Hormotional

  Copyright © 2018 K.S. ADKINS

  Published by K.S. Adkins

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, including electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it to the seller and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

  Published: K.S. Adkins 2018

  Formatted by: Brenda Wright – Formatting Done Wright

  Editor: Anja Pfister – Hourglass Editing

  The Detroit After Dark Series

  Brutal

  Brawler

  Berserk

  Ballistic

  8 Mile & Rion

  Convincing Bet

  Mercy F*ck

  When Time Stood Still

  Annoying Pest

  Juggernaut

  Liquid Courage

  The Middle Man

  Motown Throwdown (Motown Down, #1)

  Motown Showdown (Motown Down, #2)

  Motown Takedown (Motown Down, #3)

  Motown Breakdown (Motown Down, #4 & 5)

  For

  Jane

  Table of Contents

  Other Works by KS Adkins

  Elizabeth

  Luke

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  Rambler

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  Rambler

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  Music That Inspired Hormotional

  About KS Adkins

  There was not a force on earth that could have kept me away.

  Like a magnet, I was drawn here.

  To her.

  This bar on a Friday night, hiding in the shadows, watching, learning, and hoping.

  And no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t stop staring at the most stunning woman in the room, who happened to be a walking-talking-sweating-crying-contradiction. One minute, she’d throw her head back and laugh with her guys, the next, she’d excuse herself to run outside and scream at the heavens. She seemed tired, overheated somehow, but all the more beautiful for it.

  Natural beauty like hers was rare, so fucking rare.

  I was addicted.

  Instinctively, I knew she could handle whatever I dished out. Just as I knew her moans would be loud, abandoned.

  Her screams would echo off the walls when I sink my teeth into her soft skin.

  This woman was longing for a man like me, but would fight it tooth and nail, refusing to admit it.

  Because she was a female who did not show weakness.

  There was something about a tough, capable woman men like me found irresistible.

  See, I was a fixer, a doer. It was my nature to protect and care.

  But this woman would never need my help, so when she asked for it, it would be noteworthy, remembered, and cherished. Even doing mundane things for her would have me feeling like a king, a ruler.

  God, just the thought of swapping out a simple light bulb because she asked me had my cock stiffening.

  She was just tall enough to reach my chin with generous curves and an attitude for weeks. Her confidence was a fucking aphrodisiac, and not for a second did I think I was the only one who noticed. Adding to her appeal, she had shoulder length hair she often pulled off her neck. Tanned skin, gained from the sun not a booth, and skinny jeans. I never understood their appeal until I saw them on her. Denim that accentuated her perfect ass.

  It was impossible to guess her age from just looking at her, but I knew she was forty-one.

  A very young, sexy forty-one. Who happened to be running outside, again.

  I followed her while staying back. I watched as she lifted her hair off her neck, which raises her tank top, and my eyes zero in on her stomach.

  I wanted my hands on that stomach, my tongue dipping into her navel, while she squirmed from my touch.

  Bending at the knees, balancing on the balls of her feet, she breathed in and out before standing back up.

  Searching the sky for answers, she mumbled, “Who did I piss off in a former life? Enough’s enough, fuck.”

  Squaring her shoulders, I watched the woman give herself a pep talk, swing the door open going back inside. I did the same and spent the next hour wondering how to approach her, and whether or not this bar is the place to do it. My track record with women was iffy at best, volatile at worst. I’ve been told more than once I was offensive—too blunt. Apparently, honesty went out of style along with regular beer and landlines. I was not slick, a master of flirting, or considered a man in his prime. According to my ex-wife, I was old, boring, and refused to get with the times. Then again, she was a stuffy bitch, and I knew better than to listen to her, but it took some time and self-reflection to figure that out. Actually, it took the divorce to realize it was her, not me. Covering my grey to look younger, taking cholesterol pills, and Sunday brunches were not my gig.

  Would never fucking be my gig.

  I wasn’t in my thirties and wasn’t about to pretend I was. I looked my age. I liked my age. I earned my fucking age.

  What I didn’t like was a woman who spent all her time in salons. Between the peels, highlights, makeup, and waxing my ex-wife looked more like Pennywise than a female.

  Seriously, she went to bed one way, and I woke up to a stranger with half her face gone.

  As in, eyebrows on the fucking pillow.

  A woman who embraced aging, I respected.

  A woman living in denial, I did not.

  The woman bolting out the back door for the fifth time lived life on her own terms. She gave not a single fuck, she did not waste time on insignificant shit. She liked who she was, that much was obvious. It was contagious, and I was properly infected. No, I didn’t know her personally, not yet. Though, I knew of her, studied her, memorized her.

