Swinger Style: Hot Rods, Book 5 Read online

  She’s running on empty…and he’s ready to fill her up.

  Hot Rods, Book 5

  After watching his mother crumble in the face of heartbreak, Holden believes monogamy is bull. New week, new woman, that’s just how he rolls. Too bad one taste of Sabra Harp leaves him salivating for more.

  Sabra was ready for the climb from local news reporter to national anchor—before her pursuit of a story almost destroyed the Hot Rods, whose friendship she has admired from afar. Too bad they all hate her guts. That’s okay, she despises what she’s become too…enough that she’s just told her boss where to stick it.

  When Holden drives a drunken Sabra home and puts her to bed, her blatant invitation almost has him following her between the sheets. She’s willing to let him take charge in bed, friends included—and he’s willing to listen to her amazing business proposition, which could rocket the Hot Rods to stardom.

  Yet as his friends have paired off, Holden realizes that to participate in their polyamorous games without becoming a third wheel, he needs Sabra. And she needs him…oh, how she needs him.

  Warning: Contains a career-driven newswoman/yoga fiend who wants to get twisted up with a Hot Rod or five and a what’s-mine-is-yours guy who likes to watch. One scene with non-explicit drug use takes a Hot Rod to the dark side—good thing this group of friends always has each other’s backs.

  Swinger Style

  Jayne Rylon

  Dedication

  For all the readers who have been super fans long enough to become friends. Your support of my work is eternally appreciated. Phuong Phan, Liz Berry, Shirley Long, Cherie Clark, Tracey Reid, Fedora Chen, Barbara Kidd, Kitty Kelly, Casey Lu Matte, Gigi Staub, Dawn Vaeoso, Shari David, Charity Hendry, Terri & Billy Doughty, Nicole Harvey, Stacia Smith, Jen Salmi, Eileen Roth, Meghan Kinch, Linda Johnson, Zina Lynch, Susan Romito, all the Bitches and so, so, so many more. Thank you!

  Chapter One

  Sabra Harp slapped her palms onto the weathered door of the Bad News Bar and shoved it open, trundling through in time to avoid getting smacked in the face by its recoil. She didn’t give a shit that her blouse had come untucked or that her mascara had left smudges on her cheeks when she’d dashed tears from them earlier.

  On other days, the pub’s name had seemed ironic. Today, fitting.

  Weaving through the after-work crowd, she ignored the appreciative stares of the men pressing around her. All she needed right then was a good, stiff…drink.

  She climbed onto the only empty stool at the bar and discouraged chitchat with the too-chipper plastic woman beside her by shooting off a death-ray glare. Then she turned to the bartender. “Hey, Ward, get me a rum and Coke, please.”

  “That’s a far cry from your usual, nursing a few sips of our crappy house white when you show up at happy hour with those newsroom fellows. You sure?” He wrung his towel as he studied her. Dropping her gaze, she hoped he didn’t notice how puffy and bloodshot her eyes were.

  “Yeah. It’s been that kind of day, you know? In fact, make it a double. With top shelf, strong shit.” She planted her elbows on the bar and put her head in her hands without waiting for his response.

  “I’ll be right back with that, doll.” He touched her wrist softly, then vanished.

  “Having a rough one, huh?” The saccharine, singsongy question could only have come from the barfly next door. Damn it.

  “Yes,” Sabra spat through gritted teeth. Instead of taking the hint, the woman scooted her stool closer. Great.

  “I know what that’s like.” The woman chuckled and patted Sabra on the shoulder. Unlike Ward’s glancing contact, the connection had her skin crawling. Maybe it’d been a mistake to come here when she needed to stew. She’d finish her drink, then head home—alone—to mope in private.

  “Yeah? What’d you do, break a nail?” Sabra knew she was being a bitch, but her filter had disintegrated earlier, along with her career as Middletown’s anchorwoman. Telling one’s boss to fuck off wasn’t exactly a recommended path to promotions.

