Tough Break (FSCU Pitbulls Book 3) Read online

  Tough Break

  By Stella Marie Alden

  Contents

  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

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  From The Author

  FALSE START

  Chapter 1

  Copyright (C) 2019 Stella Marie Alden

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination and are used fictitiously.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

  [email protected]

  God bless my ARC team, my PA, Katherine, my Facebook fans, and those who support me. You help make these books possible.

  To Rich, my love and gratitude for all the countless things you do.

  Prologue

  Two years ago

  I was born on a motorcycle, or so my dad says. Therefore, it should come as no surprise I’m about to die on one. The strong painkillers will ease my passing but I don’t expect to hear choirs of angels or see some golden escalator descend from the clouds. More than likely, gramps will ride up from the bowels of hell, slide me onto the back of his hog, and help me get used to the heat. I never did anything as bad as him and Pops but I’m no saint.

  “Hey Christof, hold on. We almost got you.” Like he’s been doing for the last hour, the paramedic feeds me a line of bullshit only this time I don’t believe him.

  “Sure thing.” See you on the other side, dude.

  That’s the last I remember before waking up in the hospital. My initial suspicions proved correct. I’d landed in hell and no amount of morphine could stop the pain.

  About five months and five operations later, my fiancé drops by for a visit. She’s dressed to kill in stilettos, short skirt, and low cut top. Not one hair on her blond head is out of place and her makeup? Fucking perfect. A cover model, I’d expect nothing less.

  She plops down on the chair next to my bed and glowers at the new set of pins in my open cast. I’m surprised she can stomach it. Most close their eyes in disgust.

  “That’s it?” Her lower lip folds out in a child-like pout.

  “The doctors say, if I’m lucky, I should be able to walk again.” I turn my head into my pillow.

  “What about play ball?” Standing, she grips her Gucci bag but I don’t answer because to speak the truth will make it real and I’m not ready.

  Hell is not fire and brimstone. It’s not the devil. Hell is playing one NFL game, getting a taste of fame, and losing it all in an instant.

  She takes my hand with a deep sigh. “I’m sorry, Chris, but I can’t do this with you.”

  This? My life? Neither can I. “Get the fuck out.”

  “I will always love you…”

  “Out!” I grit my teeth and clench the sheets, sweat rolling off me in waves as I try to sit up.

  The low beep-beep of the heart monitor screams out an alarm and a nurse dashes into my room. “Miss, you need to go. I told you not to upset him.”

  That, was strike two.

  Everyone knows how bad things happen in threes. The last comes via a letter from my team. I’m being let go and, because I wasn’t injured on the field, they’re not obligated to pay my medical bills.

  After, I decide to stop talking and research the best way to take my own life. There’s no point moving on when everything is stupid and useless. For example, they found the drunk driver who plowed into me. Uninsured, I’ll be lucky to see a dime from the lawsuit.

  Let’s just give him a slap on the wrist or perhaps send him to jail for a few days for ruining my life.

  “Son, why don’t you come home for a while?” My dad shows up with some of his club members despite the fact I’d given specific instructions to stay out of my life.

  I can’t even straddle a bike. How the fuck can I go home?

  When I send him the look that says you’re-out-of-your-fucking-mind, Pop frowns. “You keep this up, they’re going to lock you away in some loony bin.”

  I shrug. One hell hole is pretty much the same as another.

  “Football is not everything.” His first lieutenant, Blade, steps to the bed and tries to cheer me up.

  Seriously? Going pro meant millions of dollars, a beautiful home and a gorgeous wife. It was the only damn thing I was good at. Then, some drunk ass-wipe plows into me after my first game and…

  Shit. Tears roll down my face.

  My dad stands, ushers his men out the door, and pulls the hospital curtain around me.

  Holding me to his chest, he sighs. “I will get you through this, Chris. Damned fucking straight I will.”

  Chapter 1

  Chris Vance

  Tonight, there’s just me and a couple old drunks in my favorite new haunt in fucking Freedham, South Carolina. I need to enjoy it while I can because in just a few weeks, the place will be crawling with college kids.

  While I nurse my whiskey, a woman slides into a booth at the far end of the room, way too pretty and too young for the lowlifes assembled here.

  The other men eye her with interest and I can’t blame them. Her long, brown hair stops midway down her back. Those are the kind of locks meant for wrapping around a fist. Then, you draw her lips to yours and screw her until her cheeks are forever red from beard-burn.

  The woman under my scrutiny checks her phone, frowns, and taps the table. If she’s waiting for a man, I may need to take him outside and give him a piece of my mind. Only a complete turd would meet a classy female in a biker joint.

  I lean over and tap the barkeep on the shoulder. “Gonna ask the girl if she needs a drink?”

  Overweight by about fifty pounds, Happy acts like he’s eighty although he just celebrated his fortieth birthday. “Waddu I look like? A fucking waitress? If she wants something, she can damn well come up here like the rest of you mugs. I’m not crawling under the bar again. My goddamn back is killing me.”

