by Hazel Parker
Lust Hard © 2019 Hazel Parker
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This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Lust Hard
So many reasons I shouldn’t...
Shall I count them?
He’s my client—
which should be reason enough to steer clear of Splitter,
Both because of ethics
But also the fact that he’s in legal trouble.
So that’s two things right there.
Three, he’s the VP of the Savage Saints, a local motorcycle club.
And those are just the strikes against him.
The fact that I just ended a relationship—
And made a big splash in the media with the divorce—
Means that I should stay far, far away from relationships.
But those eyes,
That voice,
The way he makes me feel.
What’s that saying?
Forbidden fruit is the sweetest?
Let me tell you how true that is.
But when a rival gang threatens the Savage Saints,
I realize I’m caught up in a world I know nothing about.
And lust isn’t the basis of a lasting relationship.
The real question in the end is
Can I trust Splitter?
Or will I end up broken in more ways than one?
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1: Splitter
Chapter 2: Amber
Chapter 3: Splitter
Chapter 4: Amber
Chapter 5: Splitter
Chapter 6: Amber
Chapter 7: Splitter
Chapter 8: Amber
Chapter 9: Splitter
Chapter 10: Amber
Chapter 11: Splitter
Chapter 12: Amber
Chapter 13: Splitter
Chapter 14: Amber
Chapter 15: Splitter
Chapter 16: Amber
Chapter 17: Splitter
Chapter 16: Amber
More from Hazel
You can find me here
Prologue
It was a bright, sunny Sunday afternoon on the outskirts of Northern Hollywood, and I, a devout Catholic, found myself in my office—the only place where I could guarantee privacy.
Dressed in a professional suit, heels, and wearing my gold cross necklace, an understated silver watch, and dark-rimmed glasses, I sat down at my oak wood desk, pushing the chair back as far as it would recline. I looked up at the ceiling, giving a long sigh, as I wondered just how I had gotten here.
I felt my phone buzz, but I didn’t feel a particular rush to answer it. So much of my days were spent answering legal questions for Hollywood celebrities, professional athletes, and musicians, all of whom needed their questions answered yesterday. Could evidence get buried to prevent getting judged in the court of public opinion? Could they get a delayed trial? Could they avoid jail time?
The nature of, being one of the best lawyers in the entertainment capital of the world—though I hated that title; I only used it because others did—meant that I, from Sunday night to Saturday night, almost never had a moment of respite. Even when I went on vacation, I found it all but impossible to fully detach from the working grind that had consumed my life. I knew what I was walking into after graduating from Duke Law, but even then, it could sometimes be overwhelming.
For that reason, my nine a.m. church on Sundays, followed by twelve hours of complete detachment, gave me the much-needed escape and respite from that world.
But on this particular day, something very personal, very legal, and very public required my attention, and no matter how much I prayed for it to have gone differently, no matter how much I had sought counseling, no matter how much I tried every conceived notion to prevent the worst from happening—and God sincerely knew I had tried everything—I could not escape it. Only in the confines of my private office, away from my home and everything associated with it, could I feel comfortable having the conversations I had needed to have over the previous couple of months.
I stood, grabbed my phone, and saw that Mark Leslie had messaged me. This was to be expected; Mr. Leslie had represented me in my case over the previous couple of months. But I knew that when I had this phone call, it would finalize that which had seemed impossible just five years ago but now was a reality.
I, Amber Reynolds, a native of Columbia, South Carolina, a woman who had won Miss South Carolina, a woman who had gone to Yale for undergrad and Duke for law school, a woman who had just about every actor’s phone number in her phone, was seeing my picture-perfect life fall apart. For all of the external praise I’d been fortunate to receive, none of it mattered in the face of what I was going through now.
I was getting a divorce.
And when I spoke to Mr. Leslie, the phone call would finalize it. I would no longer be Mrs. Amber Reynolds, but Ms. Amber Reynolds. To some in the city, this represented a chance for me to find a man “worthy of me.”
To me, it represented an utter failure on my part, most especially because of how my faith and family would justifiably look poorly upon the decision to get divorced.
But the alternative—staying in a dead, broken marriage, one in which my soon-to-be ex-husband, Jacob, had decided he no longer wanted kids—left me terrified. I didn’t want to turn 35 in a few years only to realize I had missed out on my chance to have children. Granted, sadly, my odds of finding a man who would have kids with me and be a good father were slim—Lord knows, embarrassing as it was to admit, I had more than enough actors and athletes proposition me—but a five percent chance of having it work was higher than the zero percent chance I would have with Jacob.
Staring at that phone, I knew what I had to do.
