by Melinda Minx
Stone Hard
A Secret Baby MC Romance
Melinda Minx
Contents
1. Joanna
2. Stone
3. Joanna
4. Stone
5. Joanna
6. Stone
7. Joanna
8. Stone
9. Joanna
10. Stone
11. Joanna
12. Stone
13. Joanna
14. Stone
15. Joanna
16. Stone
17. Joanna
18. Stone
19. Joanna
Epilogue
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1. Andrea
2. Coal
3. Andrea
4. Coal
5. Andrea
About the Author
1
Joanna
A fresh start. I left my cheating asshole boyfriend behind in Denver. I left everything behind. The Rockies are already hours behind me, and the only thing I have left from my old life is my shitty, beat-up, 15-year-old Dodge Stratus. It doesn’t even have a plug for my phone, so I’m blasting an old mix-CD from when I was in high school. I sing so loud that I don’t even hear the battery light beeping on and off.
Oh, but it is beeping. I turn the music down and listen. Beep. Beep. Beep.
It’s an old car, all the lights are already on: the engine light, the squiggly key-looking light, and now the battery light. But only the battery light is blinking.
Shit. I turned off I-17 shortly after entering Arizona. I wanted to see the backroads as I drove into my new home, to see the natural beauty of the desert.
The car sputters a bit. Shit.
I turn off the A/C, and then the CD player.
“Please, battery, don’t give out on me,” I say, desperation seeping into my voice.
And then, as if in response, the battery--and the car--gives out on me. The engine shuts off, and I hear a low whining sound for a moment, but then that stops, too. My car coasts briefly, and I use the leftover momentum to pull over to the side of the two-lane road. My tires grip the shrubs and sand, and soon I come to a complete stop. Total silence settles over the inside of the car, and I sit in that little bubble of peace for a few moments.
I look at my phone. It’s dead. Shit. I just couldn’t have shelled out the $15 for one of those cigarette lighter adapters?
I punch the dashboard and scream. “Fuck!” I punch the steering wheel, and then I rest my forehead against it, as if apologizing.
“Why am I apologizing to you?” I ask the car. “You’re the one who betrayed me. Just like that asshole Ray did.”
I notice the open bottle of water in the cup holder. It’s half empty. Not half full--half empty. Denver is dry, but you never had to worry about running out of water in the city. But this is the actual desert.
When was the last time I saw another car? Hours ago? The A/C has only been off for a few minutes, but the heat is already rising. I open the door and step outside, and I take in the endless horizons and the sheer openness of the desert around me. This little two-lane road is my only lifeline to civilization, but what civilized people are actually travelling on this dinky little road?
I’m wearing a sundress and sunglasses, but despite its name, a sundress will not protect me from the relentless Arizona sun.
I look around in desperation for some form of shade, but there’s nothing. It’s just past noon, so the sun is straight above my head, and the weak desert brush around me casts only enough shade for my feet.
“I just had to take the backroads. Now I really can reflect on the majestic beauty of the desert.”
I sigh and grope for the latch that opens the hood. An open hood and a woman in a sundress should maximize my chances for someone stopping to help me. I just hope it won’t be the wrong kind of people, though at this point I can’t afford to be choosy.
I look down at the engine after I open the hood. It’s a confusing, black-and-grey coiling mass of metal and plastic. I hate cars, and I barely ever used mine in Denver. Maybe that’s why the battery died.
“Battery...where’s the battery?” I mumble as I look down. I see a big plus sign drawing pointing to what looks like a big, silver screw. “Okay, that’s where I hook up the jumper cable.”
Shit. Do I even have jumper cables?
I pop the trunk and pull out some of the boxes. These are the few belongings I wanted to bring with me--the things that hadn’t been mentally tainted by four years with Ray. I set the boxes on the ground, then I sigh in relief when I see a pair of jumper cables tangled up in a deep corner of the trunk. They’re a bit rusted and gnarly, but they’ll probably do the job.
I hook the red cable to the big plus sign, and I bend over to look into the hood, but I can’t find the minus sign.
I look back down the road, as if the desert itself is going to tell me where to hook the cable. But then I see something on the edge of the horizon. It’s moving through the point where the water-like mirages shimmer across the road. It’s black and chrome, and the sun hits it just right, lighting up the chrome and shining at me like some kind of beacon.
A lone biker? Is that better than a pack of bikers? Probably not, at least a group of bikers would all have to agree--maybe hold a vote?--to kidnap and do awful things to me. But a lone biker? It could just be some sociopathic serial killer, patrolling the desert for defenseless women in sundresses. I suddenly feel foolish for having my hood up and the jumper cables attached. Well, half of the jumper cables, the jumper cable. It’s a big advertisement for anyone passing by that I am stuck and alone, and that if you’re a bad guy, you could do whatever you wanted to me.
I consider pulling the cables off and shutting the hood, but surely the biker already saw me. And even if I had the hood shut, seeing a car pulled off to the side of the road in the middle of nowhere isn’t exactly subtle.
The bike gets closer and closer, and I find myself just standing there and staring at it. So much for not looking desperate.
