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  Copyright © 2019 Tamara Mataya

  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 author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. References to real people, places, organizations, events, and products are intended to provide a sense of authenticity and are used fictitiously. All characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and not to be construed as real.

  ISBN: 978-0-9950212-6-6

  Edited by Jessa Russo

  Cover art © 2018 Cover Lovin’ Designs

  Cover image licensed from Bigstockphoto/ contributor / Tverdokhlib

  Table of Contents

  Copyright Page

  BEGGING FOR MERCY | A Full Throttle Romance

  CHAPTER ONE | Andy

  CHAPTER TWO | Matthew

  CHAPTER THREE | Andy

  CHAPTER FOUR | Matthew

  CHAPTER FIVE | Andy

  CHAPTER SIX | Matthew

  CHAPTER SEVEN | Andy

  CHAPTER EIGHT | Matthew

  CHAPTER NINE | Andy

  CHAPTER TEN | Matthew

  CHAPTER ELEVEN | Andy

  CHAPTER TWELVE | Matthew

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN | Andy

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN | Matthew

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN | Andy

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN | Matthew

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN | Andy

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN | Matthew

  CHAPTER NINETEEN | Andy

  CHAPTER TWENTY | Matthew

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE | Andy

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO | Matthew

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE | Andy

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR | Matthew

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE | Andy

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX | Matthew

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN | Andy

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT | Matthew

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE | Andy

  CHAPTER THIRTY | Matthew

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE | Andy

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO | Matthew

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE | Andy

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR | Matthew

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE | Andy

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX | Matthew

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN | Andy

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT | Matthew

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE | Andy

  CHAPTER FORTY | Matthew

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE | Andy

  THE END

  Also by Tamara Mataya

  Acknowledgments | I want to thank all my CPs and Beta readers who helped me with this one when I wrote it years ago. You know who you are <3

  Tamara Mataya Recommends...

  BEGGING FOR MERCY

  A Full Throttle Romance

  By Tamara Mataya

  CHAPTER ONE

  Andy

  I’ve wanted Matthew Mercy from the moment I kicked his motorbike out from under him.

  Damn, the man can ride hard. Even with the rough play through the last three turns, I barely beat him across the finish line and skid to a stop. I track him through my dusty visor, taking in the agitated movements of that tall, built body, as he tears off his helmet and squats, checking his bike for damage.

  The scratches I put on his fender are visible from thirty feet away.

  Whoops. Guess someone shouldn’t have been crowding me through that second turn. Inside my glove my pinky throbs, probably turning purple where his handlebar smacked it, but scuffed knuckles aren’t anything new for me—I’ll never be a hand model. Beat up fingers are part of being a mechanic. I’ve had worse dinking around with radiators.

  Speaking of dinking around...strong features, chiseled jaw, he’s even hotter now than back when he was tearing up the county nine years ago, breaking hearts and kicking asses. His new shorter, dark hairstyle doesn’t hide the scar that cuts through his right eyebrow and kisses his temple. He got that scar in a bar fight with some drug runner out of Columbia. Matthew won, but barely.

  Why is he back after, what, six years? Will he be sticking around? Not that I care what his plans are off the racetrack. It’s a habit, that’s all. Everyone had a crush on Matthew Mercy—he was basically a masturbatory urban legend for girls from fifteen up. Wild, dangerous, untameable, and gorgeous, my teenage hormones had me writing Andy Mercy on the inside of my notebooks for years. I was barely seventeen when he left—hadn’t even filled in enough for him to notice me as anything more than a kid before he was gone.

  If he’s sticking around, he could be a problem for me from a competition standpoint.

  Maybe. I did just hand his ass to him.

  His fists clench as his head swivels in my direction, spoiling for a fight. “Hey, buddy!” He storms over, probably not intending on congratulating me on my win. He got to the start line after I was already there, waiting to go, with my hair tucked into my helmet and my leathers hiding my curves.

  My long hair tumbles down my back in strawberry blonde waves when I pull off my helmet and fling a cocky grin his way. “How’d my dust taste, pretty boy?”

  His eyes widen and an appreciative smile idles on his face. “I think I’d rather eat something else.”

  My ego purrs like a finely tuned motor, and giddiness rises inside me. Does he remember me? Ever-so-nonchalantly, I rev my bike. Bad idea; the vibration surges between my legs, making it even harder to think about anything other than riding Matthew instead of my Kawasaki.

  He focuses on it. “What have you got under there?”

  My pulse speeds up, but I play it cool and confident. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

  That bright blue gaze licks its way up and down my leathers like the searing tongue of a flame. His teeth catch his full lower lip and his brows arch wickedly. “What are you—”

  “I got your winnings.” My older brother Patrick pulls up on his bike and thrusts an envelope full of cash at me. Much better than the certified checks from the legal races. There are perks to legal-adjacent activities. I tuck the winnings into my jacket as he jerks his head. “Come on, Andy, time to go.”

  “Andy, hey?” Matthew seizes the name Patrick provided, then peers closer at him. “Wait, Patch Perris?”

