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Down & Dirty

Down & Dirty

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Down & Dirty

ratings:
4.5/5 (4 ratings)
Length:
333 pages
4 hours
Publisher:
Released:
Sep 19, 2014
Format:
Book

Description

My name is Emmie Black.
There are only three things in my life that matter- my dad, my dog, and my dirt bike.
Riding motocross professionally takes up way too much of my time to even consider having an actual relationship. At least that’s what I tell all the men that ask me out.
Casual hookups and one night stands seem to be the best option for me. Where’s the need for a boyfriend when I have a 200 pound vibrator between my legs daily?
Then I meet Nixon King, every moto ho’s wet dream.
He has the body of a model, the cockiness of a frat boy with a popped collar, and riding skills that rival my own.
With a combination like that I can’t resist being attracted to him.
So when he suggests having a no strings attached commitment, who am I to turn him down?
Panty melting sex without any feelings to get in the way? Best idea ever!
Then, months into our pseudo relationship, those pesky feelings start making their way to the surface; exactly what I didn’t want to happen.
What should I do now?

Publisher:
Released:
Sep 19, 2014
Format:
Book

About the author

I am a mother of two beautiful and energetic children and the wife to one very handsome and hard working man. I live in the Rockies and hate every minute of winter. My brain is filled with 70% movie quotes and 25% song lyrics. I'm not sure what is going on in with the other 5%. I live for a good book with a happy ending and a big cup of coffee.


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Down & Dirty - Ash Johnson

1

The crowd sitting in the bleachers around the indoor dirt motocross track in Texas is insane. Even though I’ve been doing this professionally for the past seven years, the crowds are still very surprising to me. The noise levels are through the roof and it’s hot as hell even though we’re inside.

It’s the second to last race of my women’s motocross season and so far I’m kicking every other girl’s ass on the dirt. My lap times during practice yesterday were promising that I was going to come in first today as well, and knowing I can possibly beat those times today makes me smile behind my helmet.

I rub my lucky taper bar cover and touch my number plate, #329, and then rev the engine of my white Yamaha YZ125 dirt bike at the starting gate, trying to picture how I should maneuver my turns through this ten lap track. Instead I keep hearing what Jen Caruso said to me when we rolled our bikes up.

"I’m going to take you out one way or another, Emmie Black. That checkered flag is mine."

I glance to my right where Jen, who looks like she’s fifteen years old even with her helmet on, is lined up on her #55 green Kawasaki and get even more pissed off when she turns her head to me and runs her thumb across her neck like she’s going to cut it, telling me in no certain words that I’m dead.

I decide right then that I have to beat her. This snotty teenage girl thinks that she’s the shit because she won in the amateur circuit, but she’s about to get a dose of reality.

I’m going to kick her ass.

The beep sounds and the gate drops, letting all seven of us drop down to the track.

When I start on the first tabletop jump, I find that I’m in first place but know that the other girls aren’t that far behind.

Six laps in and I’m still in first place. I just passed the small cluster of bumps, also known as whoops, and have taken a tight corner but notice in my peripheral vision that someone is very close behind, riding the outside of the turn. I try to put whoever it is out of my mind and focus on the large tabletop jump I have coming up.

I pick a rut right up the center of the jump, glad that I am having luck keeping my balance through the loose dirt up the hill. I make it up the ramp at a decent speed, but notice that the nose of my bike is down too far to come out straight, so I pump the throttle and level my bike out.

What I fail to see is that the girl behind me is way too close to me during my adjustment.

She is basically even with my back tire in the air, but when I bring the back end of my bike level during my adjustment, her bike whips to the side at the same time, coming in contact with the back tire of my bike and throwing off my balance.

I don’t have enough time in the air to make any adjustments and I know I’m going to crash. My body is still moving forward but my bike is tilted to the side, almost parallel to the dirt.

Like an idiot, I forget to release the handlebars and bail so I have my hands stretched above me when I land on my side on a hill. I close my eyes tightly as I hear my dirt bike crash onto the ground above me, the metal making horrible pounding sounds as it bends and breaks.

