Wreck You Read online

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Acknowledgments

  SNEAK PEAK

  About this author

  Copyright © 2014 Abby McCarthy

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission.

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in the book review.

  Cover design by Hang Le

  Dedication: To my reading soulmate

  Wreck You

  by Abby McCarthy

  Prologue

  Corbin

  I’m surrounded by darkness. It’s quiet and dark; darker than anything I've ever experienced. It’s in my nature to assess a situation. There is no assessing this. It’s total emptiness, a black pit of nothingness. Am I dead? Is that what this is? All I've got are my thoughts.

  Maura.

  I knew of her before I saw her. The bio on a piece of paper, tucked in a brown folder gave me the basics; her weight, hair color, family relationships. It told me who her dad was, and a quick glimpse into the life she led. The folder was thicker than normal, and gave me all of the details about the shithole town Wakeman and who all the players were. It’s your average small, rundown American town, where gangs, motorcycle clubs, even the mafia are rampant. Nothing new, except for her.

  Maura.

  She wasn’t my mission, but she turned out to be everything.

  Even here in the darkness, thoughts of her consume me. I don’t know how long I've been here. Time escapes me. What I know is that she’s everywhere.

  I’m good with that.

  Her dark hair cascading over her soft silky skin. Her blue eyes staring at me through long thick lashes. Her lips. Oh lord, those lips. Her laugh and her boldness. Her body as she lets go, the way she throws her head back while arching her back. Her vulnerability. Her fear.

  Thoughts of her fear create a panic within me. What if she needs me, and I’m not there? What if she’s hurt, and I’m here in the dark. I need to get to her. Get out of here. Is this hell?

  “Maura! Maura! Maura!” I shout. But no one’s listening. I’m here alone, in darkness.

  Mickeyism #1

  May the road rise up to meet you

  May the wind always be at your back

  May the pipes next to you be a friendly sound

  Or let the Devil’s Crusader’s put ‘em to the ground

  Chapter 1

  Maura

  Wind whips through my hair as I sit on the front stairs to our small cottage that overlooks Lake Green. The paint is chipped on the railing. I make a mental note to stop at the hardware store and pick up a small can of paint. The sun is starting to set, giving off a soft glow. I love this time of day. There is a peacefulness here that I've been craving today. Throwing my head back, I let the cold crispness of my Budweiser hit the back of my throat. After the day I’ve had, I think I'm going to be having quite a few of these. I’m just glad my dad is on a run for the club. This means I will have the cottage to myself this weekend.

  We used to live at the clubhouse which is where I basically grew up. It’s also where my Dad’s motorcycle club hangs out. My dad is Mickey, and he’s as Irish as they come. He moved here from Ireland when he was twenty-three and has been a member of the Devil’s Crusader’s Motorcycle Club ever since.

  Mickey is scary as hell. I love him and can see his sweet side because I am his ”Baby Girl” but to the rest of the world Mickey is not a man you want to mess with. Let alone fuck with his daughter.

  Dad moved us out to the cottage once I started to get boobs. We’re farther from the clubhouse than he’d like but most of the houses on the lake are summer rentals so it affords us plenty of privacy, which is really Dad’s code for “keeps the mates away from his daughter”.

  My name is Maura McCafferty. I have long dark curly hair, big blue eyes, fair Irish skin, and am a curvy size six. One would think that I would have no problems in the man department. There should be guys lining up, right? Wrong. First off, any regular guy, and by regular I mean any non motorcycle riding club member, is petrified of the club. Second, I do not want any man in the club.

  This brings me back to my reason for downing my beer on a Friday night. Dawson. At least that’s what I call him, most everyone else calls him Daws. He is the prez’s son and is 22, which is just two years older than me. Dawson is a good looking guy. He is 6’2, dark haired, lean and pure muscle, but I think of him like a brother. We have been practically raised that way. Taking baths together as toddlers, beating on each other in grade school and riding dirtbikes all over club grounds has been my life with Dawson.

  Dawson has always looked out for me. Too many nights in our youth were spent with just the two of us. When the club had late nights, Dawson and I would often find ourselves bunking together to avoid the craziness. Things started to change for us when Dawson was thirteen. That was the first time some bar slut spread her legs for him. After that, I would end up staying by myself more often than not.

  Lately, I swear he has his head up his ass. He has it in his thick skull that we should be together. I truly don’t think that we connect the way two people who are meant to love each other should. Not that I'm “in the know” on love. No man has been able to come anywhere near my vagina.

  Between Dawson and the other brothers in the club, they have kept me on lock down at least where any admirers are concerned. Dawson somehow thinks he is getting near it. Gross! I don’t know how many times I've told him that I don’t see him that way. So, what does the asshat do? He thinks he is making me jealous by bringing club sluts from the clubhouse and flaunting them around the shop where I work. I am the office manager/fill-in mechanic for Dray’s Customs which is right alongside the clubhouse. We customize bikes, the rumbly kind, amongst other things.

