Stone: At Your Service (Carolina Bad Boys #1)

  STONE

  At Your Service

  Carolina Bad Boys, #1

  RIE WARREN

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Stone, At Your Service

  Copyright © 2014 by Rie Warren

  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.

  https://www.riewarren.com

  Warren, Rie.

  Stone, At Your Service / Rie Warren – 1st ed

  1.Contemporary Romance—Fiction. 2. Alpha Male—Fiction. 3. Romantic Comedy—Fiction. 4. Erotica—Fiction. I. Title

  ASIN: B00MRPKWAY

  Cover Design

  By Jada D’Lee Designs https://www.facebook.com/JadaDLeeDesigns

  Editing

  By Gilly Wright http://www.gillywright.com

  Chapter One

  Full Service Friend

  MY PHONE JITTERED ON the nightstand, dragging me from a fitful sleep. “What?” I croaked into the receiver.

  I was used to getting woken up at all hours of the night by JJ’s soft little snuggles or—more often—his screaming wide-awake nightmares that seemed to get worse with every year his mom was gone. One look at the name flashing across my phone screen and I knew this call had nothing to do with the kid though, and everything to do with a dumbass obligation I’d made to my best friend, Nicky.

  I’d barely yanked a bundle of sheets from under my ass when Nicky spoke with suppressed laughter, “This is your call service, sir. I’m to remind you you’re settin’ off to Atlanta, Tuesday morning, nine sharp.”

  “Yeah, whatever. I’ll be ready. Don’t get your panties in a wad, Nicky.”

  Speaking of wad, I hopped from the sheets bunched between my ball-sack and armpits. The cotton entanglement mimicked the death-by-python thighs of the chick I’d fucked earlier in a fit of I am the man mentality.

  It happened every Friday night.

  I liked to screw; ladies liked my looks. Love ’em and leave ’em was my style, and Friday was my only night off without the kid. With him safely getting spoiled by my ma until his little milk teeth probably ached from a sugar overdose, TGIF was the one time I got to indulge in a little indiscretion. And I took full advantage.

  Being ball-and-chained for thirty-one motherfucking months to Crazy Claire had taught me two things: expect the unexpected and keep your heart to yourself. She’d done a runner on me, our son, and our marriage. No way in hell was I ever letting anyone in enough to walk out on me or break the kid’s heart again. No way was I going to risk the small slice of a comfortable life I’d carved for us through sheer hard work and long, long hours. But that didn’t mean I didn’t take care of business.

  “I bet you look like shit, Josh. Hope you clean up some over the weekend.” Nicky’s voice carried over the phone, and I considered whirlpooling it with a fast flush in the toilet once I’d tripped into the bathroom.

  “Let’s put it this way. If your gaggle of girlfriends is expectin’ pink oxford shirts, pressed chinos, and goddamn penny loafers, they’re outta luck,” I joked.

  “You fucked her, didn’t you?” Accusation dripped from Nicky’s tone. He referred to the woman I’d made eyes with at Richard’s Bar and then made love to for several hours afterward.

  And following approximately fifteen minutes during which I’d caught my breath, blinking back a few conscience-driven recriminations, I’d slipped from the woman’s clingy embrace. I’d swept my arm toward the bathroom door, thinking that was at least one gentlemanly thing to do, giving her some privacy to clean up after our fuck-fest. Before I gave her the signal to clear out.

  “Nah, I baked her cupcakes, painted her nails then made her a strawberry daiquiri.” ’Course I fucked her. Tits out to there. Legs up to here. Ass tight enough to withstand my smacks and writhing back for more . . .

  “Name?”

  I jiggled the loose toilet handle. “Heh?”

  “What was her name?” Nicky pressed.

  “Julie, Janey, it’s all the samey. Who cares?”

  “I care, since you’re gonna be my boyfriend for the week.”

  Filling the sink with hot water, I wiped the last red lipstick stains from my chest, my abs, from my cock. “Damn, you get bitchy when you’re not gettin’ serviced regularly.”

