Dirty Little Secret: A Savage Run Romance Read online

  Dirty Little Secret

  A Savage Run Romance

  L.E. Bross

  Dirty Little Secret: A Savage Run Romance © copyright 2020 L.E. Bross

  Copyright notice: All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. 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 permission in writing from the publisher.

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

  Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000.

  Cover Design: Pretty in Ink Creations

  Line Editing: Helen Froats/Precision Red Pen

  Proofreading: Proofreading By The Page

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Coming Next

  Acknowledgments

  Social media links:

  To all those looking for a little Savage love.

  Chapter One

  Lil

  The sound of motorcycles revving fills the dining room to my left as I take the last step down the stairs.

  “God damn punks.”

  My dad’s growl is loud enough to be audible over the noise.

  “Frank, maybe you should focus on something else.”

  Mom’s voice is so quiet I wouldn’t have heard if I hadn’t been walking by her seat.

  Dad looks up and sends Mom a glare. I sense her shrinking back into her chair and hot anger wells in my chest. I hate the way he treats her now. Like an accessory, not a partner.

  I’m not sure why Mom puts up with it. She was always a strong, independent woman when we were just a working-class family. Before Dad became the mayor.

  I grab a bowl of fruit off the sideboard and a carton of Greek yogurt from an ice bath next to it. Our dining room looks like a hotel breakfast buffet; there’s even a sterling silver coffee pot.

  We were never this pretentious before, either.

  “Morning, Mom.”

  I sit down next to her and pull the lid off my yogurt.

  As usual, Dad doesn’t even look up, even though he’s the one who mandated we eat breakfast together in the dining room every morning. Unless he’s called to an early meeting—then Mom and I sit at the island in the kitchen.

  I like those mornings best.

  I lick the yogurt off the foil before setting it on my plate.

  “He’s watching the races again?”

  Mom sighs. “He’s obsessed with them.”

  “Ladies and gentlemen, are you ready?” a digitally distorted voice shouts before a symphony of motorcycle engines rev at once.

  The sound echoes off the walls and I can't help the goose bumps that pop up on my arms. I’ve watched all the races live, and there is no denying the excitement that pumps through my veins when the voice yells go.

  This morning’s stream is a rerun of last week’s race, switching between the riders’ helmet cameras as they race through the streets of downtown Reynolds. Blurred lights and blaring car horns are a constant as the bikes zip in and out between them, running red lights and ignoring the rules of the road.

  The races take place around ten and there is still plenty of traffic at that time of night, especially downtown. I can't believe they haven’t caused a major accident yet. A few crazy close calls have happened since the races started six months ago.

  Immediately after the first race, calls started coming into Dad’s office. He’s been gunning for the racers for months, though he hasn’t caught a single one. It’s driving him crazy.

  “Tonight, the maestro himself is here. Give it up for Romeo!” the announcer shouts.

  I sit up straighter in my seat. Below the feed, the comment section is blowing up. Romeo has become a fan favorite and a legend in no time. He’s fearless and he always wins. I’m not the only one who lives for the moment he speaks—always right before the race starts.

  “Let’s do this,” he says in a deep voice that ignites panties everywhere. Comments always explode in response and the things these women offer a stranger are mind-blowing. I shift in my seat. Though I might not type out my fantasy, it’s still floating in my head.

  I’m not immune to the way this guy commands his space.

  Bikes rev, the announcer shouts go! and the squeal of tires fades to a quick whine and shifts rhythm as the bikes climb to incredible speeds in seconds. I already know the outcome of the race. I watched it live last week when Phia texted to let me know it was happening.

  Thank god for best friends.

  “This is the guy I want,” Dad grits out. “He is the example I need to make.”

  I know he’s talking about Romeo. Every time he joins, he owns the race and most of the live stream shows his camera. I’ve held my breath too many times to count as he weaves in and out of traffic, swerving with lightning-quick reflexes when anything gets in his way.

  When the voice on the screen finally yells Winner, my breakfast is gone and my pulse is racing.

  Dad slams his fist on the table, making the silverware clink and me jump. His reelection vote is coming up in six months and his campaign platform focuses on making the streets safer. He has vowed to stop the illegal street racing. So far, no success; it’s hard to put an end to something he can’t even find.

  The races take place in a different location every time and no one knows where until they go live. A text is sent out to a few trusted people right before a race, who in turn notify more, and so on until the word is spread and the town is ready to watch.

  I’d kill to be at one, to see these men in person. To feel the ground rumble under the bikes. To see Romeo in person. I must make a noise because Mom glances at me, a questioning look on her face.

  “Good strawberries.”

  I can’t believe she buys my excuse.

  “Hellen found them at the farmer’s market this morning.”

