Wild For You, p.1J. C. Reed
Wild For You
J. C. Reed
Wild For You
To My Readers: A thank you note
Other books by J.C. Reed
WILD FOR YOU
Copyright © 2017 J.C. Reed
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All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarities to persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
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Cover art by Larissa Klein
Inline Editing by Elaine York/Allusion Graphics
I’m an average girl.
He’s a famous bull rider.
He doesn’t know that I’m into him.
* * *
The first time Cash Boyd locks eyes with Erin Stone, sparks fly, and not only the clutch-at-your-sheets kind. There is something about Erin that makes him want to push her away while at the same time drives him wild for her. He’s a man of many things, but being helpless at the hands of a woman isn’t one of them. Finding himself at her mercy, he intends to make her job as hard as possible for her.
* * *
Burning with desire for the one man who’s the shadow to her light, Erin gives in to Cash’s advances…even though she could be destroyed by the truth she’s afraid to disclose. Little does she know that there is also more than meets the eye to Cash and she might just get more than she bargained for.
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Cash might be the best at taming bulls, but taming her heart could prove to be the greatest challenge of his life.
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Author’s note – Wild For You is a full-length standalone novel with no cliffhanger. Due to sexual content, this book is not intended for readers under the age of 18.
This book is for those who believe in love. Here’s to believing in the magic of the moment, finding love in all the wrong places, and never giving up on your wildest dreams.
The crowd ramps up for action, cheering, bellowing a noisy welcome. They want me out there. Riding that bull like my life depends on it. I wink at a chick I’ve been eyeballing for the last ten minutes and signal the helper to get ready for me.
Riding women and bulls is my specialty.
I’m a pro at both.
I’ve done this a million times.
Heck, I could probably do it in my sleep.
I spin around at the sound of the unfamiliar voice, an easy-going grin on my lips. My eyes quickly appraise the blonde chick. She’s in her early twenties and wearing a bright shade of pink lipstick. I almost expect her to start chewing bubble gum, but she doesn’t. Instead, she bounces toward me, her breasts on full display in the thin tank top she probably calls a shirt.
“Hey, darlin’. You probably came to see me.” Darlin’ is my standard pet name. I don’t bother to ask for her real name when I have no intention of remembering it.
She giggles, the sound slightly grating on my nerves. But hey, she’s here and she’s obviously available. And more importantly, I haven’t fucked her yet, hence she’s fresh meat.
“I actually came with my friends. We’ve been dying to see you.” She’s pointing to my right to a group of young women, waving. “I was hoping I’d bump into you.” She wraps a long lock of hair around her finger and winks. It’s beyond me why women think that’s a turn on. But I play along.
I always do.
The invitation is there, hanging in the air between us. “Today’s your lucky day. I’m game for more than a bit of small talk.”
I grin, and she giggles. I check the time, wondering whether I could squeeze in a quickie before that bull meets his demise, and grimace. “Give me twenty minutes.”
She pouts but nods her head.
I check the average on the board before I draw the bull. A rank bull named Dillinger is going to be my one last win before I’m crowned champ of the world. Dillinger is known for his dangerous temper and tendency for bucking. In the last six years and over two hundred outs, he’s thrown every single rider. All fear him. Many have opted out.
But he hasn’t met me yet.
I’m going to tame the beast because I was born for this.
“Cash Boyd, ladies and gentleman,” the announcer says, laying out the highs and few lows of my career, then goes on to rattle down Dillinger’s rap sheet.
The crowd goes wild. I grin for the cameras. The flank man’s ready.
This is the moment everyone’s been waiting for.
Cash Boyd—bull riding champion of the world.
A camera’s angling on me from somewhere above.
I can almost taste the success as I’m readying myself in my designated chute. I slip my palm under the handle, and pulling the rope tight, I wrap the loose tail around my hand. Adjusting my body until the handle is in the right position, I signal the gate man.
The buzzer rings.
The chute gate swings open.
The familiar rush of adrenaline flows through me.
Excitement vibrates through my body.
Eight seconds—that’s how long I have to hold on.
It’s all about reaction, speed, adjustment.
Show no fear.
Using my spurs to hold on to the body is the hardest part. Too far back and I’ll fall. Too far forward and I’m done. Kicking his hind legs, I can tell Dillinger is one angry bull that knows how to throw.
