by Bijou Hunter
“Look, dude,” River announces, far too loudly as if the pot has ruined his hearing, “my father kidnapped my mom when she broke things off. Used fucking chloroform and took her to a cabin, like a damn psycho. Sounds bad, but they’re still married after almost thirty years together,” he says and then reaches over to give my chest a fist pound. “And besides, do you think your mom would have ever dated your dad if he hadn’t stalked her just a tiny bit? No, so sometimes, you’ve got to bend the rules a little to make shit work.”
River is rarely wrong. Plus, Shelby keeps calling me a pussy for not making a move.
“She might be a real lame duck, but you’ll never know because you’re too busy jacking off to a fantasy girl,” she announces one night while feeding our French bulldogs, Hansel and Gretel. My sister’s dark hair is a fucking mess, like most days. The move to Shasta hasn’t gone smoothly, and she often refuses to leave the house. Today, though, she’s quite amused over my love life issues. “You’re hung up on a face and body. At least our dad stalked a woman he’d shared actual conversations with.”
“I’ve learned a lot about Ramona’s personality from her shows. She has a dog named Hilly, and she tried a chili-infused drink the other night that made her hurl.”
“I’d laugh at you if it weren’t so sad,” she says and starts to hug me before pulling away. “No, I coddled you too much as a boy, and now you’re a pathetic fraidy cat.”
I know Shelby’s just messing with me, but I get one shot with Ramona Verhees, and I’m afraid to blow it.
But no matter how things pan out, I know I’ll fuck up. Because, sooner or later, Ramona will expect me to pretend to feel bad about her loser, fapsock of a father, and I just can’t sell that lie.
Fuse ruled this town for a long time, making a lot of money and ruining many lives. He wasn’t an idiot. When Cooper showed interest in Shasta, Fuse could have negotiated a deal to retain some power or bow out without looking like a bitch. The shithead was too fucking proud, so River owned his ass. I can’t pretend to care, not even for a black-haired beauty with the voice of a siren.
Finally, I decide to make my move with Ramona. The longer I wait, the less wiggle room I have on my lies. Based on the things she’s said on her show, Ramona only recently moved back to Shasta. Even if Kelsi keeps her word about not ratting me out, Shasta isn’t that big of a town. I’ll run into her somewhere and lose control of the first time we meet. No, I need to make this shit happen now.
During my last week of recon, I learn Ramona drives to work on Wednesdays. She gets rides from Kelsi on the other days. I also found out that Ramona hangs around at the front of the building, enjoying a smoke on the days she drives. This is my best chance to get her alone.
I wear a long-sleeved sweater to hide my tats and drive my truck instead of the hog. If Ramona doesn’t like bikers, I can play the straight man for our first encounter.
Like clockwork, Ramona exits the radio station a few minutes after four. She leans against the building, fiddling with a cigarette she can’t decide whether she ought to smoke. Her hair is pulled back in a loose ponytail. She’s wearing a tattered T-shirt under a ripped flannel shirt. Her lower legs are bare, and she shivers when the wind swirls around her. With a bud in her left ear, she listens to music while still fidgeting with her cigarette.
Once I scan the street for anyone who might interfere with my plan, I stroll straight toward the girl who’s got me obsessed before we’ve even shared our first conversation.
My voice startles her, and Ramona drops her lighter.
“Sorry,” she mumbles, picking it up and ignoring me.
I don’t keep walking, though I probably should. We’re off to a shit start, but I remain in front of her. Ramona finally lifts her dark gaze from her lighter to me. After giving my face a quick glance, she does a once-over that’s adorably obvious.
“Sorry,” she says again.
“You’re Ramona Verhees.”
Her vague smile is instantly gone. Ramona tries to back away from me, but she just finds the brick wall.
“What do you want?”
“I wanted to ask if you’d play more Nirvana during your sets,” I blurt out when I realize she’s about to run screaming from me.
Ramona instantly relaxes. “No.”
“Can I make a request, then?”
