Protecting His Brat (Rock Hard, Love Harder Series Book 1) Read online

  Protecting His Brat

  Brandy Ayers

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

  Protecting His Brat

  COPYRIGHT © 2018 by Brandy Ayers

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: [email protected]

  Visit me at www.brandyayers.com

  Digital ISBN: B07JZ1W4VG

  Published in the United States of America

  Contents

  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

  Epilogue One

  Epilogue Two

  Epilogue Three

  The O Doctor

  Chapter One

  Also By Brandy Ayers

  About Brandy

  Dedication

  To CC Deville, Richie Sambora, and Joe Perry

  Thanks for being the completely inappropriate first crushes

  Of a boy crazy preteen in the early nineties.

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  Chapter One

  Lacy

  There’s this movie that I kinda remember going to a premiere for at some point called Some Kid and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day. Well that kid has nothing on the day I’m having.

  First, my very best friend in the whole world just up and dumps me for some lumbersexual. Okay, he might have been kinda hot, but there is no reason for anyone to be that tall. Plus, the whole sensitive brut thing was so last year.

  Anyway.

  Marci said I was ugly. Not like actually ugly, obviously. Because that would just be a lie. But like ugly on the inside or whatever. There was something in there about using people and some other stuff. I don’t know. I kinda tuned out a little after she called me ugly. But all of that is beside the point. The point is that my best friend, the person I always thought I could count on to be there no matter what, just dropped me like last year’s hemlines.

  As if that wasn’t bad enough, said BFF dumping happened in the middle of possibly the lamest blind date ever. With an accountant. And not even a rich one, just like, a regular one. And yeah, I guess I could have been a little nicer to the guy, but honestly, being nice to guys just gives them hope and makes them think they’ll get into your pants at the end of the night. Frankly, it is a waste of both our times to pretend like he was going to be doing anything other than his palm at the end of the date.

  All that was horrible and would have called for a house call from my pedicurist. But that isn’t even the worst of it all. No. I tried to get an Uber, but the app wasn’t working on my phone for some reason and said my payment method wasn’t valid. So I had to try and catch a cab, but there weren’t any in the backwards neighborhood that weird café bar thing was at. So I ended up walking five blocks trying to find a stupid cab, or hell, even a subway if I really had to. Have you ever walked five blocks in four-inch, Louboutin pink, snakeskin, limited edition shoes?

  Of course you haven’t, because those shoes were hella hard to get and like no one has them.

  Anyway. Five blocks later, my feet are on the edge of death, I still haven’t found a ride, and now, the cherry on the sundae of my night, a vagrant is following me.

  Fear isn’t something I’m super familiar with. I’ve been afraid I wouldn’t get this season’s hot Hermes bag. I’ve been afraid P.Diddy would forget to put me on the list at his club opening, but I’ve never actually feared for my life. Or safety. But this dude has been following a foot behind me for a couple blocks now, and he’s breathing all heavy through his nose, like a bull or something. The stench of urine keeps wafting over me, and I’m shocked I’ve been able to keep down my skinny white chocolate mocha and vodka from the café.

  My heart is going wild in my chest, beating out of control. My skin is covered in goosebumps, and for once in my life, I’m speed walking for something other than a pop up sale at Bergdorf's. But no matter how fast I go, the guy won’t let up. His breathing just gets heavier and closer. I can’t run in these shoes. I’m not Sarah Jessica Parker. Just as I kick them off and write off my most prized possession in favor of keeping my vagina untouched by psychopaths, the guy barrels into me from behind, pinning me up against a dirty brick wall outside some dive bar.

  Another thing I’ve never had to do in my life is fight. I’ve literally never fought for anything. Ever. I want something, I need something, I get it. No questions. If I can’t get it, I figure out a way for someone else to get it for me. But now, I’m fighting in a way I’ve never even contemplated before. And it's getting me nowhere. I twist, try to shove my elbow into his side, push against the wall, stomp on his foot, anything to get away. But nothing works. The guy just pins me against the wall, his gross, hard, stubby dick poking me in the butt cheek.

  “That’s a real pretty dress.” Oh god, his breath is so horrible, I think I might throw up. “Be a real shame to rip it, so just hold still.”

  Fuck that. I might not know how to fight. I may not know fear. But one thing I do know how to do is scream. So I do. At the top of my lungs, with every last wisp of breath in my lungs. My attacker’s grimy hand comes up to cover my mouth, but I bite him hard enough that I taste his nasty copper blood wash over my tongue. I spit and keep on screaming.

  Apparently, I pissed the guy off, because he pulls my head back by my hair and slams my forehead against the brick wall he’s got me pressed against. The world goes hazy, fuzzy around the edges, like someone just pulled the Barbara Walters filter over the camera. Nothing in my vision is totally clear anymore, and a hot drip of what I think might be blood oozes down my temple. Pain unlike anything I’ve felt sears through my head.

  My legs suddenly feel weak, and I slump down until the guy’s leverage is the only thing keeping me off the ground.

  “I don’t care if you’re awake or asleep. Feels good either way.” The tinny sound of a zipper opening reaches my ears, and I whimper, trying to get away again.

