My 3 Rockstar Bosses

“That’s enough,” I grind out, stepping forwards. “She’s not a whore.”

“Says one of the men who just had his fat cock inside her!” Mrs. Jones screams, literally frothing at the mouth now. “Whore! Whore! Whore!”

Shit, this can’t keep going. Macy’s cowering on the bed now, only semi-covered by a thin sheet. We have to get her out of here, and evidently my brother has the same thoughts.

Because Will grabs a robe from her dresser and wraps the girl in it protectively.

“You’re fine,” he rumbles to the trembling brunette, tears sliding down her cheeks uncontrollably. “You’re gonna be fine.”

But Mrs. Jones is on a roll.

“Whore!” she screams again, still pointing. “Whore! Whore! Whore!”

God, does she know any other words? Besides, this is a fucked-up way to treat your daughter, your only child at that. Seriously, shut up for a minute and see what Macy has to say.

But Marsha Jones is too far gone. Her eyes roll wildly, the muscles in her neck tight and strained, arm stiff as she stares and points.

“Whore!” she screams again.

That’s it. That’s the end of this.

“Get her out of here,” I growl at my brother.

He nods and sweeps Macy into his arms, pushing past her parents as Marsha continues her robotic chanting. It’s like a devil has taken over her body, requiring an exorcist.

Will pounds down the steps and out the door, my massive form following in their wake. Marsha seems to snap out of it somewhat, but not in a good way.

“If you walk out of here, Macy Lynn Jones, don’t you think you can come back!” she screams shrilly, not caring if the entire neighborhood hears. “Don’t think you can bring that nasty business back into my house! You’re the spawn of the devil, with evil between your legs! Repent now or never return!”

That’s too much. First, there’s no need to be so dramatic, like this is a horror movie or something. Really? “Repent now”? “Evil between her legs”? “Spawn of the devil”? More like Macy’s her own flesh and blood.

Second, the Joneses have been on their daughter’s ass all summer, telling her she’s wasting her time with cooking, that her dreams are worth shit. They devalue this incredible female, and to me, that’s unforgiveable.

So I grunt, turning nastily to face her parents as Will loads the trembling female into our car.

“Shut the fuck up,” is my raging roar. “Shut the fuck up, or I swear ….” comes my bitten-off threat. I want to do all sorts of nasty things, but this isn’t the time. Already lights are turning on in neighboring houses, and I’m sure someone has their cellphone pointed our way.

So instead, I grimace menacingly at the Jones parents, and then rush into the car myself, slamming the Mercedes door emphatically.

We zoom through the neighborhood, just trying to create some distance at first, wheels squealing as rubber meets the road.

Macy’s in the backseat, face frozen, unable to move because of shock.

“Sweet thing,” I rumble reassuringly. “Don’t let it get to you.”

But she can’t process anything right now because too much has happened in too short of a time. It was dramatic and overwhelming, and the brunette’s stock still, frozen in the back of the car as we whiz along at eighty miles an hour.

Finally though, Tim pulls up in front of a fancy hotel.

“The Meridian’s a good one,” he growls, turning to look at our girl. “You’re gonna be fine.”

And slowly she nods, eyes wide, still unmoving.

But hell, this is a time to go five star if there ever was one. Because our female deserves the best, and we’re gonna give it to her. Booking a suite, we walk our beautiful girl up to the twenty-seventh floor. Opening the door, I can’t help but whistle appreciatively. Shit, this place is the bomb, with white pile carpet, two giant flatscreens, and priceless artwork scattered in the living area.

But Macy doesn’t care. Eyes unseeing, she wobbles into the suite before collapsing on a plush couch.