by Siobhan Muir
“Yeah, we’d already marked the line and were clearing some of the charred trees when we found it. Looks like a camper got caught by surprise when the wind shifted last night.” The firefighter speaking was kinda cute. “These fires can move fast when the winds shift. This poor guy probably never had a chance.”
The camera focused on the anchorperson again. “This marks the second body found after a drastic shift in wind conditions along the Western Slope. So far the police haven’t released the name of the victim, but it’s thought to be a member of a local motorcycle club who recently went missing while camping.”
I tuned out the rest of the report as I made my shot. Both Special Agent Dirk Hopkins and Roy got handed their Karma and I didn’t have to do a damn thing. I definitely agreed with Dollhouse.
“Fuck yeah, it’s about time.”
THE END
Author’s Note
A lot of people have asked me why I entitled this story My Forever Cocky Biker Encounter. Back when I started writing this story in May 2018, Romancelandia was going through a rough patch. A would-be actress and author tried to trademark the word “Cocky” and went after other, previously published authors, threatening them with legal action if they didn’t take the word “Cocky” out of their titles. A lawyer came out of retirement, there were court hearings, and in the end, the cocky would-be author withdrew her trademark petition.
Of course authors and game makers jumped on the bandwagon and tried to trademark “Forever”, “Biker”, “Rebellion”, and “Encounter,” respectively. All of them were fought and shot down. But that’s why the title of this tale is My Forever Cocky Biker Encounter. Happy reading.
Siobhan
Excerpt
DUDE WITH A COOL CAR, coming Feb 2019
Cooper DeVille, US Marshal
“This has got to be my bad karma coming back to haunt me.” I rubbed my eyes in frustration before putting the binocs back to them and squinting through the lenses. “And Backlog will be right behind it.”
Or right behind me. I took a moment to glance over my shoulder at the wooded slopes around me. Ponderosa pine forests were far more open than those in temperate states, but they still offered a little cover. I relaxed when I heard birds chirping and caught sight of a chipmunk skittering to the top of a nearby rock.
No predators here but me.
I turned my attention to the compound below. I’d been up here in the dry hills above Fort Collins for almost a week now and I wasn’t any closer to answers than when I first arrived. I was investigating the disappearance of Agents Dirk Hopkins and Arnold Eisenburg, and everything pointed to Backlog, the shadowy organization I’d been tracking for two years now. Both Hopkins and Eisenburg had been members as far as I could tell, but the tracks were subtle.
“Hence why it’s called a ‘shadow organization,’ jackass.”
My own investigation had to be shadowy because I suspected Backlog had infiltrated my agency, the Marshal Service. I didn’t know who to trust. Even my partner, Anna Fitzsimmons, had said some things that made me wonder if she’d been inducted into the organization.
And that would really suck. I liked Anna. She was a damn good Marshal and, I’d thought, a pretty good friend.
Only my supervisor knew what I was doing and why, and I’d vetted the hell out of him before I confided in him. He’d squared it so it appeared I was on extended leave for anyone checking on my absence, but he’d been sending me messages about impending scrutiny.
I’d gone off the grid and purchased a burner phone to keep the technonuts from tracking me, but that would only last so long. I really needed some damn answers. Like why was Agent Eiseburg undercover in the Concrete Angels Motorcycle Club and what was his connection to Dirk Hopkins?
Especially because both of them are now dead.
I focused the binocs on the yard below me again. Had Backlog cut its losses and had the agents killed? Or did they pay the Concrete Angels to take them out? Either way, I needed to know if the motorcycle club was part of Backlog’s arm or just an unwitting accomplice in the deaths of two federal officers.
Frankly, I couldn’t care less about Hopkins’ and Eisenburg’s deaths. Both were less-than-stellar men. Hell, Hopkins had been indicted on rape, embezzlement, illegal wiretaps, and sexual harassment. Eisenburg’s arrest had been on the horizon when he turned up dead in the wake of a wildfire. The news reported that he’d burned to death, but the autopsy proved the gunshot to his head had squelched his personal fire first. He’d been executed and left where the fire could obscure the evidence.
The question was, who ordered the execution? Backlog or the Concrete Angels? Eisenburg was no prize and my investigation had found several accounts where money had been stored and then transferred away. Lots of money. So, had he been stealing from his undercover work or had he been paid by Backlog?
Too many fuckin’ questions.
And here was another one: why the hell did the Concrete Angels’ compound look like a cute, well-maintained mountain motel? While there was a big aluminum barn where they kept their vehicles and workshop, and another large building that appeared to be barracks, the higher-ranking members’ residences and the clubhouse were downright quaint. Each window sported a flowerbox full of marigolds, petunias, and some sort of white daisies. They reminded me of my grandmother’s garden back in western Washington, and I shook my head.
