by Sophia Gray
This is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons--living or dead--is entirely coincidental.
Dirty Biker: A Motorcycle Club Romance (Damned Devils MC) copyright 2019 by Sophia Gray. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission.
***
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Contents
Dirty Biker: A Motorcycle Club Romance (Damned Devils MC)
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
EPILOGUE
Also by Sophia Gray
Naughty Biker: A Motorcycle Club Romance (Sin Reapers MC)
Shafted: A Motorcycle Club Romance (Midnight Riders MC)
Screwed: A Motorcycle Club Romance (Lightning Bolts MC)
Piped: A Motorcycle Club Romance (Mohave Eagles MC)
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Dirty Biker: A Motorcycle Club Romance (Damned Devils MC)
By Sophia Gray
The dirty biker wants one thing only: to f**k me up for good.
The last thing I need is another alpha bastard in my life.
And Baylor Stein looks every bit the part.
With that leather jacket hugging his massive muscles and the tattoo ink peeking out from his collar, he’s hard-wired to make every girl in his vicinity soaking wet.
I’m no exception. But I refuse to let myself get too close.
Until one night, that’s exactly what happens.
My romp with the biker is as good as advertised.
In the morning, my throat is raw from hours of moans.
My hips are sore from endless riding.
And the bastard is nowhere to be found.
But there’s someone else lurking in the shadows…
Someone who wants far more of me than I’m willing to offer.
And if I’m not careful, the psycho will come to claim what he wants.
I need someone on my side.
Someone strong.
Someone dangerous.
Someone like Baylor.
Because it’s not just myself I have to protect.
Thanks to the outlaw, there’s also…
The baby he left in my womb.
CHAPTER ONE
The husky timber of the singer’s voice snaked through the dimly lit nightclub like a serpent. Bastard couldn’t look away from the black-haired beauty if he tried. Her voice was a combination of honey and drugs, making him feel woozy and tingly, like maybe his underpriced drink had been spiked.
Hell, if this was the side effect of the cheap rum and cokes, then he welcomed it. This was his third night at the Cat’s Claw. He’d come because of the drink prices, but stayed because of her. He watched her like an enamored schoolboy, pure staring and rapid heartbeats when her voice cracked raw on the small front stage. The woman clearly had a throng of admirers, too. Plenty of familiar faces in this place after three consecutive days here, and most of them watching the act a little too intently.
Bastard wasn’t from Olympia, so it was nice to have something of a routine while he worked south of Seattle. Even if that routine involved pumping into his fist while imagining that red-lipped beauty as soon as he hit the shower of his motel room each night.
But by day three he knew he needed to shit or get off the pot, as his Nomad brother Jack always told him. The asshole loved to spout the phrase even when it didn’t apply, and this situation seemed just as distantly relevant as any. The smoke-throated hottie wouldn’t leave his mind. He kept showing up to this bar like a damned caught fish. Besides, this run out in Olympia was ending soon. He had to make a move.
Bastard let the singer’s last song wash over him, like savoring a sweet treat that he knew would be over after just one more bite. Except he hoped it wouldn’t be over for long. When she sang the last throaty Ooooh of her final song, the bar exploded with applause. Bastard’s wolf whistle ripped through the air, and he headed for the bar, rapping twice on the wood with his knuckles.
“Hey. That singer? She drink?” He jerked his chin toward the woman on stage, as though there were any doubt about what singer he could possibly be referring to.
The bartender sized him up, squinting a little bit. “You want a drink?”
Bastard looked at his mostly empty rum and coke. “Sure. Another rum and coke.”
The bartender took the glass without a word, his tightlipped face bordering on a grimace.
“So that girl up there–" he began again.
“She has a name, you know.” The bartender’s annoyance came out singsong under his breath.
Bastard blinked, looking back at the stage. The band was packing up a little, the redhaired beauty making her way through the crowd. “Well I don’t know it.”
The bartender remained quiet while he prepared the rum and coke.
“Listen, I just wanna buy her a drink. She’s talented as fuck, ya know? So can you tell me if she drinks or not?”
The bartender looked unimpressed. He slid the rum and coke across the bartop and Bastard finally noticed his nametag: Dipper.
“I wouldn’t bother,” Dipper intoned. “She’s a tough nut to crack.”
Something about this brief glimpse into the singer’s life egged him on. Made it sort of a challenge. Hell, he was probably least qualified to crack any nut. It was his tendency to crack ‘em open and then run. But he liked the challenge. “Don’t matter. Just wanna thank her for the show.”