I can soon make out the man on the bike. He’s wearing a sleeveless leather jacket over a dark grey t-shirt. His arms are bulging with muscle and covered with tattoos. He’s not wearing a helmet, and even from a few hundred feet away I can make out the sharp planes of his rugged face and his high cheekbones. His hair is shaved underneath and it’s longer on top, and the long strands whip back in the wind, then fall to the side as he slows down and pulls off the road.
He dismounts his bike and kicks out the stand as if it’s the most natural movement in the world, like some modern cowboy who is at one with his chrome and leather horse. His legs are hugged by tight jeans, and they are thick and strong as tree trunks.
He pulls off his sunglasses and looks up at me. His piercing, wintry-blue eyes meet my gaze, and I feel a rush of heat flood through my chest. And speaking of my chest, I suddenly realize I’m standing up really straight, pushing my tits out toward him, as if his masculinity magnetically attracts my feminine curves.
He takes a few steps toward me, and that stone hard face breaks into a panty-soaking grin. He looks down at the jumper cables, and then back at his bike. “So you want me to jump you? Or you want a ride?”
Uh. I want to jump him. No, I want to ride him. What?
His grin spreads to a full smile as I feel my cheeks flushing red-hot.
“J-jump,” I say.
Jesus, Joanna, use full sentences!
“I’d like to jump--a jump--I’d like a jump, please.”
Can motorcycles even jump cars?
He steps closer to me,
and I realize I have to crane my neck to look up at him. He’s tall. Really tall. His chest is impossibly wide, and even from a few feet away, his masculine scent hits me like some kind of chemical weapon designed to make me dumb and girly and unable to stop blushing.
He arches an eyebrow as he examines the engine. “You know there’s two jumper cables for a reason, right?”
His voice is hard, but there’s a teasing softness to it.
“I...I couldn’t find the minus sign.”
“The minus sign,” he says, shaking his head. “Women and cars just don’t go together.”
“Excuse me?” I say. “Did you really just say that?”
He scoffs and looks over at me. “The minus sign is just a ground, you can hook it to the chassis.”
He bends down to pick up the black cable, and I feel my eyes dart instinctively to his ass. Damn, it’s a nice ass, and my eyes widen to really drink him in.
I pull them away when he starts to turn back toward me, but he must see the guilty look on my face and read right through me.
He grins at me. It’s an evil grin, and I bite my lip as all kinds of totally inappropriate thoughts rush through my mind.
He holds up the clamp. “Come here, let me show you. Or would that hurt your fragile ego?”
“Fragile?” I snap. “Just because I don’t know about cars doesn’t mean I’m an idiot.”
He smiles at me with his eyes, then says, “I never said you were an idiot. Never even thought it. Just said women and cars don’t go together. Now watch.”
He squeezes the clamp, and instead of watching what he’s doing, my eyes are just staring at his delicious forearms. The veins pop out as he squeezes, and his strong hands do something around the hood, but then I run my eyes back up his arm and--
“It doesn’t look like you were paying attention,” he says, letting go of the clamp.
“You,” I mumble. “You hooked the thing, to the metal thing. The car.”
He shakes his head. “The chassis. Look, why don’t I just jump the car for you, I’ll save you the lesson.”
Oh, but I like hearing him talk. “No,” I say. “Sorry, I’m listening.”
God, what am I doing? This guy is totally not my type. Not even close. He’s the complete opposite of my type. But then what is my type? Ray? Ray cheated on me, so maybe my type is bad? Or is just Ray bad?
“Sweetheart,” he says, “you really aren’t listening.”
Oh, Jesus, he was talking and I really didn’t hear a word. Did he just call me ‘sweetheart?’
“Joanna,” I say. “It’s Joanna.”
I hate it when strange men call me stuff like ‘sweetheart,’ but for some reason--maybe the way the word slides right off his tongue--I don’t seem to mind when he does it.
“Stone,” he says.
I narrow my eyes at him. “Your name is Stone?”
“That’s what I just said.”
I reach my hand out, he grins. Dimples form into his cheeks when he smiles. He takes my hand, and though he grips me ever so gently, I can feel his raw strength through that soft grip.
“Nice to meet you, Jo,” he says.
“Joanna,” I say. “I hate Jo.”
“Alright, Jo,” he says, “take your key out of the ignition.”
“Joanna…” I say in a low, defeated whisper.
He crosses his big arms and waits for me to obey him, and when I see the impatience on his face, I quickly fumble toward the car and bend over to grab the key. It doesn’t come out, so I pull and struggle.
“You gotta turn the wheel,” he says. “But take your time, I’m enjoying the view.”
Oh. My. God. I’m bending over in a sundress and he’s staring at my ass!
I jolt upright, and slam my head against the hard metal top of the car. Against the chassis.
“Ah!” I yelp, and then the pain floods into my head, and I feel tears well up.
I stumble back out of the car, but Stone is right behind me. His strong, calloused hands grab me as I begin to stumble. One hand grips my waist, and the other is solid against my bare arm. I lean into him, and his towering height and solid strength makes me feel incredibly safe and protected. I want to just lean into him and wait for the sun to set, but once I’m steadied and the pain starts to die down, his hand leaves my waist. He grips both of my arms and leans closer into me.
