Ruckus

  “Not too drunk not to know what I’m doing,” I answered.

  “Sounds like something a drunk person would say,” he countered. I reached between us and grabbed his thick ridge through his jeans, rubbing up and down. Rock hard. “Please.”

  He closed his eyes, resting his forehead against mine while he took a deep breath. He was trying to fight it. Trying to find composure. That was what I should have done. But I was greedy that night.

  “If I take you, it’s because you want it, not because some bullshit family revenge.”

  “I do.” I nodded. “I want it.”

  He got up, offered me his hand, and guided me to the red truck no girl had ever been screwed in before.

  Longest journey I ever made, but one that was worth taking.

  In the cab, Dean flattened the driver’s seat and lay against it, tapping his muscular chest.

  “C’mere,” he ordered. He didn’t sound playful. He didn’t sound alluring. He sounded serious and grave. The most tantalizing landlord I had ever come across. I complied, straddling him, then scooting up to his face. I still had my panties on, and my eyelids felt ten pounds each, but I knew what I was doing.

  Dean nudged my underwear away, grabbed me by the waist, and pushed me down on his face, his tongue plunging into me, penetrating me in one sudden movement. I cried out in both pleasure and surprise, grabbing his hair and arching my back.

  “Fuck my tongue, Baby LeBlanc. Fuck it hard.”

  My hips rocked as I did just that, feeling his warm mouth all over me, his thumb rubbing lazy yet firm circles on my clit while his free hand squeezed my ass, dictating how fast and hard I landed on his face. He made the kind of happy noises I had only dreamed of hearing from Darren. Like this was his idea of heaven. Like what we did was right.

  After a few short minutes, I clenched around his tongue, my thighs vibrating, every muscle in my body shaking with a rippling orgasm that moved through me like an earthquake. I threw my head back and screamed his name, my eyes squeezed shut.

  Then, before I had the chance to open them, he flipped me so I was lying underneath him and he was on top, his knee between my opened legs. Dean unbuckled his belt, his shirt riding up and revealing those perfect abs I tried not to ogle the other day. Jesus, he was a masterpiece. I actually resented him for that.

  “I’m going to make you sing my fucking name,” he hissed, his eyes hard on mine, “with your pussy.”

  I spread my legs wider as he dug his knees deeper into my sex.

  He reached for his back pocket and plucked a condom out of his wallet. Ripping the wrapper with his teeth, he sheathed himself while grabbing my shirt in his hand. He pulled the fabric until it dug into my skin and ripped it from my body.

  Ouch.

  And also, what the hell?

  Leaning down, he flung one of my legs over his shoulder and slid into me without warning. His jaw was granite, his eyes blazing with carnal need. I clung onto his bulging triceps, groaning with pleasure I couldn’t fully contain in my small body, and let him pound me like an animal as he hit my G-spot again and again, riding me like his mission in life was to split me in two.

  “Oh, Dean.” I couldn’t help shouting, and even though it was hot outside, the condensation on the windows around us proved that it was much, much hotter inside.

  Dean fisted my hair again, this time harder than he did on the bench, and turned my head to the space between our bodies so I could watch.

  “What am I doing to you?” He sounded menacing. Almost evil. I watched as his cock—hey, is that a purple condom?—slid in and out of me, the way his hips smashed into mine furiously every time he drove in. The ridges of his six-pack were perfectly visible from that angle, too. There was darkness there. In what we did. All-American, fresh-faced, lovely Dean had a very dangerous side, and he allowed me a sneak peek into it.

  “You’re…” I stuttered. He tugged at my hair harder for the answer. It was painful, but at the same time, extremely hot.

  “Say it, Baby LeBlanc.”

  “You’re fucking me.”

  “Hell, yeah, I’m fucking you. Feels good?”

  “Y—yes.”

  “Am I too deep?”

  “N—no.”

  “Am I too rough?”

  “N—no.”

  “Good. ’Cause I’m about to be.”

  His hand snaked behind my back and spun me in place, and for one second, his cock was no longer buried inside me. He propped me on my knees but I fell flat on my stomach when he drove into me again, this time from behind. He lifted one of my hips with his arm—his muscles tight and sweaty against my thigh—to create the perfect angle for him to tear me apart with his thick, long ridge.

