Gas or Ass (The 'Cuda Confessions Book 1)

By: Eden Connor
The odometer on my sex life was stuck at zero the day my mother came home with a husband I’d never met. Dale brought his two grown sons to help us pack and move into their home. Both were hard-bodied and handsome, but Caine didn’t speak to me. Colt, on the other hand, said crude stuff like, “Wanna ride with me? Then I’m gonna need gas or ass,” but I couldn’t take my eyes off his rippling muscles and challenging blue eyes.

When Colt offered me a ride to school, I thought the ‘gas or ass’ thing was a joke, but he wasn’t kidding. Though he barely touched me, he shattered the innocence I couldn’t wait to shed, and even then, I sensed I’d never be the same.

He and Caine soon upped the stakes, putting me behind the wheel of cars that could reach insane speeds. They kept challenging me to find my inner wild child, pairing illegal drag races with high-octane sex games. It wasn’t long before I was hooked, but I always planned to walk away.

Then everything spun out of control and walking wasn’t an option.

I had to run.

**Disclaimer: This is a tale of a young girl’s crush that turns to hatred and back to love. Gas and Ass is the crush-to-hate part of the story. There’s no HEA inside these pages, so if that’s a must, this isn’t the story for you. If you can delay gratification, however, the hatred-to-love part is the basis of the sequel, Turn and Burn.





Author’s Notes


I’ve gotten into the habit of telling my readers where my head was at when I write my stories. I want to do no less here. But, fasten your seat belts, because my notes, like the tale within, ain’t necessarily a smooth ride.

I scan my Facebook feed probably more than I should. In my defense, what I see there suffices as my only adult interaction on too many days. I have a lot of authors in my feed, so, I see a lot of the phenomenon I call author drama. One day it’s a flap about censorship, the next, it’s an outcry about the meanness of reviewers who can’t string four words together with the correct punctuation, but have the nerve to knock an author’s latest release. The following week it’ll be m/m writers all atwitter because some guy dared asked why the hell a straight woman wrote a gay romance—or stated that she shouldn’t.

And lately, it’s been fiction shaming.

What’s fiction shaming? Most of you know, but for the insulated, it’s that nasty habit some authors have of finger wagging at their fellow writers on their choice of subject matter.

Like dino porn.

And rape fantasy.

And pseudo-incest.

Well, here’s the bumpy part of this ride.

This story? It’s pseudo-incest. Stepbrother porn.

It’s not even a romance, not this part of the tale, anyway. It’s...drum roll, please... New Adult, coming-of-age contemporary erotica.

Wag those fingers if you must. You’re welcome to knock this story as just ‘another one of those nasty, badly-written porn stories trying to sneak under the radar and be about incest to make a quick buck.’

I’ll make it easier for you.

The main characters are blue-collar—mechanics and forklift drivers. And, just to lower the bar some more, I set the tale in a small North Carolina town where the only place one hears proper English is in English class. A place where everyone says ‘aint’. And ‘gonna’. And fixin’ to. A place where I spent my teenage years.

Yep. This story is about rednecks.

Good old boys who like NASCAR and drive souped-up vintage cars. Guys who live for Friday night so they can put the nose of those cars on a line spray-painted on the road, drop the hammer, and fly for ten seconds or less. And the win or the loss will eat away at them until Friday night rolls around and they get another shot at ten seconds of glory.

And did I mention, it’s not a romance?

Nope. It’s contemporary erotic fiction. Think Fast and Furious meets Girl, Interrupted.

Why’d I write it?

Well, to be honest, the story began as satire—a protest of sorts.

Because I don’t think anyone calling themselves an author has any business finger wagging at any other writer on their choice of subject matter. Save that shit for something that does matter, like the Oxford comma and the unfortunate fact that so few seem to know that paintings are hung, but people are always hanged.

But come at me for the pseudo-incest at your own risk, because baby, I ain’t ashamed. I’ll say here what I’ve said elsewhere:

No fictional characters were harmed in the writing of this story. I put my heroine through emotional hell. She has more orgasms to her credit than a smuggled copy of Hustler in a Supermax. And I make no apologies. It’s fiction, yo.

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