Loving Lucas

by Violetta Rand

  I pick up.

  “Willow—we’re not supposed to talk.”

  “Why?” she cries.

  “Because I finally took the initiative to defend myself.”

  “You’re trying to destroy me.”

  “No,” I counter. “I’m doing what’s best for our son.”

  “Two weeks,” she hisses. “The letter your attorney sent gives me two weeks to decide what my course of action will be. How can I choose right now? Please don’t challenge the custody agreement while I’m in the middle of divorce proceedings.”

  I laugh. “That letter is an attempt to resolve our problems quietly. Consider it a favor.”

  She snorts. “I don’t deserve this.”

  “Really?” After everything she’s put me through? “You used Alex as leverage, Willow. Failed to honor court-ordered visitation. Three phone calls a week, remember? I’m lucky if I got one a month. You publicly humiliated me, accused me of neglect and alcoholism in court. I’ve had more psych evaluations than a goddamned lunatic. And don’t forget those alcoholism assessments—compliments of the department. I’m done being your doormat.”

  Thank God the licensed alcohol and drug abuse counselor my attorney sent me to recently determined no treatment required. A copy of her finding was included with the letter my attorney sent to my ex.

  “But there’s no change in the welfare of our child,” she claims.

  “No?” I ask. “Your own mother says differently. I don’t want to hurt you. But I’m fully prepared to file for a custody change. Read the letter again, Willow. It’s not personal; this is about Alex. The court demands whatever parent retains custody not only address the emotional, developmental, and physical needs of our son, but also encourage a relationship between him and the other parent, someone who is going to be a positive influence, free from abuse, neglect, and violence. After speaking with Alex over the last week, I’m not convinced you’re meeting those standards.”

  “Oh God…”

  “Willow?”

  “My life is falling apart.”

  “It doesn’t have to.”

  There’s a long stretch of silence. “I can’t believe you’re getting married.”

  “Karlie is a wonderful woman. She’ll be good to Alex. I promise.”

  “An evidentiary hearing?”

  She’s stuck on the negative aspects of the letter, not seeing the silver lining. If she relinquishes custody voluntarily, she’ll avoid court. No one will know about the little sleeping pill habit she’s had since high school or that she’s going through another breakup. “Name the date—I’ll fly to Minnesota and pick him up. Or come here for a visit. Meet Karlie, see the house. I’ll never keep Alex from you. Think about it, Willow. We’ve known and loved each other for a long time. I’m not your enemy.”

  She’s weeping. “I never wanted things to turn out this way, never.”

  “I know,” I say quietly. “That’s why I’m willing to help you.”

  Karlie is standing in the doorway. I wonder how long she’s been listening. I flash her a smile.

  “I’m welcome in Texas?” Willow asks.

  “Always.”

  “Will you consider letting him spend Thanksgiving here?”

  “If you sign a certified agreement through your attorney, I’ll grant your request. My attorney fully expects to set up visitation rights with you. It’s not going to be easy, Willow, but if we work together, I’m sure the four of us will be happy.”

  “Four?”

  “Alex, Karlie, you, and me,” I explain.

  Karlie hugs me from behind.

  “Guess I’d better get used to that number,” Willow says.

  “Yeah,” I agree. “It’s never going to change.”

  —

  “Are you disappointed?” Karlie asks as she slips under the covers, curling beside me.

  It’s the night before the big post-season race. “Not really,” I answer, looking up from my book. “We’ll still have fun.” Only a handful of guys signed up, so the once formal event has been downsized to a couple of practice heats and a barbeque.

  She plucks the novel I’m reading out of my hands and tosses it on the mattress. “And now that Connor has court-ordered rehab, I don’t have to worry about your safety. Marie, Brandon, Charles, and the basketball team are going to be there to cheer you on.”

  I roll my eyes. “No hot chicks in skimpy clothes asking me to sign their tits?”

  She punches my arm playfully. “Don’t push your luck, Mr. Lafontaine.”

  “Why not, soon-to-be-Mrs.-Lafontaine?”

