Her Rough Mechanic Read online

  Her Rough Mechanic

  Jagger Cole

  Contents

  A Special Present

  Synopsis

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Epilogue

  Afterword

  About the Author

  Her Rough Mechanic

  By Jagger Cole

  www.jaggercolewrites.com

  Copyright © 2020 by Jagger Cole

  All rights reserved.

  Cover by Mayhem Cover Design

  This is a literary work of fiction. Any names, places, or incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. And similarities or resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events or establishments, are solely coincidental.

  All characters in this work are eighteen years of age or older, and all relations of a sexual nature are completely consensual.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  The unauthorized reproduction, transmission, or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal and a violation of US Copyright law.

  Created with Vellum

  A Special Present

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  Synopsis

  I’m in big trouble.

  Broke down on the side of the road in the middle of the Arizona desert, I’ve got my father’s political campaign hounding me, a nasty rumor on my heels, and if that weren’t enough, the mob is after me too.

  But that’s when I run smack into Rowan O’Neil. He’s everything I’m not, and everything I’ve been kept from in my manicured, upper-crust life—inked, dirty, foul-mouthed, and sinfully hot.

  Dirty mechanic, meet spoiled brat. He’s rough and hardened, I’m soft and pampered. He’s blue collar, I’m white gloves. But pretty soon, my unlikely hero turns out to be the most unlikely but undeniable attraction I’ve ever felt.

  He throws everything I know into disarray, and puts thoughts into my head I’ve never had. He makes me want to give in and give him everything. He makes me want to scream for more.

  Cooped up in the hot desert heat all alone with the roughest, most captivating, gorgeous, and demanding man I’ve ever met? What could possibly go wrong?

  Like I said: I’m in big trouble…

  Her Rough Mechanic is a novella length standalone contemporary romance. Extra hot, with no cliffhanger and a perfect happy ever after.

  1

  Annabelle

  What a shithole, I think to myself when I step out of the police cruiser. The whole town looks flat, like it’s been stepped on. It’s also the same dingy sandy color as the miles and miles of desert surrounding it that I just drove through to get to this forgotten little armpit of a town.

  “Right in there! Rowan’s the man to ask for. He’ll get you sorted, miss.” My chauffeur, Pat, who’s actually the local chief of police, smiles warmly and leans over the passenger seat. “I know it ain’t much, but Silvervales’s a nice little town. Mable’s Diner up the street a tick has the best goddamn chicken and waffles you ever did taste. If you’ll pardon my language.”

  Wonderful. I’m trapped in an apocalypse-movie-set of a desert town with a broken-down car. And the big attraction is disgusting diner fried chicken and fucking waffles. I almost want to ask the chief if he’s aware of how long I’ve gone without carbs, but I skip it.

  “This is the place?” I look back up at the grungy facade with the four open garage doors and the lettering cut out of metal above them that reads “Iron Horse Bikes.” Inside, the place is littered with tools and metal, with one car lifted up high with no wheels on it, and another next to it on the ground with the hood open. A couple of motorcycles are parked to one side. It’s dirty, it’s sketchy looking, and it brings a sour look to my face.

  “Yep!” Chief Creesh pipes up again. “They’ll get you fixed up in no time. And while you wait, don’t forget to get a taste of those—”

  “Chicken and waffles, yeah,” I mutter. I scowl and look back into the dingy garage.

  “Atta girl! Well, if you need anything, you just come on down to the station.”

  “Thanks,” I mumble. “And thanks for the ride.”

  It’s the one freaking lucky break I’ve gotten all day. When my car broke down on the stretch of highway about ten miles from here, the first person that happened to drive by was a cop, thank God. Looking around at this crummy little town, I realize just how easily it could have been some grubby townie named Bubba, or any other number of creeps that lives out here in the middle of fucking nowhere.

  “Anytime, and you take care now. Welcome to Silverdale, Miss Chisholm.”

  He drives away, kicking up dust and sand and making me cough as I frantically wave my hand away from my face. I look back at the garage, and I scowl. This whole trip has gone from bad to worst case scenario. That’s really saying something, seeing as I was on my way to fucking rehab.

  Well, not really. Okay, yes, I’m actually supposed to be going to rehab right now, but not to actually do anything. I’m not a drug addict or anything, and I don’t mean that in a denial sort of way. I mean I’ve literally never taken drugs before. However, when your dad is a high-profile governor and running for a high-profile U.S. Senate seat, and pictures of you at a college party with cocaine on the table in front of you are about to go public, guess what happens? Yep, rehab. Preemptively, in anticipation of the pictures leaking, even if it’s just for show.

  That’s life with my dad’s campaign. It’s all about “the optics,” as his PR person Jessica is always saying. Obviously, the optics of a nineteen-year-old daughter apparently spending her time at college doing coke and partying it up are not good at all. Publicly, the plan is to take the allegations face on, and the whole thing will be deemed a family matter that he’s going to throw himself into addressing. It doesn’t matter that I’ve never taken any drugs at all in my life. Denying the picture will just make it look worse. So, off to rehab in some crazy expensive place in the Hollywood Hills, for “the optics,” At least, that was the plan before my car kicked it on a deserted highway in the middle of Arizona.