“God forgive me,” I said, knowing that many in my hometown would judge me as having become too full of myself, of the childhood couple having split apart not because we had just grown apart, but because I had gotten too big for my britches in Hollywood. I wished it were that simple—if I were that arrogant, I probably would not feel as bad as I did now about everything.
I called Mr. Leslie. He answered on the first ring.
“How are you, Ms. Reynolds?”
How was I? Oh, of all the ways to answer that question.
But I didn’t need to drag Mr. Leslie down into my swamp of despair, guilt, and self-loathing. He was doing a fantastic job for me, ensuring that Jacob and I had an amicable split. He didn’t need to feel what I felt.
“I’m doing well, thanks,” I said, trying to sound cheerful.
“Well, there’s no need to be dishonest,” Mr. Leslie said, his voice warm and sympathetic. “But I understand why you say that. In any case, I suppose you would like to get right down to it?”
“Rip the band-aid off,” I said as I brought a box of tissues closer to me.
“Well, I can make that much easier for you, actually,” he said. “I wanted
to come to your office. Would you mind?”
“I…”
This, I had not expected. Were we really that close to finalizing the divorce that all he had to do was come here, have me sign some papers, and leave it at that? Goodness, how terrifying that was. How… real it was.
“I would not, no,” I said. “You’ll have to forgive me, though. I will admit I am not at my best.”
“If you were, I would question your sanity,” he said politely. “There’s another reason I want to come to you, Ms. Reynolds. Unfortunately, TMZ and the other paparazzi outlets have taken a keen interest in this.”
I didn’t bother to hide my disgust. I forgave them for what they did, but they had a way of pushing my boundaries and my capacity for such forgiveness on the daily. They all wanted to know who I’d wind up with first after this divorce finalized; I just wanted to escape to a remote island, have a few margaritas, and shed some tears over what had happened. The notion that I could even find love at a time like this was depressingly laughable.
“I suspect that no matter when you sign the papers, they will have someone tailing you to ask you questions. You will want someone with you to get you away. Unfortunately, as you well know by now, they can be rather pushy, bordering on illegal.”
I knew that too well. I’d had more than a few clients who faced aggravated assault cases for attacking a cameraman. I sympathized with them—that’s why I took the case, after all—but the paparazzi had a way of blurring the line between legal and ethical. If there is such a line for them.
“I can escort you to your car, and you can go wherever you want from there. They may follow you, but I think that you’ll be in a better position if I get you there.”
“Agreed,” I said with a long sigh. “OK, come on over. Front door’s unlocked. You know the office.”
“That, I do,” Mr. Leslie said sympathetically.
He hung up. I grabbed a tissue, dabbed at my eyes, and looked out the windows. Sure enough, I could already see a couple of cameramen lined up, waiting for me to exit. They always—always—seemed to know what was going on. It was impressive for a better lack of words.
Thankfully, Mr. Leslie had not come from far away, and less than ten minutes later, wearing sunglasses and a nice suit, he walked into my building, ignoring the questions from the media outside. I cracked open the door, sat in my chair, and waited.
When Mr. Leslie entered, I stood, shook his hand, and thanked him for coming—with a voice more wavering that I had hoped for.
“You’ve been through a lot, Ms. Reynolds,” he said as he took a seat and grabbed his suitcase. “The good news—or perhaps the best news that there is right now—is that all you have to do is sign this, and the process will be complete.”
I will be divorced.
I’d known this moment was coming, legally speaking, for about three months now. I had a gut feeling in our marriage that this moment would be coming for the last year and a half. But when I saw Mr. Leslie slide that piece of paper across to me…
I was a lawyer and knew to read every contract, every fine print, every little detail carefully. Nothing could be overlooked, and nothing mattered more than understanding the implication of every word. But at that moment, I couldn’t.
I just signed the paper before I could think twice about it.
And when I did, I felt like I had just committed murder. Murder of my belief in the perfect life, murder of something that had started when the two of us were childhood best friends, murder of everything I thought I knew and believed in.
Maybe that was a little dramatic, but the worst thing that had happened before this day was vomiting after drinking too much at my Yale graduation party. This was… it was utterly visceral.
“That’s it,” I said, barely able to bring my voice above a whisper.
“That’s it,” Mr. Leslie said. “Well, legally speaking, yes, that’s it. You will want to get your own place—”
“Jacob is moving back to South Carolina,” I interjected. “We’re going to sell the house, yeah, you know that. But… I’ll be fine there.”
That was something of a lie, as much to myself as to Mr. Leslie. That house had too many memories, too many photos, too much stuff to say I could go back there and be fine.
“I’ll still get my own place, obviously,” I said quickly. “But I’ll be good for the next little bit.”
“Makes sense,” Mr. Leslie said. “But you are free to move forward as if you are a single woman. Which you are.”
As if you are a single woman. Which you are.
