Wrecked: A Bad Boy Outlaw Romance (with bonus novel!) Read online

  I brush the water from my hair. “That is how it’s fucking done.”

  I look back, spot Bo paddling in. I almost miss it at first, but when I look closer, I’m sure. The glint of light comes again from up on the ridge. I look again and I’m certain.

  Someone’s watching us.

  *

  Lux passes by me in the kitchen smelling soapy and sudsy, floral undertones like always. It’s the kind of cock-stiffening smell I’ve been missing. I can only imagine what her pussy must be like, how it would feel to slide my finger inside her, my tongue, feel it close around me hot and wet.

  She scrunches her face up at me, swiping her jacket from the table. “You alright? You look like you’re having a stroke.”

  I snap out of it, straightening up and pressing myself against the cupboards. Any harder and my cock’s going to leave a fucking dent in the door. “I’ll come by at closing, walk you home.” I’m not taking any chances after what I saw down at the beach this morning.

  “I don’t need a chaperone.”

  “I’m not giving you a choice.”

  “Fine,” she waves, “but don’t expect any free drinks”.

  How about a free blowjob? “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

  The front door closes and Razor comes out of his room holding his boys. I swear to god his hand is permanently attached to his crotch. “That Lux?”

  “Going to work, yeah.”

  “Fuck, man. Have you seen the sawn-off Sarah keeps under the counter? That woman scares the shit out of me.”

  “‘Woman’ is being a bit liberal, isn’t it?” calls Bo from the sofa.

  I wipe down the bench. “There was someone watching us at Little Stern.”

  Bo kneels up on the sofa, hands over the back. “What do you mean ‘watching us’?”

  “I saw them up in the scrub—binoculars, maybe a scope. It was hard to tell.”

  Razor sits down, lifts his shoulders. “Could have been fucking anyone, man. Maybe it was Mrs. McLoughlin down the road trying to catch a glimpse of your Loch Ness monster.”

  I shake my head. “No, I don’t think so.”

  Razor pushes the salt shaker between his hands. “Come on, bro. You’re being paranoid. No one knows to look for us out here. We’re a million miles away.”

  I’m not convinced. “Weapons check, right now.”

  Razor rolls his eyes. “The Bachelorette is on in five minutes, man. It’s like the only damn show we get out here.”

  “So you better be quick.”

  He throws his hands up. “Fuck. Fine.”

  We head to the laundry together. I push the washing machine aside and remove the false panel from the floor, pulling out the duffle bag we’ve had stashed here since we arrived. We haven’t had to use it… yet, but it doesn’t mean the day won’t come. Better to be prepared than dead.

  I carefully place the bag on the floor and unzip it, pulling out each weapon and passing it up. Razor and Bo check over them in turn, examine the action and bolts, make sure they’re good to go.

  It wasn’t easy to get guns over here. It’s not like the States where you can walk into Walmart and grab yourself a .22. The laws here are tight.

  I take out a shotgun and snap it in half, eyeing down the barrels. “Ammo?”

  Bo reaches down and stacks up the boxes. “A hundred shells, give or take, plenty for the semis.”

  I take the shotgun off my shoulder and line it up out the window, the cold barrel reassuring against the side of my face. They might come, yes, but I’m ready to protect my family at all costs, even if it means my life.

  I place the shotgun back into the bag, collect the other weapons and zip the duffle bag up. With the panel and washing machine in place, you’d never know they were there. I brush my hands together. “For all our sakes, let’s hope I’m wrong.”

  Razor leans against the wall. “We are staying, right?”

  I exhale. “For now.”

  “For now?” says Bo. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean? We’re finally onto something good here. I mean, yeah, the town might be a little pussy starved, but come on. The beer’s cold, the waves are killer—What more do you want?”

  “It’s not a case of the beer or the surf, or pussy. This is about our safety. If those fuckers get wind we’re here… It doesn’t matter how they find out. We’ve got to go.”

  Bo’s shaking his head from the floor. “You’re getting ahead of yourself.”

