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# ROUGH. ROWDY. RECKLESS.

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# Book One

# A Prologue

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# By Kimball Lee

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# Copyright 2015 Kimball Lee

# Smashwords Edition

# ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

And so it begins...

"Okay, we're all feeling a little restless, am I right? We need this trip— Austin, South By Southwest Music Festival—music, cold beer, hot guys, so many tequila shots that we dance on tables until we lose our minds, get laid, or pass out. Can I get an Amen?" I say and lean forward from the backseat of Gigi's VW Beetle convertible, perching on the edge of the seat as I wrap my arms around my two best friends. Gigi and Penelope—or just plain Penn, if you know what's good for you. These are my girls, my BFFs, my islands of calm in this scary-as-shit sea of almost-out-of-the-nest, our-college-days-are-nearly-over, so-long-to-Mom-and-Dad's-credit-card, reality-is-knocking-on-the-door, ADULTHOOD.

Yippeeeee and oh fuck!

"Amen!" They shout over the roar of the wind. The top is down, wind whips through our hair, stings our cheeks, and brings tears to our eyes as we barrel along IH-35 heading north from San Antonio to Austin.

"Sit back Bossy-Flossy, and buckle your damn seat belt," Gigi yells, tilting her head so that her cheek presses against my arm affectionately for a second before her eyes shoot up to the rearview mirror to give me a mock-exasperated look.

"Okay Mother, talk about bossy," I tell her, rolling my eyes and scooting back to buckle myself in.

"She's right, Scarlet, safety first," Penn adds in her 'stick to the rules' way, she squeezes my arm when I hug her but never looks up from the book she's reading. "This little 'bugaboo' Gigi drives might look totally innocuous, but it has a turbo-charged engine and she only has two speeds, fast-as-fuck and stop."

"I freaking LOVE my baby-blue-bug! This car tells the story of my life—California girl leaves her plastic, pretentious mother behind and starts over as a down-to-earth grass-roots Texan," Gigi says elbowing Penn and handing her a hair tie so she can wrangle Gigi's enviable mass of perfectly highlighted golden hair into submission.

"Back to the topic at hand. I've made some unbreakable rules for the week. This is our last Spring Break ever, our last hurrah before we actually graduate from college and real life turns us into our mothers," I say and Gigi and Penn groan in unison. "Shut up and listen, rule one—no sleeping with frat-boys."

"No fraternity dip-shits," Penn says swiping a finger across her Kindle to turn the page and glancing up as the jagged Austin skyline materializes in the distance.

"Been there, done that, not going back," Gigi says, lifting a hand from the steering wheel and rattling off a string of curse words over a slightly chipped nail.

"Okay, good, great," I say. "Rule two—let's find some hot local men, emphasis on MEN, and just throw caution to the wind, get down and dirty, but use a condom of course."

"We get it, this is the week of the 'Zipless Fuck'," Penn says and she looks from me to Gigi, narrowing her bright-blue eyes to see if we catch her meaning.

"I love that!" Gigi says with her usual effervescence and her foot gets a little heavier on the gas pedal. "Did you just make that up? It's totally brill."

"Nope, she didn't, she stole it from Erica Jong," I say and feel like I could dissolve into a fit of giddy teenage giggles. I'll never admit to the number of times I hid between the stacks of the Atlanta Public Library when I was thirteen and read and reread a well-worn copy of Fear of Flying. "But it totally fits for our week of guiltless pleasure. Okay, recapping rule one—I'm serious, no barely legal, pimply-faced, done-in-three-minutes college boys. If any guy says he's working on his masters at U.T. or just got accepted to law school— please say 'adios motherfucker' and move along. And no hot Longhorn jocks with fake IDs and nonstop erections."

"What if I meet a hot neo-hippie who's working on his PhD and he's from like, I don't know, Idaho or some shit? By the way, that's it? Just two rules that kinda go without saying in the first place?" Penn asks, kicking off her sandals and propping her little Tinkerbell feet on the dashboard as she runs a delicate hand through her choppy, shoulder-length, white-blonde hair.

"No means no, Penelope. N. O. Period. Exclamation point. There's one more rule and take it to heart, sister-girls, absolutely no regrets. This is the one week we can be anyone we want to be, anything goes, we love 'em, we use 'em, we leave 'em, we never look back. Now for our mantra, let me hear it –and I'll go first. Shout it if you mean it! I WANNA GET ROUGH!"

"I NEED TO GET ROWDY!" Gigi yells drumming her hands on the steering wheel and wiggling her hips.

"I'M FEELING KINDA RECKLESS!" Penn says and kicks her feet into the air and we all shimmy and squeal like cheerleaders at a pep-rally.

"Oh, great!" Gigi grumbles as lights flash and a siren wails behind us.

"Just what we need, a speeding ticket," Penn says, tucking her legs under her and marking her place before switching off the Kindle.

"Not to worry, I always talk my way out of trouble," Gigi says, pulling onto the shoulder of the highway and checking her face in the mirror. She swipes on a coat of lip gloss, curls her eyelashes, and adjusts her perky little spray-tanned boobs so they're enticingly displayed in her thin tank-top. When the officer looms above the car she beams up at him with her disarming surfer-girl, sparkly-eyed cluelessness, and asks, "Hey there officer, what could possibly be the problem?"

"Driver's license and registration please," he says, he's young, semi-hot, definitely a rookie, and doesn't stand a chance. His gaze is immediately glued to Gigi's tits. "Is there an emergency of some kind, Miss? Are you aware that you were doing eighty-five miles an hour? Not to mention that you changed lanes without using your turn signal and you were swerving, somewhat."

"Oh dear, this little car gets away from me! I'm sure I saw a sign somewhere back there that said the speed limit is eighty, didn't I?" She says and lifts a can of Diet Coke to her glossy lips, takes a sip and "accidently" spills a splash down her cleavage. "Uh-oh," she says as she dabs at the spill. Her fingers linger on the tops of her breasts, nipples clearly erect and visible through the skin-tight shirt as she sighs deeply and tilts her pretty head, her eyes lingering somewhere near his belt buckle. "Wow, are those real handcuffs? I'll bet they come in handy."

I lift my sunglasses and smirk, and Penn turns sideways in her seat to get a better view as the officer clears his throat and shifts from one foot to the other. He leans down to hand Gigi a handkerchief from his back pocket, clearly trying to decide what to do next. Judging from the conflicted expression on his face he's not sure whether to write out a speeding ticket or clap the handcuffs on her, throw her over his shoulder, and climb in the backseat of his patrol car to explore their more unconventional uses.

"I'm gonna let this one slide," He says, writing out a warning ticket. He wipes beads of sweat from his forehead and seems disappointed, like he wanted to ask for her number but thinks he better not fuck with the Texas penal code. "Slow it down please, ladies, and ya'll be safe. There are a lot of reckless drivers on the roads during the music festival."

"Oh, absolutely, officer, the last thing we wanna be is reckless." I say, distracted by an incoming text from my ex. He misses me, can't live without me, he promises his undying love and nights of nearly unbearable pleasure. Unbearable? You got that right.

"God bless Victoria's Secret for so expertly lifting and padding your tiny tits," Penn says, as the officer walks away with slumped shoulders and a look that says he probably just missed the opportunity of a lifetime. Penn syncs her phone to the car's sound system and cranks up the volume as we pull back onto the road. "Our fave retro tune for my girl's listening pleasure, here's to Duffy cuz we're gonna have the boys begging for mercy this week!"

We hoot and howl, yelling above the road noise, belting out the words to a song we all love, but can't really relate to. None of us has been so deeply in love that it brought us to our knees, but we don't care, we sing the words like we know what we're talking about—"Yeah, yeah, yeah! I don't know what you do, but you do it well, I'm under you're spell. You got me begging you for mercy!" Our voices mix and blend, lifting and swirling out into the warm March afternoon as the capitol city welcomes us. We're loud and off-key, not one of us can carry a tune in a paper bag, but who cares, we're here, together, young and free and aching for adventure.

*

All three of us have had a taste of sorrow— When Penn was twelve years old she lost her mom in a car wreck that might or might not have been an accident, and her dad has recently become engaged to an ex-stripper. Gigi's mother is a superficial space cadet who discards husbands like used Kleenex, and not once in four years has she left the set of her Beverly Hills reality show to visit her only child at college.

My family life is fairly normal except that my mother is a romance novelist and she thinks all relationships end in happily-ever-after. Which means she isn't speaking to me since I called off my ginormous June wedding when I caught my fiancé getting a blowjob from one of my former, bitch-and-a-half, sorority sisters. It was the stroke of midnight on New Year's Eve and instead of kissing me he had his teeny-little-weeny stuck down that slut's throat in the restroom of the San Antonio Country Club. Ugh.

To be honest, I was kind of—make that VERY—relieved for an excuse to get out of a relationship that looked good on paper but left a lot to be desired in reality. I'd met him my first year of college and got swept along in his 'I'm going to be a big-shot doctor and you can be my trophy wife' scenario. But we were completely incompatible, and not only in our views of the world and life in general—I just wasn't head-over-heels in love with him, not to mention that the man was way beyond inept when it came to sex.

My ex, Corey Baumgartner, finished four years of medical school at the top of his class and learned every nuance of human anatomy, but he never had the slightest clue how to give me an orgasm without my constant instructions.

I pretended to be sad when he moved back to Atlanta to finish his medical residency, but nothing could be farther from the truth. Gigi and Penn begged me to leave his scrawny, pompous ass ages ago, they both said the same thing, more or less. "Scarlet honey, so what if he's a brilliant cardio-thoracic surgeon with a life of privilege and wealth to offer—if he's bad news in bed, ditch the loser."

And I defended the cheating sack of shit for three years! I told them, "Well, he's only an intern, he's still in a learning phase."

To which 'voice of reason' Penn replied, "Trust me, if he hasn't located your clit by now, he never will."

Gigi and Penn haven't been in committed relationships since high school, and with my ruined relationship, we're ecstatic to leave Trinity University behind for a week of drunk-and-disorderly conduct at SXSW. Gigi claims to have a wildly fulfilling sex life, but the walls of our cozy little duplex are paper thin and she and her battery-operated-boyfriend are loud. As for Penn, she's a budding artist and the queen of one-night stands, her philosophy is that committing to one man requires too much effort and would stifle her creativity.

Honestly, I can tell that Gigi would sell her soul to fall in love even though she swears she never will since her mother's nine marriages all ended in messy-but-lucrative divorces. On the other hand, Penn really isn't the least bit interested in finding her happily-ever-after in a monogamous relationship. She has a nerdy-but-cool friend-with-benefits who knows how to satisfy her and stay out of her way when they're not rolling around in the sack, so she's in no hurry to replace him.

"Here it is, turn right. Not left, your other right, Gigi, what the fuck!" Penn says as we navigate South Congress Avenue and swerve onto a side street. "This is it, pull into the parking garage. God, your driving is all over the place, I think I need a Dramamine. Okay we're here, hallelujah, let me out of the damn car."

"Calm down, I knew where I was going. Geez, you're such a wimp," Gigi says, parking near the elevator and flipping down the visor to check her gorgeous face in the mirror, as per usual.

"No fighting, you two," I say, throwing my legs over the side of the car and climbing out. "Pop the trunk, let's grab our bags and party. I wanna see the sun set from the rooftop with a beer in one hand and a shot in the other."

*

We're spending the week in a penthouse condo owned by Penn's strange, middle-aged-but-still-kinda-cool-and-a-little-bit-sexy father. The building sits a block off South Congress, the street known as the hip-heart of all that keeps Austin weird, as the city's slogan goes. It's not a tall building by New York or Chicago standards, only seven stories high, but the penthouse and it's outside deck have unparalleled views north across Lady Bird Lake. On the opposite shore downtown Austin sprawls in a lazy spiral from the grounds of the domed State Capitol, around the refurbished Governor's Mansion, along legendary Sixth Street, past the iconic Clock Tower, to Longhorn Stadium and the University of Texas campus.

We haul our luggage into the elevator, mostly we haul Gigi's luggage. To put it mildly—the girl can shop. Penn is talking a blue-streak as she gives us a quick tour of the condo. Normally she'd rather read and listen to me and Gigi talk, but she's on a roll explaining why one side of the space looks like a demolition zone. Did she forget to mention that her dad sold half of the ten-thousand-square-foot condo to some rich ranch family? Well he did, since that slutty bitch he's engaged to insisted he buy a house on Mount Bonnell so she could brag to her trailer-trash friends that she lives near Matthew McConaughey.

"Yeah," Penn says as we wander through the contemporary space gasping at the panoramic views from wall-to-wall floor to ceiling windows. "I don't think I've told y'all the slutty fiancé's name, brace yourselves— Estrellita. It means 'little star' in Spanish and she's not even close to being Latina, she's freaking Croatian or something. Ughhh, and it's not a made-up stripper name, at least that's what Gus says."

Gus is Penn's father, better known in the tech universe as the Gustav Van Doorn, college buddy and former business partner of Michael Dell. He moved to Austin from Green Bay, Wisconsin to attend U.T. and like Dell, he dropped out after his freshman year to dabble in 'tech stuff'. Gus is what Austenite's enviously refer to as a 'Dellionaire', he got in on the ground floor of Dell Computers in the mid-eighties and retired with millions in stock and cash fifteen years later.

"That cannot be her real name," Gigi says and we all stop and listen as the front door of the adjoining condo slams and a cacophony of male and female laughter interrupts our party of three. "Yay, noisy neighbors, sounds like cute guys to me," and Penn and I both give her a look that asks how the hell she can tell they're cute just from hearing them laugh. "Well at least it's not some old retired couple who'll get pissed off if we sunbathe naked on the deck."

We stand for a minute, not saying a word, separated from the voices by heavy, builder-grade opaque plastic sheeting stapled to bare wood studs. The interior of the condo has been opened up right down the middle and new walls have yet to be built. I'm pretty sure we're hoping that our noisy neighbors are cute guys, because it would be a snap for one or all of them to drunkenly stumble into the plastic and literally come crashing into our lives.

