This is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons--living or dead--is entirely coincidental.
Miles copyright 2015 by Heather West. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission.
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“So this is it,” Miles opened the door to his motel room, ashamed of how modest it was inside. Brea deserved to be staying at five star palaces, not some shabby place that cost twenty bucks a night. But she walked inside as if it were the Ritz, admiring the four small walls and complimenting Miles on how nice he’d kept it.
“I like it,” she concluded, hands on hips. Even in the small room she looked tiny, like an exquisite doll.
“I’m glad you like it,” Miles nodded at her. His heart was already racing, wondering how long it would be before he had her naked on the bed with her legs spread. He got a semi just thinking about it.
Brea swiftly gave him his answers. She sexily maneuvered herself towards him, unbuttoning the shirt she was wearing as she moved.
“What if I want to talk first?” Miles teased.
“Do you?” Brea cocked her head to one side, a smile pulling on her soft lips.
“No,” Miles growled the word as he pulled her to him and kissed her deeply. Her tongue slid against his and desire within him grew, not to mention his cock. As she shed her clothes she went on to hastily removed his jeans and t-shirt. It was the first time they had both been completely naked together. Now all of his scars were on display but Brea didn’t mention them. Instead she turned around and crawled up on to the bed, curving her back and raising her ass in the air. Miles inhaled and clenched his hands in to fists. She was so sexy he thought he might explode there and then.
Fully on the bed on all fours Brea glanced back at him, her hair tumbling in to her eyes.
“What are you waiting for?”
Miles quickly joined her on the bed, positioning himself behind her. He ran his hands over the perfect roundness of her ass. They were so soft and perky. She gasped when he touched her, already aroused. Slowly he reached for the warmth between her legs, pressing his thumb against her clit. Brea groaned and he could feel her slick wetness against him, making him even harder, which at this point, he didn’t think was possible but she did this to him.
“Fuck me,” Brea ordered breathlessly.
“Tell me how bad you want it,” Miles ordered as a finger teasingly slid up inside her. She was so wet and tight. Just perfect. He bit down on his lip to stop himself crying out at the thought of it.
“I NEED you inside me,” Brea panted. “I want you to fuck me hard, my bad boy.”
Miles withdrew his hand and frowned. For only a second it aggrieved him to be her bad boy. He wanted to be more. But then this was the part he’d been groomed to play. He was the bad boy with the tattoos and the cocky attitude. He rode in to town on a motorcycle with a cloud of dust and would soon disappear the same way. If Brea yearned for a bad boy then that was what she was going to get.
“Fuck me,” Brea pleaded.
Miles gripped her hips and guided himself up into her. He groaned as his dick became enveloped in her moist warmth. He began to push back and forth, his eyes roaming over her perfect curves. Twice he smacked her perfect ass, loving how when he did, she became even wetter and gasped with delight.
“That’s it,” Brea cried out. “Fuck me! Fuck me hard!”
Miles entered her completely, almost climaxing as he did. She felt so fucking tight. He fucked her hard, giving into his own desires. She groaned and cried out beneath him and after a few minutes, shuddered as she came. Miles tightened his grip on her and cried out in delight, the sound escaping from him as he leaned back and filled the condom he’d hastily put on.
Panting, they breathlessly collapsed side by side on the bed. Miles could hear the drum beat of his own heart. Usually this was the point he’d made his excuses and ask her to leave. But all he wanted to do was lie beside Brea until he fell asleep. So that’s exactly what he did.
Chapter 1
Brea took a deep breath, inhaling the scent around her. She loved how the craft store in town smelt, loved how peaceful and tranquil it was within its aisles. Moving slowly she admired all the different shades of paint. They had every color of the rainbow but even more than that, colors she’d never even thought about before. She felt like a kid in a candy store. Brimming with excitement she placed a few of the brighter colors in to her shopping cart along with the artist’s notepad she’d already picked up.
This was Brea’s weekly release – a time when she could just be herself and be soothed by the world around her. Every Tuesday morning, like clockwork, she’d cycle in to town and stop by the large craft store beside the local Walmart. If the sun was shining, it made her trip even better. She’d linger among the aisles for as long as she could before eventually paying for her purchases and cycling back to the home she shared with her brother. The home they had inherited from their parents.
Checking her paint splattered watch, Brea sighed and pushed a loose strand of dark hair back behind her ear. She’d lingered in the store a little too long. If she didn’t leave in the next ten minutes she risked her brother, Sylar, getting in before she did and that was never good.
With quick, urgent steps Brea approached the check out.
“Morning, Brea,” Jane, the kind faced plump woman in the bright red smock grinned at her.
