California Nights (Rich Boys of California Duet 1)

I fucking loved this car.

Probably why I called her ‘Miriah’ after my mom.

My beautiful, crazy mom who died too young.

I barely remembered her but from pictures I could tell she’d been hot and more than a little wild. Just like my souped up little ride. Miriah was going to win me a lot of cash.

If I ever fucking finished her.

I sat up and grabbed a rag to wipe the sweat and grease drippings off my face. A glistening cold beer was held in front of me. I looked up to see my best friend Clyde leaning against the unfinished side panel of the car.

“How about we get the fuck out of here Jace? Maybe get us some real women? You know, the kind that like beer instead of motor oil.”

I grinned at him and swallowed deeply, downing the beer. It was half gone in two shakes.

“No man, you go. I have to finish her up before the season starts.”

He shook his head at me, and tipped his beer, spilling some on the blazing hot asphalt.

“Your loss man.”

I laughed and finished my beer. Then I rolled back under Miriah.

Like I said, I had shit to do.

Chapter Forty-Eight

Frannie

I sat up and rubbed the back of my neck. I was sore from bending over my laptop for what felt like twenty hours straight. I knew it wasn’t really that long. But it was my final paper of the year and it had to be perfect.

Scratch that – it was the final paper of my entire collegiate career.

I wanted to end it on a high note.

Not to mention it was for my favorite class.

Professor Candel was insightful, eloquent and if I was honest with myself, more than a little dashing. Handsome in an ‘older man who knows everything’ sort of way. I had the tiniest bit of a school girl crush on him. All the girls did.

I sighed and leaned back. I had proofed the damn thing at least four times. I already had his recommendations in hand, as well as the teaching job in Japan he’d practically handed to me.

I already had the grade.

But it wasn’t good enough for me. It had to be perfect.

I had to be perfect.

Ever since I was a little kid I’d worked hard for my grades. At first it was to please my parents. By the time I’d realized they could care less about me, it was already a part of my routine.

Study, read, hang out with Nev, garden. Rinse and repeat.

So why was I killing myself over this last paper?

I guess it was just a hard habit to break.

Either way, I did still have to hand it in. Professor Candel was old school. He insisted on papers being actual, well, paper. So I had to get over to campus before they locked the building his office was in, and slip my paper through the slot in his door.

I glanced at the clock. It was almost 6:15. I had about an hour and forty-five minutes to go before the absolute final deadline. I shook my head. It had to be good enough as it was. I hit print and went to my bedroom to throw on a bra and swipe lip gloss across my lips.

Nev had turned me onto some hair tips last year that really helped tame my mane. Products made specifically for curly hair. A diffuser. Prayer hands.

Yes, prayer hands.

If you applied products to sopping wet hair with your hands pressed together and slid them down to the end, it helped clump the curls together. Zero frizz. Just bounce.

Prayer hands were pretty much a miracle.

I stared in the mirror, knowing I was making an effort in case I saw the handsome Professor. It was a stupid impulse I knew. But it was there all the same.

Not that I would know what to do with a man if I ever had one.

In fact, I’d never even been kissed.

Very sad but very, very true.

Pathetic even.

No one knew my deep dark secret of course. Except my best friend forever, Nevada Jones. Thankfully she had educated me after her own late, but very extensive, start in the sex game. So I was prepared with knowledge, but not experience.

Still, lip gloss did not a sex kitten make. Especially in my case. I made a face at myself in the mirror. Big puffy lips, big blue gray eyes, round cheeks and the craziest tumble of auburn curls ever.

I rolled my eyes at myself, not impressed.

This is not the time to start beating yourself up, Frannie.

I’d learned to fight that inner voice. The one that sounded like the bullies back in high school. Nevada had helped with that too.

I scooped up my bag and ran down to my beat up old car. My parents had bought me an expensive convertible when I was just sixteen but I hadn’t wanted it anymore by the time I graduated. Not to sound ungrateful, but I was tired of them buying my affection.