Roosted
Roosted
Moto X Book One
Brooke May
Roosted
Copyright © 2017, Brooke May
Printed in The United States of America.
ISBN 978-1977988607
First Edition
Edited by Editing4Indies
Cover Art by Dark Water Covers
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
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To anyone who has had a hard time in life and finally given a break; you’re strength makes you a rock star in my eyes.
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Note from the Author
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Books by Brooke
Roosted:Dirt flying up from the rider in front of you who is accelerating.
Prologue
Don’t fuck the boss.
This should be rule number one; the very first fucking thing anyone tells you when you reach adulthood.
Work hard, stay focused, do your best each day, and—the best fucking one—strive for greatness.
Yeah, it’s all a bunch of bullshit.
All of that is shit your teacher and professors tell you as you graduate from secondary school or whatever university you found yourself at. They should just be real and tell you the truth.
Kiss their arses, but don’t fuck them.
Keep your mouth shut, and be a yes man kind of person.
Oh, and the second most important thing; your education—the degree you put blood, sweat, and tears into—doesn’t amount to anything and doesn’t guarantee you the fucking job you deserve.
But the most important is to never, ever fuck your boss, or your boss’s wife, daughter, son, husband—you get it; the list can go on and on. No matter what you think certain pussy will taste like, control your fucking dick. Keep it in your pants. Don’t beat off to thoughts of them in your head; don’t even look at them when you are at work. Keep your nose down and stay focused on the real reason you are there.
To bloody work!
This shouldn’t just go for us guys. No, it should go both ways. Ladies, you get a job and you think your boss has a fine arse and can give you everything your heart desires just because they’re rich, leave it the fuck alone. I don’t care what those novels you read tell you. Fucking the boss never ends well.
It sure didn’t improve my life six years ago after I moved to the States. At the time, I was unstoppable—bullet proof, if you will—and I fucked myself over. Not only did I put a damper on my professionalism and career, but my ego took a massive hit as well.
That’s what leads me to where I am at today. I’ve been with Havre and Bell Accounting Firm since I landed on this side of earth. Since I’ve been here for six years, you would think my seniority would mean a better job, but it doesn’t. Stuck in an entry-level position is just the start of my woes. Expendable, useful at times, but overall, I’m a fucking grunt worker.
My education goes to being the aid to my boss, Candy—the very one I fucked by the way—bringing in new clients to keep our firm going. And let me be clear; Candy Havre is the only daughter of one of the firm’s owners. I’m a legend around here now and not a good one. Think Clinton-Lewinsky kind of fame. The new people quickly learn about me and advance while I stay where I’m at.
In a tiny arse cubical forgotten in a corner.
I overlook work functions unless they are mandatory. Every company picnic, Christmas party, or any other function my attendance isn’t required is one I stay the fuck away from. I don’t care to be around people who judge me by my appearance.
They see the typical bad boy with my arms, back, and chest inked. My nipples and dick are pierced, too, but no one aside from Candy knows that. Hell, they even judge me based on my haircut.
Fuckers.
It doesn’t matter that I work hard; researching, providing estimates, and so on to draw new clients in. I help sweet talk them, and then get cast away. No one sees my other side; the good guy who wants to do a good job and has dreams.
Why don’t I leave my shithole job?
I like the United States. Don’t get me wrong, I love my homeland of Australia, as well, but I feel freer here. I’m away from my family and allowed to be myself. I love my parents and little sister, but they don’t let me breathe when I’m there. Not after what I went through.
My parents are blue-collar workers, and great. My sister, Priscilla, and I never went without. As kids, we knew we couldn’t ask for a whole lot, but we never felt deprived. My dad is a full-time mechanic at an auto dealership in Sydney. He’s been working on vehicles since before I was born. I was lucky enough to spend an exuberant amount of time during my childhood under the hood with him. It was his dream I would do something great with the knowledge he passed down to me, or at least follow my own dreams of becoming a professional motocross racer, but I didn’t. Instead, I chose a profession no one would have guessed—accounting.
What can I say? I like numbers. It’s steady, and I don’t have to make regular trips to the doctor’s office to set a broken bone or get any scans.
My mum is a sweet little soul. By day, she cleans the homes of wealthier people, and at night, she cleans a couple of small businesses. She made sure Priscilla and I was able to attend college and neither she or my dad would accept a single cent from my sister or me as payment for our educations.
