Money Shot: Selected Sinners MC Romance (5 page)

SIENNA

July 9
th
, 2014

I had three books to review, was out of wine, and was about half as drunk as I needed to be. One of the books was an absolute disaster, written by someone who was so full of herself she wouldn’t even take my constructive criticism as advice. In my opinion, if an author of a book didn’t know the difference between two, to, too, four, fore, for, or their, they’re and there, they had no business publishing a book without the assistance of a professional editor.

And if the author was so pretentious she believed a book reviewer couldn’t have an effect on her ability to sell said book, she was dead wrong. My offer in the form of a private message to help her with a few things was met with a response that was beyond rude and completely uncalled for. I glared at her message decided a response wasn’t necessary, only an appropriate review.

Sienna,

I appreciate your opinion, but remember, I am THE AUTHOR. Putting my thoughs on paper is my job, and yours is to review what I gave wrotten. If you don’t like my choice of wrods, maybe you should write your own book and have me review it.

Thanks anyway.

Not.

Diamond

She couldn’t even write me an email without making mistakes. The sad thing was that the book had a reasonably interesting storyline, but the problems with syntax, grammar, and her weird prose prevented me from enjoying it, and from completing it. The opinions on not finishing a book and providing a review were all over the place, but I was of the opinion if I did my best to read a book, and because it was a disaster was incapable of finishing it, my follower should know my opinion.

I stared at the screen and tried to decide the best thing to do. After a moment, I began to type.

My Sister, My Lover, by Diamond Phelps was interesting enough for me to attempt to read it, but I was incapable of finishing it due to the constant errors and problems with her shifting from past tense to present tense and from first to third person - sometimes in the middle of sentences.

“I walked to the edge of the pier, wondering what he was going to do about our baby. Strangely, I wasn’t even sure it was his. He walks up beside me and held my hand, shows me he loves me without speaking, and pats me on the back softly. I snap out of my subconscious state and turned around, and he lifts my chin and says “it’ll be just fine” with his green eyes. 

Words were not spoken, but they didn’t have to be spoke. He says all that he needs to say because we were loving each other, and we were always going to be lovers.

You never should walking away from a man who deep down inside loved you like he loves me and I knew this, but the fight within me building with each passing moment.

The fire inside of me was intense, and it burns eternally….”

I think the above excerpt says it all.

Now, to pre-squash the question I’m sure throngs of people will ask, “Sienna, is it fair that you one-starred a book you DNF’d? You didn’t actually finish it.” I will offer this answer in advance.

If I started the book, decided to go on vacation to Belize, and didn’t finish it for that reason, only to DNF and one star the book, yes. Yes, that would be wrong in my eyes.

Or, if I started the book, set it aside to go get a glass of wine, and tripped over the carpet in the living room where it meets the hard wood (which I am known to do on my 2
nd
or 3
rd
glass), and ended up in the hospital with a broken hip and a terrible case of ‘I’m stupids’, only to return and find my Kindle had been stolen? Yes, that would be bad of me to DNF and one star. 

But, life is too short to read bad books or wear ugly shoes.

So, I CHOOSE to not finish this book based on the fact there are many others out there worthy taking up space in my head.

One star. DNF.

I read the review, decided using the excerpt from the book was probably best, and pressed the button to publish it. It was an extremely short review, but I believed it provided the prospective reader with enough information for them to develop their own opinion.

As I stared at my notes from the second book, the doorbell rang. Slightly startled, but becoming fractionally more used to the sound of the doorbell since I met Vince, I walked to the window and pulled the blinds to the side. I hoped it was him, but before I even glanced toward the porch I knew it wasn’t, because the sound of his motorcycle didn’t come first.

Much to my surprise, what appeared to be Vince’s silhouette stood waiting on my porch. Dressed in my plaid pink pajamas and a wife beater, I considered changing clothes, but quickly decided not to. So far, neither my P!NK sweats nor my jeans had much of an effect on him, and I hoped my most adorable pajamas would cause him to see me a little differently.  

I ran to the living room, attempted to pace my breathing, and pulled the door open slowly. Vince stood before me with a smirk on his face and a vase filled with flowers in his hand.

“Good evening,” he said.

