by Helena Maeve
Table of Contents
Legal Page
Title Page
Book Description
Trademarks Acknowledgement
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
New Excerpt
About the Author
Publisher Page
A Totally Bound Publication
Grounds for Divorce
ISBN # 978-1-78430-371-6
©Copyright Helena Maeve 2014
Cover Art by Posh Gosh ©Copyright December 2014
Edited by Rebecca Douglas
Totally Bound Publishing
This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher, Totally Bound Publishing.
Applications should be addressed in the first instance, in writing, to Totally Bound Publishing. Unauthorized or restricted acts in relation to this publication may result in civil proceedings and/or criminal prosecution.
The author and illustrator have asserted their respective rights under the Copyright Designs and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book and illustrator of the artwork.
Published in 2014 by Totally Bound Publishing, Newland House, The Point, Weaver Road, Lincoln, LN6 3QN
Warning:
This book contains sexually explicit content which is only suitable for mature readers. This story has a heat rating of Totally Burning and a Sexometer of 2.
GROUNDS FOR DIVORCE
Helena Maeve
Overworked and jaded, Kayla is convinced she’s had her fill of bad boys when her boyfriend’s debts catapult her into a stranger’s arms.
A woman with a reputation, Kayla has long given up on true love. She’s thirty-three going on ninety-four, mother of one with a boyfriend who makes no secret of settling for her. When she’s not doing the books at the local strip club, she’s warming up the stage. Holding off the loan sharks is par for the course, until the night outlaw biker, Booker O’Connor, rolls into town.
Suddenly the bills come due and, in an act of desperation, Kayla’s boyfriend offers her up as payment for his debts to the motorcycle club. But their new leader has a reputation of his own.
Booker’s the real deal, from prison ink to bullet scars. No matter how sexy he may be or how much she’s growing to hate her boyfriend, Kayla has been with enough bad boys to know that she should fear callused hands and dangerous smiles. Striking out on her own seems like Kayla’s best option, but the Hell Hounds aren’t known for backing down quietly. She doesn’t expect Booker to give chase, much less discover that she doesn’t mind being caught by a man who can finally give her what she wants.
Trademarks Acknowledgement
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:
Old Spice: Proctor & Gamble Co.
Harley-Davidson: Harley-Davidson Inc.
Mercedes: Daimler AG
Converse: Converse, Inc.
The Times They Are a-Changin’: Bob Dylan
Break On Through: The Doors
PBR: Pabst Brewing Company
Cheerios: General Mills, Inc.
Honda: Honda Motor Co., Ltd.
Advil: Pfizer
Chapter One
Kayla had long given up trying to make out the melody that brayed from speakers duct-taped to the ceiling. She gripped the pole with one hand and swung in a lazy arc, parting her knees suggestively on the descent. Beads dangled from her thong, caressing her thighs and catching on the hollows of her hips. Anything to draw the eye.
She dug her fingernails into the steel in an effort to resist smoothing out the tassels.
The fantasy she was weaving wouldn’t sell if her clients knew how much her outfits itched or what blisters she got from the stilettos she wore on stage.
She tipped forward, kneeling to roll her hips. The friction of thin air did nothing for her, but she moaned anyway. That, too, was part of the fantasy.
The lights were low in the club, but still she noticed the smattering of patrons watching her. None rushed to slide money into her thong. It was still early and Kayla’s routine wasn’t elaborate enough to merit the tips. She was the starter—there to whet appetites before Heidi or Lou were ready to take to the stage.
At the far end of the club, a door swung open, letting in the dizzying glare of a late afternoon sun. The light was blinding. Kayla distinguished a couple of broad-shouldered figures before her vision fogged.
Probably transients, in for a drink and a show before they got on the road again. Not the kind of patrons willing to waste their cash.
Chair legs scraped the tile floor down the stage, the loud screech curbing the swell of bitterness before it could snag hold.
Kayla glanced over. A thickset guy sporting an unfortunate buzz-cut waved a four-fingered hand. His buddy—younger, lankier, his chin like the point of a triangle—leered. Their faces were unfamiliar to Kayla, but their leather kuttes raised a few flags.
Shit. Zach had promised he’d steer clear of the Hounds.
She was relieved when the music finally wound to a close and she was free to lever to her feet, job done. Zach couldn’t say she wasn’t pulling her weight, though he might have a few pointers to improve her routine.
“What? That’s it?” one of the new arrivals heckled.
The heavier of the pair snorted under his breath.
“First course comin’ up,” Kayla replied sweetly. Her six inch heels and two-foot tall stage gave her a sense of altitude, not superiority. She was still naked but for her skimpiest bra and thong, rhinestones swishing against her thighs.
All in a day’s work.
She breathed a sigh of relief as she stepped off stage. At least in the back office, she had only one fragile ego to coddle. First stop was the dressing room, to change out of her costume.
“Zach wants you,” said Lou, smacking her shiny lips in the mirror. “What do you think of the color? Too trampy?”