  “Because if you don’t behave, you’ll miss out on this…” She grips me tight, her hand sliding up and down my erection.

  “Hey.” I reach between her legs, cupping her center. “No sex before a race—that’s the rule.”

  “Not tonight,” she corrects, rolling on top of me. “Tonight you take one for the team.” Her sweet lips find mine and I know we make the perfect pair.

  To Doug—thank you for the past.

  And to Scott O., my favorite racing partner—miss it always!

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks to all my readers—none of this is possible without you.

  Big hugs to Jill Marsal, the best agent ever, who puts up with all my nutty ideas and phone calls.

  To my editor, Sue Grimshaw—do I drive you crazy yet? Thank you for everything you do.

  All my love to B. J. Scott, Jessica Jefferson, J.J., Dan Skrzynski, Debbie McCreary, Kathryn Le Veque, Melisa Zornes, and my beloved husband, Jeff.

  Listening is the greatest gift you can give an author.

  BY VIOLETTA RAND

  Devil’s Den

  Surrender

  Seduction

  Sin

  Lies & Leather

  Loving Lucas

  Winning Mason (coming soon)

  High Stakes

  Persuasion (coming soon)

  PHOTO: DAVID JENSEN PHOTOGRAPHY, ANCHORAGE, ALASKA

  Raised in Corpus Christi, Texas, VIOLETTA RAND spent her childhood reading, writing, and playing soccer. After meeting her husband in New England, she moved with him to Alaska, where she studied environmental science and policy as an undergraduate before attending graduate school. Violetta then spent nearly a decade working as an environmental scientist, specializing in soil and water contamination and environmental assessments.

  Violetta still lives in Anchorage, Alaska, and spends her days writing evocative New Adult romance and historical romance. When she’s not reading, writing, or editing, she enjoys time with her husband, pets, and friends. In her free time, she loves to hike, fish, and ride motorcycles and four-wheelers.

  violettarandromance.com

  Facebook.com/ViolettaRandRomance

  @ViolettaRand

  The Editor’s Corner

  Another month of new Loveswept romance books is here! I know you’ll adore this selection of stories chosen just for you….

  USA Today bestselling author Claire Kent continues her emotionally charged story of longing, betrayal, and insatiable desire with Darker the Release, sequel to Sweet the Sin. Another Loveswept USA Today bestseller, Lauren Layne, introduces her new Oxford series with Irresistibly Yours. Wendy S. Marcus’s latest sexy yet sweet military romance, All I Need is You, releases this month as well. Then there’s another Friends First story from USA Today bestseller Laura Drewry, How Forever Feels. USA Today bestseller Stacey Kennedy finishes up her successful BDSM Club Sin series with Mine, simultaneously introducing her next series of erotic play, Dirty Little Secrets, and hot hero Micah.

  We’re back on the ice with the first in the Aces Hockey series from Kelly Jamieson, Major Misconduct. Ladies, hold on to your hearts, the Caldwell Brothers are here—USA Today bestselling author MJ Fields and Chelsea Camaron want you to meet Hendrix, the first book in a series about three alpha men who live up to their legendary names. Lastly, something a little different—bear-shifters, anyone? An alpha hero to the extreme, hot hi
ghlander Ronan is all that you could want in Bearing It All by Vonnie Davis, perfect for fans of Jennifer Ashley and Shelly Laurenston.

  Fabulous variety with a book for everyone, yes? I hope you’ve found your book boyfriend in this month’s releases. However, if you haven’t, fear not, as November’s hot lineup is just around the corner. Until then…

  Happy Romance!

  Gina Wachtel

  Associate Publisher

  Read on for a sneak peek at

  Persuasion

  A High Stakes Novel

  by Violetta Rand

  Available from Loveswept

  Chapter 1

  Fuck. Lang Anderson stormed out of the Corpus Christi Federal Courthouse and sniffed the air. It reeked of rotten fish from the marina, reminding him of the stench of corruption in the courtroom. The place was full of assholes who didn’t believe in the long-standing tradition of innocent until proven guilty. Including the special prosecutor the feds had imported from Los Angeles. She was a bitch on wheels out for the kill, and unfortunately her prey was Jessie Mansard, the acting president of his club. No doubt it didn’t help that he wore MC patches—the same colors Lang proudly sported every day of his life.

