EASY RIDE
South Florida Riders – Book Three
Breezie Bennett
Are you ready for
Easy Ride?
Star quarterback Chase Kennedy has had everything—and every woman—he ever wanted. Except Whitney Cooper. She’s been his best friend since kindergarten and his soft place to fall when life gets too hard. But when she comes to him for lessons in love, temperatures rise, clothes fall off, and it’s way too easy for their friendship to turn into something much sexier.
EASY RIDE
Copyright © 2019 Mia Frisiello
This novel is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights to reproduction of this work are reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without prior written permission from the copyright owner. Thank you for respecting the copyright. For permission or information on foreign, audio, or other rights, contact the author, [email protected].
ISBN Print: 978-1-7341760-3-2
ISBN Ebook: 978-1-7341760-2-5
COVER ART: The Killion Group, Inc. (designer)
INTERIOR FORMATTING: Author E.M.S.
Table of Contents
EASY RIDE
About the Book
Copyright
The South Florida Riders Series
One – Chase
Two – Whitney
Three – Chase
Four – Whitney
Five – Whitney
Six – Chase
Seven – Whitney
Eight – Chase
Nine – Whitney
Ten – Chase
Eleven – Whitney
Twelve – Chase
Thirteen – Whitney
Fourteen – Whitney
Fifteen – Chase
Sixteen – Whitney
Seventeen – Chase
Eighteen – Whitney
Nineteen – Chase
Twenty – Whitney
Twenty-one – Chase
Twenty-two – Whitney
Twenty-three – Chase
Twenty-four – Whitney
Twenty-five – Chase
Twenty-six – Whitney
Twenty-seven – Chase
Twenty-eight – Whitney
Twenty-nine – Chase
Thirty – Chase
Thirty-one – Whitney
Thirty-two – Whitney
Thirty-three – Chase
Thirty-four – Whitney
Epilogue – Whitney
About the Author
The South Florida Riders Series
Wild Ride
Slow Ride
Easy Ride
Thrill Ride
And yes, there will be more. For a complete list, buy links, and reading order of all my books, visit www.breeziebennett.com. Be sure to sign up for my newsletter to find out when the next book is released!
One
Chase
“I can’t believe I’m about to bang Chase Kennedy. The Chase Kennedy.”
Yeah, babe. I’ve heard that phrase more than a few times. “Well, aren’t you forward?” I ask the smoking-hot blonde as she flops down onto my bed. I admire her top-notch set of fake tits and legs that go on for a mile.
“Forward is the only way to be when you know exactly what you want.” She rolls over on the bed and reaches her hand out for me to join her.
My mind flashes to Leo and Elliot giving me a total dad lecture at the Atlantic earlier. Blah, blah, blah, single life gets old… Meaningless sex is empty… You’re not truly happy.
I laugh to myself as I yank my shirt off and lie down on the bed with Megan Fox’s secret twin. Sorry, Sterling and Danes, commitment might work for you guys, but this shit will never get old, and maturity is dumb and overrated.
“So, you said you’re a model?” I ask with a nod.
“Supermodel,” she corrects, staring into my eyes in a way that makes me feel like she can read me like a book. Hell, she probably can. Player, fuckboy, Casanova… I don’t give a shit. What you see is what you get.
“Well, isn’t that just…super?” I give her a wink and lean in for a kiss. Another night, another easy lay. Can’t fucking wait for the season to start.
Right as I’m about to kiss Katie (Kaylee? God, I’m an asshole), my phone buzzes with a call in my pocket.
Incoming call: Nit Whit Cooper
“Shit,” I say under my breath. “I gotta take this.” I hop off the bed and step into the oversized living room of my twenty-third floor apartment, looking out through the floor-to-ceiling window that showcases the entire Miami Beach skyline.
“Hey, weirdo. What’s up? It’s so late.” I hold the phone to my ear and glance at my watch, confirming that it’s after two a.m.
“Troy broke up with me.” The shaky, broken voice of my best friend and lifelong partner in crime makes my gut tighten.
I lean against the glass window, not sure what to say. “Shit, Whitney. Fuck. Are you sure it’s for real? I mean, what was the reason?”
She sighs deeply and sniffles. “Yeah. It’s over. I don’t know how to feel right now. I mean…six whole years. I really thought he was the one. I don’t even know. He said things were feeling…boring. I can’t really say I disagree.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose, wishing I could help her. She’s helped me with shit probably a thousand times over the past twenty-eight years. “You know I’m no huge advocate for monogamy, but I really did think you two would make it. I’m sorry, Nit Whit.”
“It’s okay,” she groans.
“If it helps, I always thought Troy kinda sucked. No offense.”
She laughs through her tears, and the wildly familiar sound of her laughter eases the tension. “Oh, Six. What the hell am I gonna do now?”
I hear the sound of a car engine accelerating on the other end of the call. “Are you driving?” I ask her.
