by Lynn, Davida
“I can help with the wounded. Hope even said so herself.”
The biker looked around. “Doesn’t matter. Hope’s gonna be gone with the kid soon, too. Romero is coming. Don’t argue, just hop on back when he pulls up.”
“Where is he taking me?” I was still angry about the situation, but the thought of losing him was growing very real. He was going to drop me somewhere and turn back, again. He was going to head for danger once I was clear.
“Fuck knows, but I don’t know if we’ll see you two again. If that’s the case, I wish you all the best. He’s a hell of a guy, and you seem like a real catch. My advice? Buy a minivan, have a few kids, and live your lives. It’s a shitload quieter than all this.” As he spoke, Trask grabbed a pistol from the table where weapons were being piled. He pulled the slider and let it spring back into place.
Romero wasn’t coming back? We weren’t coming back? Was he serious? I didn’t have to wait long for an answer. The door opened, and there he was. Romero had a puppy dog look in his eyes. Emotion welled up inside of me as I ran to him. He picked me up, his big arms tight around me.
“I fucked up, babe. I panicked and said something stupid. I’d follow you to the ends of the earth.” His whispered words pushed my emotions over the edge, and the tears started to fall. “I love you, Julie.”
I squeezed him harder. “I love you, too. I’ve pictured losing you too many times in the past week.”
Romero set me back on my feet. “I know. That’s why we’re gone, baby, gone. I told Trask I’m out.”
“I know, but is that the best thing? It sounds like the Sons need you more than ever.”
My man looked around. I followed his gaze. There were at least twenty Rising Sons, mostly up from Bakersfield. Romero shook his head. “Most of these guys fought in Vegas, including Kyle from our chapter. They can handle themselves in a fight without me, I’m sure of it.”
He took my hand, and we left the bar without a word to anyone. Some were still tending to Harris, others were shoving tables and chairs out of the way. It felt cold to leave without a word. Some of them had been kind to me. Some of them might not survive.
Romero handed me the half-helmet and I strapped it beneath my chin. Before he brought his chopper to life, I tapped on his shoulder. Romero turned around.
“Where are we going?” If we really were starting over, it didn’t matter, but I would have at least liked to know what direction we were headed.
As usual, Romero left me wanting more. “Wait for dawn.” He fired his metallic beast up.
It was only a two hour drive, and the night still had a long way to go before dawn, but Romero and I had a long way to go, too.
He had talked about the beach since we’d met, and we were finally back there. The lights from the small town behind us were enough to watch the whitecaps coming toward the sand. I lay back in the sand, my head on Romero’s chest. I didn’t know I could be so calm, especially after everything.
I left my family behind. I knew I’d speak with my mother again, but what would she think of me? She might call me a traitor, she might congratulate me on getting out with a good man, or she might say nothing at all.
As the perpetual rhythm of the ocean lulled us, I asked, “Are you going to miss the club?”
“When I’d gotten out of the military, I felt like I was missing something. In retrospect, maybe I should’ve become a lifer. Either way, I guess. Anyway, when I started riding, I started hooking up with other guys who rode, and when I heard about the Sons, it felt like home in an instant. The like-mindedness, the flirting with danger, the cash. It was just what I needed after a hard few years doing the government’s dirty work.”
I smiled, loving the sound of his words. “You didn’t answer my question. Are you going to miss it?”
Romero adjusted a lock of hair that a breeze had placed over my face. “Yeah, I’ll miss it like hell, but I think it also kept me from realizing that I was missing a whole lot more.”
I let out a soft moan. “I can’t help but think that your comment is directed at me.”
“You would be correct. We can get to know each other without running around in secret or starting turf wars. You really don’t mind transferring? It kills me to pull you out of school.”
“My first semester was going to be a total wash anyway. I had no idea what I wanted to do.”
Romero ran his hand over my arm, lighter than the ocean breeze. “Past tense?”
I nodded. “I think I’d like to go into nursing.”
“Nursing. Huh. I wouldn’t have figured it, but I’m sure you’d be a great nurse. You’re strong, confident, and you like to help people when they need it most. Julie, once we catch a few hours of sleep, we’ll head out and find the best nursing school in Cali. We’ll set up shop in that town and get the next chapter of our life started.”
Romero sat up and pulled me to him. His lips were warm, making every inch of my body feel ice cold in comparison. It didn’t last long, though. We had each other’s clothes off in less than a minute. Pressed against him in the sand, I didn’t feel anything but a fiery passion from head-to-toe.
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Coming in September, Outlaw Country
Colton Wade is the epitome of a bad boy musician, and he’s got the muscles and tattoos to prove it. There’s nothing he loves more than picking out a hottie from the audience for a little post-show fun. Until Gracie Hart walks into his life, that is.
Gracie Hart is unstoppable. The country-turned-pop princess has hit single after hit single, and when their record company gets them together to record a duet, sparks fly.
Sparks ignite flames as the two get throw into a tour together. Colton can’t keep his hands off, but he also can’t suppress his bad side. Gracie’s manager and mother forbids the two for seeing each other.
Like that will stop him…
Chapter One:
“Great show boys!” Colton’s voice was ragged, but it was always ragged. It was his voice. It was the voice.
Some members of his band raised a red solo cup, others were already too distracted by the groupies to take notice. After all, they played a great show every night. The Guilty Party were one of the tightest bands in the country, and Colton led them with pride and power.
