Rider: An MC Club Alpha Male Romance (20 page)

“Gatsby dies in the end, Nick,” I grumbled. “Your choice of reading material is not making me feel anymore confident.”

“You could always start a charity or a foundation,” Nicholas suggested finally, setting down the book. “Something that’ll get people distracted, that’ll make them think of you as a philanthropist, rather than a wife-beating billionaire.”

“I’m not…”

“Damn it, Kyle!” Nicholas roared, turning on me. “I know you’re a fine, decent man but that’s not what you pay me for. I’m telling you what this says you are! That’s what you pay me for!”

He strode up to my desk, pointing at the tabloid.

“And this says you’re a rich playboy who slaps around his ex-wife, a girl barely out of college! It doesn’t say anything about her using drugs or cheating on you or kicking you out of your house! All it says is that you were seen with your hands on her outside of a nightclub!”

Nicholas was one of the only people I’d let talk to me that way, and even then, it was hard not to leap over my desk and throw a left-hook into his jaw.

Hell, if I did that, he wouldn’t even hold it against me. And not just because he’d be too busy holding a package of frozen carrots against his cracked jaw.

But that would’ve been a waste of time.

And besides, he was right. Right about every damned thing.

“Fine. Fine,” I growled. “I’ll look for… Something. Some way to give back.”

“Think of it as a long term plan. Look at Bill Gates—billionaire to philanthropist. Don’t see it as a chore. See it as an opportunity.”

All right. I would try to see it as an opportunity.

At least this seemed like something I could, literally, throw money at. My favorite way to pass the time.

Coming soon… Homecoming: A Stepbrother Romance Novel.

Excerpt:

Laramie, Georgia. Population: 52, 890. Not quite a small town. Not quite a city. But it’s home.

It was the last day of summer vacation. The last day of summer before my senior year. And then after my senior year would be my freshman year of college. And then after that…

It was hard to imagine. Hard to imagine that I would ever have a life that extended beyond the narrow confines of my hometown. Hard to imagine that a time would come when I wasn’t walking down the main town’s main street when I wasn’t on my way home to that… That house.

A shudder ran through my body as I caught a glimpse of it over the tops of trees and buildings. Laramie has maintained a nice, old-timesy downtown. The kind that looks like it just stepped out of an old movie or a Norman Rockwell painting. And sitting on a hill at the end of Main Street was… my house. A huge, 19
th
century mansion, ornate but decaying. The sun tended to set in such a way that as I walked home from school each evening after doing my homework in the school library till god knows when, it would sink down behind the house. A total eclipse, wrought by my childhood home.

I couldn’t wait to get out. And the idea terrified me.

Laramie used to have more going on. Happening, as my dad might say. Affluent, my high school teachers might say.

Not shitty, is what we say. By we, I mean the kids who’ve had the misfortune to grow up here. We used to be right on the railroad to Atlanta, used to have factories outside of town that gave everyone a good living. Or, that’s what everyone says.

Now, the factories are all closed. The railroad decided to close down the train station since no one was using it. And now, we’re a nowhere town, with barely anything happening.

You could tell that from the way people walked around, the way they moved so listlessly, as if the world were passing them by and it was fine by them.

I had to get out. I couldn’t wait to get out. But I had never known another world.

My father grew up here, and so did his father, and his father before him. My mother was from somewhere else—she had grown up in New York City, the daughter of a banker or something like that. I had no idea why she’d come down to Laramie—why you’d leave the glitz and glamor of the city for a place… A place like this.

But she died years ago. I barely remember her. My step-mother, Maria, is also from somewhere else—from Italy, of all places. She runs a pizzeria downtown, maybe the only business in Laramie that isn’t in any danger of closing.

It was unseasonably cold for late August, and especially late August in Georgia. The news stations were making a big deal about it, calling it a once in a century occurrence, the fact that the temperatures had gone below sixty degrees. Like most everyone else who grew up down here, I turn to mush if it ever gets below sixty. I could never imagine living somewhere with snow.

But I wanted to try it.

That afternoon, I was on my way home from a meeting with my college admissions counselor at the Laramie United High, the only public high school left in town after all the others were consolidated. Consolidated because people had moved out, because people had moved on, because there was damn near no one left in town.

I had assumed I would go to either Powell University, where my father teaches law and where my city studies—it’s located in Laramie and it’s probably the only business besides Maria’s restaurant that’s not in danger of going under—or the University of Georgia.

But based on my grades and all the volunteering I had done over the last three years of high school, my counselor was pushing me to aim higher. She was a nice, smiley lady, not too many years older than me, and she had been an admissions officer at Duke a few years ago.

“Honestly, Sarah,” she was telling me. “You maintained a 4.0 GPA while volunteering twenty hours a week, every week, for the past three years. There’s not a college in the country that wouldn’t be interested in you.”

Honestly, Ms. Cassidy—that was her name—I was just trying to stay out of the house, because the less I’m in the house, the less opportunity my dad has to get drunk and slap me around.

But I didn’t say that. I just smiled and nodded, thanking her, all demure, just like I was supposed to. A perfect little Southern belle.

