SemiTough Luck: A Motocrossed Romance Read online

  Semi-Tough Luck

  A Motocrossed Romance

  Jackie Barbosa

  Circe Press

  SEMI-TOUGH LUCK, A Motocrossed Romance

  Copyright © 2019*, 2021 by Jackie Barbosa

  *This book was originally published in the anthology DO IT AGAIN in October, 2019.

  Digital ISBN-13:

  978-1-7353205-3-3

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  All locations and events referred to in this novel are used fictionally.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Epilogue

  Afterword

  One

  Sylvia

  “I reckon that’s all we can do for tonight, Ms. Figueres.”

  I nearly groan with relief at this announcement. I’m so exhausted, I’d be swaying on my feet if I weren’t sitting in an extremely uncomfortable chair in the shabby but brightly lit office of Lucas Carlson, sheriff of Keel County, Nebraska. Of course, I have no idea where I’m going to sleep tonight, let alone how I’m going to pay for breakfast tomorrow morning or get home to L.A.

  It’s been a little more than five hours since I got out of the shower at the nearby truck stop to find that someone had cut the combination lock off my locker, stolen my purse, and then used my keys to drive off with my semi-tractor and the trailer I was supposed to deliver to a warehouse in Minneapolis tomorrow afternoon. A little more than five hours that I’ve spent reporting the crime, canceling my credit card, ATM card, checking account, and cell phone service, contacting my employer to let them know their shipment won’t be arriving tomorrow, opening a claim with my insurance company, and trying to figure out what the hell I’m going to do now. The credit card company has promised to overnight a new card to the sheriff’s office, but I’m not sure how useful it’s going to be.

  Before you castigate me for bad financial planning, I have savings. They’re just not liquid. Especially not when I’m in the middle of nowhere with no identification and all my transactional accounts locked down to prevent someone from stealing even more from me. And since I use my Visa, with its generous rewards plan, to cover my expenses while I’m on the road and I was only one day from finishing a job and getting paid, I’m nearly at the top of my credit limit. But now, I’m not going to get paid for this delivery or for the load I was supposed to pick up for the return trip.

  Fucked does not begin to describe my situation.

  Maybe the sheriff has an empty cell I can sleep in. Otherwise, it’s going to be a long night on the floor.

  Carlson pushes back his rolling chair and stands up. He’s a tall man—about an inch over six feet—with a full head of curly brown hair that’s graying a little at the temples and a square-jawed solidity that promises either reassurance or retribution, depending on which one you deserve.

  Now, I’ve been pulled over by one too many cops who thought I might be willing to screw my way out of a traffic ticket, so I don’t trust a man has good intentions just because he’s wearing a uniform. But in the past few hours, Carlson has earned my hope, if not my trust by treating me with a combination of kindness and respect that’s not typical of men in general, especially men in positions of power. That and the fact that he wears his wedding ring and displays photos of his wife, a mop-haired son, and sweet-faced baby girl prominently on his desk has instilled a certain degree of confidence in me that he’s actually a good cop.

  “We might as well go on home,” he says, reaching for his broad-brimmed, khaki duty hat, which hangs on a peg on a coat rack in the back corner of the room.

  I blink in complete astonishment. “I’m sorry. What?”

  Stuffing the hat on top of his head, he gives me a perfectly chaste once-over and grimaces in obvious sympathy. “You’re falling asleep on your feet, you’ve got no place to stay, and no way to pay for a hotel room. Did you really think I’d leave you to fend for yourself overnight? I called my wife two hours ago and asked her to make up the spare bedroom for you and keep dinner warm until we get there.” He extends his hand to help me up from my chair. “And you’re in luck. Our sixteen-month-old daughter just started sleeping through the night.”

  Carlson’s house is a two-story bungalow-style affair with a large porch and a detached garage. It’s situated on a large lot in the middle of the block on a pretty, tree-lined street. If the house was almost anywhere in Los Angeles County, I’d estimate its value at a million plus. Here in Middle-of-Nowhere, Nebraska, it probably counts as a starter home.

  A frown crosses the sheriff’s features as he pulls his black-and-white into the driveway next to a sleek white BMW coupe that looks nearly brand new. It strikes me as a pricey car for a family living on a law enforcement officer’s salary, but then again, for all I know, his wife has a career that pulls in the big bucks. Even mothers with small children can have high-powered jobs, after all.

  “Something wrong?” I ask as he puts the car in park and pulls the handbrake.

  Carlson grunts what could either be an affirmative or a negative, and then gestures at the Lexus. “Looks like my brother is here. We weren’t expecting him until the day after tomorrow. I wonder why Megan didn’t call to let me know.”

  Understanding dawns on me. “If my staying here is going to be a problem—” I begin, even though I have no idea how to finish the sentence.

  Fortunately, Carlson interrupts me before I have to think of an alternative. “No, it’s fine. We’ve got plenty of room. I’m just surprised is all.”

