Ride 'Em Hard Read online

  Ride ‘Em Hard

  Adriana French

  Ride ‘Em Hard Copyright © 2019 by Adriana French.

  This book is a work of fiction. You have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored without express permission. Any resemblance to persons living or dead, or places, events or locations are purely coincidental.

  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

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  Chapter One

  I don’t fucking believe this.

  “Noooo!” I yell, as if saying it out loud will change the situation. If there were ever a place on God’s green earth where you do not want to run out of gas, this is it. I haven’t seen a living, breathing soul, not even a chicken or a cow, for the last hundred miles.

  Reminding myself that I’m trying to have a more positive outlook on life, I check the rearview mirror hoping to find someone behind me, and my heart drops. Nope.

  What the hell is super-stud Chase West doing, living out here in the middle of Nowhere, Montana? How is he supposed to be getting all that action the rags are always writing about—the one-on-ones with strangers in barns, the various ménages and all that wild groupie sex—out here?

  Where is everyone? Anyone?

  And why, for the love of God, didn’t I stop for gas at the last town?

  I pull off the two-lane freeway, which is basically the width of my driveway back home in Los Angeles, and drive down the dirt road in front me with no idea where I’m going. My rental coughs and sputters, like it’s giving me its last breath.

  I press the gas.

  And nothing happens.

  I slam one of my new faux Jimmy Choos on the pedal until it hits the floor.

  And get nothing, not even a little burp.

  Nada.

  Under its own momentum—there’s no way I’m touching the brakes—the car slides over a crop of dirt clods for several yards. Fine orange dust sprays up on the windshield, and the old heap gives up the ghost.

  Crap, crap, crap. “No!” I pound on the dashboard.

  Well, shit.

  I stare into the wild blue yonder, over thousands of acres of weeds, blow out a sigh and try to remain the fuck calm. I force my brain not to even touch on the fact that I only have half a bottle of water left and approximately five green M&Ms at the bottom of my purse.

  After waiting for the dirty cloud to settle around the car, I unroll my window because now this pile of junk not only doesn’t have gas, it doesn’t have air-conditioning either.

  Of course, Vital Studios didn’t give me any kind of budget to rent a decent car for this job. Because I’m on a fool’s mission. I took my boss up on a last-ditch plea, something she threw out to the whole office as a joke.

  Yes, I’m that desperate, one of many lowly screenplay readers with their own script they’re trying to sell. Just like me, they’re all hoping someone at the studio with a little pull will read their screenplay, buy it, and make it into a movie. Well, obviously there’s a lot more that goes into getting a movie made, but that’s the gist.

  I’ve spent the last two of my twenty-seven years getting my idea down on paper, and it’s damn good. And I should know: I’ve certainly yawned through enough crappy green-lighted scripts to know my screenplay is better than any of them.

  So when Chase West, Vital’s only A-lister and number-one money-maker, stormed off the set of Ride ’Em Hard, the execs were frantic to get him back. And when my boss, Charlene St. James, suggested that I could maybe sweet-talk Chase back to Los Angeles, I took her up on the challenge. Charlene was so surprised when I told her I’d go that her face ignored all the Botox injections. Her eyebrows almost hit her hairline, and I clearly saw wrinkles on her forehead. Last Thursday was the first time I ever saw Charlene’s face move.

  The mucky-mucks have already tried everything to coerce Chase into starting filming again, but Chase doesn’t care about money and is already countersuing. Apparently, he has enough to bury the studio in court. He also has a reputation for kicking the shit out of people who bother him, so trying to strong-arm Chase is probably out of the question.

  But Vital Studios is losing hundreds of thousands every day they’re not filming, and I don’t want my employer to go under. The way the market is, I might not find another job like the one I have now. Why shouldn’t I at least try to help?

  Charlene probably doesn’t think I have a shot in hell of getting Chase back to L.A. But she promised she’d move my script to the top of the slush pile if I do, and a deal’s a deal. Last week, this trip sounded like an interesting proposition and a whole lot more productive than sitting at my cubicle in Studio City keeping my fingers crossed.

