Taking It Slow: Doing Bad Things Book 3

by Marie, Jordan

  I smile. Tails it is! It feels good. I keep the penny handy.

  I’m sure there are more turns ahead.

  4

  Titan

  “You got married?”

  “You don’t have to shout, Cora. I’m not deaf.”

  “No, just stupid. Who the fuck did you marry?”

  “A sister… of a friend,” I answer, having no other words. Besides, that sounds better than some blonde I fucked all night.

  “You’re engaged!”

  “Well, not officially,” I grumble.

  “Fuck officially! You’re all but engaged. What do you think you’re doing? This could ruin everything!”

  “Meyers could still offer me the position, even if I don’t marry his daughter,” I growl. I haven’t been happy with the decisions I’m making anyways. Sure, Jacey is a sweet girl. I like her, she likes me. I never wanted marriage, though. I didn’t go into this thinking of it as a marriage; it was more of a contract. I marry Jacey, I get my shot at being general manager of the Turnpikes. Jacey gets her trust fund from her father completely and can use the money to open up the art gallery her father thinks is a waste of time.

  We both win out of the deal and we have reasonable chemistry together… I guess… We’ve gone on a few dates. Shared a few kisses… okay, I have no fucking idea if we have any chemistry. I don’t think of her like that, and I’m pretty sure she doesn’t me either. In fact, I get the impression the woman could care less about my dick. It’s a new feeling for me, but I didn’t care. We agreed we go into this marriage with the goal of getting what we want and staying out of each other’s ways. What Daddy Meyer doesn’t know won’t hurt either of us.

  That was the plan… Until Faith.

  “You have to divorce her, Titan. There’s no other way.”

  Cora takes being my agent seriously. Right now she’s annoying the shit out of me, however.

  “Yeah, well, there’s just one little problem with that,” I growl, rubbing the back of my neck.

  “What?”

  “I can’t find her.”

  “You. Can’t. Find her?” And this time she screams those last two words out so loud that I have to hold the phone away from my ear.

  “Woman, you’re starting to piss me off. I’m not one of your lapdogs that sits and rolls over at your command,” I growl.

  “Well, that’s obvious, Titan. If you were, you would have already been GM of the Turnpikes and you and I would be sitting pretty with your huge bonus and my fat commission.”

  I bring my hand down to my lap and tighten it into a fist, frustrated at Cora, for sure—but more so at myself. She’s not saying anything I haven’t thought myself since getting out of bed this morning. I look down at the wedding ring on my finger, still not quite processing what I’ve done and what a fucked-up mess this has all become.

  “I’ll handle it,” I tell Cora, but I have no idea what I’m going to do.

  “You better. I don’t need to remind you that you need this money as much as I do,” she growls, slamming the phone down.

  She’s right too. I do need the money. When I said I hadn’t planned for my future I wasn’t shitting. My accounts aren’t gone yet, but they’re fucking low and I’m looking at getting cut from the roster for the next season. I need this position. If I don’t get it, I’m going to end up some sad color commentator on a second-rate network—and that’s if I even get that kind of offer. Those usually go to the golden boys. Whose skin is pale—or at least lighter than mine, who are pretty in the face and have charm. None of that is me.

  Never has been and never will be.

  I drop the phone, contemplating my next move. Hope was zero help. That leaves only one… White and that crazy, fucked-up family of his. They’re all probably still around the hotel somewhere.

  I find that damn blonde, I’m going to smack her ass for making me chase her down.

  I ignore the way that thought makes my dick happy. He’s never getting back inside of her.

  And that news doesn’t make either me or my dick happy.

  5

  Faith

  I thought Colorado would be more exciting. I’ve been here for a week and so far, the only thing exciting I’ve found… Yeah… I got nothing.

  When I left the hotel room that morning, I drove until I got tired and that ended me here—Buck-Stop, Colorado. I can’t tell you how I ended up here, but I’m pretty sure the penny I used was stuck on tails, because my trip here was a series of left turns.

