Full Heat is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
A Loveswept Ebook Original
Copyright © 2016 by Carla Swafford
Excerpt from Her Survivor by Vonnie Davis copyright © 2016 by Vonnie Davis
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Loveswept, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.
LOVESWEPT is a registered trademark and the LOVESWEPT colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.
This book contains an excerpt from the forthcoming book Her Survivor by Vonnie Davis. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming edition.
ebook ISBN 9781101886113
Cover design: Okay Creations
Cover photograph: Shutterstock
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Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Dedication
Acknowledgments
By Carla Swafford
About the Author
The Editor’s Corner
Excerpt from Her Survivor
Chapter 1
“I’ll kill you!”
If Storm Ryder had a nickel for every time he’d heard that, the beautiful Fat Bob Harley-Davidson he’d had a hard-on for the last few months would be his.
The redneck’s knuckles came around in a powerhouse swing and knocked Storm’s head to the side. Whether the surrounding crowd groaned out of sympathy for Storm or for what was about to happen to the stranger was anyone’s guess.
Vision blurred, Storm remained on his feet. He’d learned to take punches as a kid and improved on that skill in prison. With a shake of his head, he paused and blinked a couple times as the numbness shot along his cheekbone.
Damn, that’s going to hurt in a few seconds.
Slamming his fist into the redneck’s ribcage, Storm stepped closer as the big guy hunched over. With a left into his stomach, he brought the man a few inches off the floor. The bastard staggered and threw up.
What the hell?
Storm looked down. The sorry piece of shit had fucked up his brand-new motorcycle boots. It was going to be a son of a bitch to clean the crap off the side buckles.
Another hit with his left to the man’s nose knocked the bastard straight back and sprawled out on the floor.
“Hey, boss, want me to take the trash out?” Twofer nodded to the asshole now curled up in a ball.
A second passed before Storm remembered Twofer. Damn that hit scrambled his brain. Even without the hit, it was hard to reconcile the little prospect he knew before entering Holman Correctional with the six-foot-four monster glaring at the stranger. From what Storm had been told, Twofer had a growth spurt over a year ago and soon after had become a full-fledged member of the Brothers of Mayhem. He could easily haul the misinformed redneck and dump him outside.
Storm never allowed anyone inside the Skull and Bones Bar who refused to respect the Brothers of Mayhems’ turf. For a stranger to come on to a Brother’s old lady and then call her a slut after she’d said, “Get lost” was batshit crazy. The man was lucky only Storm and Twofer heard him. Usually, Storm would be restraining ten other Brothers, but it was so early in the afternoon, less than a handful of the members hung around.
“Yeah, take him out, but no need to drive the point home about leaving. I think he’s got the idea.” Storm pulled a paper towel off the rack behind the bar and swiped at his knuckles, cleaning where his skin had split and bled.
Stretching his fingers, he checked for any other damage, including fractures. In many ways, it was hell being a lefty, but people rarely expected such a solid punch from that direction. The drawback was the amount of punishment his hand received. Over the last three years, he’d broken his middle finger twice, ring and pinky finger once each. Lately, he’d started wearing fingerless black leather gloves, but he’d taken them off to wash his bike outside the bar and had walked in to grab a rag when he heard the asshole.
He placed one booted foot on a barstool’s lower rung to swipe at the spray, cussing the whole time.
“Hey, boss, there’s a woman here to see ya.” Cutter, his sergeant at arms, released the woman and gave her a small shove toward Storm.
“Mr. Storm Ryder?”
Mister?
Storm lifted his head to stare at the woman craning her neck and eyeing the clientele in the dark Skull and Bones barroom.
He tossed the paper toward the trashcan and leaned on the bar.
“Who wants to know?” His gaze leisurely traveled the girl’s body. Her light brown hair piled in a messy knot on top softened her high cheekbones. With her white buttoned-up shirt and long tight skirt, she looked like what the porn world loved: a suppressed librarian. She even wore those little half glasses and glanced through them to a notebook she clutched in her hand. Was someone playing a joke on him? He looked around. Everyone was watching the girl. He wondered how much she got an hour, and if he could afford her for longer.
He looked over to Cutter. The big man shrugged his shoulders. Storm’s attention returned to the woman.
“Mary Jane Parker.” Her eyebrows almost reached her hairline when she moved a little closer. He imagined he looked a sight with a cut on his forehead, a swollen lip, a bruised cheekbone, and one eye black and blue with a tinge of yellow. The bruised eye—a reminder to duck sooner—was from a fight yesterday.
“You’re fucking kidding me.” He shook his head. What the hell? Some people had no imagination when it came to their stage names. “Tell me your real name.”
She looked around the room as if she’d never seen a bar before.
