Bad Boys for Hire: Ryker (Bad Boys for Hire #1)

“
S
exy and explosive
. A modern day Romeo and Juliet story with a surprising twist.”

Florist Terri Martin lives a calm and peaceful life. Maybe too calm and too peaceful because she can’t remember the last time she was in a relationship.

Terri calls Bad Boys for Hire to book herself a date for her thirtieth birthday party, but before she can hire one, she meets Ryker Slade, a biker hiding from his motorcycle club.

Old vendettas resurface and soon, Terri has more than she can handle when she learns that her and Ryker’s love is as doomed as Romeo and Juliet’s.

Ryker thinks he has a way out, but can Terri escape her fate, or will she find her lover dead before she wakes?

“
T
his is a wildly
unforgettable yet purely honest love story that will obliterate the strong defenses around your well-guarded heart.” – Amber McCallister

“
B
ikes
, blood-feuds and love, a story of two strangers who meet and find out they started a blood-feud they now have to try to stop, before they get killed. A modern Romeo and Juliet story with a surprising twist.” – Angelica Berglund

“
C
hance meetings
and sordid pasts prove fate knows what it's doing!” – Corissa Palfrey

“
L
ove is immortal
. Love is powerful and fearless. Ryker and Terri's love story is one of a kind.” – Jessica Cassidy

“
E
njoyed
this fun Romeo and Juliet like story.” – Marie Smith Fowler

“
A
refreshing change
from most romance novels. Rachelle kept me wondering what would happen and the ending surprised me.” – Patricia A. Conley-Shepard

“
S
assy
, fun-loving and adventurous, which will have you asking yourself do you remember your first kiss?” – Terri Merkel

“
T
he perfect combination of love
, humor and steam that will keep you sighing from start to finish.” – Yomari Suárez-Rivera

“
F
un
, sexy, steamy.” – Kris Woltzen

C
opyright
© 2016 by Rachelle Ayala

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real events or real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

All trademarks belong to their respective holders and are used without permission under trademark fair use.

Cover Creation: Rachelle Ayala Publishing, LLC

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http://bit.ly/RachAyala

Contact Rachelle at
http://rachelleayala.me/author-bio/contact/

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http://rachelleayala.me/reading-guide/

“
B
ad Boys for Hire
, how may I help you?” Rex Carter floated on a foam pool lounge in the center of his swimming pool. Life was good as he glanced at his palatial Mediterranean mansion in a secluded community outside of San Francisco.

“Mr. Carter, my name is Terri Martin, but you can call me Terr, because I’m either terrific or a terror, depending on who you ask,” a full-bodied female voice rumbled through the earpiece. “I’m looking to hire a bad boy.”

“You’ve called the right agency. What type are you looking for?”

“I was going through your website, and I must say, you do have quite a collection, but it’s hard to tell. They’re all so tempting, and I can’t make up my mind.”

“That’s what I’m here for,” Rex reassured. As owner of Bad Boys for Hire, Rex was responsible for hiring and training his bad boys, as well as matching them to potential clients. “Tell me about yourself and what made you decide to hire one of our Certified Bad Boys.”

“I’m turning thirty in a week,” Terr said, her voice too loud, as if she was giving a speech. “And I’m still single with not a relationship in sight. I’m sure you get many callers like me.”

Rex held the receiver slightly away from his ear and nodded, as if the woman were right in front of him.

“All the time. Wonderful, smart, and attractive women like you deserve the perfect escort to that special occasion, whether a wedding, party, or family reunion. Tell me the time and place, and I’ll fit you with the perfect Bad Boy.”

“Awesome. Can we start with my birthday party? My parents are putting on a surprise party at the country club next week. They’ve invited all my coworkers and classmates, including my Bumblebee preschool dance class. Everyone and their mates, dates, and plus ones.”

“We do parties all the time. What statement would you like to make?” Rex went through the inventory in his mind. “I’ve got a Bad Boy Billionaire finishing a gig in three days, a Bad Boy Doctor coming back from vacation tomorrow, and a Bad Boy Football Player in case your father’s a sports nut.”