  The guy pretends to be hard of hearing and speaks so loud the girl stares our way and purses her lips. She stretches out her long bare legs, stands, and strolls to where I sit on a stool.

  Holy shit. She’s more fucking beautiful up close and curv-a-licious, to boot.

  Blood runs south and when I glance down at my boner, my mouth drops open. What the fuck, over? I haven’t had a chub since my life went to shit.

  I lower my lids halfway, put my glass to my lips, and take a deep swallow. As the whiskey’s familiar heat flows through my veins, I try to form one, just one rational thought.

  She gives me a tentative smile, slides into a space near my knees, and raises her hand like she
’s in grade school. “Excuse me?”

  I decide to help her out. “Hap! Turn the fuck around and get the girl a drink.”

  “Wadd’ll you have?” He glares at me then eyes the girl who’s resorted to biting her lower lip.

  A sweet soprano voice asks, “Can I have a glass of Pinot Grigio?”

  Wine in a biker bar? Seriously? I snicker behind my whiskey.

  The old man looks up with a lecherous grin. “Nope. Don’t have none of that.”

  “Chardonnay?” She steps back, her ass rubbing against my knee which has a new neural path right to my cock.

  He winks at me. “Don’t have that neither.”

  Her rosy lips turn down. “Well, what kind of wine do you have?”

  “Beer.” Happy’s front tooth glints under the dim dirty overhead lights as he guffaws and coughs up a lung.

  I can’t help but give him some shit. “I told you cigarettes will kill you.”

  He throws me a middle finger which gives me another reason to chuckle and ignore the girl.

  Annoyed she slides onto the stool next to mine, sets her phone on the worn wood and places her purse on her lap.

  “Fine. I’ll have whatever’s on tap.”

  Fuck, no. She can’t sit there. It’s excellent my cock’s not broken but he’s not going anywhere near her. She needs to go.

  First off, smells of citrus, spice, and everything nice fill the air. Secondly, her kissable lips shine in the same shade as the top of her cheeks which match her toenails. I got no business being interested in the likes of her.

  That’s why I rotate my seat and stare at old Mac on the far end of the bar whose been studying his empty glass for the better part of an hour.

  When she refuses to take the subtle hint, I swivel back, spread my legs, and watch her eyes go wide which only makes my Rip Van Cock swell further.

  Well, that ought to scare her but oh, no. It can’t be that easy.

  Eyes on the old man, she empties her glass, and calls out, “Another one, please?”

  While Hap fills her glass, she bites her lower lip, and picks up her purse. She strolls back to her table, her sweet behind bouncing under a short denim skirt.

  Damn it. She left her phone on the bar. If it were anyone else, I’d leave it there. I should sell it. It would serve her right for coming into a shithole like this.

  The barkeep gives me a dirty look, reading my mind. “Take the fucking phone back to her.”

  I stand with my whiskey in my right hand and her phone in my left. Then, I slide into the booth and place her electronics on the table.

  “You left this.”

  She eyes me crowding her space, about as pleased to see me as I was her.

  “Thank you.”

  I don’t move, daring her to ask me to go but she doesn’t. Instead, she returns my insolent stare.

  “What’s your problem? I said thank you.” She digs into her purse and pulls out her wallet. “You want a reward? Fine.” She drops a twenty on the table.

  I’m quite aware I look like shit but I’m not a fucking degenerate.

  “Put the money away. I’m just watching out for you by sitting here.”

  Her eyes dart about the place. “What? Do you think those two old goats are going to attack me?”

  Shit. She’s right. It’s still early. Later on, the place will be crawling with bikers and I want her long gone by then.

  I shouldn’t care and haven’t cared about anyone or anything for a long time. If it wasn’t for my cock taking interest, I wouldn’t give her the time of day.

  “What’re you doing here?” My tone challenges her.

  “What’s it to you?” Chocolate brown eyes glower and narrow.

  “I’m just making pleasant conversation.” Leaning back, I keep an eye on her, hoping to make her uncomfortable.

  She glances down at her phone. “Go do it somewhere else. I’ve got a date showing up any minute.”

  If some guy wanted to meet up with her here, he must be a biker. “What’s his name? Maybe I’ve met him.”

  “Jake.”

  I know just about every hard-ass who frequents this place and none are called Jake but I lie. “He was here earlier and left.”

  Her eyes narrow, calling me out on my bullshit. “For God’s sake. Leave me alone.” She turns her head away, as if watching the door.

  When she sniffs, and her breath hitches, I almost feel bad. Whoever he is, he’s not worth the tears. Besides, what kind of problems can a beautiful girl who drinks Pinot Grigio have? Her tears piss me off. I got real issues and you don’t see me whining about and carrying on. Life sucks. She needs to pull up her big-girl panties and move on.