Feeling almost as if I was in shock, I stood and stared.

“I wanted to say thanks for everything,” he said as he handed me the flowers.

The only thing I could think of that would come close to describing how I felt would be to compare it to how and what I felt on Christmas morning with my father as a little girl.

“Thank you,” I murmured.

As my heart began to race and my palms broke out in a profuse sweat, I turned toward the inside of the house and prayed I didn’t start crying.

“Come in,” I said as I walked toward the kitchen.

I assumed the flowers would need water, but in looking at the vase, they didn’t.

“I didn’t hear your motorcycle, you surprised me,” I said as I placed the vase on the counter.

“I uhhm. I drove the truck. I couldn’t figure out a way to get those on the bike,” he said.

He was dressed differently than normal, and wasn’t wearing his cut. Dressed in a black tee shirt, jeans, and boots, it seemed that he was dressed up for the occasions.

“You’re not wearing your cut,” I said.

He shrugged his shoulders. “No cuts in cages. Surprised you haven’t read that in your little MC books.”

“Well, I haven’t yet,” I said as I shifted my eyes toward the flowers.

“I can’t stay, I got to go do a quick job, but I uhhm. I have a question,” he said.

“Okay,” I said as I shifted my eyes in his direction.

“You want to get lunch next Sunday? Maybe like meet up or something?” he asked.

Holy shit.

“Sure, sounds fun,” I said.

“How about let’s meet at that place on 21
st
and Rock, the new steak house?” he asked.

I did my best to contain my excitement. “Sure, what time?”

“Noon?” he asked.

He was big, covered in tattoos, and I knew from the night we got gas he had the ability to be violent, but for that moment, he seemed rather innocent.

“Sure.”

“Alright. Now remember, I don’t have a phone, so don’t be late,” he said.

“I won’t, I promise,” I said.

He nodded his head, shifted his body toward the door and paused. “Alright. Well, I better get. Thanks again, for everything.”

“Any time,” I said, and then immediately wished I would have said something else.

He walked to the door, opened it, and glanced over his shoulder. His eyes fell to the floor and slowly worked their way back up to my face. “I like the pajamas. They’re cute.”

“Thanks,” I said.

I waved as he turned and walked toward his truck, just like I used to at the passing floats in the parades when I was a little girl, and then felt like a complete idiot for doing so. Hell, I didn’t know what a proper departure salute for a biker was, my books hadn’t addressed it. Maybe I should have pounded my fist to my heart and shot him the peace sign. After he got in his truck and drove away, I shut the door and ran to the kitchen.

I closed my eyes, buried my face in the flowers, and inhaled a long slow breath through my nose. As I lifted my head I opened my eyes and gazed down at the magnificent arrangement. They were perfect.

They were…

The unexpected result of the natural development of life.

VINCE

July 16
th
, 2014

The meal with Sienna was far more enjoyable than I ever expected it to be. As gorgeous as she was, and as womanly as she appeared to be, being in her presence reminded me more of hanging out with the fellas than eating a meal with Natalie. She was calm, she spoke about whatever was on her mind, and she didn’t seem to have reservations regarding any of the subjects I chose to discuss. I found myself intentionally trying to cause her to be uncomfortable, but nothing seemed to shake her. As our meal came to a close, I had to continually remind myself that being in a relationship was the last thing on earth I needed to do.

But I
really
enjoyed being with her.

“So, you don’t work?” I asked.

“Not right now, no. I did up until last year, but I got…” She paused, raised both hands in the air, and made cute little finger quotation marks before continuing. “Let go.”

I couldn’t help but grin. To see her was to witness beauty, but watching her live life defined
cute
. I gazed at her for a long minute, mentally stumbled, and finally spoke. 

“I see,” I said.

She twisted her mouth to the side as if she were thinking and reached for her glass of tea.

“I’m kind of just hanging out right now. It’s my father’s old house, and I don’t really have any bills, so…” she raised her glass, took a drink, and chewed on a cube of ice while she gazed at me innocently.

“And on Sundays you get drunk and review books?” I asked.

She swallowed the ice and quickly got another. As she chewed it, she responded over the loud crunching sound. “Pretty much. It’s a ritual. I generally start about seven or so. It’s the only day of the week I drink.”

