THE MAN WITH ALL THE HONEY: Sweet & Dirty BBW Romance #3
Page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
COPYRIGHT
DEDICATION
ABOUT THE BOOK
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
RUSSIAN & SPANISH WORDS
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Excerpt from Bk 4, FOLLOW THE HONEY
MORE SWEET & DIRTY BBW ROMANCE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
THE MAN
WITH ALL THE
HONEY
Sweet & Dirty BBW Romance, Book 3
Cathryn Cade
Windtree Press
Beaverton Oregon
COPYRIGHT
Copyright © 2016 by Cathryn Cade
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.
Contact information:
Windtree Press
Beaverton Oregon USA
http://windtreepress.com
http://www.cathryncade.com
Cover Art by Leah Suttle
Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
Book Layout © 2014 BookDesignTemplates.com
The Man With All the Honey/ Cathryn Cade. -- 1st ed.
ISBN 978-1-9449731-8-6
DEDICATION
To All My Readers
You make this rockin' MC world go round.
The Devil's Flyers heroes live & ride because of you.
These strong, sweet BBW women have the courage to live free and be wild because of you.
Big hugs,
Cathryn
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ABOUT THE BOOK
The Man With All the Honey
He can have any woman he wants ... but all he wants is another taste of her.
She's a cool, BBW blonde who works for law & order. He's the hot, dangerous president of the Devil's Flyers MC. When they end up neighbors for the hottest nights of summer, what could possibly go wrong?
Sara Cannon just lost her job ... and apparently her mind, because she can't bring herself to care that her orderly lifestyle is coming apart at the seams. She's leaving her chic, downtown condo behind, moving out where farm machinery and pickup trucks share the roads with Harleys, and a local MC rules alongside law & order. Where the sexy, irritating MC president lives right on the other side of her fence. A line she crosses every summer night in her fantasies.
Ivan 'Joystick' Vanko has the life other men dream of. He's the president of the Devil's Flyers MC of Airway Heights, Washington, surrounded by brothers willing to lay down their lives for him. Women vie for his attentions, giving him no reason to ever let one into his bed full time, and especially not into his heart. So why does he have the urge to do just that with his gorgeous, annoying neighbor?
Sara is recreating herself amid the ruins of her old life, when she makes a huge mistake—she hooks up with Stick. He takes all she has to offer, then tosses her out of his club. Now she's out for revenge ... and she's not waiting to serve it cold. The man who controls it all may be about to find his summer too hot to handle. Will he ride away, or turn up the heat even more, until she melts in his arms?
Don't miss the 3rd sizzling installment in the Sweet & Dirty BBW Romance series—get your copy of THE MAN WITH ALL THE HONEY today!
* * *
Author's note: The Kootenai County Prosecutor's office in this story is purely fictional, with no resemblance intended to the real prosecutor, office or personnel.
CHAPTER ONE
'Stick' Vanko was enjoying a beer with his friend and club brother, Jack Moran, on the north shore of Lake Coeur d'Alene.
On this sunny, warm afternoon in late June, Stick had been in the mood for a ride.
His Harley brought him over the state line into Idaho, and through the pretty resort town of Coeur d'Alene and out along the lake shore road to the BeeHive, the little cafe where Jack had put a ring on his woman a few weeks before, in front of Stick and two of the club brothers.
Jack was now having a supper-club built next to the cafe, along with a dock for customers to boat in.
"Once I get The Stinger built, get business goin' good, I'm gonna put a baby in Lindi's belly," Jack told Stick, a gleam in his eyes. “We’ll have a private area of the dock just for us and the brothers and family, and a house up on the mountain above here. We’ll raise a family here, and live large.”
Stick shook his head at the other man.
In some ways, they were similar, both tall, broad-shouldered and muscular, with blond hair. But there the resemblance ended.
Jack's tousled, collar length hair was sandy, his eyes hazel, his tough face speaking of English ancestry. Jack was a good man to have at his side in a fight, but he was mellow, easy-going, especially these days.