I was lost in thoughts of where I might apply—the dream of getting out of Georgia now weighed as heavily on my mind as the admissions brochures from the University of Pennsylvania, Syracuse, Dartmouth, Georgetown, and more did in my backpack—when I walked straight into a tall, unmovable object.

I gasped, yelped, tumbled to the hard sidewalk. Typical Sarah. Total klutz that I am.

“Watch where you’re going,” a voice growled as I cradled my bruised head.

I looked up and that was the first time I really saw what I had run into—a man, not a lamp post.

“Oh, Jesus, I’m sorry,” I said, stumbling to my feet. He was tall, soaring to well over six feet as far as I could tell, with shoulders that seemed to go on forever. His dark face was covered in a scowl.

He wore his hair cut short, like a military crew cut that had grown out, and his jeans, his wife-beater, and his worn leather jacket tossed over his muscular shoulders seemed to fit him like a tight, bespoke glove. A few days stubble glistened on his cheeks and chin, except for a spot along his left cheek where a long, thick scar stretched up to his ear.

I didn’t recognize him. Which meant he was new here. I knew everyone in town. Everyone in town knew everyone in town.

“It’s fine,” he replied, his voice still gruff. He turned his gaze back to what had apparently drawn his attention—the display of guitars and instruments in a store window. It was McHenry’s Music. They had a poster up announcing a going out of business sale. Not surprising, considering what was happening to the rest of town.

“It’s too bad McHenry’s is going out of business,” I offered, as if trying to make up for running into him with conversation. “I remember going there with my parents bad when I was a kid to pick out a piano.”

The man shrugged. On closer inspection, he wasn’t much older than me—he simply had a gravitas, a somberness, a darkness to him that made him seem much older—ancient, even.

“I don’t really care about the store. But that Fender…” he murmured, gesturing at one of the guitars on display. He nodded, still not smiling. “That’s a real beauty.”

“Do you play?” I asked.

He gave me an exasperated look.

“No, I’m a connoisseur of expensive musical instruments I can’t play. I’ve got an oboe in my pocket if you’d like to see.”

“Sorry,” I scowled. This guy was an asshole. Even if he was hot. That’s how it all seemed to go.

“Sorry for running into you,” I murmured, brushing past him, driving my shoulder into him on purpose. As I strode down the street, my face darkening, he called out.

“Watch where you’re going. That ass of yours could be a distraction on the road.”

I flushed and it was all I could do to keep from turning back over my shoulder. As it was, I flipped him off as I marched off. Who the hell was he to yell things about my ass?

Fact was, I was… I guess, insecure about my looks? I guess I’m just pretty average looking—long brown hair, average sized boobs, but I do have a pretty big ass. So big that I’m positive that the only kind of guys who’d be attracted to me would be the ones who have an ass complex or something like that. And as I walked away from this asshole, I couldn’t help but be conscious of every movement, every swish and sashay of my butt. I was wearing a pair of skinny jeans that hugged my legs nicely, that usually made me feel confident.

What the hell did he mean by distraction? Maybe that… He thought my ass looked good?

God. I had to stop thinking about it. Had to stop obsessing about that asshole’s comment. I was already a block away and still thinking about it.

Finally, I found myself glancing over my shoulder and spying him walking behind me, looking distracted, bored, sexy. Damn it, Sarah.

A guy finally pays attention to me, acts like an asshole, and I can’t stop thinking about him. Even if he is a jerk.

As you might have guessed, I’m not exactly the sociable, popular type. I’m more the stay-in-the-library-and-keep-my-head-down type. I’ve never been on a date. Never had a boyfriend. And I’ve definitely never had sex.

Yep. Eternal virgin right here. I was seventeen then, and I would be eighteen in a few weeks. Just about all my friends had lost their virginities already. Hell, my fourteen-year-old little sister had been getting laid for what seemed like years in junior high. She was a real mess, but that’s another story.

I glanced over my shoulder again. He was still walking behind me at a distance of two blocks or so. We were nearing the end of Main Street. This was getting slightly creepy. Could he be following me?

I hurried my pace and reached the end of the street, easing open the gates to the Logan family estate. As I traced my way up the long drive way, I saw him stepping through the rusty, antiquated gates as well.

“Are you following me?” I cried out, turning on my heels and facing him.

“Why would I be following you?” he yelled back, not altering his pace one bit. He didn’t care at all. “This is the address I’m supposed to go to.”

“A likely story! My family’s all home—we’ll call the cops.”

“Jesus Christ,” he scowled as he approached me. He slid his phone out of his pocket, clicked around a bit, and pulled up an email. “There. Read.”

My eyes narrowed as I snatched the phone away from him and began to read.

“Damien—

Of course we would be happy to take you in for the school year. We’re so happy that you’ll be getting your GED this year. Maria is very proud of you, and I’m so happy you decided to shape up and fly straight. I hope we can forget all the unpleasantness from three years ago. And we’ll be honored to have a military man in the house—maybe you can teach my daughters some discipline.

I’ll call the school district and let them know that you’ll be registering for the GED class.

See you soon,

Harry.”

Harry. That was my father, Harry Logan. And Damien… That name was familiar…

“Oh!” I cried out, feeling dumb beyond words. “You’re Damien!”

“No shit,” my stepbrother scowled.