Ruled: New for 2018! A hot bad boy biker romance story that breaks all the rules. Perfect for fans of Darker!
Vik groans. Brother’s a fucking drama queen. “I could have taken that dragon in the first twenty seconds.”
As the dragon collapses in mock death on the crap lawn, Princess whirls, declaiming something that wins applause from her host of mini-me’s. I can’t see her face, which is a pity, because her back’s damn spectacular. Soft, honey-colored curls are piled up on top of her head, kinda pinned in place by the tiara, and the dress dips all the way to her ass, the straight line of her spine a lick-me-here-big-boy invitation I’d like to take her up on. As I watch, some of those curls go AWOL, bouncing around her face and down her neck. I want to take her apart, undoing first her hair and then her dress. Wouldn’t stop either until I had her screaming my name as she came undone in my arms.
“Showgirl?” Vik’s mutter interrupts the unwelcome fantasy. Daydreaming on the job is a rookie mistake. We’ve seen some crazy shit in our day, but this is unfamiliar territory. Since Princess doesn’t show so much as an inch of tit and the dress drags on the dead grass rather than stopping two inches short of her ass, I’m certain she isn’t working a Vegas show on the Strip. Her audience is our second clue. Third clue? The enormous pink-and-purple inflatable castle poking up over the roof of the house from the backyard and the equally outsized sheet cake with a number 5 candle poking out of the center. We’ve crashed a birthday party.
“You sure we got the right address?” GPS isn’t a magic bullet and maybe we aren’t parked in front of Eve Kent’s workplace.
Vik leans back on his bike, folding his arms across his chest as he surveys the front lawn. A happy grin lights up his face, because he’s definitely enjoying the show and most of the audience is female because hello...birthday party for kids. Vik likes women. Women like him. It all works out, usually with Vik naked, in bed, and banging his newest acquaintance. He may be the vice president of the Hard Rider motorcycle club, but you can bet every one of us gives him shit about the mileage on his dick. “Let’s go introduce ourselves.”
Vik also subscribes to the act first, think later school of thought. Probably explains why our prez put me in charge of this particular mission. If it involves pussy, Vik’s gonna want to make a detour before he gets down to business. While he checks out the women on the lawn, I check my phone and confirm we’re hitting the right party.
“We can’t just go in there and make demands.” I do a quick headcount and arrive at fifteen possible adult witnesses in addition to the dragon and the screaming, frosting-smeared horde. Never mind that we’re not doing anything illegal—yet.
We’re assholes, but we’re not criminals. Being a biker isn’t a crime, even if the boys in blue sometimes act as if it is. There’s no free pass—you earn your place in the Hard Riders MC. To ride with the Hard Riders, you have to be ex-military. Most of us are SEALs or Spec Ops, but we got a few exceptions. We ride in East Las Vegas, but the Vegas area is home to multiple MCs and tensions run high. The steady flow of drugs controlled by Los Angeles–based gangs like the Hells Angels, Mongols, Crips and the Vagos add to the tension. Too many fighters, too little turf. That’s a bad fucking recipe right there, and the Black Dogs MC recently made it their personal mission to be a pain in our ass.
Sin City is the country’s playground, but almost two million people also live and work here, just trying to make a decent life for their kids and that’s a goddamned right, to my mind. Forty thousand decent, hardworking people in East Las Vegas and almost seven square miles of streets of working-class apartment complexes, bars, liquor stores, check-cashing businesses and single-story adobe ranches with palm trees in the front yards and fucking geraniums in pots. You don’t get much more American than that.
We get plenty of people from Nellis Air Force Base, too, people who have either come to serve or to support a loved one who was serving. The Hard Riders MC is behind that shit. Makes our neighbors honorary brothers and so we watch their backs since we’ve served, too. We’re more sinner than saint, but our territory is as free as we can make it from the drugs and violence that plague the rest of Las Vegas.
You prospect and then you patch in and get your colors. Get club ink, too. Our club president likes to call that our bar code—Vik jokes it’s our expiration date. You remain in the club until the day you die, and if you screw up, the club cleans up the mess. Locals respect our vests and the club patch. When they see that MC cut, they know we mean business, and they usually get the hell out of our way. You don’t disrespect us.