“No,” she says, smiling. “If I let you make one, then everyone will too.”
“Do you get hounded a lot by fans?”
Ramona waves around. “Gotta beat them off with a stick,” she says, still smiling. “What song did you want?”
“Their cover of ‘Where Did You Sleep Last Night’?”
Ramona fiddles with her cigarette before sliding it in the front pocket of her blue flannel shirt. “Want to dedicate it to someone?”
“No, but can I buy you a cup of coffee?”
“Now?”
“Are you busy?”
“Yeah, that’s why I’m standing on the street. Super stretched thin.”
“We can walk across the street and get a cup at the Emporium.”
I expect Ramona to make me jump through a few hoops before she agrees. Instead, she shrugs and walks to the curb.
“I could use some caffeine, Guy.”
“My name is Shane.”
She gives me a side glance and smiles. “That’s a nice name. Next time lead with it rather than the creepy thing where you know my name.”
“I’ll keep that in mind, but you should be used to it.”
“And why is that?” she asks, stepping into the road without looking.
“Your picture and name are posted on the station’s website and Facebook page. People must recognize you.”
Ramona snickers at my words but says nothing as we walk into the Emporium. She orders a double latte and steps back. I’m so entranced by the little grin she’s wearing on her dark red lips that I struggle to remember I drink black coffee.
After I gesture to a nearby table, Ramona sits.
“Where are you from, Shane?” she asks as soon as my ass hits the seat.
“From Shasta.”
“Not originally, no.”
“Know everyone here, do you?”
“Yeah, pretty much. I grew up here, and I’ve never seen or heard about you.”
“I moved here a few months back with my sister,” I semi-lie. “We’re expanding our family’s construction business.”
I wait for her to ask the name of the business—Campbell Construction—and possibly blow my cover. The universe steps in and distracts her instead. Noticing a nosy blonde at another table, Ramona frowns before returning her attention to me.
“On the station’s Facebook page, they welcomed you back. Where had you gone?” I ask, sounding like such a stalker that I don’t know why I practiced what to say.
Ramona levels her gaze at me, and I take in the sight of her nearly black eyes. Right now, I see nothing else. Her lips purse as she considers her answer. Or possibly, she’s thinking about how much of a stalker I am to know all this information about her. Or maybe she’s wondering what my kisses taste like.
Whatever she’s thinking, I don’t want this long-awaited moment between us to end.
RAMONA VERHEES, AKA THE LEGACY
Oh, fuck me. My day was, well, like most of my days. I slog through a majority of it to get to the parts I like. My job falls into the “cool shit” category of my life. Normally, I’d stop by the store and pick up a few groceries. That part is where I’d dodge people I don’t like and avoid thinking of ugly shit that my head constantly wants to show me.
Before any of that lame stuff happens, a tall drink of fuck me enters my life. How is this guy real? They don’t make men like him in Shasta. Am I still stoned from last night? Did someone slip me a happy drug, and I’m hallucinating this wide-shouldered, bearded Clark Kent level of perfection?
I wish I wore jeans today, but I ended up picking these stupid long shorts that show off my knobby knees and scrawny calves.
Why are women supposed to have curvy calves? Who the fuck made up that rule?
Oh, wait, what was I thinking? That’s right. Fuck me, this guy is a dream, and he knows me. A fan? I have a few incel types who find me irresistible. I think it’s my throaty voice. See, even the word “throaty” implies blowjobs. I draw those weirdos to me, but they aren’t interested in the real Ramona.
No way does Shane care either, but I’m going to let him say whatever he wants because I need a sexy distraction just as much as the next girl.
I’d rather talk about him than about me. Except when a man this hot asks a question, who am I to play coy?
“I lived in Cleveland for a short time,” I say in a tone that makes it sound as if I just returned from a stint in Paris. “I had a job at a station there.”
“Why come back?” he asks and then adds, “Not that I’m unhappy to have you here.”
Shane sounds a little nervous, which is weird since his good looks are heating up this coffee shop. I’m sure he does that everywhere he goes. A man this fine doesn’t need to be nervous, but I sense him trying very hard to say the right things.