The force of the bike landing causes it to bounce and, because I’m still holding onto it, fall on top of me while I’m lying in a huddled ball in an attempt to breathe normally. I can see the other competitors flying overhead and I send up a quick prayer that none of them land on me.

The bike is still crushed to my aching body but I’m too afraid to move it off of me in case I’ve broken something vital. In my peripheral vision I can see workers on the sidelines frantically waving yellow caution flags while the other girls try to avoid hitting me through the jump.

When the workers see that I’m not getting up from my fall, they quickly switch to the red flag, stopping the race so I can be tended to.

What seems like hours later but is probably only seconds, my pit crew approaches with medics. They carefully remove the bike from my chest and push it off to the side so they have room to check on me. Next they put a brace around my neck and remove my helmet.

I’m having trouble breathing and I’m hoping that I’ve just had the wind knocked out of me, but this isn’t the first time I’ve crashed and I know that I’ve broken something. My left collarbone feels like it has snapped in half along with a sharp pain in my left leg, but the only thing I can focus on is that my mechanic, Jack, is going to be so pissed that the bike is screwed up.

My brain starts to register and the blurred faces are starting to look familiar again. I see Adam, my crew chief, and my dad standing behind all of the medics, their eyes wide with fear.

I spot Jack on my right and I reach out for him through the EMTs. When he grabs my hand, tears start to come to my eyes.

Jack, I’m so sorry I fucked up the bike, I whisper out through my pain. Jack looks confused for a second and then sputters out a laugh, turning his head toward my dad, who is also his best friend, and gives a slight nod and a smile. I know he’s telling dad without words that I’ll be alright.

Don’t worry about the bike, darlin’, I’m just glad you’re okay, he smiles. As soon as he says that, my mind starts to wonder if I really am.

I see my dad out of the corner of my eye and give him a weak smile, letting him know that I’ll be okay and these things happen, but I do it for his benefit.

After about five minutes of checking, the medical team gets me loaded onto the stretcher board.

I slightly turn my head to the left and see Jen standing off to the side, wiggling her fingers and smirking at me.

Bitch.

I know she’s the one who whipped into my bike through the jump and I’m not exactly sure it was accidental, but I’ll get her back as soon as I get right.

She can count on that.

Chapter 2

My major crash and burn two weeks ago has left me in a funk.

I’ve had friends and family sending flowers and food, but nothing seems to bring me out of my wallowing pit. All I want to do is sit at home and sulk until my broken body heals.

Luckily I have the world’s best manager. Collin is a family friend and his parents have known my parents for almost twenty years. He grew up two houses down from mine. Even though he is only thirty, he sometimes acts more like my father than my actual father does, which is saying something because my dad is stern and vocal about what happens in my life.

I’m lying on the couch in the middle of the day on a Saturday watching Titanic, realizing all the water makes my bladder want to explode, but I’m too lazy to go to the bathroom. How sad is that?

I don’t give a second thought to my sloth like brain, but when Collin comes barging into my house, I know I should be examining my laziness a bit closer. My Great Dane, Otis, starts barking the second the front door is flung open, but then slumps back onto the floor beneath my feet the second he sees who it is.

Jesus Emmie, you smell awful. When was the last time you showered? Collin grunts when he comes around the corner into the living room, his nose scrunching up and his pale blue eyes squinting.

Um, I showered a few days ago, I tell him, barely lifting my uninjured arm in the air and trying to be sneaky about sniffing my arm pit.

Wow, it stinks worse than I thought it would.

Collin again screws his face up in disgust at how long it’s been, or possibly at the smell radiating from my underarm.

Well, if you had a broken leg that you had to cover with a bag and only one good arm you probably wouldn’t shower very often either, I answer.

No, I would shower before I started smelling like a crusty butt, he deadpans and runs his fingers through his wavy blonde hair, probably out of frustration at the state I’m in.

