Series: Working Class Beauties #2
For members of the NYC elite, your name is your ticket to success but I’ve got other ideas.
My name is Madyson (Mady) Harrington I’m the firstborn of three, triplets that is. My brothers get it all, but I have to dance for my supper. I must earn every bit of freedom with sacrifice. Friends, relationships, they all suffer in the name of appearances. My days are filled with routine, but the nights?
That is another story. A flash of chrome, colorful characters and no one knows my real name.
Almost, no one.
Remington Vanderbilt is the bastard son. He is also one of my BFF’s brothers. All reasons to be off-limits. But you know what they say. We want what we can’t have.
Can I be brave? Can a rough around the edges man give me the challenge I crave and break the monotony of my world? As secrets start spilling into my life only time will tell.
One thing’s for certain, it’s gonna be a wild ride.
Mady (Working Class Beauties, Book 2) Copyright © 2020 J. Haney & S.I. Hayes
My head slaps against the elevator wall. I must be fucking crazy or a saint. There she was, vulnerable, yearning, and wanting. What do I do? Make an asshole of us both. I don’t actually have much in the way of somewhere to be, I just- I wanted to see her twitch a bit for all the lying she’s done. What does she do? Goes and tugs on my heart, of course.
Heading out to my bike, I see Mayson Harrington, Mads’ father. He’s on the front stoop, sitting with his sleeves rolled up as he smokes a cigar.
“Leaving so soon?” He says as I walk past.
“Yeah, had an appointment downtown with Vince St. John.” I drop Alesha’s little brother, the real estate agent’s name. I figure if they think Im looking t property, they’ll ease up or at least stunt the fuck up. I’ve heard Vanessa Harrington and the other cones taking shit over the years about my wanderlust. It’s funny they all wanna talk shit, and yet when I’m alone with them, they are trying to get a ride on my swizzle stick. I’m not into married women.
“Hmm. Good luck.” Mayson nods, and I head across to the meter and my bike. Christ, I wasn’t even here an hour. Looking up to the windows of Mads’ studio space, I see her in silhouette. She’s halfway to her ten-foot ceiling having scaled her pole. I blow air and head over to Riverside.
All alone, I unlock my double storage unit. I decided that having Dee harp on me for being me wasn’t what I needed in my life. I love my sister, but coming up on her place and seeing a scrunchie on the door handle was a little much. Even for me. I know she has sex. I just don’t need to know when. Yesterday was spent outfitting the climate-controlled unit for my photographic and living needs. At least temporarily. I may just bounce again. I like traveling, and maybe two months here in Manhattan is enough. The Post let me go, and iI don’t know if I want to take the job with the New Yorker. I mean, it would be stable work, but… Boring. Nothing like chasing gorillas with Jane Goodall or National Geographic or Climbing the mountains of Nepal to sit for tea and quiet meditation with the Dali Lama. There are still places I haven’t been to. I haven’t seen the mountain in Bali or biked the Great Wall of China.
Yet… There is another adventure. Maybe, just around the corner. One far more dangerous than walking through tiger territory to meet a clan chieftain.
I’m sitting on my futon, eating some of the cheapest and greasiest pizza in New York. My storage unit is open, just a hair, so the smoke doesn’t totally permeate everything when I hear the unmistakable sound of a Hemi engine. Curious, I go investigate. Camera and slice in hands. As I get to the outer portion of the unit, I see a flash of purple and neon tail lights disappearing into the distance.
The Barracuda? How the fuck did she find me? No one knows I’m here. Hell, even Dee thinks I’m on her couch and just gone by the time she moves. This is just fucking weird. I try to let it go. Try to go back to my slasher flick, but I can’t get her out of my head. I sit, and I sort through my negatives. Images of Mads and of Miss Breeze. The same woman, yet very different animals. One is shy, demure, classy, and bored. Miss Breeze is loud, attention-craving, and equal opportunity grab assy. The real question is, who is the real Madyson Harrington?
S.I. Hayes was born and bred in New England and is currently living in Ohio. Running around Connecticut, she used all of her family and friends as inspiration for her many novels. When not writing, she can be found drawing one of many fabulous book covers or teasers.
Since meeting in 2016, the pair have embarked on the journey of a thousand tales. Keep your eyes open, and a fresh pair of panties close by. You know, just in case.