How surreal. How odd. How…
Words failed.
“Let’s just get out of here,” I said.
“Are you going to work tonight?” Mr. Leslie asked.
“Probably,” I replied. “It’s the only thing I can throw myself into to stay sane. Plus, things have been kind of quiet on the work front, honestly. I could use some new clients.”
“Makes sense,” Mr. Leslie said. “Just be careful not to burn yourself out. I don’t want to hear that you quit and disappeared.”
For the first time since I’d sat down in my office, I smiled.
“There are two things that keep me going, Mr. Leslie,” I said. “My faith, and my work. My faith will always be there. I know my work won’t always be, but it’s there for right now, and as long as I can keep it that way, well, that would be ideal.”
Mr. Leslie nodded. I rose from my chair, grabbed my sunglasses, and motioned for Mr. Leslie to follow me out. He did so, and we walked side by side, both of us with our heads down.
And when we opened the door, about a half-dozen camera people waited.
“Ms. Reynolds! Ms. Reynolds! How are you feeling about the divorce? Ms. Reynolds! Who are you dating? Amber!”
It was like a storm of flashing lights, loud questions, and enormous distractions. Even with my sunglasses on, I had to raise my hands and keep moving to my vehicle. I just needed to get home, just get to some silence. I just needed to pray, find peace, and move forward.
Mr. Leslie, thank heavens, did all that he could to keep the paparazzi at bay, but he was outnumbered significantly. There was only so much that he could do.
A path cleared to my car, a 2005 BMW that I’d had since my time at Yale. One paparazzi asked if I was going to celebrate by upgrading my ride, which I had to admit almost drew a laugh from me. Almost.
I just couldn’t do it, though.
But just before I got into the car, though, I heard something completely unexpected, something so very far out of left field.
A motorcycle headed my way.
I looked up to see a man with a blonde woman riding on the back rolling into the parking lot. He wore a jacket that said something about “Savage Saints” on it. The girl wore normal clothes; there was nothing to mark her as a biker.
I had never heard of the Savage Saints—I didn’t even know if that was a band or a club or something—but given that the biker made it a point to park himself between the cameramen and me, I had a feeling that I’d be getting to know them a lot more.
“Sorry for the dramatic entrance,” the man said. “Are you Amber Reynolds?”
“Yes,” I said, trying to hide the fact I was still sniffling from all the craziness.
“I’m sorry, sir, can I help you?” Mr. Leslie said.
“We want to hire you,” the man said. “My name is Trace Cole. I’m the president of the Savage Saints. One of my members got arrested for crimes I do not believe he committed. We need the best. Are you taking clients?”
I was so taken aback by everything that had just happened that I wondered if I was still in the office, daydreaming some sort of bizarre alternate reality where things like this happened. Though, let’s be honest, I never would have daydreamed about having a biker show up with his… girlfriend? Wife? With someone to ask me for work.
But I did say I needed work. I just didn’t know if a biker could afford me… and while I did take cases pro bono for good causes
, supporting a biker group probably did not fall under that category.
“I am,” I said, reaching into my purse. “Here, take my business card. We can set up an initial consultation later.”
“Good,” Mr. Cole said, taking it and nodding his thanks. “By the way… are those assholes over there bothering you?”
I grimaced at the word, though I couldn’t disagree with its implication.
“They’re doing their jobs,” I said.
“Harassing you and your coworker when you were about to leave?” Trace said. “Here. Consider this an initial offering of our seriousness.”
“Mr. Cole!”
But before he could change his mind, Mr. Cole had revved the engine, shooting out an enormous amount of exhaust at the paparazzi, causing them to disperse, hack, and yell swears at the biker.
“Get a fucking real job, savages!”
Again, I cringed… but I was secretly kind of grateful that Mr. Cole had given me the chance to escape.
“Go,” Mr. Leslie said.
“OK, thanks,” I said, quickly getting into the front seat, turning the engine on, and backing out of the parking lot while the paparazzi watched.
Mr. Cole and his woman, for his part, followed me for the first mile home before splitting off in their own direction, heading north. As far as first impressions went, it was one of the more interesting ones I had had with potential clients—and boy, had I had some interesting ones dealing with the Hollywood types.
I had a feeling, though, it wouldn’t be the last impression I had of these Savage Saints.
I just hoped I’d be in a state to help them as they deserved.
Chapter 1: Splitter
Despite my reputation, I hadn’t actually been to prison that many times in my life.
Part of that, admittedly, was that I was usually really good at avoiding the things that would land a person in jail for a while. You know, things like evidence, witnesses, that sort of thing. Trace had trusted me as the Vice President of the club, and that meant I sometimes had to do the dirty fucking work—especially when BK, Mafia, and Krispy were busy with other “duties” for the club.