"I need a shower first and then a shot," I say breaking our reverie. "Where should I put my bags, Penelope? This place is enormous."

"Let's throw our stuff in the master-bedroom, we can get dressed in there and pass out in Gus's freakish waterbed if we come home alone. There are a bunch of other bedrooms, pick one of those and lock the fucking door if you get lucky. Here, Gus left an 'All-Access' wristband for each of us, these get us into every official 'South By' event this week," Penn says, handing us the wristbands stamped VIP. "I don't care what y'all do, home-girls, but I'm going backstage to meet Jimmy Fallon after his show Tuesday night. And FYI, I have to stay sober on Friday for my internship interview at Alice-Anne's Farm Market, please don't let me get wasted and forget, it's my dream job."

"I'll remind you, not that you'd forget your big chance to become the authority on pesticide-free, farm-fresh melons," I say and she punches me in my arm and then hugs me.

"Oh my God! I wanna meet Taylor Swift," Gigi squeals. She's in full-on party mode and Penn's career aspirations are the last thing on her mind. "Can I do that, like hear her sing at a venue and then actually meet her?"

"Gross, who'd want to? But, yes you can," Penn says. "What about you Scarlet, anyone you're dying to see? And sorry, baby girl, Jay Leno won't be making an appearance, so your crush just got crushed."

"I will never understand your obsession with that huge old man," Gigi says and acts like she's about to hurl. "God almighty, Jay Leno is like, enormous, his body, his head, his freakish chin. Is it because you spent too many nights with pint-sized Tom Thumb, alias Corey Bumfuck?"

"Shut up, Jay Leno is the sexiest man on the planet," I say just to mess with their heads. "There is this one singer I want to hear, Jon Wylder. Y'all know his song, Shooting Stars, it's always on the radio and I love it. I need to find out when and where he's gonna be playing. Besides, I saw his face on a poster, he's impossibly beautiful in this effortless messy-sexy-don't-give-a-fuck way. What? I'm going out on a limb sexually, I've made up my mind— I'm banging the scruffy-pretty-boy singer if I get the chance."

"Have at it. I don't know what he looks like, but I do like his voice. I'll check the schedule and see where he's playing," Penn says leading us down a hallway past a den and two bedrooms, and into her dad's former room. "Scarlet, listen to me, Gigi does make a valid point. I have this major premonition that you're gonna try and overcompensate this week, but that's alright. You need to get out of your rut, you've had two lousy lovers in your entire life, and you're dying to throw off the whole Atlanta-Belle-Prom-Queen image. You want a sleazy lounge-singer or a break-all-the-rules, dirty-talkin' truck-driver who can turn you every way but loose? Go for it, sister. Find the biggest, brawniest badass in Austin and I'll get you a set of crutches if you can't walk for three days afterward. Woohoo, I'm getting worked up thinking about hot and raunchy anonymous sex. Alrighty then, let's do this!"

*

It's a hot night and the humidity is so thick you could cut it with a knife, but that's Texas weather for you, it might be snowing by morning. My body temperature runs a couple of degrees above normal and sweat prickles on my skin, my clothes are damp and clingy. I grab my bag, find the master-bath, and take a quick shower. When I'm done I gather my hair into a sleek ponytail and it looks good, dark chestnut-brown, the unruly waves tamed for the moment. To put it mildly, humidity and my hair don't get along. Without the elastic hair-tie, it would hang halfway down my back and the sexy-tousled look I work so hard to achieve just might morph into a bad Janis Joplin do.

"Hurry up, Scarlet, this isn't a fashion show. All male eyes will be on you anyway, leave a few crumbs for us," Penn says, dance-walking into the master bedroom and riffling through her dad's closet. She plucks one of his white cotton button-down shirts off a hangar, slips it on, rolls the sleeves up to her elbows, ignores the buttons and ties it at her waist. You can clearly see her lacey black bra and she's wearing a stretchy knit skirt that's so short and tight I'm pretty sure it's really a bandeau. "What, inappropriate? I thought this was a no-holds-barred, no regrets week." She says as she stumbles into a pair of red cowboy boots that nearly reach her knees and then she elbows me from in front of the bathroom mirror and twists her nearly-white hair into two shoulder-length braids.

Penn's ancestors were Scandinavian and you don't have to look at her twice to know it: She is cameo-pale, white-blonde, and her eyes define the color blue. She's tiny, five-two or possibly five-three if she stands on the tips of her toes. She was a gymnast all through school and her lithe, compact body looks deceivingly fragile. The girl is tea-cup-sized but she will kick your ass in a beer-fueled wrestling match, and Gigi and I usually have the bruises to prove it.

I lift my eyebrows at her braids as I pull on a short, white denim skirt that settles low on my hips, and say, "Are you planning on working a pole tonight in that outfit, hoping to make a little mad-money? I'm diggin' the braids, just can't decide if they're a nod to vintage Britney Spears or if you're planning to audition for Heidi Does Dallas."

"Shut up and get dressed, brat," she says and looks thoroughly pleased, the repressed-rebel in Penelope Van Doorn loves to shock. "I'm thirsty, and a burger and fries would be nice, but only after I have a major beer buzz going. Here put this on, white shirt, white skirt, your mom would have a fit since nice Presbyterian girls from Atlanta...."

"Never wear white before Easter or after Labor Day," we say in unison and laugh-snort like hyenas as she tosses me one of her dad's white V-neck T-shirts.

"What's so funny?" Gigi asks, twirling into the bedroom to show off her flimsy little peasant dress and strappy wedge sandals. "Oh I see, Scarlet's going for Southern-Blasphemous-Tacky with her too-early-for-white outfit. Let me make it a little more presentable," she says grabbing a pair of scissors from a drawer, cutting and then ripping the bottom half off the T-shirt.

"Fabulous, now I'm tacky and slutty," I say moving across the bedroom to check out my look in the floor length mirror. At five-ten I'm the tallest of our group, long-bodied, long-legged and curvy. The shirt barely covers my ribs and the waistband of the skirt sits a couple of inches below my naval. I slip into a pair of flat leather sandals and with my frat-girl ponytail the look should be demure, bordering on dull. But with my height, small waist, junk-in-the-trunk ass, and so damn much suntanned skin showing, it screams, "I'm hoping to get lucky tonight!"

"No, no way. I'm not wearing this. There are hundreds, maybe thousands of horny men out there on the streets right now, I look like I'm asking for trouble," I say and start to pull the T-shirt off.

Gigi stops me, yanks the tie out of my ponytail, shakes my hair out and secures it loosely with a long red scarf. "That's better, now you look like Snow White or Little Red Riding Hood, and damn straight you're asking for trouble—the good kind, remember? Like a generously-endowed hot man between your legs, one who has what it takes and knows how to use it, unlike cigarette-dick Corey Bumfuck. You look gorgeous, like a girl from a fairytale, and isn't that what this is, our fairytale getaway? Let your body do the talking, sister, and Miss Scarlet, it says 'I'm ready to play'!"

*

We crowd into the elevator and a tall, handsome man in a grey suit and black cowboy boots locks the front door of the neighboring condo and steps in beside us.

"Going down?" he says, he's in his late twenties and his brown eyes glint with mischief as they sweep over every inch of our bodies.

"Nowhere to go but down," I say and he laughs and nods in agreement.

His suit is expertly tailored and whoever does his hair must charge an arm and a leg because it's an achingly precise cut. He looks polished and rich and arrogant, and although I hate men's cologne, his is subtle and he smells good.

"You're Gus's girl, Penelope?" he asks, catching my eyes and holding them as the doors open and we step out into the early dusk.

"That would be her," I say, pointing a finger at Penn. "Are you running for office or just a newbie lawyer?"

"You're good, that's pretty close. I'm Walker McCauley, and yes, I'm an attorney. My brother lives on the other side of the plastic wall," he says in my direction but his sexual radar has zeroed-in on Penn.

What is it with tall men going for the shortest girl in the bunch? Of course it doesn't hurt that Penn is drop-dead gorgeous and exudes that 'I don't need you so go away' attitude that attracts men like flies.

We walk a couple of blocks along South Congress and it's a madhouse. The crowd on the sidewalk is packed shoulder-to-shoulder and every imaginable form of human life is on display, talking, laughing, and shouting as if it's the party of the century. Grey-haired hippies leftover from the Sixties, Hollywood-types dressed down in Dussault Apparel Thrashed Denim, leather-clad bikers, yuppie businessmen, suburban housewives with dogs peeking out of their purses, a bag lady in filthy pajamas. College kids, athletes, cowboys, cowgirls, gypsies, celebrities, the list goes on and on. The casual/cool vibe of the city pulses around us and as it sinks in we relax and release a collective sigh. We draw in deep breaths of air tinged with the sweet blooms of Confederate Jasmine and Texas Mountain Laurel.

"McCauley? As in, the monstrously-big-ranch-McCauleys?" Penn asks and stops in front of the Hotel San Jose. She's standing close to Walker McCauley, arms crossed defensively, head tilted back to study his face, waiting for his answer.

"Yes ma'am, the Corazon Perdido. How about I buy you ladies your first drink in Austin?" he says and steers Penn across the street with one hand on her arm and the other held up to stop traffic.

Gigi and I exchange questioning glances: WTF, Penelope is letting a man lead? And follow them into a dusky bar called The Continental Club. It truly looks like the worst kind of dive and Gigi catches my arm and drags me back inside when I try to leave.

"How do you know it's our first drink in Austin?" Gigi asks Walker after we plow through the tightly-packed patrons and he motions for a couple of weather-beaten old men to move on and make room for us at the bar counter.

"Gus told my brother to expect his daughter and her friends today, the condo was empty until you three showed up, and you don't smell like beer and regret... yet. So, what'll it be, beer, shots, cocktails?" He says and then he smiles and WOW! The term 'killer smile' suddenly makes sense and he has it down to a science.

The lighting in the bar is dim, to say the least, and despite the 'No Smoking' ordinance, marijuana smoke hangs in the air. It isn't surprising considering the crowd, most of them are young long-hairs with lots of tattoos and piercings, the rest seem to be leftovers from Woodstock. Everyone looks strung-out and dubious and there's not a cowboy in sight. And then I see it— the one black cowboy hat that floats above a sea of dreadlocks and ponytails, and whoever's wearing that hat is tall. Cowboy hats aren't an oddity in Texas, although when I first moved from Atlanta for college I was surprised to see so many. I always thought it was an urban legend—Texas, Stetsons, boots. Nope, they're fairly common and not so much on rough-and-ready cowboys, but on well-dressed rich boys like Walker-the-spanking-new-lawyer.

I can't see the face that goes with hat but, damn, I can see his shoulders. Wide, broad, expansive—those words hardly describe the set of biceps and shoulders I glimpse as he shifts at the end of the packed bar. I want to see his face and maybe it has to do with my need for size at this period in my life. Like Gigi and Penn said, it's possible that I'm suffering from 'small-Corey-syndrome' and I'm not getting past it without a night of necessary roughness with a sizeable man. God! Freud would be jumping up and down, clapping and shouting— "See, I told you, size matters: All women want it big and hard, and good and dirty!"

We order a second round of beers just as the raucous crowd begins hooting and hollering loud enough to damage our eardrums. The cause for all the excitement seems to be two men who climb onto a narrow stage and begin toying with guitars and amps.

"No freaking way!" Penn yelps and she is way too excited. "Do you know who that is? Jimmy Vaughn on guitar and freakin' Kid Rock at the mic! Jimmy Vaughn, do ya'll understand how huge that is? Hello, is anyone here from Texas? He's Stevie Ray Vaughn's brother, for Christ's sake."

"I read in a magazine that there's a statue of Stevie Ray Vaughn that Austenite's are inordinately proud of," Gigi says, wiping the top of her beer bottle with a cocktail napkin before taking a drink and letting her Beverly Hill's snobbishness show just a little.

The music starts up and it's deafening in the small space, Kid Rock looks like he's high on meth or maybe he always thrashes his head like a spastic when he scream-sings, "I wanna be a cowwww-boy bayyyy-beeee!"

"You want to meet Kid and Jimmy?" Walker asks.

Penn nods vigorously and Gigi shrugs defiantly before she says, "Sure, fine, why not."

"How about you...?"

"Scarlet," I say, "O'Neal."

"Like from Atlanta? Scarlet O'Hara, Rhett Butler, fiddle-dee-dee, Tara and Twin Oaks?" he shouts over the din.

"Yes, from Atlanta. No, not O'Hara. O'Neal, like I said. That joke gets old. Besides, it's Twelve Oaks, not Twin Oaks, do the research. And Scarlet isn't spelled like the damsel in distress, it's spelled like the color," I say, and sound a little more testy than I'd meant to.

"I'm Gigi and there's no reason to give you my last name, I'm not fucking you tonight and neither are my girls. Oh, don't look so shocked it's not personal, we've just sworn off ordinary men for the week," Gigi says, getting right up in his face with her 'Don't fuck with me or mine' attitude, she can be fierce, but in reality she's a loveable wolf in sheep's clothing. She knows I get sick of the Scarlett O'Hara reference, and she's obviously been waiting to cut Walker McCauley off at the knees to take his ego down a notch or two. She finishes her beer and swipes her glossy lips with the back of her perfectly manicured hand. "So, do you really have the clout to introduce us to Kid Rock, or what?"

"Yeah, for sure, come on. Ordinary men? I'm going to need an explanation for that later. You coming with us, Scarlet-like-the-color?" he says and scratches his head, ruffling his nice-neat hair which makes him seem less controlled and more likeable. His attention is now fully directed at Gigi, it's like he's really seeing her for the first time; that she's a whole lot more than just a beautiful cookie-cutter-blonde-airhead. And judging from the suddenly off-balance look in those chocolate-brown eyes of his—Walker McCauley likes what he sees, a lot.

I take a drink of my beer and shake my head. "Y'all go on, I supported Tommy Lee in the Kid Rock/Pamela Anderson affair, I should probably keep my distance," I say and watch them leave.

