Born to Ride_A Clubhouse Collection

chapter 4 ~ Jade

This was the twenty first century. I wasn’t having some pigheaded alpha male—especially cavemen, like Ryder Knox—ordering me around. To be at his beck and call. To serve him as my master. Hell no. I was a modern woman. I had equal rights—same as any goddamn man.

Submission was not for me.

I was smart and I knew it. Not only because I’d finished school in the top one percent of the national scores. Not because I’d earned my law degree cum laude. No. Simply because my mom told me so—every day, since I’d been a little girl.

Mom told me to always be smart. To learn to take care of myself. To never be dependent on any other person, let alone a man. She insisted I saved twenty percent of my earnings every month, and that as soon as I had enough money saved, I learned how to invest it wisely into property and shares. I was a twenty-two year old woman with a kickass investment portfolio.

That way, I’d have way more options open to me. Options to choose where I wanted to work, who I worked for, and where I lived.

I’d also have other options—I could pick carefully who I married, and never be tied to a man because I needed him to take care of me. I’d be able to take care of myself. Always. Because often, after many years in a relationship, things went bad. And then the woman was usually tied to a man she resented, but had no way of escaping. Trapped.

No, my mom was wise. Sylvia Summers didn’t want for her only daughter what she’d seen so many of her friends, and their daughters, go through. And she maintained that her and my dad’s relationship was as great and as healthy as it was because she was financially independent. Dad knew from the get go that if he messed up, she could leave, because she had the means to look after herself. She didn’t need him financially. She was in the relationship because that’s where she chose to be. Fate did not control her future.

Smart woman. I wanted to be just like her.

It was also her idea that I worked for her brother, Uncle Eric, during my university years, so that I’d get a feel for the property market. That way, as my portfolio grew, I’d know how to manage it. So while most of my friends just lazed around the pool on hot summer days, I was working at Clarke and Sons Agency, learning the ropes and the ins and outs of the property market. I was far from being a property tycoon, but I was way ahead of other women my age, and damn proud of myself.

OK, there was one area they beat me at. I’d only ever had two boyfriends, and both of them complained that I studied too hard and wasn’t much fun to date. Especially since I wouldn’t even have sex with them on a regular basis.

I wasn’t a virgin, I’d tried it a few times in my late teens, and also with both boyfriends, but I really didn’t know what all the bother was about. It was messy, condoms were awkward, and afterward the guy would turn around and fall asleep, at the time when I wanted to cuddle, and told how special I was to him.

I’d discovered something that for me, was better than sex. During a winter vacation, a few years back, when we were snowed in and I was house-bound for several days, I found a few books on a shelf. That's when I found that book boyfriends were far superior to real boys. I didn’t have much time for boys and real sex after that.

When I didn’t have my nose in a book, studying, or wasn’t working on my computer checking the share prices, I was reading romance novels on my e-reader. On a Friday and Saturday evening, I’d rather read about sexy fictional men with square jaws, chiselled abs and rock hard chests than to actually have to interact with the male species, just to be disappointed by the whole experience. So I’d lose myself in as many books as I could devour when I had down time.

“Book nerd” was a title I wore proudly. It’s what Lexi, Uncle Eric’s daughter, called me when I refused to go partying with her until the early hours of the morning. It didn’t bother me one bit. Because I knew that the devastatingly handsome book heroes couldn’t break my heart. Every story ended with a happily ever after. What wasn’t to love about that?

Everyone who knew me well, teased me about being a hopeless romantic; the only times I ever really ugly cried, was while reading or during a sad movie. I didn’t do crying in real life.

Not anymore.

There really wasn’t much need for it; I lived a pretty charmed life. I had mostly everything I ever wanted. My parents were loving and wealthy, my home life was near perfect.

Besides, I’d done all the crying I had in me, enough for a lifetime. I’d been a mess for a year after The Incident—crying for weeks and months on end. Then finally, after nearly two years of therapy, the coping mechanisms I’d been taught to help me get on with my life, started working.


My tears dried up.

One day I stopped crying. Just like that, the taps closed. I’d used up my all my tears.

On a good day, I could block the memories completely. Sometimes I wouldn’t think of ‘it’ for weeks on end, carrying on with my life as if The Incident never happened. It was better for me, there was nothing I could do to change it, ever. So why linger on it?

I had to get on with my life.

For my family’s sake. But especially for my brother’s sake.

Harrison was still struggling to come to grips with what’d happened, even though ‘it’ occurred nearly ten years ago. That day had changed him forever—we lost not only our friends, but also the real Harrison.

Ten years later, the carefree, loving seventeen year old had turned into a bitter, angry—and overprotective—man. One who was set on revenge and righting the wrongs of the world.

I was luckier. Books and reading were my escape. A way to leave this world and engross myself in the lives of the heroes and heroines on the pages of a romance novel.

As long as it worked for me, I would keep on reading. My fantasies helped me cope with life.

I was truly blessed just to be alive.