  With my disposable razor in the crapper after one day’s use, I tore open a new package with my teeth and jetted foam into my palm.

  Nicky heard the aerosol can go off. “Shaving?”

  I slathered my upper cheeks and lower throat just enough to maintain the five o’clock shadow I never shaved off. “Nope. Puttin’ frosting on those cupcakes I told you about.”

  “Do your nads, too.”

  “No fucking way.” A razor was getting nowhere near my balls.

  “If you’re gonna be my boyfriend, I need the tail feathers and drop-nest gone. The twinks like it that way.”

  My morning boner deflated like a balloon with a pin stuck through it. “I gotta do this?”

  “Yup. Save my ass so I can sodomize yours.” Nicky—Nick—Love, my best bud and best-selling paranormal romance writer, chuckled at my expense.

  “We’re really gonna play gay at your writing convention?” I tucked the phone against my shoulder, smearing shaving foam all over it.

  “It’s for my career.”

  I groaned and resumed shaving, my face only.

  Viper growled in the background from Nicky’s end. Talk about a man-hungry bitch. Viper the Rottweiler ate shoes, carburetors, car fenders for supper. So sweet as a puppy, such a pain in the ass as an adult—typical female.

  “Nine a.m. Tuesday, Josh. Get your Glee on.” He hung up on me with a final laugh.

  I dipped toward the mirror, scowling at my slightly furred chest, stomach, and balls. If Nicky got me started manscaping the undercarriage, the bastard wouldn’t stop there.

  “I am not shaving my gonads,” I muttered, tossing the barely used razor into the trash can.

  ****

  On Tuesday morning, the thought of leaving town without a final look at the kid almost made me cancel the whole trip. Instead, I took a detour to my ma’s on the way to work. She’d kept him since my Friday night with “Julie, Janey, samey” so he could get settled in, because Ma and I were both a little wary. This would be my first time away from him since Claire pulled up stakes a year and a half ago.

  Letting myself into the house, I bypassed the creaky floorboards I’d memorized from years of sneaking in and out as a teenager. In the room decorated especially for JJ, I scowled at Viper—also a houseguest for the week—and gingerly stepped around her bulk at the side of the bed.

  Mostly hidden beneath the quilt, only JJ’s sweet little face was visible, along with the index finger he always sucked to sleep. I slipped onto the bed and gently folded myself around him. He scooted into me like I was his own personal teddy bear, which I suppose I was. At three years old, he still felt so tiny to me. I feathered my fingers across his brow and his nose wrinkled. Combing the dark blond hair aside—the color he got from me—I nuzzled my face against him, breathing in the baby and boy scent. I cuddled with him a while longer, careful not to disturb his sleep, thankful it was peaceful for once.

  Even with my side trip to Ma’s, I was at work almost at the crack-of. The garage was quiet, nobody else due for another hour. I walked through the first three bays whistling
through my teeth as I inspected the cleanup from the previous night. My dad would’ve been proud. All the tools were tidy in their cubbies, the cars left inside the night before swathed in cotton-flannel covers, a touch that never failed to impress the customers. I walked past the office into the reception area, flicking on the computers, faxes, and two flatscreen TVs on the way through. I replaced the out-of-date magazines with a new batch Ma had delivered yesterday. Motor Sport, Garden & Gun, Charleston Magazine, Cosmo . . .

  Stepping out the opposite side of reception, I surveyed the last two bays of Stone’s Auto Service. We specialized in tires, but we could hook up just about anything. Stone’s had stood in this exact spot on 17 North in Mt. Pleasant, South Carolina, since my dad’s father—Billy Stone—had opened the doors in 1960.

  I’d spruced the place up a bit, added perks for the clients while never losing the down-home family appeal from my granddaddy’s day. We were kid friendly for the moms waiting for their cars with children in tow. The female customers also didn’t mind hanging around with a nice glassed-in view of the bays as they watched the guys at work. I’d modernized as new technology became available, but we still worked to the same standards. It was all about doing your best, keeping your crew and customers happy, and having some serious fucking pride in your work.

