Dirty Men 03 - Rough Neck Read online

  R o u g h N e c k

  By

  Dani Wyatt

  Copyright © 2017

  by Dani Wyatt

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

  may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

  without the express written permission of the publisher

  except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places,

  events and incidents are either the products

  of the author’s imagination

  or used in a fictitious manner.

  Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,

  is purely coincidental.

  www.daniwyatt.com

  Cover Credit PopKitty

  Editing Nicci Haydon, Lisa Hollett

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Rough Neck

  O N E

  T W O

  T H R E E

  F O U R

  F I V E

  S I X

  S E V E N

  E I G H T

  N I N E

  T E N

  E P I L O G U E

  MASTERING HER HEART

  Other Titles by Dani Wyatt

  FOLLOW ME

  Thank You.

  A NOTE TO MY READERS:

  I appreciate every one of you.

  To hard work and dirty men.

  May all your sweaty dreams come true.

  Dedicated to those holding the line,

  Drinking the wine,

  And being soooooo fine.

  .

  Stalkers welcome.

  Sordid fun and other dirty shenanigans

  Follow me here: FACEBOOK AUTHOR PAGE

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  Visit my author page

  Dani Wyatt on Amazon

  O N E

  Davis

  “AND THEN, AS IF THE wind told me what to do, I opened myself to him, willing him to center his soul into mine. Driving his manhood forward, he took me in one swift, hard motion. His hands gripping my hair and driving his tongue between my lips, halting my scream—”

  “Shut the fuck up!” I shout into the cab of the truck at my friend’s voice coming through the car radio. I’ve got my phone hooked up to the audio system, but right now I’m wishing I didn’t learn how to do that shit. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “I’m reading to you.” His deep laugh does nothing to settle me. “This fucking book was on my mom’s kitchen counter when I got home! I don’t know whether to throw up or be turned on. It’s filthy. And this is the page she had dog-eared. You want to hear more? This shit’s wild—”

  “Put it away. Jesus. Don’t read another fucking word to me. When are you leaving there?” I snap. My usual grumpy nature dialed up another notch.

  Donald, ‘The Tank’, Richardson and I have been friends since the moment I tossed his roughneck ass onto his first rig job. I don’t know what it was about him, but I’ve loved the little shit from the very first day, when he sang fucking old Kenny Rogers and Hank Williams at the top of his lungs while he did all the bullshit tasks I assigned.

  “I’ll leave after I get laid.” He laughs. “Christ, we were on the last job twenty-six days straight. My dick’s gonna fall off.”

  I roll my eyes and grip the steering wheel tighter, looking over my right shoulder before I change lanes. Driving my pick up and hauling my forty-foot home on wheels behind takes some defensive fucking driving skills. But after nearly twenty-years of moving around I’ve yet to get in an accident.

  “Don’t tell me that shit. How many fucking times have I told you I don’t give a about your dick, your sex life, or now, your fucking mom’s dirty books. There is something wrong with you.” A twinge of jealousy that he has a family to go back to ticks at me.

  My dad vacated my life before I was out of diapers. My mom lived a hard life, and died in a car accident coming home from her night job as a waitress the day before I graduated from high school. After that, I don’t know, I just drifted. The place where I grew up, my family’s land, isn’t even far away from here, but I guess my nature is to be on the road. After my mom died, the only real relation I had was my Aunt Becky. Mom’s younger sister and I are close in our own way. We are the only other family we each have. I check in on her at least once a month, she’s had MS for years and I know her health issues are becoming more of an issue.

  “Aww, you’d be in a better fucking mood if you gave it a try now and then. Jesus, man, I don’t get you. I mean, don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re a good lookin’ fella. If I had a vagina instead of this huge rhinoceros cock between my legs, I’d make schoolgirl eyes at you and tempt you into my sweet—”

  “Shut the fuck up! You ever, ever talk to me about your cock again, I’ll bury you so deep they’ll find you when they set the next rig.”

  The truck hums under me. It’s a twelve-hour drive to the new drill site; just one nameless city in Texas to the next. Same deal every time.

  “Deal.” Tank’s voice comes through the car radio. “Okay, I’ve got a date tonight, then I’m heading that way. If you weren’t such an ugly son-of-a-bitch you’d have one too. I don’t get why you don’t even take the day off in between jobs, man. You don’t know what the term ‘leisure time’ means.”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow. Oh,” the thought just jumps into my head before I hang up, “remember to stop by that farm by your mom’s house and get my order. I called her yesterday.” We’re setting up on a new drill site, remote north Texas, and I’ve got to stock up on food before we settle in. Sometimes it can be a week or more before you get a break to run into town. And where we’re headed, from my research, it’s an hour plus drive to anything coming close to being called a town. “Don’t forget, Tank, I know what you’re like.”

  Tank coughs then goes on. “Yeah, yeah. You and your organic obsession. Probably going to figure out one of these days that organic food causes cancer, you know.”

  “Good bye.”