Over the years I had learned a lot about people. My job required that I have a knack for reading people or develop an ability to do so based on my experience. I suppose my successes in my work could be attributed a little to both. Naturally I was able to read people better than most other men, and over time I learned a lot about expressions, tell-tale signs, and mannerisms while working. Sienna’s willingness to do something as simple as sit and chew ice cubes told me some things about her.

She was comfortable around me, and she had no hesitation to be herself in my presence. I studied her for a moment and eventually raised my index finger. As her eyes shifted up toward my hand, I grinned.

“I have a question,” I said.

“Okay,” she responded.

Her brown eyes were filled with innocence, but my experience with people told me she was far from an innocent woman. I knew I wasn’t mentally or physically ready for a relationship, but letting her slip away completely was unthinkable.

“I told you about my ex-wife, and how I didn’t trust women,” I said.

She nodded her head as she raised her glass of tea. “Yep.”

“Well, what if we started doing this every Sunday? As friends and nothing more, just two people enjoying each other’s company. What would you say to that?” I asked.

She shuffled an ice cube around in her mouth and eventually spit it back into her glass of tea. After wiping her mouth on the back of her hand, she shifted her eyes to meet mine and smiled.

“I’d like that,” she said.

And, with those three words, my life was completely changed.

SIENNA

August 10
th
, 2014

My life was much different than what I had become used to, and now included everything I ever wanted it to; with the exception of sex. It was easier for me to dismiss the sex than I would have thought, and I attributed it not to my being satisfied to Vince’s ability to make me happy, but to my feeble mind’s belief that one day the sex would come. It had been two months since the day we met, and as much as I hoped the relationship would develop into something more than us merely being friends, he had made no indication to lead me to believe it ever would.

It was pretty obvious he loved only one woman in his life, and her infidelity left him feeling alone and cheated, but more than anything, he felt as if someone he trusted had broken a promise. I truly believed of all things, her breaking her vow of marriage was what hurt him the most.

Vince was a man different than anyone else I had ever met, and was no doubt different than anyone I would ever encounter, regardless of how many men I chose to meet in my lifetime. He collected debts not for his club, but for any and everyone who hired him to do so. I had learned he was well known in the city, and everyone from drug dealers, bail bondsmen, and even local attorneys who didn’t want to get their hands dirty hired him to resolve their money matters or find someone who had skipped out on a debt or a commitment.

He explained one reason he felt no shame in doing what he did was that men had a responsibility to honor their word, and no one should ever break a promise. He viewed a debt as a promise, and always made sure they understood when he arrived to collect that he was there because they had
broken a promise
.

Vince was involved in all of the club’s activities, and viewed the members of the motorcycle club as his family. He had a pretty strong relationship with his mother from what he had said, but his family was the MC. His choice to be alone in life wasn’t some form of self-imposed punishment in my opinion, but a protective measure to make sure he didn’t expose himself to the pain and heartache associated with people not keeping their promises, commitments, or the possibility of them not meeting his expectations.

On one of our lunch dates, he did take the time to explain that if he had no expectations of anyone, he would never be in a position to be disappointed. Getting him to agree to a standing Sunday lunch was difficult, but he eventually agreed, stating if I ever decided not to show up, to call him at his home, and leave a message on his answering machine. His not having a cell phone made things with him extremely difficult, but if it did nothing else, it kept me conscious of my commitments.

After this short period of time, I respected Vince almost as much as I respected my father.

I glanced at the clock on the dash and shook my head. Sunday traffic at noon was ridiculous on the east side of the city, as almost every street had half a dozen churches on it, and church ended at the same time for every one of them.

Dealing with the indecisive minds of the slow driving idiots in front of me was about to get the best of me. Traveling the last two blocks had taken me fifteen minutes, and in five minutes, I was going to be late. And being late wasn’t an option with Vince.

You don’t know whether to shit or wind your watch, do you old man?

In the middle of the city wasn’t a great place to pass a car, nor was it legal. Sometimes, just to keep my sanity, it was necessary. I gripped the steering wheel, peered to the left, and pressed my foot against the gas pedal.

