Flirting with Disaster
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Authors: Ava Catori,Olivia Rigal
Flirting with Disaster
By
Ava Catori
&
Olivia Rigal
This book is a work of fiction.
Even if some locations depicted do exist
and some collective events did occur,
this story is totally fictitious
The names, the characters, and the events described
have been imagined by the authors.
Any resemblance to reality would be a coincidence.
©2015 Ava Catori and Olivia Rigal
www.ladyopublishing.com
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, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
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Cover Design by Melody Simmons from eBookindiecovers
Special thanks to Tina’s Editing
Flirting with Disaster
Barbara Johnson dreaded going home. It was a simple job to close a factory. She’d done it several times before. What made this time different was being forced back to the very town she’d fled years ago hoping never to return.
Ryder Bishop was strong and sexy. A ladies’ man who reserved his loyalty to Ocean Crest, New Jersey. The last thing he expected was to fall for the plentiful figure of the enemy. So when Barbara’s curves called to him he realized it meant trouble.
Were they both flirting with disaster?
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The squeal of tires pierced the air. A near miss, a hard lean to the right on my motorcycle, and I was out of harm's way. I would see my birthday after all. A crappy driver in her fancy BMW rushed through a stop sign without stopping. My heart raced like a thoroughbred. It's like she thought she owned the road, like the rest of those arrogant bastards who bought luxury cars. I should have grabbed the damn plate’s number.
People like that needed to get off the road. What was the white BMW doing around these parts anyway? It wasn’t like this area was luxury car central. Sure, Ocean Crest was near the sea, but it was one of the smaller towns left behind when the tourist industry boomed. It was more of a factory town, older brick homes with chain link fences that had fallen down, and trailer parks full of blue-collar workers who couldn't afford to leave.
I shook off the edge of fear that gripped me in the near miss. It took an extra second, but I had more important things to worry about. My shop wasn't seeing as much work as it used to, and it's not like there was another motorcycle repair shop within twenty or thirty miles. On top of that, Dad mentioned the factory was struggling.
Rumor was there was talk of closing it. The thought alone made me sick. Half the town worked at the factory, and if that shut down it would be a disaster. There wasn't enough work to go around as it was. Ocean Crest might not have been fancy, but its people stuck together, and that plant was the last source of steady work.
I gunned my bike and rode hard and fast down the main stretch of road that carved through the town. I loved the rush of cutting through the air.
A cop car sat on the side of the road, half hidden, waiting for some action. I waved at the officer as I went by. His sirens blared as he made chase. Finally, after taunting him, I pulled over. Tony and I went way back. We laughed about it and made plans for the weekend before I headed to the beach. It was the best place to think.
I parked my bike on a dead end street. The sand dune rose high enough to prevent flooding during storms. I climbed off my bike and slipped off my helmet. Once I got to the top of the dune, my shoulders relaxed. The ocean was in my sight. The constant churning of water, the sound of the crashing waves, and the salty smell always brought me back to clarity. My nose twitched as I inhaled deeply and settled on the soft sand. I could get lost in the ocean, staring at it all day. It was the one place that brought me comfort more than any other. Having grown up shoreside, I couldn't imagine living far away from here.
I closed my eyes and thought of my mother. She was gone too soon.
A solid twenty-five years had passed. Most kids had parties to celebrate their birthdays. On my tenth birthday, we sat at my mother's bedside to say good-bye. Cancer sucks. After that, it was damn near impossible to celebrate a birthday without thinking of her. With my thirty-fifth coming up, it was time to take a good, hard look at my life.
Broken romances, some bad choices, and now a shop that might be headed for bankruptcy; I had a laundry list of failures. The one thing I did right was staying in Ocean Crest. It might be a dump to some people, but it was home to me. I knew the streets like the back of my hand and the people who stuck around looked out for one another.
More than anything, my Dad needed help. He'd claim he'd be fine without me, but I knew better. He was too proud to say otherwise. My younger brother, Hunter, took off the moment he could and never looked back. I didn't blame him; he deserved a good life, but for me loyalty ran deep.
I rubbed the back of my neck and tried to erase the tension that kept building. My jaw was sore
from constantly clenching my teeth. Too many things had piled up. I'd always been the hero, the one to handle things, whether it was the right way or not, but lately things looked dire.
I slipped off my boots, jamming my socks into them. The powdered sand under my toes was nice, almost welcoming. I walked to the edge of the ocean and let the chill of the water lick my feet. The cold water splashed over them, sending a quick jolt of shock through me, but within moments I'd adjusted. I stretched and tried to find my focus. I needed a plan. If I didn't make a change, it was going to get ugly.