  But shit, it wasn’t supposed to turn out like this.

  I check the GPS on my phone, which is running precariously low on juice, and try to find a bar.

  Damn it. Holding the phone out the window, I get one bar and check Google for the fifty-millionth time. According to the map, I’m in the right location, but there’s nothing here except weeds, a lot of jagged-rock-covered hills, and snow-topped mountains in the distance.

  I’ve been expecting to come across a gigantic mansion for the last thirty-seven miles. I know Chase has a huge spread out here—just one of his many large assets, if you catch my drift—and I thought surely I’d run into his house. I mean, according to the GPS I’m on his property.

  I’ve lost the only bar on the phone, so I get out of the sweat box. Outside in the thick, gummy air, I straighten my new black skirt. My blouse is sticking to me like glue, so I take a deep breath and blow air down the front of it and pull the silky, perspiration-drenched fabric away from my skin.

  Groaning out loud, to the rabbits for all I know, I hold up my phone and trudge over the dry dust trying to find a stronger signal, knowing I’m ruining the best pair of fake designer shoes I’ll ever own.

  Is finding Chase West worth this kind of aggravation? Granted, he’s a box-office wonder, ever since they started casting him in cowboy movies. The 18–24 male demographic loves him, and Chase is one of the few stars that bring women to action films in droves.

  How I’ll react if I find Chase is anyone’s guess. I’ll probably turn into a mute puddle if he’s anything like the way he is in the movies. Chase West is beyond gorgeous, with those perfect facial features the camera loves. I’ve never seen a bad shot of him. And he’s most definitely not a pretty boy. There’s an edge to him that scares the hell out of me.

  He has a strong jaw that looks amazing coated with stubble, and he’s only thirty-two, so there’s no gray yet. He has a perfectly straight nose and an insanely devilish grin—but his eyes are what get me. They’re deep set, mysterious and deadly at the same time, with thick dark eyelashes. And the color—they’re the deepest green I’ve seen. You’d probably drown in them if you were close enough.

  And I won’t even mention his sexy-as-all-get-out raspy growl, or his sex scenes. Chase has no problem dropping trou in his movies, and man, does he know how to make a woman come—or, at least, act like he does.

  Who else can deliver a line like “I like to ride ’em hard and put ’em away wet so they’re ready for me anytime I want ’em”? I almost spit out my mocha macchiato when I first read that
line. But I tell you what—Chase West sells it, and everyone and their grandma is buying it. I blow down the front of my blouse again and undo a few buttons. I need to find Chase West come hell or high water.

  I walk a few paces, hold my phone up again and, praise the Lord, get three bars. “Yay!” I shout into the wild. Now at least I can call my auto insurance company to come get me.

  “Stop right where you are.” I jump at a loud male voice coming from somewhere behind me. “I said, don’t fucking move.”

  A cold gust shoots up my spine. What the fuck? “Ah, sir.” I slowly crane my neck over my shoulder to get a look. “I’m out of—”

  “I said don’t move, and that includes your pussy-pink mouth.”

  I snap my head back and stare in front of me, my body breaking out in a cold sweat. Shit.

  “Put your hands up.” The deep, low growl sounds like business. This guy isn’t taking no for an answ—

  “Hands fucking up!”

  I shoot my hands over my head and hear heavy boots grinding in the soil, getting louder and louder. An enormous shadow blocks the sun, and I feel a hulking presence looming behind me. Then a huge hand comes down out of nowhere and snatches the phone from my hand. “I-I . . .” My chin is trembling so hysterically I can’t form the words. “B-but, I-I need m-my phone.” I blink back tears.

  “You should’ve thought of that before you decided to team up with the Johnsons and trespass on my property.” The anger in his voice makes every part of my body shake. I’m going to pee my pants. I can’t calm down enough to think of a plan.