“Actually, I don’t care for them to think I’ve snagged a successful man.” Terri’s voice lowered into a grumble. “I want your Meanest Motorcycle Club Bad Boy. You have several on your website.”

“Hmmm … I’m going to have to check on inventory. A convention of romance writers is in town and Motorcycle Club Bad Boys are booked solid. How about a Personal Injury Lawyer or a Punk Rocker? I even have one with a nose ring.”

“I had my heart set on a Harley.” This time Terri, or Terror, did growl. “I love the way those Hogs rumble.”

“I might be able to get you a basset hound dog named Harley,” Rex said. “I’ve got several puppies, or how about a Great Dane? I’m sure your parents and friends will be impressed with Dane the Great.”

“I want a man, not a dog.” Now, Terror sounded like she was stomping her foot. “If you can’t deliver, I’ll call across town. I’m sure Jazzy Gems has some bikers left.”

“If you’re really into shocking your folks, sure. She’s got a few Bad
Girl
Bikers who’ll be glad to give you a whirl or a spin.”

“I really, really want a Bad Boy,” Terror rasped like the Godfather on steroids. “And if you can’t find me one, you’re it, Rex Carter.”

The call ended, and a tiny cloud floated over the swimming pool, blotting out the sunshine. Rex flung his arm over his head in a dramatic gesture befitting Hamlet betrayed by his best buddy, Horatio.

The foam pool lounger tipped, dumping Rex, his tablet, his cell phone, earpiece, sunglasses, and his drink into the bright blue swimming pool.

R
yker Slade flipped
through his wallet and emptied his saddlebags, scattering a few coins on the floor he’d slept on inside an abandoned barn. His tank was almost empty, but when it came between eating or filling his Harley, well, his bike came first.

It had been five years since he left the Metal Wolves Motorcycle Club. He’d joined the Marines and deployed to the Middle East to serve his country. He’d fought militia groups bent on destroying western civilization, rescued orphans, and freed hostages. It all ended three months ago when he caught a piece of shrapnel in his left thigh. Now, he was just another war veteran back home looking for a job in an economy that soured shortly after he was discharged from the VA hospital.

He lined up a few crumpled bills, five ones and a ten, then rolled up his secondhand sleeping bag. In a few minutes, he’d packed all his belongings in his saddlebags and clipped his handgun into the holster attached to his boot.

The inside of the barn was still chilly in the morning, despite it being the beginning of April, and he wouldn’t be surprised if a bank of fog hung around until noon—so different from the stark days and nights in Afghanistan.

Ryker pulled his pant legs over his boots and zipped up his leather jacket. He had several leads for security guard positions, but with his aching leg, that would be his last resort. He’d already been to every military job fair in the state, before heading home to the San Francisco Bay Area. He figured if he had to be homeless, it might as well be near home—nestled between the redwoods, small farms, and scenic vistas along the crest of the Santa Cruz mountains.

Not that he could show his face in La Honda, where his mother and three brothers still lived. He’d made his choice and turned his back five years ago. Made his bed with Uncle Sam, and that was that.

After gathering his belongings, Ryker walked his motorcycle onto the asphalt drive. He never failed to thank his buddy, Axe, who’d kept his Harley in riding condition while he was gone. The chrome shone, and the leather was well-oiled. Ryker pulled his helmet in place and gunned the rumbling engine.

He stopped at a convenience store and filled his tank, leaving him with a little less than two dollars worth of change, not enough for even a small coffee.

Ryker’s stomach growled in protest as he paid for the gasoline and strode away from the pretzels and doughnuts languishing in the plastic display case.

He could afford to wait a little longer, because today was the day he was getting a job.

Four hours later, his luck hadn’t changed, and his stomach ached at trying to digest itself. Ryker hid his bike behind a stand of redwoods. He removed an empty coffee can and a well-worn sign, “Hungry Veteran. Have Compassion. God Bless You,” decorated with a cross and the American flag.