“I have family here,” is the only answer I can come up with that doesn’t lead to me barfing my life story on him. “So, does your sister work in construction too?”
“She runs the office,” he says.
“I assume you’re close since you moved here together.”
“She and I are best friends,” he says, again choosing his words very carefully. “Do you have any siblings?”
“No,” I reply, selecting my response with just as much care. Shane doesn’t need to hear about my dysfunctional Kardashian-style family dynamics.
Sipping my coffee, I pretend not to be checking him out. He’s got the body of a linebacker. Wait, is that the strong, lean one that runs? No, I think they’re called something else.
Doesn’t matter. Shane looks like an athlete, and he’s wearing a spiffy dark-gray, long-sleeved sweater despite the weather not being particularly cold. I assume he’s dressed for his job, and wonder what he wears when out on the weekends.
Now I’m hoping I get to see him outside of this shop. Should I pretend to be into sports like I did with my Cleveland boyfriend? Is that what an athletic guy like Shane would be interested in? Matt liked me because he was going through a rebel phase before finding a normal woman to settle down with for life. My rocker appearance shocked his vanilla sensibilities. Is Shane looking for a ride on the wild side? Ugh, do I have to be exciting? I don’t know if I can fake that for long.
“Do you enjoy your job?” he asks, again sounding too rehearsed to be normal.
“I love music, and my job involves setting up playlists of the best oldies and new stuff I find. I get to interview bands and go to local performances. The pay isn’t much, but it’s the best fucking job in the world.”
I realize I forgot to watch what I say. Does he have a problem with cussing? Matt didn’t think women should curse, though his dude-bros could swear like chicks on Bravo without him noticing. Is Shane a nerd like Matt? Will I have to pretend as if “Moby Dick” is my favorite book? No, I think I’m supposed to prefer “Pride & Prejudice,” which is a smart girl book.
“During yard work, my dad used to listen to Nirvana,” Shane says. “I’d help him, and we’d take turns picking songs.”
His warm tone distracts my brain from worrying over what I should say.
“Are you still close to your father?”
Shane’s dark eyes flash with pride. “He visited Shasta last week with my mom. We grilled outside.”
“Where do your parents live?”
“South Kentucky.”
A part of my brain—that smart part that can do math and remember stuff about the American Revolution—finds his answer odd. But I write it off, assuming he’s from a loser town full of junkies and doesn’t want me thinking his people are trash. Been there. I told people in Cleveland that I was from a Lexington suburb, which is true if “suburbs” can span an hour from downtown.
“So, you and your sister moved here to work for someone, or do you run your own business?”
“Both. My job is lame. Let’s talk about yours.”
“Because you’re a stalker?”
Shane’s glorious smile widens. “You have a voice any man would love to listen to.”
“So, you just want to listen to me talk?” I ask, lifting my black, fringe-lined purse in front of my face. “Does this work for you?”
“It’s possible I saw you before I heard you, and I’m a shallow fuck,” he says, chuckling while I peek at him around the bag.
“Oh, Shane, do you even like Nirvana?”
“That’s all true. And you can’t know how much I love hearing you say my name.”
The sincerity and need in his voice startle me. I’m not the kind of girl that men long for. None of the musicians I’ve slept with ever wrote a song about me or my magical pussy. I just don’t inspire that kind of emotion.
After Shane gives me a taste of such interest, I literally swoon. He’s so handsome, and he’s watching me as if I’m a fucking princess. I think I’ll cry if he doesn’t ask me out on a real date. No way should he only tease me with this feeling.
But his interest is based on my voice and the face he saw online or in passing. Personality is where I normally kill shit. That’s why I zip my mouth and stick to asking him questions.
“Is ‘Where Did You Sleep Last Night’ even your favorite Nirvana song?”
“No, but I didn’t want to pick the obvious hits and make you think I’m a poser.”
Something about his sweet need for my approval gives me the stupidest giggles. I can’t believe this hot man cares what I think about him. The world’s gone mad!