The transmission shifted down two gears and the rear throttle blades of the massive four barrel carburetor kicked in. With no time to think, and very little time to react, I pulled the steering wheel to the left and passed the three idiots in front of me in just enough time to miss the truck in the oncoming lane.

Having in excess of six hundred horsepower in a street car sure wasn’t necessary, but it was a hell of a lot of fun. After a few light applications of the brake pedal, I slowed down to eighty miles per hour, only fifty miles an hour above the posted speed limit. Traveling at that speed, I flew past every car on the road, leaving them where they belonged, behind in my wake. The traffic light ahead would be impossible to stop at, and as I continued to blow past the Sunday drivers, I checked the signal. The light changed from green to yellow, so I hammered the gas pedal again, launching the car through the intersection like a rocket. I grinned as I pulled into the restaurant with two minutes to spare.

A quick search of the parking lot produced no motorcycle, and I sighed in relief as I shut off the engine. As I sat and listened to the end of “
Christmas in Hollis
,” by Run DMC, someone approaching the car startled me.

“What the fuck are you listening to?” he asked.

“Oh shit, I didn’t think you were here,” I said as I opened the glove box and flipped the switch to turn off the stereo.

I opened the door to the car, admiring his growth of beard as I got out. “Sorry, I was just chillin’.”

“It’s the middle of summer and you’re listening to Christmas music?” he asked.

“I like Christmas,” I said as I locked the car.

He shook his head and laughed. “At Christmas time, maybe.”

“Run DMC’s “
Christmas in Hollis
” kicks ass all year round, sorry,” I said.

He shrugged his shoulders. “Run DMC? Christmas rap?”

“Shit keeps me in a good mood, what can I say. You ready to eat?” I asked.

“Yeah, I’m starving. It was a late night,” he said.

We walked toward the entrance side by side. The entire time, I tried not to stare, but he really looked great. His beard was a little thicker than the two or three days growth that he generally wore, and had grown rather full since I had seen him only a week prior. Instead of wearing his normal tee shirt, he had on a wife beater, and his vest was unbuttoned. As he walked his walk of confidence, periodically checking over each shoulder as we made our way to the entrance, I felt safe, secure, and almost blessed.

“Fuck, maybe I should try listening to it all year round,” he said as he pulled open the door to the restaurant. “Maybe I wouldn’t be so hard to get along with.”

“You’re not hard to get along with,” I said as I walked inside.

“As long as you keep showing up for Sunday dinner, we’ll get along fine,” he said.

“Two,” he said to the young girl at the reception desk.

“Summer will help you,” she said as she motioned toward a girl with dreadlocks who stood beside her.

“Follow me,” Summer said cheerily.

“After you,” Vince said as he pointed toward the bouncing locks of filth in front of us.

Of all people, I believed I was truly a fan of individuality and expression of one’s true self. I never, however, found much value in dreadlocks. As far as I was concerned, they made whoever was wearing them seem dirty, unhealthy, and just shy of screaming for attention.

After the dreadlocked girl tossed the menus on the table and walked away, we each sat down.

“You like that shit?” I asked as I picked up the menu.

He cocked an eyebrow as he took a sip from his glass of water. “What shit?”

“Dreads?” I asked as I tossed my head toward the waitress.

He shook his head. “The Rastafarian chick? Nope.”

“Yeah, me neither,” I said.

“Personally, I like your hair,” he said as he nodded his head toward me. “Dark, clean, well-cut, and always done up a little different. Hell, it never looks the same, but it’s always perfect. I like that.”

My face felt flush, and I was sure that I was blushing, but the compliment was genuine and it made me feel great. Based on who I had received them from in the past, I generally categorized compliments as attempts to get in my pants. With Vince, I knew better. Whatever he said came from the heart.

Hearing him say such things made me want him more, and the want was almost a dull pain. As a matter of respect to him, I never asked for anything else, but I wanted him more with each passing week.

Each time we met, I expected him to finally reveal a portion of his personality or being that would cause me to turn away under the realization he wasn’t what or who I thought he was, but it never happened. If anything, he continued to confirm he was just what I expected – and hoped – him to be. He was a man with tremendous devotion and commitment to what and who he believed in, and it just so happened he used a motorcycle as his means of transportation.