“Yep,” she says with a sniff. “I’m gonna go back and get the rest of my shit later this week, but I just couldn’t stay at our apartment. I’m going to crash at Melody’s for a while.”
I snort. “Your crazy hippie cousin?”
“Shut up, dickhead. She’s just…unique. And more importantly, her roommate moved out, so she has the extra space.”
I shake my head. “She has pink hair. Her roommate obviously knows what’s up. I give you a week at that place, tops.”
“Well…” Her tone shifts back to heavy and sad. “I don’t really have a choice, do I?”
“You’re always welcome here,” I offer, thinking that having my best friend stay with me to drink Bud Lights and binge-watch South Park like we used to in our UF dorm room days doesn’t sound so bad.
“Hah. In your high-rise Miami Beach sex house? I’ll pass.” I can practically hear her classic Whitney eye roll.
“Okay. Rude.” I stifle a laugh.
“Come on, Chase. I’d bet my ass there’s some fake-boobed bimbo lying in your bed right now. An actress? Dancer? Model?”
I glance through the slight opening of the door to my bedroom, noticing how the thrill of tonight’s particular pursuit has kinda worn off. “Damn, Nit Whit. You’re good.”
“Yeah, well.” She sighs, and I sense yet another eye roll. “I know you better than anyone on this planet, don’t I?”
> “Ain’t that the truth?” I look out over the scattered lights of the buildings, running a hand through my hair, wishing I could make her feel better somehow. She was my lucky charm for all of high school and college football. No matter how much I act like a douche, she just laughs and rolls her eyes. She’s never been annoyed, or bothered, or even fazed by my immature antics.
“All right, I’m sorry. Get back to your sleazy model. I just needed to talk to my favorite homie for a minute.” Her voice cracks a little, and I can hear her fighting more tears.
Fuck, I hate when she cries. I always have, ever since Jack Bellville pelted her in the face with a kickball at recess in fourth grade. She bawled for, like, thirty minutes, and I hated every second of it.
“Whit, come over. I’ll get out some good liquor, and we can just vibe. I promise to make you laugh, if nothing else.”
She’s quiet for a long beat. “What about your…company?” A note of playful and sarcastic disgust registers in her voice—a tone I’ve become very accustomed to, although it’s never stopped me from giving her the dirty details of my insane sex life. I mean, shit, she’s like the ultimate bro.
“She’s out the door. Promise.” Sorry, Katie/Kayla/Kayleigh.
“You don’t have to do that, Chase.”
“I didn’t have to pick up the phone either, dumbass. I got you. Now get your little self over here.”
She laughs again, easing my mind. “Okay, Six. Thanks.”
“Duh.” I hang up the phone and quietly walk back into the bedroom. God, I hope this girl didn’t fall asleep.
“There you are, sexy,” she whines. “Get in this bed now.”
I take a long look at the dime of a chick wrapped in my black sheets—Whitney calls them my sex sheets and mocks me endlessly for them. I smile at the thought and say goodbye to the K-name supermodel.
She fumbles with a pair of heels as she hurries out of the apartment. “You’re a dick, Chase.”
I raise my hands defensively. “I told you, something came up with a friend. I have to be there for her.”
“For her?” She spits the question at me as she finally gets her feet into the shoes and clicks down the hall. “You’re ditching me for some other bitch?”
I hold a hand to my head, trying to understand what the fuck is even happening right now. “It’s not like that. She’s my—”
“Nobody turns me down.” She flips her shiny hair over her shoulder and flings the front door open. “Fuck you, Chase Kennedy.”
The door slams, and her words hang in the air. Fucking women. They make literally zero sense.
Except Whitney. She makes sense. But she’s way more intelligent and rational than ninety percent of the smokeshows I bring back to this apartment. Which is why she’s always been my best friend. And nothing more. And I fully intend to keep it that way.
Even though tonight she became single for the first time in six years.
Two
Whitney
I walk down the cool, luxurious hallway of Chase’s apartment building, trying to shake off the shock and hurt and flat-out confusion of getting dumped by the person I’d spent the last six solid years with.
Chase Kennedy is an unlikely best friend. If I met him now, I would probably not be able to stand him for more than three seconds. He’s the world’s biggest womanizer, constantly just taking his pick from a mile-long line of desperate groupies. Not to mention the douchey, cocky, hilariously obnoxious dialogue that comes out every time he opens his mouth. But…I didn’t meet him now. His mom and my mom were inseparable friends and took us to a Mommy and Me group together twenty-eight years ago when we were literally in diapers.
So basically, he’s been a pain in my ass since day one. But growing up with him, I’ve seen the Chase Kennedy his slew of fangirls will never see. I saw him fall off his bike and eat dirt at my sixth birthday party. I saw him cry his eyes out after his dog died when we were eight. I saw him puke on himself after three beers in someone’s basement when we were fifteen. (And, being a true friend, I complied when he made me tell everyone at school the next day that he’d had food poisoning.)