I turn away from the crowd and the stage, and order a shot although it's a terrible idea since tequila and I don't mix well. Their absence leaves an empty space at the bar counter and that's when I see him. The jaw-dropping gorgeous face that goes with the hat and the shoulders. Holy freaking shit!

He touches the brim of his hat with his thumb and index finger and nods in my direction. The gesture is so natural, polite and gallant, and causes a humming vibration south of my belly. He must be a mirage. I'm delusional, my subconscious is playing tricks and getting insanely creative, conjuring images in my brain of Mr. Right, because—no way he's right here, right now, and he's real and really, really right.

I throw back the tequila shot hoping it will clear my head or at least my eyesight, but it's strong and burns going down and I cough like a total light-weight. I'm sputtering into a bar napkin, my eyes are watering, and my face and neck are burning from embarrassment. Now I'm hoping that if cowboy-hat-man really IS that hot and huge and gorgeous, please don't let him be watching me.

But oh hell yeah—he is. He tilts his firm, square chin up and runs a hand across the dark swath of stubble shadowing his jaw. His eyes are large, dark and intense. I can't make out their color but they crinkle at the edges when his wide, inviting, totally kissable-among-other-things mouth lifts at the corners into a smile that sends my heart somersaulting in my chest. It leaves me feeling as if I'm balancing on a high-wire without a net, and it feels fabulous and frightening and like just maybe—POSSIBLY—love at first sight is as real as he is. I Iove this crazy new feeling as it rips me open and lets light inside all the hidden places in my heart. Tender places that hold onto to the things that truly matter, like true love that changes you and lasts forever, places that I've never dared to let anyone discover.

"Hey, you okay?" He says, taking a long, smooth step in my direction, and his voice is like dark molasses with a splash of whiskey poured over gravel, and... I can't think straight AT ALL!

"No. Yes. I'm...." I want to say something smart or at least just tell him the truth— I'm dreaming, disoriented, messed up by the sight of you, the sound of your voice. I want you to walk up to me, press that brick-wall-body into mine so I can smell your skin cuz I know it will push me past some silly 'good-girl' limit I've avoided all my life. You'll whisper dirty little secrets against my ear, my neck, skin, mouth, you're big fingers will slip inside my panties and I'll crumble into a million glittery pieces. I want you to be my diversion for the night and if it goes the way I'm hoping, then I can get lost in you for the rest of the week. It would be really cool and hot, trust me, I just know, my body knows, I'm already wet and wanting you so, so much.

"That was incredible! Kid Rock was the man, the other guy was kind of a dick. You missed out Scarlet, let's do shots," Penn says pressing up to the bar in a rush, wrapping her arms around me to reach for my refilled shot glass. Gigi is dancing with her arms raised above her head and bumping her hip into mine as she and Walker crowd around and block my perfect view.

"You did miss out, Scarlet, but cheers anyway," Walker says raising his glass as he hands me another shot and winks.

"Whoa," Penn says, shivering as she throws back a shot. "Don't look now Scarlet, but Khal Drogo is in this bar and he's directed a scary scowl in your direction."

"Oh, yeah I see him," Gigi says. "You're an idiot Penn, he doesn't look like Khal Drogo, are you that drunk already?"

"Size, I'm referring to size, the man is huge, just what you're looking for, Miss Scarlet, like a brick wall." Penn laughs and hiccups. "Oh shit, that's who he is! He's The Wall. You know, he was a wide receiver for Green Bay. God, now I wanna meet him and have him autograph my shirt or my tits or something. He was fucking amazing at catching the football with those gargantuan hands. He didn't play for long, after like, two years he just quit for no reason. This is wild, the Packers are my dad's favorite team, Gus would give his left nut to meet this brute."

Walker turns to see who we're talking about and does a half-wave at 'perfect-cowboy-hat-man' and says, "That's Holt Corrigan, I grew up with him, his father's our ranch manager. That big bastard got thirteen million for a two a year contract with Green Bay, not to mention a shit load of endorsements. Then he walked away from it all and now he builds hunting lodges and pool cabanas out of recycled barn wood. Must've taken a few too many knocks to the head on the football field. He's okay though, decent guy. Hey Holt," he shouts, "Come join us. How's farm life, still living in a barn?"

"Farm life's fine, Walker, and it's a grist mill, not a barn," Holt Corrigan says absently, ignoring the others and suddenly he's right there towering over me. He holds out his hand and I give him mine and we both stare down at them as if they belong to two strangers, which we are. My hand is far from small but it looks tiny as his long, thick fingers curl all around it. "Dance?" He asks, leaning down, his eyes narrowing as they bore into mine so intently that I couldn't look away even if I wanted to, which I don't.

"I remember you," Gigi says staring somewhere in the vicinity of his belt buckle. "You're the underwear model. God, I'll never forget that huge billboard on Sunset Boulevard with you in those black boxer-briefs, dude, what a package!"

"Yeah, my claim to fame," he says still holding my hand and ignoring everyone else.

"So Holt, you only know one syllable words?" Penn asks, she's buzzed and loves a god natured round of agitating and stirring the proverbial pot.

"Right," Holt says his eyes only leaving mine to focus on my lips.

"You're okay with that, don't feel the need to expand your vocabulary?" Penn says and I know it's because I haven't said a word so she and Gigi are wondering if I'm having an insta-love moment.

"Nope. Well, I know bullshit and horseshit. You like those?" Holt asks and he pulls me close as if we're going to dance right here if my friends won't shut up.

"Not especially, they're kind of gross, although I have been known to use them under duress," Penn says and Gigi tips a shot glass to her lips and nods in agreement before her gaze falls back to his crotch.

"There's no pleasing you, huh? It's either too big or too small, you're never satisfied?" He says and somehow I know the question is meant for me.

"You're big," I say, finding my voice, my eyes scanning those mile-wide shoulders and drifting down to the outline of his cock in his worn jeans before I can stop myself.

"Yep," he says, smiling, amused, like he's well aware of exactly what girls want and need from him, things that don't involve words. "So, what's your deal, beauty? Sick of safe, polite trust-fund boys who turn their noses up at anyone who isn't privy to an exorbitantly expensive non-state-funded institution of higher education?"

"Good use of words, and yes, she definitely is," Gigi says smiling happily as if I've hit the jackpot in the man-for-the-week department and again I'm at a loss for words.

"You got that right, she's sooo over her pip-squeak, brainiac ex-boyfriend. She needs a real man to show her the ropes, and I'm thinking you're right up her alley," Penn echoes and widens her eyes urging me to say something, anything.

"Can't say as I blame her, it's plain to see she can have any man she wants with the snap of her fingers," Holt says, and his eyes twinkle as he inches closer, he certainly found some part of Penn's little speech to his liking, and whatever is going on behind his eyes has my heart doing that somersault thing again. "But, maybe she's looking to push her boundaries, get unruly with a man she can walk away from afterwards with no regrets. She wants her first big adventure and who can blame her, go big or go home, right?"

"Holt this is Scarlet, aka Little Red Riding Hood, she has the look doesn't she? An inescapable innocent-meets-sexy-as-fuck vibe going on?" Walker butts in, he's beginning to slur and there's a mean, I'm-feeling-left-out, edge to his words.

"Not a nice thing to say," Holt says, his eyes fix on Walker and now they're dark forest-green and menacing.

"Sorry 'bout that Miss Scarlet and I'm not just saying that because brawny Mr. Corrigan might kick my ass into next week. It was rude and uncalled for, think I'll catch a ride home or crash at my brother's place. Night all," He says tossing a hundred dollar bill on the counter and disappearing in the direction of the entrance.

"Would you like to dance?" Holt asks again.

"In here?" I say stupidly, and my voice sounds weak and strange.

"Or in the street, if you like, but I think here is good," he says and when me he pulls me away from my friends and against his body and I fall into him, he catches me and I feel weightless, like silk.

Holt Corrigan, that's his name, strong, mysterious, and just soooo... right.

"This works," I say and we're pushed even closer by the pack of drunks milling around us.

He seems alright with it, that we're basically crushed together in the rowdy, cramped bar. I certainly am. He's still holding my hand and he lifts it slightly and slides a long, muscled arm around my waist like we really have any hope of dancing in the middle of the hippies, freaks, and hipsters. His free hand rests on the bare skin of my hip, my nipples tighten as heat shoots through me and I can tell he feels it too. He begins to move slowly, taking me with him, his sheer size and bulk forcing the crowd to open and step back.

As tall as I am, he's a lot taller. I lift up on my toes so that my cheek rests against his hard, sculpted shoulder. His arm tightens around me and I can feel the roped muscles of his forearm press into the small of my back. My face turns up instinctively, my lips brush the beating pulse-point in his neck and I inhale deeply. Damn! He smells like heaven wrapped up in six-feet-four-or-five-inches of rock solid, hot, insanely handsome Texas male. He smiles down at me and it's an unexpectedly adorable little-boy grin, and that's it—I am in insta-love or whatever you want to call it, I'm done for, I'm his.

Some random guy on stage is picking a guitar and singing an old Willie and Waylon song, and the crowd gets quiet, settles down to listen. It's like they know the words are true, cowboy's aren't easy to love and even harder to hold onto, but oh, are they ever seductive.

"It's a good song, you should pay attention and just walk away from me," He says and his hand releases mine and his knuckles trail across my bare belly and I don't care about the words... or the warning. "Who are you, beauty?" he asks, his hands clamping tight on my hips, holding me so close, standing still in the middle of the room, head bent down, his eyes are shocking-green beneath the rim of the black hat.

"Scarlet," I whisper into his ear, and the hot, clean, earthy smell of his skin is forever embedded in my brain.

"Listen," he says as the music and the words drift out from the stage and settle over us.

"Mamas don't let your babies grow up to be cowboys, don't let 'em pick guitars and drive them old trucks, let 'em be doctors and lawyers and such. Mamas don't let your babies grow up to be cowboys, 'coz they'll never stay home and they're always alone, even with someone they love."

"It doesn't matter," I say and he smiles, slow and disarming and his lips cover mine.

This man, Holt, tastes like tequila and sin, and our mouths fit like we were made for each other, and it's unquestionably the way a kiss should feel; Warm, soft, tender, deep, rough, wet... bliss. His cock is huge and diamond-hard against my thigh, my breasts are crushed into his chest, nipples aching for his touch, pulse pounding in my ears. I want him to lead me out of this run-down bar, crash into a wall in a dark alley, lift my skirt, push my panties aside, feel how wet I am, and fuck me—hard and deep and....

"Scarlet let's go!" Penn hisses and Holt and I tear our lips away from each other and stare down at her. "We're outta here, your man-crush is right down the street, you are so gonna score tonight. Come on, hurry up!"

"He is," Gigi adds, jerking me away from 'Mr. So-right-it's-scary'. "We've had enough of this dive and all these freaks, we're ditching both right now. C'mon, your dream lover awaits."

My best friends are determined to get out of the bar fast, they each grab one of my arms and lead me away. I'm walking backwards, watching Holt Corrigan recede into the distance, stunned into silence by the power of the one kiss we shared.

"Come with me," I say, hoping he heard me, wondering if my lips actually moved to form the words.

He shakes his head, pulls off his hat and runs a hand through dark, tousled hair. His smile is gone and I hear his words as the door closes between us— "Not tonight, beauty. Wouldn't want to mess up your date."

PART TWO

Scarlet...

The worst part of being me is my insomnia. I seldom get that nice, drowsy feeling and on the rare occasion that I do, it's still hopeless. I have a prescription for sleeping pills but I fight their effects and then I sort of space out and either text a dozen long-lost friends in the middle of the night or eat three giant bags of potato chips without realizing it. The next morning I find the empty bags by my bed or scattered around the duplex and Penn usually rolls her eyes and says, "You're lucky you have metabolism that burns calories like a jet engine, Scarlet, Ambien-aftermath is not conducive to a bikini body."

We didn't find Jon Wylder at Hill's Café, he'd been there and gone, a near miss and I couldn't care less. The day of packing, driving, and semi-settling-in, combined with a few beers and tequila shots, and we are wrung out and tired. Back at the penthouse Gigi and Penn are already passed out cold in the master bedroom and I'm wide awake and kicking myself for walking out on Mr. Right. Why did I leave with my friends? I should've sent them on without me, it's not like I'm dying to hear some almost-famous Texas country singer.

I slip into my usual excuse for PJs—a cami and white men's boxer briefs—the underwear were borrowed from my ex and never returned cuz they're super comfy. I grab a bottle of water from the fridge, pop a sleeping pill, pray that it'll work, and wander out onto the deck. I lean against the iron railing and soak in the rich feel of the Texas night. The air is warm and thick, and the moon and a zillion stars are reflected on the surface of the lake. The pyramid-shaped Frost Bank Tower glows eerily under the inky sky and as I close my eyes and let myself bask in the moment I hear a low, rumbled intake of breath behind me.

I turn and there he is, Mr. Very-Right-cowboy-hat-man, he's asleep on a double-wide chaise lounge. His huge body is sprawled out and makes the expensive chaise look like a piece of doll-house furniture. He's bare chested, the cowboy hat is nowhere in sight and his boots are kicked off, belt and shirt tossed aside. I've never ever seen shoulders like his on a living, breathing man. He's shaped like those statues of Greek and Trojan warriors, ferocious and mighty. Not like pretty David waiting for Goliath with his slingshot slung haphazardly over one shoulder. This is Achilles or Hector, sword and shield laid aside, taking a rest and waiting for the next epic battle. And he is epic, not some strutting, flexing, wanna-be-super-hero, pumped-up, steroid-obsessed, gym-junkie.

These muscles are surely honed by hours of lifting and hauling, and who can say what kind of constant manual labor he does outside under the high Texas sun. He's all wide bronzed chest, narrow waist, bulging biceps, and ridges and planes I'm thinking of tracing with my fingers and my tongue. If Holt and my ex were to stand side by side it would be sad and comical, next to him, Corey would look like a cute and tidy little plastic Lego man.