Stick knew he himself was called the Russian Iceberg, usually in an uncomplimentary way. He had the high cheekbones, brutal jaw and pale blue eyes of his Russian forefathers. Since his parents had immigrated when he was a baby, and spoke Russian to him and his younger brother at home, Stick still had remnants of the accent in his speech.
As President of the Airway Heights, WA chapter of the Devils' Flyers MC, Stick used his appearance and his deep voice as tools and weapons, to intimidate and control. He'd mellow out when he was old—for now, he had shit to do.
"Do not need a ball-and-chain," he said. "Glad you found a good woman, Jack, but I'm waitin' till I'm old to settle."
Jack gave him a thoughtful look. "Being with a good woman don't mean I give up anything. Means I get more—a lot more. I'm stronger than I've ever been, 'cause now I know exactly what I'm working for, and if I have to fight, what I'm fighting for."
"Happy for you, brother. Someday," Stick shrugged. "Maybe I'll find a pretty little brunette who'll do
what I say, warm my bed at night and rub my back, and bring me my whiskey. Be at peace."
He chuckled, mocking his own vision. He wouldn't be ready for that shit for another twenty or thirty years. At nearly forty, he liked his life the way it was, wild and free.
But someday, when he did choose a woman of his own, she'd be quiet, sweet. She'd keep herself to herself except when he was ready to share, and she'd let him go his own way when he needed to, which would be a lot of the time. A man like him had things to do that didn’t include a woman looking over his shoulder.
"Hope that works out for you, brother," Jack said with a smirk. "But I gotta tell you, you meet the right woman, she'll slip in there like warm honey, fill you up before you know what's changed. You'll just know your life ain't complete without that taste in your mouth, in your bed. Happened to me, happened to Keys. You may be a badass leader of men, but you ain't immune."
Stick snorted. "The hell I ain't immune. I've been inoculated by a fuckin' queen wasp."
And Contessa might be a flashy beauty with tits and legs that would not quit, but his ex was also a whack job, which he would've noticed if he hadn't been so busy enjoying her in every position they could think up.
When he'd sobered up, it was too late.
Since then, he stuck to the women who eddied in and out of the club house, and the strippers at the State Line clubs. He'd lost his taste for flashy blondes, and he'd absolutely lost his taste for exclusive. Wasn't for him.
Jack nodded, giving due respect, because all the Flyers knew Stick's story. "Gotta do what's right for you."
"Drink to that." Stick drained his beer, then dropped the bottle in Jack's cooler. "Thanks for the beer, brother. You'll be at the 4th barbecue?"
"Wouldn't miss it," Jack said. "Partyin' high style is the only way."
Stick nodded his agreement. The Flyers partied in a style that befitted their prosperity, and they were good at it, no doubt. They called it ‘high style’ in a nod to their roots.
The Devil’s Flyers’ founders had been members of the U.S.A.F., disillusioned with civilian life after the hostile reception they and the other branches of the armed forces received when they returned home. Instead of heroes’ welcomes for beating back the Viet Cong, they’d faced protest rallies put on by liberal college kids who had no idea what they’d gone through, their uniforms were spit on, and they were ignored by a government that didn’t pay out benefits for those disabled by the foul chemical weapons used to root out the enemy.
Along with soldiers from other branches, the original Flyers had turned their backs on that shit and formed new brotherhoods, motorcycle clubs. Those early brothers had been 1-percenters, and some still were. Stick and his chapter straddled the line between both worlds, lawful and lawless, and he liked it like that. He might not abide by all the laws of this fine country his parents had chosen, but enough that he got along with the local lawdogs, and didn’t have them up in his business constantly.
Yes, he had a fine life.
But as he rolled his oversize, custom, Fatboy Harley out onto the road and hit the throttle, he couldn't shake the suspicion that there at the last, Moran had been pitying him.
Stick shook his head in amused disgust. Let a woman throw a rope over a man, and he wanted everyone else to follow him into the corral.
Jack looked good, he had to admit. The fucker had an easy peace about him he'd never had before. Whatever, Stick was done with that 'one woman' shit, for a good long time.
Honey, hell. He'd never had a taste for sweets, didn't plan to develop one now.
