Bared:Dirty Cruisers MC(7)

By: Brook Wilder





“You promised me three weeks ago…I know that we’ve never worked together before, but you’ve done business with Honey Bud Farms before. You know we have a good, solid product and with this new strain we’re working on…of course,” Carla finally said with a sigh as her expression fell into one of pained resignation, “Right. I understand. Thanks anyways.”



Carla hung up the phone before slamming it, several times, hard down on the receiver before taking a deep breath, “Yeah, thanks for nothing!” she murmured towards the disconnected phone and, Elle assumed, directed at whoever she’d just been talking to.



“Um, everything okay, Carla?” Elle asked softly, noticing for the first time the new lines of strain in her friend’s face. Lines that hadn’t been there before she’d taken over the farm. That hadn’t been there before everything that had happened with her old boss, and the old owner of Honey Bud, Maurice.



“Yeah,” Carla sighed, “It’s fine. Just these assholes that are–Oh my god, Elle, what happened to you!?” She’d finally glanced up, catching an eyeful of Elle in her dirt smeared skin and compost caked dress.



“It’s a long–Honey was–Listen, I don’t think I can help you anymore,” she finally spit out, cringing at the look that Carla gave her. The same disappointed light in her blue eyes that had been there after that tense phone call.



“Elle, please,” Carla said, walking around the desk to let herself fall into the office chair, “Please, I really need a friend right now.”



“I am your friend! I’ll always be your friend,” Elle hastened to explain, guilt already eating away at her, “But…but…I’m just not cut out for this type of work.” She gestured to herself as example A and Carla tilted her head to one side, some humor finally breaking through the clouds in her eyes like sunlight.



“You know, I think you’re right. But to be honest that’s not the worst thing that could happen to that dress,” a small smile tugged up one corner of Carla’s mouth, “It was pretty horrific to begin with.”



“I’m glad you find this funny. I know it wasn’t the prettiest thing, but I didn’t have anything else to wear. I’d been meaning to ask if I can borrow some more appropriate work clothes, but…Anyways, that’s not the point,” Elle said, cutting off her rambling, “The point is that I can’t do this. I can’t work with…him.”



There was no need for her to say who, exactly, she was referring to. Carla knew. Elle could see it in her eyes, in the sympathetic look that she cast her.



“Elle, if you would just tell me what happened between you and Honey, maybe I could–”



“No.” That was it. Just a single word but it cut through the office like a knife. She couldn’t talk about that with anyone, not even her best friend. But unbidden, like a ghost rising out of the fog of her mind, the memories haunted her.



It had been that fateful night over six months ago. Maurice had been trying to blackmail Carla over a shipment of stolen weed, a shipment stolen, in fact, by the Dirty Cruisers, and Elle had helped uncover the fact that Maurice was actually dirty himself. He’d been dealing his product illegally over state lines. They’d just had to figure out a way to prove it.



It had seemed like a foolproof plan. Distract Maurice, draw him away so that Carla and Joel could search his office, this very office at the time, to try and find any evidence. So Elle had done her part, making the call to Maurice to tell him the lie that Carla was missing. The call that had drawn him from the office and gave Carla and Joel the time they needed.



And then she’d had nothing to do but wait, sitting at the clubhouse with only Honey for company as everyone else had left to do what they needed to do. They’d been alone, just her and him, adrenaline and fear for her friend rushing through her and she’d weakened, for just a moment. Letting him in, for just a bare moment.



It had been a wonderful, breathless, golden moment. He’d dragged her back to the storage closet, enclosing them in the small, intimate space as he kissed her. Boy, had he kissed her. Like nothing she’d ever felt before, nothing like the tepid kisses she’d had before. He’d kissed her like he couldn’t get enough of her, like he never wanted to stop. Like he never wanted to let her go.



And then his touch. The same touch that had haunted her nights, tortured her dreams. His fingers, callused and hard running over her curves, pushing up the hem of her skirt until he reached the bare center of her.

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