  “Nah, boy trouble. What else?” Her neighbor’s shrill laugh had several men turning their heads. Did fake dramatics like that really lure in guys? Admittedly drunk and rowdy, some of the interested dudes seemed like they should know better. “My name’s Bambi, by the way.”

  Sabra realized her life could actually be worse. She could be called Bambi.

  “Wow. Were your parents Disney fans or something?” She promised herself she’d quit the snark. Soon. It only steeped her in negativity instead of cheering her up. Probably she should have indulged in a double session of yoga and meditation instead of liquor. That might have cleared her mind instead of poisoning her chakras. Too late now.

  There’d be plenty of time to practice the advanced jivamukti poses she’d nearly mastered now that she had joined the ranks of the jobless. Endless hours would abound after she finished out her two-week notice. They would allow her to concentrate on her core values and figure out what path to take from here. Kicking off the rest of her life with a hangover seemed like a minor indulgence.

  “Huh?” Bambi’s over-processed, super-styled platinum blonde hair didn’t budge when she canted her head and squinted her eyes. “Actually, I picked it myself. My real name is Theresa. Do I look like a Theresa to you?”

  “Hell no, baby,” a smashed man answered for Sabra.

  She prayed the two would hit it off and sneak into the woods out back for a quickie. No such luck.

  “Thanks, sugar.” Bambi winked, then returned her attention to Sabra.

  When Ward delivered her drink with a slight shake of his head, she didn’t hesitate in downing a slug and then another. A welcome burn spread through her chest, masking the chill inside her, at least for a moment or two. Until she guzzled a few more swallows.

  “So, like I was saying, I’ve had a bad run here lately.” Bambi flounced and swiveled so that she faced Sabra fully. Her cleavage stayed remarkably steady since her unnaturally large boobs didn’t wobble even a bit. Kind of fascinated, Sabra tried not to stare, draining more of her rum and Coke instead.

  “First, a guy I really liked clocked me, so I had to ditch him. Then I decided to go for some pure fun with a couple of mechanics. But they ended up wanting to screw each other more than me. And when I tried a boring accountant instead, the guy dumped me just because I gave his friend a hummer in the bathroom when we were smashed one night. I mean, it was the guy’s birthday. Go figure.”

  “Rewind. Did you say mechanics?” An entire lifetime of ferreting out leads kicked in like second nature. Then again, Sabra had been kind of obsessed with a grease monkey herself lately. Too bad he couldn’t stand her since she’d broken a promise to him.

  “Oh, yeah.” Bambi grinned, then leaned in closer to continue in a conspiratorial whisper-shout. “Mechanicsssssssss. There were two of them. Hot. One is this bald Latino guy, and the other is a real all-American kind of stud. Handsome and dangerous enough to get my motor running. I blew that guy once, out back, and hoped he’d return the favor by making me crazy along with his friends. I think there are six or seven of the guys who work in their shop. Well, anyway, a couple of them came in here, looking…sorta like you do tonight. So I tried to cheer them up. They banged me on some old car they were fixing. It should have been smoking. Except it kind of sucked. They weren’t that into me. Can you believe that? I think they wanted each other more than me. Total disappointment.”

  Bambi rolled her eyes, as if such a thing was impossible.

  Unfortunately, Sabra could picture it really well. Two guys she’d met recently blazed to the front of her mi
nd. Eli London and Alanso Diaz. They fit Bambi’s description like the designer wiggle dress Sabra had been eying as a reward for her next promotion, which hugged her curves and gave her flare worthy of a pin-up.

  She drained her glass as she imagined the guys hooking up with each other and one of the ladies she’d seen in their company at the park that fateful day.

  Don’t ask. Don’t ask. Don’t ask.

  Sabra couldn’t help but torture herself. “Are you talking about the Hot Rods?”

  “Holy cow!” Bambi’s eyes grew wide as she shrieked, “Have you—”

  “No. No, no and no again.” Almost tipping over on her stool, Sabra waved off the thwarted question, frantically trying to get her new frenemy to lower her voice about a hundred decibels. “I know of them, but they hate my guts.”