Holt obviously isn't into city-slicker manscaping, this man and his body are the real thing and the stuff of dreams all wrapped up in one big mouthwatering package. He has a nice smattering of chest hair that looks infinitely touchable and a trail of soft-dark hair from his naval trailing down, down.... Heaven help me, do not let my hand touch him THERE, but I want to, oh yeah, I WANT to! Holt in the moonlight is a beautiful mystery, black hair with that irresistibly disheveled fresh-fucked look, wide eyes closed, long, thick lashes rest on chiseled cheek bones. A swath of dark stubble on his strong, square jawline makes me lean close and think about how it would feel against my skin, rough, dangerous, divine. The top button of his jeans is undone, waistband of black boxers peek out...

"Nice view tonight, see anything you like?" he says, his voice is a low, sexy growl and I stumble back and fall flat on my ass, head swimming as the sleeping pill begins to kick in.

He's on his feet fast and at my side, kneeling down and then lifting me, and I can't help myself, my arms circle his shoulders and my face burrows into his neck, that fragrant space I've already claimed as my own.

"I...took something to help me sleep," I whisper, my lips lingering on the hot vein that beats rhythmically just below the skin. "It never works but I think it is now... the pill... to help me sleep. I'm not just clumsy...."

"Where's your bed?" He asks gruffly, navigating the hallway in the condo with me in his arms. "Which room is yours?"

"Whichever one's empty, just not the master bedroom, my friends are asleep in there."

He ducks through a doorway and I tumble onto a bed as he leans down and pries my arms from around his neck. He switches on a bedside lamp, and again I witness the adorable smile that softens his serious features and makes me want to simultaneously reach for his ripped abs and his zipper. I can't help but stare at the faded denim where the outline of his cock is clearly visible, and as he runs his palm over the enviable bulge I can tell that he's trying to decide what he should do in this instance.

"I'm too drunk and you're too groggy for this," Holt says, as he stands beside the bed and gazes down at me, brows knitted, a war raging behind his eyes. But his hands have a mind of their own, and he leans down and they glide along the inside of my thighs and push up to the edges of my underwear. His big thumbs reach under the cotton-knit fabric, skimming over the tender folds of my sex as I gasp and arch into his touch.

"I know, but I need to...." I say, trying to stifle a groan as I stare into impossibly green eyes that are locked on mine, and when I do it's like being hit by a thunderbolt or catching lightning in a bottle. Improbable as it sounds it happens just that quick, this bizarre force of nature that's drawing us together, and I know I'll never see in another man's eyes what I see in his at this moment. Not only lust and surprise, but shock that whatever has just hit me like a ton of bricks, has taken hold of him, too.

"Fuck, you are so sweet," he whispers when he feels how wet I am, soaked from the sight and smell and nearness of him. His fingers linger on my sex for a moment longer, then he jerks his hands away as if the heat at my core is too hot to bear. His lips lower to mine, his eyes narrowed and intense, almost predatory, as he devours me in a scorching, hungry kiss.

"I want to do this, please, please," I murmur against his mouth, my hands frantically moving over his back and clutching his biceps as I lift against him, ravenous and shameless with need. "It's okay, even if I don't remember a thing tomorrow."

"Yeah, that's not good, beauty, I want you to remember me," he says and I swear to God I could come just from the sound of his voice when he calls me 'beauty' and the wild-animal gleam in those emerald eyes. "You don't do this all the time, we should wait 'til you're more coherent."

"Yes I do," I lie, trying to wrestle out of my tight cami.

He shakes his head and jerks my top back in place, moves those big, magic hands away from my skin and I want them back NOW. "You're a bad liar, now scoot over, we're gonna sleep 'til I sober up and you're fully awake."

"Sleep? I'm an insomniac! There's no way I can sleep now, not with you in the same room. My body doesn't downshift that fast...."

"Shhh," he says, climbing into bed and flipping me over so that my back is to him, then dragging my body hard against his. The man doesn't know the meaning of gentle, he's rough, his hands are calloused, his cock is hard as steel and pressing into my ass through the fabric of his jeans. I want those jeans OFF, I want to feel every burning-hot, smooth-hard inch of him on me, in me....

"You're not going to take off your jeans?" I ask, attempting to turn and face him but he holds me in place with one monstrously strong arm.

"Nope, not tonight, now close your eyes and sleep," he says and I start to protest, to tell him he's bossy as hell. But he feels so good and his heat wraps around me, mixing with my own, and when I stop fighting it and drift off to sleep he feels like the place where I belong.

*

When I wake he's gone and I groan and press my face into his pillow. It smells of him—Holt—clean, solid, manly. I run my hand over the indention his body has made in the bed and the sheets are cool. There's a sharp ping in my heart, why didn't he wake me in the night, why did he leave without saying goodbye? I check the clock and see that it's past noon, so of course he's gone, don't cowboys always get up at dawn to tend herds of cattle, or sheep, or armadillos? I force myself up and go into the bathroom, my suitcase is on the floor, evidence that Penn or Gigi has checked on me. I brush my teeth, wrangle my hair into a ponytail, and slide into a pair of loose, raggedy boy-friend jeans. I stare at myself in the mirror and wonder if I look different now than I did before I met him—the man who I intend to share my bed and any other flat surface with for the rest of the week, God willing. My nipples harden under the skimpy cami as I picture the intensity of his gaze, the perfect pressure of his tongue against mine, his big, rough fingers gliding over my....

"Finally!" Penn says, she's leaning against the bathroom door, sipping a Bloody Mary with a sly smile tugging at her lips and one pale eyebrow raised. "We almost called 911, thought maybe you were fucked to death. Yeah, yeah, we saw the hulk leaving your room this morning, details please, intimate details."

"There's nothing to tell, sadly," I say and she can see that I'm basically telling the truth. "Strangely, I found him sleeping in a chaise on the deck, but I'd already taken a sleeping pill and he said we should wait."

"How chivalrous, damn! Well, a cup of Verona is brewing in the Keurig machine just for you, unless you'd rather have one of these," she says, taking another sip of her drink before offering it to me.

"Coffee's good, waking up with the sexiest man in Austin missing from my bed is bad," I say and pull a T-shirt on and follow her into the kitchen.

"Hmm, well Miss Scarlet, today is another day. Chances are good he'll be back tonight, meanwhile come on out to the deck, you aren't going to believe who lives on the other side of the plastic wall."

I collect my cup of coffee and follow Penn outside where half a dozen people are swilling Bloody Mary's and partying. Walker McCauley is kicked back in the wide chaise lounge where Holt was sleeping just a few hours ago, and two tiny red-heads with ginormous boobs are cuddled up on either side of him. They're attractive in a rubbery-blow-up-doll sort of way, giggling and rubbing their scantily clad bodies all over him. He doesn't look happy or the least bit interested, and as my eyes adjust to the noonday light I spot the problem—Gigi.

It's blatantly obvious that the part of Gigi's brain that controls her libido has settled on an extremely pleasing object of sexual stimuli. In other words, the hot-and-hunky-pretty-boy she's glued to is destined to be her sex-toy-replacement for the night, if not the week. From the look of things, I wouldn't be surprised if they've already had one or more rowdy romps in the hay. You can barely see a sliver of sunlight between their bodies, they're perving all over each other in the sight of God and the Lone Star State Capitol.

"Scarlet! Come here sister-girl, you are not going to believe who this is," Gigi says and the last time I saw her this happy was when a butt-ugly, non-photo-shopped picture of her mother made the cover of People magazine.

"Jon-Wylder McCauley, the neighbor, nice to meet you," He says, forcing his gaze away from Gigi's body long enough to take my hand and brush his lips across it.

I swear he's the most beautiful man I've ever laid eyes on, movie-star gorgeous. He has that pretty-but-masculine look, like a young, long-haired Brad Pitt in Legends of the Fall. When he gives me a smile he has totally swoon-worthy dimples and I'm sure my jaw just hit the ground. With that face and that voice—I wouldn't blame Gigi if she dragged him to the ground and they engaged in all sorts of Cirque du Soliel sex moves right here in front of everyone.

"Scarlet's at a loss for words, hard as that is to believe. She's a big, big fan of your music, Jon-Wylder," Gigi says and let's go of him long enough to place a finger under my chin to close my gaping mouth.

"Scarlet's only interest in the Austin music scene was to hear some guy named Jon Wylder sing, and now here he is—our next-door neighbor and Gigi's crush for the day. What are the chances?" Penn chimes in and that's when I notice that she's acting fairly demure and blushing and standing awfully close to another handsome stranger.

"What the hell is going on here?" I ask, wondering how we've all managed to stumble across so many hot men in the short time we've been in town. "I slept late and my two best friends morph into giddy pre-teens?"

"Traeger this is Scarlet, our unofficial den-mother for the week," Penn says, squeezing the tall blonde guy's hand and shooting me a sweet pixie smile as if it's the most natural thing in the world for her to be infatuated with a man!

Seriously, what the...?

"Okay, I am definitely trippin'," I say, shaking my head to clear the cobwebs out of my addled brain. "You all look like you've been partying hardy for a few hours, so I'm gonna go back inside, take a shower, make myself presentable, and when I come back out here, it would be nice if my two best friends would either snap out of it or give me a hint as to what I missed."

"You missed a lot," Walker says, untangling himself from the two purring red-heads to stand up and stretch. He grabs a couple of beers from a cooler, opens them and hands me one, "My brother has been up all night doing his bullshit music thing and his buddy Traeg followed him home. They met your girlfriends this morning at Jo's Coffee down the street and surprise, surprise, now it's one massive cluster fuck."

"Goodbye Walker, you dick, don't let the door hit you in the ass on the way out. If you're ever in the neighborhood, drive on by and don't bother to stop," Jon-Wylder says and he and his brother stand eye to eye looking like they're ready to rumble.

"You can come downstairs to our place, Walker sweetie-pie. Shame on Jon-Wylder for throwing all of us aside for a girl from out of State," One of the red-heads who was curled up next to him like a cat in heat says, giving Gigi and the rest of us the evil-eye.

"Ohhhh, Scarlet I don't think you've met the ski-name sisters," Penn says and rolls her eyes. "One of them is Vail and the other is Aspen. I have no idea which one is which, but I'm pretty sure they're interchangeable."

"Yep," Gigi tears herself away from Jon-Wylder, grabs my arm, and hiss-whispers in my ear. "Look at them, tiny little silicone pocket-pets, and they live downstairs—right underneath this penthouse! Neighborly, huh? Not only that—and this is gonna gross you out—I think they have known Jon-Wylder and Penn's dad in the biblical sense."

"Okay then, I'm heading inside," I say, because there are way too many mixed messages flying around and I need another cup of coffee. "Jon-Wylder, there was someone else here last night, maybe another one of your buddies?" I ask just before I step inside the penthouse.

"Holt, you mean? Yeah he likes to sleep out under the stars like the crazy son-of-a-bitch he is. He was on his way out around dawn when Traeg and I were just getting home. He went back to Tallulah, I would imagine," Jon-Wylder says and Traeger laughs.

"He's a glutton for punishment," Traeger says. "All he does is build shit, never has time to party, I'm telling you, he's fucking married to Tallulah."

"He's married?" I ask, my voice cracking.

"Well, not exactly, but he might as well be. You didn't go falling in love with him, did you?" Traeger says and he and Jon-Wylder find this hysterically funny.

I wave Gigi and Penn away when they try to follow me inside, I know what I'll see on their faces—pity—and I'm not in the mood for it.

*

"Slow down Scarlet, you know how you are with tequila, this is smooth but potent," Gigi says as I throw back my third shot and slam the shot-glass down on the bar a little harder than I meant to.

"Like its maker, smooth and potent," Traeger says and drags Penn a little closer to him, he has to bend down to fold her into his embrace, there's nearly a foot difference in their height. Traeger is a lot like Penn, sort of a mystery, aloof and reserved, at least that's how he seems. Not that I actually know him yet, we've only exchanged a few words since he and Penelope are absorbed in their own reclusive world.

"Should I ask what you mean by that, or just let you demonstrate later, back at the condo?" Penn asks, and for the life of me I cannot get used to this starry-eyed, lovey-dovey side of her.

"I'm sure he'll be glad to show you ASAP," I say slurring my words just a tad, but who cares, I'm waiting for that fuzzy 'don't give a shit' feeling to kick in.

I need to get fall-down drunk now in the middle of a bar whose name matches my mood tonight. We're here at the Mean Eyed Cat to watch Jon-Wylder perform, and he stands on stage fondling his guitar and belting out my favorite song just for Gigi. The shots are helping me out of my funk and allowing me to enjoy my righteous indignation. I'm loosening up and feeling better about the nearly-married man who slept in bed with me last night.

Dear Lord, what was I thinking? An unknown man kisses me in a sleazy bar and I'm convinced he's my forever love, my anti-Corey Bumfuck!

"Umm, does anyone here realize that the rush of seeing Jon-Wylder on stage is practically as good as having sex," Gigi asks, gulping another shot and swaying dreamily to the music.

"Ha!" Penn says, "Then one of you must be doing the sex thing all wrong."

"Look at him, my new lover-man has all the right moves... I mean we haven't actually... you know... we will the minute he's done with this show.... Oh kiss my ass and shut up, Penelope," Gigi says and Penn and I double over laughing because this girl desperately needs a few good orgasms that involve a person rather than machinery.

"TNT?" Penn says, regaining her composure and reading the label when Traeger motions for the bartender to leave the bottle on the counter.

"Yep, Traeger's Natural Tequila. All natural, handmade in the heart of Tallulah, Texas by yours truly," Traeger says and this causes Penn to giggle and shout "Amazing!" and pull his lips down to hers.

"Tallulah, Texas. Tallulah, Texas?!! Tallulah is a TOWN?" I shout after I've slammed down another shot and my head is spinning and my stomach flips over a couple of times.

"Well yeah, we were kinda bullshitting you earlier about Holt. You don't believe any girl would be crazy enough to tie herself down to this big, rough jackass, do you?" Traeger laughs and clamps a hand on a broad shoulder that is suddenly looming over our little group.