  If found guilty, Jess would get the death penalty. Unless he copped a plea, which likely meant a life sentence. Either way, he was going to be wearing stripes instead of his leathers.

  A threat every Brother faced eventually for living outside the law. One Lang couldn’t afford, since his parents had been killed in a motorcycle accident outside Houston seven months ago. Their deaths had resulted in his having custody of his three little sisters, whose lives had been shattered, leaving them vulnerable and scared. Even with all his careful attention and unyielding patience, the eldest, Maya, was still acting out and required close supervision.

  The loss of his mother and father had sealed Lang’s fate too. It also made him rethink everything in his life and with the club. What if that was him wearing shackles in front of the cameras? The judge presiding over the case had opened his courtroom to the media. And they attacked like rabid dogs, feasting on Jess—portraying him as a psychotic killer.

  The end result was Jess would never taste freedom again. Lang would become the next president, a role he never wanted nor dreamed of filling.

  He tapped a cigarette out of his pack and lit it, sucking in smoke, then blowing it out, his gaze drifting to the entrance of the courthouse. His paternal grandfather had been a founding father of the club, and, as a third-generation member, Lang held partial deed to the club property and bar. Throughout the years, blood had been shed to ensure the charter’s survival. And now that Lang had control, he needed to surround himself with men who believed in the same things he did. Striving to keep peace with larger clubs was at the top of his priorities list. Several MCs had been dissolved over the last couple of years, either merging with the dominant charter in the area or folding because of financial challenges.

  Survival of the fittest meant more than his Brothers realized.

  Corpus had its share of cases that made the national news. Mix in an outlaw bike club and the story went viral on social media within fifteen minutes.

  And his sisters had access to it and had watched in horror as Uncle Jessie was escorted into court. The questions his youngest sister, Trisha, asked broke his heart. Why is Uncle Jess chained up like an animal? Did he do something bad? Will we ever see him again? Are you going away too?

  It was all he could do to hold himself back and not follow the prosecutor to her car and give the bitch a Texas-sized welcome—one she’d never forget. He smoked his Marlboro down to the filter and tossed it on the ground. The status quo didn’t satisfy Lang anymore. He wanted more, or less, depending on what perspective he took. More for his family, less heat from the cops.

  “Lang.”

  Several Brothers had spent the afternoon in court waiting for Jess to be arraigned. Merritt approached, wearing a frown on his bearded face. “He’s fucked,” he commented, shaking his head. “Racketeering, witness tampering, and murder.”

  “All true,” Lang confirmed. Why lie out of earshot? “He just got caught.”

  “The club can’t afford another shakedown,” Merritt said.

  Lang agreed. Time to remind members that representing the club didn’t mean attracting negative publicity. Jess’s lax leadership hadn’t helped. “First line of business,” Lang started. “Fast-tracking Vincent and Merk, time to patch out.”

  “You won’t get any arguments from me—but Patrick, Sampson, and Moco might not agree.”

  Lang already knew he’d meet with some resistance. Appointing officers was the sole right of the president. What the charter needed most was new blood. Men with a different perspective. Like any business, the club had centralized power. All men weren’t created equal. Respect was given first, then earned, just like the fucking patches on his back. He fully intended to teach his Brothers the difference.

  Charter rules were chiseled in stone like the Ten Commandments. And if anyone disagreed, they’d lose their membership, maybe their right to breathe.

  Eventually the other Brothers filed out of the building. Lang imagined they looked out of place standing together in the middle of the afternoon wearing leathers and combat boots. Unlike attorneys and their clients shuffling in and out in their Sunday best, the Sons of Odin always wore their cuts whenever they represented the club, regardless of the venue.