  “So deep.” I squeezed my eyes again, feeling another orgasm trickling from my skull down to the tip of my spine. Dean ‘Ruckus’ Cole was a sex god. It shouldn’t have surprised me, but he was right. What we shared wasn’t normal. It was crazy.

  Crazy good.

  “Don’t come just yet.” He plunged into me once again, and my teeth dug into the vinyl of his seat, clinging to the yellow sponge underneath as I tried to stifle another scream.

  “I can’t hold it,” I panted, breathlessly digging my fingernails into the worn cab. He was going at it like he was trying to kill me. And in a way, he did. He killed every single chance I had to enjoy sex with anyone else.

  “You need my permission to come, LeBlanc. Beg for it.”

  Somewhere inside me, I knew that the whole thing was insane. Drunk or not, I could distinguish right from wrong. Still, I complied, because I kind of liked the fact that for a moment in time, I wasn’t the bitch who hated him and he wasn’t the guy I could never have.

  “Please let me come.”

  “Come all over my cock, baby.”

  I collapsed deeper onto his seat and moaned as another tsunami swept through my body. And I saw stars. Stars he hung there—stars that twinkled so much brighter than the ones in the sky.

  Dean flipped me again, but this time my eyes were half-opened. He pumped into me a few more times—his face scarily blank—pulled out, took off the condom, and came all over my stomach and bra.

  I stared at him, not sure if I was mesmerized, disgusted, or too content to differentiate between the two.

  He grabbed my torn shirt—the Podiatrists Association shirt that was compliments of Darren—from the seat beside us and clutched it into a ball, cleaning his cum from my body with it.

  “Say goodbye to this shirt, and anything else another man who isn’t your dad ever gave you. Am I clear?”

  “You’re awfully possessive,” I complained, glaring at him through sleepy eyes like he was my sun, the moon, and everything worth seeing in the constellation.

  “That’s because you’re awfully mine.”

  “And what on Earth would make you think that? The fact that we slept together?” I pretended to laugh, but there was nothing funny about his statement. Or what we just did.

  “Nah,” he said, his hand moving to the left side of my chest. He placed it over my heart, and squeezed one time. “This thing right here? It fucking beats for me. You know it. I know it. Keep lying, Rosie. I’ll milk the truth out of you. One way or the other.”

  EVERYTHING THROBBED AS WE DROVE back to Vicious’s mansion. Baby LeBlanc fell asleep and I was still able to smell her sex on my fingers and her coconut shampoo on my shirt, and I guess it fucked with my mind, because I found myself driving around the neighborhood four times at three in the morning, not ready to say goodbye.

  You’re in deep trouble, asshole, logic scolded me. You don’t need this shit. Getting involved is a risk. You need to take care of your Nina business and stop drinking.

  But logic had no room or space in my mind. I was fully occupied with everything Rose LeBlanc, and I didn’t even give a damn that she was sick and had her own baggage to deal with. She was wearing my varsity jacket over her bra, the one I had found in the bed of my truck from ten years ago. Dr. Dickface’s
torn shirt was where it was supposed to be—in a trashcan in the middle of fucking nowhere.

  I parked in front of the main entrance of the mansion and contemplated what to do next. She was snoring, producing a sound that was more appropriate for a grizzly bear than a tiny chick—and I didn’t have it in me to wake her up.

  Finally, I picked her small body up and carried her into the house. Her flip-flops were clasped between her fingers as I moved past doors, peeking into the ones that were ajar until I found hers, The Strokes poster-covered room.

  Tucking her inside her bed, I wrapped blankets snug around her body like you would a baby and kissed her nose.

  “By the way,” I whispered to my Sleeping Beauty. “I find flip-flops personally offensive, and I still want to tap you again.”

  “Dean,” she yawned, slurring as she stretched, “I find you personally offensive, because everyone tapped you.”

  “Welcome to the club, sweetheart. We have T-shirts.”

  “Good, because you ripped mine off my body.”