"Hey, got here fast as I could. How many of those shots have you had, beauty? Traeger brews his moonshine in a horse-trough, that shit is lethal," Holt says, smiling down at me as my heart trips around in my chest and all I can do is stare up at his face and try not to let everyone see how immensely relieved I am. "You okay, Scarlet?" he says and his 'little-boy' smile fades as his hands settle on the sides of my face, thumbs brushing over my temples as he leans down and kisses me lightly.

"I'm good, better now, your friends told me...." I force myself to step back out of his reach, "They said you were married, or close to it."

He throws his head back and laughs and I realize three things— One- He's not wearing the cowboy hat. Two- He looks even better without it, his eyes flash bright-green and his hair is glossy and permanently messy and adds to his utterly-fuckable hotness. And three- It might be crazy since I only met him twenty-four hours ago, but if Holt Corrigan isn't the love of my life, I can't imagine who ever will be.

"That was a sorry-ass thing for them to do, but it's how they are, both of them are dicks. Sorry if they upset you, beauty, how can I make it all better?" He says and although his tone is light, I can see that he's truly concerned.

"Let's go," I say and I don't care what anyone thinks. I raise up on my toes and the wisp of a dress I'm wearing rides up so that the bottom of my ass is quite possibly showing. His hands reach around to cup my butt-cheeks, long fingers dipping beneath the lace thong, his eyes lids fall halfway closed and he releases a long-held sigh. I turn my face up to his and his lips are on mine, hot and lush, his tongue slipping into my mouth, probing and insistent, and we kiss for a long, long time.

"Hey son, glad you could leave ol' Tallulah and make it!" Jon-Wylder says, and suddenly he's next to us smiling like the cat that ate the canary.

Honestly—I should be mad at Jon-Wylder but his easy, flawless smile is indeed infectious. He's taken me under his wing today and calls me 'Sis', presumably a shortening of 'sister-girl', the preferred nickname that Gigi, Penn, and I use as our personal term of endearment. In the past few hours I've learned that he has never met a stranger or a person he doesn't like, he calls all men 'son', and he's not only effortlessly and blatantly sexy, he's also the most cheerful, good-natured, easy-going man I've ever met. So—with tequila and relief coursing through my veins and my lips swollen and throbbing from Holt's kiss—I'm going to forgive Jon-Wylder's little deception about Holt's marital status.

Holt lets me slide down his body and when my feet reach the floor he lifts his hand to shake Jon-Wylder's, then tilts his head and says, "That was a lame-ass joke you and Traeg played on my beautiful Scarlet. Apologize, you two sick sons-of-bitches, and I mean it."

"Sorry, Scarlet, we were just dicking around," Jon-Wylder says scooping a bouncy, adrenaline-rushed Gigi up next to him.

"That's right, we were, and we definitely deserve to be punished," Traeger says and Penn pulls his face close to hers and whispers in his ear. He blushes and Penn looks pleased so she must be cooking up some kinky shit in that brilliant mind of hers.

"You're both forgiven," I say and hand two tequila shots to Holt, pick one up for myself, and we clink our glasses in a silent toast and throw them back. I shiver as the warm liquid slides down my throat and the truth is—Traeger's Natural Tequila really is incredibly smooth and delicious.

"Don't let the easy way those slide down fool you, beauty, they're lethal and I think you've had enough," Holt says, tossing back one more and then crushing me against the massive, solid wall that is his body.

"You're right, I've had plenty to drink, but not enough of... you," I say and slip my hands under the black T-shirt he's wearing and run them over his chiseled abs.

He draws in a sharp breath, slips an arm around my waist, picks me up and walks a few feet away from the others before he sets me down again.

"Scarlet, you sure about what you want? "I'm twenty-seven years old, how old are you, twenty? Twenty-one?" He asks and runs a hand through his hair and down across his mouth, along his jaw.

"I'm twenty-two. I know what I want, Holt, drunk or sober, and I'm not that drunk." My hands cannot stay away from his skin, they move back under his shirt and up his hard, hot chest, and there's no way for me to stop touching him. "Do you have a car, where are you parked? Let's go, let's just leave...."

"Alright, my truck's out back," he says, and his voice is so dark and rich that I know without seeing his eyes that he's made his decision.

He leans down and his lips brush mine, he clamps one hand on my waist and the other slides up the back of my thigh and I press into him, my arms wrapping around his neck. He rests his chin on the top of my head, murmurs my name low and gravelly, then backs up a step, grabs my hand and we leave the building.

It's dark out tonight, the moon is low in the sky and the parking lot is a maze. He leads the way, threading through haphazard rows of cars and SUVs, and I hear the chirp of the alarm as he unlocks his truck. Before he can open the door I wrap my hands around his biceps and drag him with me as I lean back against the warm metal of the shiny black truck. His mouth covers mine in a heartbeat, one huge hand splayed out holding the back of my head, tangled in my loose hair, the other gripping my hip through the filmy fabric of my dress. I arch into him, hips forward, meeting his, we both moan at the shock of contact. His erection is hot and hard and huge pressing into my thigh, I gasp into his mouth as his tongue strokes my bottom lip, tasting me, sucking, rough and then gentle, raising goosebumps on my skin. A primal need spikes low in my belly and spreads lower, wet and urgent, his kiss consumes me, deep and intense, our mouths fit together like pure perfection and I want more, all of him, closer than close, naked, inside me.

His hand leaves my hip and I miss the heat of it immediately, he opens the door of the truck, lifts me onto the seat and stands there looking down at me. "You are so fucking beautiful, Scarlet," he says and leans in to kiss me again.

"So are you," I say, my hands under his shirt, nails scratching down his chest to the soft trail of hair that disappears into his faded jeans. "I need you to hurry, please. Here, now."

He shakes his head but he's already reaching for the hem of my dress, pushing it up, his fingers twine in the sheer lace of my panties, shredding them. He drops them beside me on the seat and his eyelids fall closed when he feels how wet and ready I am.

"Fuck! You're soaking wet, you feel like silk...." He says and all I can do is utter greedy little gasps and lift against his fingers as they slide over my pussy.

I clutch at his shoulders and I'm lost as he leans in, hovering over me, filling the small space with the wide bulk of his body. His thumb circles my clit with electrifying precision as his eyes hold mine, and then his lips are on my mouth, my neck, biting at my breasts through the dress. I want him to rip the fucking fabric, I need his tongue, his beautiful sculpted lips to suck perfect little marks into my skin. I feel myself start to crumble under his touch, come apart and fall to pieces like those skimpy panties.

He's whispering sweet-dirty words while one hand frees my breasts and his breath is like a furnace against my flesh, his tongue a hot lash against my nipple and I'm close, so close to the edge of something vast and unknown. He works one long finger past the slick folds of my sex and pushes it inside and then another, two long, thick fingers pumping in and out as his thumb circles in a relentless rhythm. My hips lift off the seat, thrusting and desperate for this insanely perfect pressure, and a hot wave starts at my toes and climbs fast and hard to my core and I'm shuddering and shouting— So good! Please, yesssss, ohhhhhhh!!!

He's crooning words, my name, soft and low— That's it, Scarlet, you wanna come now? Yeah, sweet girl, just like that!

When I come it's like shattering, exploding, and melting all at once, and something wild breaks loose inside me, the good girl who did the right thing, dated the right boys, followed the rules, never strayed from the predictable path; that girl just went up in flames under his hands, and I love it. I swear to God, my body is humming, vibrating, probably glowing like a firefly, and it's like nothing I've ever, ever felt before.

My head falls back against the seat and he straightens my dress, trailing light kisses across my chest, my jaw, my eyelids. He's standing under the night sky, tall and solid, nearly blocking out the moonlight, and his angular face is a miracle of tenderness as he watches me recover. His eyes are bright and that smile—oh, that smile!—he knows exactly what he's done to my body with nothing more than his fingers. That I might as well have been a virgin, because I've never climaxed so fast, so violently, a ferocious release, this is totally unexplored territory. Before he can move away I grab his shirt and beg him to climb in with me. He hesitates and my free hand moves quickly over the bulge in his jeans. He inhales sharply, hips thrusting forward, he's indecently hard, long and thick, his cock jerks as my fingers curl around the pulsing shaft through the fabric.

"Ah, beauty," he groans, and leans in and kisses me, his hand covers mine on his cock, but I'm fast and shameless, unbuckling, unzipping. I sit up on the edge of the seat and jerk his jeans down so that his cock springs free and that's it, my eyes widen at his size, so fucking long and roped with veins, the head massive, the tip glistening. I lick my lips without even thinking, my pulse is raging, pounding in my ears, I'm dizzy from the shock of adrenaline that shoots through my veins like a drug, I want this—HIM—now, in my hands, in my mouth, inside me. FUCK!

I circle the shaft with my hands and lick a drop of moisture from the slit and he growls out a curse, head thrown back as he steps toward me, toward my touch, my tongue. The sound of his groans are all I need, I've never been good at this but his wild desire spurs me on. I wet my lips, my tongue flicking over the tight flare of the crown, taking him in, sucking, tongue swirling, probing, deeper, in love with the feel and taste of Holt. He loses it then, his hands tangle in my hair, holding my head as he shoves roughly into my mouth, thrusting, barely in control, scraping the back of my throat. His animal sounds, legs shaking as he presses into me, groaning, apologizing— Sorry baby, it's too good, sooo fucking good. I'm close, fuck, Scarlet, you're gonna ruin me!

He pulls out and I'm left gasping, wanting more, wanting him to come in my mouth and utterly shocked at such a thought. Holt claims my mouth in kiss so full of longing that I match his intensity, our tongues probing, delirious with the delicious taste of passion unleashed. I scoot back on the seat and lie down, pull him down with me, his eyes are wild but still questioning, he asks, "Here? Scarlet, in my fucking truck, you sure?"

I nod and his eyes are on fire, his lips, the tips of his teeth scrape my hardened nipples, I arch and stifle a cry of pure pleasure. His hand searches the pocket of his jeans, a condom wrapper rips open and I raise my head to watch. It's the most erotic and fascinating thing I've ever witnessed. He grips the broad base of his cock, rolls the condom down its length, murmurs a soft low growl and runs a palm across his balls. God, I'm panting, my need is overwhelming, he parts my thighs and ducks his head quickly licking my pussy fast and hard that so that a scream rips from my throat. Then he smiles and lifts my legs and I twine them around his waist, he balances above me, hands on the seat near my head as I stare into his shadowed eyes and guide him to my pussy.

He's still for an instant, then his hands slip under my ass, fingers digging into my flesh and lifting, his cock pushing just inside, stretching me open. It's a too-full feeling, bordering on pain, that sets me on fire and I thrust my hips up, taking him deeper as his teeth graze my nipples, and he begins an agonizingly slow assault. His cock is like velvet-covered steel moving just in, just out, slowly, slowly, and his lips are everywhere at once, kissing, sucking, until I'm dripping wet, moaning and begging. I bite into his bicep, my nails claw his back as he begins to thrust harder, faster, his hand between us, thumb massaging my clit, rough and relentless, until I'm definitely screaming into the dark night as voices pass close by and I don't give a damn who hears.

I have never really been fucked, I know that now. I'm fully aware as he pumps into me, his big hands pulling and tugging until he has my body just where he wants it, humming and defenseless, wrecked in the best possible way. My pussy clenches around his cock as he buries himself so deeply I'm sure I'll split apart. He's hitting the very end of me, too, too deep, and so, sooo good, and we're both coming and as he roars his release I am very, very certain that I have finally been fucked by a man and not a boy. We're both breathing hard, chests heaving, trying to make sense of this fervid need, this fiery lust, the two of us out here in his truck, not just making out or making love—fucking like a couple of sex-starved teenagers.

"You feel like a fucking dream and fuck I love the way you taste," he says when we are halfway coherent. "I can't wait to take my time on your hot little pussy. How the fuck are you so wet and so fucking tight! I want you squirming on my mouth, I want to make you come so Goddamn hard on my cock again and again, beauty, you up for that?" He says, and my body is so limp and shell-shocked I can't even form the words to tell him how amazing I feel. How I've never had a man handle me like he did, that I've never come so hard that it rattled my bones and turned me inside out. "Scarlet, you okay?" he asks after he walks around the truck, climbs behind the wheel and starts the engine. He laughs quietly when I give him a drowsy smile and lean against his shoulder, my face buried in the heated crook of his neck. "Sorry about your... panties, here, I've got a box of Kleenex in the glove compartment, it's all I have, didn't expect to do this in the truck. Or you can use my shirt if you want, then we'll take a nice, long shower when we get to the condo."

I straighten up and stretch like a satisfied cat, open the glove compartment and a coil of silvery-grey rope falls out. I pick it up and although I expect it to be course and stiff, it's soft and pliable, like woven silk.

"Fuck, I forgot all about that. Here," He says, taking it from me and studying my face to see if I'm gonna freak out.

I don't say a word, just watch the mellow glow that settles in his beautiful eyes, and I have the distinct feeling there's something special—sexual—about this particular piece of silken rope.

"It's not what you think, Scarlet. This is old but it's... new, it's been in here for two or three years, I've been meaning to throw it out. I'm about to buy a new truck and I suppose I thought I'd just hang onto it until then," He says and while he talks he's handling the rope like a lover, his big thumbs smoothing over the thick threads as he uncoils the length and then wraps it loosely around his hands. His cheeks redden and he rolls down the window and pitches it into the bed of the truck.

"I'm assuming that's not for horses or livestock? You... like to tie things up? Girls?" I ask, my voice is calmer than it should be as I find the box of Kleenex and staunch the warm flow of wetness between my legs. The truth is I'm turned-on by the way he looked when he held the rope. I wonder what it would feel like against my bare skin, how fucking erotic it would be to let him possess me, to give up all control to those skilled hands, his unbelievably big, warm body branding my skin, turning me just so, any way he wants, his cock pounding into me, ruining my body for any other, lesser man....

