No Limits (Stacked Deck #5) - Emilia Finn Page 0,7

listen, I fixed it for her.”

“Hold up.” I come skidding out of the bathroom with a mouth full of white foam, and my toothbrush still buzzing in my hand. “He doesn’t take no for an answer? Are you fucking kidding me?”

Jackson lifts his hands. Shrugs. “She said yes to making out. He slid his hand under her skirt. She said no, he laughed her off.”

“That fucking prick!” I spit half of my toothpaste onto the floor in front of me. “This changes things.”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you!” Jen cries out. “I told you he was a douche. He’s a grade-A asshole with zero respect for women. The media likes to play this family like they’re the perfect example of everything that is good in this world, but they’re assholes. They’re spoiled, they expect everyone to kiss their asses, and when they call,” she points at her phone, “they damn well expect you to answer. Or else.”

“You should make her dress two sizes too small,” I declare.

Someday, when I look back on my life, that might be considered my first mistake.

“Who’s making her cake?” I look around the room, like my friends will have the answer. “We’ll find out, and we can fuck that up too.”

“The double-dog-dare has been initiated.” Hannah sits back with a satisfied grin, folds her arms, and grins when she pops her chest and Jackson’s eyes snap to her boobs. “It’s about time they discovered what disappointment tastes like.”

“I’m gonna…” I frown. “I’m gonna…” Then I swallow my toothpaste and groan. “That didn’t taste as nice as wine.”

Laughing, Jackson crosses the room to my abandoned glass of wine, brings it to me, and presses it to my lips with a grin. “Better?”

I study his eyes while I sip and wash away the taste of mint. Pulling back, I lick my lips to mop up leftover toothpaste and wine. “Uh huh.”

I turn away and finish up in the bathroom, and all the while, alcohol buzzes in my system so it feels like I’m walking on clouds. My brain is fuzzy, and my fingers… well, they’re kinda tingly.

“I’m going to sleep. Wake me up next week.” I trip my way to the far side of the massive bed that we often fall into on nights like these.

But tonight, we’re drunk. Like, messy drunk, so when I drop down and close my eyes, I barely wake again when I feel myself being lifted…

When I’m placed under the blankets…

When a warm body slides in next to me…

And then when that warm body presses against mine, and a heavy arm is slung over my stomach.

“Goodnight, Madilyn.” Warm lips press to my bare shoulder, and though my brows draw close on a frown, I’m too sleepy to do anything about it. “Sleep tight.”

Bryan

There Are Three Sides to Every Story

Plumes of dust and dirt hang in the air, ever present, unrelenting, and assuring me that if someone took my lungs right now and sliced them open, they’d find a thick layer of the reddish-brown substance that is my life when I’m here.

Piper’s Lane.

A dirt track a few miles outside of the town where I was born and raised, a rounded, mile-long race track that was created long before I came into this world. Hell, hotheads have been using this place since before my grandparents were born.

The cops know about Piper’s Lane, but they tend to leave it alone and stay away, since – speeding cars and hotdogging aside – it’s almost considered a sport at this point. Despite the high speeds, the loud cars, the fistfights that are broken up every single weekend, and the illegal betting that liberates folks of their paychecks and pink slips, I don’t remember the last time anyone crashed.

I don’t remember the last injury acquired from behind a steering wheel.

Though there have been plenty when a guy loses a race he wasn’t ready to lose, and instead of handing over whatever he bet – cash, slips, or his girl – he decides he’d rather fight.

But, hell, my name is Bryan Kincaid, and I’m partial to fighting too.

Piper’s Lane is like a one-stop-shop for all things that make me hard. Fast cars, hot women, and flying fists.

“Bry!” Tucker, my quasi track mechanic, stands under the hood of my 1967 Chevrolet Camaro, but pokes his head to the side so I see his eyes. “Give it a go. I think I fixed it.”

I sit in the front seat with one foot inside the car, the other on the