  “Who are the Johnsons? I have no idea what you’re talking about.” I wait for his answer, but only hear shuffling behind me. Then I feel the cold metal nose of what I’m praying to God is not a gun poke into my lower back. Fear wraps around me like a straightjacket, and I’m paralyzed. I know I’m not supposed to move my mouth, but it’s the only thing I have some sort of control over. The rest of me is frozen. I have to try something. “P-please don’t k-kill me.”

  The hard-metallic object leaves my back. I sigh, shuddering with relief, but my knees start knocking so hard I think I’m going to fall. If I start falling, that means I’m moving and he’ll—

  “Turn around.”

  I shake in my fake Jimmys and try.

  “Slowly.”

  Right. I gulp hard. Finding not a drop of moisture in my mouth, I gradually turn.

  Jesus, Mary and Joseph.

  He’s a beast of a man in person. And he’s pointing a long gun at my chest. I know squat about guns, so I have no idea if it’s sawed off or one of those AK-47s, but I know it could blow a hole right through me. As I take in those thick, rippling muscles encased in a snug short-sleeved black T-shirt, the tats running over his massive biceps, and his tight black jeans, his menacing green eyes stare me down from under the rim of his black hat.

  The image is unmistakable.

  It’s like Chase West just stepped out of the movie poster for Ride ’Em Hard and walked into real life. But this isn’t a movie, and there’s no director here to yell “That’s a take!”

  “Mr. West.” I focus on each syllable calmly, keeping my shit together as best I can. At least I know who he is now. “W-we kind of work together,” I explain, all businesslike. “I’m from Vital—”

  He shifts his weight from one big boot to the other, then focuses the muzzle on my chest and squints, taking aim. His finger twitches near the trigger. “Yeah. No. Don’t know you, sugar tits.”

  Sugar tits? I peek down to where his gun is pointed and see I never rebuttoned my blouse. Chase West is leering at, and pointing a fucking gun at, my cleavage. He can clearly see my black lace bra. But shit, it’s not like I was expecting company, and it’s hotter than hell out here. Forget about the studio, and my script; I’m pissed. No one gets to point a gun at my sugar tits.

  “Who do you think you are, Mr. Cowboy Man?” Okay, that was stupid. “Watch your language, Chase West, or I’ll go straight to The Hollywood Reporter and tell everyone you’re a dick-asshole.”

  “So you want my dick in your asshole, is that what you’re saying?” He licks his lips and grins, acting like he knows how goddamn handsome he is. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

  “Yeah. No. Sorry you got your hopes up. Don’t get a hard-on my account.” Oh my God, I can’t believe that came out of my mouth, and give myself an internal high five. Maybe if I act tough, I’ll get out of this in one piece after all. He lowers the gun, and I take a deep a breath. And then suck it right back up again as he approaches me, moving with purpose.

  “I don’t know you, sugar, but you sure as hell seem to know a lot about me.” His eyes burn into mine with a mixture of heat and anger, and I don’t know what to do. I take a step back and swing my head around to make a run for it, and he grabs me. His massive hand wraps around my right upper arm. “Maeve put you up to this, didn’t she?”

  “I told you—I don’t know the Johnsons, and I don’t know any Maeve either. Now, let go of me!” I try to wiggle out of his hold.

  Chase angles his head down, apparently searching my eyes for something. “Then you’re a fucking paparazzi?”

  “No! I told you I work for Vital.” I attempt to yank myself away from him, but it’s no use. My arm and the rest of me are staying put. Keeping a firm grasp on me, he props his gun against his thigh and examines my phone. I have a swipe lock on it, so he’s not getting anywhere.

  “Out sneaking around taking pictures of me? Did you get a good shot of me fucking the last girl?” He has the audacity to wink. “Yeah, she was a loud one. Her moans would’ve led you right to me.”

