Anyway, the morning of their 35th wedding anniversary, my uncle took my aunt on a drive and asked her if she’d marry him again after all they’d been through. She said yes, and he told her he wanted to go down and talk to the minister about renewing their vows.
When she got to the church, her entire family was already there. Her sister, daughters-in-law and nieces were waiting with three wedding dresses for her to choose from, along with a beautician to do her hair, nails and makeup. Their sons the groomsmen, the bridesmaids were their daughters-in-law and their beautiful grandchildren led the way down the aisle.
I never saw Shade and Mandy having a traditional epilogue, but when I thought about that particular wedding—a wedding decades in the making—it somehow fit them.
Sentimental? Yes. But once you survive a few decades with the same person without strangling enough other, I think you’re allowed one day for sentiment.
PS—Okay, after I wrote this author’s note, I realized that I left out the best part. When I originally called Auntie to ask permission to use their story, Uncle answered and took a message, saying she was busy. She called me back not long afterward, apologizing for not picking up the phone herself. What was her excuse?
My Auntie couldn’t answer the phone because she’d been too busy racing her Corvette… to Vegas.
Guess sentimental works out sometimes, doesn’t it?
* * * *
Also from 1001 Dark Nights and Joanna Wylde, discover Rome's Chance.
Discover More Joanna Wylde
Rome’s Chance
A Reapers MC Novella
By Joanna Wylde
Coming April 24, 2018
Click here to pre-order.
From New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Joanna Wylde comes a new story in her Reapers MC series…
Rome McGuire knew he was in trouble the first time he saw her.
She was sweet and pretty and just about perfect in every way. She was also too young and innocent for the Reapers Motorcycle Club. He did the right thing, and walked away.
The second time, he couldn’t resist tasting her.
Gorgeous and smart, fun and full of wonder, she jumped on his bike and would’ve followed him anywhere. Still, she deserved a shot at happiness somewhere bigger and better than a town like Hallies Falls. Walking away wasn’t so easy that time, but her family needed her and he had a job to do.
When she came around a third time, he’d had enough. Randi Whittaker had been given two chances to escape, and now it was time for Rome to take his.
This time, the only way Randi would be leaving Hallies Falls was on the back of Rome’s bike.
Reaper’s Property
Reaper’s Motorcycle Club Book 1
by Joanna Wylde
Now Available
Click here to purchase.
Marie doesn’t need a complication like Horse. The massive, tattooed badass biker who shows up at her brother’s house one afternoon doesn’t agree. He wants Marie on his bike and in his bed. Now.
But Marie just left her abusive jerk of an ex-husband and she’s not looking for a new man. Especially one like Horse. She doesn’t know his real name or where he lives. She’s ninety percent certain he’s a criminal and that the “business” he talked with her brother wasn’t website design. She needs him out of her life, which would be a snap if he wasn’t so damned sexy.
Horse is part of the Reapers Motorcycle Club, and when he wants something, he takes it. What is he wants is Marie, but she’s not interested in becoming some biker’s property.
Then her brother steals from the club. Now Marie can save him by giving Horse what he wants—at home, in public, on his bike… and if she’s a very, very good girl, he’ll let her brother live.
* * * *
Yakima Valley, Eastern Washington
September 17—Present Day
Marie
Crap, there were bikes outside the trailer.
Three Harleys and a big maroon truck I didn’t recognize.
Good thing I’d stopped by the grocery store on the way home. It’d already been a long day and the last thing I wanted to do was to run out and buy even more food, but the guys always wanted to eat. Jeff hadn’t given me any extra beer money and I didn’t want to ask him—not with his money troubles. And it wasn’t like I paid rent. For a guy whose entire mission in life was to smoke pot and play video games, my brother Jeff had done a lot for me over the past three months. I owed him and I knew it.