I sat with him day after day when his mom left. Keeping him positive when he thought she might come back and helping him accept it when the divorce became final.
And…I saw him when we went to UF together, where the Chase Kennedy was born. His sharp football skills and that cannon of an arm brought him right into the spotlight, and he quickly realized he could have anything, and anyone, he wanted.
But through it all, our friendship somehow never wavered. Just as his jersey number has been six since his first day of Pee Wee Football, he’s been my best friend. And tonight, more than ever, I need my best friend.
“Whit,” Chase says with a sympathetic laugh and open arms as he steps out of his apartment to wrap me up in a classic Kennedy hug.
I feel another wave of pain and heartbreak come over me, but being in the arms of my closest friend makes this one a little easier to bear.
I lock my hands around his back and squeeze him tightly. “Damn, boy. You’ve been bulking up.” I pull away and teasingly pat his biceps, noticing that he’s even more rock-solid and ripped than usual.
He guides me into his apartment and shuts the door. “Preseason workouts, baby.” He pulls up his T-shirt and flexes a shockingly defined six-pack. “Check it out. The ladies don’t stand a chance this year.”
I can’t help but laugh, shoving him playfully. “Did they ever really stand a chance?” I flop down on the soft gray sectional and look out at the picturesque nighttime view.
Chase grabs a bottle of whiskey from the kitchen cabinet and joins me on the sofa. “Here.” He hands me the bottle. “Your favorite.”
“No glasses or ice or anything?” I raise my brows at him. “You really never outgrew college, did you?”
“I’m trying to make you feel better, not wow you with my crystal glasses and sophisticated bullshit.”
“You save that for the supermodels, I’m sure,” I tease.
He shrugs. “They usually just grab me by the dick and go straight to the bedroom.”
“Ew.” I roll my eyes as I take a swig and relish the familiar burn as the liquor slides down my throat. “Oh, Six. You really are still that same sixteen-year-old who tried to sleep with every girl on my cheerleading squad.”
He takes the bottle from me and sips, keeping his dark brown eyes locked with mine. “Except you.”
I laugh softly. “Yeah, well, you knew you never had a chance.”
“All through high school and college”—he runs a hand through his dirty-blond hair, a gesture he’s made a million times—“everyone always thought we were hooking up. I got so much shit whenever I tried to explain to my boys that we’re literally just friends. Without benefits.”
“Hey!” I jab him in the side and take another drink. “Having me as a friend is the benefit.”
Chase wraps his arm around me and ruffles my already messy hair. “True that, Cooper.” He offers me the bottle again, and I accept. “So, you wanna talk about the breakup? Or is this, like, a don’t-bring-it-up sorta thing? I’m not exactly anyone’s go-to when it comes to dating and relationships.”
“Really?” I feign a gasp. “I never would have guessed.”
He gives me a half smile. “Well, it’s your call. I’m here to listen. As always.”
I lean my head on his shoulder, shutting my eyes and drawing in a slow breath. Everything about Chase has always felt like warmth and comfort and home. No matter how soulless he may appear to his infinite waitlist of one-night stands, he’s been my soft place to fall my entire life, and tonight is no different.
I wipe a tiny tear from my cheek and look up at him.
“Oh no.” He laughs sympathetically and hugs me closely. “Come on, Whit. Talk to Daddy.”
I groan and hold back a laugh. “Please stop calling yourself Daddy.”
“Hey, someone has to. I kicked my supermodel out for your sad
little ass.” He smiles and shakes his head in that cocky yet slightly self-deprecating way that only Chase Kennedy can pull off.
“I don’t know.” I lean back and look at the person who I’ve told every weird and silly secret I’ve ever had. “I don’t even wanna say this. I’m gonna sound so shitty.”
He arches a brow. “Whit. Come on. We tell each other everything.”
“Like in fifth grade when we built a fort out of sheets and lay in it for hours, and you told me your dream was to play football on the moon?”
“Uh, yeah. That would be fucking awesome, and I haven’t discounted it as a real possibility yet.”
I smile and shake my head. “Okay, well. It’s weird. I’m not even really that sad about losing Troy. Like, not nearly as sad as I thought I would be if this ever happened. I haven’t felt super connected to him in a long time. I’m sad about losing the future I had planned. The marriage, the family, being a mom, and having a house and all that. You know it’s all I’ve ever wanted. And Troy was always…safe. I thought he was the one who could give me that.”
“Is that why you stayed with him for six years? You really wanted a ring that badly?”
“I sound horribly lame, I know.” I sip the whiskey and lean my head back on the couch cushion.
He waves his hand. “Please. I stayed your friend when you joined the competitive Latin team in high school. Now that was lame.”
Easy Ride (South Florida Riders Book 3) Page 1