The noise of the crowd becomes a thrumming backdrop in my mind as I cling on to Dillinger. As expected, he lunges forward, then spins wildly with a savage buck. My muscles ache from the effort of cutting with him.
For the first few seconds, I anticipate his every move, every buck, every change in direction.
I control him.
My pulse is racing in a good way.
Cash Boyd—world champ.
The bull beneath me thrashes and rears.
A few more seconds and the world champ title is mine.
But something happens. A moment of poor focus. Just when I think I’ve figured out his next move, the bull spins too wildly, far to the right, and my balance shifts. I lose my grip. My body doesn’t register it until I land hard on my side, all the air knocked out of my lungs. The crowd gasps—or maybe it’s just me.
A sharp pang shoots up my legs, and I grimace, blinded by the white-hot pain surging through me.
My first impulse is to get up, but everything is throb
The buzzer sounds, but it’s too late.
“Cash, get the fuck away!” someone yells. Is that my brother, Kellan?
I almost turn to scan the crowd for my family when the bull lowers his horns. He’s hooking for me.
Groaning, I try to clamber to my feet to get out of the way, but my legs won’t carry me.
“Cash!” More people yell, their voices barely penetrating the aching fog inside my mind.
My world’s spinning, and not in a good way. The bull’s dashing for me. Voices shout. I think I see a rodeo clown trying to distract the beast, but I can’t tell for sure because my vision’s blurry and everything’s spinning.
Hands wrap around my arms and shoulders, their grip rough, crushing my bones. I peer around me, realizing those aren’t hands, but horns. I’m being lifted up in the air, and for a brief second, I peer straight into Dillinger’s angry eyes.
The motherfucker got me.
My body’s an aching pulp.
I was so close to winning.
That’s my last coherent thought before I close my eyes and succumb to the darkness, eager to escape the pain.
“This is the farm,” Trent Boyd says. “I don’t expect you to help with the work. God knows my son will be enough of a handful. Just make sure he gets better.”
I smile at the town sheriff, trying not to gawk at the sprawling estate stretching in front of us. This is no farm I’ve ever seen, and I’ve sure seen plenty of those where I grew up. The palazzo-style mansion with its carved, marble stairs leading up to the entry looks a bit out of place surrounded by trees and greenery.
I ignore the warning bells in my head at the sight of the sprawling estate, and focus back on the conversation.
“He’s disgruntled by what happened. Understandably so, but deep down, if you look past his frustration, he’s a good man,” Trent goes on to explain. “He’s just lost his faith, that’s all. So, if he tells you that he doesn’t need your help, please, don’t listen to him, Erin. Please, don’t quit.”
“I won’t. It can be a long and painful path to gaining full mobility. As you said it’s understandable that a patient loses their faith. I’m used to that.” I grant him a self-assured smile—the kind I know will infuse confidence into him, even though I know next to nothing about my new patient.
“If you need anything—” Trent hesitates as he kills the engine of his pickup truck and gets out to help me with my luggage.
“I have your number, Mr. Boyd. Don’t worry. I’ve dealt with patients with various kinds of injuries for the last five years. I’m sure your son and I will get along just fine.”
His brows draw in response. Standing in front of him, I get the chance to scrutinize him for the first time since he picked me up from the airport and drove the hundred-mile distance to Madison Creek, Montana. Judging from his lined face, he must be in his fifties, tall, with salt and pepper hair that suits his tanned face and gives him a youthful appearance. He looks good for his age, but there’s a glint of worry in his eyes.
“Please, call me Trent,” he says. “You can take my son’s car to drive to town. The keys are inside. Here’s your expense account.” He hands me a credit card, which I take with reluctance. Even after five years on the job, staying in the same house with a patient still feels strange. “The money’s not just for groceries. Please, buy whatever you need. If there’s anything else, whatever it is, call me and I’ll be over within the hour. As much as I’d like to pretend otherwise, Cash can be insufferable. But he has a good heart. It’s just this damn injury got to him, that’s all. He doesn’t like to feel—”
“Helpless.” I nod knowingly. “Young men often don’t like that feeling. Don’t worry, Mr. Boyd—Trent,” I add as I catch his expression. “I—”
“He’s fired so many before you. We had to fly you in all the way from Chicago.” He carries my luggage like it weighs nothing as we walk up the path that winds up the front lawn and drops it with a thud in front of the door. “Thousands of miles.” He shakes his head grimly.
I want to know how many exactly he’s fired, but refrain from asking. “I’ll need your son’s medical files.”
