Bad Boys of Romance(175)
Cole placed one last sweet kiss on my lips, before he wrapped my arm in his, and we turned to face our friends and family. The Pastor announced us, “Mr. and Mrs. Cole West.”
Together we headed down the aisle, followed by our friends and family, ready to race toward our future together.
The End
About Author
Dee Avila is a mother of four that enjoys reading and writing. You can catch her at anytime with her note app open, people watching. She lives in a small community in California and loves to tie the small-town feel into her writing.
Scar
Asphalt Gods MC
by
Morgan Jane Mitchell
Scar, Asphalt Gods MC by Morgan Jane Mitchell
Copyright © 2014 Morgan Jane Mitchell
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author, Morgan Jane Mitchell.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Any reference to real events, business, organizations or locales is intended only to give the fiction a sense of realism and authenticity. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited.
http://www.themorganjane.com
Leave a Scar
They say what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, but that’s bullshit. What doesn’t kill you leaves a scar. More than the eyesore down my torso, I was a scar, the jagged, fucked up remains of a tragedy. Out of every bar in every town, she had to walk into mine. The quote’s something like that, and that’s how this story would’ve started if it were an old movie, but it wasn’t. This was my fucked up life. I’d been through hell and back and I’d survived, paying the price, but tonight I met the woman who’d be the death of me. One minute I filled the beer cooler and the next she sat at my bar, even if it would only be my bar for another day.
Beautiful with golden blonde hair down to the crack of her ass, she slammed her tiny, jeweled purse on the bar, causing me to cringe. Despite my own plans, I’d grown attached to the place and found myself tenderly buffing the wood. I slapped on my bartender face. “What can I get for you this fine evening, Miss?”
Pouty lips, positioned over two perfect tan globes, peeking out over the plunging neckline of her snug blouse, opened and breathed, “Five shots of bourbon, Jim Beam.” She placed her gold credit card in front of me.
My eyebrows raised for a moment before I laid out five shot glasses and filled them. Back home, the request wouldn’t have surprised me at all. Even here, in this tourist trap of a beach town, I’d expect the order from a gaggle of barely legal girls during spring break but not from a woman so refined.
Her coral polished nails wrapped around the first glass. Stretching her delicate neck, she leaned her head back, lifting the glass to her mouth and pouring until the bourbon disappeared. Lips puckering, her face twisted as her neck snapped straight, confirming my suspicions. She wasn’t a hard drinker.
When our eyes met, I took the opportunity to speak. I cleared my throat. “May I make a suggestion?”
“What?” She hissed, clearly frustrated.
“Something to go down easier, a cocktail, a couple of rattlesnakes, something tastier?”
Ignoring me, she downed the next, trying real hard to keep the distain off her face.
“A chaser at least?”
This time she nodded as she exhaled, recovering from the burn. I grabbed a frosty mug and pulled the handle on one of our local draft beers. Her face relaxed and she smiled as she took a sip, so I turned away, finally swiping her card. Emery S. Jenkins, it read.
Laying her card back in front of her with a smile of my own, I dried a glass. “Emery, what’s a pretty lady like yourself doing all alone this evening?” Evening was a stretch, it was one a.m., and I’d close down at two.
Her face grew serious for a second, forlorn and anguished before she artificially brightened. “Just trying to end a bad… day.” Emery whipped her neck around like she was searching for someone before she threw back her third shot. The uneven smile widened on her face, and I could tell her head was swimming. She was a lightweight alright. Drumming her fingers on the bar, she glanced over her shoulder again.
“Waiting for someone?”
“No,” she spoke quickly.
The off-season loomed over Daytona Beach, and only local scum and dedicated alcoholics lingered around the bar. I knew them all by name, knew when they’d leave, how much they’d tip and when they’d be back. Emery presented a puzzle, her mere presence an unwelcome distraction. Was she a friend or foe? Was she just a hottie down on her luck?