  Patrick’s squint turns to a glare when he realizes Matthew isn’t just some random guy. “That’s what my friends call me, Mercy.” Patch spits Matthew’s last name like it tastes bad.

  Matthew frowns. “Maybe we weren’t best friends, but I remember it as being a friendly rivalry between us.”

  My brother scoffs and revs his bike. “No member of your family will ever be a friend to me or mine.”

  What does he mean by that?

  Matthew frowns. “Wait a second. You had a little sister.” He turns to me. “You?”

  He remembers me after all. Sort of. I smile up at him. “Andy Perris. Pleasure to see you again.”

  Patrick slaps my shoulder to get my attention back. “We’ve got to go.”

  My cool factor is definitely decreasing the longer my brother loiters hereon his bike, making me look like a child in front of my ex-crush. “I’m fine here.” Moments ago, I handed seventeen racers their asses in a dirty fight to the finish line, and he’s still treating me like his useless kid sister. Embarrassment and frustration rise, making my face heat up. Great, now I’m going to be all blotchy and red in front of Matthew.

  “I said it’s time to go.”

  Go away, go away, go away. Patch is lucky I can’t explode heads with my brain. “I said I’m fine here.”

  “Dad wants to talk to you.”

  That tone of voice cuts through my flirtation with Mat
thew. Dad isn’t much for idle chitchats, so if he wanted to talk to me after the race, it’s about something important. We were waiting on a shipment of custom frames for the shop. If the supplier fucked them up again... I put my helmet back on and wink at Matt. “Catch you later, pretty boy. But since I won the race, I guess I should say maybe you’ll catch me later.”

  His slow smile will haunt my dreams. “Count on it.”

  I spin my wheels and he’s forced to turn his head and step back to avoid the dirt my bike throws at him as I ride away.

  I don’t want to seem too interested.

  THE RIDE HOME DOESN’T calm the tingle in my thighs, but as the miles of pavement clear away some of the adrenaline from the race, aches and pains creep in. I bank on most guys being hesitant to hit a woman, and use that to ride harder and avoid skirmishes, but like Matthew learned, the helmet and leathers hide that I’m a woman, and sometimes things get too rough. I only dish out what I get, but that doesn’t mean others don’t instigate whenever they can.

  My left calf throbs from the boot of some guy trying to not-so-gently nudge me from the course. I recovered and introduced his bike to the dirt with a well-placed kick of my own, but I took the next jump badly and wrenched my wrist recovering. My forearms are tight from tension, and the hand Matthew hurt sends hot flashes of pain up my arm every time I move it.

  I became a mechanic because I love bikes. To prove I could handle taking over the garage, I started racing—only to find it addictive. I love the adrenaline rush of the legal races, but the fast cash and rough play of the underground events are even more thrilling. Unfortunately, my racing in the high stakes illegals only makes Dad and Patrick worry more, but no way in hell I’m giving it up now. Showing any vulnerability makes them see me as weak instead of human, and I have to seem tough.

  My wins speak for themselves, and I added another tonight. I open my mouth to gloat about my victory, but Patch’s death-grip on the steering wheel halts my words.

  What happened between them to make Patch so tense? They’d been friends. Much to my teenage chagrin, they’d never hung at our house, or I’d have noticed and intensely lurked. Matthew went from being A Crush to The Crush when I was thirteen. He was helping my brother and my dad at a legal race when some girls from my school started teasing me for the grime beneath my nails. The same girls always called me Grease Stain and made fun of my clothes, more often peppered with grease spots than not.

  Matthew heard them, and the way he sauntered up in his leathers like a movie star played front and center in my dreams for years to come. Those girls practically drooled. He glanced coolly at them, put his arm around me, and led me away from their bitchiness for an ice cream.

  ‘Don’t pay attention to them,’ he told me. ‘I think girls who know their way around a bike are pretty cool.’ My heart melted like the ice cream had in my mouth. It was the first and last thing he ever said to me. He was only being nice to a poor kid being bullied, but he became brighter and better than any celebrity crush for me from then on.

  And maybe helped solidify in my mind that wanting to hang out in the shop instead of the mall wasn’t weird at all. Those girls left me alone after that.

  And maybe my kicking Matt was the equivalent of a little boy pulling the pigtails of the girl he likes. Wow, that’s a dick move no matter which way you slice it. My flirting skills clearly need a tune up.

  Patch slows down when we reach Dad’s, and parks in the driveway at the side of the two-story dark brown house. We unload his street bike and leave my dirt bike on the trailer. I’ll drive it home and unload it later.

  Patch starts his bike. “Tell Dad I said hi.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Out.” He grins at me, flips his visor closed, and takes off, popping a wheelie as he goes. Jerk.

  I grin and head up the front steps and inside. The living room is empty. “Dad?”

  “In here.” His reply floats out from the kitchen. Dad’s soft spoken voice has never matched his frame, or history. A racing legend, both on the legal circuit and the street races, Grant Perris always held his own in the thick of things. I like to think he’s where I get my scrappiness from, though I’m not opposed to raising my voice from time to time.

  I’m feisty. Sue me.