“They’re in your room. The equipment you requested has been set up in one of the spare rooms,” Trent says and points to the door. “Well, that’s as far as I’ll go.”
That’s a strange statement. I can’t help but wonder whether his son has imposed a ban on his own father who seems like such a nice man.
Then again, I’ve never seen a bull-riding injury before. But from what I’ve gathered from Trent, Cash can’t move around a lot. Men in his age group, particularly the successful ones, don’t take any kind of injuries too well and they tend to lash out because of it.
“I’ll take it from here, thank you,” I say.
“Thanks for coming,” Trent says for the umpteenth time, his warm tone brimming with gratitude.
I reward him with my most reassuring smile and wave at him as I watch him drive off to the sound of screeching tires and the smell of whirled-up dust.
Dragging my suitcase behind me, I try the door and to my surprise, find it unlocked. Living in Chicago, unlocked doors, vast pastures, and a country house the size of a mansion isn’t what I’m used to. Even the weather seems to smile down on me. I’ve never been to Montana but I can already tell it’s going to be a beautiful few months. So what if the house owner’s said to be a bit cranky?
I drag my suitcase through the open door and slam it behind me.
The house is eerily silent. I’m standing in a generously sized hall, which stretches into a vast living area with wood beams and a fresco-painted, coffered ceiling. The furnishing is modern—plush white sofas that lack the female touch of cushions and comfy throws.
I instantly feel at home, and I’m already seeing myself filling vases with the wildflowers growing all around the black iron wrought-iron fence.
Flowers are good for the soul and a great aid in speeding up a client’s recovery.
I leave my suitcase in the hall and breeze from room to room to familiarize myself with my surroundings. A smaller, more casual living room opens into a generous and perfectly trimmed backyard. The massive kitchen is outfitted with marble countertops and dark wood cabinetry, and offers a stunning view of the mountains stretching in the distance. Right next to the library stuffed with bookcases and books are two doors, one ajar and one closed. I peek through the open door and find a bedroom dominated by a large, four-poster bed. On top of the spread are fresh towels, a thin folder containing medical files, and an envelope addressed to “the new girl.”
Leaving my suitcase in the doorway, I sit down on the bed and pull a note out of the envelope.
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As you can see, I’m not addressing you by your name because I haven’t bothered asking about it. The thing is, I didn’t employ you, and I most certainly don’t need your help. You probably want to be in Montana just as much as I want you here. So, let’s cut this charade short and say goodbye before we’ve even met. I’m enclosing a parting gift in the sum of five hundred bucks, which should cover your plane ticket back home.
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P.S.: In case you’re thinking of sticking around, get out of my way. Make me breakfast, if you must. But never knock on my bedroom door, don’t talk to me if you see me, and get the hell out of my way. And never talk about God, because I won’t join your cult.
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Is this a fucking joke?
Frowning, I fold the note and slowly push it back inside the envelope.
I’ve just unofficially met Cash Boyd. It might only be on paper, but I think my first impression of him is a pretty solid one.
Injured or not, depressed or not, the guy’s a jerk w
But there’s also a glimmer of hope…he has a sense of humor.
I have a reputation of being good at what I do, which is probably why Trent Boyd offered me good money to accompany his son on his way to recovery. As a professional, I pride myself in my ability to keep my cool at all times, which is why the note doesn’t deter me from my mission one bit.
I take my time unpacking, stacking my clothes and few belongings neatly in the walk-in closet. I keep my shower short, mostly because I can’t wait to explore the place that will be my home for the next few months. I pile my hair up before I shrug into my work attire—black slacks and a white shirt—all comfortable to work in but not that I look like I’m about to spend a quiet evening on the couch, watching whatever’s on cable.
It’s late afternoon when I head out of my bedroom in search of Cash Boyd.
There’s a place in a man’s life that’s reserved just for him. It’s his cave. His one true love. The one place he’ll go to when everything else falls to pieces.
Visit Club 69…we know how to take care of you.
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I frown at the new slogan my PA has just emailed me. It’s about the biggest bullshit I’ve ever heard, but I’m in the bullshit business and know how to sell it well. Club 69 has become a brand, and I’m the main attraction. My picture’s in the media all the time. Whatever I endorse, sells. But right now, I can’t even promote the new club I’m about to open because of a tiny inconvenience.
Wild For You by J. C. Reed / History & Fiction have rating 4 out of 5 / Based on32 votes