  Razor pokes me in the chest, ungrateful bastard. “Why do you always have to go and fuck things up, huh?”

  I shove him back. “And where would you rather be? Back in the States, hunted down like animals, dead with your fucking head cut off?”

  He shoves me back. “This wasn’t our problem to begin with. The whole reason we’re over here is because you fucked up.”

  I lean against the washing machine. “I had no choice. I did what I thought was right for this family. I do what I always do.”

  “And what’s that?” laughs Razor.

  “Look out for you two, though I’ve got to say I question why sometimes.”

  Things go quiet, the anger dissipating.

  Razor pushes himself off the wall. “So, what now?”

  “We find out who’s watching us and why. Let’s fucking hope it is Mrs. McLoughlin and we can forget about all this.”

  But I’ve got a funny feeling it’s not about to blow over so quickly. The last fucking thing I want is to put Lux in the middle of it.

  *

  The usual suspects are in the pub placing bets or downing cheap beer. I don’t think the pool table’s seen use since the first World War, the slot machine in the back is a different story.

  Lux waves to me from the bar, Sarah looking less happy to see me.

  “Big night?” I offer.

  Sarah spits to the floor. Charming as always. “You want anything?”

  I lean on the bar. “Just your waitress here.”

  “She doesn’t date dropkicks.”

  “I suppose it’s just as well I’m an upstanding gentleman then, isn’t it?”

  Sarah goes off rolling her eyes.

  Lux places the glass she was drying away. “You’d think the only pub in twenty miles would be swarming, wouldn’t you?” She gestures to the four or five pensioners gathered around the TV, football or some such showing. “Not exactly the body-shot brigade, is it?”

  I wink. “There’s action in this town if you know where to look.”

  She laughs. “I get more than enough action out on the water, thank you.”

  She nods her head towards the corner where a man is sitting facing us, most of him in shadow. “Friend of yours?”

  I look a little closer, the guy reaching for his beer and bringing it to his mouth. He’s got ink on his neck, lots of work. “Can’t say I’ve seen him before.”

  “Maybe he’s just passing through?”

  I turn back to Lux. “This place is a dead end. No one ‘passes through’. Maybe I should have a little chat with our friend.”

  She reaches out and grabs my arm. “Don’t do anything stupid, please. I need this job.”

  “I’m not asking you to pay board.”

  “Please,” she repeats, those baby blues impossible to ignore.

  I pull my arm away. “Don’t worry. I’m just going over for a friendly talk. Where’s the harm in that?”

  Her eyes tell me she’s unconvinced, but this is more important.

  I make my way over to the booth. Whoever he is, he doesn’t seem to mind. He sees me coming and continues to drink his beer.

  I take a seat. “How’s it going?”

  “Good, mate. Yourself?” He’s Australian. His jacket collar’s not covering his neck tatt completely. It a shoddy rendition of a crown of thorns, the kind of half-ass ink you’d get inside.

  “Passing through?” I question.

  He licks his teeth. “Bit of a holiday, you know how it is.”

  I keep my eyes locked on his. “N
o one comes here for a holiday. What’s your business?”

  He doesn’t break eye contact. “What’s it to you? You the fucking fun police?”

  I should jam a glass into the side of his neck now and be done with it. I can’t see this ending any other way. “You should be careful who you talk to like that.”

  He laughs. “This is a free country, mate. I just want to sit here and drink my beer. If you have a problem with that, perhaps we better take this outside.”

  I could take this clown, but I see the way Lux eyes us from the bar. Besides, I don’t know if I’m in the mood for spilling blood tonight. Maybe this guy really is what he says, simply checking out the sights.

  Maybe not.

  I bring my hands together on the table. “Okay, mate, but we don’t take kindly to trouble ’round these parts. Am I making myself clear?”

  He nods, but it’s like he’s chewing on acid while he does it.

  I stand. “Enjoy your drink.”

  I see Razor and Bo come in, both of them taking a seat at our usual table in the middle.