  Yeah, Dad would be happy.

  I looked down at the white badge with Stone embroidered in red on the chest of my coveralls. It was the same nametag my dad had worn. I’d painstakingly snipped it from his uniform three weeks after his death and stitched it onto my own with shaking hands and falling tears that made me take half an hour on a five-minute job. Because I was taking up the helm of Stone’s Auto Service a good twenty years before I expected to, and it wasn’t because Dad had retired early.

  We still gave out a single red rose to every female customer, a tradition my granddaddy had started. Grandmothers, cougars, snooty princesses, gawky teenagers, and even little girls . . . it didn’t matter. The smiles on their faces—after coming in pissed off and impatient—were worth it. Of course, it didn’t hurt none that our smooth move collected a few phone numbers in the process.

  The phone stationed on the wall in front of me rang. I answered, “Stone’s, at your service.”

  Chicks eat this shit up.

  I listened to the customer, moving to the computer when the door jingled open. Squinting at the monitor, I raised a hand in greeting as the guys streamed in. Red-haired Mick, young gun Javier, big, black Gerald, who was built like a plow horse and could probably bench press a Jetta—maybe even my ’94 Ford Bronco—and Ray, as handy as a mechanic as he was with the mathematics. The squat blond man was my second-in-command. Another ten strolled in, hitting the Mr. Coffee and the Krispy Kremes before heading out to the bays.

  It wasn’t long before the hiss of air compressors, the fresh smell of solvents, and the sight of the parking lot filling up filtered in to tease my senses.

  “This is gonna be your first week off since I started.” Ray took over my station at the counter, bringing up the day’s work tally on the computer.

  “Yup.” I narrowed my eyes around the reception, straightened a few chairs, and strode to the door. “We ready?”

  His bushy eyebrows jerked in my direction. “You betcha.”

  I flipped the lock, turned the Open for Business sign over, and stood back as people tramped inside. My chest puffed up with pride as the room filled, Ray handling the workload he’d grunt off to the mechanics, flat tires already rolling out the back of the bays.

  Patting Ray on the shoulder, I headed for the office. I peered into the garage for a minute more, the floor humming with activity and energy, telling myself the guys would do okay in my absence.

  The navy blue carpet in my office matched the navy blue of my coveralls. Both were oil-stained, an occupational hazard I loved. I’d already scrubbed my fucking nails raw and my fingers red trying to get rid of the ingrained grit and grease, but I sure as shit hadn’t shaved one single pube, Nicky be damned.

  I eyed the clean clothes piled on my desk. Pulling the zipper down, I shucked my coveralls, the ones I often wore draped down to my waist when the summer heat got too heavy. Under the badge that had belonged to my dad, beneath the dark blue uniform and the white tank I dragged off, I looked at my tat. The red heart almost pulsed on my chest, running from my left shoulder and over the hard slope of my pec. Wrapped in chrome pipes, the heart bore the words Joshua James December 13, 2009, symbolizing my three-year-old kid and cars, the two loves of my life.

  Right down to the tattoo on my chest, which I’d gotten one week after JJ’s birth, I was a man’s man. Just not that kind of man’s man. Except for the purposes of helping Nicky out this week. I pulled on a new red T-shirt, a pair of old jeans, and brushed my short hair back. After pocketing my phone and wallet, attaching the chain to a belt loop, I anxiously waited for nine o’clock to arrive and willed the days to leapfrog forward at the same time.

  In about fifteen minutes I’d be on a road trip with Nicky. One unlike we’d ever taken before. Not camping, fishing, horsing around. Nothing like that.

  The only campy thing about it would be us.

  Nicky Love was my best friend, and he had been since high school when we’d joined up over pranks that usually caused fire alarms, full-scale school-wide evacuations, and a lot of detentions. It was probably a miracle either one of us graduated.

