by Naomi West
Dakota
A Motorcycle Club Romance (Infernal Names MC)
Naomi West
Copyright © 2020 by Naomi West
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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Contents
Mailing List
Books by Naomi West
Dakota: A Motorcycle Club Romance
1. Hazel
2. Hazel
3. Hazel
4. Hazel
5. Hazel
6. Dakota
7. Hazel
8. Hazel
9. Hazel
10. Hazel
11. Dakota
12. Hazel
13. Hazel
14. Dakota
15. Hazel
16. Hazel
17. Hazel
18. Hazel
19. Hazel
20. Dakota
21. Hazel
22. Dakota
23. Dakota
24. Hazel
25. Dakota
26. Hazel
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Books by Naomi West
Bad Boy Biker’s Club
Stryker
Kaeden
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Maddox
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Dakota: A Motorcycle Club Romance
An unexpected baby motorcycle club romance.
DAKOTA
She wanted out. I wanted her.
Can’t blame the girl: Angel City is hell on earth.
But there’s no way in hell I’m letting her leave this town.
Because she’s got my baby inside of her.
It wasn’t supposed to be this way.
Hazel was an innocent college girl desperate to escape.
I was a high school dropout who lived and breathed for my MC.
But the beast inside me couldn’t let her go.
I shouldn’t have touched her.
I should have resisted.
I didn’t, though.
So now she’s mine—forever.
1
Hazel
Most college students spend their summer breaks back home partying. I was getting ready to spend mine scrubbing toilets.
I pulled open the bottom-right drawer of my dresser, the drawer that I reserved for maid duty at my mom’s company. Just the sight of the dingy, baggy clothes within was enough to send a shudder up my spine.
I took out one of the V-neck T-shirts and looked it over, noting the off-white color and the winkled, stretched-out collar. Holding the thing in my hand brought me back to the rest of the summers between my other college years, the smells of cleaning supplies baked into the cotton.
“Hazel!” called my mother from the other side of the tiny ranch-style home where I’d grown up. “You about ready?”
I didn’t want to go. More than anything, I wanted to kick back on my bed, pull out a book, and spend the day relaxing like a normal college girl at home from break. But my mom insisted I work, and I couldn’t give her a good reason why I shouldn’t.
“Almost!” I called out.
After taking one last longing look at my bed, I quickly stripped out of my sleeping clothes and pulled on the white T-shirt along with a pair of worn, light blue jeans and some cheap sneakers. Once I was dressed, I stepped over to the full-length mirror and gave myself a once-over.
With my simple ponytail and drab, baggy clothes hanging on my slender frame, I looked exactly like the working-class woman that my mom didn’t want me to become. I didn’t look my best in the slightest, but what would be the point of that? When you’re cleaning houses, any of the traditional girly stuff becomes pointless. Nails get chipped, hair gets mussed, and makeup runs. Nope—this job was all about functionality. Trying to look pretty was a liability.
“Seriously!” called my mom. “We need to get a damn move on!”
I took one last deep breath before heading out of my room. Nancy, my mother, was moving quickly around the living room, getting her cleaning supplies together while trying to put the finishing touches on a simple breakfast.
I watched her as she did her thing, moving around the kitchen and living room with the speed of a woman who was used to getting things done quickly, like checking the rooms of the houses of strangers for any spots she’d missed before hurrying over to the next place.
It was easy to see myself in my mother. While she was still pretty, with her willowy body, sun-blonde hair, and attractive, oval face, I could see in her the toll two decades of life working with her hands had taken on her body. She was still spry and attractive and energetic, but now there was a cautiousness to the way she moved, as if she kept in the forefront of her mind at all times that one slip, one wrong twist of the back, could put her in bed for weeks, losing out on money that she desperately needed.
Mom flicked her eyes onto me as I stepped into the living room.
“There you are,” she said. “I was wondering what was taking you so long.”
“Sorry,” I said. “Took me a while to find my good crappy clothes.”
I flashed her a smile, but Mom didn’t seem to think it was all that funny. Instead, she took the opportunity to close the distance between us and gave my outfit a quick appraisal.
“Oh baby,” she said. “Are you seriously wearing that to work?”
I glanced down then back at her.
“Yeah,” I said. “What’s wrong with it?”
“You look like a damn hobo,” she said, taking the hem of the shirt between her thumb and middle finger. “This shirt looks like it’s a strong breeze away from falling to pieces.”