Unless you’re Rocker Kent, Eve Kent’s baby brother, who rides with the Black Dogs and who’s recently decided he and his crew should run illegal street guns through Hard Riders territory. He’s the reason we are here. Idiot compounded that brilliant plan by networking with the Colombian drug cartels (he’s had a busy fucking month), and that’s trouble the Hard Riders plan to shut down if we can run him to ground long enough to talk. We’re mature like that—gonna start with words and then work up to fists. Practically deserve the key to the city for that restraint, but we may have to make do with Eve. Word on the street is that her brother checks up on her regularly.
She’d make one hell of a hostage.
“You really think she knows where Rocker’s at?”
Vik swings off his bike and leans against it. “Give it a minute and we’ll ask. The show’s winding down.”
While the knee-high crowd stampedes into the house after the lady carrying the cake, I keep my eyes peeled for Rocker. He’s shown up at three of his sister’s last four gigs according to a girl who works for her. Usually slinks in quietly because apparently Eve has a no-bikes rule—something about us big, bad biker types scares her mom crowd. If I can catch him now, it will solve all sorts of problems. Of course, since the girl in question provided this information after Vik banged her silly, she may have been just babbling shit. All that mileage on his dick? Plenty of it is repeat business from happy customers.
My phone buzzes, distracting me from the rapidly emptying front yard.
How’s the party?
Fucker.
“Sachs is checking in.”
Vik nods, his eyes are glued to a mom in a pair of pink sweats, a white tank and flip-flops. She looks curvy and sweeter than the cake her kid is mainlining as they disappear into the house—and Vik has always had a sweet tooth. Momma better watch out, or he’ll take a bite out of her.
What’s up?
Shrieks sound from the backyard, the purple castle rocketing back and forth like it’s about to take off. Princess and the dragon disappear inside. I’m getting impatient when Sachs finally texts back.
Had another drive-by. Heading over to check it out. Save me a cupcake.
Ever since the Black Dogs MC hopped into bed with the Colombians, our streets have been heating up. This is the second drive-by in as many weeks, and it’s two too many. This shit ends now, and the best way to accomplish that is through Rocker. I don’t care if he tenders his resignation to his drug-dealing buddies, or if they take it out of his ass in trade, but he runs no more drugs or guns in Hard Rider territory. It’s gonna take the entire club to bring him down without escalating shit to a full-blown war, though—and Sachs has a hair-trigger temper. He’s more likely to Rambo his way inside the other clubhouse and do his discussing with his fists.
I text him back.
Wait for backup.
Sachs’s only response is a kissy-face emoticon. Someday, his lack of caution is going to bite him on the ass.
“Time to get serious.” I throw a leg over my bike. “Take one for the club.”
Vik grunts and motions me forward. I may be joking about the kiddo’s party, but we both know I’d lay everything on the line for the club. So would Vik. That’s how we roll—the club and our brothers come first.
When I stride up the walk, what’s left of the peanut gallery hanging over the fence turns to stare, because six feet of former SEAL in motorcycle boots and a club vest makes an impression. Fuck them. I don’t try to hide what I am. I’m the MC’s muscle. I make some stuff happen—and I make other stuff go away. Whatever my club prez needs, I do—and right now he needs Rocker’s buy-in on getting the hell out of our territory and the drug trade.
Since staking out a birthday party for kiddies isn’t getting me any closer to this goal, I need to find another way to get to Rocker. I do another quick survey of the house, but there’s still no sign of that asshole, and I don’t have his number. But I bet Evie knows how to call her brother—and I bet I can motivate her to share. I’m fucking awesome at motivating.
And today’s my lucky day because turns out that I don’t even have to go in after her. She pops out of the house alone and heads for the pink monstrosity parked by the curb, juggling a plate of cake in flapping plastic wrap. She looks like Christmas and the fucking Tooth Fairy rolled into one, with a dash of Tinkerbell and porn star. Okay. That last bit may be pure fantasy on my part, because she looks as sweet as Vik’s MILF in that fluffy-ass get-up. Unless my luck has changed, she’s not hiding a dirty girl underneath all that sparkle. I change course and wait on the other side of the pink RV for her.
Chapter Three
Eve
“GOING SOMEWHERE, SUNSHINE?” The deep voice comes out of nowhere and I whirl. Off balance, I promptly trip on my dress and head for the pavement.