I’d already grabbed some beer and ground beef that’d been on sale. I’d planned on burgers, buns and chips for the two of us, but I always made extra, for leftovers. Gabby had given me a watermelon she’d picked up in Hermiston that weekend. I even had a big potato salad all made up for the potluck after work tomorrow. I’d have to stay up late making another one, but I could handle that.
I smiled, thankful that something in my life was going right. Less than a minute to plan and I’d figured out a meal—might not be gourmet, but it wouldn’t embarrass Jeff, either.
I pulled up next to the bikes, careful to leave them plenty of room. I’d been terrified of the Reapers the first time they’d come over. Anyone would be. They looked like criminals, all tattooed and wearing black leather vests covered in patches. They cussed and drank and could be rude and demanding, but they’d never stolen or broken anything. Jeff had warned me about them lots of times but he also considered them friends. I’d decided he was exaggerating about the danger, for the most part. I mean Horse was dangerous, but not because of any criminal activity…
Anyway, I think Jeff did some web design for them or something. Some kind of business. Why a motorcycle club needed a website I had no idea, and the one time I’d asked him about it he told me not to ask.
Then he’d scuttled off to the casino for two days.
I got out of the car and went around back to grab the groceries, almost scared to see whether Horse’s bike was in the lineup. I wanted to see him so bad it hurt, but wasn’t sure what I’d say if I did. It’s not like he’d answered my text messages. I couldn’t help myself, I had to check for him, so I grabbed my groceries and walked over to the bikes to scope them out before going inside.
I don’t know much about bikes, but I knew enough to recognize his. It’s big and sleek and black. Not all bright and decorated the way you sometimes see bikes on the freeway. Just big and fast, with giant, fat tailpipes off the back and more testosterone than should be legal.
The motorcycle was almost as beautiful as the man who rode it.
Almost.
My heart stopped when I saw that bike, parked right on the end. I wanted to touch it, see if the leather of the seat was as smooth as I remembered, but I wasn’t stupid enough to do that. I didn’t have the right. I really shouldn’t even be excited to see him, but I felt a rush knowing he was already inside my trailer. Things weren’t smooth between us and I honestly didn’t know if he’d even acknowledge me. For a while he’d seemed almost like my boyfriend. The last time I’d seen him, he’d scared the crap out of me.
Even scary, the man made my panties wet.
Tall, built, with shoulder-length hair he kept pulled back in a ponytail, and thick black stubble on his face. Stark, tribal cuffs ringed his wrists and upper arms. And what a face… Horse was handsome, like movie star handsome. I’d bet he had women coming out his ears, and the fact that he’d spent more than one night in my bed made me all too aware that his beauty wasn’t just above the belt. The thought of his below-belt assets led to a brief but intense fantasy about him, me, my bed and some chocolate syrup.
Yum.
Shit. Dessert. I needed dessert for tonight. Horse loved sweets. Were there any chocolate chips? I could do cookies, so long as there was enough butter. Please don’t let him be pissed at me, I prayed silently, even though I was pretty sure God wasn’t interested in prayers where the promise of fornication played such a prominent role. I reached the door and juggled the bags, sliding most of them onto my r
ight arm so I could turn the handle. I walked in and looked around the living room.
Then I screamed.
My baby brother knelt in the center of the room, beaten raw and dripping blood all over the carpet. Four men wearing Reapers’ cuts stood around him. Picnic, Horse and two I didn’t know—a big, built hunk of a man with a mohawk, and about a thousand piercings, and another who was tall and cut, with light-blond hair in short spikes. Horse studied me with the same cool, almost blank expression he wore when we first met. Detached.
Picnic studied me, too. He was tall with short, dark hair that looked far too stylish to be on a biker and bright blue eyes that pierced right through a girl—I’d met him at least five times. He was the club president. He had a great sense of humor, carried pictures of his two daughters to flash whenever he got the slightest opportunity and had helped me shuck corn the last time he’d come to visit.
Oh, and he also stood right behind my brother with a gun pointed at the back of his head.
Fighting for Flight
J.B. Salsbury
Acknowledgments
There are so many people to thank, make sure to look for your name. It’s probably on here.