Dipper frowned slightly, his gaze sliding to somewhere across the bar, then back to Bastard. “Okay. What can I get, then?”
Bastard drummed his fingers on the bartop, searching the crowd for her. What the fuck would a lady like her want? “You tell me, brother.”
“I’m not your brother.”
“Sorry. Damn.” Bastard gnawed at the inside of his lip, looking Dipper up and down. This guy had a chip on his shoulder when it came to that singer. “So no suggestions?”
Dipper let an exaggerated sigh, his gaze wandering back across the bar. “Probably the same as you.”
“Good. Great.” Bastard nodded, his stomach jerking briefly as he caught sight of that dark, almost blue-black head weaving toward the bar through the crowd. “Let’s do that.”
Dipper prepared another drink quietly, his gaze flitting up across the crowd a few times. Something unspoken lay there, and if the singer was a tough nut to crack then maybe this guy was the squirrel hiding her acorns. Still, it made him curious to learn more.
Dipper slid the second drink to Bastard, who made a big display of leaving ten dollars for him. Dipper arched a brow and then swung his attention around to the next customer waving money at him. Bastard spotted the singer heading his way, so he snagged the open stool next to him. He turned, leaning his back against the bar, moving the extra drink in front of the open spot.
And then he watched her approach, saw th
e careful lilt of her smile as her gaze dragged across the faces of the various bargoers clogging the way. Saw the sexy lift of her brow as she noticed the open seat, the waiting drink. And then she headed straight toward him, eyes shrinking to knowing slits, as if zeroing in on her kill.
Their eyes locked, and electricity shot through his veins.
A look like that might make some men run. But for him, it only begged him to stay.
***
Kit could spot a free drink meant for her from a mile away. Usually she ignored them, but tonight, the giver was the one man she’d been waiting to talk to. The buzzcut brute had been showing up at her bar for three days now. It wasn’t uncommon for men to be repeat audience members. The way she painted her makeup and tugged down her top ensured that she had a steady fan base.
But this guy? He was the type of guy she fantasized about. The rough-hewn biker with gemstone eyes that snagged her even across a dimly lit lounge. Pouty lips that already whispered sweet angst and heartache.
Or maybe that was just her creative side wanting another project. You should funnel this into more songs. And yeah, maybe she’d funnel this restless creative drive into new songs and better chord structures…but for now, she wanted to play, too.
She sauntered toward him slowly, enjoying the way his jaw tightened as she made her target clear. He leaned against the bar like he was offering his lap. And maybe he wouldn’t mind if she just sidled right into it. But she wasn’t like that. She didn’t make it so easy.
Mere feet from the sexy man waiting for her at the bar, someone else stepped into her path. A tall man, dark sideswept hair, slitted eyes that told her he thought he was a catch. Smugness worn like a cologne.
“Your voice is an angel’s,” he said, the tang of alcohol reaching her nose.
She offered a tight smile. This guy was in here often too. Basically a regular. But he’d never approached her until tonight. “Thank you.”
“I’ve been working up the courage to come say hi to you for weeks now,” he went on. He shoved a drink into her hand, the cold plastic forming condensation in her hand immediately. “It’s the least I can do.”
She lifted a brow, looking down at the beverage. “Well thanks.” She didn’t tend to let men buy her drinks, but tonight was apparently the exception. “What is it?”
Over the guy’s shoulder, she could see the buzzcut biker, jaw tight as he looked her fan up and down. She bit back a smile.
“Gin and tonic.” He swallowed hard, looking at the drink with knit brows. “I didn’t know what you liked. But I thought you might be hoarse. From all that beautiful singing. I hear you when I go home, you know.”
He stepped closer, and in a flash she grew tired of the conversation. Of course he just wanted to bone. He’d hurl compliments at her until she caved. She’d fallen for that shit in the beginning of her career, but not now. No, she’d built her fortress walls high by now.
Kit cleared her throat, sidestepping the guy, moving closer to the biker waiting for her at the bar. She flashed him a cheeky grin, and then asked quietly, “Is this drink for me?”
The biker jerked his head into a nod, his hungry gaze coursing over her face. Except she liked his attention. Wanted more of it, in fact.
Except he’d bought her—looked like a rum and coke. Ugh. She hated rum and coke, the G&T was much more her speed. What to do?
She snatched up the rum and coke waiting for her on the bar and turned back to the dark-haired fan. “Here. You take this. Thanks for buying me one, but I don’t like being indebted to people.” She shoved it into his hand before he could respond otherwise. And then she turned her back to him, sidling up to the sexy biker at the bar. Drink? Check. Cute guy? Check. All systems go.
