Peyton's Ride (Riding With The Hunt, #1)

Peyton’s Ride

Riding With The Hunt Book One

By

Jennifer James

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Other Works

Dedication

About The Author

I
f Ian Coghlan didn’t get his greasy hands off her motorcycle in the next three seconds, she was going to kill him. Every oversized knuckle on his work roughened appendages housed enough dirt and grime to keep an entire legion of soap-wielding, oil spill experts busy for hours.

He tightened the cover back onto the battery and moved on to check the clutch and brake cables.

Smudge.

Another dark line of grease smeared across the chrome handlebars. The song he hummed under his breath increased in volume as he squeezed the clutch and brake in turn. The bike was less than a month old. No way all this stuff needed a work up.

But there he went. Touching
everything.
More grease.

Peyton’s fingers itched with the desire to shove him out of the way and wipe her baby down with a clean shop towel, ride to the nearest car wash, and give her a bath. Four years, two months, six days, and seven hours to get her gorgeous pearl white and rosy pink cruiser. Sure, it was girly...and she liked it that way.

The only thing between her and a month long ride across the U.S. was Mr. Bumble Fingers. So what if he was edible with a side of fuck-me-now. And had tattoo sleeves on both arms. And twin lumps under his shirt that left her imagination running wild with fantasies of hauling him around the garage by nipple rings. What else might he have pierced? She shivered and cleared her throat.

There was something about him...a magnetism or charm that called to her and told her uterus to prepare for a sperm invasion. On what planet was it fair for her to be stuck in a garage with this man? This big, strong, muscular...adept...athletic...tanned...all that hair in his eyes, she should brush it away...his mouth was made for kissing...

Wait, what?

A sharp mental shake snapped her out of the reverie. Currently, he was an obstacle to be overcome, and if there was one thing she excelled at, it was slamming right through things in her way. Or climbing over them.

Not that engaging in some naked mountaineering with a certain motorcycle mechanic was odious.

Just ill timed.

She tapped her riding boot on the cement floor and crossed her arms. Ian kept humming under his breath, something vaguely familiar. Some country song. What was that line in the chorus again? She found herself humming with him and choked when he glanced her way and smirked.

He craned his neck to study her before going back to fiddling with something on the foot brake. What could he possibly be doing? She wandered nearer and tried to make sense of his movements. The closer she got, the more the scent of his cologne or body wash filled her nose. Icy, clean, a hint of rain water and pine. A little sharp, but oh so good.

“Just a few more things to check, then you’ll be all set.” He looked at her from under his brows—a cocky half-grin pulled his right cheek up and revealed a deep dimple. Dark-green eyes twinkled with mischief. Then, to top it off, he winked.

Flustered and out of sorts, she backed away and crossed the room to one of the oversized tool boxes, prickles of heat stinging her cheeks. Viewing him as an obstacle was something she understood and could deal with. Flirting was a whole other snarl that sent her ovaries from a low steady idle to a revving red-line.

“You okay, Ms. Reynolds?”

The scuff of his work boot on the floor sent her into def-con nine alert. Every muscle tensed up, shit, even her butt cheeks clamped up tight enough to crush a can. Oh, God, if he came over to her, she’d really make a fool of herself.

“I’m fine. Just fine. Thanks. Uh, I have to check my email.” Score one for Peyton. She’d spoken to the sexy man across the way and hadn’t even stuttered. They’d spoken before today, but this was the first time they’d been alone together. Without a buffer provided by other people, all of his attention settled on her, and damned if she knew what to do about it. If she had any balls at all, she’d march on over to him and flirt back.

The way he handled the various wrenches and screwdrivers rose to the front of her mind as she fished around in her pocket for her phone. Large, capable hands, thick fingers, but he juggled screws, nuts, and bolts with the delicacy of a surgeon. Despite the grease and grime, a part of her—several parts, actually—were curious about how he’d handle himself in bed. What he’d do with those strong digits and a willing partner.

Although, as a woman well past size four, she didn’t have any illusions about her chances with a man like Ian. Younger, sexy as hell, and reputed to get around with women in their twenties who’d escaped their sororities on a conjugal pass, flashing their pierced belly buttons and flouncing around with their chin hugging breasts attempting escape from demi-cup bras. Not that she didn’t exercise and watch what she ate. She’d realized her body type wasn’t the kind to let go of weight easily or shrink below a certain size and embraced it.

Self-acceptance was a delightful thing. Even if it took men seven years her junior and with enough sex appeal to send an entire beach of bikini bunnies into spontaneous, multiple orgasms off the dating shelf. The scenario was easy to imagine. Ian would stroll out in board shorts and a T-shirt. He’d drop the shirt. The sunlight would glint off his nipple rings sending cosmic energy powered by the sun’s rays and combined with his man-sex pheromones, and cum-drenched swim suit bottoms would explode from their tight, supple little bodies.

She’d never categorized herself as the cougar type anyway.

