, but just barely. “I got money to spend in here.”

  “Go spend it somewhere else. I’m cutting you off.”

  “Hey, you can’t do that.” The big guy moves in. As he does, I rush over to where they’re standing. Axel follows suit. We can’t let this jerk hurt this woman.

  But before Axel and I can do anything, the lady bartender pushes the guy against the chest. “Get out! Get the fuck out right now!”

  The guy’s baseball hat falls to the floor. He picks it up and puts it on his head. “There’s a reason everyone thinks you’re nothing but a bitch, Abby.”

  “Hey, you heard the lady. Get out of the bar.” Now I do speak.

  “Why don’t you mind your own business, pal,” the guy yells back. He walks out of the bar, stumbles is more like it, bumping into one of the tables as he goes.

  The lady bartender stands with her hands on her hips but with a grin on her face. “Hello, gentlemen. Welcome to Fork. I’m sorry you had to witness that.” She steps back behind the counter. I stare at her ass as she does it.

  “What can I get you, fellas?”

  Axel takes a seat at the counter. “Pabst Blue Ribbon, bottle.”

  I sit down too. “I’ll take a bottle of Corona.”

  “Perfect!” The lady bartender hands us the beers. Axel takes a long swig of his. I wait, preferring to smile at the sexy woman in front of me. She notices but returns only a quick smile and then turns her back to me. She’s chosen to ignore me, but that doesn’t mean I’m ignoring her. See, there’s something else you need to know about me, in case you haven’t guessed. When I see something I want, I take it.

  Four

  Abby

  Well, it looks like I’ve turned away another customer. Sam is such a jerk anyway. But if I keep this up, nobody will be left.

  The two guys who walked in tried to help, but I can take care of myself. I think they can see that. One of them has a baldhead like Mr. Clean. I don’t mind bald men. In fact, bald men are sexy, in my opinion. But this guy is not sexy, not like his friend, the one with the thick dark hair. The one that smiled at me with the sort of smile I’m all too familiar with when it comes to some of the guys in here. My back is turned right now, but I bet if I were to turn around, he’d still be smiling at me, probably staring at my ass too.

  Forget it. Do you know what he and his buddy look like? They look like a lot of the other guys who come in here - bad boys - the kind of men who are up to no good.

  Yeah
, this guy may be one of the hottest guys who has ever come in here, but I’m not letting him know I think that. No way. I deal with these kinds of characters in here all the time. Unfortunately, this place attracts them even though I throw a lot of them out. But when it comes to my personal life forget it! I’m done with bad boys and the trouble they cause.

  I hate to admit it, but I’ve dated my fair share of shady. I don’t know. I guess with the way the bar was turning out, depression was slowly getting to me. I needed some sort of outlet, something that would make me forget about the bar and everything that had to do with it. Heck, I’m still depressed, and my problems with the bar are worse now than ever, but at least I’ve managed to escape every now and then.

  There was Alec. He entered my life on a Harley, looking like a stereotypical biker in black leather and tattoos. But he was cute. Real cute. He had me the minute he took off his shades to order his drink and smile at me in the cocky, confident way that he had. In contrast to his dark looks, he had these piercing, brilliant blue eyes. They were startling, compelling. I felt like he was looking right into my soul, knew me like no one else ever had. Deep down I knew I was making it overly romantic, maybe even trying to justify it. But if I ever really believed it, even for a minute, he proved me wrong time and time again, his actions showing that he didn’t really know me at all. I don’t know. I guess it lasted with him for about three months.