  “I will find this little shit and I will make an example out of him. I’m not letting these punk racers ruin my career,” Dad grits out.

  Thankfully, it’s time to head to school.

  I push my chair back. Family time is over. Besides, the coach scheduled a quick meeting with her seniors this morning before classes start. Only two weeks left of high school, thank god. I am so ready to be done.

  “Lilianna.”

  My dad’s voice pins me in place before I can slip out the door. I backtrack as Mom gives my forearm a squeeze and breezes past, on her way to yet another charity planning session, I’m sure. Supporting the campaign is all she does now. Once she had a career, but my dad deemed it unsavory for the mayor's wife to have a job, much less as a hairdresser.

  Now she fills her days with fund
raising for causes that will help her husband’s career, together with other sidelined wives.

  I return to the dining table. Dad raises his eyes to me. More deep wrinkles line his face than four years ago. He used to laugh a lot, but now all I ever see is agitation. He stabs his fingers through his greying hair.

  His phone buzzes before he can address me and he lifts a finger to let me know I’m to stay right where I am while he takes the call.

  “Yes? Charles, yes, I know. But catching a couple of random kids won’t send a message. I want the racers.”

  My ears prick up.

  “I want that Romeo guy. If I can arrest him, it will send a message. My source told me he’s the leader, so if I can put him behind bars, the others will back down—I’m sure of it. Just make it happen. That’s what I pay you for.”

  He slams his phone down and turns his glare on me.

  “I heard something. Something that doesn’t make me happy, Lillianna.”

  I swallow the lump in my throat. I’m not sure what he’s talking about, it could be anything from the B on my AP Stats test to the fact that I was late for breakfast. The suspense is the worst part, but I stand up taller, waiting for him to speak.

  “Your mother told me you’re refusing to attend the fundraiser Saturday night.”

  It takes a moment for his words to puncture the nervous pulse thumping in my ears, and a moment longer to respond, but my father takes my silence as an admission of guilt. He presses his palms onto the table and leans a little closer.

  “As a member of this family, you have certain obligations. Follow the rules and show the public that we are a strong, united front. That we are the very embodiment of family values. It’s what my constituents need to see. What would they think if my only daughter doesn’t attend the biggest fundraiser of the season?”

  I don’t answer because I know it’s a rhetorical question.

  “You will go and you will attend with Austin Michaels, as I’ve arranged. He is the son of my largest donor. Since he’s home from college this weekend, he has agreed to accompany you. With the Michaels’ support backing me, other donors will fall in line. Tomorrow night is imperative to my campaign, and I will not have you jeopardizing that, do you understand?”

  I bite my bottom lip. Apparently, my father has no problem pimping out my presence for votes. That’s nothing new. I nod because there’s nothing else I can do. It’s not worth the battle when I can see my freedom creeping closer every day.

  He waits a beat longer, then drops his head and goes back to shuffling through the papers in front of him. I’m dismissed without another word.

  I grit my teeth as I leave the room.

  Over the past few years, I’ve grown to hate my father. My chest aches when I remember the man who once loved and laughed freely all the time. The one who always made time for me and Mom.

  Greed and power can corrupt the best of men.

  Heading outside, I climb into the silver Audi A5 Cabriolet convertible one of my father’s donors gave the family. It’s a beautiful car, but every time I get behind the wheel, I feel more like a sellout. I’m sure the Audi was a bribe.

  Ashton Cooper owns the largest car dealership in Reynolds. When he had this car delivered right before school started this year, my dad told me the gift was simply a perk of his position. When I refused to drive it, he told me I had no choice.

  Once again, it was easier to concede than fight.

  ∞∞∞

  I leave our gated community and turn left. Aster Prep is only a few miles down the road, at the end of a tree-lined avenue. The building was once an abbey, which is ironic considering what goes on inside its walls nowadays.

  It may be a private school, but drugs and sex are just as common as in the public one I used to attend. If anything, Aster Prep is worse, because these kids are entitled and they get an allowance that enables their vices.

  Though the city of Reynolds, North Carolina, has a population of only a few hundred thousand, the one-percenters sure love their exclusive luxuries. The gated communities on the east side of the city prove they believe some iron will keep out the common folk. We used to live on the other side of those gates before my father beat the incumbent and became the mayor four years ago.

  The house behind gates was part of the package.

  Overnight we became one of them and it didn’t take Dad long to forget why he ran in the first place: to bring change for the working class.

  I pull into my usual spot next to Phia’s white Rover. She’s leaning against the side, waiting for me, like always. Brooke tutors before school, so she’s already there, probably holed up in a classroom with some jock who’s failing English.

  “So, I have a confession,” Phia says, falling into step next to me. She holds out a Starbucks coffee and I take it. I hand over a blueberry muffin. Hellen, our cook-slash-housekeeper, makes the best-baked goods and Phia can’t get enough.

