Cocky Jerk Read online

  Cocky Jerk

  Janine Infante Bosco

  Cocky Jerk

  © Copyright 2020 by Janine Infante Bosco and Cocky Hero Club, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the authors’ imaginations. Any resemblance to actual persons, things, living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.

  Editor: Virginia Tesi Carey

  Proofreading by: Back2TheWall Edits

  Photographer: FuriousFotog

  Model: Justin Michaels

  Interior Formatting & Design: T.E. Black Designs; www.teblackdesigns.com

  Contents

  Foreword

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Epilogue

  Afterword

  Also by Janine Infante Bosco

  About the Author

  Cocky Jerk is a standalone story inspired by Vi Keeland and Penelope Ward’s Stuck-Up Suit. It's published as part of the Cocky Hero Club world, a series of original works, written by various authors, and inspired by Keeland and Ward's New York Times bestselling series.

  Chapter One

  Antonia

  Monday is a man. Don’t try to argue with me, I am fully prepared to go to war on this one. Think about it, Monday comes too quickly…way too quickly if you get my drift. I mean, you’re not even finished with Saturday and bam, Monday is already picking up its pants from the floor and asking if we can do this shit again next week.

  Yeah, no thank you.

  Sadly, though, you can’t give Monday a phony number and write it off as a bad lover. All you can do is give Monday your middle finger and press on. Which is exactly what I did when my alarm clock failed to do its damn job. It wouldn’t have been a big deal if today wasn’t my first day as an intern for “Ask Ida,” the infamous advice column that prides itself on aiding the misguided fools of New York City.

  Can’t get laid? Ask Ida.

  Can’t get your pet goat to walk on a leash? No problem, just Ask Ida!

  Does your underwear keep riding up your ass? Have no fear, Ida’s got you covered.

  I couldn’t wait to meet this Ida chick, seeing as I had a couple of questions for her myself. Questions like, how the hell do you get your overbearing father and his outlaw motorcycle club off your back and find a man who isn’t intimidated by a girl who rides a Harley and swears like a sailor. I’d also like to know the winning lotto numbers and while I’m at it, who killed Jimmy Hoffa.

  However, I wasn’t going to be working for the elusive Ida Goldman, so if I wanted any of my questions answered, I’d likely have to submit them to the column along with the rest of the Tri-state area.

  My job was with her assistant Soraya Venedetta and while Soraya seemed cool as fuck and totally my kind of people, I doubt she’d be keen on having an intern who couldn’t get her ass to work on time. Especially on the first day.

  So, I rolled out of bed, squeezed my ass into a pair of jeans and instead of my usual vintage rock band tee, I pulled a black thermal over my head. After all, I wanted to make a good impression. Lastly, I shrugged on my leather jacket and laced up my moto boots. My hair was a wild mess of curls, but there was nothing I could do about that except pray the helmet defrizzed the mane.

  Ready to start my day, I made my way through the Corrupt Hellraiser compound. But there’s no clean break when living with a bunch of bikers, though, and I was bombarded with questions.

  Where are you going?

  Who are you going to be with?

  What do you mean you got a job?

  By the time I threw my leg over my Harley, I had a half-hour to get from Brooklyn to Manhattan and unless my bike sprouted chrome wings, I was undoubtedly going to be late. I thought about sending Soraya a text, or maybe one of those edible fruit arrangements—something that said Hey, I’m on my way. Have a strawberry and please don’t fire me. But I decided against both things, which I’m now regretting as I sit in bumper to bumper traffic on the Brooklyn Queens Expressway.

  “Fuck this,” I hiss, throttling my engine as I weave in between a tractor-trailer and an SUV. People say it’s the early bird who gets the worm, but it’s the aggressive driver who really makes shit happen. Twenty minutes later I’m exiting the Brooklyn Battery Tunnel like a boss, wearing a grin that’s masked by my helmet. I might be running late, but I’m the envy of Uber drivers everywhere.

  It’s the little things, man.

  The things that get squashed when you hear the distinct sound of sirens blaring behind you. I tell myself the universe isn’t this cruel, that there is no fucking way I’m getting pulled over and I believe it so much so that I keep going—right through a red light. The sirens are soon paired with red and blue flashing lights, confirming I am indeed fucked, and the universe isn’t just cruel, it fucking hates me.

  Muttering a stream of curses that would make a streetwalker blush, I veer my Harley over to the shoulder of the West Side Highway and drop the kickstand down. With an exasperated breath, I pull the helmet from my head, and shake out my wild curls. My gaze swings to the sideview mirror and I watch as the inconsiderate officer saunters over to me—it should be noted that this is all done at an incredibly slow pace like I’m not fucking late. Like there isn’t someone, somewhere in this great big city who needs a crime-stopper. Rolling my eyes, I plant my boots on the ground and carefully balance my helmet between my thighs.

