Shaken (Twisted Fox Book 2) Read online

  Copyright © 2020 by Charity Ferrell

  All rights reserved.

  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 any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN: 978-1-952496-02-8

  Editor: Jovana Shirley, Unforeseen Editing, www.unforeseenediting.com

  Proofreader: Jenny Sims, Editing4Indies

  Cover Designer: Lori Jackson

  Cover Photographer: Regina Wamba

  Contents

  Prologue

  1. Georgia

  2. Archer

  3. Georgia

  4. Archer

  5. Georgia

  6. Archer

  7. Georgia

  8. Archer

  9. Georgia

  10. Archer

  11. Georgia

  12. Archer

  13. Georgia

  14. Archer

  15. Georgia

  16. Archer

  17. Archer

  18. Georgia

  19. Archer

  20. Georgia

  21. Archer

  22. Georgia

  23. Archer

  24. Georgia

  25. Archer

  26. Georgia

  27. Archer

  28. Georgia

  29. Archer

  30. Georgia

  31. Archer

  32. Georgia

  33. Archer

  34. Georgia

  35. Archer

  36. Georgia

  37. Archer

  38. Archer

  39. Georgia

  40. Archer

  41. Georgia

  42. Archer

  43. Georgia

  44. Archer

  45. Georgia

  46. Archer

  47. Georgia

  48. Archer

  49. Georgia

  50. Archer

  Keep Up with the Twisted Fox Series

  Also by Charity Ferrell

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Prologue

  Archer

  “You selfish bastard!” He charges toward me, his face darkened with fury.

  The commotion around us—people crying, asking questions, breaking down—fades away.

  I stay in place, unmoving, while waiting for the assault I deserve. The crack of my jaw is all I hear before the pain strikes, and I stumble back, wiping the blood from my lip with the side of my clenched fist.

  Straightening myself, I prepare for the next blow.

  It connects with my nose.

  I don’t fight back.

  I deserve this.

  I am a selfish bastard.

  The old proverb, One night can change your life, is on the mark.

  My life has changed.

  Fuck the lifestyles of the rich.

  I’m out.

  1

  Georgia

  Call me the queen of embarrassing moments.

  Tripping up the stairs and face-planting at my high school graduation.

  Side-swiping a car during my driver’s test.

  Today’s embarrassment winner of the week is …

  Drumroll, please.

  Getting stood up for a date.

  Even worse, while waiting on my date, the guy I’d dumped six months ago arrived with his. Lucky asshole’s date actually showed, and I provided them with free entertainment as they witnessed my disaster.

  It’s what you deserve for swiping right on a dude with a mirror selfie as his profile pic, Georgia.

  In my defense, it was margarita night, and I was third-wheeling it when said swiping ensued.

  To recover from the mortification, I drive to my happy place—the coffee shop. Iced coffee never fails to pull me out of the I’ll be single for the rest of my life funk.

  “Jackpot.” I smile when I spot an empty space before abruptly stopping. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  Parked next to the only available spot is a car—foreign, expensive, one of those you see in the movies with rich-people problems.

  Parked is an understatement.

  I pull into the sliver of a space, and like the mature and not-at-all-annoyed woman I am, I give the foreign-car-driving asshole no room to open their door. With a shrug, I step out of my car—American, cheap, one of those that always breaks down in the movies—and stroll into the coffee shop.

  Fifteen minutes later, I’m walking back through the parking lot and fueling myself with cold-brew deliciousness. My sipping stops when I notice a man standing behind my car. Shoving my sunglasses down my nose, I take a better look.

  “Siri, find me a tow company in the area.”

  The hell?

  I scramble toward him, waving my arm in the air, and shriek, “Whoa! Don’t call a tow truck!”

  Is that even legal?

  Lord knows I can’t afford it if he does. I can barely afford my iced-coffee dependency.

  When he turns, my breathing stalls, and I freeze. Momentarily, my car being towed becomes an afterthought.

  The man is gorgeous.

  GQ cover-worthy.

  Looking every shade of pissed off.

  The sight of him is stronger than any caffeine shot.

  His sexy ruggedness—tall and built like a linebacker, broad shoulders, and muscle-bound biceps—is such a contrast to my small frame. Stubbled hair and scruff, trimmed to the jawline, scatters along the slope of his cheeks and down his neck. His hair, a shade matching the drink in my cup, is thick and hits the nape of his neck.

  He’s clean-cut but not clean-cut.

  Fighting not to fit the profile of a wealthy man.

  A man who gives no fucks … which unfortunately also applies to his parking.

  He glowers as I make my way to him, and I keep a short distance between us.

  “This your car?” His voice matches his appearance—cold and sharp, like a knife slicing through ice.

  “Yes,” I answer.

