Chapter 2
O ne of the landscapers gives me a lift to Munreaux Motorcycles’ headquarters. I tried to think like an immature, nineteen-year-old, spoiled rotten cheerleader, which was about the complete fucking opposite of how I usually think, and came up with this place. She stole my vehicle, and with a top-of-the-line garage at her disposal, she could get anything she wanted done to it, without question, without a wait, and without payment.
Her pushing my Bronco off a cliff did cross my mind but I quickly crossed it off the list of possibilities. As threatening as Ever tried making herself seem, she came across more petty than ruthless.
That’s exactly what I’m hoping for as I charge through the entrance, demanding to know where she is.
“What’s your business with Miss Munreaux?” The woman behind the counter barely even glances at my scar. Of course she notices it. Everybody does. At least she’s professional enough not to fixate on it.
“She brought in my Bronco.”
“For servicing?”
I give a stiff nod, trying not to imagine the engine ripped out, the tires removed, the sound system’s settings all reset. Jesus fuck, not the equalizer. It took me forever to get that shit just right.
“Miss Munreaux was just in here telling me the good news. First place in Florida.” The older woman beams. “But she didn’t say anything about why she was here. I assumed it was…” Her features scrunch together as she appears to mull something over. “I suppose you may be correct about the nature of her visit. I’ll put in some calls and see what we can find out, okay?”
After a couple minutes, she sets the phone down to inform me, straight-faced, that my Bronco’s in the process of getting new paint.
“A paint job?” I almost snort. That’s the best she could come up with? Petty. “What color?”
She claims she doesn’t know, but while pointing me toward which hall to take, her lips press together like she’s trying to keep from smiling.
Fuck. Fuck . So much for that bonus going toward anything useful.
I find the bay with my Bronco already in it, the hood and sides taped up and painted with flames. Pink . Mother. Fucking. Flames.
Not giving a single fuck whose last name is printed on the back of his uniform, I storm inside and confront the asshole with the spray gun. He didn’t seem to care my name’s the one on the goddamn title of the Bronco he’s currently giving a custom paint job.
“Hey!” I shout over the noise, shaking both my head and hands at him to get him to stop.
His bloodshot eyes meet mine through the goggles he’s wearing and crinkle at the corners as he nods a greeting at me. Is he smiling? With his lips hidden behind the respirator, I can’t tell for sure. Either way, he’s so fucking unconcerned by the sight of me, I have to wonder what Ever told him. That I wanted pink flames?
Who wants pink flames?
The pink she chose doesn’t necessarily clash against the carbonized gray. The shades actually look good together. It’s just that I don’t fucking like them going together on my ride. I’d never get something so girly or gaudy.
Rich bitch.
The technician holds up one finger and continues spraying.
“What the fuck?” I bark, my voice evaporating much quicker than the VOCs in the paint.
This close, it’s clear he’s almost finished, and despite the space being well-ventilated, the fumes are still strong, so I stalk over to the corner, folding my arms over my chest as I watch my Bronco become unrecognizable.
Paint can be fixed. It’s nothing in the grand scheme of things. I did the math on the way over. In three years, I’ll leave the Munreaux estate having earned close to two million dollars. After taxes, I won’t have that much in my account, but I should still have around a million, especially with living expenses covered.
With one final horizontal stroke, the technician turns off the gun. Just as he’s heading my way, a door to my left opens, and Ever appears, a mirror and sink behind her.
She pauses when she sees me but is quick to recover, pasting on a fake smile. Down to her crude baby tee again, she has my flannel balled in her hands.
She gives it back to me with a sweet, “Thanks.”
I feel myself scowl even harder as I turn it over in my hold. It’s all wet.
“Didn’t have any toilet paper,” she answers without me even asking.
Clogging my nose mid-inhale, I immediately spread my fingers and let the shirt fall from my grip. Son of a bitch. I’d demand she wash it but doubt she even knows how. People like the Munreauxs have staff for that.
The flannel pooled at my feet, I debate whether the money’s enough to handle someone else’s bodily fluids or not. Technically, I’m not being paid at all yet. Not until tomorrow.
As long as I don’t strangle the fuck out of Ever before then.
I kick the material away from me. These motherfuckers are already on Arthur’s payroll. Let them clean up his daughter’s piss.
Pulling his mask down, the tech says, “I just stocked that bathroom with toilet paper this morning.”
Ever shrugs unapologetically and glances at me with more of that challenge.
I glare at her, tempted to pin her ass to the floor in a wrestling move called the banana split until tomorrow morning.
My dick jolts at the fucking prospect of having Ever in that compromising of a position, legs spread as wide as they can go, pussy in the air.
I shake the image away before I get any harder.
As soon as I do though, more images filter in. Worse images. Images of other positions I could put her in because as much as I’d like to think I could, there’s no way I’d keep her in a banana split the whole time. She’s a cheerleader. She’s gotta be flexible. I could twist her body into a fucking pretzel and—
Fuck.
