Protecting His Brat: Rock Hard, Love Harder, #1

By Brandy Ayers

Lacy is a brat… Good thing Scott has a firm hand and loves a good challenge.

People say I'm a brat like it's a bad thing. According to Urban Dictionary, which is the only dictionary that really matters, a brat is someone who always gets what they want. How is that bad?

True, I didn't want to get dumped by my BFF. I also didn't want to be attacked in an alley by some smelly bum. Or have my life torn to pieces by the FBI. Or any of the other horrible things that have happened to me lately. I mean, I guess the guy that came to my rescue is kinda sexy. In a moody, starving artist kind of way. And moving in with him when I had no place else to go has worked out well in the bedroom… orgasmically well.

If only Scott wouldn't shut down whenever I try to get to know him. Not that I care about the secrets he's keeping or anything. It's not like I need someone to love me. Not at all. I just need my life and my clothes back. I certainly don't want to keep this new life I've made in Brooklyn of all places. Obviously.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brandy Ayers
• Release date: Feb 19, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224355297

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Brandy Ayers

Protecting His Brat

Copyright © 2021 by Brandy Ayers

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

Second edition

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Publisher Logo

To CC Deville, Richie Sambora, and Joe Perry

Thanks for being the completely inappropriate first crushes

Of a boy crazy preteen in the early nineties.

Contents

1. Chapter One

2. Chapter Two

3. Chapter Three

4. Chapter Four

5. Chapter Five

6. Chapter Six

7. Chapter Seven

8. Chapter Eight

9. Chapter Nine

10. Chapter Ten

11. Chapter Eleven

12. Chapter Twelve

13. Chapter Thirteen

14. Chapter Fourteen

15. Epilogue One

16. Epilogue Two

17. Epilogue Three

About the Author

Also by Brandy Ayers

1

Chapter One

Lacy

There’s this movie that I kinda remember going to a premiere for at some point called Some Kid and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day. Well, that kid has nothing on the day I’m having.

First, my very best friend in the whole world just up and dumps me for some lumbersexual. Okay, he might have been kinda hot, but there is no reason for anyone to be that tall. Plus, the whole sensitive brut thing was so last year.

Anyway.

Marci said I was ugly. Not like actually ugly, obviously. Because that would just be a lie. But like ugly on the inside or whatever. There was something in there about using people and some other stuff. I don’t know. I kinda tuned out a little after she called me ugly. But all of that is beside the point. The point is that my best friend, the person I always thought I could count on to be there no matter what, just dropped me like last year’s hemlines.

As if that wasn’t bad enough, said BFF dumping happened in the middle of possibly the lamest blind date ever. With an accountant. And not even a rich one, just like, a regular one. And yeah, I guess I could have been a little nicer to the guy, but honestly, being nice to guys just gives them hope and makes them think they’ll get into your pants at the end of the night. Frankly, it is a waste of both our times to pretend like he was going to be doing anything other than his palm at the end of the date.

All that was horrible and would have called for a house call from my pedicurist. But that isn’t even the worst of it all. No. I tried to get an Uber, but the app wasn’t working on my phone for some reason and said my payment method wasn’t valid. So I had to try and catch a cab, but there weren’t any in the backward neighborhood that weird café-slash-bar thing was at. So I ended up walking five blocks trying to find a stupid cab, or hell, even a subway if I really had to. Have you ever walked five blocks in four-inch, Louboutin, pink, snakeskin, limited-edition shoes?

Of course you haven’t, because those shoes were hella hard to get and like no one has them.

Anyway. Five blocks later, my feet are on the edge of death, I still haven’t found a ride, and now, the cherry on the sundae of my night, a vagrant is following me.

Fear isn’t something I’m super familiar with. I’ve been afraid I wouldn’t get this season’s hot Hermes bag. I’ve been afraid P.Diddy would forget to put me on the list at his club opening, but I’ve never actually feared for my life. Or safety. But this dude has been following a foot behind me for a couple blocks now, and he’s breathing all heavy through his nose, like a bull or something. The stench of urine keeps wafting over me, and I’m shocked I’ve been able to keep down my skinny white chocolate mocha and vodka from the café.

My heart is going wild in my chest, beating out of control. My skin is covered in goosebumps, and for once in my life, I’m speed walking for something other than a pop-up sale at Bergdorf’s. But no matter how fast I go, the guy won’t let up. His breathing just gets heavier and closer. I can’t run in these shoes. I’m not Sarah Jessica Parker. Just as I kick them off and write off my most prized possession in favor of keeping my vagina untouched by psychopaths, the guy barrels into me from behind, pinning me up against a dirty brick wall outside some dive bar.

Another thing I’ve never had to do in my life is fight. I’ve literally never fought for anything. Ever. I want something, I need something, I get it. No questions. If I can’t get it, I figure out a way for someone else to get it for me. But now, I’m fighting in a way I’ve never even contemplated before. And it’s getting me nowhere. I twist, try to shove my elbow into his side, push against the wall, stomp on his foot, anything to getaway. But nothing works. The guy just pins me against the wall, his gross, hard, stubby dick poking me in the butt cheek.

That’s a real pretty dress. Oh god, his breath is so horrible, I think I might throw up. Be a real shame to rip it, so just hold still.