What kind of a motorcycle club gives a shit about flowers?
Apparently, the Concrete Angels had an honest-to-goddess grounds crew who lovingly took care of the flowers and landscaping. I had to admit I was pretty damn impressed.
I shifted on the rocky ground between two juniper shrubs and scanned the yard again. A bunch of younger men and women, prospects to joining the club, lounged around the various buildings, though they avoided the cabins in between the clubhouse and the vehicle barn. The barn stood open to allow for the breeze to cool the interior while several CA guys worked on their bikes. The pool behind the clubhouse had a nice assortment of half-naked people lounging around or swimming, but no one I recognized as the top leadership.
I was planning to swing back to the yard when a goddess of golden-brown skin, sleek lines, and an elegant Afro sauntered toward the diving board at the pool. She wore a two-piece suit I’d heard the ladies call a “tankini” in rust, rose, gold and black. The lines of the suit perfectly molded to her round ass and curved belly. The top had a V-neck and showed off her cleavage perfectly.
A large handful each. Nice.
My cock hardened at the sight and I had to squirm a bit to get my tightening shaft in a comfortable spot while lying on my belly. Not the easiest thing to do when I’m a “grower” rather than a “show-er.” I liked my women with boobs, belly, butt, and thighs, and this woman fit my fantasy chick to a T.
I watched her strut onto the diving board, bounce a few times—and her tits bounced beautifully too—and cannonball into the pool with her knees against her chest. The other swimmers yelped and shouted at her when she came back up, but she grinned, unrepentant.
Damn. That’s my kind of woman.
Except I was supposed to be investigating her motorcycle club and she probably was some other guy’s old lady. The thought wilted my dick and I swore under my breath. It was stupid, but I didn’t want her to be attached to anyone.
“You can’t always get what you want.”
About Siobhan Muir
Siobhan Muir lives in Cheyenne, Wyoming, with her husband, two daughters, and a vegetarian cat she swears is a shape-shifter, though he’s never shifted when she can see him. When not writing, she can be found looking down a microscope at fossil fox teeth, pursuing her other love, paleontology. An avid reader of science fiction/fantasy, her husband gave her a paranormal romance for Christmas one year, and she was hooked for good.
In previous lives, Siobhan has been an actor at the Colorado Renaissance Festival, a field geologist in the Aleutian Islands, and restored inter-planetary imagery at the USGS. She
’s hiked to the top of Mount St. Helens and to the bottom of Meteor Crater.
Siobhan writes kick-ass adventure with hot sex for men and women to enjoy. She believes in happily ever after, redemption, and communication, all of which you will find in her paranormal romance stories.
Connect with Siobhan online at:
https://www.siobhanmuir.com
https://www.facebook.com/siobhan.muir.35
https://twitter.com/SiobhanMuir
https://www.siobhanmuir.com/siobhans-blog
https://pinterest.com/siobhanmuir35
https://mewe.com/i/siobhan.muir
Other Books by Siobhan Muir
Queen Bitch of the Callowwood Pack
Her Devoted Vampire
Bad Boys of Beta Squad Series
Bronco’s Rough Ride
The Navy’s Ghost
Rimshot’s Hard Target
Bam-Bam’s Inked Hart
Deli’s Take Out
Cloudburst Colorado Series
A Hell Hound’s Fire
The Beltane Witch
Christmas I.C.E. Magic
Cloudburst Ice Magic
Cloudburst Coffee & Spa
Concrete Angels MC Series
My Forever Cocky Biker Encounter
Elemental Hearts Series
Wildfire’s Heart
Rifts Series
Take the Reins
A Centaur’s Solstice Wish
In Death’s Shadow
Triple Star Ranch Series
Rope a Falling Star
Star Light, Star Bright
Capitol of Second Chances Series
Second Chance Succubus
Ultimate Recon Series
Darwin’s Evolution
Warbler Peninsula Series
Order of the Dragon
The Valkyrie’s Sword
Burning Yuletide
The Ivory Road Serial
A Walk in the Sand
Outback Dreams
Anthologies
Spank or Treat 2014
Spank or Treat 2016
The Cocky Cockers
Coming Soon
Courting the Dragon Widow (Cloudburst Colorado #6)
Dude With a Cool Car (Concrete Angels MC #2)
Angel Ink (Concrete Angels MC #3)
Star Spangled Banner (Triple Star Ranch #3)