I shove past her into the bathroom and wash my hands under scalding water before turning it to freezing, the piercing cold waking me the fuck up. I only met the girl a couple hours ago and she’s already insulted me, scratched me, defaced my car, and pissed on my clothing. The last thing I should be thinking about is stuffing my cock in her. Creatively. And repeatedly.
Ever comes up behind me, her eyes on mine as I track her approach.
“It doesn’t have to get worse. Quit now and it won’t,” she says quietly.
I don’t remove my gaze from hers until after I dry my hands and spin to face her, my ass pressed to the counter’s edge to create as much distance between us as possible in the cramped bathroom.
We regard one another for a few tense moments, those bruises marring her otherwise flawless skin pulling my attention away.
“Is slutting yourself out really that important to you?”
The muscle in her jaw twitches as her azure eyes fill with flames brighter than the ones on my hood.
“Yes.”
Damn. I didn’t expect her to cop to it so easily. Most women wouldn’t.
It’s actually a turn-on that she did. Another one.
Goddamn it. This is going to be a long, painful three years.
“Men have been making sex a priority since the beginning of time. Why shouldn’t I?”
I actually agree that women should be able to like sex, want sex, and have sex without repercussions. But Arthur Munreaux doesn’t. Or he might, I didn’t inquire about his exact stance on the matter, but he doesn’t want the fact his daughter’s a fuckgirl broadcasted for the world to know and ultimately judge because those repercussions do exist. Women can’t like sex, want sex, and have sex without being ridiculed for it. No matter how much change there is in the world, society is still, and will probably always be, biased.
“I’m not here to stop you from getting dick,” I make myself say, not loving the way the words taste on my tongue but not stopping to examine why. “I’m here to make sure getting dick doesn’t derail your future.”
Unfolding her arms and dropping them like they suddenly weigh a thousand pounds each, she lets out a scoff. “As if there was anything that could derail that. You have no idea what you’re protecting.”
“I’m protecting you .” It’s for her father’s sake, but she is my assignment.
Something unreadable flashes across her face, but she doesn’t say anything, prompting another long pause.
“You can tell yourself that tonight, in your own bed, at whatever little slum you call home because you won’t be staying at mine.”
“You’re very sure of yourself.”
“I have to be. I’m a flyer. And I always, always land on top.”
My eyes shoot to her rib tattoo. My soul is in the sky.
I don’t know what the fuck a flyer is or why she’s so certain she’s going to get rid of me. A million dollars on the line? An actual shot of getting out of Sea Haven? I wouldn’t give that up for anything .
“Flyer? Is that some sort of cheerleader lingo?” Better learn it now. I’m gonna be around it for a while.
“Mm-hm. And here’s some more.” She shuffles closer. “Eat.” Another step puts her face within inches of mine. “My.”
If she says what I think she’s about to say, I’m not sure I’ll be able to stop myself from doing it. I would eat her fucking—
“Ass.”
Before I can process that , she rips my hat off and drops it in the toilet.
Fucking bitch!
My hand latches on to her bicep the next instant, then I’m dragging her out of the bathroom.
Tight quarters. Tight body. Tight—
I force a headshake.
Tight fucking deadline. There’s a reason Arthur’s offering a bonus for making it past the first twenty-four hours. Nobody else has. Ever said as much. She made everyone else quit before they could.
She’s gonna throw everything she’s got at me today. Tomorrow…
I’ll deal with tomorrow when I get there, because I will be getting there. Short of Ever killing me herself, there’s nothing that’d make me not show up for work tomorrow.
“Get in the fucking car,” I tell her even though I forcibly sit her in the passenger seat of my Bronco and buckle her myself.
“Yo!” the technician calls out.
I prep my fist, ready to throw blows over how I just treated his boss’s daughter. It wasn’t right to handle her like that, I know that, but…
God, she pisses me off.
Surprisingly, he just says, “You gotta pull the tape off in two hours. Exactly two hours, man. Don’t wait any longer than that or it’ll fuck your shit up.”
I stop myself from gesturing to the emasculating design on what was a very masculine SUV— my very masculine SUV—and snarling, “More than you already fucked it up?”
“Two hours. Got it,” I bite out instead. Because that’s what’ll eat at me driving around in my blazing pussy on wheels—how perfect the paint lines are.
When I get in, Ever’s waving to the guy with a genuine smile tugging her lips.
I force myself to look away from it, my gaze falling to her legs instead. They’re not long but they are smooth and sun-kissed. Her phone’s wedged between toned thighs that I wouldn’t mind feeling clenched around my head as I ate her—
“You ogle glory holes the same way?”
“It’s too cold to be dressed like that,” I snap, tearing my attention away from her to start the engine.
“Have any other clothes you’d like me to use ?” She chuckles at herself. She thinks she’s so funny. She thinks she won.
“Once we grab some from my slum , I will.”
My words shut her right the fuck up because she hasn’t won shit. I’m moving into Chateau Munreaux and her ass is gonna help.