Excerpt for Lance by , available in its entirety at Smashwords

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Copyright © Chelsea Camaron 2015

Smashwords edition

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of Chelsea Camaron, except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976.

This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.



1st Edition Published: May 2015

Published by Chelsea Camaron

Editing by: Asli Fratarcangeli and C&D Editing

Formatting by: IndieVention Designs

Cover Design by: IndieVention Designs

2nd Edition Published January 12, 2018 Cover update pic: Shutterstock

2018 Updates edited by: Emma Mack – Ultra Editing



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Thank you for downloading/purchasing this ebook from Smashwords. This ebook and its contents are the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be reproduced, copied, and distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download/purchase their own copy at Smashwords.com, where they can also discover other works by this author. Thank you for your support.


This book contains mature content not suitable for those under the age of 18. Involves strong language and sexual situations. All parties portrayed in sexual situations are adults over the age of 18.

All characters are fictional. Any similarities are purely coincidental.




Dedication


~For Ace~

Thank you for being along for the ‘rush’ and putting up with my kind of crazy.




To everyone who has ever felt like you aren’t enough exactly as you are

YOU ARE MORE THAN ENOUGH



Lance


Value, worth – these are things I don’t have. College degree, great job – none of it matters if you look in the mirror and can’t find anything to love.” Candace Jones.


Structure, dedication, and determination are the traits Candace Jones has survived on. Life is a school of hard knocks.

Lance “Rush” Miller works hard and plays even harder. He lives his life from one adrenaline rush to the next. He has it made and he knows it.

What happens when firm resolve crashes into wild abandon? Two complete opposites are thrown together when Candace finds herself in need of a quick escape that Lance is all too willing to give her.



Intended for mature audiences only. This book contains strong language and strong sexual situations. Please do not buy if any of this offends you.

This is a stand alone story with a HEA. NO Cliffhanger!

The Roughneck Series are a set of stand-alone, interconnected novellas that feature bad boy oil riggers who know how to work hard and play harder. These stories are full of suspense, romance, and men who aren’t afraid to get a little dirty. If fast paced stories with a little edge and a lot of love aren’t your thing, then these aren’t the books for you. 




Table of Contents


Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

About the Author

Other Works

Excerpt from Wendol (Roughneck Series 4)

Excerpt from Santa, Bring Me a Biker!





Prologue


~Candace~


Go to school, get good grades, stay out of the way, and stay quiet.

Simple enough.

Only nine hundred or so more days until I graduate from high school and move on to college.

I once read an article that said, ‘a person can still feel alone even surrounded by a room full of people.’ That one phrase describes my existence perfectly.

“Candace, dinner’s ready,” my mom calls out, and dread automatically fills me.

I trudge down the stairs one by one while the childhood pictures stare back at me, taunting me.

Haunting me.

The chubby baby cheeks that were once so cute now round out my face, hiding none of my shame from the world. At the bottom step, I close my eyes and inhale deeply. Exhaling, I push back the tears threatening to spill out.

My daily torture is about to begin. Some kids dread being at school, I dread home life.

As I round the corner and step into the kitchen, the aroma of garlic assaults my senses as my stomach growls loudly in hunger. Absently, I run my hands over my belly. Instantly, the smells trigger this part inside me that comes alive at the thought of food.

“Oh, Candy, don’t rub your tummy like a pet,” my mother chastises.

Silently, I move to wash my hands. There is nothing I can say to her that could make her understand. It’s beyond my control. The reaction I have to smells and even the sight of food is involuntary. I don’t want to be hungry, I just find that I am.

No one sees my pain. No one knows my struggles, least of all my size six mother. The same woman who was a size two before having me and then a four until menopause. She tells anyone who will listen about her challenges—which make me want to scream. She doesn’t know how easy she has it.

“Something smells good, Lisa,” my dad proudly greets her as he walks in and proceeds to kiss her cheek. He’s got that right. It does smell good.

I once read in an article at the doctor’s office that we first eat with our nose, then our eyes, and finally our mouth. Smell, sight, texture, and taste all come together to register in our brain whether we like a food or not.

“Penne pasta bake with Italian sausage and garlic bread. Your favorite.” She beams up at him.

This is how she is every meal. It’s always about pleasing my dad’s pallet. The man who is in a size thirty waist and is right at six feet tall.

I want to vomit with the way the two of them act. Well, I really want to stuff my face with every delicious morsel of the meal being set out on our table, but I want to do it alone. I want to enjoy my dinner without my mother’s condescending stare.

Sitting down to eat, I prepare for the battle. The glare of my mother’s gaze grips me as I reach for the salad dressing to top my leafy greens. Her reaction is to sigh loudly in her first warning that I am indeed doing something wrong.

A girl my size should eat salad—sure—minus the dressing. I listen to every word she preaches to me time and time again. I have it engrained in my head. It doesn’t mean I have the willpower to resist. I doll up the salad with shredded cheese, chopped boiled egg, croutons, and ranch dressing. Like a lady, I eat my salad first, all under her watch.

The scents of garlic, the look of the pasta bake, and my own craving for carbs have me still starving as I plate my main course.

“Candy, have you no self-control? You’re not getting any younger … or smaller. At fifteen, that’s not baby fat you’re carrying around. Are you sure you need to eat that much?”

So it begins, yet again.

Just one dinner is all I ask. Can I please have one dinner that I am not under her scrutiny? Breakfast, she doesn’t bother me. She needs her rest for the day ahead of her. Thank the dear queen of good things for that small reprieve. Not that she has such a hard day, being that she doesn’t work. I’m an only child. She is the task master though. Our house stays spotless. Whatever she needs to stay out of my way works for me, so clean away mother dear.

Lunch, I eat at school. Dinner, though—night in and night out—we must eat as a family. Jones family requirement; everyone must be present at the dinner table. Night in and night out, I must endure my bad food choices. Night in and night out, I sit under her scrutiny while my dad says nothing. His silence is almost as cruel as her words. He must agree if he says not one word, right?


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