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  Choose Me

  Book One of the Banger Trilogy

  By Donya Lynne

  Choose Me©

  Banger Trilogy

  Copyright 2016 Donya Lynne

  ISBN: 978-1-938991-38-7

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment and may not be resold or distributed without the author’s express consent. Contact the author at [email protected].

  References to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, persons, or locales, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Licensed material is being used for illustrative purposes only and any person depicted in the licensed material is a model.

  Contents

  Author Note

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Did You Enjoy the Book?

  Excerpt from Covet Me

  Books By Donya Lynne

  About the Author

  Connect With Donya

  Author Note

  The Banger Trilogy is a rebrand of my former work published as the seven-book Banger Serialized Novel under the pen name Dick Hertz. If you've read those books, this is the same story, just with a new look.

  There are several reasons I decided to rebrand this series as a trilogy, but it boils down to the fact that in today's publishing environment, authors experiment with new ideas. Some work, some don't. This was a case where the story itself was a success, but the experiment of how I branded it wasn’t, for reasons that were both out of my control and within it.

  A word about the story itself:

  The Banger Trilogy is a funny, sexy, twisting (and often blisteringly hot) tale filled with startling family secrets, jaw-dropping surprises, and one or two shocking revelations. There are cheating exes, emotional turmoil, and hard decisions to be made if a happy ending is in the cards for our hero and heroine.

  I also wanted to turn the “big dick” trope on its head with the Banger Series. In romance books, we find a lot of heroes who are endowed with massive members, yet their “virginal” heroines can still manage to enjoy (often with multiple orgasms) those super shlongs the first time they have sex. Let's face it, real life doesn’t work that way. In real life, big dicks hurt, and a virginal maiden is more likely to be glad the ordeal is over than thrilled with all the orgasms she had. So I wanted to explore the concept of a big dick as a detriment, not a gift from God to make women swoon with arousal. In the Banger Trilogy, you’ll find a bit of comedy in the results of my big-dick turnabout, as well as some emotional mayhem.

  Another literary device I wanted to play with in the Banger books was something called “Easter eggs,” which are subtle (and sometimes not-so-subtle) references made to other works, usually another book. But the reference can also be to a movie or song. Easter eggs are popular literary devices used more often than you might think, and they do not infringe on copyrights or licenses. I won't reveal the two popular romance stories I Easter egged in the Banger Trilogy, but readers of romance shouldn't have any trouble identifying them. And once you do, have as much fun finding all the Easter eggs as I did hiding them. Trust me, there are some you’re going to have to look for.

  I hope you enjoy the new Banger rebrand. I’ve learned my lesson. From now on, I’ll stick to what I do best. No more experimenting for me.

  Thank you for reading,

  Donya

  Banger

  An unconventional love story for an unconventional couple.

  The average human male penis reaches its mature size by the age of seventeen and has an average erect length of 5.1 inches and an average erect circumference of 4.8 inches.

  This is the story of an above-average man.

  A very above-average man . . .

  . . . and the above-average woman who will change his life.

  Chapter 1

  Friday, April 7

  Greyson

  “Who jumps out of a perfectly good airplane?”

  I turn from the window to glance at the thirtysomething brunette sitting beside me. She appears nervous, so I smile. My father always told me that smiles calm people down, and she looks like she needs a heavy dose of calm.

  I lean toward her. “Apparently, we do.” I have to shout to be heard over the plane’s engines. “First time?”

  She laughs nervously and nods. “First time solo. I’ve tandem jumped, though.”

  She’s a local, and she has a strong accent. After two weeks in New Zealand, I’m starting to get used to it.

  “Ah, so you’re a solo virgin.” I lift my chin and pop my eyebrows, remembering she was one of the few who raised their hands back at the base when the instructors asked who the first-timers were.

  She sputters out a crisp laugh. “Yeah, that’s me, a solo virgin.” She presses her lips into a tight line then asks, “How many solo jumps have you done?” It’s obvious she’s trying to distract herself with small talk.

  “This makes twenty-nine for me.”

  Her eyes bulge. “Shit, mate, that’s a lot.”

  I shrug indifferently. “I’ve been skydiving for eighteen years.”

  “Does it get any easier?”

  “Not really.” A person might get used to the nervous buildup and even come to appreciate the experience, but jumping out of a plane never gets easier. “Do it enough, though, and you might get addicted to the rush.” That’s certainly the truth for me.

  She offers a polite, resigned smile, and I gaze back out the window.

  We’re at fifteen thousand feet. Noah Logan, our Lake Taupo Skydiving instructor, told the group in our preflight briefing that the brain stops processing distance at two thousand feet, which is less than half a mile. At fifteen thousand feet, we’re almost three miles up. I squint at the ground. Does my brain really not comprehend how much farther that is than two thousand feet?

  The propeller plane is loud enough to drown out the nervous laughter of those on board, some first-timers, most not. But everyone has tandem jumped. However, jumping solo versus jumping tandem is a whole different beast. When you’re solo, it’s all on you. There’s no one else to blame if you fuck up.