  He stares, waiting for me to elaborate.

  I take a loud slurp of my coffee before saying, “Please, put your phone away. No need to call a tow company.”

  “Did you just get your driver’s license?” Authority fills his tone, as if he were scolding a child, when he signals to my park job. “Who parks like that? Do you need a booster seat to see over the steering wheel?”

  Rude.

  Short jokes are so grade school.

  “The better question is who parks like that?” I scowl and gesture to his car. “You took a spot and a half. Not cool.”

  The collar of his simple white V-neck tee stretches out when he tugs on it. “That was the only available spot when I got here—”

  “That means you can park however you want?”

  “If you’d let me finish. When I got here, the car on the opposite side of me was parked like shit. A motorcycle was in your spot, so the way I parked provided plenty of room for the both of us.” He holds up the coffee cup in his hand. “I planned to run in and out, but when I ran out, your car was in my way.”

  “I planned to run in and out, too, but when I ran out, I had to deal with you.”

  “Move it or get towed.” He impatiently waves his phone in the air. “I have shit to do.”

  “You can’t tow my car. It’s not even legal.”

  “Call it a citizen’s tow.”
/>
  “Call it you’re an asshole.”

  The frustration on his face grows. “Move your car. Nothing gets towed. Easy fix.”

  “You’re an ass.”

  “Never said I was nice.”

  “Fine, whatever.” I narrow my eyes while stalking toward him.

  The faster I’m away from this asshole, the better. As I circle him, his slate-gray eyes meet mine, and I trip.

  “Holy shit!” I yelp, pushing out my hands to save myself from face-planting. That save results in me losing my coffee.

  “What the hell?”

  I gulp and peek up at him while on my hands and knees. Coffee drips down his shirt, shaping into a forever stain. My cup is empty and upside down at his feet.

  Scratch my earlier statement.

  This is the embarrassment winner of my week.

  Hell, the embarrassment winner of my year.

  “I’m so sorry,” I rush out.

  He doesn’t offer a helping hand as I lift myself and dust off my scraped-up knees.

  When I go to pick up the cup, he retreats a step, worried I’ll bring him more damage, and stops me. “Just go.”

  “I’m sorry,” I repeat, stressing the last word.

  He pulls at his shirt, inspecting the stain, and shakes his head. “Make it up to me by getting in your car and leaving.”

  My remorse spills into anger. “You know what? I take my apology back. I’m not sorry, you jerk.”

  “Cool,” he deadpans, my insult bouncing off him like rubber. “Now, move.”

  “Asshole.” I walk around him, sans tripping this time, and get into my car.

  Curses fly from my mouth when I slam the door, crank up the radio, and flip him off as I pull out of my spot. I drive around the building and wait for him to leave before taking his old spot.

  “Here we go. Coffee, round two,” I mutter.

  My phone rings when I kill the ignition, and Lola’s name flashes across the screen over a selfie of us.

  “You won’t believe this,” I say, answering my best friend’s call before retelling her the coffee nightmare.

  “Swear to God, this stuff only happens to you.” She laughs. “And what a dick.”

  “Tell me about it.” My head throbs from the lack of caffeine and the mess of today.

  “You know, I have a hunch you’ll run into each other again.”

  I snort. “Okay, Miss Cleo. That’d better not happen, or you’ll be bailing me out of jail for purposely spilling coffee on him next time.”

  Queen of Intuition is Lola’s nickname. I swear, the girl was a fortune-teller in her past life.

  The hairs on the back of my neck stand at her remark.

  Do I want to see him again?

  My heart races at the thought.

  2

  Archer

  Two Weeks Later

  “Tell the attorney to score a better deal,” I demand. “It’s a bullshit plea.”

  “Archer.” My mother’s voice carries through my car’s Bluetooth speakers. “Katherine works for the finest firm in the state. Trust me, she’s doing her best.”

  “She can do better.” She has to do better. “We’re paying her a shit-ton of money to get him out of this.”

  “To get them out of this.”

  I snarl and tighten my grip on the steering wheel. “No, to get him out. I don’t care about anyone else.”

  At the same time as my gaze returns to the road, the driver in front of me slams on their brakes. I ram my foot onto my brake pedal, hard enough that I’m waiting for my foot to hit the concrete, but I’m too slow.

  “Motherfucker,” I hiss when I jerk forward and rear-end the car. “Let me call you back.”

  I end the call and glance in my rearview mirror. When I see the car behind me is pulled to the side of the road, damage-free, a rush of relief hits me. Moments later, they pull back onto the street and drive past me. One less collision for me to deal with.

  I swerve to the side of the road, my jaw clenching, and shift my car into park. The car I hit does the same.

  An accident isn’t what I need today.

  Or any damn day.

  I’m already dealing with enough wreckage.

