Losing Me, Finding You Read online

  C.M. Stunich

  Sarian Royal

  Losing Me, Finding You

  Copyright © C.M. Stunich 2013

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  For information address Sarian Royal Indie Publishing, 1863 Pioneer Pkwy. E Ste. 203, Springfield, OR 97477-3907.

  www.sarianroyal.com

  ISBN-10: 1938623444 (eBook)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-938623-44-8 (eBook)

  "Triple M" Name Used With Permission From Melissa, Mireya, and Megan of "Triple M Bookclub"

  Edited by Brandy Little of "Little Bee's Editing Services"

  Cover art and design © Amanda Carroll and Sarian Royal

  "Optimus Princeps" and "Ultra Condensed Sans Serif" Fonts © Manfred Klein

  "Ink In The Meat" Font © Billy Argel

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, businesses, or locales is coincidental and is not intended by the author.

  to the lovely Triple M Bookclub in all its many eccentricities.

  thanks for the names, the (perverted) suggestions, and the continuous enthusiasm that you show for every book you read.

  the world could use a whole lot more just like you.

  in no particular order, I dedicate this book to: Melissa, Mireya, and Megan (the fearless leaders of the group). Jodie, Kimberly, Mint, Brandi, Jen, Amy, Sali, and all the other wonderful members of Triple M who let me use their names.

  to the book bloggers who wanted this so bad, they were willing to wait.

  and of course, to my street team and my Kitty Crew: Jennifer M., Leanne J., and Marlena F.

  couldn't do it without you.

  I wake to a dull roar that quickly becomes deafening. The sound rattles the windows in my bedroom and sends my father into a raging fury about those darn criminals which I can only assume refers to the motorcycle gangs that have been rolling into town lately for the antique bike show. My father does this every year, says these things every year. I should really move out.

  “Amy,” my mother says, opening my door the same way she has every day since I started kindergarten. “Time to get up. We're meeting your aunt over at the church to plan the potluck on Saturday.” I smile and nod, hold my tongue and refuse to tell her that a potluck plans itself. People bring dishes; other people eat them. There isn't much to figure out.

  “Thanks, Mom,” I say and blow her a kiss as she backs away and resigns herself to listening to my father complain. What he conveniently forgets is that those 'criminals' make up a pretty hefty portion of our town's summer economy. Without them, I don't think many of the shops downtown would still be in business. I sigh and stand up as another wave of noise approaches from the direction of the highway. Moved by my curiosity, I stand by the window and part the drapes so I can catch a glimpse of the men and women who are so far outside my realm of being that they might as well be aliens. They wear leather and have piercings and tattoos. The open road is their home and mine, mine is this three bedroom, two bath prison which is perfectly nice but so stifling that sometimes, it makes me sick.

  I watch the wave of bikers drive by and press my fingertips to the shaking glass.

  “Take me with you,” I whisper as they fly by and disappear around the corner. I imagine what it would feel like to just run away with them, try something new, something different. I shake my head and turn away. It's not going to happen, not for me. Girls like me don't wrap their arms around men in leather, straddle massive hunks of metal that my mom refers to solely as death traps, drive to cities we've never been. Girls like me put on their yellow camisoles, their white sweaters and their below the knee skirts. We grab our purses, slather on some clear lip gloss and sit in the passenger seat while our mother talks about the nice boy who just moved to town with his parents. Poor guy, I think as I imagine his fate. He may as well have the words 'fresh meat' tattooed on his forehead like one of those biker boys. The girls from my church are going to be all over him. After all, in a town of five thousand people, it's not as if we have many choices. I should go to college, I think as my mom continues to talk in the background. Maybe somewhere far, far away. I sigh and smile at my mother who's patting my knee. Like I said, me, coward. Period.

  “I'm so glad you're here!” my aunt says as she comes out the front doors of the church in an outfit disturbingly similar to mine. “We have a serious problem.” She sighs and makes the sign of the cross which bothers my mom because we're not Catholic. My aunt loves church functions, church rummage sales and church gossip, but I don't think she really likes church in and of itself. I bet she'd be hard pressed to even remember Jesus' role in the whole of things. I'm not judging her, but I just think she's shallow and as see-through as a piece of glass. I'm like that, too, I think, but I wish I wasn't. I wish I had some substance.

