Pedal to the Metal: Love's Drivin' but Fate's Got the Pole (The 'Cuda Confessions Book 3) (2 page)

There’s already too much Disney in our heads and too damn little in our lives.

I say, make way for all flavors of romance/erotic fiction, and stop yapping about about what we women should and should not write or read. If a man dared condemn romance novels (and it happens all the time), we band together and make him take his little opinion and tuck it back into his boxers.

But, oh, if another woman says it? That leaves a mark, because somewhere inside, we’re all trapped in a high school bathroom stall, cringing in shame while some mean girl and her posse howls with laughter at our expense. 

Some never quite figure out how to get out of that stall. They stay in that small space—metaphorically speaking—until the final bell rings and they can grab their diploma and haul ass.

Others lift their heads and stride through the giggling gangs, but the cost of holding on to the shreds of our self-respect is our abandonment of the status quo. We embrace what is bad inside us. Some even buy a pair of boots to let the world know, we ain’t gonna sit back and take the shit no more.

This is how bad girls are born. I don’t know that I believe we are made by bad boys, as much as we evolve when we’re kicked out of the tribe.

Bad girls like me ain’t going away. Our dresses are up around our waists, our legs spread, and our fingers are on our own goddamn buttons. We’ll never be made to sit up straight, tug the skirt down over our knees, get out hands out of our panties, and be good little girls, ever again.

Not as long as we can self-publish.

To those who are saying, ‘Don’t step out of line, girl’, I say, ‘Here, hold my beer and watch me lay rubber’—making my own lines.

I say we all deserve to go any goddamn place we want in our fantasies.

I piss on the notion that any writer of erotic romance who shames her sisters for chasing the shards of their sexuality inside the stories they write or read deserves to wear the crown of thorns that is the romance writer’s halo.

Why a crown of thorns?

Because tiaras are hard to come by, honey, and the majority of ‘em are fake.

And because women bleed.

Because we bleed, we spend more time in the bathrooms of the world than men do.

And what do we learn about ourselves there?

What cuts the deepest about those scarred slurs is knowing they were left by our sisters.

Until we have the painful talks that lead to acceptance of each other, and honor each diverging road; until we raise daughters who would sooner cut off their own hand than scrawl the word ‘slut’ on a bathroom wall, we’ll never stop bleeding.

So, here’s your trigger warning. Stay out of the bathrooms and out of the emergency rooms of this tale and just enjoy the smooth parts of the ride. Because the potholes ahead fling our girl Shelby into the trees lining the dark lanes that I reckon are every girl’s path to womanhood.

See, we can’t talk about that trip. When we try, the conversation just gets muted beneath the blaring horns of whispered gossip. We’re too busy talking shit about each other’s choices, and shaming each other, to make any real progress turning the narrow lane women are forced to traverse into a superhighway that offers pit stops of every variety, so we all have a goddamn choice about where we rest our legs.

No hard feelings if you make a U-turn now.

If you take my hand and wander into those bathrooms anyway, and what you see there pisses you off, feel free to unleash in the Amazon forums, Goodreads, and anywhere else where readers of romance congregate. I’d rather piss you off than bore you. I welcome and respect your opinions, even when they diverge from mine.

Whatever you feel compelled to say...well, it’s talkin’, ain’t it?

And, honey, we have to talk.

Moreover, we have to accept that another’s path may not be our path, but all paths must be honored if the bleeding is to ever stop. There’s a war against us raging out there and we’re fighting on both sides, each faction bearing the flag of Eve, although we have plucked them from different parts of the same Garden.

I know you came here to hide from that.

Too bad.

Those same virtual shelves sag under the weight of stories with more sugar than spice. Pick another book and I’ll see you on the flip side.

~E

P.S. I’m saving Acknowledgments for the end, because some have waited too long for this already and want to hit the gas. See you after the checkered flag waves.