  I never knew Buck-Stop existed and near as I can tell, it’s not on the map, which is good when you’re in the hot water I’m in. I’m not just talking about that sexy Godiva dark chocolate man that I left in Vegas, either. Although, I guess that’s the one I keep looking over my shoulder for. I have other things influencing my flight though. I have an ex-boyfriend that’s been calling. One I definitely do not want to hear from. I didn’t have a great time in that relationship and with one hit from him, I was done. I left him with my knee planted in his balls and slammed the door while he was rolling on the floor. Hearing from him is bad juju. Add in the fact that my sister Hope has called me constantly. She’s called so much I’m pretty sure she’s been laying into me more than she’s laying her husband. Which is bad, since technically she’s still on her honeymoon.

  All that adds up to the reason I “accidentally” dropped my phone in a motel’s bathroom. The silence has been bliss.

  I got a job at a gas station. I got to say I liked dealing blackjack in Vegas much better—but then, that got me into more trouble than I care to remember. I’m not planning on staying here forever. I can’t.

  “Hey, Girl, your new uniform came in this morning. Go put it on and don’t drag your feet. We’ve got a busy schedule today,” my new boss informs me while walking out of his office.

  He knows my name, but he constantly calls me “Girl.” It’s beyond annoying and I might dream of knocking him over the head with a tire iron in my spare time. He deposits a small paper bag on the counter. I look at it and my eyes nearly bulge out of my head. I could barely fit a sandwich in there, let alone a uniform.

  I pull out… a bikini.

  “You have got to be shitting me,” I respond, holding up the skimpiest white bikini I have ever seen in my life. The top will barely cover my boobs and it’s studded. There’s literally silver studs all over it, making it shiny and glittery as hell. The bottom will mostly cover my ass, so I guess I should be glad it’s not thong style.

  “You got a problem?”

  “You expect me to wear a bikini in a gas station? Have you seen this place, Joe? I’ll be covered in oil by the end of the day. And why do I need to wear a bikini? I stand behind a counter all day.”

  “You’ll be pumping gas,” he responds. He sounds like he thinks I’m just being plain stupid not knowing what’s expected of me.

  See, there are no 7/11s or regular Chevron or Shell stations in Buck-Stop. There’s Joe’s. Joe’s is a gas station that looks like it stepped out of a 1970s sitcom. It has the old style 1980s pumps and he still literally has the black tube a car drives over that makes a bell ring when someone pulls up outside for gas. The inside doesn’t have a store. It has snacks, one freezer housing sodas—chest type, no fancy pop machine at Joe’s—and car supplies like oil, brake fluid, windshield washing fluid, antifreeze and so on.

  Still, he pays in cash, which is nice, because I’ve been using my credit card to the point that I think I can hear it screaming every time they swipe it. I just never planned on wearing a bikini.

  “You want me to pump gas wearing a bikini? Outside?”

  “You can’t very well pump gas inside, now can you? You going to talk my head off all day or go put your uniform on?”

  “It’s a bikini, not a uniform,” I argue, frowning.

  “Are we going to have a problem? I could have hired other people, you know, Girl. You either do it or get out, but don’t expect me to pay you for today because you haven’t done anything t
o earn me one dime.”

  “You do realize we are in Colorado, right? That the weather is freaking cold?”

  “It’s not like you’ll be out there all day. You’ll have breaks to come inside. Make up your mind. You’re starting to wear on my nerves,” he grumbles.

  For a minute I’m torn. I really want to tell him to go fuck himself. But my bank account needs to moderately recover before I can hop back on the road and play left or right turn into the next state. So instead, I sigh. Then I take the bikini and head to the back office.

  I’m changing the damn penny next time. Clearly I should have been turning right when leaving Vegas behind.