  I tune out my aunt and turn slightly, so I can see the main thoroughfare of the town down the hill from us. It's absolutely packed with people, humming with this wild energy that makes the hairs on my arms stand on end. I've never been to the motorcycle show which seems strange since I've lived here my whole life. My father, however, has always forbidden me to go. This year, even though I'm twenty-one years old, isn't any different. I really should put my foot down and let him know that I'm an adult and can make my own choices, thank you very much, but I haven't felt passionate enough about anything to take a stand.

  When my mom and aunt start to move inside, I follow them and sit at the table with the other lunching ladies while they plan the same potluck we have every month, the one that doesn't really need any planning. Of course, under the table I have the greatest treat of all, one that doesn't involve church or yellow sweaters or cheese casseroles. Under the table, my book boyfriend is sucking on my toes.

  “I want you like I've never wanted anyone else,” Adam says to me as he kisses the arch of my foot and starts to move his way up my leg, ever so slowly, teasing my skin with his teeth, tasting my thighs with the hot heat of his mouth until he comes to my –

  “Amy?” my mother says, waving her hand in front of my face. I look up and see seven curious expressions staring back at me.

  “Hmm?” I close the book around my hand, determined to dive back in as soon as the setting permits; it's the only way I'll stay sane. The rest of the day isn't exactly looking up as we have plans to help my cousin try on wedding dresses. My mother wanted to wait until the motorcycle show was over, but Jodie's having a shotgun wedding (don't tell anyone outside the family, please) and she needs a dress like yesterday. The wedding is in two weeks after all, and there isn't much time left. My bridesmaid dress is going to be fuchsia. I know it is. I just know it.

  “Can you make your caramel sticky buns for Saturday? The ones with the pecans?” Oh. Yes. Sticky buns. Maybe I can steal a few for myself, put them in my room and get ready for my hot date with Micah, the book boyfriend I haven't met yet but am absolutely thrilled to climb into bed with.

  “Of course,” I say with a smile as I tuck my chestnut hair behind my ear. It's the same color as the tabletop we're all sitting around. That's kind of depressing. The ladies go back to discussing the tablecloth colors and the chair arrangements in the dining room while I duck my head and reopen my book.

  “Fuck me, Adam,” I say as I turn over and put my ass in the air for his viewing pleasure. “Fuck me until the cows come home.”

  I snort with laughter and once again manage to draw attention to myself.

  “Are you laughing at a book?” my mother asks, like that's so strange. I know she reads romance novels, too. She hides them f
rom my dad under the sink in the bathroom and takes extra long showers so she can finish them. I shake my head and clear my throat.

  “No, I just had a little something in my throat.” I gesture vaguely around the area of my neck and try to keep smiling. I manage to divert their attention and make it out the door and into the car without further incident.

  “I doubt we're going to be able to find a parking space,” my mom says with a sigh as we wind down the road back into town, my aunt trailing too close behind us. “I may have to drop you off at the door so Jodie knows we're here. You know how moody your cousin's been lately.” Yeah, I think, because she's like three months pregnant. I smile and try not to think about Adam's deliciously sexy body. I'm almost finished with him, so I brought along an extra. Daniel's ready and waiting inside my purse for me to finish these last few chapters.

  “Okay, Mom,” I say with a cheerful smile that quickly turns into an open mouthed gawp as we hit the first traffic light downtown and find ourselves in a sea of colorful characters that make little beads of sweat appear between my mother's eyebrows. “It's okay,” I tell her before she starts to hyperventilate. “They're just people.” My mother scoffs.