  Nearby, a door slams, but I’m not sure if it is closing or opening, if anyone can see us, or if the shadows in the alley keep what’s about to happen hidden.

  The hem on my dress gets pushed up until my ass is almost hanging out for the world to see.

  “Get off her!” A deep growl seems to shake the ground beneath us, and I fall to the wet pavement as the attacker is ripped away from me.

  A heavy thud followed by groaning fills my ears. I turn to look, but even that small movement makes everything swim and my stomach turn over. Black creeps into the edges of my vision, and the little strength I still had in my limbs seeps out. Somewhere in my brain, I’m thinking I should stand up, leave the shoes, and run as fast as my French-tipped toes will take me, which probably isn’t very fast. But my body won’t listen. My limbs just keep getting heavier and heavier until it feels like my body is going to sink right down into the pavement.

  I’m so tire
d. I’ve never been this tired before. Maybe if I just close my eyes for a couple minutes, I can gather the strength to walk home. So, I give into it, let the oblivion in, welcome it.

  ***

  “Shiiiit.” The soft sheets whisper beneath me as I turn onto my back. Did I get drunk last night? I press the heel of my hand against my forehead, but then hiss in pain and immediately pull it back. Everything rushes back. Marci. The date. Walking. Getting cornered by the homeless guy. My head bouncing off the brick wall, then nothing. Just a deep voice yelling and blackness.

  Gingerly, I sit up. One thing becomes apparent the moment I’m semi-upright: I’m naked. Not one stitch of clothes anywhere on my body. The second thing to penetrate the pain and dizziness is that I am not in fact in my bed. Or my bedroom. Or my apartment.

  “Morning, sunshine.”

  My butt comes three inches off the mattress, and I spin around to find the origins of the half-growled words. The movement sends my head off its axis, and I groan at the pain.

  “Yeah, that bump on your head’s gonna hurt for a while.”

  “What happened? Who are you? Where am I?” I clutch the sheet puddled at the end of the bed around my chest and skootch back until I’m leaning against the headboard.

  “All fair questions.” The guy gets up from the leather club chair he’s been sitting in and crosses to the side of the bed. “Scott Flores.” He pauses, searching my face with these intense green eyes. If he had less hair on his face and got a haircut, he might even be good looking. He doesn’t find whatever reaction he’d been expecting from me and sits back down.

  “You’re at my place in Brooklyn. As for what happened, well, you were attacked. I beat the shit out of the guy and left him for the cops. You were passed out cold, so I took you to the hospital where you were in and out of it all night. Slight concussion. The hospital wouldn’t admit you since you weren’t in bad enough shape. I couldn’t find a purse or anything around you and couldn’t figure out where you lived, so I brought you back here.”

  “What section of Brooklyn?”

  “Williamsburg.”

  Eh. “And I’m naked because?”

  “You threw up all over your dress, it got on your bra, and apparently you weren’t wearing panties. They gave you scrubs at the hospital, but you said something about not allowing that cheap fabric to wrap your skin and took them off as soon as we got back here.” The guy’s, Scott's, lips twitch, like he's trying to hold back a smile.

  I must admit the guy has dark and broody down pat. If I were one of those arty chicks who love their men deep and unkempt, I’d be all over him. But only in a slumming it kind of way, not a respectable relationship way.

  “I put you in bed, and I’ve been watching you all night for signs the concussion might be getting worse.” His eyes travel up and down my body, and despite knowing I’m covered, it still feels as if he can see everything.

  Unable to meet his eyes when they return to my face, I take in the apartment where I’ve found myself unintentionally crashing. It’s big, by New York standards. It appears we’re in a loft, and there’s spiral stairs down to a large living room with huge windows. Given all the exposed brick and ductwork, if I had to guess, I’d say this is some converted warehouse or something. I never got the whole industrial chic thing. What’s so attractive about showing off how old a building is? Give me sleek, mid-century-modern any day.

  Though, I’m itching to have a look around, poke my nose where it doesn’t belong and try to expose my rescuer as much as I suddenly feel laid out before his feet.

  “Well, thanks for stopping that guy last night. And, you know, the hospital and watching me and everything. You didn’t have to do all that.” The shake in my voice gives away emotions I’d rather not reveal. Or, you know, have. But the truth is, I can still smell my attacker’s breath. Still feel the press of him against my back. My heart won’t stop pounding or stomach stop churning. I want it all gone.

  Making sure he can’t see anything, I slide to the edge of the bed and stand, wrapping the sheet around me as I go. “I should get home.”

  I weave around on my feet a little. The blood rushes to my head too fast, and the throbbing behind my eyes intensifies. Closing them, I bend over, pressing my palm into the mattress to keep myself steady. Warm fingers wrap around my bicep, and I start a little at Scott’s touch. Even through the pain and exhaustion, a spark of electricity and awareness zaps through me, right to the very core of my belly. Fear and arousal mix in a confusing cocktail.

  Oh hell no.

  I am not going to have an attraction to this rocker wanna be, even if he did save me last night. His apartment might be big, but it’s in entirely the wrong neighborhood for my needs. Not to mention it seems to be in some half-state of dilapidation and renovation. Everything about him is entirely wrong for all my needs.