I turned and looked at the landscape behind me. There were no million dollar homes that spanned the coast like the fancier beaches an hour north. Ocean Crest wasn't a pretentious getaway for the rich who threw money at vacation houses they'd only spend two or three weeks at a year. This was home, dammit, and it was up to me to figure out how to make things work. Hopefully, the factory rumors were just that – rumors. Not my problem, until it became a problem.
My shop, now that was another story. If I didn't do something drastic, I might lose it. I'd worked too damn hard to make Speed Demons Bike Repair the monster it was. Lately, customizing was the rage, but the people of Ocean Crest couldn't afford that kind of decadence. I did more brake, tire, and throttle repair, along with inspections. It's not that my work wasn't good; it was simple economics. Bikes were put aside when money was tight, and people kept their cars running.
Putting my boots and helmet on, I hopped on my bike and headed back to the shop. Doctoring the books wouldn't feed me. Sure, it might keep the taxman at bay, but not for long. I hated the idea of selling some of my specialty bikes I'd worked on over the years, but it might bring in enough to cover the bills a little while longer.
If I didn't love the shop so much, an insurance fire would solve things, but I'd already had run-ins with the law over the years. Life was easier when I kept things on the up and up. I wasn't proud of some of the choices I made to pick up extra cash, but when you had to make ends meet, you did what you could.
I looked through the stack of bills and lack of work. I'd have to steal from Peter to pay Paul. I shoved the files and paper off of my desk in one stupid, impulsive gesture. I stood and kicked the thick, steel desk that was the gist of my office. Kicking it didn't pay the bills, but it made me feel better in the short term. I'd figure it out. I wasn't going down without a fight.
I drew a deep breath, trying to get my focus back. I needed to cool my jets. I stripped off my shirt and headed to the weight bench at the back of the shop. I'd push and pump iron until it wore me down. I dropped onto the bench and steadied my grip. With a loud grunt, I pressed the weights up off of the bar. Slow and hard, I made my body go the limit. Something had to give. Something had to change. I refused to crumble under the pressure.
I stood after a solid workout and my confidence returned. The tightness in my chest lightened. A sense of calm washed over me. I'd figure it out. I always did. Fuck this nonsense. I was ready to tackle anything life threw at me. I was Ryder fucking Bishop and I owned life. I'd twist out of any mess around me and crush it.
Of all the cities in the world where DCD Corp. had subsidiaries, the one they sent me to was Ocean Crest. I had six months--at the most--to shut down and sell the factory.
Fuck, fuck, fuck ... the place was exactly the same as I'd left it. Eighteen years! It had taken me eighteen years to run from here the first time. Could I do it in eighteen weeks this time? If I did, I would break a record and make the shareholders so happy, I would probably get a sky-high bonus.
Ocean Crest was only a few hours from Manhattan but it might as well be a different universe. A universe frozen in time. It hadn't changed a bit.
I had. Miserable and outcast Bobby-Jean was gone. I was now Barbara with an entire alphabet soup after my name to testify my academic achievements. The one thing Bobby-Jean and Barbara had in common – aside from extra-padding – was people still whispered about her behind her back. I knew they did, but didn't mind anymore.
I didn't care at all because instead of neighbors wondering whose love child I was and gossiping about my mother who'd taken the answer to her grave, it was corporate people in awe of what I accomplished in such a short time. I was the reorganization guru who had blown away the glass ceiling of every firm I worked in and obtained a higher salary than most men the same age.
Most of that hard-earned money was wisely invested and soon, very soon, I would finance my own take over of a medium size corporation. I wanted to build my own empire. Maybe next year, if I played my cards right, and obtained as good a bonus as last year. The only absurd expenses on my budget were my shiny, new white BMW convertible and my mother's house.
My accountant thought I held on to that empty property for almost a decade because the real estate market was dead in Ocean Crest. It was. Yet the truth was I kept the house to honor a promise to my mother. Her home had been her pride and joy. It was a miniature dollhouse with two minuscule bedrooms on the second floor and a patch of grass she pompously called her garden.
Even though I had been sending money to Marge, one of the old neighbors, to maintain the place, I dreaded what I was going to find. With the salt in the ocean air and the storms of the past years, I expected the worst. To my surprise, the place was in a decent condition. Of course, the façade and the white picket fence needed a fresh coat of paint, but otherwise, it was the picture perfect image of a small Jersey shore bungalow sitting pretty next to twin houses in various state of disrepair.