  I can hear rock music playing as I step into the disgusting and dirty garage. But the place is empty. I frown, my sour mood getting worse as I step over greasy car parts and look around the garage.

  “Hello?” I scowl as I step around to the back of the raised-up car. Still no one. “Hello?” I yell a little louder. My temper is rising, and I’m already so fucking over this shitty little town that I could scream.

  “Does anyone fucking work here!”

  “Yeah, I do.”

  I almost scream at the deep, gravely, manly voice behind me. I whirl, and my eyes drop to the pair of boots sticking out from under the car on the ground that I apparently missed. Big, grungy, boots. The dirty saying of “you know what they say about guys with big shoes” pops into my head for a second. But I scowl those thoughts away with a roll of my eyes.

  “Well, can you service me please?” I snap.

  A second goes by before the man under the car begins to slide out, apparently laying on this little rolly thing. Boots, and then dirty, ripped jeans, and then for a second, I see abs—crazy defined, ripped abs. The man slides out more, and then I can see the edge of his undershirt pushed up above his muscled stomach. B
ig hands reach out and grip the edge of the car, and then bulging biceps as he slides himself the rest of the way out. Suddenly, my breath catches as his face slides out. Because dear God, the man is freaking hot.

  He’s absolutely beautiful, and it hits me instantly like a slap to the face. Dark, tousled hair, two-day stubble on his defined jaw, and a set of sexy blue eyes that captivate me. His jeans and undershirt are grubby and torn and streaked with grease. So are his tattooed, muscled arms and those big hands. But all it’s doing is making him even hotter. My mind wanders, and I imagine those dirty hands moving over my clean, pressed clothes, making them filthy with his touch. But I quickly shake those disgusting thoughts away.

  “You tell me, sweetheart,” he growls in a low, rumbly baritone. “How do you need me to service you?”

  I feel the blush hot on my face. I scowl harder in hopes that it hides it. “I need my car fixed,” I snap.

  The man raises one brow and looks around the shop. He sits up and then stands, every muscle in his body rippling as he stands tall and looming above me. He’s easily six-foot-something and built like a freaking tank. I tremble, and my cheeks continue to burn as my gaze moves over him. The grease-streaked undershirt might look grubby on any other man in the world. On him, it looks sinful.

  “You missing something?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I said are you missing something?”

  “Like?” I say testily. Hot or not, I am so not in the mood for anything but getting back on the road right now.

  “Like a car, sweetheart.”

  My lips purse. I glare at him. “It’s broken down, out in the desert.”

  “So, you need a ride and a tow.”

  “Yes,” I hiss. The guy arches one brow again, looking amused. I roll my eyes. “Yes please,” I mutter.

  He grins, and it’s infuriating and hot at the same time. “Not from around here, are you?”

  “Gee, what gave it away?” I mutter.

  “That brat attitude, for one.”

  I scowl up at him. “You know what? This isn’t how you treat customers. I’d like to talk to your manager instead.”

  His smile widens, and he shrugs. “No problem, sweetheart. Sit tight.”

  He turns away. I start to smile smugly, when he just keeps turning until he’s facing me again.

  “Howdy,” he says with a smug grin of his own. He sticks a dirty hand out. “Rowan O’Neil. I’m the manager around here. Also, the owner.”

  I roll my eyes. “Ugh. Seriously?”

  “You want a ride or not?”

  It’s like there’s a perverted elf whispering in my ear. Just like before with the thing about big shoes, him asking me if I want “a ride” has me blushing like a schoolgirl. He definitely notices it too, because his grin widens and there’s a glint in his eyes holding mine.

  “Well?”

  “Huh?”

  Rowan sighs. He brings a hand up to scratch his perfect jaw. “Do you want a ride or not?”

  “Yes,” I nod. “Yeah.” He arches a brow again, and I sigh. “Yes, please.”

  “Now was that so hard?” He chuckles to himself, and before I know it, he reaches down and pulls his dirty undershirt off. I suck in a breath of air and suck on my teeth as my eyes drink him in. Sweet God, he’s absolutely gorgeous. Every muscle on his chest, shoulders, and arms, ripple and clench as he tosses the dirty shirt away. His back and arms are covered with tattoo ink, not to mention the handful across his chest and on his ribs.

  He walks over to a table and picks up a somewhat cleaner looking white t-shirt with “Iron Horse Bikes” emblazoned on it. But he stops and suddenly glances back at me. I quickly look away with burning cheeks, but I know I’ve been busted. Rowan laughs deeply.

  “Take a picture, sweetheart.”

  “What?” I snap back.

  “It’ll last longer.”

  I can feel how obvious the blush is on my face. He laughs to himself and strolls past me. “Get over yourself,” I mumble.

  “Truck’s this way if you still want that ride, sweetheart.”

  “Stop calling me that.”

  “Fine, we’ll go with entitled brat instead,” he snaps back. “Now let’s go, brat.”