He threw back a double of SoCo, then abandoned the red cup in favor of the bottle. He looked around the green room that was his empire. The six men in his band had been slowly getting famous in the last two years. A constant string of shows with albums recorded in between had taken them from bar-band openers to the hottest country act of the year.
Colton’s heart was still racing from the screams of the fans. It was mostly women that had pushed their way against the fence just beyond the front of the stage. That’s how he liked it, too. He and the boys had seen their share of tits flashed throughout the two hour show. It was becoming a tradition among his female fans; one that he hadn’t started, but everyone in the Guilty Party sure encouraged.
Ain’t this life? Colton thought, looking around him. His best friends, booze, and beauties. Ahh, the beauties.
Some blonde with legs for days was coming towards him. The legs seemed to go for days because all that stopped them up top was a pair of daisy dukes. Nah, Even Daisy Duke, herself wouldn’t wear them tiny things. Colton had seen underwear that covered more. When the blonde turned around to slap the bass player playfully on the shoulder, Colton’s eyes went wide.
He took a pull from the SoCo without taking his eyes off of her ass. He couldn’t pry his eyes away. I do beli
eve they call that underbutt or a half moon. God damn, ain’t this life?
She turned back around and gave Colton a confident smile. After all, they both knew why she was there, so why pretend?
“And what might your name be, little lady?” Colton’s raspy voice only sounded deeper after the booze. He liked her, already. He liked parts of her, already.
“Brandi.” There was just enough twang in her voice for Colton’s taste. Alabama or Arkansas, he wondered. It wasn’t quite sweet enough for Georgia, meaning she had traveled all the way to Atlanta to see them. Nice.
He closed his eyes for a second and took in a deep breath. When Colton opened his eyes, he was staring at her tight stomach, bare beneath the cut-off T. Bare except for the jewelry sparkling from her navel.
“Brandi, I can’t tell you how glad I am to meetcha.” He patted his lap, and her underbutt half moon was soon pressing against his growing cock.
Roger had one phone to his ear as he pecked out an email on another. “Yeah, everything went 100%. No contract issues. The crew needs another hour for teardown and we’ll be ready for loadout. Two days off before Jacksonville.”
After hearing the response from the other end, Roger stopped hitting the screen on the email. “Two days off and you want to throw Colton in the studio on one of them? Arvin, James Brown is dead, and Colton Wade is now the hardest working man in show business. You realize that, right? The band hasn’t had two days off in two months.” Another pause. “I don’t care if it’s for charity. Charity would be giving my guys the time off they’ve earned.”
Roger Ellery let out a sigh. He could already sense Arvin Greenburg’s counter argument coming. After what happened in Charleston, Colton could use some good publicity. You don’t get to smash up a cop car and not suffer consequences.
In the two years Roger had been Colton’s manager, there had been a dozen some incidents. Some were pregnancy scares with groupies, others were run-ins with the law. Not once did Colton clean up his act. Roger knew he never would. The manager could name fifty artists that called themselves outlaw country. Colton didn’t need to call himself anything, because fans, critics, and anyone who came in contact with him did it for him.
“Don’t bring that up, Arvin. Colton issued an apology,” Which I wrote. “And he’s donated ten grand to the Charleston PD.” Which he doesn’t know I did in his name.
“You know there’s no such thing as bad publicity, anyway. You guys pay hundreds of thousands for advertising, and my boys go out there and get all kinds of publicity for free.” Minus lawyer fees, minus fines, minus property damage, but that wasn’t important.
Roger Ellery had worked with Moonshine Records long enough to know when the A&R man wouldn’t back down. If he could find a way to sell it to Colton, he’d live to work another day. “Just give me the details.”
Abandoning the email, Roger pulled up a fresh one, addressed to himself. He wedged the phone against his shoulder, ready to type with both thumbs.
“Muscle Shoals Studio, July 19th. Duet of Jackson with…Gracie Hart?” His voice rose in victory when Arvin told him who Colton would be singing with. His heart twisted and turned.
“Will she actually be there, or are we just gluing their vocal tracks together?” Roger had the bait, but only if she’d be there in person. He ignored the cymbal crash and laughter that came from the other side of the green room door. He’d worry about that mess later.
Arvin told him that Grace would be there in person. Their duet would be the highlight and lead single for the album, and a photographer would be on hand to get some publicity shots. Roger knew Colton would be on board.
“Yeah, I got it all. Is T-Bone going to be there, or is he just mastering everything?” Working with a world-class producer would be the icing on the cake, but it wasn't meant to be. “Okay, too bad, but that’s alright. Shoot me the engineer’s info, and I’ll confirm with him.”
Roger could already see the charity album shooting to the top of the country charts. Hell, with Grace Hart on board, it would hit the pop charts, too. She had blurred the line between country and pop in her meteoric rise to the top, and Colton’s audience could increase tenfold overnight with the right moves.
The reminder email was sent to himself, and Roger was ready to tell Colton the news, but Arvin had one last bit of info. “No, no. That’s a deal breaker, I’m afraid,” Roger sighed as he heard another crash, but this time it sounded much bigger and destructive. The cheers were bigger to match. Roger turned to the door, curious and afraid at the same time. “Sorry, Ar, but I can guarantee you that he won’t be ready to work at eight in the morning.”
Davida Lynn grew up reading everything she could get her hands on, including some books she had to hide. At nearly thirty, she has stories pouring from her fingertips. She enjoys nothing more than letting characters unfold before her. When Davida isn’t writing, she loves watching trashy TV, reading pulp fiction, and daydreaming about her next travel destination.