  Razor leans over when I sit down. “What the fuck was that all about?”

  “Just being friendly.”

  Bo laughs. “You, friendly? Fuck, I’ve met tiger sharks friendlier than you. Who is he?”

  “Bad fucking news.”

  “You’re damn right about that.”

  I look up to find Sergeant Wilson staring down at us, the sole protector of this fine outpost.

  Bo raises his glass. “Sergeant, what brings you to the drinking hole this time of night?”

  The sergeant pulls over a seat from the table behind us and sits down, arms hanging over the back of it, legs straddling the sides. He taps the side of his nose. “You know, I’ve always had a highly developed sense of smell, boys. You know what I’m smelling now?”

  I can’t resist. “A rhetorical question, constable?”

  I know calling him the lower rank of constable shits him, but I can’t resist fucking with authority, especially a small-town cop with nothing better to do than harasses its newest inhabitants.

  The sergeant bites his lips, runs a thumb across his jaw. “This town was quiet before you three stooges showed up. Fuckin’ Americans, always showing up thinking they’re saving the world.” He talks directly to me. “No one needs saving here, mate.”

  “You sure?” I query.

  He takes out his baton, taps it against the side of the table. Most people are intimidated by us, but ol’ Bill doesn’t seem fazed. Maybe he just doesn’t care. “If I had it my way, you’d all be long gone, shipped back to Uncle Sam with a ‘return to sender’ slammed on your ass.”

  Bo leans across so they’re inches apart. “But you don’t have it your way, do you?”

  The sergeant sniggers, teeth running across his lip like he’s sawing through a log. “Not yet, but give it time. If there’s one thing I’ve learnt, it’s that A-grade assholes like you always slip up eventually. I’ll be there when you do, with that nice cold cell you’ve come to love. Fuck it, I’ll even throw in an extra blanket. How does that sound?”

  “Sounds like you better leave,” adds Razor, tightening beside me.

  The sergeant stands and nods, tucking his baton back into his belt. “Gentlemen.”

  We watch him walk out, Sarah eyeing us from the corner.

  It strikes me we may have to be a little more careful with the local constabulary. The last thing we need is an over-enthusiastic cop putting questions to his pals in the big smoke.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  LUX

  I wake clawing sleep dust from my eyes. I half expect to find Deacon standing by the door watching me, but the room’s empty.

  Shame.

  I throw the covers off and swing myself into a sitting position. I find jeans on the floor and drag them on. The clock beside the bed shows it’s 10am. I haven’t slept in this late since I was sixteen and dreamy-eyed over Justin Bieber.

  I stand and walk to the door, legs heavy. I open it slowly and look out. The place is way too quiet. “Hello?” I call down the hall.

  No response.

  Arms wrapped around myself, I head down the hall into the longue. No one’s here. There’s toast on the table, evidence the brothers were awake.

  I notice a hastily written note on the fridge door: SURFING. BACK LATER. FLAPJACKS ON THE BENCH.

  I am hungry.

  I take a flapjack and stuff it unceremoniously into my mouth. Not bad. I could get used to this.

  I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t help having a little look around the place. It’s more or less what you’d expect of three alpha males living together, what with the random porn and discarded bottles and cans on every flat surface. The surfboards are missing from the walls, but there’s Sex Wax on the table and spare wetsuits hanging from an old chandelier in the hall. It’s my kind of home—lived in, a little chaotic. A home, not a museum.

  I walk past Razor’s room.

  Don’t do it.

  I can’t help it. I enter, arms folded, and look around. There are a couple of surfing mags on the tableside fighting for space with Playboy and Hustler. There’s also a framed picture of the three brothers together standing at what has to be a Californian beach. They look happy.

  I pick up a pair of pants, lord knows why, and sniff, soon discarding them when the smell threatens to overwhelm me.

  In contrast, Bo’s room is clean and neat, the bed made and everything in order. The same picture is pinned to the wall and below it another with who I can only imagine are their parents. The picture is old, a Polaroid from the nineties maybe.