"Scarlet, you don't know me from Adam," he says and his deep voice is rough and jagged. "But you've met my friends, and Penn's father knows who I am, I built a pool-house for Gus at his place on Mount Bonnell. What I'm saying is I'm not a pervert or a predator, there was a girl I dated a few years back and she was into... she liked rope-play. Yeah, it's kinda kinky, and who the fuck knows why I kept that piece of rope. It's never been used, it was just something I bought later, after she and I went our separate ways. We weren't in love it was just sex and you don't need to hear all this, but I like you and maybe we'll want to do more than just... fuck. Maybe we'll want to continue to know each other after your spring-fling, so I don't want you to get the wrong impression about me."

"Rope-play, you mean bondage? Pain and leather straps...?"

"No, no pain. Bondage for pleasure, controlled pleasure for both parties. That's it, don't give it another thought, seriously, that shit happened a long fucking time ago. Now, we're at a definite crossroads here, do you wanna go back inside with your friends or do you wanna finish what we started. 'Cause I promise you this, beauty, we've barely scratched the surface, and your body was made for me and for rip-roaring sex."

"Let's go to the condo," I say, and then I lean over and whisper against his ear, "And don't get rid of the rope, I think we're gonna need it."

PART THREE

Gigi...

Maybe there's a special god for love and desire. If so, he or she is certainly smiling on me this week. I step out of the bathtub, smooth lotion onto my freshly-shaved legs, brush my teeth, make sure my hair looks adequately messy-but-beautiful, and add a touch of Benetint to my cheeks and lips before I climb back into Jon-Wylder's bed. Sometimes I hate that I'm like my mother when it comes to vanity, and I guess I should be grateful to her for my looks and my trust fund, but thank goodness that's all I got from her.

My mother, Wendy Walsh, former cast member of Filthy Rich in Tinseltown, and now the star of Wendy In Wonderland, nearly ruined my faith in love and men forever. She's gone through nine husbands and one brief-and-regrettable same-sex relationship in the course of my twenty-two years on the planet. When I was ten she gave me a picture of my father but I know it's not really him, she probably had one of the maids buy it at a flea market or maybe she stole from her roommate in prep-school. Wendy isn't good about telling the truth, and honestly, she probably has no idea which one of her assorted lovers did the deed that resulted in my birth.

It has taken years for me to get past her brainwashing drivel about how men are nothing but 'weak self-absorbed pond scum' and relationships should be avoided at all cost. My mother has ruined so many parts of my psyche that I've literally lost count. Wendy is a celebrated beauty—Miss California, Mrs. California, Miss Who Gives A Fuck (Okay, I made that one up)—and I look enough like her to be her clone. But never once has she acknowledged the fact or spoken one uncritical word to me. I was voted Most Beautiful for four years in a row at Beverly Hills High School, and each and every time she would say something like, "My goodness, can't they see any of your flaws? They're just so obvious, Gigi, hopefully you'll grow out of this awkward stage before you're past your prime."

No matter how hard I try, I cannot get her cold-as-ice, disapproving voice out of my head. So I play the part for Scarlet and Penn, act like I date nonstop when I'm really sitting alone at Starbucks indulging in my caffeine and online shopping addiction, and finding a glimmer of joy in maxing-out Wendy's credit cards. Boys at school, men I meet at social gatherings, they like to ogle my face and body and ask me for a date, sometimes I accept but I always find a reason to back out at the last minute. Wendy really did a number on me and maybe none of those men were strong enough or smart enough to see that I was Rapunzel locked in her lonely tower. Jon-Wylder was and is. He rescued me, for this week anyway, and even if we only last for a while, he's broken through the barriers I built around my body and heart. His attention and adoration, his insistence that my body is a temple and I am his goddess, has quieted that nagging voice inside me and allowed me to set those demons aside, for now at least.

"Morning," Jon-Wylder says, rolling onto his back when I slip in next to him and he pulls me on top of his sleep-warmed body. "You smell good babe. Mmm, you never cool down do you, sweet girl?"

I straddle him, my hand on his morning-stiff cock, guiding it to my entrance so that he bucks up into me at the same time I lean forward and press my lips to his luscious mouth. This is the way sex should be, constantly surprising and perpetually orgasmic and just so fucking fantastic. I'm swollen and sore from five days and nights of boisterously rowdy sex, but it doesn't matter, I needs this. I ignore the ache, take him in, and when he is deep, deep inside me, he gazes up in wonder, his wide, hazel eyes are heavy-lidded and drowsy, his delectable lips curved into a satisfied smile. His fingers with their guitar-strumming callouses play my clit like I'm his favorite musical instrument, smooth and gentle, then harder, until I'm humming around his cock. My hair falls across his smooth, bronzed chest as I clench around him. I can't get enough of this overly-full feeling, like I've never been filled so completely, and then it hits me, hard and fast, out of nowhere, and our eyes meet before I throw my head back and teeter on the edge of ecstasy.

"Good girl, that's it babe, wait for me Gigi. Wait. I'm so fucking close. Come on babe, don't you fucking finish without me!"

He loves to bring me to the brink and talk me down from the ledge as he holds my hips hard against him. His cock is fucking miraculous, it curves just the right way and hits my elusive G-spot, stretching me, pumping, pounding, and I can't wait, can't hold back and he knows it, and he fucking loves it that he makes me this wild. I meet his eyes again as I'm squirming and quivering, crying out as his cock and his fingers work their magic. His eyes crinkle at the edges and he laughs until it hits him too, then he groans and bucks up hard, one hand digs into my waist, holding me down, forcing me to ride the wave, ride him, and we're there together, quaking, seizing, and crashing past the edge of reason.

"You are the most beautiful girl in the world, you know that?" Jon-Wylder says when I tumble off his body and lay panting beside him. His long, tanned arm drags me close and my fingers trace the distinct ridges on his taut abs. There's not an ounce of fat on his body, he's lean and muscled, veins stand out on his biceps and forearms, he's tall and ripped and... what can I say, he's a definite candidate for People magazine's Sexiest Man of the Year.

"You're basking in afterglow," I say and kiss his pretty mouth, everything about him is pretty, huge hazel eyes, sun-streaked brown hair that hangs nearly to his shoulders, a mouth that I can't even describe or I'll have to roll over and let him fuck me again. A pretty-boy on the verge of becoming a beautiful man—acutely masculine and beyond sexy. He'll be overwhelmingly handsome one day, but for now, he's young, only twenty-five, two years younger than his friends, Holt and Traeger, and he's scrrrrumptious!

"You okay this morning?" He asks earnestly, brushing his messy-silky hair from his eyes, and I have to giggle remembering the things he's done to my body, all the places we've had sex, the half dozen times we were nearly caught in the act, and the one time we were.

"Yeah, I'm perfect. Just thinking about that poor horny jerk at Stubb's when we were watching Taylor Swift perform. I felt so sorry for him, he looked like he was going to have a coronary in the middle of the dance floor," I say and Jon-Wylder howls with laughter and hops out of bed to go "take a leak."

"Can you blame the dumb bastard?" he calls to me from the bathroom. "We were packed in there like sardines and the only thing you could hear over the roar of the crowd was you making those fucking hot, loud moans when you were squirming and bucking against my hand. Fuck! That was the best, Taylor Swift belting out her song, your sweet little ass pressed against my cock, my hand under your tiny excuse for a dress, you fucking losing it all over my fingers. It was brilliant, babe, almost as good as when you followed me to the dressing room after my show and got down on your knees...."

"Jon-Wylder, get your ass out of bed!" The voice is deep and not happy and followed by pounding on the bedroom door just before it flies open.

I sit up, dragging the sheet around me and Jon-Wylder walks back into the bedroom as naked as the day he was born.

"Really Campbell?" he says and stands there with his arms crossed, dick hanging down his thigh, totally unconcerned that a tall man who looks exactly like him walks right in after kicking the door open.

"Am I paying you to fuck, or what?" The man says.

"Nope, I'm not charging you. Ever heard of knocking instead of charging in like a fucking raging bull? Son, you gotta get those anger management issues under control. If you haven't noticed, we're not out in the sticks, so how about you wait outside 'til I put some clothes on? The fuck are you looking at anyway? My girlfriend is naked and I'll thank you to take your eyes off her."

"Get dressed you asshole. Sorry miss, didn't mean to disturb you. My little brother, on the other hand, is already disturbed. Hurry up, Jon-Wylder we're going to lunch, your friend is welcome to join us," he says and tips his cowboy hat as his eyes sweep over me before he leaves and slams the door behind him.

His girlfriend? Whoa, when did that happen? I didn't expect it, but I don't dislike the sound of it!

"That's my brother, Campbell, king of the hill, big man on the ranch. But you probably figured that out," Jon-Wylder says and pulls me to my feet, his lips brush my cheek, my neck, his tongue licks across my bare breast. "Get dressed, babe, I'm starving, how 'bout you?"

*

An ancient looking Latino man is waiting for Campbell when we exit the elevator, Jon-Wylder greets him like a long lost relative and introduces him as Ponfi, short for Ponfilo. It's obvious he's there at Campbell's beck-and-call as he nods and smiles, his black eyes darting between the brothers and never glancing in my direction for more than an instant.

"I don't eat beef," I say when we follow Campbell down South Congress to Hopdoddy Burger Bar. He's two or three inches taller than Jon-Wylder, with mile-long legs that stride fast and sure as if he doesn't have a second to waste on city life.

I've met the three McCauley brothers now, and even though the eldest and youngest look alike, they're all so different that my head is spinning. There's image-conscious Walker with his custom-cut suits and not a hair out of place, Jon-Wylder is super laid-back with unkempt, shoulder-length hair and ripped black jeans worn with vintage western shirts. Last but not least is 'in-command' Campbell wearing a starched white dress shirt tucked precisely into indigo-blue Wranglers that for some reason renders me incapable of rational thought.

"Can you handle a black bean veggie burger? How about bison, that's a whole different animal," Campbell asks, snapping me out of my reverie, his eyes narrow dangerously as he holds the door for me and sweeps a muscled arm to usher us inside, everything about him screams 'pissed off and impatient'.

"I'll just have a salad, don't let my dietary needs worry you," I say and his large, blue-green eyes flicker with interest as if he's surprised that I have enough brain cells to form an opinion.

Jon-Wylder smiles and pulls out a chair for me, Campbell takes off his hat, and they both wait until I'm comfortably seated before they even dare to sit down. You have to hand it to rich Texas men, they can be real bastards most of the time, but their Mamas' made sure to teach them some fine manners. While they survey the chalk-board menu on the wall I sneak a good, close look at Campbell McCauley. He's the kind of handsome that Jon-Wylder will be when he reaches thirty, hot and cool at the same time, so sexy it should be illegal, easy on the eyes, and devastating to the female heart.

I'm wearing linen shorts with a silk tank-top and a pale blue cardigan that I know looks damn good with my blonde hair and blue eyes. I spent hours at the salon before this trip to have my hair painstakingly highlighted and it's longer than usual since I invested a good deal of Wendy's credit limit on the best all-natural hair extensions money can buy. Campbell orders for all of us, beer and burgers for the men, salad and a Cosmo for me, and Ponfi waits at the counter for our order, then sets our plates and drinks in front of us. Jon-Wylder insists that he sit down with us but he shakes his head and takes his food to a bar by the window. The brothers dig in to their burgers, argue about their family ranch, and both of them are shooting glances in my direction like they might take a bite of me, too. The worst part is—as crazy as I am about Jon-Wylder—I'm getting wet just from the thought of being sandwiched between these two look-alike brothers somewhere, anywhere, other than a restaurant.

W-T-F! Five days ago I didn't have the slightest use for a man and now so many disturbingly dirty scenes are ripping through my brain I have to peel off my thin cotton cardigan because I'm sweating. Let me make one thing clear—I never sweat!

"Gigi, you okay babe?" Jon-Wylder asks, wiping his fingers on a napkin so he can help me peel off the sweater.

"Fine, the salad dressing is spicy," I lie and he leans over to kiss me, licking his lips and whispering in my ear before Campbell clears his throat and takes a long swig from his beer.

"I need you to hear and understand little brother," Campbell says and his tone has changed from irritated, to severely agitated. "This music business is horseshit, which, by the way you should be shoveling back at the ranch. We've got the Derby coming up in six weeks—six weeks—Jon–Wylder! I guarantee you this is the last major horse race the old man will live to see, and I intend for you to get him and the horse to Kentucky. Nothing is more important than that race, are you listening? Pridey can win in May and he could go on to take the Triple Crown, you know that as well as I do. Does that mean anything to you? Are you so selfish and hell-bent on having your way that you're going to let this family down? I sent old Midnight to Holt Corrigan this morning and there wasn't a dry eye on the ranch. Midnight is the greatest thoroughbred stallion Texas has ever produced and he's going down fast, probably won't last 'til the end of the week. Holt said he was up here with you and Traeg, but he didn't hesitate to get back down to Tallulah and tend to business. I expect you to do the same. This is our year little brother, Dad doesn't call the shots anymore, we make the rules. Why in hell are you throwing it all away on some petty whim? You've been dicking around—excuse my language, Miss—with your guitar and your songs when the biggest ranch in Texas is where you're needed."

"How big is your ranch?" I ask simply because Jon-Wylder is chugging his beer and hasn't said a word.

"The Corazon Perdido is just under a million acres, does that matter to you, Miss... Gigi, that's your name, right? Is that why you're interested in my little brother, land, oil, money?" Campbell asks and he stares into my eyes as if he's daring me to look away.

"Campbell, you know a lot about land, evidently. Do you recognize the name Wilkes Walsh?" I ask, folding my napkin and tossing it on the table. His eyes are so fucking blue right now, that's really the only difference—other than age and height—between him and Jon-Wylder. His eyes darken to a deep, grey-rimmed cobalt when he's angry or off-balance. "Yes, I thought so. Well he was my grandfather, my name is Gigi Walsh, and I can honestly say that the land my grandfather owned, which is now all of Beverly Hills and most of Malibu, pretty much keeps me in a mellow, California state of mind. I like your brother because he's a good guy and great fuck, and furthermore, my family money insures that I never get starry-eyed over rich ranchers with manure for brains and oil wells in the backyard."

He looks truly surprised and Jon-Wylder chokes on his beer and laughs into his napkin.