Donning a pair of scratched sunglasses, he smoothed his sweat-plastered helmet hair and pulled a baseball cap low over his brows.

He tried to look proud and confident, like a Marine should, as he ambled to the median divider on the left turn lane into Cooper’s Hangout—a roadhouse diner tucked under giant stands of redwoods where bikers, hipsters, local artists, and Silicon Valley entrepreneurs came together to enjoy pancakes, burgers, beer or wine, and rustic scrambles—all environmentally friendly, sustainable, organic, and expensive.

As the lunch crowd turned into the parking lot, Ryker stood as still as a statue, holding his sign. He didn’t make eye-contact with any of the drivers, but silently waited for a kind-hearted soul to lower a window.

He always thanked them with a simple, “God bless you,” and quietly pocketed the money. Sometimes, a window would slide down and an entitled son of a bitch would sneer. “Get a job, lazy bum.”

Once a woman dangled a twenty, but when he went to thank her, she snatched it back and hit him over the head with a rolled up umbrella. “You’re what’s wrong with America,” she’d said. “Always wanting handouts.”

Ryker watched the parade of Mercedes, BMWs, SUVs, and late model cars turn into the parking lot. The sun had risen over the redwoods, and it was getting hot on the pavement.

No one lowered their window.

T
erri glared
over the top of the menu at her best friend, Jolie Becker. “I will not wear a baby pink dress, even if Vera Wang were the designer. No way.”

“But my theme is pink fantasy fairytale.” Jolie put her menu down and blinked at Terri. “Pink is my favorite color.”

“It’s too much. Who knew there were more than fifty shades of pink?” Terri said, her gaze shifting to their mutual friends and fellow bridesmaid victims, Nikki, Leanna, and Sherelle. “Besides, I don’t want to look like a pink elephant.”

The five friends were seated in a booth near the front window at Cooper’s Hangout, their favorite frou-frou meets lumberjack restaurant serving burgers from bison to vegan.

“Isn’t the correct term white elephant?” Sherelle Edwards frowned while flipping through the swatch book. She was the brain of the group, having gotten straight A’s from Montessori onwards, but suffered from constant foot-in-the-mouth disease.

“Last I checked, my skin is pink or light peach colored, not white. Besides, I don’t want to look like
any
kind of elephant.” Terri slapped the menu on the table. “This color is bordering on salmon. It’ll make me look too washed out. If we’re doing pink, we should go with blush.”

“Blush is too light,” Nikki Chu interjected, tapping her dark purple fingernail tips at the swatch book. “I’d rather have magenta.”

Magenta would look majestic for an Asian woman, but not for Terri who was a pale blonde. If salmon was already overpowering, then magenta would be a disaster.

“I don’t want anything too dark,” Sherelle held the swatch book against her mahogany forearm. “Fuchsia is just right. No one looks good in blush.”

“Fuchsia’s too saturated.” Terri had to hold her ground. With her milk-white skin, she’d look like a mannequin next to her friends. Well, a curvy mannequin who needed to lose twenty pounds. “Leanna? What do you think about the salmon?”

“It’s equally ugly for all of us,” Leanna Rivera said, although
she
only had to lose ten pounds. She was a Latina with warm brown skin, big dark brown eyes, and wavy black hair. “That’s exactly why Jolie chose it.”

“It’s not ugly. It’s neutral and looks great on all of you.” Jolie, a professional makeup artist, swept her hand in an arc from Terri to Sherelle. “Besides, I like the orange undertones.”

She was a strawberry redhead, a size six, with a slim, willowy figure, and she’d look good in anything, especially standing next to Terri, the pink elephant, or should she say salmon elephant, or whale, or whatever.

“Too much orange,” Nikki argued, most definitely not wanting to look like a saffron robed monk. “Are you serving salmon for the reception? Atlantic or sockeye? Or farm-raised pale? Aren’t you allergic to seafood?”