  I didn’t have enough fingers and toes to count the number of times Nicky had saved my cojones. For starters, there was my marriage bust-up. Thirty-one motherfucking months in and Claire just up and left, no note, not even a postcard ever to let me know she was okay. Nothing of JJ’s taken with her—not a single memento of our life—to say she’d be thinking about our son but just couldn’t stick it out. I’d been seven years into the job by then, up to my eyeballs in money and management crises, not to mention diapers and nightmares and Nickelodeon when Claire disappeared.

  Nicky—unmarried, unattached, guy’s guy Nicky—pretty much moved in the first six months. My manny. Best man and best break-up buddy ever. Hell, he even did short-time at the garage like he used to fourteen years ago, when we’d wise off at Wando High School during the day and come work for my dad as soon as last bell rang.

  I owed the man, big time. He never told me who or how, but his Yankee legal eagles located Claire, served the papers, notarized her signatures, requested a hearing, and Charleston County cut me loose faster than it took to tie the knot. So if he needed me, no matter what, I was there. I just hoped I didn’t crash and burn and bring him down with me. I was determined to be successful . . . as a gay dude.

  Stepping out of the office, a blush burned my face. The guys all knew where I was going and they’d spent the past week taking cracks at me. Add in my clean gear—as if I’d never done neat and tidy before—and they were yapping up a shit storm, me at its center.

  “¡Ea diablo! Knock me on my ass den fuck it hard.” Javier’s gaze passed over me then he got on the intercom. “Mira, come get a load of Stone!”

  I was gonna give the squirt a load. I put my hand on my crotch and pumped it as the boys crowded into the small space behind the counter.

  “Fuck you all very much.”

  “That’s what we hear you’re supposed to be doing to Nicky.” Gerald winked.

  Right on cue, Nicky arrived, not in the nick of time, because—holy fucking shit—he cruised into the lot in a g-damn shiny white Volvo station wagon rental that screamed queer-mobile, and all the guys guffawed again.

  “Dude, I’m tweeting this,” Mick remarked.

  Nicky, Nick, Nicholas . . . I loved the guy. And gave him as much shit as he shoveled out. But right now? I hated him so goddamn hard. In fact, I hated them all. I glared from one of the idjits to the next as I slid my duffle over my shoulder and a garment bag over my arm. Stepping out beneath the bright red awning, I faced the garage, giving it one last once-over. Nicky climbed out of the car with a wave and popped the back of the Vol
vo.

  Catcalls and earsplitting whistles resounded out the bay doors when I strutted across the lot in the simmering May heat.

  Ray shouted, “Shake that ass, Stone!”

  I flipped a stiff middle finger over my shoulder, growling, “This place better be standin’ when I get back, dickheads.”

  “Oh, yes sir!”

  Nicky chuckled when I reached him. “You know they could probably sue you for harassment the way you talk to them.”

  “Yeah, they probably could. But they get too much tits and ass from my business to give it a legit shot.”

  “You practically run an escort service from Stone’s, at your service.” His hazy purplish eyes twinkled.

  “It’s not my fault half the women who come in here are horny.” I wasn’t above partaking myself.

  “Well, if you need a sideline . . .” He waggled his hips around, causing another round of whistles from the garage.

  “GET BACK TO WORK!” I yelled. Then I muttered to Nicky, “They’re gonna destroy the place.”

  “Nah, man. They love it as much as you do. You got a tight crew here.” If anyone knew how much I busted my ass for this place, or how the guys met me with just as much blood, sweat, and tears, it was Nicky.

  “Yeah.” I smiled, slinging my gear and a case of brews into the back of the car.

  Nicky rolled his eyes and started to the driver’s side as I slammed the hatch. I could feel his huff coming from a mile away. I slipped in beside him, sniffing the ooh new car smell of the clean upholstery, completely unlike the red-blistered-to-pink Jeep Cherokee he drove all over the lowcountry, Viper the bitch-hound his sidekick.

  “We’re so queer.”

  “About that.” His lips compressed into a thin line. “Beer?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Beer does not say queer.”

  “Now that’s just plain discriminatory.”

  “I’m not trying to be a jackass but look at you, Josh. We’re gonna have to work extra hard to tone down your—”