  There are two ways I can play this shit. I can take the ticket like a champ, be on my merry way and pray I’m not fired before I punch the timecard, or I can attempt to wiggle my way out of it. I shouldn’t really be considering the latter since I’m sure my hair looks like I stuck my finger in a socket, but I’ve lost count on how many points I currently have on my license. So, as the cop approaches, I throw my long locks over my shoulder and fix the girls. Luckily, in my haste of dressing, I grabbed a pushup bra.

  Look who’s winning now.

  Planting a fake smile on my face, I turn my head and bat my eyelashes just as the cop steps next to my Harley. The smile falls from my lips and my eyes widen as I take in the hunky officer scowling at me. Standing tall and straight, the first thing I notice are his massive shoulders and his bulging biceps that fill his uniform. My gaze travels lower. His stance emphasizes the force of his thighs and the slimness of his hips where his belt sits holding his gun. It’s an impressive package and I find myself lifting my head to check out his face.

  While his eyes are hidden behind a pair of aviators, everything else looks delicious with a capital D. His wavy brown hair is perfectly styled and compliments his olive complexion. My gaze moves to his straight nose before settling on his full lips that, like everything else, are seemingly perfect. I’m sure a p
olice officer never looked so fine.

  Widening his stance, he crosses his arms against his chest and my eyes immediately dart from his lips to his corded forearms that are covered in vibrant ink and dusted with a sprinkling of dark hair. There’s something about a guy’s arms that just does it for me. In fact, I once dated a guy just because he had killer biceps. Everything else was a bust, but those arms…man, they were what dreams are made of.

  “License and registration,” he barks, startling me and forcing my focus back to his face. I swallow and remind myself that I need to get the hell to work, that there’s no time to drool over a hunky cop. So what if he ticks off all my boxes. He’s about to hand me my ass.

  The thick gold chain around his neck and the gold horn that dangles from it, grabs my attention. Being Italian, I’m fully aware of the sentiment—well, I am now. As a kid, I thought my dad had a weird obsession with peppers, but it turns out the big burly biker known as Tank is superstitious and thinks the little gold pepper shaped pendant is going to ward off the evil spirits.

  Suddenly, I feel a grin spread across my lips. Forget thrusting my double d’s in this guy’s face or batting my eyelashes at him, all I have to do is threaten the hunky cop with the malocchio and we can forget all about running the red light. He’ll go pray to his peppers and I can get the hell to work.

  However, before I can throw up my fingers and give him the evil eye he reaches up and pulls the aviators from his face, revealing a pair of soulful hazel eyes. Did I mention I’m also big on eyes? A flirty smile, big arms, killer eyes, and a fresh pair of Nikes are the way to my heart. He’s yet to smile and in uniform, but two out of four isn’t too bad.

  “I said, license and registration.” He basically growls as he tucks his glasses into his front pocket. My eyes dart to his badge and the little patch that reveals his last name.

  Smiling, I lift my gaze back to those narrowed hazel eyes.

  “I’m so sorry officer, Pirelli,” I say, pointing a finger to the name embroidered to the patch as I bat my eyelashes. My wayward curls get caught in my lashes distracting me. I pause for a beat to push the hair away from my eyes before continuing, “You see I’m kind of in a bind. Today is my first day at my new job and I seem to have a case of the jitters…”

  Who the fuck says the word jitters anymore?

  “Anyway, I have this condition and I sort of lose feeling in my hands when I’m nervous.” I don’t even know what the fuck I’m saying at this point, but I hold up my hands and shake them to add extra emphasis to my fib.

  Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome raises an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything which leads me to continue with my ridiculous story.

  “I squeezed too hard,” I explain, offering him a mischievous smile.

  “Sounds like a personal problem,” he deadpans. “Or possibly carpal tunnel. You should probably go see a doctor…after you give me your license and registration.”

  The smile quickly vanishes from my lips as I become painfully aware he’s not all that impressed with my antics. Huffing out a breath, I drag my fingers through my hair and tilt my head. Meeting his bemused gaze, I scowl miserably.

  “You don’t believe me, do you?”

  He shakes his head unfazed.

  “Not even a little.”

  Right, okay, well I tried.

  Sighing, I lower my hands and search for my license. I pat down my leather jacket. Feeling the little card-holder thing where I store my I.D. and debit card, I pull out my license and hand it to him. He takes it and drops his eyes to my picture—which in case you were wondering is not the most flattering photo of me. While he studies my mug, I lift my ass off the seat and twist my body around to pop open my saddlebags. It takes me a good while to locate my damn registration card and when I finally turn around, I find Officer Pirelli checking out my ass.

  Maybe there’s hope after all.

  Making it known I caught him staring at me I clear my throat. His gaze snaps back to mine and a sly grin spreads across my lips.

  “My registration card,” I singsong, waving it in front of him.

  His jaw clenches and his eyes slightly narrow as he yanks the card from my fingers. “It’s good to know all those squats I’ve been doing in the gym are paying off.”