  And what I did know so far, I liked. I was attracted to it. I wanted to own, command her. Getting a woman like her to submit...there would be nothing like it.

  So, when five minutes turned into ten, I went outside to find her kicking the shit out of a man and crying while she did it.

  My God, she was magnificent.

  “I’m not here for your entertainment!” she wailed, booting him in the stomach again. “You don’t really
want to mess with me tonight!”

  “Bitch,” the kid yelled, “did you just quote Pink?”

  “Midnight I’m drunk; I don’t give a fuck.”

  “What is wrong with you?” he coughed, trying to get up.

  “She’s my spirit animal.”

  “Stop fucking kicking me!”

  “Go ahead and move,” she dared him. “I will fuck you up!”

  Smiling at her outburst, I decided to stay put and see what she did next. Rounding on me, she pointed at my chest while growling, “The fuck are you looking at, silver fox? Don’t touch, back up, I’m not the one. Buh bye.”

  “Are you ill?” I tried to ask, but she shrieked in outrage then immediately dropped her shoulders in defeat.

  “No, I’m not ill,” she mumbled, covering her face. “I just really identify with Pink and... I’m hormotional.”

  “That’s not a word.”

  “Wanna fucking bet?” she challenged, lowering her hands while her eyes burned with fury.

  “Is that a chick thing?”

  “Are you for real right now?”

  “Actually, yes, I am, considering I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Menopause, dickhole!”

  “I wasn’t aware menopause caused schizophrenia,” I mumbled more to myself than her.

  “Oh, so you’ve been through the change, huh? Or am I that obvious? Like a whore in church…”

  “We’re not in church, we’re out back at a bar.”

  “I know where we are, asshole. I’m sweating. Why do you keep staring at me like that?”

  “You’re gorgeous,” I admitted. “And I like what I see, despite the sweat rings and multiple personality disorder.”

  Hiding her face in her hands, she wept pitifully and it killed me.

  Stepping closer, I moved her hair away from her neck. “What can I do?”

  On a breathy sigh, she asked, “Say it again?”

  “You are beautiful.”

  “Even if you don’t mean it, I’m going to pretend you do. I need the pick-me-up because I overextended on that last kick, and I think I peed my pants.”

  “I mean it,” I assured her, trying not to laugh. “What else can I do?” Besides fuck you into next week.

  “Hold him still so I can hit him again?”

  “He bolted the second you turned your back.”

  “Goddammit!” she huffed. “I wasn’t done yet!”

  Before I could laugh, her phone rang. “My ride’s here.”

  I wanted to ask for her number, anything… but I was cut short by a large, loud pickup truck. I knew who it was, it was my job to know.

  After slamming on the brakes, the driver pushed the door open and yelled out, “Are you okay?”

  “This is your ride?” I asked, purposely keeping my back to the driver and focusing on her. Luckily, the kid didn't seem to be concerned and was currently too busy changing the channel to ask questions.

  “Yes, why?”

  “He’s…young.”

  “Ma!” he shouted over the music. “Are you fucking ignoring me?”

  “Language!” she shouted back. “For fuck’s sake.”

  “He’s your son?”

  “I can tell by the look of horror on your face you aren’t into women with kids.”

  “He’s no kid, he’s a grown ass man. How old were you when you had him? Twelve?”

  “And you’re a grown ass asshole,” she said, brushing past me. “And all my personalities agree.”

  Before I could explain I meant it as a compliment, she hiked her perfect ass into the truck and tore off into the night. I spent less than five minutes in her company, yet the loss she left behind had me rubbing my chest.

  The only comfort was knowing this wasn’t the end but the beginning. Yes, I knew I was taking my job too far, but I didn’t give one shit about it. Her son was the in I needed; he was my angle. My orders were to employ him, earn his trust, and discreetly prod him for information about the family business.

  But the second I saw her up close, I changed my strategy. I wanted the woman. I wanted to be in the woman.

  Fuck, the woman didn’t even know my name, and she was already in me.

  Orders and protocol be damned, I will have Elizabeth Hudson.

  At 9 am the next morning, her son would come to my firm for a job on my security team. His name was Rambler ‘Ram’ Hudson, and he would be hired on the spot.

  He was qualified, yes. Beyond qualified actually. The kid had one hell of a background.

  But also because he was going to help me date his mother.

  Oh, and help me keep her out of prison.

  He held my hands tight.

  He always did.