  My cock saluted that fine comeback, but it had to wait.

  “That’s right. I don’t want to see that fucker’s stuff on you ever again,” I croaked, refraining from uttering his goddamn name. What was it, anyway? Declan? Darren? Didn’t matter. It’s not like she was ever going to use it.

  “Ugh.” She turned her back to me, burrowing into the blanket with her eyes closed. “I’m so happy I don’t have to see you until the rehearsal dinner.”

  “Don’t be so happy just yet.” I brushed some hair from her face, causing her skin to break out in goosebumps.

  “And why is that?” she asked, and apparently, Rosie LeBlanc had the ability to have long-ass conversations during her slumber.

  I leaned down, pressing my lips to hers, my tongue darting out and swiping along her bottom lip before sucking it, long and hard. It was the kind of leisured, teasing kiss that left you thinking about the next one for a week after.

  “Because I’ve just decided that I’m moving to the mansion to spend time with you,” I whispered, then ambled to the door, turned off the lights, and smirked to the dark blue of the night. “Sur-fucking-prise, Baby LeBlanc. Now we’re not only neighbors, we’re practically roomies.”

  I drove home that night, grabbed the suitcase I didn’t have time to unpack, and moved my shit to Vicious’s. I’d tell him my parents were remodeling parts of the house if he asked. Good thing he never gave a shit about anything.

  It was better this way. My parents were big on bugging me about meeting Nina in recent months, and I didn’t care for the same old conversation. I also didn’t care why they were so hot on getting me to meet him.

  Because all I cared about was my next conquest. Her.

  I picked up Trent at San Diego airport the following day, this time taking Dad’s Volvo XC90. The red truck stayed in the garage. I hardly ever used it, but Rosie asked to keep our little date a secret, and for the time being, I was all about pacifying her.

  If Vicious saw me picking her up, he’d start asking questions just to piss me off.

  And once he heard my answers, we were going to brawl again. Not that I particularly minded. Throwing a few punches into his face was my idea for meditation. Though I preferred to go around it without the excess drama. Vicious, on the other hand, was an over-the-top Sweet Valley type of asshole. He loved making a huge production out of shit.

  I double-parked directly in front of the arrival gate and tipped my Ray-Bans down, checking out the herd of flight attendants in blue uniform that crossed the road in front of me. As if sensing my gaze, two of them turned their heads in my direction and smiled. I smiled back, then flicked my eyes down to check my phone.

  Jaime

  Me and the girls are landing in SD in four hours. C U on the other end, fucker.

  Vicious

  Hello, Captain STD. Hope you’re sober enough to read this. Make sure you pick up Trent today. Seating arrangement is waiting in your email. Call when you’re done.

  Trent

  Get your eyes up from your lap. It looks like you’re jerking off.

  Laughing, I looked up and spotted my best friend breezing through the gliding doors with a business trolley. To say Trent Rexroth was a good-looking guy was like saying that cyanide was slightly unhealthy. The guy turned heads. Women’s and men’s alike. Sure, we were all easy on the eyes, but there was only one motherfucker who always stole the show. He was striding directly toward my vehicle, in all of his six-foot-four, aristocratic face, ripped-to-fucking-shreds, ex-quarterback glory. Every chick in our radius did a double take, then a triple one to make sure this guy was really human, and when he climbed into my SUV, two even took pictures on their phones. Probably mistook him for that dude from the mug shot—you know, the mixed one with the blue Calvin Klein bedroom eyes.

  Trent slapped my back, the international ‘Good to See You, Bro’ signal and buckled up.

  “Am I getting older, or are they getting less attractive?” He motioned with his chin toward another harem of flight attendants, this time clad in burgundy uniforms.

  “Definitely getting older.” I stuck to my script as the manwhore, even though I wasn’t feeling it either. “Maybe it’s time for Viagra.”

  “Maybe it’s time you shoved your foot into your mouth.” Trent shot me a dry look, flipping the glove compartment open and taking out a rolled blunt he knew would be waiting for him.

  “Wait until we leave the airport.” I kicked the vehicle into drive. He obeyed, glancing at his phone for emails in the meantime.