  And if you fuck up at this distance, whether it looks like two thousand feet or fifteen thousand, it won’t matter. You’ll be nothing but a red splat on the grass.

  Danger aside, nothing beats the tingling, electrifying adrenaline rush of freefalling at 125 miles per hour. Nothing except for maybe scorching hot sex.

  But I wouldn’t know about that. I can’t honestly say I’ve ever experienced scorching hot sex. I can’t even say I’ve had boiling hot sex or even just hot sex. When you’re equipped with an erect dick that’s the equivalent of a baby elephant’s trunk, it limits what you can do in the bedroom. Hell, it limits not just what you can do, but who you can do, and how hard you can do it to them.

  So, yeah, whoever said bigger is better can suck my dick.

  That is, if they can get it inside their mouth.

  And if they can, praise Jesus, because then I might actually get to have some fun with something other than my hand.

  The brunette is nervously twisting her fingers together.

  I lean into her, brushing her arm with mine. “You’ll be fine.” I give her a reassuring wink.

  A fragile, slightly terrified laugh breaks from her throat before she drops her gaze to her knotted hands in her lap. “I don’t know if I can do
this.”

  I lay my hand over both of hers, gently squeezing. “Sure you can. Just think that you’re tandem jumping.”

  This time, her laugh is more caustic. “But with tandem jumping, someone else is doing the actual jumping. I’m just along for the ride.”

  “Touché.” I pull my hand away. “But hey, once you get through the actual jump, it’s all pretty much the same. You just have to remember to pull your rip cord. Other than that, enjoy the view.” I flash her another warm smile, trying to help her through her fear. She looks so vulnerable, as if she doesn’t want to let herself down. As if there is some deeper purpose to her insane desire to leap into thin air and plummet thousands of feet to the ground.

  I shift in my seat and inch closer to her, leaning my head toward hers, which is about all I can do given how strapped in I am. I gently nudge her shoulder with mine and wait half a beat for her to look at me. “Do you mind me asking why you’re doing this if it scares you so much?”

  People do things for all sorts of reasons, and, call it a hunch, but I’m starting to sense she’s got a personal agenda behind being here today. Maybe if I can get her thinking about why she’s doing this, she’ll find the courage to see it through.

  Her face falls as her shoulders droop. She briefly closes her eyes and expels a heavy sigh. “I got divorced last year.” She says it like this is her reason for everything, not just the jump.

  I immediately think of my father and stiffen. “I see.”

  “My ex said I didn’t excite him anymore. That I was boring.” Her expression flattens. “I’m the same person he married four years ago, but now I’m boring. Can you believe that?”

  I offer a weak smile. I barely know her, but any woman who jumps out of an airplane is anything but boring. “You’re going a long way to prove a point, don’t you think?” It’s an attempt at humor, and I hope she sees it that way.

  She utters a short, bitter laugh. “Yeah, well, I’ve got a long way to go to prove to myself that I’m not what he says I am.”

  “Why?”

  “Because . . .” A shamed, hurt expression takes over her face. It’s the same look everyone who’s been cheated on wears at some point.

  I rear back, my adrenaline spiking for a whole other reason that has nothing to do with jumping out of an airplane. “He didn’t . . .? Did he . . .?” I can’t even think the end of my question let alone say it.

  She briefly closes her eyes, as if a great weight she’s been carrying far too long has grown even heavier, and then her gaze slides to mine as she nods. “He did.”

  I swallow thickly, turn toward the window, and then clear my throat as I look down at my hands. They’ve curled into fists in my lap. “I’m sorry that happened to you.”

  “It’s okay, I’ll get over—”

  “No, it’s not okay.” I lock gazes with her again. “Cheating is never okay.”

  The chivalrous knight residing inside my soul wants nothing more than to take this woman back to my hotel room and make love to her until she can no longer distinguish night from day. Until she can’t fathom what she ever saw in her lousy ex. But I’m not that cruel. The last thing she needs is my mammoth dick scarring her for life when she’s already in such a fragile state. And the last thing I need is another blow to my ego.

  She sheepishly tilts her head to one side. “Pathetic, isn’t it? Thinking I could jump out of a plane and make all my problems disappear?”

  “It’s not pathetic at all.” I take her hand and squeeze. “You’re daring to change your life’s course midstream. That’s incredibly courageous. Most people would give up.” I think of my father again. “They’d sink into depression and suffer, maybe even for the rest of their lives.” I force myself to brighten and push thoughts of my father aside. “But you . . .” My gaze dances over her face. “Look at you. You’re daring to be something else. You’re daring to defy your past and your ex-husband by going out and doing something completely new. Something totally insane. Something interesting.” I give her a wink. “Something like jumping out of a perfectly good airplane.”

  She lets out a brittle but modest laugh, her lashes fluttering. “You really think so?”

  “Hell yeah. That’s gutsy. That’s exciting. Not even in the same zip code as boring.” This time her laugh is more honest and refreshing. “At the end of the day, the only person you have to face in the mirror is you, and all it takes is one step in a new direction to begin a journey toward new discoveries about yourself.”