  “Godless people,” she says, and I don't correct her. There's no point. Some guy with a pentagram tattoo just walked by and much as I know that could mean anything, my mom thinks it's the sign of the Antichrist. “Do you have your pepper spray in your purse?” I took it out to accommodate Daniel, but I nod and tell her that yes, I do. I need an e-reader, I think as I imagine carrying thousands of books around in my hand. My father refuses to buy one for me, saying that digital devices like that are portals to hell in and of themselves. He let me have a computer, but he unplugs the Wi-Fi at night. I should really move out. “Go straight inside and don't talk to anyone.”

  “Okay, Mom.”

  “And please don't let Jodie try on anything that you know isn't going to fit. You know how moody she's been lately.”

  “Okay, Mom.”

  My mother pulls up to the curb and lets me out into the throng of people. I can see that she doesn't want to leave me there, but that she's more afraid of Jodie's wrath than she is of the motorcycle fanatics. I'd have to agree with that one. I start towards the front door of the bridal shop and then just stop. My mom isn't looking; Jodie doesn't know I'm here yet. Now's my chance to look around, just take a peek at the motorcycles. It won't take long; after all there's a whole row of them parked at the end of this block, just behind the red signs and yellow tape banning cars from this stretch of road. I glance over my shoulder to make sure that Mom's completed her U-turn and start down the sidewalk.

  It's pretty obvious that I don't fit in here which is a strange feeling. I'm your typical, middle-class, all-American white girl with blue eyes and pale brown hair, but I'm the one that's drawing stares and raised eyebrows. Something about that is exciting to me, makes me hold my head high and strut like I'm something special. Instead of blending into the crowd, I'm standing out. Fantastic.

  I pause next to a big, blue bike with metal that shimmers like the lake in summer, reflects the early afternoon sunshine into my face and makes me squint. I bend down to read the sign.

  “You like Road Kings, beautiful?” a voice says from behind me, and I spin around to find a man standing far too close to my behind. My ass, I correct myself. You're an adult; you can say it.

  “Um.” My eyes are looking directly at a black T-shirt stretched over a wide chest, and I have to tilt my chin up to find the face of the man with the most amazing body ever. Oh. My. God. He looks just like my book boyfriend! “I, uh, it's pretty,” I say which makes Mr. Motorcycle laugh.

  “Pretty?” he says with some sort of Southern accent that I can't place. “I've never heard 'em described like that, but I guess you're right. She's one, hot fucking bitch.”

  “E-excuse me?” I say, floored by this man's language, and his fall of sandy blonde hair, his dark brown eyes that are even now sweeping my body like I'm one of the bikes for sale. He licks his lips and steps even closer to me. “S-she?” Mr. Motorcycle laughs again and I jump. I can't help myself. I've never been so close to a man, let alone one with a sleeve of tattoos and muscles that are slick and moist from the hot sun overhead.

  “Can't very well be a he, right? The only thing I'm willing to ride cross country is a she.” He winks at me, but I can't respond, not with him standing so close to me. My throat has just closed up and my mouth is dry.

  “Um, okay,” I say and my voice comes out in a whisper. The man, who has the most beautifully chiseled face I have ever seen, reaches out and brushes his fingers across my arm, making me shiver.

  “If you like this baby, I could show you mine,” he says and I have to blink several times before I can respond.

  “Yours?”

  “My ride, beautiful. You want to come see?”

  “I … ” I see my mom come around the corner at the end of the block and reflexively reach out my hand for Mr. Motorcycle's massive bicep. My fingers curl around his hard flesh and my whole body goes up in flames. Oh. My romance novels suddenly make a whole lot more sense. My skin feels hot and flushed, like it could conduct electricity. I look up into his face and see that he's looking at me like he's the predator and I'm the prey. “I … I have to go,” I say as I step around him and start back down the block at an even quicker pace than I came.

  “Hold up there,” says the man with the dark eyes and the skulls on his upper arm. He grabs my wrist and spins me around. “You in town for the show?” he asks, as I clutch my purse against my chest and try not to pass out. It's awfully hot out here, and my pulse is thumping in my neck like a live thing.

  “I live here,” I whisper and he releases me with a wicked, nasty smile that gives me all sorts of strange feelings in my gut. “Why?”