  The stares and whispers their presence evoked inspired Patrick and Sampson to retaliate. They flipped off a couple in the entryway and then Patrick lit a joint, blowing the acrid smoke in their direction.

  “Contact high,” he laughed at them. “Get the fucking corncobs out of your asses.”

  “Hey.” Lang tapped his shoulder angrily. This was a perfect example of the juvenile mentality he planned on eradicating. “Not the time or place. We already have a PR nightmare on our hands.”

  The Corpus Christi elite wanted clubs like the Sons of Odin dismantled, but average residents were often the beneficiaries of the generosity of the club. It was always the first to donate when disaster struck the city, and even the paper occasionally touted them as heroes.

  Keeping club image in mind, Lang knew when enough was enough. “Let’s go,” he commanded, leading them to the far side of the parking lot, where their Harleys were lined up like tanks.

  Unlike his Brothers who preferred the classic Softails or full dressers, Lang rode the sinister Night Rod Special. He chose bikes like he did women—favoring off-the-line explosive handling. Just as he mounted his bike, two news vans screeched into the parking lot, effectively blocking his exit route.

  Sandy Fuentes, an investigative reporter the club was well acquainted with, jumped out of the first vehicle, straightened her ass-hugging miniskirt, and snatched a microphone from her cameraman. She scooted across the asphalt, nearly slipping on the gravel in her heels as she stopped in front of him.

  “Lang Anderson,” she said, throwing him her best fuck-me pout. “Corpus Christi wants to know…” Her tagline. “With your president on a fast track for lethal injection, what’s next for the Sons of Odin?”

  She was easy on the eyes, and Lang couldn’t blame her for trying to get an exclusive. Depending on her mood, which shifted with the wind and on whether he’d fucked her right the night before, she might provide her fans with an accurate report. Regardless, he liked her aggressive personality and the way she rode him like a racehorse.

  Lang crossed his arms over his chest, leaning against his bike. “Nice to see you too, Sandy.”

  She grimaced, always affected by the way he spoke her name. It disarmed her every time. “No sweet-talking your way out of this one, Lang.”

  He grinned. “You mean the way you sweet-talked your way into my bed last night?”

  His Brothers catcalled and laughed.

  Sandy’s face flushed and she spun around, signaling her crewman to kill the camera. “What the hell, Lang? Thought we agreed to keep our a
ssociation a secret.”

  A secret? Her bright yellow Corvette parked overnight in the club lot spoke for itself. He didn’t fuck and tell, she did. “Turn your camera on, Sandy, I’ll give you a statement.”

  “Really?” Her hand slipped to her hip. “Why?”

  Lang edged closer, leaned in so only she could hear him. “Because you give the best blow jobs.”

  The slap stung his face, but he didn’t care. A little pain reminded him of the kind of life he chose to live. “Clubhouse, eleven tonight.”

  She inhaled, her pretty face a mixture of emotions. Lang didn’t trust her, at all. But she warmed his bed, and he never had to ask twice. Gaze sweeping her hourglass figure a last time, he turned to go.

  “Wait,” she said.

  Lang didn’t bother looking at her.

  “I’m getting tired of our arrangement. I want more.”

  So did Lang. More for himself, but most of all, more for Maya, Leigh, and Trisha, his little sisters. The only ones who inspired him to hold back, to contemplate his future, to keep from diving headfirst into a life of violence that could easily swallow you whole. And as for women—he’d never found one worthy of commitment. And if he did, she wouldn’t deserve the life of being a biker’s old lady. Property.

  “There’s nothing more to give, Sandy.” He turned, then pounded his chest with his fist. “My family and Brothers are the only things I care about.”

  “Is that a quote?” she asked, doing a shitty job of masking her hurt feelings.

  “Don’t take it personally,” he advised. “Take it for what it is.”

  People considered him many things, all the clichés: dark and dangerous, violent and crude, barbaric even. But never a liar. And with women, he told it like it was. Mutual pleasure, nothing more. And if he really liked someone, she could stay the night in his bed. But when the sun came up, don’t let the door hit you…Better not to tie himself down, living the life he did.