Wrecked: South Side Boys-Book 3 Read online

  Wrecked

  South Side Boys-Book 3

  Alexis Winter

  Maverick West. Reformed bad boy, my new hot AF roommate

  And…father to my VERY unexpected baby.

  * * *

  Look, this isn’t my dream life.

  I never planned on being a single mom begging to live with my brother-in-law.

  And it’s no secret he didn’t want this arrangement either.

  Fresh off of a broken engagement, he isn’t exactly welcoming us with open arms.

  * * *

  But I can’t help noticing the way his eyes linger on my lips,

  heavy with lust and a look that says, ‘I’m about to devour you.’

  And don’t even get me started on how amazing he is with my son.

  * * *

  I can’t say I’ve been very innocent in this either,

  With rock hard abs and arms the size of pythons,

  It’s hard not to imagine ripping his tight t-shirt off his tattooed bod.

  * * *

  I just have to keep my focus so I can get my life back on track,

  Before my son isn’t the only one falling in love with Mr. Moody and Brooding.

  * * *

  The last thing I need?

  Catching feelings for my very off limits brother-in-law.

  * * *

  The last thing I expected?

  To see two pink lines after I gave in.

  Copyright © 2019 by Alexis Winter - All rights reserved.

  * * *

  In no way is it legal to reproduce, duplicate, or transmit any part of this document in either electronic means or in printed format. Recording of this publication is strictly prohibited and any storage of this document is not allowed unless with written permission from the publisher. All rights reserved.

  Respective authors own all copyrights not held by the publisher.

  Contents

  Maverick West. Reformed bad boy, my new hot AF roommate

  1. Scarlett

  2. Maverick

  3. Scarlett

  4. Maverick

  5. Scarlett

  6. Maverick

  7. Scarlett

  8. Maverick

  9. Scarlett

  10. Maverick

  11. Scarlett

  12. Maverick

  13. Scarlett

  14. Maverick

  15. Scarlett

  16. Maverick

  17. Scarlett

  18. Maverick

  19. Scarlett

  20. Maverick

  21. Scarlett

  22. Maverick

  23. Scarlett

  24. Maverick

  25. Scarlett

  26. Maverick

  27. Scarlett

  28. Maverick

  29. Scarlett

  30. Maverick

  31. Scarlett

  32. Maverick

  33. Scarlett

  34. Maverick

  35. Scarlett

  36. Maverick

  37. Scarlett

  38. Maverick

  39. Scarlett

  40. Maverick

  41. Scarlett

  42. Maverick

  43. Scarlett

  44. Maverick

  45. Scarlett

  46. Maverick

  47. Scarlett

  Untitled

  READ THE REST OF THE SOUTH SIDE BOYS HERE

  Also by Alexis Winter

  About the Author

  1

  Scarlett

  There are few things more depressing than walking up the stairs to your rundown apartment carrying a stack of mail you know must be full of bills. It’s like the worst walk of shame ever.

  And as I flip through the pile, I know I’m right.

  Bill. Bill. Another bill. Final notice from my building manager saying that when I renew my lease next month, my rent will be going up. Junk. Offer for a credit card I don’t need. Coupons for pizza.

  I’ll keep those. The rest I’ll deal with later.

  “Mama! Mama!”

  My three-year-old son comes running to the door as soon as I open it, making me drop the pile of mail in the entryway. But I don’t care. One day I know he’s not going to run to the door when I come home from work. So as long as he wants to, I’ll drop whatever I’m holding to be able to scoop him into my arms.

  “Hey, buddy. Were you good for Aunt Tori?”

  He excitedly nods his head as my sister comes walking into the kitchen, looking like she just ran a marathon.

  “What’s the matter with you?” I ask as I sprinkle kisses on my boy’s face.

  “Hurricane Grant was in full effect today. He was at a Category 4.”

  I laugh at my sister, who seriously looks like hell. I don’t know what kind of trouble my son could have gotten into during the four hours I was gone, but by the look on my sister’s face, it was a lot. Then I look at my son, who is smiling like a lunatic at his aunt.

  “Did Aunt Tori give you candy?”

  He nods enthusiastically. “And ice cweam!”

  I glare at my sister, who is currently ready to fall asleep on my kitchen table.

  “One of these days you’ll learn you can’t give him sugar this late. This is really your fault.”

  Her head snaps up as she points to the little angel in my arms.

  “My fault? It’s his fault. He’s too damn cute. I can’t say no to him. How do you say no to that face?”

  I agree with my sister: my boy does have a face that’s hard to resist. He gets it from his father.

  I should know. That’s how I ended up with a three-year-old in the first place.

  I met Ryan about four years ago in the most cliché way possible.