Wow Collin, been smelling a lot of crusty butts, have we? I tease.

He doesn’t seem to think it’s so funny. He unbuttons the wrists of his light blue dress shirt and rolls the arms up to his elbows before turning around. He disappears from my line of sight and, for a minute, I think he may have left.

A few minutes later Collin reappears, holding a black garbage bag out toward me.

I’ll help you to the shower, and then when you’re done, we’re going to get out of this stinky house, okay?

My house does not stink, I protest. Otis sits up and glares at me with large brown eyes like I’ve lost my mind.

Sure sweetie. Just wait until you get out of this wallowing period and then you’ll notice the stench around this place.

Whatever. Just help me get to the bathroom so that I can get this over with, I grumble.

After Collin helps me down the long hallway and into my master bathroom, he ties the plastic bag around my black cast and walks back into my room to let me shower.

I wash as much as I can without using my left hand, which is hard because I’m left handed, and get out and dry with a towel to find that Collin has put a white tank top and a pair of jean shorts, along with my white lace bra and matching thong, out on the counter for me to wear.

You know it’s not polite to creep through a lady’s underwear drawer, Collin, I tease while getting dressed, knowing he’s on the other side of the barely open bathroom door, sitting on my bed.

Pft, I’ve known you since you were in diapers, so I don’t think it’s that big of a deal, Em, he says.

What would Jaycee say if she knew that you were picking out my panties?

If my fiancée smelled how rank you were before this shower, she would have asked me to pick them out. I’ve just done the world a service by getting you to wash yourself, he laughs.

Dick, I mutter under my breath, but of course Collin hears it.

Okay Em, if you just want to stay in your stink ass house and wallow in self pity, be my guest. I’ m just trying to get you out and have a little fun, but if you’re going to complain the whole time, I’d rather you stay here.

Now I feel bad. I know he’s just trying to get me out of my self pity. I haven’t had too many visitors since my crash, just my dad and Adam, my crew chief. Luckily I will only miss one race of the season due to my injury. That race is happening today and it’s one of the two races this season that are in my home state.

I nod my head, knowing that Collin is trying to help, and start to brush my long bleach blonde hair. My natural brown roots are showing through, driving me crazy because my hair is normally more natural looking and not so sloppy. I put a little mascara on my lashes to bring some attention to my hazel eyes and wipe a little bronzer on my face to make myself feel like I’ve done something to make myself presentable.

I try to be a girly girl, if only in the clothing department, even though I race motocross professionally. I love to wear dresses and heels, courtesy of my mother. I also love to curl my hair, but with one arm out of commision I decide to pull it up into a crude bun on top of my head to try and hide my roots showing through.

My mom would never let my hair look like this if she were alive today.

I slip a white flip flop onto my right foot and then stumble my way toward my front door.

Alright Collin, where are we heading to? I ask.

Well there is this motocross race going on across town today and I thought it would do you good to get out and watch a bit. Maybe I could speak to some more sponsors and see what we can hook you up with. I have a wheelchair in the back of my car to help you move around, so you don’t have to worry about any of that.

I agree sadly, knowing I should be in this race today, and give Otis a pat before walking out the front door.

With Collin’s help, we get into his Jaguar to head toward the track. Thirty five minutes later, Collin and I are pulling into the parking lot of the outdoor track. He grabs the wheelchair out of the back and unfolds it before opening the passenger side door and helping me into it.

Okay Em, the races start in a few minutes. The practice time is over and the men’s circuit will be lining up soon. Do you want to go sit and watch it or do you want to go check out potential sponsors?

That’s what I pay you to do, Coll. I’ll sit and watch the race while you talk to sponsors, alright? I give him a grin and watch him nod.

Okay sweetie. Let’s get you rolled up to the track then, shall we? he says in a way too happy manner.

He’s been working his ass off to get me a big name sponsor for the last year, and with the season I had before my crash, it shouldn’t be so hard to land one now.