"What did you think, Campbell, that I'd bring some random groupie to sit down and share a meal? You know me better than that. Look at this gorgeous girl, you see any tattoos on her arms? Gigi is... different, special, she's my girl. Better get used to it, brother, unless she gets sick of me in the next couple of days," Jon-Wylder says and his hand slides under my hair and cradles my neck, stroking my skin possessively.

God! I think I'm in love with the alpha-male dominant vibe passing between these two, it's like a drug, and I could easily get addicted. Jon-Wylder trails the back of his hand down my bare arm and it disappears under the table and squeezes my thigh and I could come just from the hot pressure of his fingers and the scalding look in Campbell's eyes as he stares at me across the table.

"What does that mean, the name of your ranch? I know Corazon is Spanish for heart, but I don't know the other word," I say and match his probing stare.

"Lost, it means lost in Spanish. The full name is El Rancho Corazon Perdido—The Ranch of the Lost Heart."

"Mmm, romantic. I'm sure there must be an interesting story behind a name like that. I've always thought of cowboys as barbarians who rope poor defenseless animals and brand them with red-hot pokers. I'd like to hear how some long-ago cowboy lost his heart."

"You'd be disappointed, the lost heart is a diamond. The largest red diamond in the world... according to legend," Campbell says and scoots his chair back, stretches out those long legs and crosses them at the ankles. He's wearing a pair of politically-incorrect ostrich-skin cowboy boots and it should piss me off but all I can think is— Damn, those must be size fourteens!

"Right, a legend that the old man keeps in a safe deposit box at the Bank of San Antonio, if he hasn't given it to one of his whores," Jon-Wylder says and I notice that he's kicked back and adopted the same casual stance as his older brother. Dear Lord, I already know how big his boots are, and he's living proof that the 'foot size matters' rumor is true!

"You should come with Jon-Wylder, convince him to get on the jet now, today," Campbell says and a lump forms in my throat and I'm sure my eyes are as big as saucers. "It's the only way I'll get him back to the ranch. I'm sorry if I mistook your intentions or his devotion to you, Miss Walsh, that won't happen again. I have to make a stop at the boot-maker's shop over on Lamar, Ponfi will wait and bring the two of you to the airfield. You will come, won't you, Gigi?"

"Shit," Jon-Wylder says and he motions for Ponfilo to bring him another beer. "She doesn't want to come to fucking Tallulah or the middle-of-nowhere ranch."

"I do," I say and am sort of surprised by my own words. "I need to be back in school by Monday... what is this, Friday? I'm in my last semester at Trinity, two months from graduating," I babble because I am so hot and bothered by the prospect of what could happen on a ranch in the wilds of South Texas. "Damn, my car's here but Penn might drive it back... I hate to bail on her though, Scarlet's gone with Holt and... It would be rude to leave Penn, but... she's totally the most capable and independent person in the world...."

"It's settled then. Jon-Wylder, your girlfriend would like to spend a few days at the ranch. I need you there, our father will be.... Well, that part is anyone's guess. See you on the jet in an hour, be there, you hear?" Campbell says and he stands up, drops an enormous tip on the table for no one in particular, puts on his cowboy hat, smiles at his brother without looking at me, and walks out the door.

*

"Fucking arrogant, call-the-shots, his-way-or-the-highway, controlling bastard," Jon-Wylder grumbles all the way up the elevator and into the condo. "You really wanna do this, spend a fucking weekend with him? He coerced you into it, that's how he is, it's never gonna change. Campbell says "jump" and everyone within ear-shot says "how high?" It's never-ending. The fucker won't be satisfied until he's running the world."

"Hey, it's no big deal," I say, as I gather my luggage from the bedroom and Ponfi collects it and says he'll wait outside. "I want to go, Jon-Wylder. I'd like to see where you grew up, and what about this race-horse you own? That sounds so cool. I'm a California girl, remember, this is new and exciting for me," I say stopping him, running my hands up his tautly muscled biceps. "Won't it be easier for you to go home for a few days if I'm there too? It'll be an adventure, let me just text Penn and let her know I'm leaving. I don't think she and Traeger are next door, I don't hear the headboard banging against the wall," I say raising my eyebrows and he finally smiles.

"Okay, babe, you talked me into it. You're magic, you know that? Where've you been all my life, beautiful, beautiful Gigi? We can go by and see what Holt and Scarlet have been up to, as if we don't know," he says and he leans down to kiss me and lifts my hands above my head, then slides his hands down my arms and wraps them around his neck.

I snuggle into him and a thrill courses through me as he pushes my shorts and panties down and they fall to the floor. He smells so good, so hot, like newly cut grass and fresh air, his lips are full and warm, his tongue forces my lips apart, claiming my mouth. Then he's whispering, pressing sweet-filthy words into my skin, his fingers are on my sex, and he groans when they slip inside, I'm slippery with need, clenching, pulsing, and so, so ready for him.

We're standing in the middle of the living room and he spins me around so that I'm facing the wall of windows. With a firm hand on my back he bends my body forward over the leather sofa and my eyes fall closed the moment I hear his zipper open and feel the hard, slick press his cock. Nothing matters but this feeling that shreds my body and soul to pieces: Not the pure, blue sky beyond the windows, or the heat of the enormous orange sun as it paints my cheeks and eyelids, only him and this astonishing sexual act. Images, feelings engulf me, Jon-Wylder's beautiful face, the inflexible thickness of his cock as he thrusts into me, his labored breathing and nasty-sweet words hot against my cheek. His hands caress my ass, then hold my hips steady, fingers gripping, digging in so deeply that I know there'll be faint bruises tomorrow, a heady reminder of his rowdy brand of 'love-making'. I'm wild with him, untamed, unashamed, my own hands are on my breasts, kneading, pinching.... I know I'm falling in love with Jon-Wylder, I'm sure of it, and it's so, so right. Even as I imagine his brother's hands on my breasts, his tongue lashing my nipples, my pussy, licking, fucking me— both of them, I want it all. I'm done for, coming fast, a furious eruption at my core that tears through me, tortuous and sooooo fucking good, and I'm not sure whose name I'm screaming, but it must be alright— because he's shouting too.

PART FOUR

Penn...

A word of warning to intelligent single women: Do not let the area at the apex of your thighs run your life! I never have before, but Scarlet insisted we throw caution and good sense to the wind and get a little, or a lot, crazy at South by Southwest. The way it works is—I don't equate sex with love, which means—I have a fuck-buddy. He's easy, uncomplicated, no strings or sentiment attached, and he keeps my body purring like a finely tuned machine, thank you very much.

As for what truly matters: I've worked hard academically and in May I'm graduating at the top of my class, Valedictorian, Summa Cum Laude, honors that were hard won. I have plans for my future, concrete plans to make a difference in the world, to use my God-given intelligence and abilities to perpetuate change for the better. I want to feed the children, banish world hunger, and eradicate chemical pesticides and genetically-altered food sources. They say it takes a village, but I intend to be an army of one.

This week has screwed things up royally, because how am I going to stay focused now that my mind is more focused on ass than grass? By grass I mean plants, crops, grains, fruits, vegetables, and so forth. By ass I mean Traeger Townsend who is fucking with my head in a major way. The man is reckless with sex, words, (he's infuriatingly haphazard with the word love!) and life in general. You'd think it would turn me off, but fuck, I'm hooked.

Thank God I was a gymnast in high school because Traeger has twisted my body into every imaginable position night and day for the last week. I'm almost glad that spring break is nearly over—almost. Even if Scarlet, (who IS a head-in-the-clouds-romantic) hadn't insisted that we unleash our restless sides this week, I fully intended to sow a few wild-oats, as per usual. I might have set my sites on Walker McCauley simply because you can't grow up in Texas and not sleep with one of the Big Three—AKA—the McCauley brothers. And Lord knows Walker has the whole stupefyingly-sexy-face-and-body thing going on, but he's just so full of himself. Maybe it has something to do with birth-order, as the middle brother he needs to prove himself, and all that sibling rivalry crap. Turns out I didn't have to ponder that dilemma for long, not after those butterflies I've always heard about but never believed in started beating their wings in the pit of my stomach when HE, Traeger, showed up.

The morning after we got to Austin, Gigi and I were having this weird, never-gonna-happen-in-a-million-years conversation about a threesome with Walker McCauley. We'd never do it—have a threesome, that is—but we were toying with ideas of how to tarnish his tight-ass, squeaky-clean senator-in-the-making reputation.

But as luck or fate would have it, we wandered out on the deck and there was Traeger mixing Bloody Marys, with his motorcycle helmet at his feet, mud streaks across his bare chest, looking like he just stepped out of a Ducati ad. He was and is, the epitome of a classically handsome, dirty-good, bad-boy. Tall and tanned, brown hair that the sun has lightened until its almost blonde, shaggy and disheveled so that it falls over his navy blue—that's right!—navy blue eyes, and a face women would die for. He's big and lean and angular, his shirtless body is maddeningly well-muscled, covered with tattoos, and just fucking hot. After all is said and done, I have two words for Traeg—sinfully sexy. So there he was and my head and heart felt like they were filled with helium, light and floaty, and as Scarlet loves to say, (duh- her mother is the number one romance author in America!) And so it began....

*

"Wow, someone alert the media— you're gonna be my one night stand," I have no idea why I just said that, but the sight of a gorgeous half-naked man standing on my deck, on my first morning in Austin has thrown me completely off guard.

"Oh yeah?" he says, handing Gigi a drink while he studies all five-feet-two-inches of my body.

"Yep," Gigi rambles as Traeger circles me like a lion stalking his prey. "I'm pretty sure you two are gonna tear up the sheets before the night's over. Penelope was telling me about this thing called a zipless fuck..."

"I don't have any say in this, huh?" He says and his low, rumbling voice literally shakes me to my core. "Okay then, bring it, sweet pea. But tell me, do I just have to lie there like a good boy or can I do some of the fucking? 'Cause I'm down for it, fucking, that is. And I tend to be a little wild and reckless, well, more than a little. You're tiny, I'm betting you were a gymnast, and that could lead to all manner of kinky shit. You good with that?"

"I... I don't think so. What I said, that was supposed to be an unspoken thought," I say, and what is wrong with me? I sound so unsure, so... girlish.

"Hmm, but you were thinking it. I'd like to get you on the back of my bike, take you around the block a few times. You'd look perfect sitting on my Harley, sweet pea, in that little skirt, with those dangerous curves."

"Damn, son! I can't believe you don't get arrested for the shit you say, this lovely young lady should slap some sense into you," Jon-Wylder says, his arm sliding around Gigi's waist as he looks from me to Traeg and shakes his head.

"She's okay with it," Traeger says and I can tell that he and Jon-Wylder love to engage in fierce-but-friendly banter. "Your blonde beauty—Gigi, is it?—has yet to discover that you're an emotional moron with the sex-drive of a sixteen year old boy, Jonny boy. I'm sure she'll figure it out soon enough."

"True enough and well-said, coming from a man-whore who should replace all his zippers with Velcro," Jon-Wylder says and they laugh and Traeger says, "Touché!"

"Hey, Penn. Know what's interesting about Traeg?" Jon-Wylder says and Traeger grins and sweeps his hair out of his eyes as if it's an unspoken truth that Jon-Wylder has to have the last word. "Not a fucking thing... or is it, not a thing except fucking!"

*

That was last Saturday, and it's how we began. Now it's Saturday again, a week later and I'm going back to San Antonio tomorrow, but I'll be moving here for work this summer. I'm sad to be leaving, and I'm also glad because Traeg wasn't lying, he's insanely reckless on so many levels. I had my internship interview yesterday and I got it, but I have an odd feeling about it. Yes, I'm more than qualified for the position, and practically a religious zealot concerning Alice-Anne's Farm Market stores. This is the first one to open in Texas and I'm obsessed with the stores and the philosophy of the brand that started in California and is so far superior to Whole Foods it's almost comical. They specialize in all-natural, locally-grown products, and the founder, Alice-Anne Kincade, is a green-living guru of monumental proportions. Alice-Anne is who I want to be when I grow up.

"You ready, sweet pea?" Traeger asks and hands me a helmet as he straddles his Harley and I climb up behind him.

"Where are we going?" I ask but I don't really care, I love to wrap my arms around his warm, firm body and feel the hard cut of his abs under my hands.

"Fuck, hang on a sec," He says and holds his phone to his ear and begins to growl out a list of orders. "No! Absolutely not, if you agree to use Agave that isn't grown in my designated fields you can go find a job in a third world country. Yes, I'm serious. You think greatness is achieved by being mediocre? Good, and don't expect to have weekends off for the next ninety days. No, it's not a punishment, it's good work ethics, and don't call me again unless the distillery is on fire. Have a nice day."

I love how intense he is in all aspects of his life, and the man is a hero in the rising world of handmade, artisan liquor. One minute we're twined around one another like a couple of mating snakes, and the next he's planting a kiss on my ass as he answers his phone and rattles off a list of appointments to his secretary. His brain works overtime—just like mine! His tequila is manufactured on a rural farm near Tallulah but he keeps an office at an old warehouse here in Austin. We pop into his office whenever the mood strikes, when he's convinced that all his employees are lazy, loafing morons who need a pep talk or an ass-kicking. I get a perverse thrill at the power his mere words and presence wield. He soothes and comforts a bumbling assistant one minute, then turns around and blasts an imbecilic executive who misquoted a million dollar deal. He runs hot and cold and a million temperatures in between and I am turned on and scared shitless for the first time in my life. This man who is charming and disarming and usually covered with mud from riding his Harley through open fields where Harley's don't belong is way more than just blatantly sexual. He likes to fuck, not talk, but from what I gather, he's the CEO of a manufacturing company that's on the cusp of greatness. Business and pleasure—my panties get wet just thinking about it, for me, it's a rush of epic proportions!

"Sorry 'bout that, sweet pea. Let's hit the road. Thought we'd take a ride, stop at Salt Lick for some bar-b-que, then I know a good place to go for a swim," he says and I lay my head against his back and try not to think about anything beyond tomorrow.