“Morning, Jane,” Brea smiled back. She wished that she had the luxury of time to partake in their usual morning pleasantries. She’d ask about Jane’s children and they’d discuss the weather from the week before. But time was no longer on Brea’s side.
“I’m in kind of a hurry today,” Brea told her apologetically as she frantically shoved her items into a paper bag.
“Oh, honey, don’t you go rushing now. More haste less speed, that’s what my mother always used to say.”
“Hopefully I’ll have some more time with you next week,” Brea said as she handed the cashier her cash. She always had to pay in cash, never on card. On card her purchases could be monitored. But any cash she got her hands on was her own to spend as she liked. And she loved nothing more than buying art essentials. On sunny days she’d just be out in the back yard beneath the weeping willow and waste the day away sketching in her notebook. Lately it was the only thing which bought her any joy.
“You’re too young and pretty to let that brother of yours keep you locked up like a prisoner,” Jane clucked, handing Brea her receipt.
Every week Jane would tell Brea how she needed to get away from her brother, how she needed to live her own life. The whole town had an opinion on Brea and her brother, the poor little kids over on Brixton Road who lost their parents too young.
Brea had been twelve when they died, Sylar fifteen. He’d dropped out of school and taken any work he could find. He’d saved her from a life in the foster care system. And now that Brea was eighteen she felt like she couldn’t just walk out on her brother when he’d scarified so much to keep her in school, to keep some normality in her life.
“I’m not a prisoner,” Brea explained with a thin smile. “Sylar is just…strict.”
“Hmm,” Jane looked unimpressed but her angry melted in to a warm smile none the less.
“Well you have yourself a good day, Brea. And make sure you pop by next Tuesday to see me.”
“I will,” Brea promised as she headed for the door. Outside the sun was burning bright as she hurried over to her b
ike, pleased with her new purchases.
She pedaled hard and fast back through town, desperate to make it home before Sylar did. He’d been out all night working. She had no idea what he did. He went out on his motorbike at dusk and rarely returned before dawn. She assumed he did shift work somewhere, maybe at one of the factories just outside of town. He made good money. She was always finding wads of cash around the house and on the occasions she slipped a twenty dollar bill from the pile to fund her art habit, Sylar didn’t even notice. It was as if he didn’t even know how much money he had.
Brea cycled through the small town which had always been her home with the wind blowing through her short dark hair. The familiar streets looked shabbier than they had when she was a child. It was as if when her parents died the sheen had come off the entire world and she was forced to see things for what they were.
Finally Brea reached Brixton Road, a street lined with small wooden bungalows, some in better condition than others. She remembered on bright mornings how her father would turn on the sprinklers and let Brea and Sylar dash beneath the spurts of water until they cooled down. Now the lawn outside their house was overgrown and thick with weeds. Sylar was always promising to get out and mow it but he never did. Their lawnmower had been pawned long ago, back when times were leaner.
Dismounting her bike Brea pushed it up towards the car porch and then stopped. Sylar’s bright red motorcycle was leaned up against the side of the house, heat still tumbling off the dark tires and causing the air to bend.
“Dammit,” Brea cursed under her breath. She was too late. She’d failed to beat her brother home. She considered hiding her shopping in a nearby bush. The bag was in her hand and she was about to stoop down and conceal it when the mesh door of the house clattered open revealing Sylar behind it. Brea instantly straightened and remained frozen before him, like a rabbit caught in head lights.
“Where the hell have you been?” he snarled angrily at her. Brea could feel eyes upon her as neighbours pulled back their curtains in the hope of witnessing a heated exchange. She refused to give them such a show. Pushing back her shoulders she confidently approached the house and pushed past Sylar.
Inside the house was dark and cool thanks to the ceiling fan which was forever rotating above the small lounge. They’d once had a proper air conditioning system but that, like the lawn mower, had been pawned long ago.
“I said where have you been?” Sylar reached for her shoulder and spun her around to face him.
Like his sister, he had dark hair and bright blue eyes which were vivid even in the darkness of the house. But he stood a good foot taller than Brea and he looked down upon her now with anger distorting his chiseled, handsome features. Brea was about to respond when she noticed the dark bruise clouding around his left eye.
“Hey, what happened?” she pointed towards it and Sylar flinched. “You get in an accident at work?”
“Yeah,” he replied gruffly, turning away so that she could no longer see the bruise. “A box fell on me.”
“Want me to take a look at it?”
“No!”
“Seriously, Sylar,” Brea strode away from him and slung her shopping bag down on to the sofa.
“You’re always getting hurt at work. Last week it was that cut on your hand, before that you broke a rib. I swear you should just take out a law suit against your employer. No job should be this hazardous.”
“Just drop it,” Sylar ordered briskly. “Where were you?”
He was back on his mission of interrogation.