To my husband and my girls, thank you for allowing me the time to write this book with minimal complaints and guilt trips. You guys are my world. I love you.
To my mom, Gale West, your love and support gave me the confidence to give writing a try. Thank you for believing in me.
To Evelyn Johnson, thank you for listening over a glass of wine as I first voiced my idea. Your excitement for the story gave it wings. Your companionship while doing my research in Vegas was invaluable. I’ll be forever grateful for your encouragement.
Thank you to my family and friends for believing in me. You know who you are.
To the amazingly talented Elizabeth Reyes, thank you for taking time out for newbie writer and pointing me in the right direction. You have a forever-fan in me.
To Jenny Aspinall, and Gitte Doherty. Thank you for championing my idea to write a MMA romance.
Thank you to Chris Letts who never stopped encouraging me from start to finish.
To my friend and Las Vegas connection, LeAnne Zinke, thanks for the inside scoop.
To all my amazing critique partners, Jacki P, Hijo, Carroll “Sully” Sullivan, and Kaci Persnell, each one of you contributed something different and invaluable to this story. You guys kick serious ass.
Thank you to my amazing critique partners and betas, Claudia Handel and Nicola Layouni. You girls rock.
To my gorgeous Sister Wives of Writing, thank you for all the times we stayed up late messaging about anything and everything, I’ll be forever grateful.
To Cristin “C-Spice” Harber, thank you for never saying no when I needed a riding partner on the Pity Train. Your steadfast attitude, constant encouragement, and faithful friendship kept me sane. You’ve taught me so much about writing, and I’m honored to have a front row seat as the world of publishing opens its doors to your talent.
Sharon “Shexy” Cermak, my Sister from Another Mister, from prologue to epilogue, you’ve been a guiding force. I’m forever indebted to you for your commitment and support.
To Amanda Simpson at Pixel Mischief, thank you for book. You have an amazing gift.
A huge thank you to Theresa Wegand for her superhuman editing skills—thank you for saving me from looking like a complete idiot. Your keen eye and attention to detail is exceptional.
And finally, to you, my readers, thank you for giving me a shot at storytelling. It truly is a pleasure unparalleled. I hope you come back for more.
--JB
Prologue
I have a brief moment to catch my breath before it’s time to push again. My head lolls to the side, eyes fixing on the shape of a man. It’s hard to tell through the blur of tears and sweat clouding my vision. The bright light illuminating my body is no help. Everything outside of its glow is darkness. But, even in the dark, I know who it is.
How long has he been here? In my labor-induced dementia I didn’t see him come in. My skin crawls, each tiny hair standing on end. I squirm under the weight of his foreboding presence.
The vise grip on my midsection begins its violent compression. I lock eyes with the doctor between my legs.
“One more push, Milena. Take a deep breath.” He wipes his brow with the dirty sleeve of his shirt. The smell of cigar smoke and liquor wafts from his body in nauseating waves. My stomach roils as my body tightens with a contraction.
“Good. Now, push!” I barely hear the doctor count to ten over my groaning.
My torso folds in half as the force of the contraction racks my body. I bite my lip and taste blood, refusing to give voice to my agony. Sweat beads on my skin. I grip the sheets against the unbearable pain. I want to give up, just lie back and sleep, but my womb is intent on purging this baby. A guttural sound rumbles in my throat. Searing pain. Intense pressure. I’m being ripped into two.
“Baby’s out.” The doctor announces to the room.
It’s over. I fall back onto the bed.
The room is quiet except for my heaving breath and the clicking of the doctor’s tools. I study the ceiling, not ready to face what I know is coming.
Exhaustion sets in and my eyelids slide shut, only to fly back open with the shrill cry of new life. Its stuttered vibrato pulls at something deep in my chest. My heart races.
