Mad Sea
Mad Sea
Copyright © 2016 K Webster
Editing: Prema Romance Editing
Formatting: Champagne Formats
Cover Design: K Webster
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an information and retrieval system without express written permission from the Author/Publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Table of Contents
“Go on and kiss the girl.”
–Sebastian,
The Little Mermaid
To my husband.
My love for you is deeper than the deep blue sea, you see.
A Note to the Reader:
Mad Sea was originally created as a story for an anthology. There were size constraints which explains the short length of this story. Because of this, the story is sweet, to the point, and all kinds of instalove. If you’re looking for a quick, lovable read that is quite outside your normal reading zone, then you’re going to love this.
I’ve been dying to write a story about mermaids and I’ve finally been able to scratch that itch. It has something for everyone…a motorcycle gang full of dirty talkin’ alphas, sexy mermaids, voyeuristic dolphins, and sweet love!
I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it!
Sincerely,
K Webster
“Little cherub of the sea, come and play with me.
Come and play with me, dearest cherub of the sea.
Please come play with me,
In the mad, mad sea.”
F
or the most part, members of an outlaw motorcycle club are badass motherfuckers. Leather wearing, tattoo sportin’, weapon toting, hell raising kind of guys. They push drugs and fuck as much as they drink. And they fight nearly as much as they eat. Bikers have a reputation for being rough around the edges and crude. Illegal activities are their game of choice and rebellion is their middle name. They rule the streets with their hogs between their thighs and murderous glares on their rugged faces. They are outlaws.
And I lead the gang.
The ring fucking leader.
Mr. Badass himself.
Every day we ride. On Tuesdays, I head to the shipyards so I can oversee our weapons import. Thursdays, I taste from the newest strain of cocaine that will get cut for distribution. Saturdays, I collect on my debts.
But Sundays…
Sundays are
my
day.
My fucking day off.
“The usual, sir?”
I snap my head up from staring at the tips of my worn leather boots and meet the pale green eyes of Hali Morgan. Her strawberry-blonde hair has been pulled back into a sleek ponytail today, like always, and her lips are glossy pink. I’d rather taste
her
instead of what I’m here for, but she doesn’t even know my fucking name.
“Yes,” I say with a grunt. “Thank you, Hali.”
She beams at me, flashing her perfect white teeth, and punches in some numbers on the register. “That’ll be five-oh-nine, sir.”
Here’s the deal. I’ve been coming to see her every Sunday for three months. Three fucking months. I’m pussy whipped by a register girl who doesn’t even know my name.
But her?
I know everything the internet yields regarding Hali Elaine Morgan. She’s not big on Facebook but is always posting shit on Instagram. Not self-absorbed selfies. Not my Hali. Naw, she’s more into scenery and sunsets. Shells and palm trees. Muscle cars and puffy clouds. I know this because my stupid ass created a fake profile just to inconspicuously follow her. I try not to go full-on creeper and like every single picture she posts. Currently, I’ve kept my liking to every other post.
I’m a stalker
and
a pussy.
Jesus fucking Christ.
If only the guys back at the clubhouse knew this, they’d be slitting my throat and electing a new president before sundown. My best friend, Jagger, and that fucktard Cassius, wouldn’t even wait until my body was cold before one of them was sitting in my place at the head of the table.
“Sir?”
I snap out of my daze and shove my hand into my black jeans. Pulling out a ten dollar bill, I slap it on the counter. “Keep the change, sweetheart.”
Her pale, freckled cheeks tinge pink as she slides the bill from me. “Thank you.”
When she bounces off to make my order, I run my fingers through my jet black hair in frustration. At the clubhouse, all I have to do is look at one of the broads sitting on one of the worn sofas and they’ll be sucking my cock in three seconds flat.
But Hali?
I can’t even talk to her without feeling like I’m a fourteen-year-old nerdy little shit. It’s emasculating and embarrassing, yet I keep coming back here. Every goddamned Sunday for more punishment.
My gaze travels over to her. Her head is bopping to the music on the speakers—some Justin Timberlake crap—and her supple lips mouth the words as she pulls a cup from the dispenser. Then, she bounces over to the frozen yogurt machine and pulls the lever. Bubblegum flavored frozen yogurt fills the cup, but I’m too focused on how delicious her ass looks in her tiny white shorts to notice her actions. It’s the best damn part of my week. What I wouldn’t give to pull out my flaying knife and slice them right from her ripe, tight body.
She casts a shy glance my way over her shoulder and smiles before mounting on the toppings. Pink sprinkles. Pink gummy worms. Pink dyed coconut flakes.
Yes, I am the loser who orders this shit.
When she shoves a lime green spoon into the frozen yogurt, she turns, scoops up a matching green napkin along the way and bounces back over to me. I’d die to have her bouncing on my cock instead.
“The Pink Pelican,” she chirps and winks at me. “A Franny Froyo fave!”
An elderly lady chuckles from behind me in line, and I cringe. “Thanks.”
When she passes the cup to me, I deliberately touch her soft, small hands and thank God for the counter hiding my hard-on. This girl does things to me.
“Ask her out already, son,” the old woman orders. “Your tongue is on the floor and the gal looks like she might want to be the one to roll it back up for you.”
I clench my teeth and flash Hali an apologetic look. “I’m, uh…”
“At least tell her your name,” the nosy lady gripes.
Hali giggles, a sound lighter and more musical than any wind chime my adopted mother, Constance, ever collected, and I instantly crave more of it. Every day. On repeat. Jesus.
“Madden Finn. My friends call me Mad.”
Hali grins at me. “Pleasure to finally make your acquaintance, Mad. See you around.”
Feeling like a dick, I stalk away from the sniggering old woman and find my usual lime green plastic chair by the window. I have a perfect view of both my love, the sea,
and
my obsession, Froyo Hali.
As I eat a dessert that makes me feel more like a woman than a man, I catch my reflection in the mirrored glass along the far wall. I don’t fucking belong here. All six feet and five inches of solid muscle, with a leather jacket too hot for Miami make me stand out like a sore thumb. My black hair is a wild mess, matching the emotions running rampant in my head. Eyes, so black they’re nearly blue, peer back at me.
Angry.
Possessive.
Unapproachable.
Fucking terrifying.
I’m surprised half the town doesn’t run in the other direction when they see me. Truth is, they mostly do. Aside from my Sunday visits at the frozen yogurt stand on the beach where I turn in my mancard and balls the second the bell on the door jingles. Here, I’m some ridiculous fool.
After another week of disappointment, I toss my empty container into the trash can and stalk out of the restaurant toward my bike without a backwards glance at my shiny, pretty obsession.
“All you have to do is ask, you know. I won’t bite,” a sweet voice says with a chuckle from behind me as I straddle my machine. “Well, I won’t bite that hard.”
I snap my head to the vision gracefully making her way over to me. “Ask what?” I grunt.