I
opened my eyes. Past the hood of Robert’s BMW, a concrete patio backed up to a short set of brick stairs. Window screens on the rear of the one-story brick home dangled above plastic pots, like they were trying to decide whether to commit suicide on the stiff spikes jutting from the dead plants below.

I dragged my tongue over dry lips. “Where are we?”

Robert put the car in park and pulled his keys from the ignition. “The Pi Kappa Phi house.”

I turned to scowl. Pain lanced my head and shoulder. “Why?”

“Since Walt finished up in December, he had to leave campus.”

Walt was a fraternity buddy. I couldn’t recall his last name. “Okay... but—”

“Someone has to live in the house. Traditionally, it’s the president. With Walt gone, the role of acting president falls to me, so I had to move my stuff over the break.”

“You live... here... now?”

He opened his door. “Yes. But don’t worry. It’ll be quiet until the break’s over.” He grinned, pushing my hair behind my shoulder. “And I promise, I’m replacing the lock on the bedroom door.” Without regard for my protest, he sauntered to the back door and jammed a key into the lock.

I eased out of the car, nearly vomiting from the pain of standing. Inching my way across the uneven lawn to the patio, I hoped he’d just left something here, that he was joking. He extended a hand to help me climb the steps.

My soles made a disgusting squelch on the grubby linoleum. I surveyed the eat-in kitchen in dismay. A funky stench wafted from of the barrage of red plastic cups crowding the bar and counters. I clapped my hand over my mouth. Was that... molded scrambled egg on the stove?

A keg occupied one corner, floating on its side in a fifty-five-gallon trash can. Broken bar stools sprawled across the spot where a table and chairs should’ve been. The wooden pieces were interspersed with crushed beer cans and pizza boxes. Robert tugged me toward the hall, stopping between two doors. One led to the bathroom. I eyed the other door while he jiggled the knob.

“Damn thing sticks,” he grumbled.

Jessica Whitley is a whore.
The words were slashed into the veneer beside Robert’s head. Similar misogynistic proclamations surrounded that one, but those were written in ink or magic marker. The wounds in the door didn’t have the vanilla cream color of fresh cuts, but I couldn’t recall seeing the hateful graffiti before.

The stench of stale beer and vomit curdled and sank like a stone to the pit of my stomach.

Dropping a shoulder against the door, Robert popped the panel open. His stuff—television, Ralph Lauren comforter, books, and the stupid collection of empty-but-prized liquor bottles—confronted me.

This isn’t a joke.

He urged me forward with a hand to my back. My shoes refused to move. Not my legs. My shoes. I pried one foot free of the carpet, only to lower it in place.

“Take me to Harry’s, right this minute. I’m not getting up to pee in the middle of the night and sticking to the floor. Good grief, Robert, do you plan to sleep in your shoes? This is disgusting.”

“Flip flops. Heard of them? Jesus Christ, can you just breathe? After we clean it up a bit, it’ll be great. And the pledges—”

“I’m not cleaning anything.” I grabbed his hand and lifted it to the back of my head. “Easy, if you like your nuts where God put ‘em.”

He traced the grapefruit-sized bump, eyes going wide. “Jesus. Weren’t you wearing a seat belt?”

“Yes, I was. My head hurts so bad, it’s all I can do not to throw up on your shoes. So, no, I won’t be cleaning anything.”
Just like Mom. If it goes wrong, I must be the reason why.

I slapped a hand to the bathroom door. It swung open. I felt for the light switch. Mildew staggered up a shower curtain that held grimly to the rod by four mismatched plastic rings. A thick film of black scum around the toilet bowl suggested I’d be better off puking outside. I didn’t have the guts to look in the sink.

“How was I supposed to know you’d wreck your car?”

I stumbled through the back of the house and down the steps, sucking down a lungful of fresh air. The nausea eased. I collapsed against the hood of Robert’s car. He slammed the back door, looking contrite, but his determined gait gave his anger away. He jerked my door open and held my arm to steady me while I climbed in.