  Hope glitters in her green eyes as she nods more enthusiastically and tightens her fingers around mine. “You have no idea how badly I needed to hear that. Thank you.” She takes a deep breath and sits a little straighter, her shoulders back. “I needed to be reminded of why I’m doing this.”

  “Glad I could help . . .” I leave the sentence suspended in the way people do when they’re looking for a name.

  She tips her head to the side in acknowledgement. “Gail. My name’s Gail.” Her gaze darts to mine then coquettishly looks away.

  “Nice to meet you, Gail. I’m Greyson.”

  If only I weren’t such a nice guy, I could take her back to the Hilton for a quiet dinner . . . and then a nightcap in my room . . . and then I could leave New Zealand tomorrow morning with a big fat smile on my face. But, like I said, I’m not that cruel.

  As the instructors tell us to get ready, I glance toward the front of the plane then back at her. “So, are you ready to do this?”

  She lets out a shaky exhale but nods. “Yeah, I think so. Thanks to you.”

  Gail is still holding my hand, and she’s got a death grip on it, but she no longer looks scared. Anxious and nervous, but not scared. More like she’s ready to do this so she can start the new journey she’s decided to embark on and see where it leads.

  We’re approaching the drop zone and everyone’s adrenaline is pushing toward overflowing. One guy a few seats up from me throws up inside an airsickness bag. A woman in the front of the plane is laughing almost hysterically, her nerves finding an outlet in her laughter. Even I feel the anxious surge of chemicals in my blood.

  No one is immune to the rush. I’ve made more jumps than anyone else on the plane—except for maybe Noah and the other instructors—and I still get caught up with adrenaline like everyone else.

  Inherent danger keeps even the most seasoned jumper frosty. Every jump could be your last. Every trip from plane to earth could end in disaster. Until your feet hit the ground and your jump is safely over, anything can happen.

  But that’s why I do this. I’ve got to get my kicks somewhere.

  We’re over the drop zone, and Gail and I are moving forward in line as those in front of us fall away from the plane.

  The line moves quickly, and before I know it, it’s our turn.

  Gail goes first.

  “Go get ’em, tiger,” I say.

  She smiles, gives me a thumbs-up, closes her eyes as if she’s saying a quick prayer, and then lets out a startled scream followed by quickly fading manic laughter as gravity pulls her away from the plane.

  My turn.

  I crouch, lean forward, and gravity, along with the vacuum-like pull of air, does the rest.

  I’m bathed in the dusky light of the late afternoon sun as I freefall toward the ground.

  Euphoria explodes throughout my body as the adrenaline dumps by the bucketful into my blood. This is porn for adrenaline junkies, and I’m riding the mental hard-on like John Holmes.

  I vaguely and irrationally wonder if the brain stops registering dick size at two-thousand feet, too.

  _________

  After returning to the five-star Hilton, I shower and pack for tomorrow morning’s flight then head down to the bar for one last nightcap. The lounge is all mahogany and dim lighting, with brown leather seating in front of the fireplace. A cozy fire flickers behind the glass grate.

  I’m still high on adrenaline and not looking forward to the long flight home. Hopefully I can sleep through so
me of it. That’ll make it go faster.

  Adjusting to the time difference is going to be a bitch once I get back to Denver. It’s currently five in the morning there. As in, five o’clock this morning. In a few hours, it will be Saturday in New Zealand. It won’t be Saturday in Denver for sixteen hours.

  “Good evening, Mr. James,” purrs the pretty blond behind the bar as I take my seat at the end the way I’ve done every night for the past two weeks, at least on the nights I was here and not camping in the wilderness.

  “Good evening, Rhian.” She’s worked all but one night I’ve been here. “You look like you got some sun.” The apples of her cheeks are pink, her skin rosier.

  “I did.” Her eyes sparkle as if she’s happy I noticed. “Armagnac?” Rhian lifts the circular-shaped bottle and twists off the cap.

  “Yes, please.”

  She places a snifter in front of me and pours a portion of the honey-brown liquid into it. “Is this your last night in New Zealand?”

  “That’s right.” I lift the snifter and swirl the liquid before taking a sip.

  “That’s too bad.” She pouts flirtatiously. “You’re leaving just when we’re getting to know one another.”

  I love the New Zealand accent. I especially like Rhian’s. She’s a lovely woman. Even prettier than Gail, my seat mate on the plane. Younger, perhaps twenty-five, with hair so blond it’s platinum, high cheekbones, and a pale-pink, heart-shaped mouth. Tonight, her hair is pulled back in a ponytail that extends to the small of her back and swishes side to side as she strolls away from me to wait on another customer.

  I’d love to pull that ponytail while I fuck her. Just grab it and wrap it around my fist and crank her head back as I impale myself on her.

  Jesus, can I even go ten minutes without thinking about sex?

  An article in this month’s Men’s Health said that, contrary to what people have been saying for decades about men thinking about sex once every seven seconds, men only think about sex an average of thirty-four times a day, which is less than twice an hour.