An arm fastens around my waist, rescuing me from my imminent face-plant. The plate of cake is plucked from my hands and set down by my feet. Huh. The arm tightens briefly as we dip and it’s a big, hard, tattooed, scary-as-shit arm, although the tattoo actually isn’t bad. Bold black ink covers the skin between his sleeve and his wrist... Is that a dragon? The animal looks almost Viking. Or as if the beast is seriously contemplating eating anyone who gets too close. If I need to file a police report, I have plenty to say when they ask about distinguishing marks.
The arm’s owner is sun-bronzed, and when I inhale, I breathe in leather, oil and something else. That something else spells trouble because the scent is hot and male. What my head can’t describe, my body recognizes, my libido perking up and demanding we revert to our former bad girl ways. Immediately. My princess costume works better than a chastity belt thanks to all that material, so it’s difficult to fully appreciate the hard male body pressed up against my butt, but I make an effort.
Maybe I’m hallucinating because men like this don’t exist.
I pinch his arm hard.
“The fuck?” Those two offended words rumble in my ear. I guess he’s real after all. He sets me carefully back on my feet and backs up, giving me twelve inches of space. Maybe a whole eighteen. And I mean the distance between us, not anything else, because...
This man is a whole lot of wow. I brace myself against the side of the RV. Knees don’t fail me now.
His face is way better than his arm. He’s a big guy, tall and broad-shouldered, traits that tick all the best boxes on my sexual wish list. He’s also more rough than good-looking, with short, dark hair and a cold, watchful expression that never leaves his face as he takes in the happenings on the lawn. Almost military, except that the local air force base would never let this bad boy in. He wears a leather vest covered with patches, a dark T-shirt and jeans that are white around the seams. Despite the full-sleeve tattoo on both arms, I spot no visible piercings, but trust me—he doesn’t need the metal to shout trouble.
He braces an arm on either side of my head. Despite his not actually touching me, it suddenly feels like we’re naked and he’s got his dick inside me. Under other circumstances, I might not mind. Since keeping up appearances in front of my paying public matters, I reach out and give his chest a discreet shove. We have an entire RV between us and any party guests, but I shouldn’t take chances.
He doesn’t budge. “I need to reach your brother, princess.”
There are so many different ways to define reach. Still, however you define it, he’s not here for me. I know I shouldn’t be disappointed about that, but I am.
“You’re a friend of Rocker’s?”
His face gives nothing away. “We’ve got business.”
I treat myself to a second glance at his leathers, the faded T-shirt that hugs a muscled chest and the boots. God. The boots. You know how some boots are made for dancing? These boots are made for pain, for kicking ass and for getting a point across one steel-toed tip at a time. And just in case there’s any question at all about where this man falls on the naughty or nice side of things, he rocks a leather vest with a club patch on it. Whatever Rocker’s done this time, he’s in deep. Pulling him out is going to be a bitch.
Ergo, despite my pressing need to get him away from Perfectly Princess Parties’s current place of business, I stall. Big-time. “I don’t even know your name.”
“Rev. You tell him Rev is looking for him.”
I’m pretty sure my mouth hangs open for a minute, because Rev looks amused. What kind of a name is that?
Since that’s not the kind of thing you ask a man, I go for the obvious. “Why?”
“Club business,” he says tightly.
In other words? Penis business. Also known as none of my business. I love my brother, but he has his head up his ass about things like sticking on the right side of the law and boy things versus girl things. When I try to duck under Rev’s arm, the man moves effortlessly with me. Shit. Pretty soon, we’ll start attracting attention.
“If I let him know you’re looking, you’ll leave?” Giving Rocker a heads-up that trouble is knocking on his door seems like my best two-for-one solution at the moment, so when Rev nods, I fish inside the bodice of my dress. I also do my best to ignore the slow grin spreading across Rev’s face as I retrieve my phone from its hiding place. What is it about men and boobs? He doesn’t back off and give me any space either, which makes dialing awkward.
“What’s up?” Miracle of miracles, Rocker actually answers his phone on the second ring.
“I have a friend of yours here who wants your number,” I say carefully. Pretty sure this is the trouble he mentioned back at the lake.
“Sure.” There’s enough background noise for me to be almost certain Rocker’s parked at a bar somewhere.
“He says his name is Rev.”
As my brother silently digests that revelation, Rev moves closer still and traces a finger over my ear. He smells good, although I wish I didn’t have a secret thing for leather and man. Plus, he has no business touching me. I shake my head as if he’s some kind of annoying gnat, but he just drops his fingers to my jaw and then plays with my hair as if I’m his own personal toy. Big fingers carefully untangle a snarl and smooth the strands down. I slap at his fingers with my free hand and he grins.