“What difference does it make?” I asked. “It’s just going to get dirty anyway.”
She gave me a disappointed look.
“Because when you’re working for me, you represent the company. Just because we work with messes doesn’t mean—”
“We have to look like one,” I said, repeating the words I’d heard time and time again during my years working part-time.
“Go find something else to wear—your breakfast is almost ready.”
“I don’t have anything else to wear,” I said. “Just the stuff that I’ve been wearing to work.”
“Then put on some normal clothes,” she said.
“Normal clothes?” I asked. “Like, the stuff I wear to school?”
Mom shrugged.
“Why not? Bet they look nicer on you than that stuff.”
“Because that’s what I wear to class! And when I go out with my friends! I’m not going to get them all covered in dirt and cleaning stuff.”
Mom n
arrowed her eyes in thought, as if she hadn’t considered the idea. I knew Mom worked like crazy, and I realized the idea of having clothes for the express purpose of fun was likely an alien concept to her.
“I just bought a package of work shirts—they’re on my bed. Hurry and put one on so you can shove down some eggs before we go.”
I did as Mom asked, slipping out of my shirt on the way to her bedroom and tossing it in the bathroom trash can. Mom’s bedroom was simple and unadorned, with a small vanity mirror as the only sign that a woman lived there. I took one of the oversized T-shirts out of the torn-open package on her bed and threw it on. The baggy shirt nearly hung down to my knees, making me look like I was wearing a cloak.
Better than wearing my college clothes, I supposed.
“Much better,” Mom said as I came back into the kitchen.
“If you say so,” I said as I sat down to a plate of scrambled eggs and toast.
“You don’t think this is important, huh?” she asked.
“Not that,” I said. “Just …”
“Just what?” Mom asked as she placed two mugs of creamed coffee onto the table and sat down.
“Nothing,” I said.
What I really wanted to say was that I wished I could be spending my summer break between classes doing anything but cleaning rich people’s houses. Maybe even find a cute guy to have a fling with. But I kept that to myself.
“Um, where are we going today?” I asked, trying to change the subject.
I could tell that Mom knew that I had other things on my mind. But after a quick suspicious look, she went along with my question.
“Today we’ve got a few houses in Meadowbrook. Three in total, and I want to get them all done today.”
“Three houses?” I asked. “Isn’t that pushing it?”
“Well, I’ve got the full crew on today—plus you. I think we can pull it off.”
I knew that meant I had a day of busting my butt in front of me. But no point in complaining about it.
I glanced over at the list of names near Mom’s bag. I wasn’t expecting to find anything, but when my eyes settled on a familiar name, the color drained out of my face and my blood when cold.
“Something wrong, kiddo?” Mom asked. “You look like you just saw the ghost of Christmas past.”
I reached over my plate and touched the name that I recognized—“Michael and Carol Vivant.”
The “Vivants,” as in “Bonnie Vivant,” as in one of the most popular girls from high school, one of the pretty, untouchable girls who’d always looked down on girls like me.
And I had to clean her house. I had to show up with my mom, dressed up in ratty jeans, old sneakers, and an oversized T-shirt with the packaging creases still in it and scrub her toilets.
“I know them,” I said, my finger shaking slightly.
“Oh yeah?” asked Mom as she scooped up a forkful of eggs. “From school?”
The idea of seeing her like this was too much. Panic took hold of me.
“Mom,” I said. “Is there any way I can skip out of cleaning their house? Please?”
Mom regarded me like I’d just asked if I could borrow five thousand bucks.
“Are you kidding me?” she asked. “I just told you we have three houses to get to today and you want to ‘skip out’ on one?”
I chewed my lip for a moment, trying to figure out how to say what I had on my mind.
“Mom, do you know how embarrassing it is to have to go to a friend’s house and clean it for them?”
This wasn’t exactly accurate. Bonnie was hardly a “friend.” But I didn’t want to get into the specifics of the social hierarchy at school.
Mom raised her eyebrows.
“So this work, the work I’ve done to put food on the table since your dad left, is embarrassing to you?”
Shit. Major misstep.
“It’s not that,” I said. “It’s just that it makes me feel like a servant or something. And what if she tells the rest of our high school friends about me? It’s humiliating.”