  “You hooked up with Trent again?”

  A guilty flush stains her cheeks right before she ducks her head and groans.

  “Fine, yes. I had a moment of weakness,” she admits with a groan. “Okay, another one.” She waves her free hand in a circle in the air. “Why does he have to be so damned good in bed, Lil?”

  Her forlorn tone makes me laugh. Phia and Trent have been dating on and off throughout high school. They are currently off, but it wouldn't surprise me if they got married someday.

  I wind my free arm around hers as we make our way toward the school’s entrance. “So, are you two back together then?”

  “I told him that it changed nothing and that we are still broken up. He laughed before kissing the hell out of me on my doorstep, the asshole.” She rests her head on my shoulder and sighs. “I’m too young to settle down, Lil, but he makes my heart beat faster every damned time I look at him.”

  I swallow the lump of envy in my throat until she elbows me in the ribs.

  “So, you and Mick? Brooke spotted his truck in your driveway after school.”

  “We’re just friends, Phee, that’s it. He was dropping off something from his father for mine.”

  She makes a noise in her throat that sounds like a doubtful mm-hmm and I smack her back. I never told her that I kissed Mick sophomore year when I was feeling especially lonely. The spark wasn’t there, at least not for me. Mick reminds me of our kiss every once in a while when he’s between girlfriends.

  Which is often.

  “We’re too alike. It’d never work.”

  “What is your type? As long as I’ve known you, Lilliana Montgomery, you have never had a steady boyfriend.”

  I had one once, but I’m not ready to unlock those memories—now or ever. It still hurts to think about the boy I used to love, the one I thought was my forever, even four years later. He meant more to me than I’m willing to admit, even to myself.

  “We graduate in two weeks. This fall I’m out of here, so it would be crazy to get involved with anyone.”

  Phia pulls me to a stop and whirls me around to face her. She pushes her sunglasses onto her forehead and stares into my eyes. “I get that, but you barely even date, Lil. You don’t need to marry any of these losers,” her lips part on a grin, “but what’s stopping you from using them for a little sexual satisfaction? Some summer lovin’?”

  When she waggles her eyebrows, I can’t help but laugh.

  “Like you get from Trent?” I tease, turning the focus on her once again. Phia closes her eyes and tilts her head back. When she straightens, her eyes are full of emotion.

  “I’m probably going to marry the guy, aren’t I? It sucks ‘cause my parents love him and would be all for it. He’s even going to UNC with me. What do I do, Lil?”

  She sounds so conflicted that I pull her into a one-armed hug.

  “If I thought for one second you didn’t want him, I’d sneak you out of the country under an alias he’d never figure out. But you have it just as bad as he does. I mean really, how many times have you guys take
n a break? You never last for more than a few days. You’ve been the one for him since the summer after freshman year when he saw you in that tiny red bikini.”

  More cars pull into the lot and I hear doors slamming. The entrance is a sea of black-and-white uniforms in no time. I was totally against Aster’s required uniforms until I realized I never had to worry about what to wear again.

  Thankfully, our outfits have moved beyond the short, plaid, glorifying-men’s-fantasies skirts. The girls have a choice between black pants, black skirt or shorts, and white blouses, and the guys choose between black pants or shorts and white polos. I’ve always thought we all look like we’re ready to step into a catering gig.

  Shoes and accessories are where we assert our individuality. Phia is a silk-scarf girl and always has one wound around her neck. She never wears anything but heels. Brooke loves long necklaces and Mary Janes. Me, I’ve got a dozen different pairs of black boots, ranging from ankle to mid-thigh.

  The ones I wear today lace up to my calves, stopping just under my knees, and sport a two-inch heel. What can I say—they make me feel strong, like I could kick some ass if I wanted.

  A voice shouts Phia’s name and we both turn to see Trent saunter toward us.

  “Speak of the devil,” she mutters under her breath, but I don’t miss the sparkle in her eyes.

  When he wraps his arm around her shoulders, she ducks out of his embrace. He manages to snag the half-eaten blueberry muffin out of her hand and stuffs the remainder into his mouth, smiling while he chews.

  “Fuck, I love your muffin. It’s sooo sweet.”

  Linc walks up behind Trent and starts to chuckle until Trent drives the back of his hand into his friend's gut.

  “You don't get to think about my girl’s muffin, man.”

  Linc throws up his hands. “Then don’t fucking eat it right in front of me.”

  I widen my eyes when Phia ducks her head. Her neck grows redder by the second. I glance between her and Trent, then at Linc. I have a feeling Phia has been holding out on me. She grabs my arm and all but drags me through the doors.

  “I thought all the dick worship last night might have changed your mind, Bunny,” Trent calls out behind us.