Rocker promptly proves that his brotherly radar still works fine. “He right there?”
“Couldn’t get much closer,” I tell him.
“Rev’s not a nice guy,” he says slowly. “And I don’t want him around you.”
News flash—I’ve already determined the not nice part for myself. In fact, it’s probably twelve inches long and located directly behind the zipper of his jeans. I look him up and down, or as much as I can since the man still has me pinned up against the RV. Somehow, I can’t work up any indignation. Later, I’ll regret letting him walk all over me in public view, but right now I’m enjoying the feel of his big, muscled body touching mine. It’s been way too long since I had someone just hold me.
I focus on breathing in, hold for a count of three, and then out, because maybe then I won’t say something I shouldn’t. “Good to know, but I think he still wants to talk to you.”
“He absolutely does, princess.” Rev plucks the phone out of my hand. While I’m trying to figure out how I feel about that, he and Rocker go back and forth on a possible get together. Rev doesn’t stop staring at me, either, one hand braced by my face and the other wrapped around my phone. The man’s a talented multitasker, because his fingers keep grazing my cheek, sending little skitters down my spine.
Why am I standing here letting him take charge? Because you like it, my bad voice whispers (or shrieks gleefully in my head). Damn. It. I reach for his wrist as he signs off the call. I still can’t tell if he and Rocker are friends, if Rocker owes him money (which would be a bad idea), or if there’s something else entirely between them (which would be even worse). But there’s something. There’s definitely something.
“Return my phone.”
His face doesn’t reveal a flicker of emotion. Bet he could make a killing playing poker on the Strip. “This isn’t a democracy. You got a pen hiding in that dress, sunshine?”
His gaze flicks over me. Maybe he’s looking for said pen—or maybe he just likes looking...at me. Shit. The hard-eyed steely-stare thing he’s got going on is not supposed to be a turn-on. My inner bad girl, however, won’t be shut down without a fight. She thinks we should jump him. Right here on the sunburned, stabby lawn works for that hussy. I opt for going on the defensive.
“Don’t call me sunshine.”
He shrugs. “You’re the one in the big yellow dress.”
“Occupational hazard.” I yank a business card out of my cleavage and slap it in his empty palm. The move may not be the classiest, but the look on his face is worth it. Naturally, birthday parties for the two-to five-year-old crowd are not his territory. He’s undoubtedly more into murder and mayhem.
“You want a princess to grace your next party? I make it happen. Forty dresses that drip sparkles, fairy wings, tiaras and enough faux glass slippers to shoe an entire beauty pageant—we’ll have a real good time. I promise.”
He makes a rough sound. Can’t tell if he’s laughing at me or if I’ve actually managed to shock the big, bad biker. “Since when do princesses have wings?”
Clearly, he has limited knowledge of five-year-old girls.
“All the best princesses can fly,” I inform him. Unlike him, I have extensive knowledge of five-year-old girls, and their preference for fairy princesses have been made abundantly clear to me. Ergo, I’ve responded to my market demands (and hey, I like wings and sparkles, too).
This time, he definitely snorts. “Why don’t you fly your ass on inside that RV and grab a pen?”
I don’t have to think about that “request” too hard. The man needs to work on his manners.
I don’t budge. “Rocker’s not your number-one fan.”
He grunts and returns his gaze to my phone. “He wants you safe. You should listen to him.”
“You should know something about me,” I tell him.
“What’s that, Evie?”
“I’m not big on orders.”
He actually winks at me. “Bet you’d feel differently in bed.”
I really shouldn’t hit him, not when there’s a birthday party happening in the backyard behind us, but the urge is almost overwhelming. This man has no filter. “Do you have any idea how insulting you are?”
He shrugs and texts something from my phone, before looking me in the eye. God, the man might be filterless, but he does have gorgeous eyes. “Put my number in your contacts.”
Um. Okay. And perhaps hell will freeze over despite the record hundred-and-something-degrees Vegas weather. I reach for my phone, but he holds it just out of reach. “If I change my position on order-taking, I’ll be sure to give you a call.”
“Thought maybe we could get together sometime,” he says.
Didn’t see that one coming.
“You want to go out on a date with me?”
“It’s a free country—you don’t have to say yes. Thought you might like a ride on my bike or a drink.”