  He opens his mouth to say something, but quickly smacks those full lips of his together. There’s a certain intensity to him and it’s hot as hell. If I wasn’t so hell-bent on getting away from my father’s club, I might be inclined to blow off my job at “Ask Ida” to play with the pepper worshipping cop. But I need this job. It’s a paid internship and to lose it would only set claiming my independence from the Corrupt Hellraisers back a notch or ten.

  “I’m going to need to see your insurance card too…” His tone trails as he reads my name from my license, “…Miss DeLuca.”

  My name rolls off his tongue with ease and my lips quirk. There’s a smart remark sitting on the tip of my tongue, but it doesn’t get past my lips. The teasing smile disappears from my face and I stare at him as if he’s just asked me to recite the alphabet backward.

  “My insurance card?”

  Lifting his eyes from my I.D., he arches an eyebrow.

  “Yeah, you know that little piece of paper that states you’re insured.”

  Oh, for fuck’s sake.

  “I know what it is,” I hiss.

  He might be pretty, but he’s clearly a dick.

  “Well, then do you mind handing it over?”

  I wouldn’t mind at all if I had it on me, but my policy just renewed, and I forgot to print out the new cards. That’s what happens when the whole fucking world goes paperless to save a bunch of trees. If you don’t check your emails on the daily or forget the password to the gazillion accounts you have, you don’t get your bills. Therefore, you don’t pay them, and your credit score takes a nosedive. But never mind that, back to my insurance card situation.

  Raising my head, I meet his expectant eyes and grimace.

  “I don’t have my insurance card on me,” I confess.

  “I see.”

  There’s no chance in hell I’m getting out of this and I already wasted ten minutes of my life I’ll never get back. Releasing an exasperated breath, I roll my eyes and look back at him.

  “Can you just give me the damn ticket so I can be on my way?” I hiss the question and he smirks in response.

  He. Fucking. Smirks. At. Me.

  The balls on this guy.

  Before I can properly react and tell him he’s an asshole, he turns and he saunters back to his patrol car. Shamelessly, I watch his tight ass move in those dark blue pants. Then, I fold my middle and ring fingers down and lift the remaining three, giving him the malocchio.

  Take that, you son of a bitch.

  Turning back around, I continue to ogle him from my sideview mirror as he folds his large frame into the car and a sigh escapes my lips.

  It’s always the pretty ones that are the biggest jerks.

  I glance at my watch and groan. I was supposed to be at the office an hour ago. Deciding to send the Edible Arrangement, after all, I grab my phone from the inside pocket of my leather jacket and start searching for a place that will deliver Soraya a bouquet of chocolate-covered strawberries. By the time I find one that isn’t far from the office, the pain in the ass cop returns.

  “Here’s your license and registration,” he says, offering them to me.

  I pocket my phone and pluck my documentation from his fingers. That’s when he extends his other hand and produces not one ticket, but three!

  My eyes bulge as my temper flares and the license falls to the ground. I reach for the tickets and quickly flip through them. The first is for the light, the second is for failing to produce an insurance card, and the third is for speeding.

  “You gave me a ticket for speeding?” I shriek, lifting my chin. His eyes meet mine, and he gives me a pointed look.

  “You were going fifty-five in a forty zone.”

  Clenching my jaw
, I glare at him. My blood pressure rises and my head pounds violently. If I wasn’t sure the son of a bitch would arrest me on the spot, I would wrap my hands around his throat and try shaking some human decency into him.

  “You’re kidding me, right?” I shriek, waving the tickets in his face like a madwoman. “This is like six points.”

  “Actually, it’s seven. Slow down Curly Sue and while you’re at it, get that hand thing checked out. Squeezing too hard is definitely a problem.”

  He flashes me a grin, and of course, the sight is fucking spectacular.

  What a damn shame.

  Muttering a curse in Italian, I crumble the tickets into a ball and shove them hastily into my pocket.

  “Have a nice day, Ms. DeLuca,” he adds with a wink. Then he mumbles something, also in Italian and turns back to his vehicle. I’m about to lift my helmet back to my head when my gaze falls to the sideview mirror.

  The bastard really does have a phenomenal ass.

  As if he can sense I’m ogling his buns, he glances over his shoulder and I note he’s still sporting that mischievous grin.

  “You won’t be grinning when your pepper fails you and your underwear rides up your ass all day, Pirelli,” I mutter under my breath.

  Fucking Monday.

  Chapter Two

  Antonia

  “Can I help you?”

  I arch an eyebrow as I stare at the receptionist—the same chick who brought me to meet Soraya last week when I interviewed for the position. Wondering if I look worse than I thought, I turn and glance at my reflection in the mirrored elevators. Ok, so my hair is much wilder than it was the day we met but other than that, I don’t spot any significant changes. Turning back to her, I rest my helmet on top of the fancy counter that sits between us.