All Flash No Cash
Authors: Randi Alexander
Tags: #motorcycle, #erotic romance, #cowboy, #holiday romance, #halloween romance, #deadwood south dakota, #red hot treats
by
Randi Alexander
“ALL FLASH NO CASH: RED HOT TREATS”
Copyright © 2014 Randi Alexander
*~*~*~*
Edited by E Felder
*~*~*~*
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters,
places and incidents are either the product of the author’s
imagination or used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual
persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales
is entirely coincidental.
This ebook is licensed for your personal
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hard work of the author.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part of this book may
be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means,
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an information storage and retrieval system-except by a reviewer
who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a
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from the author.
Other Books by Randi Alexander
Pete Gonally wandered past the row of motorcycles parked along the
curb, each one leaning like a domino ready to fall. The
mid-September sun glinted off the shiny chrome and polished tanks
and fenders. Dirty Harry’s Saloon, was a favorite watering hole in
Deadwood, South Dakota, even on a Sunday. Pete looked down at his
bib overalls, mud-crusted steel-toed boots, and oversized T-shirt.
He’d stick out like a pansy in there, but he had to do this.
Today.
He turned back to look at the semi he’d
parked a block away, loaded with round hay bales that he’d picked
up at his uncle’s farm in Wyoming. He could make the trek back to
his family’s ranch in Lemmon, but it’d take three hours to get
there, a while to shower and change, then three more hours to get
back to Deadwood. And he still had to drive up to North Dakota
tonight so he could be at work by six the next morning.
“Suck it up.” It was just his nerves making
an appearance. He had to ace this interview. This could be the
start of his career as a graphic artist. He stepped into the dark
bar, letting his eyes adjust for a few seconds. As he’d predicted,
nearly every head in the place swiveled to look at him. The scent
of leather and spilled beer rolled up his nostrils. Everywhere he
looked, black T-shirts with orange graphics, bandanas, and tattoos
covered patrons’ bodies. ‘80s rock played from a jukebox in the
corner. He pulled off his seed cap and walked to an empty spot at
the bar. He ran his hand through his curly blond hair, hoping to
look halfway presentable for this meeting.
A man sitting a ways down the bar laughed.
“Best card this one. He looks like he just fell off the turnip
truck.”
Pete forced his mouth into an amiable smile.
No sense in riling anyone up.
The bartender turned and looked at Pete. A
shock of short, curly, platinum blonde hair surrounded her tanned
face. Serious sea-green eyes met his brown ones. Wow, she was
spectacular. Walking toward him in her no-nonsense red tank top,
her eyes drifted to his work clothes. She had to be almost six feet
tall, just five inches shorter than him. And thin, like a
runner.
Stopping in front of him, she tipped her chin
up, a quick motion.
He swallowed, wanting to see if those tight
lips of hers would loosen up when he kissed them, if that
slightly-fuller bottom lip would be bitable, if—
“You drinking, hayseed?”
The woman was all business, and a good
portion rude. She crossed her long, thin arms over her small
chest.
“No, ma’am.” He tried to form a sentence,
tried to remember who his placement counselor at the graphic arts
school had told him to ask for. But his body just hummed in
acknowledgement of the Amazon in front of him.
“Hun, I got work to do. Did you just come in
to stare?” Her eyes widened a bit, and her cheeks pinked up a
little under her tan.
The bikers on either side of him snickered,
keeping a close watch over the two of them.
“Ma’am, I’m looking to talk to the owner, CJ
Overton. Is he here today?”
One of her light-brown eyebrows rose. “Yeah.
He’s here. What’s your business with him?”
“If you don’t mind, I’ll take that up with
Mr. Overton.” He hadn’t meant to be impolite, but it’d sure come
out that way.
“Ooooooh,” a few of the bikers piped up.
Those tight lips of hers went even stiffer.
She looked toward the other end of the bar. “Take over, Tony.” Her
gaze barely brushed over Pete’s face. “C’mon, hayseed. I’ll bring
you back to the office.” She strode out from behind the bar, her
short denim skirt reaching only mid-thigh, her long, slender legs
ending in ankle-high, lace-up red tennis shoes.
Along the hallway leading to the back exit,
she stopped and punched in a code beside a black door marked “Keep
Out” and led the way into a room with two desks that were loaded
with papers and files. Beyond these, in a glassed-in office, an
immaculately clean scarred wood desk sat with an office chair
behind it, and two guest chairs in front.
She walked into the office. “Have a seat.”
She gestured to the guest chairs.
“Thank you, ma’am.” He stayed on his feet,
waiting for her to leave.
She didn’t. She walked behind the desk, sat
in the office chair, and laid her palm on the desk. “I’m CJ
Overton. What ‘cha need?”
Shit. He could feel his face heat. “My
apologies.” He plopped down on one of the chairs. “I’m from the
Williston School of Graphic Arts. My placement counselor asked me
to stop by and talk to you about your project.”
Her brows rose infinitesimally as she stared
at him. “He told me you’d be by. You’re the one at the top of your
class?”
Technically, he hadn’t graduated yet, but
he’d aced the classes he took Tuesday and Thursday nights while he
worked days on the oil field in North Dakota. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Okay.” She sat back in her chair. “You know
the deal?”