Kayla tugged a hand through her hair. She craved a shower to wash away the stick of too many stares. “What’s the routine?”
“Arabian nights.”
“Again?”
Lou met her eyes in the glass. The improbably steep slant of her cheekbones seemed even sharper thanks to the judicious use of blush and bronzer. “Did I mention your boyfriend wants to see you? He’s the one who changed up my set. If you’ve got a problem—”
“No problem,” Kayla interjected, shrugging into a silk peignoir and cinching it tight at the waist. “Arabian nights sounds great.” For the third time this week.
Zach only ever changed the set list when he had a personal affinity for the routine.
Kayla locked down the thought. She couldn’t afford jealousy.
“Hey.” Lou twisted on the swivel chair and rested her chin on a clenched fist. “You okay? You seem…I don’t know…off.”
Kayla caught sight of her own reflection in the mirror. She looked about as good as she felt. She’d brushed out her hair so it would appear disheveled and wild under the stage lights but in the dull neon gleam of the dressing room, it seemed unkempt. She needed to get her roots done, maybe darken the blond highlights.
She needed sleep, so those bags under her eyes would at least have the chance to soften.
“Tam
ra’s stressing me out. School stuff…” Kayla shrugged. “Plus, my concealer ran out.”
Lou knew her too well to swallow the paper-thin lie, but she understood the trials and tribulations of makeup. She didn’t press.
“Better go see what Zach wants.”
“No clue,” Lou muttered, “but he looked pissed.”
“Great.”
Kayla grabbed her water bottle and downed a swig. The shadows of the club concealed her as she emerged out onto the main floor.
She was virtually invisible between a couple of scantily-clad waitresses and men whose attention was resolutely on the stage. The low hum of conversation ratcheted up a few notches during the lulls between performances. This was the time to get refills, order nachos, and get the one-dollar bills ready for the next girl.
Only the VIP area retained its dismal quietude at all hours. With a poor view of the stage and never enough clients to pay to park their asses on leather couches, it didn’t see much action.
Zach was there now, perched on the edge of a loveseat with a mean-looking foursome for company. He perked up when he saw Kayla, relief brightening his pale face. “There she is!”
Of the four, only two men were facing the bar. The others turned at the click-clack echo of her heels. The same three-headed hound glared at her from the back of their patched kuttes.
Zach beckoned her with the flick of a hand. “Come here, babe. Someone I want you to meet…” His voice didn’t shake, but Kayla read his unease all the same. “Kayla’s my best girl,” he told his new friends.
She forged a smile as he pulled her into his lap. He smelled of Mary Jane and Old Spice, but she was willing to put up with it as long as he kept his arms locked around her waist. These days it felt like he only held her when he was drunk.
“Hi,” Kayla breathed.
She wasn’t sure who she was supposed to be looking at. The men made no move to introduce themselves, much less shied from staring at the flash of upper thigh visible between the folds of the peignoir. Three of them sported tattoos on their arms. Two had shiv marks on their cheeks that looked a little too deliberate for accidents.
Zach tightened his hold around her midriff. “What do you think, Booker?” He was like a puppy, yapping for approval.
“You sleepin’ with her?” one of the men asked. He lived at the intersection of scarred and tatted-up, but it was the idle crack of knuckles against his jaw that had Kayla itching to get away. His kutte was patched with all kinds of iconography, from a Monmouth, NV rectangle on his breast to a one-percenter emblem lower down.
Kayla knew enough about gang colors and biker insignias to guess that they were outlaws.
“Yes,” Zach said, wresting her from her thoughts.
Booker clucked his tongue. “Offerin’ up your old lady… Don’t think I’ve heard that one before.” The ‘9’ on his kutte caught Kayla’s attention. Then the skull and crossbones.
“Offering up for what?” Kayla murmured, meaning the question for Zach.
He ignored her. “Look, man. I’m telling you… She’s good. It’ll cost me not to have her on the floor tonight, but I’ll carry the expense. I want to square things off with the Hounds. It’s been bugging me for months—”
“Thirty Gs,” Booker said. “’Less there’s three more where your best girl came from, she ain’t gon’ be enough.”
“You owe the Colonel money,” added another thug. “Not pussy.”
Too shocked to speak, Kayla registered the bobbing of Zach’s throat against her shoulder.
“We’ll take her,” Booker decided, his gaze lingering. “But you still owe twenty grand, understood?”
“Yes. Of course. Thank you…”
The lilting strains of a guitar bled through the PA system, the intro to Lou’s performance. It was more country than Middle Eastern.
In a state of stupor, Kayla watched the men rise. She saw herself kicking Booker in the shin and making a run for it. She pictured her hands wrapped around Zach’s throat as he struggled for breath. All tempting fantasies, but sixteen years of being on her own had taught her not to bite the hand that feeds.
She knew how these deals were made. Booker, with his dark eyes and his square jaw, would take everything Zach offered and still stomp all over him.
Kayla was merely the starter.