  “Mine too, I think.” Bambi frowned into her lite beer. “I was kind of a bitch to them. But we’d all been drinking and I was really horny.”

  “I could help you out with that.” A guy invaded Bambi’s personal space, circling like a vulture. He must have overheard enough of their conversation to sense opportunity. Uh-oh.

  The room spun when Sabra jerked her head in the encroacher’s direction quick enough to spot lust and overconfidence in the guy’s stare.

  “Back off, buddy.” Ward collected Sabra’s empty glass and reached to steady her. He glanced up as if watching someone else approach, except this time he nodded slightly instead of baring his teeth.

  None of it mattered to Sabra. She couldn’t believe her nose for news still functioned. So she tried to dig up more of the scoop.

  “Bambi, you mean Eli and Alanso, right?” She reached toward the other woman. “What about Holden? The one they call Swinger. With the killer smile and the super-tight ass. Was he involved?”

  “If there’s something you want to know about me or my friends, why don’t you come straight to the source?” The gruff question from directly behind her sounded more like an accusation than an expression of curiosity. “Or are you writing gossip columns instead of reporting the news these days?”

  “Holden!” Of all the Hot Rods to stroll into this bar, he had to be the one to show up. Of course he did. Actually, while Sabra actively avoided Holden’s glare, she thought she spotted Carver and Roman hovering around a high-top table near the pool table in the shady corner. How had she missed them when she’d stormed in?

  This was officially the worst day of her life.

  “Gotta go.” Sabra wasn’t proud. She made a run for it. Except her scramble off the stool nearly bowled over the nearest six losers, who crowded her spot at the bar as if eavesdropping on her and Bambi. Exactly how loud had they been?

  Shit.

  Holden’s strong arm braced her until she gained her footing. Then he yanked away as if contaminated by her filth. His sneer told her exactly what he thought of the reporter who’d landed his friends in danger. The knife in her chest stabbed again and again.

  The wounds were too raw to discuss. She had to get out before she bled to death.

  Sabra dashed for the exit, doing her best to make a beeline for freedom. Escaping Holden’s light brown, accusing stare. Certainly, she’d only pissed him off more with her prying. But damn, she couldn’t deny that hearing Bambi’s story, and wondering what it would be like to be the center of that much attention, had distracted her from her epic woes.

  If only for a fleeting moment.

  Fresh air filled her lungs as she gulped in the evening air. With her hands on her knees, she tried to make the world come into focus again. Hell, she’d drunk more in the past five minutes than she had in all the visits she’d made to Bad News in the couple years before that, and she’d always been a cheap date.

  “Are you going to puke?” Instead of turning away, Holden surprised her by easing her toward the grass at the edge of the sidewalk, rubbing her lower back with gentle circles that did far more treacherous things to her insides than a few ounces of hundred-proof alcohol. When he gathered her hair in his fist and wrapped an arm around her middle as he held her from behind, her spine arched instinctively.

  “No. I’m fine.” Liar. She stood upright and tottered a few steps away, breaking his hold. “What’d you come out here for? To yell at me some more?”

  Okay, so he hadn’t actually screamed at her. Still, the tone of the email he’d shot off to her last week, bitching her out for exposing his friends to the bad guys hunting them, stuck in her mind. Those harsh accusations, and her resulting guilt, had driven her to clash with management and, ultimately, quit the job she adored. The one that had been her whole world. A responsibility she hadn’t taken seriously enough.

  “Not exactly.” He didn’t seem quite so sure. “I’m still pissed. And I don’t appreciate people digging around in my family’s personal shit. But you looked like you could use some help. Do you need a lift?”

  “Nope.” She marched toward her car, twisting her ankle in the process.

  “Hey. Easy.” He steadied her by braceleting her waist with his work-roughened fingers and edging closer once more. The contact burned through her wrinkled clothes and she flinched, wrenching from his grip. “I thought you’d just showed up. Were you in the bathroom or something before that? How the hell much did you chug?”