Then my real life does what it always does and shits on my stupid hopeful dreams. Normally, when a handsome man is in the process of charming my panties to the floor, I don’t give two shits about my phone. But my boss might offer me a second shift. Forcing my gaze off Shane, I glance at my phone to see a text from someone who’s never messaged me before. How does the twat even have my number?
“Can’t believe you’re fucking the guy who killed your dad, you fucking stamper,” texts Goddess Limbaugh—all-around twat and my twat half-sister’s bestie.
I catch sight of the blonde bitch sitting at the other side of the small coffee shop. Goddess snarls at me while I scratch my nose with my middle finger.
“What’s wrong?” Shane asks, glancing at the woman.
I reread the text and consider ignoring it. The bitch hates me. I hate her. We share a well-established relationship. However, why would she lie about something so easy to disprove? Her usual fuckery involves claiming she can smell my rotting pussy. Lying about Shane makes no sense.
“Seriously, what’s wrong?” he insists.
“You moved here recently.” Shane holds my gaze while he nods. “Did you hear about those new bikers in town?” Again, he nods without looking away. “Do you know any of them?”
His hesitation breaks my heart. Then I sink into that ugly feeling I get when I misjudge a situation and humiliate myself.
“Why did you buy me coffee?” I ask, feeling low now and wanting to leave. “Is this supposed to be funny?”
“I told you why I wanted to meet.”
“Because you like my voice,” I mutter, embarrassed by how I fell for this shit. “You know, rather than wanting to fuck the daughter of the guy you killed.”
Shane stands up before I do. With his con exposed, he figures he ought to just bail. Good! I don’t want to talk to him. He’s an asshole biker, and now everyone in Shasta will think I want to fuck the man who killed my dad. That couldn’t possibly bite me in the ass!
“Let’s talk somewhere more private,” he says, following me out of the Emporium.
“I’m done talking to you,” I hiss and start walking into the street before realizing I don’t want to get crushed by traffic.
Shane sighs. “I didn
’t kill your dad.”
“Fuck off, fucker,” I growl in a voice that isn’t particularly scary. Turning away from him, I wonder if all the traffic in the world is now on this road just to screw with my attempt to escape.
“Ramona, can’t we just be two people?”
I’m so flustered that I drop my coffee and waste all the free caffeine I really need now that I’m feeling low as fuck. Turning toward Shane, I hope I look enraged instead of about to cry.
“It’s not funny,” I say in a low voice since I feel as if everyone’s watching us. “Whatever this thing you’re doing is, it’s a jackass move. Why not go mess with the feelings of Safire or Dymond? Why does it have to be me?”
“I don’t know who those people are.”
“Right,” I mutter, rolling my eyes. Then I think of his sweater and why he’s wearing it on a mild day. Reaching for him, I shove up the sleeve and find tats. “You’re such a fake fucker. Do you even have a sister? Never mind. I don’t care. Just leave me alone.”
“Look, I saw you one day, and you’re so fucking beautiful that I had to meet you,” he says, following while I bolt across the street toward my clunker. “But, yeah, I found out who you were, and I knew shit might be awkward. That’s why I figured I’d play cool with the truth.”
If I weren’t so humiliated, I’d totally care about how he said I’m beautiful. Now that I know he’s a liar, though, everything he says is bullshit.
“Stay away from me,” I mutter as I fumble with my keys.
Shane reaches for the door, holding it shut. There’s a moment when our eyes meet, and I see the kind of man that would kill my dad. Not because Fuse was a fragile fuck taken down by a big meanie. My father was a cold, cruel man. Violent men feared him, but this guy—despite his handsome looks and stupid soft sweater—just ended him.
And now Shane wants something from me. How can I tell him no? The bikers in Shasta do whatever they want, ruin whoever they want, take whatever they want.
Shane steps back and adjusts his stance. “I want you,” he says and then rubs the back of his neck. “I blew shit today, but I think maybe you want me to give it another try.”