Stay Vertical (The Bare Bones MC #2)(2)

At sixteen, I hadn’t even kissed a boy. I wasn’t even exactly sure what a hummer was. I mean, I wouldn’t say that I looked like a nerd. I had Madison’s shapely hourglass figure, maybe a bit on the “ample” or “curvy” side, but I attracted attention. And I had her same cherubic, innocent face with the little doll’s button eyes. My problem was, I really was innocent. I mean, at sixteen I still had a Jesse McCartney cellphone case. Madison and I were as different as arsenic and strychnine.

Oh, sure, other dickweeds asked me out. These guys had been the recipients of swirlies and purple nurples since time immemorial. Their headgear and retainers had long been tossed onto the school’s roof. They took time out from their marching band and audio visual club meetings to ask me out, but I always said no. Seriously? Once I finally threw out my McCartney case, there wasn’t a live boy I was truly interested in. Once I finally started lusting for Jake Gyllenhaal, none of the guys on their way to the math Olympiads had the right sort of scruffy bed hair, lusty eyes, or something. They just didn’t cut it. The dorkwads left me cold.

For a while I was afraid I might even be gay. I’d look at myself in the mirror with my bouncy, fat boobs held up like two bowling balls in a sling. My soft auburn hair framed my angelic face. None of the rug eaters I’d ever seen looked like me. And I did like Jake Gyllenhaal. So I was safe.

But I felt sorry for Madison because she didn’t need to be so flinty and brittle, such a tough chick. I kept thinking if she wasn’t such a hard case, she would attract a different sort of boy, a boy who might value her instead of shoving his winky dink down her throat. Her type of boy spent his time riding motocross, making their own fireworks, and stealing cough syrup from CVS. However, what was her option? It was either the thugs from juvenile hall, or the guys on their way to a comic book signing. Surely there must be some middle ground. A boy who was manly and rugged, yet intelligent and sensitive. Until then, I was fine with my books and spreadsheets.

There was one boy who stirred something in my deepest recesses. It was so forbidden I couldn’t even mention it to Emma, much less my sister Maddy. My neglectful mother Ingrid had somehow managed to attract a boyfriend who moved in with us. Cropper Illuminati was supposed to be a brilliant businessman, but he still came across as someone who had climbed into the gene pool when the lifeguard wasn’t looking. Maybe it was his low hairline and long swinging arms that made him look just a couple years more modern than Neanderthal Man.

Cropper wore a black leather “cut,” which I guess stands for “a leather jacket with the sleeves cut off.” On the back he flew the colors of his motorcycle club, The Bare Bones, of which he was President. I was rarely home so I didn’t get to know his Neanderthal personality very well, but The Bare Bones allegedly comprised about ten successful companies between Cottonwood and Pure and Easy, their headquarters. Cropper definitely had an exciting, dangerous aura about him. Aside from their legit concerns such as an army surplus store, a live sex soundstage, and an indoor archery range, they were definitely involved in gun running.

Anyway, on one of my visits I discovered that Cropper came with a sleek, dark, devilishly handsome son, Ford. When Ingrid told me there was a teenaged boy there, I’d just assumed he was a smaller, younger biker goon—a Cropper Jr. But the first time I ignorantly, literally, stumbled on Ford, he smashed every atom of preconceived notions like that right into smithereens.

I was traipsing into the garage to see if there was any motor oil. Emma’s “check engine” light was on, and the dipstick said that no one had added oil since—well, since Cropper’s knuckles were dragging on the ground and he was clubbing women over the head. Which he still probably did, as far as I could tell. Anyway, in the dim half-light something in my peripheral vision moved just as I was reaching for the plastic bottle of oil. Gasping, I twirled to face the rat or raccoon.

I squinted to make out the man’s silhouette. He straddled a workout bench lifting some kind of dumbbell. He was clad in those exquisitely tight boxer briefs that leave nothing to the imagination, but my innocent eyes took forever drinking in the sublime depth, the texture, the heavily corded lushness of his torso.

I hadn’t even known such muscles existed, much less cared. Even in the dim light, I could see that his fawn-colored, creamy skin was more flawless than mine, as though he’d never had a zit in his life. His sublime hooked, Roman nose had a slight bump in the bridge, lending him a tough ambiance. He barely exhibited any exertion as he hefted what looked like a big old honking dumbbell, his silken eyebrows frowning with concentration, his bicep flexing with ripples that resonated deep inside my uterus.

He must’ve heard me lumbering around like an idiot, but he barely flinched as I ogled him. No doubt he’s used to being admired. Every lift of the dumbbell tweaked a similar, tiny silver barbell that pierced one of his coppery pebbled nipples. I’m looking at a man’s nipple, and it’s turning me on. I was no damned rug eater.

He had such a lush, silken mane of black hair my mouth actually started to water. My nostrils flared as they detected some faraway male pheromones. It was probably the first time in my dorky life I’d even been close to any masculine chemicals.

I must have stood there so long that irritation finally flickered in his eyes. They looked heavily lined with smoke like a sultry Caravaggio study. I could see that he barely registered my presence. He was too cool to look at me, just froze. I was only a little girl, way too immature and unseasoned to be of any interest to him.