  I click off, twisting my neck and listen to the three cracks. The cramps in my shoulders remind me that I’m not fucking twenty anymore. Lifting the drill pipes and hauling two-hundred-pound rig fittings around is beginning to wear on my body. But I love the physical work, the sweat, being filthy at the end of the day. I love it all.

  Fuck, I need coffee. My other obsession. I like to find independent coffee shops rather than the big chains. I’m not one to be snapping selfies, but I started a few years back just taking my picture at each unique coffee shop where I stop. I guess it’s become one of the few traditions in my life. Downtown Lubbock has a place I’ve never been, The Proving Grounds it’s called, so I’m headed there.

  My exit is two miles up. After my coffee stop it’s north past Amarillo until I nearly hit the Oklahoma border.

  The nomad life suits me well. Never found a reason to settle down anywhere. I’ve seen almost all the country and I don’t waste time sitting in front of a television screen or fucking around on Facebook or Twitter or whatever the fuck those things are.

  Hauling my home behind me also leaves me with nearly zero expenses compared to most others my age. I pocket almost all my pay, and it’s fucking good pay. I barely spend a dime of it. Nothing interests me. I like good food, there’s that. But outside of eating well and buying a new truck with cash every couple years, I’ve not found much I care to consume.

  I know guys on the rig that go on and on about spending most of their pay on their wives or girlfriends, and I kind of understand the thought process behind that. Then there’s others whose pay check is almost gon
e on a single night of companionship, and that I’ll never understand.

  They go on about house payments and god knows what else. Truth is, my fucking luck at dating has been a horror show. I gave up about six years ago after my last date with a woman, Lucy Felder, friend of one of the rig workers at the time. He set me up while the rig was broken and we were all sitting around for three days waiting for parts to come in and get things up and running again.

  He said she was a nice girl. Showed me a picture. Decent looking. A little too much make-up for my taste but I figured what the hell. Give this dating thing another try. I’ve got no delusions about who I am, how I look. I guess rugged has been used but I’m not pretty boy. My nose is crooked from a few too many fights, both with fists and the rig. My left eye has a scar running from my brow down under my cheek that I got when a pipe burst open my first winter as a rough neck. Sliced my face open like a peach. There’s nothing smooth about me.

  I’m part Neanderthal and part road warrior, and looking in the mirror has never suited me, so I don’t put any time into worrying about what’s looking back.

  So, when I got set up on that last date, my expectations were ground level if not lower. I figured if I got some decent conversation I’d call it a win.

  I pulled into the restaurant where we were supposed to meet. Inside, I grabbed us a table and waited. Fucking hell, it was an hour later she finally pranced through the door wearing what I swear must have been the outfit she left her job at the strip club in. Acrylic high heels and all.

  Inch long fingernails filed into dagger points with what must have been a day of drinking already on her breath.

  Shit... what was I supposed to do? I’m a fucking gentleman until it’s time not to be, so I pulled out her chair and she plopped down, dropping her purple purse on the floor. The contents spilled out and she laughed her guts out as she picked up a roll of Trojans, holding them up and asking me how many and what size I might need.

  I did my best to make it another five minutes, but I just couldn’t. When she put her foot under the table between my legs and started giving my cock a massage, that was when I decided. No more.

  She was just one in a ridiculous string of dating disasters that spanned more years than I care to count. As I was leaving the restaurant, with a cab on the way to take her ass back to wherever she came from, because hell if I was letting her drive, I called up the fuck who set me up with her and fired his ass. Have sworn off women ever since.

  Now, I’m coming up on my fortieth birthday. A bank full of earnings, hauling my house to yet another job site and for the first time, shit... maybe it’s the muscle cramps in my neck playing havoc with my brain, but I reckon it has more to do with the old pick up I just passed, some girl sitting in the center of the front seat, leaning her head onto the shoulder of the guy driving. Seeing the look on his face, even the quick glance I got was something you can’t fake. He was fucking happy.

  And everything in me said he was fucking happy because of her.

  I shake my head, hear the snap of my neck again. The pain shooting down my back and wonder how it would feel to have a head on my shoulder.

  T W O

  Dahlia

  LISTENING TO MY FATHER has me ready to lower the tinted window in the back of the limo and hurl into the street.

  Oh, he would love that, I’m sure! But the horror on his face would be worth whatever punishment that would follow. And there would be punishment. There’s always punishment. Even at nineteen years old, I’m under his thumb and barely able to meet his eyes.

  “The attorneys are working on that clause as we speak. Yes, as soon as the heir is produced, I understand that. Yes, I sent over the results from her exam. She should have no problem conceiving.” His voice is flat, indifferent, as though the thought of a man I don’t even know sticking his dick in me and impregnating me practically against my wishes affects him as much as loading the dishwasher. All in the name of securing the crumbling family dynasty.

  Not that my father has ever loaded a dishwasher. So, yeah, how would he know?

  He pushes the button and barks to the driver. “Stop here, Jerald.”

  “I’m blocking traffic, Mr. Ferrell, there’s no parking right here—”

  “I don’t give a shit! They can go around us.”