  So, Dawson got it in his head that he could make me jealous by bringing Big Titty Rhonda (we call her this because there is a Little Titty Rhonda) to the shop and letting her blow him practically right out in the open. I know this was for show. I'm not jealous. Dawson can fuck whomever he wants. But when I have orders to place and phone calls to make, and he is making all this racket over a fucking blowjob, I get pissed. If my daddy wasn’t out on a run, this shit wouldn’t be going down. He would kick Dawson’s ass for being disrespectful. You don’t bring club sluts out to the shop. It’s a rule. Maybe it’s not officially written down anywhere, but it should be. Because of Dawson’s escapades, it took me slightly longer to get my work done for the day. Once I finally finished working, I headed over to the clubhouse where Turk and Skaggs were tending bar. I had them give me a six of Budweiser to go. I put the beers in my saddle bag and rode home.

  I could have gone out tonight. Jenny, my best friend, was going to Benny’s our favorite tavern. Jenny is not associated with the club. She is twenty five and a perfect blend of sassy and crazy. Unlike the Irish bloo
d that runs through my veins, Jenny is 100% Italian. She was raised in Little Italy, a tiny Italian neighborhood that breeds tough, don’t-fuck-with-me-or-I’ll-fuck-you-up Italian chicks.

  The best thing about her that made us instantly friends, her Catholic school upbringing kept her clueless from my drama. Unlike the other girls in this town she has never been afraid of me and she has never idolized the club. Jenny has seen me for me. She doesn’t see me as the biker chick, or the biker’s daughter. She sees me as Maura, a pretty tough chick who can hold her own. Hell, the night we met, I was sitting at the bar of Benny’s having a beer. She came into the bar and took the stool next to me. She was drinking over some asshat and I was drinking over the fact that I'm never going to get a man in this town.

  Tonight, after being annoyed all day by Dawson, I decided that I'm going to sit here on my porch, catch a buzz and enjoy the quiet. I crack open my third beer, enjoying the night. My nerves are finally starting to calm down. It is still fairly warm out for September, so the Harley tank top I'm wearing and jeans seem very apropos. It's late enough in the year that the lake is quiet from renters. During peak summer months, there are people all over the lake fishing, boating or even jet skiing. As entertaining as all that is, I enjoy the quiet that this time of year brings.

  I hear the familiar rumble of pipes getting louder on the wind, interrupting my quiet, serene atmosphere. A bike is heading down my road. I huff out a loud breath, silently cursing whomever is coming here. I'm also praying that it is not Dawson. I'm so done with that for the day...for forever. He needs to get over his little crush on me. The bike gets louder and louder, echoing off of the trees until finally the rumble starts to slow as it turns into the driveway next door to ours. Hmm, I guess it’s not for me.

  I angle myself forward on the stairs to get a better view. Even though the sun is starting to set, it is still light enough that I can see pretty clearly. A Harley Dyna painted flat black with shined up chrome pulls into the driveway, that is more dirt than drive. The bike is impressive, you can tell it has been customized. I notice the bike first, a habit from being around bikes all of my life.

  Mickeyism #91

  You can learn a lot about a man based on his bike.

  I notice the man. My breath catches. I inhale sharply. This is not a man. He is a beast. As he swings his leg off the bike, I can’t help but notice his size. He is taller than Dawson, so he must be at least 6’4. He has on tan boots and desert camo pants. Hugging his chest is a tan v-neck t-shirt. Staring at his chest, I have to remind myself to breathe. The size of his muscular arms has my mind immediately imagining the chest that is hidden beneath the shirt. I can see the start of some ink on his arm, but his sleeve is covering it. My eyes travel up to his face. He has dark hair that is cut short. He is clean shaven and his jaw is angular making his features look strong. He has on riding glasses so I can’t see his eyes. Before me is the most beautiful man that I've ever seen. Everything about him is impressive, from his size to his confident stance. As if he were a precious metal, my nipples feel magnetized by the sheer sight of him.

  He is not like the men that I'm used to being around. I have to meet him. I just hope that when he opens his mouth the perfection continues. My eyes take in the entire scene. I see a large green duffel bag that I recognize from traveling in the airport as a military bag.

  Normally, if the cottage next to us is being rented, Sue, the middle aged property manager who has seen her share of the back of a bike, will come down to meet the guest. She shows them around the small two bedroom cottage and gives them the keys. I’m surprised she isn’t here to show him the place. I'm so going to use this to my advantage. It’s not every day the world drops an Adonis on my doorstep. I grab my cell and text Sue.

  Me: Hey Sue. Your guest is here. I'm around. I can show him the cottage if u want

  Sue: Crap. He was supposed to be here yesterday. I thought he was going to be a no show. Thanks babe, you’re a lifesaver.

  Me: No prob.

  I stand up and saunter over to the guy, making sure I sway my hips just enough to be sexy, but not so much that I appear desperate. I know I am smiling, maybe a little too big, but I don’t care. I never get a chance to glance in the direction of a man this good looking, let alone speak to one. With a beer in my hand, I nod at him.