  I’m pretty sure from the tone of his voice that surprised equals worried, and I wonder why, but it’s really none of my business.

  We get out of the car, and I carry my meager armful of possessions—one dirty change of clothing, a damp towel, and my toiletries—to the front door. Light trickles out from between the curtains drawn across the large front window, indicating someone’s probably still awake even though it’s past midnight. Carlson turns the knob without bothering to insert his key and swings the door inward, beckoning me to follow.

  My first impression of the interior is of comfortable hominess. To the left of the front door is the dining room and kitchen, and to the right is the living room, while directly in front of us is a stairwell leading to the second floor. I’d bet at some point in the past, the entry was a narrow hallway with doors on either side, but the house has been remodeled to have the cherished “open-concept floor plan”—hey, just because I’m on the road a lot doesn’t mean I don’t watch HGTV—and the walls have been knocked out to provide sightlines in both directions. The floor is hardwood or possibly laminate, although a carpet runner covers the stairs, possibly to prevent the small children currently confined upstairs by a closed childproof gate at the top of the stairwell from slipping on the way down.

  The dining room and kitchen area are too dark to make out anything but the shadow of a rectangular table and the looming bulk of what must be a kitchen island. By contrast, the living room glows with soft, warm light. A huge, overstuffed sectional dominates the space, dwarfing everything but the man occupyin
g the reclining seat at one end of the gigantic piece of furniture. I can tell he’s several inches over six feet tall and probably weighs more than two hundred pounds. Also? None of those pounds are fat.

  As he rises to his feet, his lightweight gray T-shirt clings to his chest and abdomen, briefly revealing the chiseled musculature beneath. His bared biceps are large and well-defined, and the sweatpants he’s wearing do nothing to hide the thick contours of his heavily muscled thighs. As big as he is everywhere else, those thighs are particularly immense, and I wonder what activity has led to that. Maybe he’s a dead-lifter or something.

  Even if Carlson hadn’t mentioned his brother’s presence, I would’ve recognized the man as a sibling or very close relation. He has the same square-jawed face, though its planes and angles are rougher and sharper—dare I say more masculine? His hair is blonder and not quite as curly, too, but the two men’s hairlines are virtually identical. It’s possible the shape of their noses was also similar at one time, but the brother’s now has the crumpled, uneven appearance caused by being broken and not properly reset, possibly more than once. He might look downright thuggish if it weren’t for his eyes. Large, deep-set, and turned up at the corners, they’re the polar opposite of his otherwise rugged features. With twenty feet separating us, I can’t make out the color of the irises, but I can tell they’re a dark shade that contrasts sharply with his otherwise fair coloring.

  And if I could order a man to my specific tastes the way I can order a sandwich, Sheriff Carlson’s younger brother—and I’m sure he’s younger by at least a decade—would be the equivalent of turkey, provolone, and pesto on toasted focaccia bread. In other words, my favorite.

  My skin tingles with awareness as the two men stride toward one another and grasp hands before exchanging a fraternal embrace, complete with slaps on the back. I’d like to share an embrace with Carlson the Younger, although there would be nothing fraternal about it.

  Under any other circumstances…

  But these aren’t any other circumstances. I’m only going to be here for one night. After that, I’ll be on my way back to Los Angeles, one way or another. Even if it means calling my parents and begging them to come to my rescue.

  They would, of course. In a heartbeat. But they’ve never liked or understood my decision to skip college and become a long-haul truck driver. If they find out my rig’s been stolen along with almost everything else of value I own, there will be recriminations and I-told-you-so’s. Never mind that such thefts are rare—a fact I knew even before Sheriff Carlson said as much—and there’s no reason to believe that my being female in an industry dominated by men had anything to do with it. They’ll still harp on the “dangers” of a single woman driving back and forth across the country by herself. Things are bad enough without having to hear that again. So my parents are a last resort.

  “When did you get here?” the sheriff asks his brother as they break apart. Although the question itself is innocuous enough, it’s impossible not to pick up on the uneasy undercurrent.

  “A little over an hour ago.” Catnip Carlson nods and smiles in my direction, and my heart rate kicks up a notch at having him notice me. Then it occurs to me that between the pathetic load of personal items I’m carrying and my utter exhaustion, I must look like crap, and I really wish he hadn’t noticed me. “Megan told me about your guest,” He continues, “and I said I’d wait up for you so she could go to bed. I already made up the sofa bed in the basement for myself, so don’t worry about that.”

  The thought of this enormous man trying to sleep on a lumpy, flimsy sofa bed is ludicrous. “It’s all right,” I say. “I can sleep on the sofa bed. I’m only going to be here tonight, after all.”

  Both Carlsons fix me with identical, disapproving glares. If their genetic relationship hadn’t already been apparent, it sure would be now.

  The sheriff is the one to speak, though. “You’re our guest for the night, and that means you get the guest bedroom.” He thumps his brother on the back. “Ivan is family, and he’s not even supposed to be here yet, so he gets the basement.”