  I snatch my Italian leather wallet from the cupholder, stretch out of my car, and straighten myself. As much as I love my Aston Martin, they make them for tiny fuckers, not dudes hitting the six-six mark.

  I glimpse at my newly purchased and shipped-from-England DBS Superleggera, and I grit my teeth. It’ll cost a pretty penny to repair. My gaze flicks to the car I hit. There isn’t much damage. It’s at least a decade old and worth a few grand at most. I’ll throw cash at the problem for a simple fix.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I hiss when the driver steps out of the car.

  The sour look coming from her confirms she remembers me. I slip my hands into my pockets and stroll toward the brat who blocked me in at the coffee shop a few weeks ago. If this encounter is like our last, it won’t be as easy as I hoped. No doubt this chick is about to add more stress to my day.

  “Just perfect,” she yells, throwing up her arms. “It’s the Prick Parker. Not only do you suck at parking but you’re also a terrible driver.”

  She straightens her shoulders when I reach her. The woman might grate on my nerves, but she’s drop-dead gorgeous. Every physical feature of hers matches her spitfire personality. Random pieces of her caramel-colored hair are braided, tumbling across her sun-kissed shoulders, and she’s wearing short-shorts that show off her toned legs.

  She has the face of trouble, of fun, of happiness.

  She’s a shot of serotonin in a crop top.

  The opposite of me.

  The type of person I steer clear of.

  While she’s a dose of pleasure, I’m a cocktail of misery.

  My attention falls to her plump lips, and I lick my own, curious how she tastes.

  Probably sweet.

  Like a sugary doughnut or a juicy strawberry.

  I shake my head to murder those thoughts. “Don’t you know you’re not supposed to slam on your brakes out of nowhere?”

  “Don’t you know there’s a three-second distance rule?” She smirks, pleased with her comeback.

  That smart-ass mouth.

  Had this been years ago, I would’ve loved it.

  Would’ve wanted to fuck it.

  But I’m not that man anymore.

  “I didn’t expect you to stop for no damn reason.”

  “There was a reason.”

  “Which was?”

  “A chipmunk ran in front of me.”

  “A chipmunk?”

  “Yes!” she shrieks. “A chipmunk! Furry little thing.” She lowers her hand until it’s nearly touching the ground. “About yea high.”

  I stare at her, working my jaw.

  “Oh!” she scoffs. “You’d rather me murder Alvin the Chipmunk? You truly are a heartless, shitty parker of a man.”

  “No, I don’t want you to murder a damn whatever chipmunk.” I scrub a hand over my face as cars pass us, surveying my situation with their nosy eyes. “Look, I’m in a rush. There’s hardly any damage to your car—”

  “Whoa.” She gestures to her bumper, now renovated with a minor dent and scratches. “That is more than hardly any damage.”

  I rub my hands together. “I’ll tell you what. We’ll call it even.”

  “Excuse me? What do you mean, call it even?”

  “You ruined my shirt during our last little run-in, and I didn’t make you pay for it.” I shrug. “Tit for tat.”

  Her jaw drops. “You think a ruined shirt is equivalent to car damage?”

  “When the shirt most likely cost more than the car, yes.”

  “Wow,” she calls out as if she were in front of an audience, and her mouth forms an O. “Alexa, show me the definition of a rich, arrogant prick.”

  It was a low blow.

  Cunning.

  Bragging about my wealth isn’t a hobby of mine, but if
it makes someone hate me, I’ll boast away. Throughout the years, I’ve learned the easiest approach for convincing people to leave you alone is for them to dread your presence. No one wants to hang out with the brooding bastard.

  She holds her chin high, awaiting my next move, for me to solve the problem for us. I have no issues with paying for the damages. Hell, I’ll buy her a new car if she wants. The issue is compensating her while also maintaining a low profile.

  “How about this?” I say, and her gaze meets mine in expectation. “Let’s exchange information and not worry about a police report.”

  Another police report with my family’s name added to the stack is the last thing we need.

  She skeptically stares at me, and her words come out slow. “You’re admitting it’s your fault, correct?”

  A rumble shoots through my skull. “Sure, it can be my fault.”

  “But it was your fault.”

  “That’s what I said, sure.”

  “Sure isn’t you accepting responsibility.”

  “Jesus, fuck.” I rub the back of my starting-to-sweat neck. “It was my fault. You happy? You want me to get it tattooed on me?”

  “That’d actually be kind of hot.” She smiles in amusement. “Will you put my name next to it … or possibly my face? I once dated this frat boy—” She pauses, holding up a finger. “Correction: not dated. We talked, went to a few parties together, you know—”

  “No, I don’t know,” I talk over her. “Nor do I care or understand how the fuck that pertains to our situation.”