They were heartbroken when I left for the States, but they underst
ood why. At twenty-two years old and fresh out of college, my life was racing with my best mate, Jax, who happened to be an American. Until my last race. We ended up in a pileup, which stole Jax’s ability to walk, and I couldn’t live with the guilt. I still can’t handle it most days, and I refuse to get back on a bike. Part of my mind knows it wasn’t my fault, but it still feels that way.
Well into the race, I was following the rider in front of me too closely, and Jax was right on my arse. It happens with races; everyone is gunning to get to the front and take the win. But I should have been paying closer attention to the rider in front of me. He was unfocused by the corner, and I was far too close to react when he slammed on his brakes. I tried to turn, but I had nowhere to go. My front tire slammed into the side of him as Jax’s bike hit me from behind. It continued until we were in a massive pile.
Most of us walked away with a few scrapes and bruises, but not Jax. I could still hear his screams as we pulled him from under the mountain of mangled machines. That day changed everything.
No matter how much Jax tried to get me to realize it wasn’t on me, I couldn’t look at another bike, another race track, or anything related to the sport again and feel the same joy I had before. I tried to push the pain away, but I still carry it with me. I sold my bike, forced the money into my parents’ account, and settled on where in the world I would go.
Sandy, Utah, the southern part of Salt Lake City, is where I decided.
Jax’s hometown became where I would hang my hat if I wore one. I helped him through rehab, physical therapy, and when he healed he tried to encourage me to get out on my own, but I still live with him. I want to make sure my friend is always okay.
Jax is still part of the motocross world with his own work. He, along with our other American friend, Levi, tell me daily to go for it again; to get back on a bike, and to fall back in love with the one thing that always made me happy. I was too good to hang up my gear. I brush it off, but I’ve come to realize how much I hate my bloody life.
Chapter One
With every tap of the keyboard, my head is getting closer and closer to exploding. The phones ringing around me along with the constant chatter of my co-workers are enough to explain why so many people lose their bloody minds nowadays.
It’s fucking maddening.
Shoving my mammoth body behind this minuscule desk of mine doesn’t help either. Every time I lean back to yawn or stretch, my chair shrivels against my weight and my desk creaks as my thighs lift it off the ground. I can’t help my gigantic size. No matter how many times I have requested a workstation to accommodate my size, they brush me off.
Scrubbing my hands over my face once more. I’m trying to keep myself awake. I know I need to get this shit done within the next thirty minutes before the meeting.
The Bartin twins, owners of Piston Motor Sports, are in the market for a new accountant. Rather than hire one to work in their own building, which I’ve heard is a massive complex heading out west of the city, they are branching out and asking for a firm to handle their accounts. Havre and Bell is just one firm vying for their account.
Recently, the twins, Paige and Parker, discovered their company accountant, Herb Hawkin, was embezzling from their company. The twins are both professional motocross racers and have amassed an empire from simple beginnings with their talents. Paige races while Parker is the freestyle rider.
They have branched out to cover several different motorsports with their fortune and need someone they can trust to handle the amount of revenue which now flows through their company.
Candy came to me two weeks ago with the news and instructed me to put together everything we would need to draw the twins to choose our company. Even though I know how this is going to play out, I’m still not prepared for it. Every time I let my hopes grow with the thoughts it may be different this time, it never changes.
Candy played the one card she had do to give me an incentive to work and get it done sooner rather than later. Ever since I made my colossus mistake, she’s been trying to get a repeat, which is something I won’t do. Sometimes it helps even though I won’t give in. Her dad hasn’t canned my arse yet, and for that, I’m thankful.
My work on this account started right away, and I lost myself in their financial information. I absolutely refused to touch any thing related to motocross or super cross so I didn’t bother to look up any information outside their numbers while I worked. Ever since I left the racing world, I have not kept up with any of it; not the old legends nor the new racers out there tearing it up.
That’s Jax’s realm, not mine. He made a full recovery. Well, to the best of his ability. After the accident, he went head first right back into the world we both loved, working for a sponsor. Races, events, or anything related to the sport—he has been there and has tried to get me to go along. And up until two weeks ago, I had not touched anything closely related to motocross.