He nodded once. “It’s a motorcycle job,
you’re raffling it off on Halloween as a fundraiser for a charity.
You’ll reimburse me for supplies and mileage, and it needs to be
done in four weeks.”
“Yep.” She pulled out a picture of the bike
and slid it across the desk to him. “Your counselor said you could
only work weekends, and I’m fine with that, as long as it’s
finished by the deadline. You wanna do it?”
The photo showed big twin gas tanks and wide
fenders. He could almost feel the airbrush in his hand already. He
looked up at her. “Sure. I’m happy to do this for your charity
organization.”
“And for the line on your resume, I’m
sure.”
He bit back a retort. His momma taught him to
defer to the “softer gender” and be polite.
She tapped one finger on the desk. “You’re
gonna need to turn in receipts for your expenses, or they won’t get
reimbursed. And they’ll be carefully audited before we cut you a
check. Got it?” Her eyes narrowed. “You even old enough to work in
a bar?”
This lady was tough as leather. Not a woman
to pull punches on. “First off, like I said, I’m doing it for the
charity. The opportunity to have real-time experience, that’s
secondary.” He stood and placed his hands flat on the desk, working
up a fair piece of anger. “And what I put on my resume, that’d be
my own business, ma’am.”
CJ didn’t move a muscle.
His posture had to look aggressive to her. He
straightened up, hands at his sides. “The expenses will have
backup, and you can audit them all you want, ma’am.” That’s all he
said out loud, but in his head, the words
…and shove the audit
where the South Dakota sunshine doesn’t reach
echoed.
Pete tucked his cap back on his head. “Now,
if you need to see my ID, I’ll whip it out.”
One corner of her mouth twitched, as if
trying to smile, but not remembering how. She pulled a scrap of
paper from a box on her desk and looked at it.
After a few minutes of standing there like an
idiot, he hitched a thumb over his shoulder. “You want me to leave?
You don’t sound convinced I’m the man for the job. If you wanna
find somebody else to do this, somebody older, more experienced,
who will still work at cost and be able to meet your tight
schedule, you go right ahead. And good luck.”
CJ’s intense green eyes looked up into
his.
He waited nearly a minute before turning to
leave. This had been a waste of time.
“The bike…” Her voice sounded a little less
harsh this time. “It’ll be delivered Friday afternoon. Come by then
and you can get started.”
He let out a long breath. He’d let his temper
get the best of him. He turned to face her, meeting her gaze.
“Thank you. You won’t regret it.”
She did a partial eye roll and handed him the
picture of the motorcycle. “I’m sure I won’t.”
Pete couldn’t tell if that was sarcasm or
not, but he took the photo from her. “What time are you here
Friday?” He couldn’t wait to get started. This was really
happening. He wanted to pump a fist into the air, but he figured
she wouldn’t appreciate it much.
She blinked, very slowly. “I’m here every
day, from when we open at three, to when we close at two.”
Didn’t sound like much of a life, but it
explained a lot about her hard outer shell. “I’ll be here sometime
that night.” He waited for her to say more, then left, walking
through the bar, feeling dozens of sets of eyes on him.
He fired up the semi, hung the picture of the
motorcycle on a clip on the dashboard, and headed north to Lemmon.
He let his mind wander, considering the design options he had. The
raffle was to raise funds for an Alzheimer’s charity. The drawing
would take place at Dirty Harry’s Halloween Bash. Was there any way
to combine the bar and the charity? Or was that too ambitious for
his first real bike.
Every few minutes of the long drive, he’d
think about CJ. How old was she? His age? How did she own one of
the hottest biker bars in the area? He coughed out a laugh as he
turned onto the dirt driveway of the Gonally ranch. “By acting hard
as steel, that’s how.” He didn’t go right to the barn, but swung
onto the newest road on the spread. The one that led to his
house—or at least however much of it the work crew had gotten done
this week.
He pulled up to the completed frame on top of
the basement bricks. They’d gotten a ton finished. The tall
basement window openings had particle board over them. He took the
big step up onto the foundation. The holes were cut in the
two-by-sixes for electrical and plumbing.
Walking from room to room, he envisioned each
space finished, furnished, and accessorized. He’d have to hire
someone to do that for him, given his lack of decorating talent.
Five bedrooms, an office/man cave, eat-in kitchen, formal dining
room. He stopped in front of the place marked “Fire.” This was
where the stone fireplace would go, built from the rocks that he
and his big brother, Huck, continually hauled out of the fields and
piled near fences.
It wouldn’t be long, now. He’d be able to
move in by Christmas, if luck stayed with him. And luck seemed to
be always on his side. His job on the oil field brought in enough
to pay for the house construction, plus he’d saved nearly enough in
the last seven years to buy the ranch from his parents and
thousands of acres of neighboring ranches. Of course, his father
hadn’t had enough of South Dakota winters to retire yet.
For now, he’d keep working the backbreaking
job on the Bakken Oil Field during the week, and the equally rough
job on the ranch on weekends. His avocation, art, would fit into
his schedule whenever he could squeeze out a few hours.
Pete walked out onto what would be a
breezeway to the bonus room next to the garage. His studio. It
wasn’t roughed in yet, but he had a drawing of every piece of
equipment that’d fit into the bright space.