  6

  Titan

  Getting a call from a private investigator at two in the morning informing you that your wife is somewhere in Colorado is not exactly what every man dreams of, I’m sure. It sure as fuck isn’t what I wanted. After a week of hearing nothing from her, I can admit I was starting to panic. I have plans and my actions kind of derailed them. They weren’t plans I’m necessarily proud of and I’ve been thinking twice about them—actually a lot more than twice. But they were plans, and either way I moved forward I didn’t need to do it with a ring on my damn finger. A ring I’m still wearing. I like to look down at it and remind myself that I’m an idiot.

  An idiot that should never drink Patron.

  I let the information lay for a bit. By my calculations, my runaway bride will have been in Colorado for over two weeks. I had hoped that by now she would have reached out to me. That hasn’t been the case and I’m starting to worry. Cora, on the other hand, is trying to go ballistic on me. With each day that passes, I’m thinking of saying screw it on the Turnpike’s general manager position. If I do that, I’m pretty sure I’ll have to find another agent.

  Finding Buck-Stop Colorado wasn’t as easy as you would think. The damn place isn’t on the freaking map. Apparently it’s a self-proclaimed city that broke away from a larger one. The larger one had a huge population of eight hundred—insert sarcasm here. Buck-Stop has a recorded population of three hundred. Apparently three hundred and one, since Faith has decided to take up residence.

  I drove for six hours straight and then crashed at a dive hotel off the interstate before starting back on the road at six this morning. It is now two in the afternoon, which means I’ve been on the road a fuck of a long time. I’m hungry, my car is running on fumes and there’s a picture of a blonde with a killer ass in my head, and with every mile I change from thinking about spanking her raw, to throttling her.

  I should have stopped to eat a while back, because I’m getting the feeling there will be nothing in Buck-Stop. Up ahead I see a garage with a sign that says “Joe’s.” I’m hoping they at least sell gas, or I could be stranded here. That wouldn’t be healthy for me or for Faith at this point.

  Joe’s must be the only damn station around because there’s a line. I’m talking there’s at least a row of ten cars in front of me. Jesus. I pull up behind a beat-up old Ford pickup and wait. I cut off the car and roll the windows down to conserve gas. The damn warning light with the little pump came on about ten miles back. I don’t know how much more I have before it goes completely empty. I turn the radio off and once again find myself staring at the ring on my finger.

  “That’s it, baby. Clean that windshield,” I hear a man shout out.

  “You tell her, Earl,” another says.

  “If I knew old Joe had this kind of service, I never would have moved out of the city.”

  “You and me both,” another says.

  I think it’s pretty clear this town might be completely insane. I blot it out and breathe a sigh of relief when I can move up. I can’t tell you how long I stayed in line, but I know it has to be around twenty or thirty minutes. Finally, there are only two cars in front of me. I’ve never seen anything like it. I have to wonder if there’s a storm in the forecast and people are panicking, wanting to make sure their tanks are filled. That’s when I see exactly what is causing all of the uproar.

  I can’t see great, because there’s a truck between us. But there’s a woman in a fucking bikini with her ass stuck out checking the air in a tire. I can’t see her face, but I’m getting a damn good view of her ass. She’s got sexy legs. Not long, but tanned and gorgeous. She’s wearing heels too. It’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever seen, considering this is a gas station in fucking Colorado.

  I have to admit I enjoy the view, however. That barely-there white bikini rises up against some fucking luscious ass cheeks. One of them has a birthmark on it. It’s a cute little thing. I can’t see it really good and sadly, the woman moves before I can see it better.

  “I need to you check my antifreeze too, girl. Seems like my old motor has been running pretty damn hot today,” the man says.

  “You can say that again, Leroy.” The guy in front of me laughs, elbowing the other guy as the girl walks around the truck. They block her from me for the most part, which is damn sad—but I figure my time is coming. Whoever the owner of this place is, he’s a fucking genius. Already, I see ten cars behind me and I’d swear two of those were in front of me when I got here.

  “I swear, Leroy, that’s one big engine you have there.”

  “I can rev it up for you, darlin’, if you want.”

  “I dare you,” the little flirt laughs.