  To put it bluntly, which is the only way I put things, I need a man with money.

  Someone who can keep me in the life I am accustomed, should I decide I no longer want to work. Someone who will be just as impressive as I am walking into a premier or gallery opening. The only thing this guy is suited for is scaring the shit out of would-be attackers.

  “Take it easy, sleeping beauty. You’ve been in and out for the past twelve hours. You need something to drink and eat, and then I’ll make sure you get home okay.” His voice washes over me, and it’s like nothing I’ve ever heard before. Like his vocal chords got tossed around in a cement mixer, and now he’s all gravel and grit. It does nothing to help blood running away from my brain.

  “You need to take it easy on the cancer sticks, if your voice is any indication.” I straighten up, pulling my arm from his grip. The slide of his fingers against my skin triggers something in my head. A flash of him pulling the blankets over me, keeping his eyes on my face, brushing my hair back from the scrap on my forehead. My heart hitches. I ignore it. “Does this place have indoor plumbing? I need a shower, the bathroom, and clothes.”

  As much as possible, I slip on the cloak of semi-annoyed indifference I’ve perfected over a lifetime spent in high society. This dude has seen me in a way no one has before. Vulnerable. My skin feels raw, as if just knowing someone took care of me has peeled back a layer of skin. Like an emotional chemical peel.

  “Bathroom is through there.” Scott nods at a door across the loft. “As for the clothes, I’m afraid they were tossed at the hospital. I’m pretty sure I can find something for you to wear around here though.”

  My hands fly to my mouth trying to keep the sickness down. As a result, the sheet slips, but I catch it just before it exposes my nipples. Scott doesn’t miss a second of it. “That was a vintage Diane von Fürstenberg wrap dress. Do you have any idea how much that dress was worth? Or the shoes? Oh God, please tell me you saved the shoes at least.”

  “Sorry, I didn’t think to go looking for shoes while I was beating up your potential rapist and then carrying you to the hospital. Figured making sure you didn’t slip into a coma was more important.”

  “You obviously know nothing about fashion.” I eye up his faded, torn jeans and the tight, black T-shirt clinging to his muscles for dear life. Despite a distinct lack in anything remotely resembling fashion, I have to admit, he wears the clothes well. Although I think the jeans are actual old wranglers, and I have to suppress an eye roll.

  “You're something else, you know that?” Amusement and something like admiration present themselves in his expression. His eyes take a lazy tour of my body again. Figures, the guy who rescues me is some brooding rocker wannabe, and he’s probably in the process of developing an unhealthy obsession with me right at this moment. Only I could be rescued from a rapist by a new stalker.

  “Listen, I appreciate what you did and everything, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to sleep with you.” I tighten the sheet around my chest and pull my spine up another inch. I hate that I’m so short without my trademark sky-high heels. It means I have to look up at this nobody. “I don’t sprea
d my knees for anyone with less than a high six figure annual income and an apartment in a much better neighborhood.”

  Scott’s eyes widen, and for a moment, I can’t tell if he’s going to get pissed or offended or what. I brace for the sting of whatever is about to come. But then he does the exact opposite of everything I’m anticipating and laughs his ass off. Like full out, hands on his knees, turning red, can’t catch his breath, laughing.

  My mouth falls open as the gruff man turns almost beautiful with the joy and humor overtaking his face. When he isn’t scowling, Scott is a sight to behold. The realization rocks me on my already unsteady legs, and I stumble back a step. Thankfully, he’s so busy laughing, he doesn’t seem to notice.

  “Go clean up, Beauty. I’ll get you something to wear.” Still laughing, Scott turns and heads down the spiral staircase.

  I slam my jaw shut as he exits. What the actual fuck was that?

  Chapter Two

  Scott

  I thought I’d met every type of girl in my line of work. Being the lead guitarist in the world’s biggest metal band came with perks after all. Not that I had partaken in those perks in years. Truth be told, having women throw themselves at you night after night gets old after the first decade.

  But back when I did indulge, there had been a constant parade of available women. And unavailable. Rich, poor. Stunning, ordinary. They had all thrown themselves at me, not for me, just for the ability to say they’d banged a rock star. I could have been anyone, just as long as I’d been famous. I’d been a young little shit when fame hit the band, and I took advantage, but by the time I hit twenty-five, I became jaded. No longer trusted anyone who appeared to like me. Not unless I’d known them long before the money and accolades.

  Now, at thirty-two, after seven years of traveling and ignoring the throngs of women, my dick finally found what it wanted. A stuck up, rich brat who had no idea of my fame or wealth.

  “Is this seriously the only thing you have for me to wear?” Lacy finally comes out from the bathroom sporting only a faded Malfeesance shirt I’ve had since our first world tour. Fuck if my dick doesn’t sit right up and beg like the fucking dog he is. Her dark brown hair spills around her shoulders. God knows I have nothing in the way of hair products or tools, so I have no clue how she got it to look that incredible. She’s not wearing any makeup, and I prefer it to the caked-on shit she had been sporting the night before. Her features are delicate, just like the rest of her. Well, except her personality. Nothing delicate about that.