He intertwined his fingers, turned his palms to face me, and extended his arms as he cracked his knuckles and yawned. Seeing his biceps and chest flare was something I would never get used to, even if we remained nothing but friends for a lifetime. His body did a pretty good job of defining perfection, and although he wasn’t a conceited or arrogant man, he often accidentally flaunted it.

And each time he did so, my heart stopped for a few beats.

“So tell me about today’s reviews,” he said as he leaned back in his seat.

“Uhhm. Well, I’ve got one stepbrother book I finished earlier in the week that was a good solid three and a half, and a werewolf shapeshifter deal that was actually pretty good. I’m back and forth between four and four and a half. We’ll see how I feel after lunch,” I said.

He leaned forward, pressing his forearms into the edge of the table, and cocked an eyebrow in what had become his signature gesture of concern. “But you only read romance, right?”

I took a drink of water and nodded my head. “Yep.”

“Don’t tell me a stepbrother book is…”

Before he had a chance to continue, I interrupted. “Sure is.”

“Do they…”

“Sure do.”

“The brother and sister?”

“Uh huh, but they’re ‘steps’ so it’s okay,” I said as I raised my glass.

He pushed himself away from the table and shook his head. “It’s wrong as fuck. And you’re telling me people like that shit?”

“Sure seem to,” I responded.

“And a werewolf what did you say? Shapeshifter? It is a romance, right?” he asked as he leaned onto the edge of the table again.

“Yeah. He shifts back and forth between being a werewolf and a man. He falls in love with a woman from Massachusetts, but he’s originally from Canada. A long way from the pack, you know,” I said with a laugh.

He scrunched his nose and shook his head again. “A chick fucking a dog?”

“Well, they only bone when he’s a man, but in a sense, kind of, yeah,” I said.

“I fucking swear. And people wonder why I’m a loner. The world’s full of fucking weirdos.
Sense and Sensibility, Pride and Prejudice, Midsummer Night’s Dream
…” he shoved himself away from the table in clear frustration, grabbed the edge of it with his fingertips and pulled himself close to the edge again.

After shaking his head in disgust, he rested his elbows on the edge of the table and leaned into the center, pressing his palms against his jawline. After a few seconds of staring blankly at me, he cleared his throat.

“Laugh as much as you choose, but you will not laugh me out of my opinion,” he said. “Have you read
that
book?”

“
Pride and Prejuduce
? Yeah, several times,” I said.

“Can I interest you in our buffet?” the Rastafarian girl asked.

“Come back in ten, we’re in a heated discussion,” Vince said with a wave of his hand without so much as shifting his eyes away from me.

“You notice there weren’t any werewolves or shapeshifters or fucking stepbrothers in it?” he asked.

“Yeah, I noticed,” I responded.

“Here’s what I think. I think the world is so full of people that have lost hope in conventional love – all because no one is willing to give it unconditionally anymore – that they read to be shocked, thrilled, or disgusted. They no longer read to be filled with promise or hope, because they no longer believe. A modern love story has become the most unbelievable fairy tale ever. And now, people read those BDSM books like they’re going out of style because it makes them wet. That sure as fuck doesn’t make it a good novel. A porno movie will make them wet too, but it sure doesn’t mean it’s a good movie. I fucking swear,” he said.

I shrugged and tried to force myself not to smile. He was right. The book world had changed drastically just in the amount of time I had been out of school. It seemed the erotica genre was not only based on sex, but most of the books lacked the base ingredients to give them even a hint of romantic element.

“You know, in a romance novel, it’s the first kiss.
That
, Sienna, is the money shot,” he said.

I coughed out a laugh and tried to keep from spitting my ice cube out. “I thought the money shot was when, you know. When the guy shot his load on a chick’s face.”

He shook his head and waved his hand in my direction. “See? That’s
your
perception, based on modern day bullshit books. A money shot, by definition, is the essential element that causes a book, movie, or magazine to succeed. The selling point. In a romance novel, it should be
that kiss
. Not a face full of cum. Don’t get me wrong, there’s a time and a place for a cum shot, but the money shot? It should be the kiss. The
first
one.”