Ok. I am just going to be totally honest here and let y’all know that this is my first BB Easton book. I’m a sucker for a good cover and BB’s books have covers that remind me of my old zine so…
This book isn’t for the easily triggered. There is vulgar language, rough sex, and violence. Sometimes seemingly simultaneously.
I’m not easily triggered.
I loved this book. It was gritty, honest, and to the point. Though I definitely was not having that kind of sex when I was 16! Seriously, you may want to wait til the kids go to bed to read this one, ladies!
While I’m sure reading the previous books would have been helpful on some level – I think this book could stand on its own. I appreciate that I wasn’t completely lost just jumping straight into speed.
Though I didn’t run around with skinheads or know many beautiful boys that wrenched on vintage cars I could relate to the character development in BB’s writing. I found myself thinking back on the way we dressed and the music we listened to and honestly, bb and i could have run in the same crowd or crossed paths at a show once upon a time!
This is a can’t put down sort of book and I enthusiastically give it 4/5 stars!
Win a copy here!
Or even better, show BB a little love and buy a copy (and her other books too!) at any of these places:
BB Easton lives in the suburbs of Atlanta, Georgia with her long-suffering husband, Ken, and two adorable children. She recently quit her job as a school psychologist to write stories about her punk rock past and deviant sexual history full-time. Ken is suuuper excited about it.
It was love at first sight. A late ‘60s Mustang fastback body style, matte black paint job, matte black rims, blacked out windows, and a massive open-air scoop on the hood. It looked like something straight out of Mad Max.
“Can I help you with somethin’?”
I turned and met the amused stare of a broad shouldered, baby-faced, blue-eyed mechanic. His dirty-blond hair was pushed back in a messy pompadour. His forearms were covered in hot rod tattoos. His pouty bottom lip was pierced. And his name was embroidered on the A&J Auto Body shirt hugging his hard chest.
“Sorry,” I sputtered. “I know I’m probably not supposed to be back here, but I…” I looked back up at the beast on the lift and a deep longing seized my chest. “I just can’t leave her.”
Harley—if that was even his real name—chuckled and said, “So, you like the ladies, huh?”
“What? No!” I snapped.
“Good.” The mechanic smiled, and the twinkle in his mischievous blue eyes reminded me just how much I liked boys.
Trying to bring the subject back to cars and away from my sexual orientation, I looked around the garage and pointed to my faded black hatchback on the farthest lift. “I drive the baby version of this.”
Harley glanced over at my most prized possession and nodded in approval. “Five-oh, huh? Not bad. Manual or automatic?”
“Manual,” I groaned.
“No shit? Your boyfriend teach you how to drive that thing?”
“No,” I said, letting my mouth hang open in pretend offense.
“Ah,” Harley nodded. “You met him after you got the car.”
“I don’t have a boyfriend,” I said, rolling my eyes. I had to bite the insides of my cheeks to keep from smiling. God, he was cute. The guy had a face like James Dean and a body like Dean Cain. And that accent. Living in the south, Southern accents are a dime a dozen, but Harley’s was just subtle enough to be cute. Cute, cute, cute.
Harley smirked at me and asked, “Your old man must be a car guy then, huh?”
“You got me,” I smiled. “I’ve been hoarding all his old Muscle Car magazines since I was a kid. I used to cut out all the Mustang pictures and tape them to my bedroom walls, but the tape fucked up the sheetrock so my mom bought one of those clear plastic shower curtains with the photo pockets and—”
Harley held up a hand to silence me. “I’m gonna have to stop you right there,” he beamed, “’cause right now all I can picture is you in the shower and I’m pretty sure I’m not gonna be able to process another word you say.”
Oh my God!
I could feel the prickly heat of a blush creeping up my neck. I bit the insides of my cheeks to keep my face from splitting open into a blotchy, big-toothed grin caused by his sexy little comment had caused. This guy, Harley, had to be in his early twenties, he was fiiiine as hell, and he was flirting with me.
Having no idea how to respond to that, I tried again to change the subject. “So, what do you drive?”
“Hmm…” Harley tilted his head and smirked. “Why don’t you take a guess?”
Oh, we’re playing games now. Okay…
I tapped my lips with my fingertips and eyed him, thinking hard.
“You strike me as a…Volkswagen Beetle kinda guy.”
Harley almost laughed, then quickly scowled, trying to look offended.
“No? Oh, I got it. PT Cruiser.”
Harley pursed his ample lips, fighting back a grin.
That one had him wrinkling his nose in genuine horror.
“Oh, I know—it’s a trick question! You drive a Vespa!”
I was running out of ideas, so I looked around the shop and spotted a ‘64 Impala lowrider. “Ooh! I found it. Right there,” I said, pointing to the hoopty. “The gold rims were a nice touch. I bet you even put hydraulics on it, didn’t you?”
Harley finally let out the laugh he’d been biting back. It was deep and raspy and made my insides tingle. “You’re getting warmer,” he said. “It’s actually on hydraulics right now.” Harley lifted an oil-smudged finger and pointed to the matte black sex machine above my head.