  Finally, I stand in front of the door to Deacon’s room. I don’t know why, but I’m more nervous about entering his space than any of the others. Perhaps it’s because we share a connection now, something I can’t really put into words, but I know deep down it’s more than that. All the brothers are attractive, the kind of brutish bad boys a girl would think twice about taking home to Momma, but Deacon… He’s different. I sense there’s more going on in his head than he’s letting on.

  I creep inside slowly and close the door softly behind myself. What the hell are you doing, Lux?

  I want to leave, but curiosity has me caught in a vice. The room’s large, far larger than my own. It must be the master.

  It’s surprisingly barren given how long the brothers have been here. Still, there’s nothing that immediately hints of something sinister going on.

  There’s the same picture of the three brothers stuck to the wall. Below it is another of what appears to be Deacon and a girl. She’s got stark blonde hair like myself, blue eyes. We could almost be twins.

  The plot thickens.

  I pat down my pockets and find my phone. There doesn’t seem to be any reception around here, but the camera works just fine.

  I don’t really know why, but I zoom in on Deacon’s face and take a snap. For posterity’s sake, I tell myself.

  A sound. The front door opening. Footsteps outside.

  Shit.

  I jump to the door and peer out.

  It’s Deacon, surfboard under his arm headed in this direction.

  Shitty shit shitballs.

  How the hell are you going to explain this?

  I look around, frantic. The wardrobe door is slid open. It’ll have to do.

  I manage to slip inside and pull the slatted door across right as Deacon enters.

  Now you’ve done it.

  I peer through the smallest of gaps between the slats. It’s dark in here and bright out there, I’m safe for now.

  Until he comes hunting for a shirt.

  Deacon’s in his wetsuit, standing in front of a mirror on the far side of the room.

  He reaches behind himself and pulls the zipper of the wetsuit down, peels out of it until it’s winged out around his hips, his torso, chest and arms bare and exposed. My stomach clutches, but it’s with a different kind of hunger now.

  Oh crap.

  This is not
good.

  If he comes over here. If he catches you…

  I push the thought away, the slat in front of my lips beaded with condensation from my breathing.

  He takes hold of the wetsuit and presses it down his thighs, no underwear, no nothing but for ass and cock and plenty of the latter, the bulbous head of it swinging between his legs heavy and large.

  I actually cover my eyes for a moment, unable to comprehend this, but yep, it’s happening alright.

  Wetsuit puddled around his ankles, he steps out of it and watches himself in the mirror. He doesn’t flex or smile or gaze at his body. He simply stares, looking for something.

  I’m surrounded by shirts and jeans, the smell of his masculinity, of male, thick around me.

  I crouch back as far as I can, watch as he takes hold of his member, lightly stroking it.

  Oh no. No, no, no. Don’t do that.

  He collapses onto the bed on his back, his cock growing hard in his grip.

  I’ve never seen a man masturbate before. It causes an unexpected wave of warmth to rush into my body. My nipples tighten against the cotton craters of my bra, tender.

  I arch forward for a better view, my chest brushing against the slats of the door.

  My mouth goes dry watching his fist pump up and down, his cock climbing higher and higher, growing thicker and thicker until it’s monstrous, obscene even in his hand.

  His head falls back to the edge of the bed, his huge thighs spread wide and his fist beating harder, faster, eyes closed in quiet supplication at the act.

  A thought occurs to me. What if he’s thinking about you?

  I smell my own sex, musky and damp, the scent of it mingling with the occupants of the cupboard, closing in around me. This is what it would smell like if you were together, you on him, him on you, in you.

  I shift uneasily as he continues to stroke his shaft long and slow.

  His cock’s magnificent, completely erect now with the foreskin stretched back, the rosy head of it uncovered.

  He groans and I feel it in my groin, primal. My thighs begin to ache, a strange and yet exquisite pressure growing between my legs. I press a hand between them to ease it, my labia swollen against my panties, the crotch soaked through.