  “Don’t cry. He’s not worth it.”

  “I know.” She turns those fucking huge brown eyes at me, filled with liquid and inside me, a thin layer of I-don’t-give-a-shit cracks off my heart.

  Damn. I should get up, pay my bill, and never come back.

  Instead, I reach over to her cheek and catch a tear. The wet on the tip of my finger goes up my arm, through my chest, and down to my cock. The venom doesn’t stop there. It flows around my body until I want more.

  Hell, she should go. I should go. Someone should go because the whole fucking building is about to go up in flames. When she lifts her wet lashes, the centers of her eyes dilate. Her mouth opens slightly and her nostrils flare.

  I am the biggest loser on the face of the planet and to be fair, I should tell her. The thing about being an asshole? We’re not all that nice.

  I want her to stay. I want this feeling to last. She’s like the sweet, sweet opioids they stuck into my veins after the accident. The minute they wore off, I wanted more but I knew to never ask.

  She’ll wear off, too, but for a few moments, I’m going to enjoy the high.

  I slip out of the bench, limp over to the bar, and grab us a couple more beers.

  “Spill.” I put the beer in front of her.

  “My beer?”

  “No, darlin’. Spill your guts. Tell me your tale of woe. Confess all your shit. Tonight, I am your fucking priest.”

  She blushes. “No. I never feel sorry for myself.”

  “I didn’t say you had to.” I down my drink and indicate she should do the same with a nod of my head.

  She looks at the foaming brew for a moment, comes to some decision, and chugs it down. The back of her hand wipes her mouth clean.

  Then, she meets my interested gaze. “Fine. Today is the anniversary of my wedding day.”

  I glance down at the empty left hand. “Divorced?”

  “Nope. He walked out on me a week before we were to seal the deal. Left me with all the bills.”

  “That sucks.”

  She nods. “Yup.”

  “Why?” It’s none of my business, but she’s so goddamn beautiful, a guy would have to be off his rocker not to want her forever. I need to know why he left her.

  “Long story.” She stands as if to leave.

  “Sit, sit. It’s early.”

  She glances down at her phone and plops back down. “I guess. Just one more.”

  I jump up and grab a couple more and Hap frowns. “She’s going through those a little too fast.” He puts a seltzer down. “Get her to drink some water.”

  I nod. “Will do.”

  My leg doesn’t hurt so bad on the way back which is a warning sign. I should slow down my drinking, as well.

  Standing, she wobbles. “Listen, I need to go.”

  “Did you drive here?”

  She nods and I grab her purse and pocket her keys.

  “You’ll be calling an Uber.”

  “Shit.” She hiccoughs and giggles.

  “What?” I can’t help but smile.

  “I never do this.”

  “Drink?”

  “No. Just this.” She waves her hands about the place as if her movements were an explanation.

  I don’t want her to go so I remind her of where she left off. “So, you were about to
tell me-”

  “It’s my birthday.” Her tears flow freely. “He left me on my fucking birthday. Exactly one year ago, today. You want to know why?”

  I nod. Why should I care but I do. Shit happens. Life sucks. Isn’t that my motto? Why then, am I drawn into her sad sob story?

  “He gave me an ultimatum. It was him or my sister.”

  “Sorry, you lost me.” I down my beer and grab another.

  “My sister is eighteen. My Mom died and she had no place else to go, so I took her in. She’s got Asperger’s but not real bad. She just needs a little help.”

  I don’t have a clue what she’s talking about but nod as if I understand because she’s on a roll and her anger fascinates me. I lean over the table and fuck if I don’t hold her hand.

  Her skin is soft and when I squeeze she doesn’t pull away.

  The stuff inside my jeans is cramming to break loose and I may take her home. I haven’t had a hard on for so long, I wonder if someone can faint from loss of oxygen to the brain.

  “So, he left you a week before the wedding, on your birthday, just after your mom died because you took in your sister.”

  She sniffs. “Half-sister, but yeah. And I decided tonight, to have a pity party for one because no one wished me happy birthday.”

  Well, that’s beyond buggered. As screwed up as my life is, hers is a close second.

  “I need to go.” She scrambles around in her purse, no doubt looking for her car keys, which I pocketed a while back.

  I zip up her bag and put it back on the table. “Wait. I heard your story. Only fair you listen to mine.”

  Chapter 2

  Danielle Hughes

  Why do guys like him, make my panties wet and my tits go hard? I should’ve left this dive of a bar the moment I walked in. I knew it wasn’t a good place for my self-pity party but isn’t that the point? I don’t want anyone to see me. My co-workers frequent all the places near campus. Those speak-easy’s are brightly lit with friendly bartenders and over-eager waitresses. Their menus boast top notch munchies made by gourmet chefs.

  The thought of food reminds me how I skipped dinner, yet another of this evening’s foolish choices.

  “Does this place have anything to eat?” I don’t ask my not-so-welcome companion’s name.