“That’s my real name. My parents are nonconformists and indulge in various illegal substances.” Her attention continued to wander around the room.
How fucking sexy was that? She talked like a librarian too. He rubbed his bottom lip, taking in the mouthwatering length of her legs. That was, what he could see from the knee down. She was nearly his height.
“And what can I do you for?” Oh, yeah. He would like to see her facedown with her legs spread. It had been a long time since he felt instantly in lust. He liked it. He liked it very much.
Her attention finally settled on him. “The reason I’m here is that my partner, Jimmy Marcus, heard your gang was hiring themselves out as bodyguards.”
“Well, Mary Jane.” He stepped nearer and leaned down, his nose mere inches from hers. “We’re not a gang. We’re a club,” he said in a threatening tone.
The corners of her lips lifted. Unafraid, she stared straight into his eyes. She was either brave or terribly stupid. Most people lowered their gaze or stepped back.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean any offense. I just wanted a few minutes of your time, Mr. Ryder.”
“Fuck the mister shit
,” he muttered. “Call me Storm.”
“Storm.” She said the name as if she tasted it. “May we talk a few minutes in private?”
Hot damn, whoever had hired her had a good sense of humor and deserved free beer on the house for the next month. He couldn’t wait to see what was underneath that blouse.
He nodded to the hallway that led to the bar’s office. “Ladies first.”
She smiled big and walked toward the back.
Shiiit. That tight little ass of hers swayed just enough to get his cock twitching.
She was exactly what he needed to make the day better. Taking in the view with a smile, he decided he wanted some of that sweet tail. His fingers tingled with the need to reach out and squeeze that firm split peach. All women like her should be required to wear formfitting skirts. He bet she looked mighty fine in tight jeans. What the hell was he thinking? She would be amazing without anything on.
As soon as he stepped into the room behind her, he shut and locked the door.
Those expressive trimmed eyebrows of hers lifted, but her smile didn’t waver.
Oh, hell, yes. Party time!
—
Mary Jane glanced around at the sparse room. The dust on the metal desk made it clear no one really worked in there. The walls had several posters of bikini-clad girls sitting in precarious poses on motorcycles.
The whole building intrigued her, including the few men she’d seen stretched out in chairs or perched on barstools dressed in faded jeans with leather vests, displaying their colors. She believed that was what they called the vest and patches. Jimmy Marcus, family friend and employer, loved reading about motorcycle gangs…no, the blond delicious tall drink of water in front of her said to call it a club.
With his bruised and cut-up masculine face, danger oozed off Storm Ryder like a heady shot of hundred-ten-proof vodka. Even his name warned of risky behavior, and her lips puckered when she said it. With his many shades of brushed back blond hair, a couple days’ growth on his chiseled face, and intelligent silvery eyes that followed her every movement, it was easy to see why he fascinated her the most.
After living the first nineteen of her twenty-three years in a commune with her eco-conscious parents, she’d decided to accept Jimmy’s offer to have her work for him and see a bit of the world. She’d learned a lot, but Jimmy was nearing seventy and rarely did more than work and watch TV. So when he asked her to track down the Brothers of Mayhem’s president and offer him a job, she jumped on it.
“So show me what you got, Mary Jane,” Storm said in his deep voice, moving around her until he stopped and stared at her with those light colored eyes.
She probably should have protested his invading her personal space, but she liked the heat radiating off his body and warming her in ways that had nothing to do with temperature. He smelled of soap, sweat, leather, and pure maleness.
“I have nothing to show you,” she said. Jimmy had warned her the men were very aggressive.
“You won’t make much money without taking it off.” He crossed his arms and tilted his head.
“You think I’m a stripper?” When his eyebrows rose, she looked down at her clothes and barely-there boobs and laughed. “No. I have no idea where you got that. You’re right. If I was, I would be a poor one for sure.”
He dropped his arms to his side and edged closer. “Then why are you here?”
“I need your club’s services.” She felt giddy inside. His smoldering eyes made playing with him so much more interesting. “My boss has been threatened by a gang that calls itself Thirty-Second. I believe it has something to do with the street they first controlled.”
“Yeah.” He chuckled. Such a naughty sound that melted every joint in her body. “The dickheads will never admit what it really stands for.”
She suspected by his tone and the glint in his eyes that he was referring to the gang’s sexual stamina. She cleared her throat to hide the giggle she fought against. When had she become so silly? No need to encourage him.
“Why would they pick on you and your friend?” he asked with a grin.
“We own Marcus-Parker Motorcycle Repair shops and sponsor Blaine Flyer’s NASCAR team.”
“Flyer sucks.”
“That’s not what I heard.” Her smile widened. It was well known that Flyer was a womanizer.
He pulled his head back and looked at her harder, as if he wasn’t sure he understood what she was implying about Flyer. A dangerously hot expression crossed his face. He liked her teasing.