I try to hold in a small giggle at all the women we’ve passed that are dressed in their too tight dirt bike brand tank tops that keep ogling Collin while he shoves me around in a wide wheelchair. He looks like a freaking Abercrombie model with his golden blonde hair stopping right above his shoulders in waves and his big blue eyes standing out against his tanned skin.

The straight white teeth that he’s flashing, due to three years of braces in his teenage years, along with the dimples in his cheeks have girls ready to faint. His body is utterly sinful in his dress shirt and dark slacks, but I’ve known him for way too long and I’ve seen way too many things to ever be attracted to him. He’s more like a supportive, and sometimes more annoying, older brother.

Thanks for the killer parking spot, Coll, I grumble when he stops us at the fence next to the track and grabs my shoulder before walking off. I wish I could muster up a bit of gratefulness toward Collin for trying to get me out but I’m a bit upset that I’m not out there with the other riders. I have to be propped up in a wheelchair off to the side of the outdoor track instead.

I hear the familiar starting beeps and the drop of the gates before the crowd cheers loudly and turn my head toward the track. The men’s race has begun and I watch with great interest as the men fly through the air, whipping their bikes to the side every time they go airborne on a triple jump. Ten laps later and another local boy named Nixon King is claimed the winner.

Nixon has had an incredible career, coming in first in almost every competition. He’s getting ready to compete in the X-Games in Los Angeles next month. He’s every motocross man’s idol and every woman’s fantasy.

Too bad he’s way too arrogant for my taste.

He’s been on the cover of many different sports magazines and I’m not ashamed to say that I too have ogled him on those glossy pages. I can call up an image of him I saw in a dirt bike magazine a few months ago.

His light brown hair, which was shaved short along the sides and stood a few inches off his head on top, looked like he either just rolled out of bed or like he just got done having sex. His dark brown eyes demanded your attention along with his white teeth that were slightly crooked on the bottom surrounded by a bow shaped upper and plump bottom lip.

I found myself actually wanting to taste them. His lips were way too distracting.

His strong square jaw was covered in a five o’clock shadow as if his facial hair knew the perfect time to stop growing, and his insanely hot body didn’t help either.

Motocross riders need to have muscles to maneuver and control their bikes, but Nixon took it to an extreme. His smooth body rivaled that of the male underwear models that were on the ads of the same magazine.

But along with all of that male god-ness is one of the cockiest attitudes anyone has ever met. Nixon made sure everyone thought that he was the shit in his interview, and if you didn’t know, it sounded like he’d tell you first hand.

Even though he had everything going for him in the looks department, the attitude was (just barely) enough to keep me from wanting to get to know him.

I watch carefully as he runs his victory lap. He hits the tabletop jump and does a Superman, where he flies into the air and stretches his body horizontally along his #69, of course that’s the number he picks, bike before grabbing the seat and pulling the bike back under him, all before landing.

I am grateful that we don’t have the same sponsors so that I can watch him from afar and not have to worry about interacting with him. He can just be fabulous motocross eye candy without feeling the obligation of talking to his cocky ass.

I’d go after the other hot guys that didn’t think that their shit smelled like roses.

The men finally exit the track and the women come in, getting a feel for the track and making sure that their bikes are tuned correctly. I sit and watch in envy for a few minutes not paying attention to any of the noise from the sponsor booths set up behind me.

The booths are filled with different riders giving autographs and taking pictures with the fans. I’ve had to sit in booths before and, as fun as it is to interact with the fans, it gets a bit tedious after a while.

A few minutes after the women finish warming up I hear a group of what sound like high pitched, annoying, teenage girls screaming behind me. I try to turn around to see what they are screaming about but it’s almost impossible to shift my body with a broken collarbone.

I use my free hand and only get my wheelchair to turn a few inches before it gets stuck in some dirt and then I don’t have the energy to move it anymore. From the high pitched squeals of "Nixon", I would guess that Nixon King is setting up for autographs in the booth behind me.