  He picked me up with a cheesy line at a bar.

  I was going to school to become a certified nursing assistant, and a few of my classmates and I decided to go out for a drink one night. Somehow between the margaritas and the mozzarella sticks, Ryan and I made eye contact and one horrible pickup line later, I was smitten.

  I gave him my number. He had the whole bad boy vibe going on that I’ve never been able to say no to. Plus, he was hot and seemed like a nice guy despite the tattoos and the piercings. What was the harm in giving him my number?

  Everything started really well. Or at least I thought so. He was sweet and attentive, and pretty good in bed. Not that I had a ton of experience before him. But I had orgasms more times than not, so that’s good, right?

  Tori never liked him, which should have been a huge red flag. Every day she would tell me that he was using me and that he was a deadbeat. I didn’t mind loaning him a few bucks, or letting him use my car when I was at work. I always defended him, saying that she really didn’t know him.

  Then I got pregnant with Grant about five months into our relationship, and bless my sister for not saying I told you so. Because she’d earned the right to scream it from the top of a building.

  The second I showed him the pregnancy test, his face went white and I swear to God I thought he was going to pass out. He told me he needed to take a walk and clear his head about it.

  I didn’t see him again for 10 months.

  In fairness, he wasn’t gone that whole time just because he was scared of becoming a father. Which he was. But it turned out six of those months were spent in jail, because apparently my bad boy with a heart of gold was also a small-time drug dealer.

  Do I know how to pick them or what?

  Grant has seen him maybe a handful of times in his three years on earth. If he walked into our apartment right now, I’m pretty sure I’d have to explain who he is.

  But I would. I’d introduce Ryan as his daddy and make up some story about w
hy he he’s been away. Because as much as I hate it, Grant is Ryan’s son, and maybe one day, Ryan will get his life together and be there for him.

  Or at least that’s what I keep telling myself.

  I put Grant down, telling him to go get ready for bed as I pick up the mail. It’s way past his bedtime. Or what should be appropriate for a three-year-old. But I hate not being able to tuck him in the nights I work my second job as a waitress after working all day as a CNA. So he stays up until 10. Probably not going to win me any “mother of the year” awards, but at least my son will never wonder why I don’t tuck him in at night.

  “Are you looking for something specific?” Tori asks as I furiously thumb through the pile of mail.

  “No. Why do you ask?”

  She gives me a look letting me know she sees right through my bullshit. I don’t want to tell her what I’m looking for. Because if it doesn’t work out, I don’t want to have to explain myself.

  “Fine. I won’t press you, because honestly, I’m too tired. Your kid wiped me the fuck out.”

  “Thank you again.” I give my sister a hug, not knowing what I’d do without her. Daycare is expensive, and the nights she helps when I pull hours at the restaurant are a relief for both me and my wallet.

  “Anytime. You know that.”

  “Maybe next time you won’t fill him full of sugar and you won’t be so tired.”

  She laughs, grabbing her purse and keys.

  “I’m the fun aunt. This is my job. Have fun getting him to bed.”

  I laugh as Tori leaves my apartment, but when I go to shut the door, I notice a letter I must have dropped in the hallway.

  I bend to pick it up and recognize the logo.

  This is it. The letter I’ve been waiting for.

  “Mama! I pooped in the potty!”

  I sigh, look at the letter, and set it down. I’ll get to it later.

  Because to be honest, I’m terrified of opening it.

  2

  Maverick

  “Which one do you think Tori will like?,” Kalum asks me. “If you asked her, she’d say the over-the-top one. But in private, she told me she really wants the classic, understated one. But what if she actually wants the flashy one and she’s saying she wants the other one because it’s not as extravagant?”

  I roll my eyes because I have no idea why the fuck I’m here with my brother right now. Shouldn’t Scarlett be here? She’s Tori’s sister for God’s sake. Or maybe Annabelle. She’s her best friend. Either one of them has to be more qualified for this than me.

  “Tell me why I’m here again? Because I still can’t figure it out. And don’t say because you’re taking me for beers after. Which you are, by the way. A lot of them.”

  My brother takes a deep breath. I’ve asked this question at least five times now, and I’m pretty sure he’s ready to deck me.

  “Because you’re my brother. And this is a big decision. I would like . . . no . . . I need your help. I can’t fuck this up.”

  “Dude. This isn’t that big of a deal.”

  “Not that big of a deal? What do you mean not that big of a deal?”

  Now it’s my turn to take a deep breath, because I’m gathering all the strength I possess to hold myself back from slapping him upside the head.