  What did he just say? Fucking the last girl . . . ? “I wasn’t taking pictures of you,” I snap, and add for good measure, “Guess what? You’re not that important to me.” That seems to set him off, because he’s scowling the mother of all scowls at me now.

  “You’ve got a smart mouth on you.” His gaze moves down and locks on my cleavage. “Sugar tits.” He flicks his gaze back to my eyes. “I get a feeling you like to play dirty.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” I stare right back him.

  “It means, honeypot, I don’t often have the pleasure of spies running around my property in fuck-me stripper heels and short skirts, with their blouses half off. Maybe”—Chase pauses for a nice long movie-star-quality stare that, God help me, hits me straight between the thighs—“you’re here looking for a good time. You don’t have to sneak around, darlin’. All you have to do is ask. I’ll be happy to oblige.”

  “You have a fucking hell of a nerve.” I bring my free hand to my blouse, mortified that my own body has turned on me and my nipples are getting hard. I’m so mad my hand is shaking while I feel his eyes burning holes on my boobs. I start fastening the buttons as quickly as I can, fumbling with them one by one.

  “Hey,” he says. “I was enjoying the view.”

  “It’s a hundred degrees out here,” I sneer at him. “Ever think a girl might just need a little air? Huh? Now let go of my arm. Please.”

  Chase seems to consider the request and loosens his grip, but he doesn’t completely let go.

  “As I was saying, I was looking for you and—”

  “And you fucking found me. Now what are you going to do?” He cocks his head, and a devious expression, one I haven’t seen in the movies, blankets his face. Spurts of adrenaline start pinging through my veins. He lowers his voice to such a nasty growl that my knees start shaking again. “I sure know what I’d usually do with fucking stalkers who trespass on my property.” The threat sends me into some sort of overdrive state. I don’t think of my heart racing, or my body quaking in fear. Every inch of me is telling me it’s get out of Dodge time.

  Chase shoves my phone in his pocket and leans down to grab his rifle. When he does, he lets go of his grip on my arm, and I bolt.

  Charging over the gravelly terrain, I almost snap my ankle. I kick off my heels. “Help!” I scream, running barefoot over the sharp
brush as fast as I can. “Help me!” I’m shouting into the wind, praying against all odds someone will hear me.

  “Hey, you’re going to hurt yourself running around like that,” he shouts. But I don’t slow, or pause to turn back to see if he’s following me. I race across the sticky weeds, looking for a house or a barn.

  My foot slides over something, and I almost trip. As I try to straighten, my other foot slips, and then the ground suddenly drops out from under me.

  “No!” I’m screaming.

  Down I go, crashing against cramped dark walls. I frantically grasp out in front of me, praying to grab onto something to stop my fall, but it’s no use. The walls must be made of dirt, because every time I manage to get hold of anything, it crumbles. I fall until I finally hit the bottom and land on my ass.

  Crap.

  Shaking and trembling, I slowly exhale and probe my shadowy surroundings, trying to compute what the hell just happened. It’s at least twenty degrees cooler down here. I’m in a hole with dirt walls. It’s not too deep, maybe fifteen feet.

  I take a deep breath and look up at the pretty blue sky above. I want to cry, but instead rub my forehead to relieve the headache threatening to tear off my skull. I need to devise a master plan and get the fuck out of here. Mr. Movie Star has turned into a psycho.

  A trickle of dirt rains down from above. My heart jumps into my throat. I don’t want to, I don’t want to face my pathetic reality, but I force myself to look up.

  “Asshole!” I shout, getting a second wind, and scoot back so I can get a better look at him. “You’re nothing but a fuckface with a big gun and no manners.”

  Chase removes his hat and rakes a hand through his thick hair. His baritone laugh reverberates down the hole. “Is that any way to speak to the only man who can rescue you, darlin’?”

  Blocking the sun, Chase crouches down and leans into the hole, presumably for a better look. Then he has the audacity to grin. “You ready to get out of my well? We weren’t quite finished digging. I could throw you a shovel if you’d rather stay down there and help.”