“Looks like a party over there,” Booker mused. “Think we’ll go see the show. Drinks on the house, right?” He towered over them both, but the question was meant for Zach. His eyes crinkled at the corners when he glanced at Kayla. “I’ll see you later, sweetheart.”
The three-headed hound snarled from the back of his leather kutte as he stalked away, Hell Hounds emblazoned in white underneath.
Kayla tore free of her boyfriend’s arms. “What the fuck?”
“Don’t start.” Zach raked both hands through his thinning blond hair.
“Are you out of your goddamn mind? You’re selling me?” She knew that things hadn’t been right between them for a while, but Zach had never pulled anything like this before. “Look at me,” Kayla gritted out, grabbing for his chin.
He slapped her hand away like batting at a fly. “You want ‘em to shut us down? That’s what they’ll do if we don’t pay up, Kay. Or do you want ‘em to come in here, take whatever they want…whoever they want.” Zach stood up. He didn’t need to tower over Kayla to make her feel small. He continued, his voice low and dangerous, “You don’t want to do this? Fine. They’ll just come back for Lou and Francine and the others—”
“Ain’t my fault they’re here to begin with!”
Zach’s eyes flashed. For a second, Kayla thought he’d strike her. He hadn’t raised a hand to her before in anger, but they seemed to be nearing that line. She didn’t know what she’d do when they crossed it.
“These ones ain’t local,” Zach told her. “They came down from Nevada, across state lines… They’ll be gone before you know it.” He pressed his hands together. “Look, this isn’t for me. It’s for the club and the girls—”
Kayla sucked her lips into her mouth, tasting the waxy flavor of her lipstick. “You’re a piece of work. You know that?”
“I know… I’m not perfect. I make mistakes. But you’ll do this, right?” Zach gazed at her with watery eyes. “You’ll help us out?”
Kayla glanced toward the front of the club. She loved this place. It was the closest thing to salvation she’d ever found. A whole month’s worth of bookkeeping awaited in the office. She had orders to get ready so they wouldn’t run out of liquor by the end of the week.
On stage Lou swayed her hips tantalizingly to her version of the Dance of the Seven Veils.
The bikers seemed to be enjoying themselves, elbowing each other like schoolboys as they waved bills at her perfectly flat midriff.
Without meaning to, Kayla sought Booker among the group. He was there, all right. But he wasn’t leering at the stage. He caught Kayla’s eye across the stretch of empty chairs and raised his beer in a silent toast. A thick curl of ink adorned his biceps, just beneath a burn mark. Kayla pursed her lips.
She loved this place enough to keep it in business, but Zach was out of his mind if he thought she was sleeping with that.
* * * *
“You all alone, baby?”
The catcall came from high altitude. Two boys lounged on the ruin of a dilapidated brick wall, a third pitching pebbles at the crows that picked at refuse by the side of the road.
Kayla kept her gaze trained dead ahead and spurred her feet. She’d been down this road before. She knew these boys or others like them—their battered jeans sagging low on narrow hips, their hair long, too long, lips busted open by sharp knuckles.
She knew the dark alleys, the risky spots. In her haste, she’d left her car keys in the office and hadn’t dared go back into the Grounds to get them.
Those Harleys lined up in the parking lot might’ve had something do with her sudden onset cowardice.
“Aw, don’t be like that,�
�� the boys wheedled. Rubble shifted as the bolder of the trio scrabbled down from his perch. “Hey, you sellin’?”
Offense was hard to muster after so many years. Kayla scoffed under her breath—quiet, but not so quiet that the sound didn’t carry.
“Something funny, bitch? Hey, I’m talkin’ at you!” He made to grab for her, short fuse sparking like a gunshot in the night.
Kayla wrenched free and shoved him back. “Get your hands off me, you little shit!”
The click of a switchblade snagging loose curbed the flush of righteous indignation.
“What, you’re all Miss Precious now? We seen you before,” the boy snarled. He was too young to have been one of her clients, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have a daddy or a brother who’d passed along the fond memories. People talked. Hackby was the kind of town where mistakes festered and bad seeds sprouted the strongest roots.
Kayla held up her hands in a pacifying gesture. “Here, you want money? I got…” She hadn’t earned anything in tips today. Her paycheck didn’t come in until the end of the week. What she had was an unregistered a gun in her purse. If she could get to it, that might put an end to this nonsense. “I don’t got a lot, but—”
“Fuck your charity, bitch.” The kid took a step closer.
Kayla retreated by the same amount of inches, heart lodging in her throat.
Like sharks smelling blood, the other two wannabes landed on their feet on the crumbling sidewalk, flanking their friend.
“I got a better idea,” the leader snarled. His blade gleamed in the sullen glare of the nearest streetlight. “We take the money and whatever else you got worth sellin’, and you just shut your pretty little…”
The thunderous roar of a diesel engine drowned the next words out of his mouth. The boy froze mid-sentence, squinting into the shadows down the street where no light shone.