He handles the Harley like a pro, speeding through the hairpin twists and turns along the edge of the Hill Country like he was born to ride. He told me his father is in a motorcycle club in Northern California, so that would explain his expertise, and that's one of the very few times he mentioned his family. He isn't close to his parents or siblings, they don't see eye to eye, and although he grew up in Arroyo Grande, he left California for private school in Texas when he was thirteen, he rarely goes home.

I can feel his phone vibrating in his jeans pocket and it makes me want to scream, I can't count the number of 'vibrating' calls and texts he gets from girls at all hours of the day and night. Girls named Zoe, Alexa, Sadie, Brooklyn, to name a few, he dismisses them all with a curt— "I'll get back to you."

"You hungry, or you want to go for a swim?" He asks, and I wasn't aware that we'd stopped or that he's removing my helmet and lifting me onto his lap as if I weighed nothing at all.

"Not hungry," I manage to say just as his lips cover mine, and before my eyes fall closed I see that we're parked in a gravel lot next to a slow-moving river. There's a sign proclaiming that this is a public park—No littering, no loitering, no public intoxication, or lewd behavior allowed.

His hands hold my face tenderly, fingers threading through my hair, then down to my breasts as his tongue licks at mine and his mouth descends to my neck. Oh, how fast he melts any questions that linger in my mind. This is how we are together, fucking in public, conspicuous and unbridled, bending the rules to fit his whims. He lifts my T-shirt over my head, nuzzles my breasts and then his lips clamp greedily on a hardened nipple as his rough hand teases the other. I wonder if anyone might happen upon us, there's a middle-aged couple picnicking only yards away. A vicious tremor spikes low and wet between my thighs, he doesn't care, I don't care, he talks me through it every time. His words are dirty, thrilling, and it's all so new and sordid and intoxicating.

"Unzip my jeans, sweet pea. Yeah, you love the feel of my cock, fuck! Look how good you are, soaked already. So fucking wet and tight, soooo willing, sweet Penelope. I'm gonna fuck you hard and then I'll lick your pussy. You like my mouth? You wanna come on my mouth, don't you? We'll get to that, I fucking love when you beg me to let you come!"

I have to fight not to cry out, his eyes warn me to be quiet, a car has parked nearby, three teenagers stumble out, stoned and laughing, and then they hush and watch us. He sits still on the seat of the Harley, lifting and shifting my body, he leans back so that my clit is crushed against him and the pressure, the motion is excruciatingly divine. He whispers in my ear, hot, filthy words and I'm shaking so hard he has to grip my ass as I ride him. I'm coming hard and fast and he follows, laughing, jerking up into me, a final brutal thrust and we're limp and heaving, working to catch a breath.

"That was some nice fucking!" One of the teenage boys yells and he and his friends clap and hoot.

"Can I be next?" A long-legged girl who's maybe seventeen giggles and starts walking toward us.

"Not today, darlin'," he smiles as I straighten my skirt and climb on the seat behind him.

"You forgot these!" The girl shouts, pointing to where my panties lay on the ground, and the little group whoops and lights up a joint as we speed back onto the road.

*

Back at the penthouse I turn on the shower and step under the spray, we're going up to Gus's house for dinner, something I never made time for over the last week. Traeger drops his clothes on the marble floor of the master bath and joins me. The shower is huge but he fills the space as he crowds in, squirts bath gel in his hands, and begins to lather my body.

"You sore, sweet pea?" he asks as he tweaks my nipples and they pucker under his touch. "Too sore? You need to toughen up, I'm not done with this perfect little body, far from it, darlin'."

"We'll be late," I say but we both know it doesn't matter, him between my legs, that's all I can think about.

He does a good job washing and rinsing me, he does a good job every time his hands are on me. His hands press down on my shoulders and I kneel in front of him, water cascades over us, and we're clean and slick as he tells me exactly what to do.

"Kiss me, take me in your pretty mouth, ahhhh, just like that. Your tongue is so fucking soft," He says and his voice is like gravel, a hoarse whisper as he fists his hands in my hair and thrusts into my mouth.

He's thick and long, and he pumps slowly at first and then faster and harder, growling out a string of curses before he pulls out and leans against the wall. His breathing is ragged as the water sprays around us, he helps me to my feet and drags me against him, and I'm like a ragdoll in his hands, malleable, his to do with as he wishes.

His mouth tilts into a smile and he doesn't take time to turn off the water before he scoops me up and carries me to the bed. He sets me down dripping wet on the duvet, sits at my feet and spreads my legs. He's huge and menacing, shadowy as the sun dips low outside the windows, his eyes are dark with desire as he holds my ankles and trails little bites and kisses up my calves. His hands reach up, spreading me, my thighs fall open and it's like a bomb going off when his tongue strokes my clit. I arch up and scream at the stinging spike of pleasure, and his eyes lift to mine as he gathers my wrists in one big hand and pins them above my head.

"Feel it, darlin', you need to come so bad," he croons, soft and low, hypnotic. "Just once more, c'mon, let me have it. Tell me, Penn, I wanna hear you say you love to come on my mouth."

"I can't," I say, squirming into the pressure of his tongue and his lips, the grate of his teeth, his voice vibrating into my pussy.

"Tell me or I'll stop," He says and sits back, barely stroking my pulsing folds, his eyes are on fire as he watches me squirm, his gaze burning into me so that I squeeze my legs together.

"Nope, that's not good, sweet pea. You want my mouth and my cock you have to say it."

I love it.... I love to c-come on your mouth."

"Good girl," he says and his mouth lowers as he holds my eyes with his. He releases my wrists and his hands slide under my ass lifting me in a swift motion as his hot mouth devours me.

That's all it takes, his eyes on mine, his lips sucking, tongue swirling and plunging as heat curls in my belly and builds, blazing like a blast-furnace as I come, screaming his name. He lifts his head and swears that he loves me and fuck I want it to be true! Then he begins again, forcing my legs open, pinning them to the bed as tears roll down my cheeks and I'm begging him not to, please no, it's too soon, too tender, and then I'm pleading with him to hurry, to let me come, please, please, so fucking good, no don't stop, ohhhhhhh yessssssss!

*

I should be afraid to ride on the back of Traeger's Harley to the top of Mount Bonnell, but he's so solid, so sure, that I hold on tight and enjoy the ride. We park in the circular driveway of Gus's new house and my heart is lurching all over the place. This is the neighborhood where I grew up, we lived a few streets over before my mother died. How massively rude of my dad to buy his fiancé her dream house just a stone's throw from the place where my world came crashing down around me.

It doesn't matter, get past it, she's gone, by accident or by her own hand, she made up her mind to go and she left him and she left me.

My dad is at the front door waiting and he's all smiles beckoning us inside with the foul and loathsome Estrellita close behind him. Gus is shaking Traeger's hand and patting him on the back like they're old friends and Estrellita is cooing, "How handsome! Mmmm, such a stud you've brought to meet us, Penelope!"

Ugh, what a douche.

"Cade, this is a coincidence, I had no idea you knew my daughter," Gus says, leading us into the palace-sized entry hall.

"Dad, you're losing it," I say, trying to ignore his new fiancé who is not only uncouth and irksome, she's dressed in a gaudy, fringed, see-through caftan. "This is Traeger Townsend, I told you he was coming with me today."

"Oh, right. Geez, Traeger, great to meet you. I met your brother a few weeks ago, that's where the mix up lies. Your mother too, at the grand opening ceremony for the new store. I think Cade mentioned he had a twin, but wow, you two certainly are identical, aren't you? Your mother, well Christ, what a beauty! An exceptional woman and a tireless philanthropist, of course you know she's Penelope's idol."

"And how about this tequila venture of yours?" Estrellita says, wrapping her hands around Traeger's bicep and leading him further into the house. "Gus tells me you have an offer for many, many millions of dollars to sell out to the Japanese company that bought Jim Beam and all those other big name liquor manufacturers. Handsome and wealthy, my kind of man!"

"My idol, Gus?" I say, refusing to take another step inside the house until I know what he means. "What on earth are you talking about? Earth to Gus—I've never met his mother! I think you're hallucinating, have you and Estrellita been smoking something? It's not the swinging sixties, maybe you should lay off the Kush." And then I look up and Traeger is back by my side and he looks worried, like he wants to escape, just cut-and-run, be anywhere but here. "Traeg, what is it, what's wrong?"

"Penn," Traeger says and he looks different suddenly, fear flickers in his eyes like he's been careless with something valuable and he's in danger of losing it. "I know how independent you are so don't go off the deep end.... My brother is Kincade Townsend, our mother is Alice-Anne Kincade. I never see them, not often, my business has nothing to do with them, I built it on my own. I was being truthful when I said I hardly ever speak to anyone in my family, but you wanted the internship and seriously, you were on the short-list to get it. I just wanted you to have it, so maybe... I made a phone call."

"I got the internship because of you? You pulled a few strings, put in a good word with the head honcho? You had so little faith in me that you thought there was no way I could land the job on my own? Alice-Anne Kincade is your mother and you didn't bother telling me that, it just slipped your mind? The fact just floated right out of your head while you and I were busy fu....."

"Hey!" Gus says and Estrellita covers her mouth and giggles.

My phone rings and what the fuck—the name on the screen is Corey Baumgartner and it looks like I've missed a dozen calls from him and Scarlet's mother. "Ugh, I have to take this. Hello? Wait... what? Corey, slow down... no, Scarlet's not with me, she's... out of town. Well it's none of your damn business where she is and you can't reach her because there's no cell phone service in.... You're not serious? Oh my God! Is he alive, I mean, how bad was it? Okay, listen, I'll get to Scarlet and we'll catch the next flight out of San Antonio. Corey, don't let anything happen to her dad, you know she couldn't take if he... oh my God! I'll call you back when I'm with Scarlet... when we're on our way to Atlanta. Thanks Corey... thank you for being there."

"What's happened Penelope?" Gus asks in his 'worried Dad' tone.

"Scarlet's father had a heart attack this morning, he's in intensive care. Corey, her ex-fiancé is there with him. He's part of the cardiac team at Atlanta General. Look, I have to go. No one can reach Scarlet."

"I'll take you, sweet pea," Traeger says and I want to cry or cave at the tender concern in his voice, it's a tone he hasn't used before. "It's late and dark and you have no idea how to find Tallulah. Please, baby, let me drive you there. My house and my business, they're only a few miles from Holt's place."

"Thanks for the offer, but I'm not your baby, and I can manage this one on my own," I say, and I don't look up at him, I can't. "Spring Break's over, it was an interesting escape from reality but all good things must come to an end. I don't like liars, Traeger, so just file it under 'It was fun while it lasted'."

"It's not over, Penn, there's no way we end like this. What I feel for you... it's new to me and maybe I've tried to mess it up, I have a way of doing that, but I... I need you," he says, but I don't want to hear it, and even if I do, how can I trust him?

I shake my head, not meeting his eyes, grab my dad's car keys from a credenza by the door and head out to the driveway. Gus and Traeger and her-royal-highness-Estrellita follow behind trying to talk me out of leaving, they're talking, babbling, their voices hum and buzz and twist together in my head, noise... just noise.

You're upset. You shouldn't be driving all the way to Tallulah by yourself. We seriously need to talk, Penn. I refuse to let you go. Don't leave like this. Wait a minute, sweet pea, I'll come with you....

I tune them out, jump in Gus's Porsche, turn the music up loud, and roar out of the driveway heading south, leaving them—leaving Traeger!—and Austin behind. I was a fool to let myself fall so easily, I've never given my heart to anyone... until now. What was I thinking?

That's just it, I wasn't thinking, I was feeling. I only have myself to blame, I was the one spouting that nonsense about the 'zipless fuck', and that's exactly what I got from Traeger. He satisfied my body like I never thought possible, giving and taking pleasure in equal measure, but that was it, he shared nothing of his true self. And there's so much more to him, I've seen it over the last week, he's tender and funny, powerful and demanding, sweet and coercive, and a complete mystery. The family he doesn't want to talk about? Let's see—Alice-Anne Kincade is his mother, she's one of the most reclusive women in the world, gives millions of dollars to charity but is rarely photographed and has never agreed to a media interview. Some say it's because her ex-husband is the head of an outlaw biker-gang called the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. Tommy Rex Townsend, and he is in the news a lot, constantly accused of nefarious activities like selling guns to street gangs and possible murder for hire....

Oh. My. God.

I'm driving too fast, swerving down these treacherous hills, the Porsche hugs the road but I veer too far off the shoulder and gravel sputters as the steep edge of the mountain threatens to pull me over and down.

Reckless, that's what this week has been, it's who Traeger is, who he'll always be. He's not right for me, I like control and he takes it all from me, makes me forget everything else but the relentless gratification of our bodies moving as one; his hands and mouth on my skin, dark words in my ear, the cruel sting of pain, and sweet soothing satisfaction he doles out. I'm so damn greedy and eager for the mind-bending bliss of his cock stretching me, filling me, buried so deep inside my body that I become part of him. And didn't I love it? The way it made me feel, insane with want and lust, our need for each other an unquenchable, untamable beast. I don't know if I can forget him or live without him. Look at how weak he's made me, I can't stand it, he made me love him, made me fall in love with him!

I've never been in love before, never wanted to be, I'll figure it out and deal with it, what other choice do I have? I accelerate into the next curve and all I can see is Traeger's hauntingly beautiful eyes as I swipe at the steady torrent of tears coursing down my face. I'm a survivor, my mother drove off the edge of this winding road, all because she couldn't get past her broken heart. I can do it, I have to, but it feels as if I've left an important part of myself behind—with him. How bad can it be with only tiny little pieces of my heart left to cause me pain? I'll forget him and his unbroken spirit, learn to live without his wild, reckless will.

I turn the music up even higher, fuck, my dad is genuinely stuck in another era of musical history. He's loyal to Texas born and bred musicians and, yeah, Janis Joplin is great, I have to admit. Right now she's wailing in that gravelly, fast-track-to-tragedy voice, and I sing along because it matches my mood and the tears won't stop and I guess heartbreak is timeless, because she's singing my life at this moment.

END BOOK ONE

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING!

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