  Ivan, huh? The name, which makes me think of Russian mobsters, suits his coloring and harsh but compelling looks.

  “Don’t try to argue with him,” Ivan adds, a grin so full of fondness curving his lips that my chest actually aches. Whatever the source of the irritation they’re both trying so hard to mask, the two men clearly love each other. “He’s the oldest, so he thinks he should have the final say on everything.”

  “And you’re the youngest,” Carlson agrees with an equally tender expression, “which means you always get what you want, anyway.” Looking back at me, the sheriff grimaces. “Damn, I’m sorry. I’m not being very polite. Sylvia Figueres, this is my baby brother, Ivan Carlson. Ivan, this is Ms. Figueres—”

  “Sylvia,” I interject. No way am I letting a man as fine as Ivan call me Ms. anything.

  He nods and continues smoothly, “Ivan, this is Sylvia, whose semi rig and pretty much everything she owns was stolen from the Keel truck stop around seven o’clock this evening. After a day like that, I figured the least I could do is offer her a place to stay the night. But now I’ve realized I can do one better. I can offer her a ride home to L.A.”

  Two

  Ivan

  I’ve been drinking up the sight of my brother’s unplanned houseguest like she’s the world’s finest whisky and I’m an alcoholic, so it takes me a couple of beats to decode what Lucas means when he says he can offer her—Sylvia—a ride home to Los Angeles.

  He means I can drive her there, because it’s on my way to San Diego. Where, in eight days, I have to report for fall training camp with the USHL Coyotes, the team I was traded to at the end of last season for reasons I’m not going to think about right now.

  But if he had any idea how glad I am my sweatpants are loose in the crotch, there’s no way he’d consider making such a suggestion.

  And I probably should feel like a real shit-heel for mentally undressing her from the moment she walked in the door, but I can’t help myself. Maybe another guy would take one look at her in her current state—dressed in a loose T-shirt and baggy flannel pants, her chin-length honey-blond hair curling wildly around her face, her gold-flecked brown eyes streaked red with exhaustion and maybe anger—and not really see her. Lucky or unlucky for me, I’m not another guy. Even camouflaged, I can tell she’s beautiful. Worse than that, she’s the kind of beautiful I find hard to resist, which is to say she’s got more curves than a country road and full, wide lips I can think of a lot of uses for.

  A lot of uses.

  My balls tighten as a few graphic images flash through my head. Fucking hell, I need to get a grip on myself.

  I crush the urge to let out a harsh laugh. When Megan told me Lucas was bringing home a woman whose semi had been stolen, I don’t know what I’d been expecting, but it sure as hell hadn’t been my own personal version of Venus.

  Somehow, I manage to turn on the language centers of my brain. “You’re from Los Angeles?” Okay, apparently not the intelligent ones. For this I went to college?

  She nods. “I live there, yes. When I’m not on the road, anyway. Are you from L.A. too?”

  “Chicago,” I answer, although technically I’ve just come from a small town in Minnesota. But again, I’m not thinking about that right now. There’ll be plenty of time for Lucas to quiz me and rehash that later. “I’m on my way to San Diego now, though.”

  My brother claps me on the shoulder a second time. “Ivan’s being modest. He plays pro hockey with the San Diego Coyotes.”

  I want to groan, because although it’s not a false statement, it’s not exactly correct, either. I will be playing with them, assuming everything goes according to plan, but the present tense makes it sound like I’ve been with them for a long time. Not that Sylvia, who’s probably not a hockey fan, let alone one who follows the USHL rather than the NHL, would know the difference, but the inaccuracy still grates.

&nb
sp; She gives me an appraising look and nods. “Well, that explains the thighs.”

  The dam on my emotional restraint breaks, and I let out a short bark of laughter. “This too,” I agree with a grin, tracing my finger down the uneven line of my nose.

  The first time it got broken during a game, when I was in high school, I went to the doctor and had it set. To say the procedure was unpleasant is like saying a blow job is wet. When I broke it again, less than a month later, I decided to leave well enough alone. I figure I’ll get it fixed after I retire, but having it straightened now would make as much sense as shoveling while it’s still snowing.

  Sylvia looks from me to Lucas. “It’s nice of you to offer, Sheriff, but I don’t want to put your brother out. I’m sure I can find another way to get back to L.A.”

  “You wouldn’t be putting me out,” I say, surprising myself. “It would be nice to have the company.”

  I didn’t realize until this moment how much I was dreading the making long drive all by myself. Too many hours alone with my own thoughts and temptations. Although, Sylvia Figueres represents a different sort of temptation. One I should be as keen to avoid as any of the others, especially when my brother—the fucking law—is recommending me. The last thing I can do is put the moves on a woman when Lucas is trusting me to behave like the gentleman I’m not.

  I add, “But I’m not sure the timing works out for you. Training camp doesn’t start until next Monday, so I wasn’t planning to leave until Wednesday. You might want to get home sooner than that.”