  Leave it to my father to have no interest in how he inconveniences others. I look out the window, trying anything to distract my mind from what’s going to happen. We are in downtown Lubbock on our way back home after another embarrassing doctor’s appointment.

  He puts the cell phone back to his ear. “So, I have some things to do this afternoon. We will meet at my house at six tonight. Get everything signed, you can look at the test results, we can set the date for the marriage...”

  My gag reflex spasms and bile rises in the back of my throat. The way it’s done for the last six and a half days now, since I was ambushed in my father’s office. He called me down, via text message of all things, and when I walked in there he was behind his desk. Didn’t raise his eyes, just pointed to the empty chair between two men I knew vaguely from a few parties and other social gatherings.

  “Dahlia.” My father had finally looked up at me with boredom. “You know Mr. Petrov and his son, Nikolai.”

  Neither of them acknowledged me, but I nodded politely, barely able to breathe. The next half hour I fought back tears. But crying in front of my father never helped. It would only incite his cruelty so I bit my lip until blood streamed warm over my tongue. Distracting me with its metallic flavor as I swallowed, feeling my stomach turn. Fighting back the urge to purge all over his fifty-thousand-dollar pretentious antique desk.

  By the time I was excused, there was a ring on my finger. Placed there by Nikolai without uttering a word, just a whispered ‘produce an heir as quickly as possible’ still ringing in my ears. The next day, I was at a doctor’s office, having blood drawn and tests performed that made me feel like a brood mare.

  The worst part? Oh, that’s easy. My own cowardice. I just took it all. Let him put that stupid, ungodly large diamond on my finger. Laid there with my feet in those stirrups and let the doctor probe and prod me to his content.

  I. Took. It. All.

  My self-loathing is at an all-time high. When I lay in bed at night, I play out all the things I should have done.

  All the things I should have said.

  No fucking way being the top contender, along with kicking them all in the nuts, packing a bag and hitting the road like Jack Kerouac.

  But, I did not.

  I didn’t do it because I am a Good Little Girl. More than that, I’ve always been petrified of my father. For good reason. Not only for the variety of punishments he’s perpetuated on me over the years, but because I know who he is.

  He’s Stewart Ferrell. Cattle rancher. Oil investor. Philanderer. And on the side, a fact he doesn’t know I know, he’s also a man who doesn’t hesitate to function above the law to win. I used to hide when he and my mother fought, but even hiding didn’t keep me from hearing things a child should never hear.

  Wasn’t just the way he practically paraded his extra-marital affairs in front of both my mother and me. That I could just about cope with. But what made me sick to my stomach was how he described what happened to them if they stepped out of bounds. More than once, I heard those stories. There’s a lot of acres on our family ranch, and if the cadaver dogs ever showed up, I’m pretty sure they’d find at least a few interesting scents buried around.

  What I’ve managed to figure out in the last week, is if I marry Nikolai and produce an heir, it will benefit both families. Ours, by an influx of cash from the Petrovs. And for them, they will be introduced and legitimized into the closed world of Texas oil royalty. My father may have fucked up our family’s finances when my mother divorced him and took nearly everything, but his roots are deep and his connections deeper. Texas is all about the good ole boys club and getting in means knowing the right people. Seems it’s all about w
ho you know, and the Petrovs are itching to sink their roots into all things Texas. Especially oil.

  “Dahlia!”

  “What?” I jump.

  “I said get out.” He points to the door, his head jerking in encouragement. “I’ll pick you up in an hour. Or so. Don’t leave that coffee shop.”

  I shake my head, trying to figure out what he wants, when the blast of a horn snaps my father’s head to look behind the car.

  “What the fuck?” My father turns to look behind us and my eyes follow.

  There is an enormous red pickup truck behind us, laying on the horn. The chrome grill fills the view from the rear window and the deafening sound fills the back of the car.

  And just for a second, I love it. I love it because he hates it.

  The windows in the limo are tinted near black, so seeing inside is close to impossible. But seeing out isn’t a problem.

  From my place in the back seat, through the windshield of the red pickup, something unnerves me and sends a shiver from my shoulders to my toes.

  A glint of green eyes, set into a heavy brow, bore into me. It’s a flash, a fraction of a second, but I’ve never felt anything like it from another human. Let alone a human seen through two panes of glass.

  “Go.” My father barks as Jerald clicks my door open from the outside, ushering me out onto the sidewalk into a blast of summer heat while the horn continues to blare from the truck behind. “Stay in there until I text you and we will pick you back up when I’m done with my...meeting.”

  As soon as I stand, disoriented by the sudden change of scenery, silence descends. No more ear numbing, blasting horn. I dare to flick my gaze to the driver of the truck, and find him staring straight back at me.

  Those same breath-stealing green eyes are there again, raising the hairs on my arms, and as quickly as I take him in, I turn away, rushing at a stumbling half-run into the mezzanine of the building.

  Inside the door, I’m gasping. Heart pounding. My feet stick solid onto the marble floor. The chill of the air conditioning evaporates the slight sweat that covers my skin. The heat outside is one thing, but the heat even the quickest of glances at that emerald-eyed man generated inside me rivals any Texas summer.