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Lance Roughnecks Series
By USA Today Bestselling Author Chelsea Camaron
Copyright © Chelsea Camaron 2015
This book contains mature content not suitable for those under the age of 18. Involves strong language and sexual situations. All parties portrayed in sexual situations are adults over the age of 18.
All characters are fictional. Any similarities are purely coincidental.
Dedication
~For Ace~
Thank you for being along for the ‘rush’ and putting up with my kind of crazy.
To everyone who has ever felt like you aren’t enough exactly as you are
YOU ARE MORE THAN ENOUGH
Lance
Value, worth—these are things I don’t have. College degree, great job—none of that matters if you look in the mirror and can’t find anything to love.
Structure, dedication, and determination are the traits that Candace Jones has survived and thrived on. When no one cares at home, it takes her self-drive to push and work her way through college. Life is funny while you’re growing up, and adulthood isn’t any easier than childhood. Little girl dreams are often destroyed before they can even begin.
Lance ‘Rush’ Miller works hard and plays even harder. He lives life from one adrenaline rush to the next, from working as a roughneck to trick riding his street bike. He has it made and knows it.
What happens when firm resolve crashes into wild abandon? Two complete opposites are thrown together when Candace finds herself in need of a quick escape that Lance is all too willing to give her.
P ROLOGUE
~Candace~
Go to school, get good grades, stay out of the way, and stay quiet.
Simple enough.
Only nine hundred or so more days until I graduate from high school and move on to college.
I once read an article that said, ‘a person can still feel alone even surrounded by a room full of people.’ That one phrase describes my existence perfectly.
“Candace, dinner’s ready,” my mom calls out, and dread automatically fills me.
I trudge down the stairs one by one while the childhood pictures stare back at me, taunting me.
Haunting me.
The chubby baby cheeks that were once so cute now round out my face, hiding none of my shame from the world. At the bottom step, I close my eyes and inhale deeply. Exhaling, I push back the tears threatening to spill out.
My daily torture is about to begin.
As I round the corner and step into the kitchen, the aroma of garlic assaults my senses as my stomach growls loudly in hunger. Absently, I run my hands over my belly.
“Oh, Candy, don’t rub your tummy like a pet,” my mother chastises.
Silently, I move to wash my hands. There is nothing I can say to her that could make her understand.
No one sees my pain. No one knows my struggles, least of them my size six mother.
“Something smells good, Lisa,” my dad proudly greets her as he walk in and proceeds to kiss her cheek. He’s got that right. It does smell good.
I once read in an article at the doctor’s office that we first eat with our nose, then our eyes, and finally our mouth. Smell, sight, texture, and taste all come together to register in our brain whether we like a food or not.
“Penne pasta bake with Italian sausage and garlic bread. Your favorite.” She beams up at him.
I want to vomit. Well, I really want to stuff my face with every delicious morsel of the meal being set out on our table, but I want to do it alone. I want to enjoy my dinner without my mother’s stare.
Sitting down to eat, I prepare for the battle. The glare of my mother’s gaze grips me as I reach for the salad dressing to top my leafy greens. Her reaction is to sigh loudly in her first warning that I am indeed doing something wrong.
A girl my size should eat salad—sure—minus the dressing. I listen to every word she preaches to me time and time again. I have it engrained in my head. It doesn’t mean I have the willpower to resist. I doll up the salad with shredded cheese, chopped egg, croutons, and ranch dressing. Like a lady, I eat my salad first, all under her watch.
The scents of garlic, the look of the pasta bake, and my own craving for carbs have me still starving as I plate my main course.
“Candy, have you no self-control? You’re not getting any younger … or smaller. At fifteen, that’s not baby fat you’re carrying around. Are you sure you need to eat that much?”
So it begins yet again. Just one dinner is all I ask. Can I please have one dinner that I am not under her scrutiny? Breakfast, she doesn’t bother me. She needs her rest for the day ahead of her. Thank the dear queen of good things for that small reprieve. Not that she has such a hard day, being that she doesn’t work. I’m an only child, and our house stays spotless. Whatever she needs to stay out of my way works for me. Lunch, I eat at school. Dinner, though—night in and night out—we must eat as a family. Jones family requirement; everyone must be present at the dinner table. Night in and night out, I must endure my bad food choices. Night in and night out, I sit under her scrutiny while my dad says nothing. His silence is almost as cruel as her words. He must agree if he says not one word, right?
One day, I’ll be out of here. One day, they won’t have to fuss over my eating. One day, it’ll go away.
C HAPTER O NE
~Lance~
Zanne’s isn’t the same anymore. Heath is hanging at the gym tonight to support LoraLeigh, who is teaching her first class as a certified self-defense instructor. After everything she has been through, this is huge for her. I get it, really I do. It still doesn’t make me miss my wingman any less.
Tapper is home with a very pregnant Kenzy. This isn’t his scene anymore. I get that, too. It still doesn’t mean I don’t miss having my boys around.
I grip the long neck bottle a little tighter before bringing the beer to my lips. The cold alcohol runs down my throat as I take a long pull.
The place is slow tonight for Zanne’s. Stepping out from the usual table I share with the guys, I scan the dance floor. Finding a curvy blonde dancing in her group of friends, I make my way over.
With a raise of my bottle to my long time buddy, ‘DJ Drunken Monkey,’ the song changes to a soft R&B. The girls move apart just enough for me to slide in behind the object of my desire tonight. In rhythm with the music, I move in behind her luscious ass. Wrapping my right arm around her waist, I take the lead, pulling her against me. She gasps and looks up at me, and then I smile and continue to move.
When she relaxes against me, I take my left hand holding the beer and press the cold bottle against the curve of her neck. The condensation rolls down the bottle, landing on her exposed skin. Leaning down, I lick the water off the sweet spot of her neck, dragging my teeth as I pull the longneck away. She trembles as the chills run through her.
Pulling her closer, I growl in her ear. We sway, rock, and grind into each other as she melts into me and one song moves into another.