Flawed – Chapter 1


I cut the engine and sigh. Damn, that was a good ride, better here than back home. I yank off my helmet and push my hair back. There’s nothing better than straddling a motorcycle and riding the open road.

Here, there’s nothing but open road. Fucking perfect. It’s the best way to clear my head of all the shit going down lately. Not just my asshole father or the stupid rules of his will, but also all the hard labor on the ranch—which I never imagined I’d do in a million years, or for a billion dollars.

The murder, too. Yeah, murder, per the pain-in-the-ass detective Peterson.

I left all of that behind at Bridger Ranch.

I climb off my new ride outside of a roadside bar and give it another once over. Yeah, it needs work, but this is what I do. What I live and breathe. Custom builds. All my jobs start off looking like this. Dented. Rusted. Worn. But I see past all that and focus on what it can become.

Not can. Will.

The engine is good. All it needs is a little attention. A little babying. A little love. I’ll make this motorcycle I found in the bargain bin section of the local paper purr for me, the same way I work a woman.

The sun crawls toward the purple mountains in the distance, but it won’t set for another hour or two. I stop just inside the door of the bar. The parking lot is full, so it’s popular. The high-top tables and booths skirting both walls are occupied, but the dance floor is empty. Neon signs on the wood-paneled walls give the room a glow of reds and blues. I make my way to the bar and settle on a stool.

The bartender comes over and takes my order, a beer on tap and a burger with fries. I missed the Mexican dinner at the house because of that asshole detective, so I’m hungry. I savor the cool bite of my drink as I wait for the food and then spin around to look over the crowd. This place is about an hour from Bayfield, so I don’t see a familiar face. Not that I expect to recognize anyone.

I’ve been in the state for two weeks. Not long enough to make friends. I’m just happy to no longer find my brothers a pain in my ass.

I know Carly, Austin’s woman. Lexie, the ranch’s vet, and most of the ranch staff. Unfortunately, I know Carly’s dad, the town mayor, who is a pain in the ass. More for Austin than myself, although the man has a pretty big beef with our father that he’s carried on to the next generation. Seems to be an unwritten law around here. The sons of Jonathan Bridger are somehow responsible for their father’s sins.

Carly herself has helped her dad simmer his shit down, but I doubt we’ll be getting a holiday card from him this year. Or ever.

I’ll put in my year at Bridger Ranch like the will says, get my billion, and get the hell out of Dodge. In the meantime, I’ll enjoy taking out my new ride. At least until it gets cold, which I expect will be sooner than I want.

The music through the hidden speakers changes, and a bunch of screams and hollers have me swiveling on my stool. A group of ladies, clearly having a good time, are partying around two high-tops farther down the bar. They’re dressed to go out, which in Montana means jeans, flirty skirts, or dresses with cowboy boots. No stilettos or sequins like I’d see in New York City. No black leather. Hell, I’m the only one wearing that.

One woman has a tiara on her head and a white feathered boa around her neck. A beauty-pageant-style sash is slung over her shoulder and it reads “Soon to be Mrs.”

My gaze isn’t snagged on the lead bachelorette, but another woman in the group. Why? Because she has her dark eyes on me. I’m not sure she even hears the twang of the country music or sees the dancing and arm waving of her friends. All her attention is squarely on me.

Yeah, me.

I raise my brow because if she wants to stare, I don’t mind staring right back. She’s not hard on the eyes. Far from it. I’d even call her fucking gorgeous. She wears a black tiered miniskirt that flares and hits halfway to her knees. Her top is a plain T-shirt with a deep V that does amazing things to her tits. She’s taller than average, and she has meat on her bones. Thick and curvy. A lush body a guy can grip and hang on to. My fingers itch to learn every inch of her.

I’m single, but I’m not a monk. I know when a woman is interested. I can flirt, but I don’t like games. Don’t like circling. The dance between a man and a woman. I want chemistry. A connection. With those two things, flirting isn’t necessary.

With this woman, there’s fucking chemistry. I can tell she feels it too because she’s now heading my way. The corner of her full mouth turns up as she sways toward me. I don’t look away, not even when the bartender sets my burger on the bar.