After a thorough self-chastisement for staring, she turned on her heel and leaned her hips into the nearby work bench. Scattered bits of mechanical items and tools littered the table top. All she wanted was to be free of this town for awhile. Her ex-husband’s public shenanigans had embarrassed and shamed her to the point she dreaded leaving the house. After a messy divorce, she’d lived alone for less than six months before moving in with her mother to take care of her.

And now she was finally free.

Guilt engulfed her and turned into the voices of the few relatives she had left. They’d all done a great job telling her what a rotten child she was for voicing the opinion that it was past time to place her mother, Edith, in a nursing home. Easy for them to throw stones and accusations about Peyton’s motives from four states away. With hundreds of miles to separate them from the reality of her mother’s downward spiral into Alzheimer’s disease. Even whipping out bank statements and check books as evidence of each expenditure was dismissed. They said she wanted her mother’s house. Her money. Antiques. The car.

All of which, she most decidedly did not. Her own car was much nicer than her mother’s, and she’d held off selling the ancient sedan until finances forced her to. Getting rid of her own vehicle didn’t make sense. She needed transportation for work, and the Toyota far outstripped her mother’s twenty-year-old  gas guzzler on every front. As far as antiques went...she hated old furniture. It smelled funny. Like body odor and death and bad memories.

She’d even sold her home when she moved in with her mother to make as few changes as possible to Edith’s routine. All the documentation she read supported keeping an Alzheimer’s patient in a familiar environment until home care was no longer a viable option. No matter what she did, they claimed she possessed an ulterior motive. That her mother wasn’t deteriorating mentally at the rate she described.

Almost one month ago to the day, Edith fell out of her bed at the nursing home and broke her hip. 

She’d gone to the hospital to be treated, contracted a virus, and died a week later. No one knew how hard it had been for Peyton to wrestle the guilt she felt. Shutting out the voices of her relatives, she concentrated on the mantras her counselor had given her to help deal with the anger, frustration, grief, and self-pity trying to engulf her.

At thirty-eight years old and childless, and no family in town, her life had revolved completely around work and being a care provider. The only measure of enjoyment she’d found came in the form of infrequent rides on her ten-year-old Yamaha. 

Her knuckles turned white where they gripped the phone, and she released a deep breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. A trip. Time away from the house, the job, the routine. Solitude and open roads to explore with no one to answer to. Her e-reader and laptop were packed and ready to keep her company while she assessed her situation and figured out what to do next with her life.

She knew people must think she was some kind of jerk. Knew how it looked to them from the outside. Her mom in the ground for a month and Peyton riding a new motorcycle everywhere she went. But if she didn’t do something soon, her head would burst. Not taking care of herself for so long left her on the edge of a nervous breakdown. Mental health issues plagued care providers who didn’t take time away to reset their own lives. She’d never taken more than two hours away unless she was at work. Not once.

The time for worrying about what other people thought was long gone. She’d done that enough for two lifetimes. Now was the time for her to start living her life the way she wanted.

Ian crouched near the rear tire, bent over, and examined the tread. The move put his ass in the air, and man oh man did he fill out those jeans. She gulped, glad he hadn’t caught her ogling him, and moved her attention to a safer location. A large frown line bisected his forehead as he used his thumbs to pick at the rubber. The bright colors in his tattoos rippled and moved as his muscles flexed under the skin.

Damn, who knew a forearm could be so . . . enticing? Muscles, skin, and tendons rippled around and her mouth watered. Was she turning into a cannibal? Maybe this was the beginning of menopause, and she was developing a case of pica. Pretty soon she’d have an undeniable urge to stuff rocks and bits of glue picked off craft projects in her mouth.

A furious desire to trace the ink lines with her fingertips and tongue took root and refused to be banished. The designs had snippets of words interspersed with tribal art, Celtic knot work, leaves, vines, and even animals. The tats sat on him well. Maybe it was his aura, the masculinity he exuded, all self-confidence and quiet watchfulness.

She needed to stop staring before he caught her drooling. Even if she wanted to peel his shirt up and inspect his torso for more ink. Man, the first time she’d seen him five years ago when she’d first come in the dealership looking at the bikes, she’d almost knocked over an entire row of brand new, gleaming, thirty thousand dollar machines. Walked in, saw him, and bashed right into a black cruiser. The levels of her bad-assery knew no bounds.

She’d just signed the final papers on her divorce and needed something...anything to distract herself. And didn’t she find a distraction. Every time since the first one that she’d come into the show room to drool, she’d search him out and try not to get caught gawking. She’d tell herself she was there to look at bikes, but like a teenager with their first real crush, she hoped for a glimpse of him. An undeniable pull sucked her in again and again. Excuses to visit the dealership in hopes of glimpsing him obsessed her. The behavior was damned embarrassing. But she couldn’t stay away.

Every now and then they spoke, and those days buoyed her through some of her worst nights caring for her mother. She replayed their conversations over and over on an endless loop in her head. Memorized each tilt of his head, blink, smile, and laugh.