  “Just one stupid drink.” She told the truth through semi-numb lips, making the protest weak and fuzzy, like her mind. Alcohol and grief magnified her shock at everything she’d lost today. And how painful it would be to return to the newsroom each night for the next fourteen broadcasts, knowing her tenure was short-lived. The brutal argument she’d had with her boss, Mr. Grills, would only amplify the discomfort. He was known for being a vindictive son of a bitch.

  After escaping Holden, she’d wait out her buzz in her locked car. Maybe take a nap or something before heading home. Slamming her drink on an empty stomach had probably been a mistake. She’d made plenty lately. What was one more?

  “Well, I don’t care, lightweight. Give me your keys. You’re not driving like this. Are you fucking crazy? Kill yourself if you want, but other people out there are innocent. They don’t deserve your reckless endangerment.” Holden snatched her purse from her fingers with hardly any effort. When he caught her stunned—and hurt—gaze, he grimaced. “That sounded harsh. I wasn’t talking about the other stuff. With Kae and Bryce, I mean.”

  “Whatever.” She shoved his chest and tried to wobble in as straight a line as possible toward the road. If she had to walk to get away from him, she’d do it. His judgment stung, even if he didn’t know she’d done the right thing in the end.

  “Hey, wait.” He jogged a few steps to catch up with her, U-turning her with mild pressure on her shoulder. Maybe because she secretly wanted to stop. To have company. Funny, when she compared isolation to spending time with him, being alone didn’t seem so attractive after all. If only he didn’t despise her. “Sorry, let me drive you. I’m not such a douche that I’d let a woman—you…wander home drunk by yourself.”

  “Do me a favor, okay?” She couldn’t take anything else today.

  “Sure.” He scrubbed his hand through his hair then over the beard stubble she wanted to rub against like her cat when it smooshed its face against the corner of the couch in a compulsive scent-marking display.

  “Don’t talk to me. I can’t argue right now. Not with you or anyone else. Shut up and drive. Fast.” Sabra knew she was weak where this guy was concerned. His disgust had prompted her resignation. Shameless, she licked her lips as she scanned him from head to toe. Unruly hair, a strong jaw and a mouth that was quick to curve into a crooked smile—complete with dimples—for the right person. Badass prep defined his style. A soft, worn hoodie covered a Henley. A navy-and-gray wide-striped scarf somehow only made him look sexier instead of dorky. Trim and fit, she bet he had more definition than it appeared beneath his clothes. Jeans tattered by work and genuine wear versus
a fashion factory hugged his perfect ass and framed his package just right. If he lingered, she might make another request of him. One she would regret in the morning. Like so many other things that had happened in the past twenty-four hours.

  “Can do.” He didn’t ask for permission. Instead, he simply plucked her from the ground and swung her into his surprisingly strong arms. Within seconds, he’d used her fob to unlock her car, whisked her toward the vehicle that lit up in response, then deposited her gently on the passenger seat before rounding the hood to join her.

  “Lincoln and Town, above the pizza shop,” she instructed as if he were a cabbie instead of a hot-rodder. Sabra leaned her head on the window and tried not to catch glimpses of his capable handling as he quickly rearranged the mirrors then pulled onto the dark street, heading toward her apartment.

  Why the hell did he have to choose now to reappear in her life?

  She ignored the stinging in her eyes and the part of her that would love to unload on him. To confess what she’d done. Try to make amends. Or use him to erase the pain ripping her apart. Truth was, she didn’t deserve him. It wouldn’t be fair to either of them to cross those lines, tangling pleasure and pain, reminding them both of what had happened. Because of her.

  When they pulled into the alley behind her apartment, she didn’t know whether to be relieved or sad at how quickly they’d gotten there. It took her three tries to find her door handle. Holden appeared outside, opening it for her and hauling her from the vehicle before she had her shit together.

  Pathetic. Why couldn’t she do anything right around this man? And why did she want to prove to him that she wasn’t as lame as he assumed she was?

  He wrapped an arm around her waist and practically carried her up the exterior stairs. At the top, he used the only other key on her ring to unlock her apartment. When he attempted to usher her inside, she stumbled over the threshold, ending up plastered full-length against him.