The infant’s scream calls to me on a primal level, begging for comfort only its mother can provide. My arms ache to cradle the baby to my breast. It’s okay, mommy’s here. The words coo in my head, but freeze at my lips. I can’t get attached, not when his plan is to take it away to use it for his own purposes, like a bred work mule.
What kind of work will await this baby when it becomes an adult all depends on one thing. The nagging question picks at my mind.
Sitting up, I rub my eyes to clear my vision. He stands at the foot of the bed, no longer shrouded in the dark. Holding the baby in one arm, he hands the doctor a large wad of cash then flicks his fingers for the man to leave. The doctor scurries out the door like a mouse that just stole from the dinner table, and slams it behind him.
A devious glare catches my eye. “Well done, darling. She’s perfect.” His voice is a the smooth purr that haunts my dreams.
She.
Oh, God. No!
“Dominick, please, I beg you.” I try to put authority behind my voice, but only manage a whisper. “Just give her up for adoption. She’s an innocent—”
“Quiet!” His booming command echoes in the tiny room, making me flinch then cower. “She’s mine. I’ll do with her whatever I please.” The fierce words cut through the newborn’s cries and straight to my heart.
He runs his palm over the baby’s head with the gentle grace of a jellyfish. Serene and lethal. “She has your dark hair, darling. I’ll name her Raven.” He steps to my bedside. “Would you like to hold her?”
My whimpered reply has him smiling. He knows what I’ve just done. Like laying out my cards in a high stakes game of poker, I’ve just shown him my weakness.
No, I can’t hold her. If I do, I’ll never let her go.
“I see.” He keeps her in his arms and strolls to the single window. “You may raise her.” His gaze slides back to mine. “But make no mistake, Milena, if you do anything to interfere with my plan, I will kill her. Then, you and I will start from scratch, and I’ll not make it pleasant for you. Do you understand?” As if he can see into my soul and feel my fear, he smirks.
Revulsion courses through my veins like venom, making it impossible to speak. I close my eyes and nod, trying to force dry the tears that stream down my face.
If I could only take it back. The day everything had spun out of control. The moment Dominick Morretti ruined my life. Leaning against his car with his blond hair and those beautiful blue-green eyes, he looked like an angel. He spoke tenderly with sincere reverence and offered me a life I could only dream about. My heart wanted s
o badly to believe he was my savior: a heavenly messenger sent to wrap me in his embrace and whisk me off to my happily ever after. But he was no savior. He was my undertaker.
Realization hits: a heavy flood, drowning me in regret. Painful guilt eats away at my heart, slowly consuming what’s left of my humanity. Dominick is nothing if not a man of his word. He’s going to get his way, and there is not a thing I can do about it.
Hatred boils in my stomach. I want to lash out, attack the man who has taken my future from me. But I know better than to face off with him. I’ve seen what he does to girls who don’t obey. They spend the rest of their days shaking, walking the thin line of their addiction, solely dependent on him, so desperate for their next fix that they beg for the gift of a quick death. Right where he wants them.
“Milena.” His firm tone gets my attention.
Back at my bedside, he holds the bundle of blankets and baby for me to take. Raven. My daughter. No. Not mine.
Don’t show him my weakness. Suffering in silence is torture. But he can’t touch what I don’t give him.
I wrap my arms tightly around my body, locking them in place. With the last pieces of my resolve, I shove the mother in me to the back corner of my soul and lock her there.
“Take her, darling.” His words carry a heavy warning.
I shake my head.
He stands straight and studies me with narrowed eyes. “Very well.” He turns and heads to the door. “I’ll give you a few hours to come to terms with this. In the meantime,” he looks at the rumpled bed and the floor, both riddled with the gore of childbirth, “clean this mess up.”
Then he’s gone, taking Raven with him.
I scan my surroundings, taking in the carnage: The product of the last twenty-four hours of labor; the bloodied result of an unsanitary home birth. Something deep down registers that mine are not the only horrors that haunt this room. I can almost hear the screams of the women who have been here before me.
1001 Dark Nights: Bundle Fourteen Page 58
