Stacy Vs. SEAL

I want to be with her.

What the fuck am I doing, just sitting around, feeling sorry for myself? God, I’m a pansy. I should turn in my patch right now, just because I’ve been a pansy.

But, I’m not going to. I have more money than God. It’s about time I start using it to get what I want.

75

Lisa

I smile politely as I chat with Kim and Cody at their garden party in the Hamptons. My heels are sinking into the ground (whoever thought that wearing stilettos to a garden party was a good idea should be shot on sight) and my face is so tired from smiling politely, I feel like I should take a week-long nap just to recover from it.

Like a marathon, but for cheek muscles.

Kim and Cody are all over each other, cooing and kissing and my upchuck reflex is on high alert. I mean, if I were the one doing all of the cooing and kissing, that’d be one thing, but…well, I’m not.

And despite Becca’s assurances to the contrary, Diesel hasn’t come to declare his love to me. She had seemed so sure that Diesel was going to come waltzing in at any moment and say, “Psych! Just kidding. I really do love you and I’m really not in an MC and I’m really not a serial liar!”

Except…he hasn’t shown up at all and its been three weeks as of yesterday.

Can I just say—Kindle authors are really starting to get on my nerves, what with their happily ever afters and dangerous bad boys and none of them are pathological liars.

Why is my bad boy turning out to be one?

Oh yeah, my face muscles are going to freeze in this position; I can feel the paralysis creeping over me.

“Hey baby, what’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?”

My momma always told me that if I rolled my eyes too often, they’d get stuck in that position, which means at this very moment, I am in imminent danger of having my cheek muscles and my eyes stuck in unflattering positions.

I turn on my heel, digging myself deeper into the lawn, and come face to face with Fabio. Okay, maybe not the Fabio ‘cause he’s an old dude, but this guy has it going on—long, flowing hair, a chiseled jaw that looks like it could potentially jackhammer its way through concrete, and muscles everywhere. Hell, this guy’s dick could probably out bench press me.

But instead of suitably drooling and cooing and laughing at his (awful) pick-up line, I’m just left cold. Like someone put me into an ice chest. Or, Wisconsin in January.

“Hi,” I say automatically, putting my hand out to shake his. He grabs it and yanks me toward him, throwing me off-balance and crashing into his rock-hard chest.

And rock-hard dick.

My eyes immediately shoot up to his and he just grins at me, obviously expecting me to take his hard-on as a compliment.

“Does a pretty lady like you want to—”

“Nope!” I say loudly, yanking back from his arms and righting myself on my heels again.

Who thought that stilettos were a good idea at a garden party again?

“But I haven’t even asked—”

“And I’m already saying no,” I cut him off. “Doesn’t that tell you something?”

His face went from leering to angry in a flash. “Goddamn bitches, wearing skirts like that and then acting like they’re too good to throw back a drink with—”

Which statement is also cut off, but this time by the rumbling of motorcycles. A lot of motorcycles.

Now, as previously mentioned, I’m at Kim and Cody’s house. In the Hamptons. To say that there aren’t a lot of motorcycles that roam the streets here is…well, like saying that Coach handbags are worth dying for. You don’t get much more “duh” than that.

Kim and I just stare at each other for the longest moment of my life and then I’m ripping my heels off my feet so I can run, goddamn run across the backyard and up the side yard and into the front yard—OMG, Kim, buy a smaller house next time for God’s sakes—and there, oh god, there is Diesel.

Except, for the first time since I’ve met him, he actually looks l