  “Well,” he says with a glance over my shoulder. “I thought you might want to grab a drink or something?”

  “Um.” I steal a glance down the block and see that while my mom is gone, my aunt is staring at me like I'm possessed. Uh oh. “I have to go.” I start to turn away, but he reaches out and grabs me by the arm, firm but not rough. I shiver.

  “Come on, beautiful,” he says. “Tell me your name.”

  “Amy,” I say quietly, too quietly. “Amy Cross.”

  “Austin,” he says, and that's it. “Now, Amy, I'm not letting you go until you promise to meet me back here tonight for a drink.” I look into this man's dark eyes and feel like I'm falling and burning up at the same time. Two beautiful, beautiful ways to die.

  My aunt is coming towards us now, and I can see that she's digging around in her purse. She's probably got her pepper spray in hand. Or a cross. I have to get out of here.

  “I … ” Austin does not look like the kind of man that likes to hear the word no. “Okay,” I say and he releases me with a smile.

  “Yeah? Alright, maybe six?” I nod, just to get away from him, never intending on holding up my end of this one-sided bargain. “See you then, pretty girl.”

  I turn away and run all the way back to the bridal shop.

  “Who the hell was that?” Mireya asks me as she wraps her long fingers around my bicep and breathes her hot breath against my skin. I watch Amy's tight, little ass as she catches up to an old lady in a sun hat and starts to explain things with her hands. Why do girls like that always gesture so much? Beats the fuck out of me.

  “Just some chick I asked out for drinks,” I tell Mireya as I spin to face her and grasp her under the chin. She's exotic, dark haired, and feisty. She's also into things that have the ability to surprise even me.

  “If you fuck her, can I watch?” Mireya asks as she wraps her arms around my waist and rubs her breasts against my chest, making me hard as a rock in the middle of the damn street. Or maybe that's because I'm still thinking of little Miss Amy with her sharp as shit blue eyes and her rounded body, bent over that bike, ass up in the air like she was waiting for it. I smile.

  “Sure,” I t
ell Mireya, taking hold of her hips and glaring at the guy down the block from us. He's checking out her ass, and it's pissing me off. What can I say? I'm a possessive motherfucker. “She might be a hard one to snag,” I say although I'm fucking with Mireya a little. I don't just want to snag Amy. I want to own her.

  “Why's that?” Mireya asks as she stands on her toes and kisses my neck. She's got on this perfume that doesn't fail to excite me, not even after all these years. Mireya and I go way back. I think she'd marry me if either of us were into that, but I'm not exactly the marrying type.

  “I'll bet you a hundred bucks that she's a virgin,” I say to her as I run my fingers through her dark hair and kiss her hard. She's got lips that could tame a cougar, that girl does. I pull away and grab Mireya by the hand. I might have a date with Amy tonight, but that doesn't mean I can't have a little fun with Mireya until then. “But I know you're not,” I say, and she smiles at me, sharp lips curving up wickedly in the corners.

  “Not unless you want me to be,” she whispers, pulling my hand up to her hot mouth and biting my thumb gently. Mireya's dark eyes pull me in and wrap a web around me. She's off the chain fucking hot. No wonder she's always been my favorite little sugar. “If you're into innocent, little Southern girls, I've got a pair of cowboy boots I could wear for you.” She pauses. “With nothing else.” I grin and pull her forward, wrapping my arm around her waist.

  “Sounds good to me, beautiful,” I say as she follows me obediently across the street and towards the doors to our hotel.

  I can't say that I'm surprised when we're interrupted.

  “You!” a voice shouts from down the street, and I turn to find the old lady in the yellow hat storming towards me, purse in one hand, a black can in the other. Goddamn it. I've been around long enough to know a can of pepper spray when I see one. Amy is scurrying along behind the woman with one hand shielding her face from the street and the other tugging at the woman's pink jacket. I drop my arm from Mireya's waist suddenly, like I'm afraid it'll scare Amy off. Shit, Austin, if the girl can't handle it, let her go. I keep my arm at my side.