  “No, Kalum, it’s not. You are buying her a fucking purse. If this is how you act on her birthday, then I’m glad I wasn’t there when you bought her engagement ring. Just get both of them, but make sure you can return them. Then ask Scarlett and Annabelle which one she will like and go from there.”

  Twenty minutes later, Kalum leaves the store with both purses and a necklace. No clue why he bought the jewelry—I just heard him mumble something about having her wear it with a red dress. I didn’t want to ask any unnecessary questions that would stand between me and a beer.

  “I don’t know why you were bitching so much. It’s not like you’ve never overthought a present for a woman,” Kalum says as we slide onto two bar stools.

  “Don’t even fucking go there,” I warn my brother, already not in the mood.

  “I’m not. I’m just saying payback is a bitch. And I didn’t need a bank to help out with my purchase.”

  It’s a low fucking blow and he knows it. But I don’t respond because I don’t feel like getting into that shit now. It’s in the past. Where it belongs.

  Even though he’s right.

  And I didn’t make him go purse shopping with me; we went house hunting.

  “So what are the plans for Tori’s birthday?” I know them by heart, but I desperately want to change the subject.

  “She said she doesn’t want anything crazy. Just the usual group at the bar for a normal night out. Only with presents.”

  “Tori doesn’t want anything crazy? What have you done to her?”

  Kalum just laughs, taking a sip of his beer. “Nothing, man. We’re just . . . in a good place now. Things got crazy for a while there and we’re both liking the idea of chilling out for a bit.”

  I don’t blame my brother for wanting to take a step away from life for a second. Hell, I wouldn’t blame him if he wanted to check out for the next 10 years after all the shit we’ve been through in our lives.

  Growing up on the South Side of Chicago wasn’t easy, but we managed just fine. Then we decided to make a career out of stealing cars, which was great for a while.

  And then it wasn’t. Prison could have been worse, but we pulled a deal and served only a few years each.

  But the last few months have been especially stressful for Kalum. Not only were we in the middle of opening up a second location of our custom car garage, but he was working undercover with the cops to help bring down a gang and the illegal chop shop they were running out of our original location. Of course, I knew nothing about this at the beginning, but he eventually told me he was doing it to make sure I didn’t go back to prison.

  It was messy and complicated and stressful as fuck. But in the end, the bad guys went away, we’re all good, and everyone is now living a calm life.

  We deserve it.

  “Chilling out sounds good. And speaking of, it’s about time I headed out.”

  “When are you going to sell that house and move closer? It’s way too big for you, and it’s so fucking far away.”

  “It’s 20 minutes, Kalum. It’s not like I live in Indiana.”

  “But still, the rest of us live in the city. And the garages are there. I don’t understand why you won’t sell it. You don’t even like it.”

  There are reasons, financial and personal. Ones he doesn’t need to know about.

  “Good night, Kalum. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  I don’t know if it’s the night I just had or the memories that were brought up, but I don’t head straight home. Instead, I take a drive without a destination in mind.

  Kalum was right when he said I should sell my house. There’s a financial reason for keeping it, but hell, at this point in time I could take the hit to my wallet without it affecting me much. It would be much more convenient to live in the city. But every time I think about selling it, I just can’t pull the trigger.

  I might not ever want to fill that house with a wife or kids. Hell, I don’t even want a dog. Living alone in a house meant for five people is my punishment. My penance.

  Keeping that house is a reminder that only fools fall in love, and I never want to be a fool again.

  3

  Scarlett

  I’m a 23-year-old woman enjoying a kid-free night out with my best friends. The drinks are flowing, the laughs are constant, and I should be having the time of my life.

  So why can’t I seem to keep a smile on my face?

  Probably because of the letter burning a hole through my purse.

  After I noticed it last night when Tori left, I stuffed it in my purse, not ready to open it. And since I came to the bar right after work to celebrate Tori’s birthday, the letter is with me. Taunting me. I can practically hear it talking to
me—calling me a coward.

  Yes, I know letters can’t talk. That’s just the level of crazy I’ve reached.

  “Who pissed in your Cheerios this morning? It’s my birthday, so get happy, biatch,” my sister says as she all but tackles me at our table. She’s been hanging with the guys at the dartboards, while I’ve been standing guard at the table.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, holding up my drink. “I have a margarita, I’m people watching, which you know I love, and I’m out with you guys. How could I not be happy?”

  “My dear, sweet sister, you might say you’re happy, but your resting bitch face says another thing.” She takes a seat beside me. “What’s up? Talk to me.”

  I sigh, knowing that if I don’t tell her, she’ll just keep pestering me. And then she’ll play the it’s my birthday card. Might as well get it over with.

  “I got a letter yesterday that I’ve been waiting on. It’s in my purse now, and . . . I’m nervous to open it.”