“I went shopping,” Brea sighed. It was hardly as if she’d committed some terrible crime which was how Sylar was trying to make her feel.
“Shopping?” he echoed incredulously.
“Yes, shopping,” Brea gestured angrily at the bag containing her art supplies. “I needed a few things so I cycled into town. I don’t see why you’re getting so worked up about it.”
“You’re supposed to stay at home,” Sylar declared through clenched teeth. “How many times, Brea? You stay here!”
“Like a prisoner?” Brea shrieked, clutching her bag tightly against her chest. Suddenly she wanted to be as far away from Sylar as possible which meant either retreating to the yard or her small bedroom. She chose the yard.
She started stomping through the open plan living room and kitchen towards the sliding doors which led out into the modest yard. Here the lawn was more tamed than the front yard thanks to Brea’s back breaking efforts with some garden shears she found in the garage. She lacked the stamina to do both lawns.
“Brea!” Sylar boomed her name with such force that some of the glasses in a nearby cabinet shook.
“Sylar,” she sighed as her shoulders slumped and she turned back, one hand resting on the handle for the sliding doors.
“I love you. I love everything you’ve done for me. But I’m eighteen, it’s about time I started having some sort of life.”
“Don’t I care for you?” Sylar demanded angrily. “Don’t I buy you food, keep a roof over your head?”
“Yes,” Brea admitted. “But I’m not a pet dog. I need more than food and shelter. You should let me go out and find a job, that way we’re both taking care of the house you’re not shouldering the burden alone.”
“I’m managing just fine!”
“Are you?” Brea cried heatedly. “Because you’re always beaten up to shit and in the foulest of moods.”
“You’re being ungrateful!” Sylar barked. “Do you have any idea the lengths I go to in order to keep us safe?”
“Safe?” Brea repeated the word, frowning. “Safe from what?”
Sylar sighed in frustration and kicked at the sofa.
“Safe from what?” Brea repeated. In recent years Sylar seemed to be scared of his own shadow. Each time the doorbell went or the phone rung he jumped ten feet in the air and went as white as a ghost. The front door was covered in a dozen different bolts and locks, same for the back. Sylar became obsessed with securing the home as though he feared that there was going to be an imminent zombie apocalypse which only he knew about.
“Just…” Sylar ran his hands through his dark hair. He smelled of petrol and cigar smoke. Brea was becoming increasingly determined to follow him to work one night and see what kind of a factory he was actually working at.
“Just trust me,” he eventually conceded. “I’ve always looked out for us, haven’t I?”
“Yeah.”
“Then just trust me.”
“Trust goes both ways you know,” Brea told him as she yanked open the sliding doors. The dense heat of the day came tumbling in around her, challenging the overhead fan which continued to spin in its never ending orbit.
She stepped outside and breathed in the hot, clean air. Behind her she heard a door slam as Sylar finally left the argument to go and lick his wounds. Brea failed to understand how he could worry about her so much. Sure they lived in a slightly dangerous part of town but nowhere was without the risk of petty crime. She was basically an adult now and she couldn’t go on with Sylar insisting on treating her like a child.
Brea lay her head against the thick trunk of the willow tree in the yard and reached in to her bag for her new sketch pad and paints. She took a deep breath and let her mind clear. And then she started to draw. She drew ornate skulls adorned with flowers and jewels, she drew magical fairies who danced across the garden on luminous wings. She filled pages and pages with her drawings and she only stopped when a shadow spread across the page. Squinting up against the sun she saw Sylar standing above her, holding a fresh glass of iced tea. Condensation clung to the glass as the ice cubes swirled noisily within the amber liquid.
“I thought you might want this,” he handed it to her. “Especially if you’re going to insist on spending the day outside.”
“Thanks,” Brea smiled up at him in gratitude.
“I’m heading to bed for a bit,” Sylar told her. Dark circles had blended with his blooming bruise to make his eyes appear ho
oded and sinister.
“Promise me you’ll behave while I rest?”
“I promise,” Brea told him sweetly. “And I’ll even stick a pizza in the oven for when you wake up.”
“Thanks, sis,” Sylar sauntered back towards the house, his shoulders slumped. Brea watched him with a heavy heart. She knew that she couldn’t let him keeping supporting them both. Whether he liked it or not it was high time she got a job of her own and started paying her way.
Chapter 2:
While her brother slept Brea poured over the local newspaper, determined to find herself a reasonable job. Sadly, there wasn’t much work going. Most of the jobs posted required some sort of relevant experience which Brea didn’t have. Pretty much the only thing she really excelled at was her art. Beyond that she could cook and clean but no one was hiring a surrogate sister or mother.
Miles (Highway Reapers MC): Inked Hearts Page 1