Trouble With The Curve

Without a word, knowing what he needed, Ace slid his hand back around to Liam's front. He stroked Liam's cock, his large hand sliding easily because of the lubricant, and Liam's hips began to move back and forth on their own. Every forward thrust pushed his rock-hard cock into Ace's hand; every backwards thrust took Ace's cock deeper into his eager body. He was crushed between a muscled body and an unmovable object, his hands in fists on the wall in front of him, his cheek pressed to the cool tile. All Liam could do was push up into Ace's hand, then push back to take Ace's cock; he was filled and utterly fulfilled, at the same time. **** Ten years ago, Liam “Spider” Valance met Ace Cuddy in the worst place possible: the Fallen Angels MC bar. Ace’s club. Ace’s world. A world where being gay would get them both killed.... and they fell in love anyway. Three years later, Ace chose survival over truth. Promoted to Vice-President, he walked away from Liam to keep them safe, making sure Liam hated him enough to let go. It worked... mostly. Now Ace has made a catastrophic mistake, and both their lives are in danger. The solution? Hide them together in a safe house until the heat dies down. Ace calls it fate, Liam calls it hell. Ace sees a second chance with the only man who ever truly knew him. Liam just wants him gone. But the past doesn’t stay buried, desire doesn’t die quietly, and love doesn’t fade on command. Is there a second chance at love, and at living honestly? Ace is ready to fight for it. Even if the hardest battle is against the man he loves most.

The mock exam just finished. A beggar outside the school gate pointed right at me and said, "Zero points." I laughed. "The score for the top scorer in the college entrance exam always shows up as zero. Thanks for the blessing, I guess." The beggar gave me a meaningful look. "The top scorer in the college entrance exam will be your best friend. You'll actually get zero points." I just laughed. There was no way the school's top student would get zero points. As I was about to walk off, he pointed at my bracelet. "Score-Switching Bracelet. When she hands in a blank paper, you'll get zero points." I was taken aback. My bestie did give me this matching bracelet recently. I thought it would be a pain to wear because it would be uncomfortable when I write, but she insisted I put it on. I tried taking it off a few times but couldn't. Recently, my grades had indeed slipped, while my bestie's scores had consistently ranked first three times in a row... "What should I do then?" "Transfer it to a close family member. They can bear the misfortune for you." The beggar pointed at the boy coming to pick me up. "Like him." I turned around. Standing not far away, waiting for me, was my childhood friend.

My mother was a veteran HR director, so she built a performance scorecard for my entire childhood. A perfect test score earned me ten minutes on my phone. Finishing first in school earned me a milkshake. Whatever I wanted, I had to earn with grades. After I entered Crestmont Institute of Technology, I spent three straight years at the top of my program. According to her rules, that was worth one thousand dollars. When I came home, she tossed a single dollar bill at me. "So what if you're still first? Your GPA has slipped by a tenth of a point every year. You have the nerve to ask for a reward?" Beside her, my brother lounged with the keys to his new Hawthorne sedan spinning around one finger. My stomach sank. "When I got into Crestmont Tech, you said I wasn't valedictorian, so all I deserved was a used scooter. "Why does he get a new car for barely making it into community college..." Mom's eyes flashed. "You and Tyler are completely different. "He went from having no chance at college to getting accepted somewhere. That's progress. You're moving backward. "Since you've chosen to coast, I'm cutting off your living expenses next semester. We only invest resources in people who improve. "Raise your GPA by finals, then come trade your grades for money." I walked outside without another word and made a call. "You really are me, ten years from now. You were right. Her performance system only applies to me." Future me answered calmly. "Tomorrow, sell the artwork Dad left you. Three of the pieces are genuine old masters. "Put every dollar into your research project. No matter what anyone says, don't abandon it. That project is your way into Crestmont's tech elite. "Let this family lose a future multimillionaire over one thousand dollars."

DISCLAIMER! MM ROMANCE ! Caleb Foster is late. Again. Snow is still melting in his hair when he pushes open the classroom door, the cold from the rink clinging to him as thirty students turn to stare. At the front of the room, Professor Elliot Ward pauses mid-sentence. His gaze drifts to the attendance sheet, then back to the broad-shouldered hockey captain standing in the doorway. “Mr. Foster,” he says calmly. “I assume the ice rink does not operate on the same schedule as my classroom.”

After the young officer Edward Shaw took first place in a high-profile shooting exhibition attended by senior officials, his family adopted a rather peculiar tradition. At the annual family banquet, he would perform a blindfolded shooting. Whichever woman's token his bullet struck was taken as a sign that she would become his fiancée. Determined to marry him, I placed the handkerchief I had carefully chosen as close to him as possible. Yet, for three consecutive years, his shots hit nothing at all. I told myself the handkerchief must have been too light, too easy to miss. So each year, I replaced it with something more refined, more eye-catching than before. That illusion lasted until the night before my eighteenth birthday, when I happened to overhear him speaking with a friend at a reception. "Miss Jasmine's handkerchief is right in front. Even blindfolded, you should be able to hit it. How do you keep missing every year?" Edward swirled his glass, his tone casual. "Tracy's still young. The moment she hears I'm getting engaged, she starts crying. "I promised I'd wait until she's a little older. As for Jasmine, she's waited for me all these years. It's not like she's going anywhere." With that, he casually tossed his glass into a metal bucket in the corner. It rang out with a sharp, hollow clang. I lowered my gaze and thought of my younger sister, only a year younger than me. So it had never been about the token. It was about the person who placed it there. In that case, there was no reason for me to keep holding on. After all, my father had already arranged a marriage for me. Three days later, at that same family banquet, I would be formally engaged.

On the eve of the driving school's simulated road test, all twelve of my students signed a petition demanding I be fired. "Coach Sutton, we paid to get our licenses—not to hear you tell us every day we're going to kill someone." "All you ever do is slam the instructor brake or grab the steering wheel. Anyone who learns from you is doomed." The ringleader, Sienna Vaughn, threw a petition in my face before uploading a carefully edited video online. In the clip, I repeatedly stomped on the passenger-side brake and barked orders for students to pull over. Caption: "Gold Medal Coach... or Crazy Coach? Students are too terrified to touch the wheel." What she left out was everything that happened a split second before: the child who ran into the crosswalk just as I hit the brake, and the box truck drifting into our lane the instant I grabbed the wheel. Months earlier, when my previous class crashed on the freeway, I injured my knee pulling students out of the wreckage. The damage never fully healed. Ever since then, I'd become stricter behind the wheel. I braked when they ran a yellow light. I took the wheel if they didn't look in the mirror when changing lanes. Anyone who dared to touch their phone would have their training ended on the spot. But while I was at the hospital for a follow-up appointment, I overheard Sienna laughing in the stairwell. "Coach Sutton's just traumatized. Once we get her fired, let's see if she still sticks her nose into everyone's business." When I returned to the driving school, the owner, Victor Cross, told me to apologize and smooth things over. I looked at the twelve signatures on the petition and smiled. "Sure. Starting today, I won't touch the passenger brake for any of you."