Mom set down her fork and glared at me hard. I knew that look—I’d seen it time and time again growing up. It meant, in no uncertain terms, that she wasn’t screwing around.
“Hazel, I don’t care if you think this work is beneath you. It’s good, honest work, unlike what your father did.”
She had a point there. No chance of ending up in jail for cleaning houses.
“And like it or not, this work is the only way we can afford those expensive college classes you’re taking. You may not think it’s glamorous, but this is who you are, and where you came from. If anyone you know judges you for it, then that’s on them.”
She had me there.
“And why would you want to be friends with someone who looks down on you for earning some money over the summer?”
“Girls like her don’t have to worry about earning extra money. They spend their summers on vacation.”
Mom let out a dismissive snort.
“You want to end up soft, that’s how you do it,” she said. “You know the difference between girls like you and girls like that?”
“What’s that?”
“When you graduate, you’re going to appreciate the hell out of that degree you earned. You’re going to get a good, well-paying job and work your butt off in it, knowing that the alternative is scouring bathtubs. A girl like that, who gets everything handed to her, will never be happy, no matter where she ends up.”
I didn’t know about any of that. But I did know that this meant that there was no way I was going to be getting out of this.
“Eat those eggs,” she said.
“Not hungry,” I said back.
“You’re going to be moving around all day,” said Mom. “You’re going to need the energy. I don’t want to see you all sluggish come ten o’clock.”
Eating was the last thing on my mind, my stomach still tight from the idea of seeing Bonnie. But, as usual, Mom was right. I did my best to shove down a few bites along with a couple of sips of coffee.
“Now let’s get a move on.”
We gathered up our stuff and headed out to Mom’s car, which was a big white van with “Magnificent Maids,” the name of her cleaning service, painted on the side in big cherry letters. She pulled open the sliding door and we tossed our things inside.
Moments later we were on the road, heading to the houses of the other girls on the crew. None of them had cars of their own, and Mom liked to do them a favor by giving them rides to work.
The girls were all happy to see me, all of them eager to hear about my life at college. Most of the crew had high school diplomas at the most, so I felt a little bad when I let them know that my days at Angel City College, the humble state college just outside of town that I attended, mostly consisted of studying and quiet nights so I could get up for classes in the morning.
I imagined that they had images of stately college buildings, gorgeous green campuses, and wild, raging parties. But their idealized picture of college was probably about as far it got from my daily life there. Getting my degree was my top priority, and fun took a backseat.
Before too long we pulled up to the enormous mansion on the Vivant family. The tension took hold of me once again. I crossed my fingers, hoping that Bonnie would be out of town, off on some trip to Ibiza or Cancun or Paris or someplace equally exotic.
“Okay, girls,” said Mom. “I want us out of here by eleven—ton of work ahead of us today, so no dilly-dallying.”
She gave me a poke to the leg.
“That goes for you too, college girl,” she said with a smile.
I gave a forced smile back as we all piled out of the car.
Once we were loaded up with cleaning supplies, we headed to the enormous arched front doors of the mansion. The green space out front was immaculate, decorated with intricately trimmed topiaries, a large fountain seated in the middle of the circular driveway.
Mom led us up the gray stone stairs and to the
front door. She knocked, and moments later, a person who looked to be a nanny opened up and let us in.
The entry hall of the house was just as grand and impressive as the outside of the house suggested. The floors were a beautiful parquet, the ceiling stretched up high, and a huge circular staircase led to the other two floors. Our sneakers echoed through the vast open space.
But all I cared about was whether or not Bonnie was going to spot me. So far, no sign of her.
Mom took up a position in front of us, the crew forming a half circle around her as she gave out assignments.
“And Hazel,” she said, turning her attention to me. “Go ahead and start on th—”
She didn’t get a chance to finish.
“Hazel Wiley?” came a familiar voice. “Is that you?”
I turned around to see the pretty, excited face of the last person I wanted to bump into. Looking as gorgeous as ever, dressed in expensive designer clothes, was none other than Bonnie Vivant, in the flesh.
2
Hazel
Tall, slim, and gorgeous, Bonnie Vivant was like something out of a teen dream. Her hair was blonde and as sunny as her perfect toothpaste-ad smile. Her face was trim and sharp, her nose a pert little thing of plastic-surgery-sculpted perfection. She was slender but shapely, tall but graceful, and dressed in such a way that there was no mistaking what kind of family she came from.