  “How’s Luna doing?” I asked, checking the side mirrors. His daughter was almost a year old now. Babies were never my jam—I didn’t want to make them, but I loved practicing while using protection—but Luna had chunky thighs like Pillsbury rolls, a big-ass smile, and she clapped and did a weird dance every time I saw her on Skype. There wasn’t really anything not to like about her. Other than her mother.

  “She’s good,” Trent said after a long pause, looking out the window with a frown. Dude was an old soul. Wasn’t cut out for the kind of lifestyle we lived. The women. The money. The weed. He didn’t enjoy any of that shit, not really. The only two things I ever saw him fully appreciate were his football—that ship had sailed a long time ago after multiple injuries our senior year—and his daughter.

  “Bull. Shit. I’m not buying it. What the fuck is up?” I punched his arm. We were pulling out of the airport and onto a deserted highway. It was noon on a Saturday, and no one drove into Todos Santos unless they were headed to rob a fucking mansion. The blunt was lit, but Trent’s gray eyes remained turned off.

  “Luna is amazing,” he said, leaving out a huge ‘but’.

  “And?” I prompted.

  “And Val is not,” he deadpanned.

  Quick recap: Val was the Brazilian stripper who got knocked up with Trent’s baby after a one-night stand. She was a recovering coke addict, but Trent swore she got back on track after he shelled out the money for rehab. They weren’t together, but they were doing the whole co-parenting thing.

  “Using again?” I quirked a brow. He threw his head back, scrubbing his eyes.

  “Clean as far as I’m aware. She just seems…off.”

  “Was she ever on?” I pushed the gas pedal, my mind wandering elsewhere. Rosie seemed downright miserable when I picked her up yesterday. I wasn’t sure if it was about Vicious or the rest of her family, but my bet was on the latter. She was the only person I knew other than myself who didn’t give two shits about Vicious’s power trips and general assholeness. Seeing her hurt stirred something in me. Yesterday was mind-blowing. Best sex I’ve had in…fuck, ever? That couldn’t be right. Two things I was certain of, though:

  Rosie was probably regretting the shit out of it right now; and

  There was going to be a repeat, soon, and this time, I was going to make sure that she was sober.

  Trent twisted to face me. “Is it fucked up that I think Val doesn’t really love our daughte
r?”

  Silence, then.

  “Stop tripping.” I grabbed a foam ball from the center console and threw it at him, awkward laughter popping out of my mouth.

  “She never spends any time with her. My daughter is either with the babysitter or with me. And it’s not like she doesn’t try. She does. But I think Luna makes her really unhappy. Val’s used to the nightlife. Before this, she was grinding her crotch on a pole for a living. Her alarm was set to two p.m., and she still hit the snooze button. She thinks motherhood is boring.”

  “She also finds sperm-stealing a legitimate way to make a living,” I groaned, tugging at my hair. Fuck Val. She was manipulative, yes, sneaky, sure, and shady as fuck, but under the daddy-issues exterior, I pegged her for an okay chick. Trent was probably exaggerating. He set the bar way too high where parenting was concerned, taking his kid to swimming lessons and Gymboree classes before she even rolled over. Val was going to come around. She was a strong girl, and Luna was going to grow out of the phase where she shits herself every few hours and cries the rest of the time.

  “Dunno, man.” Trent shrugged, smoking and looking out the window. “I just…” he paused, dragging his fingers across his buzzed head. “Sometimes it feels like something bad’s about to happen, but I can’t seem to stop it.”

  “Because it might,” I supplied. “And because you can’t. It’s called reality.”

  “Reality sucks balls.”

  “That’s the rumor,” I agreed. “You need to let it go and make sure that you do the right thing.”

  As we passed by the lush green sign welcoming us to Todos Santos, I tried to remind myself the same thing.

  About Nina.

  About Rosie.

  About everything.

  Dean

  Sup, sleepyhead. That hangover kicking your tight ass?

  An hour passed before she answered, but I knew she saw the message. She was probably typing and deleting, obsessing, debating, hating herself, hating me. That was fine. It was all a part of the process. Then—fucking finally—she wrote back. One word: