The Hierarchy of Needs (The Portland Rebels #2) by Rebecca Grace Allen
Authors: Rebecca Grace Allen
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the weekends was one of the perks of working for his father. The truth was, he dreaded going there.
But it was past noon now. Time to get back to the grind.
Ignoring the other texts, he replied to Connor that he wasn’t going to make it and kicked his truck into gear. Disappointment had him obeying the speed limit for once, driving more slowly than he should have, considering the time.
The car show at the local harvest festival was like being at the Bunny Ranch, with so much beauty everywhere Dean never knew what to look at first. Car enthusiasts came from miles around, showing off the kinds of 1960s muscle cars that had always been his favorite. Their sleek lines and pure machine strength embodied a feeling of danger and rebellion unmatched by any other vehicle. Finding the source of that power was what captivated him the first time his dad popped a hood and showed him all the metal, tubes and wires inside.
Dean always hoped he’d have a car to bring there, one to sit proudly next to with a beer in his hand, but that future was getting more and more dim every day. He couldn’t even afford to get his own ride up to snuff. His ’71 Chevy C10 pick-up worked well enough, but it wasn’t anywhere near show condition. The bumpers needed some serious chrome, his engine wasn’t pretty and the truck box he’d needed to mount to the bed in order to lug supplies around for the business had scuffed the hell out of the railings. It was an A-to-B vehicle, not a trophy piece.
Skipping the fair was just as well.
He decided against his usual coffee, half because of how late he was and half to avoid an uncomfortable conversation with the chick he’d met there. One date and she already wanted more than he was willing to give, calling him baby, stroking his tattoos and asking where she could get one like it.
The ink was where it always started. Women were drawn to the bad boy image that being covered with tattoos symbolized. It was part of the reason he kept going under the needle for more.
The other part—well, they didn’t need to know about that.
His tats were personal reminders drawn into his skin, but Dean had woven a web of fiction around them, the kind of stories women liked to hear. Ones about power, strength and independence.
They’d follow him home like he was the Pied fucking Piper.
He’d be a liar if he said he didn’t do it for the sex. His craving for it was easily proved by the rotation of women in and out of his bed. But reading them right was what turned his crank. He loved puzzling out what made them blush, what got their pupils to dilate or their nipples pebbling underneath their shirts. Finding their quirks, then doing whatever it took to make them explode.
Jamie had gone off like a nuclear bomb.
Dean groaned, his dick already responding to the faintest hint of the memory. Hers was the first reaction he’d gotten hooked on. The first sights, sounds and smells of a woman’s pleasure that had turned him into a junkie for it.
The kink had served him well.
The problem was that each woman he brought home woke up the next morning wanting an all-access, unlimited pass to his apartment and a promise of commitment, which ended with him doing his best to let them down gently. It wasn’t that he didn’t care. He just knew the whole kids, dog and white picket fence thing wasn’t for him, so it was better to end things before they got attached.
Another reminder to get these thoughts about Jamie the hell out of his head.
Ten minutes later he arrived at the rundown building that housed Trescott Auto Body. Dean grimaced as he pulled into the lot. The whole exterior needed a paint job, and don’t even get him started on the roof. Fixing it wasn’t essential yet, and they had to cut as many corners as they could. It had been hard to stay afloat ever since the big chain stores moved in. Dean guessed that was why his dad had filled up the warehouse with so much crap—he wouldn’t let go of a single piece of
But it was past noon now. Time to get back to the grind.
Ignoring the other texts, he replied to Connor that he wasn’t going to make it and kicked his truck into gear. Disappointment had him obeying the speed limit for once, driving more slowly than he should have, considering the time.
The car show at the local harvest festival was like being at the Bunny Ranch, with so much beauty everywhere Dean never knew what to look at first. Car enthusiasts came from miles around, showing off the kinds of 1960s muscle cars that had always been his favorite. Their sleek lines and pure machine strength embodied a feeling of danger and rebellion unmatched by any other vehicle. Finding the source of that power was what captivated him the first time his dad popped a hood and showed him all the metal, tubes and wires inside.
Dean always hoped he’d have a car to bring there, one to sit proudly next to with a beer in his hand, but that future was getting more and more dim every day. He couldn’t even afford to get his own ride up to snuff. His ’71 Chevy C10 pick-up worked well enough, but it wasn’t anywhere near show condition. The bumpers needed some serious chrome, his engine wasn’t pretty and the truck box he’d needed to mount to the bed in order to lug supplies around for the business had scuffed the hell out of the railings. It was an A-to-B vehicle, not a trophy piece.
Skipping the fair was just as well.
He decided against his usual coffee, half because of how late he was and half to avoid an uncomfortable conversation with the chick he’d met there. One date and she already wanted more than he was willing to give, calling him baby, stroking his tattoos and asking where she could get one like it.
The ink was where it always started. Women were drawn to the bad boy image that being covered with tattoos symbolized. It was part of the reason he kept going under the needle for more.
The other part—well, they didn’t need to know about that.
His tats were personal reminders drawn into his skin, but Dean had woven a web of fiction around them, the kind of stories women liked to hear. Ones about power, strength and independence.
They’d follow him home like he was the Pied fucking Piper.
He’d be a liar if he said he didn’t do it for the sex. His craving for it was easily proved by the rotation of women in and out of his bed. But reading them right was what turned his crank. He loved puzzling out what made them blush, what got their pupils to dilate or their nipples pebbling underneath their shirts. Finding their quirks, then doing whatever it took to make them explode.
Jamie had gone off like a nuclear bomb.
Dean groaned, his dick already responding to the faintest hint of the memory. Hers was the first reaction he’d gotten hooked on. The first sights, sounds and smells of a woman’s pleasure that had turned him into a junkie for it.
The kink had served him well.
The problem was that each woman he brought home woke up the next morning wanting an all-access, unlimited pass to his apartment and a promise of commitment, which ended with him doing his best to let them down gently. It wasn’t that he didn’t care. He just knew the whole kids, dog and white picket fence thing wasn’t for him, so it was better to end things before they got attached.
Another reminder to get these thoughts about Jamie the hell out of his head.
Ten minutes later he arrived at the rundown building that housed Trescott Auto Body. Dean grimaced as he pulled into the lot. The whole exterior needed a paint job, and don’t even get him started on the roof. Fixing it wasn’t essential yet, and they had to cut as many corners as they could. It had been hard to stay afloat ever since the big chain stores moved in. Dean guessed that was why his dad had filled up the warehouse with so much crap—he wouldn’t let go of a single piece of
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