Tonight is getting better and better. A good ride on a motorcycle and maybe—most likely—a good ride with a hot woman.

“Hi,” she says.

Her voice is deep and husky. Up close, her dark hair is almost black and brushes her shoulders. It’s straight and sleek, shiny like the chrome on my custom bikes. She wears makeup, but only a little. She doesn’t need fake eyelashes or weird shit done to her eyebrows. She’s natural looking, but not like she just came off a weeklong camping trip.

Clearly a woman who wants to look pretty for herself. Not to try to snare a man.

“Hi.” I set my feet on the floor and spread my legs so she stands within mine.

She takes the opportunity to step in closer, and I set a hand on her waist. Yeah, all soft curves.

Her lips are full and covered in shiny gloss. Fucking kissable.

She smiles. “I’m Sadie, and I wonder if you can do me a favor.”

Hmm… A favor? If it involves those more-than-a-handful tits or any other square inch of her, I’m happy to help.


There is no other answer.

“I’m here with a bachelorette party, which I’m sure is pretty obvious.” She thumbs over her shoulder toward the ladies who are making more noise than the rest of the patrons combined.

I offer a nod.

The music changes again and a few people move to the dance floor.

“Part of the fun is to do a dare,” she continues.

“A dare?”

She shakes her head, her sleek hair moving like a waterfall over her shoulder. I can’t resist brushing the strands back. Yeah, silky soft.

I watch her throat work as she swallows.

“Yeah, I’ve got to give my panties to a guy.”

My eyes meet hers. My dick jerks against my jeans, and I can’t help but smile.

“I’ll take your panties, sweetheart, but how will they know the dare’s been done? I doubt you’re going to take them off right here for others to see.”

I glance around and then back to her.

Her cheeks turn a pretty shade of pink. Embarrassed now? She was brave enough to come up to a stranger and ask for a favor that involves her panties.

“You have to bring them to the group,” she adds.

I slide my thumb back and forth over her waist.

“That’s it?”

She nods. “That’s it.”

I give her a grin. “So you’ll go to the ladies’ room to take them off…or am I supposed to help you out of them?”

I wouldn’t mind helping her out of them. Fuck, yeah.

She bites her lip, lowers her gaze, and then lifts her chin. “I already took them off.”

Holy. Shit.

My mouth opens slightly and I reach out and set my beer on the bar, not taking my eyes off her. I pull her in close so I can whisper in her ear. I’m a big guy so even when I’m leaning against the stool, we’re at eye level.

“You’re not wearing any panties right now?” I whisper.

My dick is completely hard and I shift on the stool to get more comfortable.

She shakes her head and whispers back, “No.”

Fuck me.

I pull back, meet her eyes. Her irises are almost all black. Her cheeks are flushed. She licks her lips.

“You drunk?” I ask.

I’m not doing this with a woman who’s trashed. What she’s asking might be a silly bachelorette party game, but when panties are involved, I like consent every step of the way. No matter what a trashed woman says, there isn’t any consent, in my mind.

She shakes her head. “One glass of wine. I have to work tomorrow.”


“So tell me, Sober Sadie. Wouldn’t it be a shame to give me your panties and not get anything out of it?”

A little frown forms on her brow. “Oh?”

“You might as well get an orgasm. Right? I mean, you’re not wearing any panties. I can just lift that skirt and sink my fingers into your pussy. I bet you’re wet, aren’t you?”

She hasn’t slapped me yet, so I keep on going. I could get into this. My burger is getting cold, but the woman before me is getting hot. I can feel her warmth against my palm. See it with my eyes. If the place weren’t potently scented with beer and greasy fries, I could probably even pick up the aroma of her heady arousal.

“Oh my God.”

I set my other hand on her waist and pull her in even closer so our centers touch. She can’t miss my hard length in my jeans and I can’t miss her scalding heat. My pinky fingers curl and lift the back of her skirt an inch or so.

“I’ll take those panties,” I say, “but I’m a giver. Want to come on my fingers in return?”



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Vanessa Vale