  “Hi.”

  He tosses me a tomato to chop. “You staying for dinner?”

  My stomach growls and we both laugh. I pull off my gloves and move to the sink to wash my hands. “I am now. Patch says hi.”

  His gaze flicks to my bruised fingers. “I heard there was a scuffle tonight.”

  Patrick probably ratted me out in a text, pathologically unable to be anything other than the overprotective brother. To him and Dad I’ll always be that soft, pink-cheeked girl, tagging along and crying when Patch won’t play with me.

  There’s no point trying to hide my hand now, so I downplay once my frustration is reined in. “Some kicks were thrown.”

  He sighs. “Andy—”

  “Mostly from me.” I dry my hands on the towel and slice the tomato for the salad. Sometimes it sucks. I want to admit it’s hard, but I don’t have that luxury.

  “It’s bad enough I’ve got to worry about you in the legal races, now you’re going to dick around in the underground ones too?”

  The familiar argument tightens my jaw. “That’s so unfair. You never said anything when Patch was racing in them.”

  “He quit.” He grabs two plates and dishes pasta onto them. “And Patch could handle himself.”

  “So can I!” The urge to flip a table itches my fingers. Instead, I toss the salad and stick to the facts. “You know I’m a better racer than he is.”

  “Maybe. But those races aren’t about how tight you can take a turn. People don’t fight fair and I don’t want you in there with them.”

  “This from the guy who had me in martial arts from the time I was six?”

  He sighs. “It’s not the same.”

  He didn’t know how to raise a daughter, so he raised me like a son and then wonders why I want the same things Patch does. Am I supposed to ride side-saddle on a motorbike so I can keep my legs crossed like a perfect little lady? For a smart man, sometimes my dad acts like we we’re living in medieval times.

  I dice half a cucumber before trusting myself to speak again. Every cent I earn goes back into the business—not because I have to, but because I want to. Oil runs through my veins pretending to be blood. I could live in the garage wrenching on engines—not just bikes. There’s something about taking things apart, upgrading them, and putting them back together that relaxes me more than anything else. If something is broken, I fix it or make it better. I know my need to fix things has everything to do with my mom dying when I was five, but the orderliness of the shop is my happy place and Dad damn well knows it.

  “I’m doing it for the shop.” The silence in the kitchen takes on a heaviness that settles in my stomach. “What is it, Dad?”

  He carries our plates to the table and sits. “Maybe you care too much.”

  My amused snort beats me to the table. “Not possible. And that’s not a real thing.” I dish some salad into a couple bowls for us and sit.

  We dig in for a few minutes. He clears his throat and I search his face for the additional conflict. I got his eyes and large frame, but the rest of me is all Mom. I think that’s part of the problem—he looks at my face and sees the woman he couldn’t protect, and it makes it worse for me. Patch gets off easily.

  “Spit it out.” I put my fork down and sit back in my chair to give him space for the words I’m pretty sure I won’t like.

  “Maybe I should give the garage to Patch.”

  “What?” The word falls flat, but he’s just said he’s going to carve my heart from my chest and give it to my brother.

  “You’d still be in charge. I’d make sure he knew that—he already knows. You’re the best mechanic we’ve got.”

  It’s one of my worst nightmares, and tears of frust
ration prickle my eyes. “I’m sorry, but it sounded like you said you’re giving my garage, the one I’ve spent eleven hours a day in since I was fourteen years old, to Patch, who couldn’t care less about it.”

  “I’m not going to be around forever. I want to know you’re safe.”

  “By taking away the thing that means the world to me?” I hate the shrillness in my voice.

  “It wouldn’t be like that. It might be best if his name is the one on the deed.”

  The tightness around his eyes and mouth finally registers. This isn’t about him not thinking I’m worthy of the shop. “What aren’t you telling me?”

  He shakes his head. “I want more for you than this world.”

  I soften my voice. “What about what I want?”

  “You should have a life outside the garage.” He grabs my hand and traces the ingrained lines of oil under my stubby nails. “Go on dates. Meet the man you want to make my grandbabies with.” His smile is gentle, but a tired outrage swells inside my heart.

  “You and Patch will never understand what it’s like for me as a woman in this industry. Through school and work, showing up early and leaving late even when I was sick as hell because they’ll use any reason—no matter how paper thin—to say I don’t want it enough and that even if I do, I’ll never make it because I can’t take it.”

  Dad shakes his head as though annoyed we’re having this conversation again. The trouble is, he doesn’t see it as a reality or a problem because he’s never gone through it. Hell, there were times in the shop when I was in high school when I was elbow deep in an engine and a client would come in. Dad himself stuffed a broom in my hands and told me to sweep because god forbid the client see a girl with her hands in his vehicle. Sexist bullshit.

  So I fight harder than any of them, make myself faster and tougher, to prove I can stand at their side as their equal. I fight and pretend I’m stronger than I am, hide my frustration and emotions so they’re not used against me, and I do it to prove to myself I’m strong enough—even when that very fight makes me wonder if I’m not a little crazy to want to be in an industry that still doesn’t take me seriously.