“You know that farm-raised stuff is gray before they add the dye?” Sherelle was always the fount of irrelevant trivia. She owned a catering company that sourced only organic, sustainable, environmentally friendly, and dolphin-safe seafood.

“Pink salmon will look great on all of you,” Jolie paid no attention to Sherelle’s interjection or Nikki’s question on her many allergies. “It’s not too bridesmaidsy. Just think, you can wear it again.”

“Only if we get rid of the ruffles.” Nikki pointed out. Being petite and around five feet even, she’d look like a fluffed out Rhode Island red hen do-si-doing at a square dance. “A simple sheath design would go far.”

“But I like ruffles,” Leanna said. “Ruffles are in style this season.”

“It’s too baby doll,” Sherelle argued. “A rose colored lace dress is more feminine. I’d definitely wear that again.”

“You sure you want to go with a pink theme at all?” Terri huffed, exasperated. The five of them were in various businesses in the wedding industry. She was a florist. Nikki did photos and videos and worked as a travel blogger. Leanna was the baker, and Sherelle was the creative mind behind her eco-friendly catering company.

“I’ve always wanted a Cinderella wedding,” Jolie said. “You knew that.”

Of course, they all knew. Back when they were in dance class together growing up, Jolie lost her starring role of Cinderella to a bout of vaccination-induced chicken pox. She’d never quite recovered from that disappointment.

“I’d rather have a Maleficent-themed wedding, if I were ever to take the plunge, which I’m not,” Sherelle grumbled, picking black enamel from the backs of her fingernails. “Are we going to order or what? Some of this stuff looks suspiciously unsustainable. You know Chilean sea bass is actually Patagonia toothfish?”

“Does it matter?” A spire of frustration bloomed in Terri’s stomach. “I’m not wearing a salmon colored dress full of ruffles. Why don’t we all get our own dresses in whichever shade of pink we like and do something different? Who says we all have to match?”

Jolie slammed her coffee cup on the thick oak restaurant. “Am I the bride or am I not the bride? I want a Cinderella fantasy wedding all in pink.”

What was she doing? Trying out for the canceled
Bridezilla
show? Terri fumed, but held her breath. Being maid of honor meant she should be supportive, although the argument over the floral arrangements the day before had her wondering whether she’d survive both her dateless birthday party and the even more pitiful wedding where Jolie had promised to toss the all-pink bouquet her direction.

“Uh, I hate to break it to you.” Nikki arched one slender eyebrow and parked her skeptical gaze on the would-be Cinder-bride. “But in the Disney version, Cinderella’s dress was silver and blue, not pink.”

“It was pink at the beginning,” Jolie said. Two splotches of pink spread over her cheeks, showing her fury. “That’s what the mice made for her until the evil stepsisters cut it up.”

She shrieked so loudly, she drew the attention of the people at the surrounding tables.

“You still have a problem.” Nikki eagerly pointed out. “You’re the bride and you’re wearing white. So technically, you’re not Cinderella. We are.”

“Ugh. Do you want me to do your makeup or not?” Jolie stood, waving her finger around like a magic wand. She, of course, owned the hugely popular and chic Jolie Beauty Salon.

“Is that a threat?” Nikki crossed her arms. “’Cause I’ve just about had it with you and the baby shower colors you insist on foisting on us all in the name of a wedding.”

“Girls, girls. Let’s all clam down. Jolie has spoken,” Sherelle said, pulling Jolie back into her seat. “She wants pink, we’ll give her pink. Let’s settle on a shade other than salmon and I’m good. I don’t want anyone mistaking me for a slab of sushi.”

“What’s wrong with that?” Leanna giggled. “If the groomsmen are hunky and hungry, I’ll be all the salmon they can eat.”

“You know, that was bad, even for you,” Sherelle sighed loudly. “How about we each pick different shades of pink? Let Terri wear the lightest, blush, since she’s standing next to the bride, then go from there.”