“Fucking done.” My meaty fingers pound on the worn keys of my keyboard as I wrap up my proposal. Hitting save and sending it off to the printer, I push away from my bloody desk to stretch and release a yawn. I have been cooped up for the past few hours. I may be grown and have learned with certain things in my life to give up when needed, but when it comes to Levi asking me to play Call of Duty with him, I don’t reject him.
Last night, we stayed up until the wee hours of the morning, downing at least a case of beer and kicking arse. We had to call it a night when my controller finally died. The joys of being unattached and having no solid commitments in life—I get to do whatever the fuck I want.
The only downside is my age is starting to show a little more each time I go out. This morning, I looked like shit.
“Why do I do this shit to myself?” Muttering around me, I’m filling the quiet void even though I don’t expect anyone to answer. No one talks to me. My knees pop and crackle as I stand to my full height of one point eight meters—that’s six-foot-two to you, Yanks—and make my way around my desk to head off in the direction of the printer.
Most of my co-workers on this level give me a wide berth. My height and relative joyful expressions usually do the trick as long as I cover my tattoos. I wear glasses at work to help take the threatening appeal away, but they don’t really work. My snarling smile usually grants me peace. I wasn’t always this way.
Bitter.
It’s just the card handed to me. I’ve learned it is easier to just go with it rather than to pretend to be happy when I’m not.
Scrubbing a hand over my closely cut hair, I stop suddenly when the printer and IT guy come into view.
“What the fuck?”
“Oh, hey Ryan.” A hand slaps my shoulder, causing me to purse my lips in irritation as my body sways with the sudden unwelcome greeting of Newton, an annoying co-worker. He’s the only one who has the guts to talk to me.
Stupid fucker.
“What’s going on?” My head jerks, jetting my chin toward the IT guy.
“No one told you?” He rounds to step in front of me, blocking the view of the printer that holds my last-ditch effort to prove myself to this company.
Does it look like someone told me?
“It isn’t working again.” He sighs with a shake of his head. “I’ve put in a request to replace it, but nothing has happened yet. I hope you weren’t waiting for something right now because he said it could be a while.”
“Fucking great.” Grinding my teeth, I thank Newton and head off to get something to keep me going and to be alone. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate him telling me about the printer, but when I’m here at work, I prefer to be by myself. Since I can’t go beat the shit out of a punching bag at the moment, I head to the break room to make a cup of strong black coffee.
The late-night gaming needs to be cut out of my life, especially when I have something important to do the following day. As the coffee brews, I lean against the counter and scrub my hand down my scruffy face, trying to push the sleep away. I only have a couple of mo
re hours before work is over.
Everything I need for the presentation is ready, but the PowerPoint as well as the proposal I wrote doesn’t feel like enough. Just presenting slides and restating facts doesn’t work for me; I like to keep some things off the slides to discuss.
A thought hits me just as the aroma of the coffee floods my senses. The conference room where we will be having the meeting has a printer, so I can just send it up there, and I will be good. If the connection works.
Settled with going that route, I grab my steaming cup of coffee when the machine beeps at me. Enjoying the slight burn coming through the paper of the cup, I opt out of the wide varieties of sugar and creamers and take it back to my desk.
Turning around, I’m not paying any attention to what is in front of me. Being as big as I am, I never really care to pay attention; people just get out of my way.
But you probably guessed today just isn’t my day for anything.
And you are right.
“Shit!” Stumbling back into the break room while trying to dodge the coffee does me no good; it is already flowing down the front of my clean, white dress shirt.
If this day couldn’t get any worse.
“Do you ever watch where you are walking?” A tiny woman who works in reception draws my eyes away from my soiled shirt. She is an older bitter woman who has never cared for me.
“My apologies, Jane.” Doing my best to compose my building anger—which is not an easy task—I force a tight smile on my pinched face and try not to lose my shit on her. She should have watched where she was walking. I’m a fucking giant; who could possibly miss me? She also didn’t get a drop of coffee on her because my reflexes turned it toward me.
She holds her glare on me for a beat and then storms off, abandoning her mission to do whatever she had planned in the break room.
Unless it was just to ruin my day more.
The scent of coffee permeates the air of the otherwise scentless room, giving an aroma to how I feel inside.
Bitter.