Her Old-Fashioned Husband

By: Laylah Roberts

Prologue

Twelve years ago...

Rick shoved his hand beneath her t-shirt, his movements clumsy and rough. He worked his way up to her breast as Frankie did her best to hide her shudders of revulsion.

She longed to push him away, but made herself stay still for a bit longer. She owed him. Every other time he’d tried to grope her, she’d shoved him away, and she knew he was fast running out of patience. Unfortunately, she had a few good reasons for keeping him happy.

He had a car. He had a fake ID. He knew where all the parties were.

And he didn’t know her brothers. Thank God. If he did, he’d probably be too scared of them to ever help her sneak off to parties and get drunk. But damn she wished he’d catch a hint. The stupid jerk either didn’t understand or didn’t care that she was not about to sleep with him.

Yuck, gross.

But while she had no intention on having sex with him, she had decided to throw him a bone—which was why she was putting up with his hand currently squeezing her breast to the point of bruising as his hot, sweet breath bathed her face. He leaned in for a kiss and Frankie quickly closed her eyes.

Rick slipped his tongue inside her mouth, making her shudder in revulsion. Ick, his breath stuck of tobacco and alcohol.

So revolting.

At nineteen, Rick might be four years older than her, but he was still gangly and immature. He had pimples for goodness sake. No, she wasn’t interested in him at all. Now, if it was Tom Sanders kissing her, Frankie would be melting at the knees. She bet Tom didn’t slobber like a bulldog when he kissed a girl.

Tom was a friend of her brother, Brax, and truly the most gorgeous boy Frankie had ever met. He was the same age as Rick, but worlds apart in immaturity and looks. He had thick blond hair, bright, sparkling blue eyes and a smile that made her stomach shiver when it was aimed her way.

Frankie turned her head and pushed her hands against his chest.

“No, Rick,” she told him.

He stared at her through eyes glazed from too much alcohol and pot. What a loser.

Yeah, well, what does that make me, then?

This was a bad idea. But she didn’t care. She didn’t. What else did she have to do? Sit in her room and think about her parents? She blinked back tears. No crying. She hadn’t cried since the day she’d learned her mom and dad and died in a car crash three months ago. She wasn’t about to start bawling now. If she did then she didn’t know if she’d ever stop.

“Come’n, Frankie,” Rick slurred. “Don’t be a bitch.”

“How am I being a bitch by asking you not to paw me?” she snapped, irritated. She was starting to think that this wasn’t worth the hassle.

Frankie pulled at his arm, trying to tug it away from where he’d latched onto her breast.

“You owe me.” He glared down at her, his eyes darkening with anger.

Crap.

“How you figure that?” she said belligerently. He crowded closer. Frankie stepped back until her back hit a wall. Uh-oh.

Alarm bells rang in her head. For a skinny guy, he was looking awfully large all of a sudden.

“Back off, Rick, I don’t owe you a fucking thing.”

She held back a wince as she swore, half-expecting someone to scold her. Swearing in her house would get her mouth washed out with soap for sure.

Not that anyone had told her off lately. She’d let a four-letter word slip yesterday in front of Kent, her second oldest brother, and he hadn’t even blinked.

Frankie supposed without her parents here to enforce the rules; her brothers didn’t care much what she did.

So why did you sneak out to of the house instead of being a grown-up and telling Heath where you were going?

Her oldest brother was also the most serious. He wasn’t one to bend or compromise. A rule was a rule.

And Frankie had broken so many. Her curfew. Leaving the house without telling anyone where she was going. Hanging out with people her family hadn’t met. Drinking. Smoking.

Yep, if Heath ever caught her, she was dead meat. Her ass would ache for days after he got through with her.

Or else he’d ignore her, like all her brothers seemed to be doing lately. She wasn’t really sure what was worse. Being forgotten or being spanked.

Rick tightened his hand around her breast. Frankie fought against showing any reaction even though she was certain she’d have bruises tomorrow.

Why wasn’t anyone coming to help her?

Because they’re all drunk or high, you idiot, she answered her own question.

“You owe me this. You’ve been leading me on. Who’s been picking you up, driving you around? Who bought you that beer? Hmm? What you think you have between your legs, fucking gold?”

“Fuck you.” She pushed at him, pounding her fists, fear cutting through the alcohol buzz. “Get off me!” she yelled. Surely that would bring one of their group to her rescue.