“Fine. I’ll bring up the color wheel on my laptop and find the color code to the salmon Jolie wanted,” Nikki offered, seemingly mollified by the thought of picking her own shade. “That way, if she wants us all to look like we’re wearing the same color, I can Photoshop the pictures.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Terri quickly agreed before the girls could reopen the discussion. Her stomach was growling, and she had a huge shipment of white roses and lilies she had to arrange for a funeral.

Since she didn’t care whether they got lace, fringe, or a plain sheath, off shoulder or princess neckline, she sipped her coffee and looked out the window. Well, she didn’t care for ruffles, but she’d leave the fight to Nikki, Jolie’s roommate who was used to dealing with photographing high strung fashion models. Bet none of them wore ruffles on the runway.

It was a breezy spring day and the sun was shining, spreading rays of brightness through the thick grove of redwoods shading the restaurant. The lunch hour was starting up, and a steady stream of cars entered the parking lot.

Terri narrowed her eyes. Standing on the median strip was a large and healthy looking man. His posture was ramrod straight and from what she could see beneath his open jacket, he didn’t have an inch of fat. Large, broad shoulders, long legs, a pair of sunglasses and a baseball cap. Not a crutch in sight.

He held a cardboard sign and a coffee can.

Begging. Panhandling. Humph. He probably made more in an hour taking money from do-gooders than she did after taxes and expenses.

“What you looking at?” Leanna leaned over Terri’s shoulder. “Oh my, my, let me give him a tip to carry my groceries.”

“He’s not asking for work. He’s panhandling,” Terri corrected her friend, even though her skin heated at the thought of having that hunk handling her pan. “Hot or not, he’s what’s wrong with America. Everyone wants a handout.”

“I’ll give him a handout any time.” Leanna made the sizzling sound of drool sucking. “Yum, yum, yum.”

By now, all the girls were craning their necks, and pushing and shoving just like they had in preschool before a Bumblebee dance recital.

Nikki even had her nose pressed against the glass. “We should hire him for the bachelor party.”

“Where, where? I need to get a better look.” Jolie tried to push Terri aside.

“You’re the bride, you can’t look,” Sherelle said, leaning over Jolie. “Oh, man, take off your jacket. Take it off, dude. It’s hot out there. The sun is bearing down on you. You’re sweating bullets. Take it off, come on now, yeah, oh, yeah.”

“What are you, a panhandler whisperer?” Terri grumbled, although she wasn’t about to take her eyes off the man hunk, in case he really did remove his jacket.

And remove it he did, as the row of cars passed by and the light turned. He bent down and placed his coffee can and sign on the median, showing them a fine pair of tight buns. After that, in a single motion, he unzipped his jacket and flung it off.

Not a single female heartbeat could be heard in the diner, roadhouse, café, restaurant or whatever Cooper’s Hangout was designated, as every ovary owner silently catalogued the man before them.

A tight black T-shirt was stretched to its limits over his rock hard chest. Biceps bulged beneath the short sleeves, and a pair of broad shoulders flared down to a solid waist devoid of flab.

When the man bent again to pick up his sign and can, five pairs of high heels clip-clopped to the doorway, as Terri and her friends jostled each other, tripping over their feet, and scrambling with their purses and wallets.

“I saw him first. I have first dibs,” Terri said. She used her larger frame to block her friends from the door, but Nikki slipped under her armpit, and was off like a flash of lightning across the parking lot.

“He’s not your type,” Leanna said. She sashayed faster, bouncing every part of her anatomy as she ran out the door of the diner.

“Oh yeah? If I have to wear pink ruffles, I definitely deserve a break. Besides, don’t you have a boyfriend?” Terri caught her friend’s arm to keep her from jiggling faster.

A large semi truck lumbered slowly through the intersection, cutting off their view of the delectable man, and by the time Terri had pressed the pedestrian button on the signal pole and the light had changed, the man was walking toward the extension parking lot across the street.

“He probably made enough beer money for the day,” Terri said. Just for kicks she yelled. “Get a job and pay taxes like the rest of us.”

Her heart stopped when the man turned and stared at her. A sickening feeling slid down her spine as her friends melted away from her side and headed back to the restaurant.