“Were you saving this seat for me too?” She arched a brow.
He didn’t look amused, glancing over his shoulder at the fan who stood confused behind them. The buzzcut hottie grabbed for the drink in the fan’s hand.
“This was mine, actually.” Biker Badboy shot a glare at her fan, then turned his back to him. Kit stifled a laugh. This was gonna be a good way to spice up a normally hum-drum weeknight at the bar.
“It’s okay, I don’t need it.” The fan ran his fingers through his hair, shoulders hefting with a laugh. “You know this guy? I can—”
“He’s my friend, thanks.” Kit offered him another tight smile and sank onto the barstool, facing the bristled biker once more. She shot him a secretive grin, swirling the straw in her drink before taking a cool sip.
“You can go now,” the biker said over his shoulder to the fan, who still lingered.
“Thanks again,” Kit said, waving her fingers at the fan as he stumbled away, confusion etched onto his face.
“You must like to start trouble,” the biker grumbled. Ice rattled in his tumbler as he sipped at his drink.
“No, I just like to see who’s really worthy of my attention.” She shrugged, taking another absentminded sip of the G&T before remembering who had bought it for her. She slammed it on the bartop, motioning for Dipper. He came instantly.
“Babe, can you get me a water? I don’t want this.” She shoved the cup toward him. It was her personal policy to never drink an unsolicited beverage. That was how bad shit happened to girls, especially with all the hungry-eyed men that showed up like ghosts in her bar.
“I’d offer you the rum and coke that I bought you, but…” The biker gestured toward the drink.
“But you already drank half of it in defiance?” Kit laughed, smoothing her hair down as she settled into her seat. She crossed her legs, allowing a long, creamy slit of skin to poke through. The biker’s eyes darted down for the briefest of seconds, but it was enough to start a fire inside her.
“Well I bought it for you, but if not for you, then for me.” He crunched on an ice cube as he met her gaze. Something playful but dark lurked in his eyes.
“I don’t take drinks from men I don’t know.” She took a sip of the water Dipper dropped off for her, catching the brief moment of side-eye he delivered like a spear to her chest. He probably had something to tell her; probably it had to do with the man at her side. Dipper watched over her like a hawk, especially on the nights that she performed. After three years using the Cat’s Claw as her artistic base, they’d developed a friendship that rivaled family. “And if you knew me, you’d have bought me gin.”
“Fair enough. And smart, too.” The biker assessed her, those green eyes sucking her in. “I guess I’ll have to get to know you then.”
“What a chore that would be, though.” Kit let a haughty laugh. “Haven’t you heard? We live in the digital age. You can swipe left whenever you’re ready to move on.”
He watched for a few seconds, a smile teasing up the corners of his lips. “What’s your name?”
“I don’t give that out to strange men, either.”
He deflated a little, then sat up straight. He offered his hand. “I’m Bastard.”
She took his hand hesitantly, more to see if his skin felt as rough and warm as she imagined. “Oh, come on. Really?”
His hand swallowed hers, his face not betraying an ounce of the electricity that jolted through her at his touch. He nodded. “That’s my name. And what’s yours?”
She swallowed hard, allowing the handshake to linger a few more moments. Because it felt nice. Because it felt…safe, somehow. “Kit.”
“Oh, come on. Really?”
“Don’t mock me. It’s a nickname. As I sure hope yours is, too.”
“Not a nickname. Just the truth.” Bastard wiggled his eyebrows at her as he drained the rest of his drink.
“You may be the most honest man I’ve met in my life, then.” She fingered the rim of her water glass. “You in a biker gang or something?”
“It’s not a gang,” Bastard shot back.
“So you are, then.” She peered around to the back of his cut. “Damned Devils, huh? You’ll have to clue me in on all this stuff. You guys just ride around and jerk o
ff to pictures of motorcycle parts or what?”
Bastard cocked a smile. “Sorry. I don’t give out that information to strange women.”
“Man, you love parroting back my own words, huh?” She hefted with a laugh, trying not to appear as amused as she really was. Most nights, she’d come to the bar after her set and fend off the fans, suffering through half-interesting conversations about her amazing beauty and all the things she deserved. But Bastard—like that could even be his name—was a breath of fresh air in the stagnant nightlife of Olympia.
“You’ve got some good words. They bear repeating.”
She watched him for a few moments, gobbling up the cut lines of his face. The square jaw and pretty eyes lent a boyish charm to his roughness. Tiny lines near his eyes revealed another side of him, but what side? A life full of laughter? Or maybe a life full of stress. What did these guys in the biker clubs even do?