  I sputter and fume as I try and find words to hurl back at him, but he’s already walking out of the garage and opening the cab door to a flatbed truck.

  “You coming or not?” he yells back.

  You’re never supposed to get into cars with strangers. Him being sinfully hot shouldn’t change that. Neither should him being an infuriatingly arrogant dick. The fact that he’s got my heart racing and my body tingling in ways I’ve never felt before shouldn’t change a thing. But it does. So before I know it, I’m walking over to get into the truck with the tall, beautiful stranger. And I have no idea what I’m in for.

  2

  Rowan

  In the Marines, they teach you to spot trouble coming a mile away, or more. They teach you to keep your eyes open, your ear to the ground, and your senses keen, so that nothing surprises you. I’ve spent my whole life living by those guidelines. My whole life until today, that is. Today, it appears, trouble snuck right up on me, and just about floored me.

  Five and a half feet tall, long, long chestnut hair, fierce, pretty green eyes, and glistening pouty lips. Tight body, curvy hips, an ass a man could make a meal of, legs for days, and goddamn mouthwatering tits. That kind of trouble. The kind of trouble that knocks you on your ass and stops you in your fucking tracks.

  I glance over at her sitting across the bench seat from me. The truck’s windows are down, and the wind whips through her long gorgeous hair. She’s still got that little bratty scowl on her face, but it doesn’t do a damn thing to diminish her beauty. Hell, it might even make her more alluring. She’s young, too. The kind of young that might come after the word “too.” It sent up enough warning bells actually that I asked for her driver’s license when she got into the truck back at the shop. I said it was routine to check before driving someone to their car. But in reality, I wanted to make sure I wasn’t picking up some pretty little temptation who wasn’t eighteen yet.

  Thankfully, Annabelle Chisholm is nineteen. That’s still pretty damn young compared to my thirty. Most people would still probably use that “too” before it. Maybe even “for you” after it. I’m not that guy, either. That’s for sure. Even before I moved out here to Silvervale, on the edge of the middle of nowhere, I wasn’t ever one for chasing tail. Never had time for it in the Marines. Never had much of an interest in it after I got back.

  But this girl is bringing something out in me I almost forgot existed. It’s like her being around me has a fire starting deep in my chest. It’s not only the fact that she’s beautiful, either. It’s also not just that she’s young, and tempting, and perfect. It’s that she’s all piss and vinegar—a pretty little firecracker smoldering in the seat next to me.

  Obviously, she’s not from around here. That was pretty apparent the minute I slid out from under that car and laid eyes on her. That short, skimpy skirt? The pristine-white tank top? And those fucking shoes? I mean who the fuck wears heeled shoes in the fucking desert? It’s the rest of it, too. The attitude and the entitled brattiness. The makeup, the movie-star sunglasses, the designer handbag. She sticks out, but when I look at her over there, looking out the window with the wind in her hair, all I can think of is how damn good the desert looks on her.

  “It’s right up here.”

  I’ve barely even been concentrating on the road. But when I finally focus, my eyes widen in surprise at the car we’re approaching. “That’s your car?” I stare at the cream-colored Aston Martin on the shoulder of the road, and I slow the truck and pull up in front it. I shake my head in disbelief. “You left an Aston Martin out here in the desert by itself?”

  “Was I supposed to push it into town myself?” She mutters.

  I laugh and slowly whistle appreciatively. “That’s a nice fucking car.” And by nice, I mean rea
lly, really fucking nice. Without even opening the hood or looking at any specs inside, I already know this is upwards of a two-hundred-fifty-thousand-dollar car.

  “Thanks, my dad—” She stops herself and shrugs. “Thanks.”

  I turn the engine off and hit the button to lower the end of the flatbed. “Get what you need out of it, I’ll hook it up.”

  I climb down from the cab and head to the lowering flatbed. I grab ahold of the clamps and chains and crouch down to start hooking things up to the undercarriage of the car. When it’s secure, I use the controls to tighten the slack.

  “Just make sure it’s in neutral.” When there’s no response, I glance back at the car. But I don’t see Annabelle. “Hey, put it in neutral so I can crank it up onto the flatbed.”

  She doesn’t answer me, so I roll my eyes as I head back there. The driver’s side door is open, but I can see that the front seat is folded forward. I can just about see a glimpse of high heels sticking out from the doorway. I sigh and stomp over. “Hey, just make sure you—”

  My words fail me, and my whole brain freezes. Right in from of me, Annabelle is bent over, reaching behind the folded-down driver’s seat for something in the backseat. Her little flirty skirt is flipped up high. Her legs are slightly spread with one knee up. And all of the means, I’ve got an absolute eye-full of her pert, tight, sexy ass, with a tiny strip of pink thong pulled tight between her cheeks.

  My dick is hard instantly. Blood rushes through my veins, and I can feel my balls swell. A caveman desire to take, and to claim creeps through my brain, like I’m a wild animal. I can feel my muscles tightening as my cock strains and pulses at the front of my jeans. Annabelle shifts, and I growl as that tempting ass of hers sways back and forth, like she’s teasing me, or tempting me. It’s like she’s daring me to take what I want.