Fuck it. Not worth turning around to watch anyway.

The moto hoes are flocking toward the booth behind me and, although it’s getting annoying, it’s also really funny to listen to.

Did you see how fucking hot Nixon looked when he did that jump thingy at the end? ho number one squeaks.

Omigod, yes. I would love for him to teach me how to do that, but I think I might get hurt if I fell, ho number two replies.

She would definitely fall and she has no freaking clue how badly it would hurt. I’m sitting in a wheelchair because of falling off my bike.

She might die.

I’m giggling at the conversations between them when the women’s race is about to begin. I pull my cell phone out of its holding place in the cup of my bra and bring up the camera. I want to take a picture of the girls that are lined up so I can watch them on YouTube and get a better feel for the way they race just in case I ever line up with them.

I watch seven bikes up on the ramp, including my new enemy Jen Caruso, and I start to feel the familiar bundle of nerves that hit just before the gate drops and you gun the throttle.

The gate falls and the rumble of the accelerating bikes hit my gut but as soon as they come up on their first set of whoops a large, black cottoned, muscular wall steps in front of me.

Hey- is all I can get out before the muscle leans down toward me. I finally get a look to see that Nixon King’s face, which is better looking in person than it is in a magazine, is only a foot or so away from mine, but he’s not looking into my eyes; he’s looking at my breasts. They are propped up from the arm brace for my collarbone and my white tank top has seemed to lower itself without my permission.

However, instead of just getting his eyeful and then looking at my face like a gentleman, he leans forward and lifts his hand.

Before I can figure out what he’s doing, he stands straight and mutters it’s always nice to meet a fan of the sport in an insincere tone. Then he takes my cell phone from my lap and moves closer to me, holding the phone out with one hand and taking a picture of the two of us. He’s giving the camera a cocky smile and I’m staring at him with a blank look on my face.

Nixon puts my phone back on my lap and winks at me. I look at him like he’s got a concussion.

Then I remember that he was bent in front of me, so I glance down and finally see that he has signed his name, in black marker, along the swell of my right breast.

I instantly get pissed. Now I’ll have to shower again tonight. Doesn’t he realize how hard it is for me to shower with these stupid injuries?

You’ve got some nerve, asshole, I shout. Nixon’s eyebrows instantly rise and he runs a hand through his damp with sweat hair, making it messier than it was before.

What are you talking about? You were in line, but it looked like you were having trouble moving toward the booth in your wheelchair, so I decided to come to you. I also noticed you had the camera pulled up on your phone but didn’t have anything to sign, he says, shifting his vision to my chest, raising an eyebrow and smiling.

His arrogance is astounding. He thought I was just another moto ho waiting for him to grace my presence? The thought makes me want to both snicker and beat him to the ground.

Well, thanks for making the trip around your table to come sign my tit, but I never wanted your autograph. I had the camera pulled up on my phone so I could take a picture of the female riders. I wanted to watch the women race in peace, but you’ve seemed to ruin that and have drawn on my body, as well, I grit out.

Nixon stands up straight and shakes his head as he lets out a small chuckle.

Come on sugar, you and I both know that you don’t know anything about racing. It’s as obvious as that bleach blonde dye job on your head, he chuckles and points to my messy blonde bun with the brown roots showing.

What an asshole. I’ll be the first to admit that my hair color isn’t real, but it’s mostly because this look was done with the last photo shoot I did for a magazine over a month ago. As soon as I can, I’m going to get it dyed back to my original light brown.

I’m also one of the most well known names in women’s motocross, so for him to not know who I am is a bit surprising. I can’t wait to fill him in.

I tilt my head to the side and give him my best death glare before I speak.

Actually dick, I do know a thing or two about racing since I won the Women’s Triple Crown last year and was in line to win it this year before I was injured. I grin when his smile drops and

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  • (5/5)
    Who doesn't love the tom boy who isn't afraid to drop F bombs?
  • (5/5)
    Loved this book awesome