“So they threatened to wreck your shops.” It was more of a statement than a question. She was thankful that he had moved the conversation back on track.
She guessed a lot of people would be wary of his tone, but her mom always told her she had a special knack for reading people. The anger he projected was toward the Thirty-Second gang and not her.
“Why do you think they don’t want to mess with the team?” she asked.
“Thirty-Second loves cars and never screws around with them except for stealing one on occasion. They especially love NASCAR. But they hate motorcycles and everyone who has anything to do with them, all because their boss’s brother was killed by a biker.”
“So they blame everyone for his death?”
“Anyone that’s a biker. Yeah.”
“They may hate bikers and their rides, but they love the money they get from us for protection. That’s why we have a problem.” She never understood how anyone could dislike an inanimate object or blame another’s death on everyone who rode one.
“Extortion sounds more like your problem,” he stated, lifting one eyebrow.
“We would like to make it your problem, I guess you could say.” She tilted her head. “As I mentioned, I need to hire you to protect Jimmy.”
“What about you? I take it you’re the Parker in that repair business.” He leaned a shoulder to the wall and rubbed his chin, his gaze once again drifting down her torso.
“Yes. I’m Jimmy’s partner.”
The speculative look he gave would normally anger her—she wasn’t curvy or big chested, so there wasn’t much to take in—but if she was being truthful with herself, she was doing the same to him.
—
Storm had watched her luscious lips move, not hearing one word. He’d never seen lips that needed to be kissed, bit, and sucked as much as hers. Hot damn! Every inch of her begged him to taste her. Usually, he lusted after big tits like the ones so many of the old ladies in the club flaunted. He had a feeling he was about to switch to a handful. Yeah. Small ones with hard little nipples perfect for tweaking.
His gaze drifted back up to her face.
One trimmed dark brow lifted as he looked into her eyes. Instead of embarrassment or anger, humor twinkled in their mossy depths. Shit! He fucking loved that, a woman who didn’t play hard to get but didn’t throw her body at any available male.
Too bad he had to scratch the idea of her being a porn star or a stripper. If she had been, convincing her to remove her clothes would’ve been so much easier.
One thing was for sure: he needed to teach her the danger of walking into a biker’s bar without a bodyguard. Guess she’d just hired one. He would take care of her personally. The woman did need a keeper. Sure wouldn’t be a hardship.
“Well, sweet cheeks, let’s talk terms.” No matter how much he was interested in what was beneath her clothes, business came first. The club needed money. “How long does Jimmy need our services?”
His gaze involuntarily slid down to her thin buttoned-up blouse.
What could he say? He was pure heterosexual male.
—
She liked how he listened intently to every word she said, even bending his head slightly. Since she was five eight, most men were at eye level, but her direct gaze met Storm’s lower lip. The thin scar that cut diagonally from the corner of his mouth across his stubbled chin intrigued her. It gave him a savage look.
Blond men had never interested her, but she liked h
ow his hair fell nearly to his shoulders in strands of light brown, gold, and almost white. The creases above his brow and at the outer edge of his eyes spoke of hours in the sun. She estimated his age at early thirties, but when he’d briefly grinned at his friend in the barroom, she’d thought mid-twenties. He needed to smile more often.
Those light gray eyes leveled to stare into hers again.
His heavy-lidded look told her he’d been thinking more about recreation than business. That’s interesting. He hadn’t been listening. Feeling a little guilty about giving him the same treatment, again, and realizing she hadn’t answered his question, she said, “Jimmy’ll talk to you about that.”
“Okay. Let’s go talk with your friend.”
Her mouth quirked. Oh, so it’s going to be like that.
She suspected he believed Jimmy was her sugar daddy. Wrong. Jimmy treated her like a favorite granddaughter. He respected her enough to let her handle the repair shops while he played—his words—with the race team.
“I’ll drive.” She held up and rattled her keys.
“I’ll follow.” He opened a drawer and pulled out a helmet.
She shrugged and walked out. Deep inside, she wished he’d asked her to ride on his bike. To wrap her arms around his trim waist and rest her hands on such a brawny chest would set her up in fantasies for months to come.
Anyway, she couldn’t wait until Jimmy got a look at the Brothers of Mayhem’s president. The old man would be in outlaw motorcycle club heaven. Storm wearing his leather vest with patches on the front proclaiming his status in the club, and the back with its blazing skull and rude tongue warning everyone how little he cared for society would excite the old man into nearly a heart attack.
She stepped outside and the roar of five motorcycles pulling up shook the ground beneath her. Her heartbeat sped up. What normal woman could see that many men in leather and patches on large Harleys and not experience an adrenaline rush?
Full Heat: A Brothers of Mayhem Novel Page 1