“Shelby, listen. I already gave up my room in Shipp Hall. I don’t have anywhere else to stay. This is my last semester. I’m never gonna see most of these guys again after graduation. I just want to kick back and relax for twelve weeks, then study my ass off to pass my finals. I know it’s irresponsible. But, I’ve never been irresponsible. I want to try it once.”

“Okay.” Then why get engaged? My head hurt too bad to ask.

Rather than put the key in the switch, he fiddled with the fob. “I need to tell you something. I dated someone else over the holidays.”

“Okay.” I leaned my head against the icy car window. “I guess I did, too.”

“It made me realize how much I love you, Shelby. I just don’t think you love me. I keep reminding myself, you grew up without a father, so of course, you have trust issues.”

Why did he make everything sound as though I was to blame?

“Everyone has trust issues. If they don’t yet, they will. It’s called growing up. Listen, Robert. I lied about wanting the ring. I just didn’t think you’d come unless I said I’d reconsidered.”

He gripped the wheel so hard his knuckles turned white. “My dad says to never marry a woman you can figure out. That being with a woman who bores you is like being dead, only worse. You’re the woman who makes me feel alive, Shelby. What do you like about me?”

He was solid. Reliable. He’d never hurt me because I’d never give him enough of myself so he could. And, above all else, Robert was predictable. Honorable. He’d never conceal a camera in my room. He’d never make me feel like a whore to hide his own secret, because I doubted he had any.

He was safe.

I owed it to him to look him in the eye, but meeting his gaze was one of the hardest things I’d ever done. “I like that you’re smart. I like that you want to do something with your life. I like that we like the same movies. I like that we can discuss books. I like that you want to travel. I like looking at you, for fuck’s sake. I just don’t know if that’s enough.”

His lips twisted. The pain in his eyes added one more ache to my battered body. “That’s everything, Shelby. For God’s sake, what’s missing?”

Excitement.

I couldn’t admit that the problem was sex. Not out loud. If I said those words, what did that make me? Now that I was out of Concord, memories of the things I’d done there placed an unwelcome knot in my gut. How many times had I seen my mother get burned by some guy that rocked her body with his cock, only to shatter her soul with his indifference?

“I don’t want to lose you.” Sincerity radiated from his eyes. “Maybe... maybe we could just take a break? Till you feel better?” He waved toward the windshield. “I’ll be right here, just getting drunk with the guys.” He swallowed hard. “Law school’s gonna be a grind. No time for fun.”

One thing I both liked and hated about Robert was his tenacity. If I let him, he’d sit in this spot until sunrise, until we’d debated every option. He’d use logic, but, if logic applied, was it love?

A little voice in the back of my head drilled through the pain.
Love? I know more about the internal combustion engine. At least I’ve seen what an engine looks like.

“I can’t think straight right now. Please, just take me to Harry’s so I can lie down on clean sheets.”

***

W
hen Harry opened his front door, his eyes went wide. “Good God, you look like warmed-over shit.”

Robert dumped my suitcases on the porch. “She wrecked her car over Christmas.”

“I know that,” Harry snapped. “I was there.” Robert turned stunned eyes to me, but I let Harry take my hand. “You’re shaking. Come and lie down, right now.”

Avoiding Robert’s troubled gaze, I followed Harry to his spare bedroom. I stood in the doorway, fighting back tears while he turned the covers down.

“What the fuck’s going on?” Harry whispered. “I called the hospital this morning. They told me you weren’t getting released today.”

“Just let me sleep. Then I’ll explain. I know you need time alone with Phillip, but Harry, I don’t have anywhere else to go.” I clung to the door frame, hoping my head would stop spinning.

“Don’t worry about Phillip. He’s your bitch for life.” He took my arm and guided me to the bed.

I blinked away tears. “Can you get my meds out of my purse?” It hadn’t been four hours since I’d taken one, but I had to get rid of this pain.

“Let me get rid of your boyfriend first. I’ll bring back a glass of tea.”