Now those ice-blue eyes are close to me. Closer than I ever thought they’d be. I can see every grain of his thick stubble. He leans closer. Jesus, is he going to kiss me?
“Turn around,” he says.
“Wha--”
“Turn around, Jo.”
I obey.
I feel those hands on my hair now, gently parting it. God it feels good.
“There’s no blood,” he says. “Probably just going to leave a bit of a bruise.”
He strokes my hair until it is straight down again, and I stand, petrified. My instinct is to turn around and look back into those wonderful blue eyes, but I fear that if I do, I won’t be able to control myself again.
“You’re sure your motorcycle can jump my--”
“Sweetheart,” he says, “just call it a bike. And yeah, it can jump your car.”
I feel his voice moving away on the last few words, so I turn back around. He’s moving his bike closer to my car now, and he sets it back down, picks up the cables, and hooks them to his bike--on part of the gleaming chrome.
He steps up onto his bike, and again I marvel at how natural the motion looks, like he was born to ride. I imagine myself trying to get on a bike like that, but I can’t even picture it. He starts the bike, and it roars as he revs it. He steps back off, leaving his bike running.
Over the roar of his engine, I hear my car dinging to let me know the key is still in the ignition. I take a step toward my car, but Stone steps in front of me, cutting me off.
“Let me take care of this, sweetheart. Don’t want you getting another injury.”
I grit my teeth. The only reason I bumped my head was because he was checking out my ass, not because ‘women and cars don’t mix,’ or some bullshit like that. I can handle taking the key out of the ignition.
But then he bends down and leans into the car, and I find myself staring at his ass again. He moves the wheel and pulls the keys out.
He jangles them at me. “Gonna let the battery charge for a few minutes, leaving the key in there will drain the battery. You always want to pull it out first.”
I bite my lip and nod.
“You’re not much of a talker,” Stone says, leaning against my car with his arms crossed.
Actually, my friends in Denver said I talk way too much, but with a man like this in front of me, it’s only natural to be tongue-tied.
“You, uh,” I point to the patch on his jacket. It shows an orange Phoenix behind a yellow sun. “F.P.M.C.? What’s that?”
I’m used to small talk with a guy starting with something like, “So what do you do?” I realize I have no idea what a guy who wears a leather jacket and rides a bike through the desert does, and a question like that would feel incredibly awkward.
“Fallen Phoenix Motor Club,” he says. “My MC.”
“Oh,” I say, nodding like I have any idea what that means. “Well, luckily you know about cars and not just bikes.”
He laughs and shakes his head. “So, what about you?”
What kind of question is that? What is he even asking me? It’s such an arrogant and non-specific question, it feels like he’s intentionally trying to throw me off guard and keep me flustered.
“I don’t have an MC,” I say, sarcastically.
“Not what I meant,” he says, eyeing the cardboard boxes still on the ground behind my car.
“So if you wanted to know something specific, you can ask me what you want to know.”
He points to the boxes, but doesn’t open his mouth. He just leans back and waits for me to answer his non-question. Infuriating.
“Those are cardboard b
oxes,” I snap. “So, what about you?”
He laughs loudly, the dimples in his cheeks really digging deep as he laughs. “Jo, no need to be so defensive, just trying to make some conversation while your battery builds up some charge.”
“It’s Joanna,” I say. “Not Jo, not sweetheart.”
He grins. “So you said. That’s too many boxes for a short trip, and too few to be moving.”
“I don’t have a lot of baggage,” I say, rolling my eyes.
Actually, my emotional baggage with Ray is the reason I have so little physical baggage. Not that I’d say something like that to this obnoxious biker.
“Ah.” He nods. “So you’re moving, then? You know the I-17 is a lot safer for people who don’t take care of their cars.”
I realize I’m standing in the brush while he’s leaning against my car. “Can we try to start the car yet?” I ask.
“You could,” he says, shrugging.
I let out an exasperated breath. “In your vast and limitless expertise,” I say, “do you think it would be a good idea to try starting it now, or should I wait longer?”
“Hey,” Stone says. “No need to be sarcastic.” He looks over at his bike. “I’m not in a rush or anything, just enjoying the view here. But yeah, maybe we can try now.”
His eyes drop down my body, and then slowly move back up.
My cheeks burn, and I cross my arms awkwardly, but then his eyes shoot up to my chest.
“You’re just pushing them together when you do that,” he says, smiling wide. “If you’re trying to hide them, that’s not--”
“Okay,” I say, looking away. “Starting the car now!”
I carefully slide into the seat rather than bending down. I take care to keep my dress from riding up as I sit down, and my heart is still pounding from his last comment. Did he seriously just brazenly admit he was looking at my cleavage?
“Wait,” Stone says as I reach for the key.
I pause.
“Let me rev my bike when you turn the key.”
I nod, and I watch him through the windshield as he mounts his bike. When he revs it, he looks natural and in his element, as if he regularly just sits on his bike and revs it for hours at a time while grinning smugly down at people.