This is the story of how Darla met Trevor and Joe from Random Acts of Crazy. Darla is a fan of this Boston based band. Josie had sent her a link once and Darla has followed them online.
One day she was driving down the highway and saw a gorgeous naked man with a hat and a guitar hitchhiking. So of course she picked him up. He was a little out of it. He did not know where he was or even how he got there. They snipped at each other and it was like foreplay, but it was also more. He called her Chippy Pete and she called him Ass.
His name is Trevor and he asks for a phone so he can call his friend to come get him. Then Darla finds out who he is. Joe is coming to get him. Darla takes him home. They have an extraordinary night together in her little shed. Then Joe shows up and things really heat up.
What will happen next? Darla's life is about to change!
I love Darla. I loved her in the Her Billionaires series. I am glad to find out her story. She is a refreshing and funny character. I look forward to finding out more about Trevor and Joe.
I never intended to pick up a naked hitchhiker wearing nothing but a guitar. A guitar. Really. I don't collect guys like that (don't ask what kind of guys I do collect), but when you spot a blonde, tanned, sculpted man with a gorgeous smile and his thumb poking up and practically begging you to stop – you stop.
And I definitely never thought I'd be staring into the bright blue eyes of Trevor Connor, the lead singer for Random Acts of Crazy, an indie rock star I followed like the slobbering fileshare fangirl I am. How he came to be nude and lost six hundred miles from home is quite the tale, but how we fell in love is even more unreal.
Because someone like Trevor Connor, headed to Harvard Law next year, isn't supposed to want someone like me, a rural Ohio chick majoring in Boredom at Convenience Store University who is all curves and frizzy blonde hair and manners so unpolished they have sharp edges that make you bleed.
But he did.
When his best friend, Joe Ross, the bass player for Random Acts of Crazy and a man who makes Calvin Klein models look like Shrek, drove eleven hours through the night to rescue him, though, it got real complicated. It's one thing to like two different guys and be torn.
What do you do, though, when maybe – just maybe – you don't have to choose?
As my Aunt Josie says sometimes, "It's always complicated."
The last everloving f**king thing I expected to see as I drove down I-76 toward my little hometown of Peters, Ohio was a buck-naked man wearing a spiked collar and a guitar.
I mean, only wearing a collar and a guitar. The man was barefoot, for goodness sake. On the highway. In May, in Oh-f**king-hi-o, where winter isn’t a season but a state of mind.
How could I not stop and offer him a ride? Seriously? Where was he hiding a weapon? OK, OK, maybe up there, but think about it for a minute – he’d have to twist quite a bit to access anything he hid up his puckered – well, there!
And he wasn’t a bit hard on the eyes, either. Kind of a Brad Pitt circa 1991 look, before he married Miss Toothpick and then left her for that wan Elvira and her weak Michelle Duggar imitation.
Anyhow…back to the nak*d hitchhiker. My 1986 Toyota Tercel wasn’t anything special but it, um, had a floor. And a windshield. And a place for Mr. Naked to rest his weary nuts. The vinyl might be cracked and faded and it wasn’t no Giving Tree from that Shel Silverstein book, but at least the man could give his balls a rest. Those muscles looked like they could sure use some eyes hungrily ogling them, too, for they screamed for loving attention. If I couldn’t touch, I could at least be the one to stare, right? I’m a giver like that.
Always thinking about others.
So when he got over his surprise that some chick with frizzy hair and fuzzy dice hanging from her old, faded rear view mirror had actually pulled over, he dipped his head down to the open window and flashed me a grin. We were out in the middle of no-f**king-where and there was one streetlight that glowed up the background, but even that wasn’t enough to outshine his smile. All straight teeth, nice gums, and full lips melting into a charm-you-out-of-your-pants look that made me almost drop trou and f**k him right there.
I about melted into my own seat. That wasn’t from the heater, either. My juices seemed to go from the Sahara to Niagara Falls. When he climbed in and – literally – flashed his ass and nibbly bits at me, I nearly came on the spot.
Something about him was familiar, but I knew he wasn’t from around here. Tucking away that little tease of contemplation, I studied him a bit more, a sense of specialness flowing over the moment. Extracting it and dissecting it would yield no deeper truths, though – a part of me connected with him for whatever déjà vu-like reason.
Or maybe I was just on overdrive to convince myself to pick up a nude male. Whatever.
“Hi there, Ma’am.” Shaggy, surfer blond, wavy hair four months overgrown from the cut that had screamed “preppy boy,” but now exuded that deep sense of complete abandon, of hedonism in bed. A flash of pink in his mouth displayed a tongue that (I imagined) truly loved women and wasn’t afraid to show it. Glittery blue eyes that were focused but fleeting, like Bradley Cooper’s but muted. He was high as a motherf**king kite, and that was OK, because he was pretty enough to look at just as is. He didn’t need to be a stellar conversationalist.
“I am no one’s Ma’am. That’s my grandma. Hell, my mom doesn’t even go by Ma’am, so shut down that talk right there.” No one – no woman – before the age of thirty-five wants to be called ma’am. Fastest way to shut a woman’s vag**a off, like a table saw brake. Come too close with that word and crack! Power off.“OK, then, Chippy Pete!” He adjusted his hat (where’d that come from? I didn’t see no hat at first, and he wasn’t exactly hanging on to a lot of pockets here, nude and all) and kept it on. This wasn’t no churchgoing man. Then again, the nak*d ones largely aren’t. The hat was cheap straw, formed like a cowboy hat, and the look – well, his fashion sense screamed Chippendales stripper on a Salvation Army budget.
“Just Pete to you.” Chippy Pete? Seriously? He could have called me Honey or Sugar or Toots or Melons or Bitch and he picked Chippy Pete? “Where you going?”
“Wherever you are.”
I looked in the rear view mirror at myself. In spite of the frizzy hair I wore makeup. A shirt. A bra. Pants. The chances we were going to the same place were slim. “Uh, I’m dressed. You’re not.”
“I am attired in a guitar. And this.” He doffed his hat and started strumming some chord from a 70s song. Kansas? Boston? I couldn’t tell.
“No shirt, no shoes, no sweaty balls on my dashboard.” I was starting to get nervous. What had I gotten myself into? Was he weirder than I thought? Would this be a redo of my freshman Valentine’s dance, where my best friend, Jane, hooked me up with her older brother’s meth dealer and the date ended with a courtesy ride home from the DEA?
“Just on your seat, Ma’am – uh, Pete.”
“That’s right. I am Pete.” May as well embrace it. And the sweaty ball funk that would permeate my seat thereafter. “And you are?” His sandy blond hair was clean. He had that going for him. And eyes that were the color I imagined the ocean to be, if the glow of the dashboard lights were to be believed.
“Call me Sweaty.” He gestured to his sac.
“I’ll call you Sweetheart.”
“Pretty soon you’ll call me whatever name you’re really thinking of.”
“Then your name is Asshole.”
“I been called worse.”
“Alright then, Ma’am.” So we were at a standoff, and that would have gone on for twenty mile markers out here in the lost lands of north-central Ohio, where the people rolled Pittsburgh Yinzerese and Cleveland into one God-awful accent, had a nasty, enormous mutant raccoon not put a stop to all that.
The impact nearly neutered poor Ass.
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Ebook, 344 pages
Published May 21st 2013