  Wrapping his larger fingers around my smaller ones, it’s what he’s done his whole life. My son loved holding both of my hands, and at twenty-four years old he had yet to grow out of it. God, I prayed he never did. There was something about linking our fingers together that made life a little easier to bear. Made the air a little cleaner, made what happened all those years ago a little less painful.

  Listening to Ram go on about his new job had me buzzing with excitement.

  Not only was he insanely gifted when it came to technology, people genuinely adored him.

  Somehow, despite my foul mouth and wretched manners, I had managed to raise a respectful kid.

  Who, of course, was hired on the spot.

  He had been nervous and rightfully so. It’s not every day a security firm seeks out a kid fresh out of college. But they did, and I had no doubt they’d take him on. However, I raised him to be humble, never brag where someone can hear you, and always be prepared to be let down. Ram being hired to work at Safe & Sound Security was a huge accomplishment which was why we were celebrating in the garage with the guys.

  See, I’m from a long line of Hudsons.

  Not the famous Hudsons who changed the car industry between 1909 and 1957.

  We were a different breed of Hudson, but a car family just the same.

  I was named after Elizabeth Ann Thatcher who became America’s first female automotive designer. She was tasked with bringing a woman’s perspective to the Hudson’s vehicles. In other words, she was a vehicular badass, and my parents knew I would do her name justice.

  My great-grandfather opened Hudson’s Garage in 1945. And through good times and bad, it was still standing tall.

  While my dad loved the business, he didn’t live for it like I did. For him it was upholding family expectations. He wasn’t given a choice to opt out. I on the other hand never played with dolls or makeup—not even as a kid. No, I played with power tools and was bumping out fenders in floral overalls and pigtails. I was still just a kid (technically) when he handed it over to me. The day he did, I saw no hesitation or fear in his eyes. Because dad knew that outside of my son, nothing would make me happier than Hudson’s belonging to me.

  While Ram was into cars, his real passion was technology. Specifically, private security. Sure, Hudson’s was a family business, however, I wanted my son to have a choice. I didn’t want to place unfair expectation on his shoulders like it was done to my father. It wasn’t fair, and it wasn’t right. He chose a different path, and I was more than okay with that. I have always encouraged him to follow his heart, and I’m glad to see he was.

  So, Hudson’s Garage ended with me.

  And when the time came to retire, I’d do it smiling.

  Because we had one hell of a run, and I had no regrets.

  Releasing my hands so he could use his own to narrate—he did this a lot—I watch my son try and explain his job to the guys. The three crazy uncles he adored.

  My guys who loved Ram like their own in return.

  They should, considering each of them had a hand in raising him.

  Lincoln was six years older than me, Benz was two years ahead, Diesel and I were the same age and actually shared a birthd
ay. These guys weren’t just employees, they were family. Ram’s dad, Jon, was killed when he was only two years old, and these guys have been at my side since Ram was a newborn. Ram wasn’t just my life, he was their life, too.

  Ram’s accomplishments and goals were ours.

  My son was destined to be more than a gearhead. Ram would make a difference in the world.

  I knew this the moment he was placed in my arms. His dad and I agreed, our son was special. And we weren’t wrong. Ram was always years ahead of his peers. He was gentle, patient, and he paid attention. He heard the things you didn’t say. He was also trustworthy and sincere. It took a lot to rile him up, but once that happened, he was a pit bull like his mom. But the bulk of his personality was all his dad.

  He was like him in so many ways.

  The good ways, like in the brain department.

  But unlike his dad, Ram didn’t have an ounce of darkness in him, and for that I was grateful.

  Jon and I met young, we were still kids really. We fell young and had Ram young.

  I loved him, but didn’t look too hard into his flaws. Simply put, I loved with blind eyes.

  A baby at seventeen wasn’t what we had planned, but Ram was a blessing for both of us.

  Jon loved his son. He loved me. We worked hard, fought a lot, learned how to be parents by trial and error.

  We beat the odds. We were making it.

  Until darkness had found my home one night, and in a blink, Jon was gone.

  Ram doesn’t remember his dad, but I raised him with memories of the good he’d done.

  But it was the dark side of life that took him from us. Since the day Jon had been killed, I was both mother and father to Ram with my parents and the guys backing me. After losing Jon, I wasn’t ever serious about another man, never even considered bringing one around Ram. This meant I was forty-one, single, and not looking to mingle.

  I spent my days, and most nights, in my garage because for every job we finished another rolled in like clockwork.

  My guys worked weekdays. I worked nearly every day. For me, it wasn’t work. It was my art, escape, and identity.

  While I wasn’t a complete homebody, I didn’t go out much for a single woman.

  These days, it seemed, I spent an agonizing amount of time arguing with myself before I even step foot out of the door.