  I never seen anything move as fast as Leroy does in that moment. He runs to his vehicle like the hounds of hell are nipping at his feet. Then he starts up the ratty-ass sounding truck and guns the gas a couple of times before shutting it off.

  “Oh my goodness,” she cries, as if she’s almost in the throes of an orgasm. “I just can’t get over how big and powerful it is.”

  I’m almost laughing my ass off, when recognition slams into me.

  I know that voice—as in I know it biblically.

  Fucking hell… that’s my wife up there flirting with those damn men and causing a traffic jam as thick as LA rush hour.

  My decision is made.

  I’m going to throttle her.

  7

  Faith

  “Oh my goodness,” I tell Leroy, making sure I sound like I’m way too excited. “I just can’t get over how big and powerful it is.”

  I’m going to hell. I know it. Shit, at this point I’m probably going to drive the bus. When Joe started this a week ago, I thought about quitting. There was one fringe benefit to freezing my ass off, however, that I didn’t count on.

  I am freaking rolling in the tips. When I say that, I mean that today starts week two. Last week I made two hundred and fifty dollars cash from Joe for five days. I made over a thousand in tips. Over three hundred of that came from old Leroy himself. Today he’s been here three times already and I’ve pocketed well over two hundred from him alone. I think that means week two is shaping up to beat last week. At this rate, I’ll have money in the bank by the time I leave Buck-Stop behind.

  That’s if I don’t die from the flu. I’m freezing. The only saving grace that I have is that with the bikini top covered in studs and sparkly like it is, you can’t tell my nipples are about to poke through the damn fabric.

  “Damn, Faith, I forgot. I’m going to need you to fill up the wiper fluid too,” Leroy says.

  “Didn’t I just fill that up for you yesterday, Leroy?”

  “What can I say, baby? I like to make things wet,” he says and I giggle—when I want to roll my eyes.

  “You’re so bad,” I laugh, wondering if they can tell how fake it is. I pick up the jug of wiper fluid that I keep stacked up by the pump—I stacked thirty bottles here before the place opened this morning and after this one there will only be five left. Men are so damn predictable. Then I turn around—giving them the view they want, which is my ass bent over as I lean over their truck to get to the wiper fluid thing-a-ma-du-ma-fla-jit. I could reach it without bending over, but my tips are nowhere as good.

  “You take good care of me, Faith.”

  “You might want
to get your tank checked, Leroy. It’s completely empty. I don’t understand it,” I tell him, playing stupid.

  “You should let me take you away from all of this, Faith. Let me take care of you,” he says, and he’s moved in close behind me.

  That’s nothing new. He’s been working up the courage to get bolder and bolder. Leroy is older. Probably in his mid-fifties. He’s not bad looking for his age, but even if I hadn’t sworn off men until the next century—totally not my type. I glance at the wedding ring I’m wearing and frown. Come to think of it, I don’t really have a good track record with “my type.”

  I finish pouring in the fluid when old Leroy gets up his nerve and slaps his hand on my right ass cheek. It stings and I cry out in surprise. He then proceeds to squeeze it tightly. I’m about to knee him in the balls when I hear a voice I honestly didn’t want to hear again.

  “Old man, if you want to keep that hand you better get it off my woman’s ass.”

  Titan.

  Crap. I bite down on my lip and try to get up my courage and then carefully turn around with a smile on my face, like I don’t have a care in the world.

  “Hi, Big Daddy.”

  8

  Titan

  I’m pissed as hell as I storm around the vehicles to get to the woman who has been doing nothing but giving me a headache, haunting my dreams, and generally making my life a living hell the last few weeks. I’m all set to light into her, but one thing stops me.

  I look down and see that damn man’s hand on her. He’s got his hand on her ass. His fingers are stretched across one juicy cheek and digging in enough that you can see the outline of his fingers as they bite into her soft skin. His hand looks wrong on her. It’s older, weathered and has tinges of oil here and there. That’s not it. That’s not what I don’t like about it. What I don’t like most about it is that it’s not mine. That makes zero sense, but it’s definitely true.