  “Hi! I thought you were going to be here yesterday?”

  He lifts his glasses off of his face and in a slight southern accent responds, “Sorry ma'am, my plane got delayed and then it was after hours for the storage unit that housed my bike. I had to grab a room and wait ‘til the morning to head out. If it caused you any inconvenience, Sue, I apologize.”

  “Well, my name isn’t Sue and it’s not Ma'am either. Name’s Maura. Maura McCafferty. Sue got held up. I told her I would show you around.” I stretch my hand out to introduce myself.

  Mickeyism # 117

  If a man shakes my hand too hard, he is trying to overpower me and is probably a major dick, but if it’s too light, then he can’t be trusted either.

  Mickeyism #118

  Eye contact during the handshake is important. Same thing, if he looks down at the hands while shaking them, then he is weak. If he stares too hard, he is either making a point or trying to intimidate.

  Even though extending my hand might seem like a simple gesture, I'm offering it as a way to see what this man is all about. He grabs my hand, turning my fingers upwards and brings my knuckles to his lips. I've read about this a million times, that spark people feel from a touch and I’ve always been a bit cynical. Here, at this moment, that thought is thrown out of the window. His lips practically scorch my skin with the amount of fire that is burning inside of me. His eyes stay on mine, not fiercely, but in a pleading way. It’s like his eyes are asking a question; if this is okay. His warm lips gently brush my knuckles, then he brings my hand down.

  “Well Maura, it’s very nice to meet you. Let me just grab my bag.”

  My smile grows wider. His lips are soft and his eyes are trusting. I learned two things. He is a gentleman and I want him.

  “You gonna tell me your name, soldier? “

  “Marine.”

  “Pardon?”

  “I’m a Marine.”

  “Well Marine, you got a name?”

  “Marx, Corbin Marx.”

  “Well, nice to meet you Marx, Corbin Marx. Follow me.” I start to walk up the stairs and I turn back to see if he is checking out my ass. When I catch his line of vision, it looks like his eyes are roaming all over me and not just my backside.

  Sue keeps the keys in a very secret spot; under the doormat. I guess she figures with my daddy next door, she doesn't have much to worry about. I scrunch down, grab the key and open the front door. The cottages are all pretty small, each one decorated a bit differently. We walk into the cottage and are in a living room that houses an old plaid couch and matching recliner that must be circa 1990. The television is an old box style TV that has an actual VCR built right into it. VHS tapes of Chevy Chase, Who Framed Roger Rabbit and A Weekend at Bernies are stacked on the stand below it. It is an open floor plan with the kitchen to the left. A formica countertop with two stools separates the living room and the kitchen. I open the door to the bigger of the bedrooms which consists of a queen bed with what I'm sure is an old Red Roof Inn floral print comforter, a dresser and nightstand.

  I wave my arms around,“This is the Cottages of Green Lakes.” I swoop my arms about in a type of voila movement. “No one has been here for a couple of weeks. Sue cleaned the linens after the last family left. There is a stacked washer and dryer in the bathroom if you need to do any laundry.” I notice myself starting to ramble a little which usually isn’t like me.

  “It’s very nice. I think it will suit me just fine.”

  “Ha! Well, it’s no Hilton, but it’s pretty quiet. There are poles in the back, if you like that sort of thing.”

  “Poles?” Corbin looks at me strangely.

  “Fishing poles for the,
umm, lake.”

  “Oh, okay. Thanks.”

  Corbin takes his bag and tosses it on the coffee table. My grand tour is over, and I know I'm going to be walking out the door soon. Think, Maura. Think.

  “I’m sure you have been riding for a while, if you want a beer feel free to stop by.” There. The ball is in his court.

  “Actually, let me wash up. I’d love to take you up on that beer.”

  I walk back over to my cottage, kicking myself a little for rambling and secretly giving myself a high five for getting him to come over for a beer.

  I do a quick check in the mirror, thankful that I straightened my long dark hair today. It always looks shiniest after a good flat iron. My eye makeup is not at its freshest but it will have to do. Luckily, I did a nice silvery shadow today that makes my blue eyes pop. I adjust my girls in my bra to make sure they are at their perkiest. I grab two more beers from the fridge and head back out to the porch. When I walk out, Corbin is leaning against the side of the porch staring at the lake.

  “Here ya go.” I hand him the beer.

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  “Ma’am, huh? Sounds like I’m sixty when you say that.”

  “Sorry might be the South in me.”

  Hmm wouldn’t mind having some South in me.

  “Are you from the South?”

  “Born there, but actually I’m kind of from nowhere and everywhere.”

  “Ah. A nomad of sorts? What’s a nice boy like you doing so far from home?” I say this in a flirty way. He looks me directly in the eye. It’s only now that I notice the cool blue to his eyes, shades lighter than mine.

  “I'm no boy, and I’ve been far from home for a long time.” His eyes move away and look back to the lake in an almost painful way. He averts his gaze to the side of the cottage where my bike is parked. It must be the first time he noticed it.