He wants to give. Me. A ride. My brain stutters. The bike parked by the curb is a big, death-defying, powerful menace. Black leather saddlebags hang off the side that I’d bet my sheet cake he doesn’t use to transport groceries or crap from a Target run. Riding anywhere with a strange man would be crazy.
He has a friend with him, too, another man I’ve never met before. When I peer over Rev’s shoulders a little myopically (the best princesses don’t pair glasses with fairy wings and this particular princess has run out of disposable contacts), the guy offers me a slow grin and a little waggle of his fingers. He certainly makes pretty eye candy, but I prefer Mr. Tall, Dark and Grumpy.
I narrow my eyes at him. “It’s the dress, isn’t it?”
He doesn’t bother to hide his amusement. “You think I’ve got a thing for sparkly shit?”
There isn’t a man alive who looks rougher and fiercer than Rev. I’m trying to figure out a polite way to tell him so when he tucks the phone back inside my dress before I can so much as squeak out a protest. The backs of his fingers brush against the top of my boobs, issuing an invitation of their own.
I have to be more cautious. From the rising volume of the squeals emanating from the backyard, cake consumption has concluded and the party will be wrapping up as the sugar highs hit, the early departers fleeing past my RV parked out front. Spotting the princess in an R-rated embrace with a biker would be bad for my business. You can’t be a dirty girl and host children’s birthday parties for a living. The moms will kill you. Fortunately, the moms aren’t mind readers. I’m only a party-perfect princess on the outside. Riding anywhere with Rev would be career suicide.
My bad voice promptly weighs in. But only if you get caught.
“I don’t do bikers.”
Something flashes across Rev’s face. “You don’t get hurt on my watch. I promise.”
“You’re not an ax murderer?”
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the wallet attached to his belt by a silver chain. Silently, he flips it open and holds it out so I can read his driver’s license. There’s a military ID underneath it, too, the kind of card that gets you into Nellis Air Force Base.
“Your name isn’t Rev.” According to the State of Nevada’s laminated plastic, he’s one Jaxon Brady.
“Road name,” he says tersely.
I examine the license again. He’s also turning thirty-three in four weeks. I bet he won’t be booking a celebratory princess party.
“Wow.” I hand back his wallet. “Former navy?”
He nods, as if it’s no big deal. “SEAL. You’d be safe with me.”
He’s not big on talking. Or negotiating, asking, or sweet-talking. I’ve always trusted my instincts, though, and right now they’re on board with Rev Brady. Completely, totally, 100 percent in favor of getting on this man’s bike and riding off with him. Somewhere. Wherever he wants to go. He’s big and strong and tempting. He’s fought for our country and kept everyone safe.
How bad can he be?
The little voice in my head pipes right up. How bad do you want him to be?
That voice needs a gag.
“Think about it,” he says and then he turns and saunters toward his bike. I stand there, watching his ass the whole way, and wondering why I don’t mind his attitude. He’s scary as shit. He’s not Mr. White Picket Fence and he’s not promising happily ever after, but the man has a fantastic butt and I’m lonely. That’s all it is. I need to get out more, need to make a point of seeing someone.
Someone else.
Anyone else.
There are absolutely, positively no bikers anywhere in my future.
Chapter Four
Eve
THE CARNIVAL MUSIC vibrates through every inch of my body, and I lose myself in the beat. I love everything about hitting the Strip, from getting dolled up to the pulse-pounding, searing rhythm of the clubs. Everybody’s equal on the dance floor, all part of the same moving, gyrating body. On the Strip, you end up packed too close to even tell who can dance and who’s merely enthusiastic. It’s exactly what I need, my happy place where I can let go and all that matters is finding my next breath and the rhythm.
Unlike my day-job wear, my dress tonight barely skims my butt. Sequins cover the short pink tank dress and whenever the lights hit me, I light the place up. Over the top? Check. Girly as hell? Check, check. The first stop on tonight’s girls’ night out is Circus Circus and Samantha and I have already hit the Midway and gone two rounds on the roller coaster. I’m barefoot because I kicked off my shoes as soon as we scored a table, and right now it’s officially fun time. And while I usually keep busy, busy, busy, it feels good to have some time off. Tonight I can let go and enjoy life. Tomorrow is soon enough to worry about the bills, the taxes and the fourteen hundred other items on my to-do list.