Fuck that. I might not know how to fight. I may not know fear. But one thing I do know how to do is scream. So I do. At the top of my lungs, with every last wisp of breath in my lungs. My attacker’s grimy hand comes up to cover my mouth, but I bite him hard enough that I taste his nasty copper blood wash over my tongue. I spit and keep on screaming.

Apparently, I pissed the guy off, because he pulls my head back by my hair and slams my forehead against the brick wall he’s got me pressed against. The world goes hazy, fuzzy around the edges, like someone just pulled the Barbara Walters filter over the camera. Nothing in my vision is clear anymore, and a hot drip of what I think might be blood oozes down my temple. Pain, unlike anything I’ve felt, sears through my head.

My muscles go liquid, and I slump down until the guy’s leverage is the only thing keeping me off the ground.

I don’t care if you’re awake or asleep. Feels good either way. The tinny sound of a zipper opening reaches my ears, and I whimper, trying to get away again.

Nearby, a door opens, loud music drowning out the sounds of the city. It slams shut again the music falling away.

The hem on my dress gets pushed up until my ass is almost hanging out for the world to see.

Get off her! A deep growl reverberates down the alley, heavy boot steps seem to shake the ground beneath us. I fall to the wet pavement as the attacker is ripped away from me, his nasal voice whining followed by a heavy thud and groaning.

I turn to look, but even that small movement makes everything swim and my stomach turns over. Black creeps into the edges of my vision, and the little strength I still had in my limbs seeps out. Somewhere in my brain, I’m thinking I should stand up, leave the shoes, and run as fast as my French-tipped toes will take me, which probably isn’t very fast. But my body won’t listen. My limbs just keep getting heavier and heavier until it feels like my body is going to sink right down into the pavement.

I’m so tired. I’ve never been this tired before. Maybe if I just close my eyes for a couple minutes, I can gather the strength to walk home. So, I give into it, let the oblivion in, welcome it.

* * *

Shiiiit. The soft sheets whisper beneath me as I turn onto my back. Did I get drunk last night? I press the heel of my hand against my forehead, but then hiss in pain and immediately pull it back. Everything rushes back. Marci. The date. Walking. Getting cornered by the homeless guy. My head bouncing off the brick wall, then nothing. Just a deep voice yelling and blackness.

Gingerly, I sit up. One thing becomes apparent the moment I’m semi-upright: I’m naked. Not one stitch of clothes anywhere on my body. The second thing to penetrate the pain and dizziness is that I am not in fact in my bed. Or my bedroom. Or my apartment.

Morning, sunshine.

My butt comes three inches off the mattress, and I spin around to find the origins of the half-growled words. The movement sends my head off its axis, and I groan at the pain.

Yeah, that bump on your head’s gonna hurt for a while.

What happened? Who are you? Where am I? I clutch the sheet puddled at the end of the bed around my chest and skootch back until I’m leaning against the headboard.

All fair questions. The guy gets up from the leather club chair he’s been sitting in and crosses to the side of the bed. Scott Flores. He pauses, searching my face with these intense hazel eyes. If he had less hair on his face and got a haircut that didn’t look like he did it himself with a cheap pair of clippers, he might even be good-looking. He doesn’t find whatever reaction he’d been expecting from me and sits back down.

You’re at my place in Brooklyn. As for what happened, well, you were attacked. I beat the shit out of the guy and left him for the cops. You were passed out cold, so I took you to the hospital where you were in and out of it all night. Slight concussion. The hospital wouldn’t admit you since you weren’t in bad enough shape. I couldn’t find a purse or anything around you and couldn’t figure out where you lived, so I brought you back here.

What section of Brooklyn?

Williamsburg.

Eh. And I’m naked because?

You threw up all over your dress, it got on your bra, and apparently you weren’t wearing panties. They gave you scrubs at the hospital, but you said something about not allowing that cheap fabric to touch your skin and took them off as soon as we got back here. The guy’s, Scott’s, lips twitch, like he’s trying to hold back a smile.

I must admit the guy has dark and broody down pat. If I were one of those arty chicks who love their men deep and unkempt, I’d be all over him. But only in a slumming it kind of way, not a respectable relationship way.

I put you in bed, and I’ve been watching you all night for signs the concussion might be getting worse. His eyes travel up and down my body, and despite knowing I’m covered, it still feels as if he can see everything.

Unable to meet his eyes when they return to my face, I take in the apartment where I’ve found myself unintentionally crashing. It’s big, by New York standards. It appears we’re in a loft, and there’s spiral stairs down to a large living room with huge windows. Given all the exposed brick and ductwork, if I had to guess, I’d say this is some converted warehouse or something. I never got the whole industrial chic thing. What’s so attractive about showing off how old a building is? Give me sleek, mid-century-modern any day.

Though, I’m itching to have a look around, poke my nose where it doesn’t belong, and try to expose my rescuer as much as I suddenly feel laid out before his feet.

Well, thanks for stopping that guy last night. And, you know, the hospital and watching me and everything. You didn’t have to do all that. The shake in my voice gives away emotions I’d rather not reveal. Or, you know, have. But the truth is, I can still smell my attacker’s breath. Still feel the press of him against my back. My heart won’t stop pounding or stomach stop churning. I want it all gone.

Making sure he can’t see anything, I slide to the edge of the bed and stand, wrapping the sheet