Later that evening, as he worked out in the gym/weight room he'd set up in his barn, Stick received a phone call that hardened his resolve to remain a free man into sheer ice.
"This is Vanko," he said when he saw Dare Leupold's name His attorney was a sharp-dressing, sharp-tongued law-dog—although he was more like a wolf—with offices in downtown Coeur d'Alene.
He'd been on retainer with Stick since recommended by the Chases of Chase Cycles in Coeur d'Alene, who also used Leupold & Leupold as their attorneys.
Dare's sense of justice allowed him to ignore certain of his clients' activities while protecting their overall legal interests. His best clients knew he'd ignore certain off-the-books trade, but wouldn't put up with anything that would endanger innocents, especially women and kids. A sniff of that shit would cause him to terminate services and find a way to let the cops know where to look.
Since Stick shared the same views, they worked well together. Some of the 1-percenter MCs might be into prostitution, hard drugs and extortion, but not the Flyers. Such was not high style.
Stick left his phone on speaker as he continued to press the two seventy-pound weights in his hands. He'd been at it a while, and he was sweating and breathing hard, his muscles burning.
Dare wasted no time getting to the point. "Stick, just received a notice from the State of Idaho that Contessa has a parole hearing next week."
"What the fuck?" Stick demanded, fury firing in his gut. He panted for breath and for control as he straightened, squeezing the barbells so hard his fists ached. "The judge gave her fifty years with no chance."
"Yeah. However, she's now attracted the attention of a women's rights group. They help battered women who finally snap and kill their abusers. Evidently Contessa's been working one of their young attorneys—convinced the woman that she feared for her life, and the boys' lives."
It was a good thing he was in his weight room, because Stick lost it. With a roar of outrage that left his throat raw, and his ears ringing, he hurled first one and then the other barbell as hard as he could across the big, open space.
The metal weights hit the wall with jarring thuds and bounced, landing on the black mats underneath the weight area. The second struck the first with a harsh jangle.
"I never laid a hand on that bitch, until the night she tried to take me out! Yeah, she had bruises, but only because I threw her off of me, half-crazy with pain."
"I know, man. And believe me, we will be reminding the parole board of that."
Stick concentrated on breathing for a moment, in and out, in and out as he fought for calm.
"All right," he growled. "Tell me what I have to do to keep that crazy bitch in her cage."
"Give me two days to get the trial documents ready," Dare said crisply. "We'll attend the hearing, and you'll have a few words ready as well. We'll remind them that her defense team could find absolutely no evidence that you ever abused her, verbally or physically. Etcetera. We'll also remind them that she left her own babies behind with a known alcoholic to go party with other men."
"We'd better be ready, because if she gets out ..." Although he wasn’t stupid enough to say so now, Stick would not hesitate to do whatever it took to keep her away from his boys, for good. And he did not want to have to take such extreme measures, not to his boys' mother. That was dark, even after what she'd tried to do to him.
"I know. We won't let her near the boys, I promise you."
"You don't know how good she is at convincing people her shit don't stink," Stick said. "She's a fuckin' chameleon when she wants to be."
"Maybe, but chameleons act on instinct. I operate on intellect, and no reptile is getting past me. You go enjoy your July 4th celebration. I'll be in touch by Tuesday at the latest."
"All right. And thanks for the great news, Sunshine."
Dare gave a bark of laughter, and ended the call.
Stick stalked to his bench press, lay down and gripped the heavily weighted bar, pressing it straight up and out with a guttural roar. Then he did it again and again, until his arms shook, his torso burned and his lungs fought for air. Finally, he muscled the bar back into its supports and lay there, panting, his muscles pumped and bulging.
No. That bitch could not be allowed to walk free. Not while he was alive to stop her.
CHAPTER TWO
The next day
Sara Cannon, the Queen of Serene—called by some the Queen of
Ice—had had it.
Her hands were clenched on a file folder, so tightly she was gonna break a nail if she didn't relax.
And angry as she was, she might just need every single one of her nails to scratch the smug face of the pretentious twerp smirking across the desk at her. The desk that should have been Sara's.
But no, her boss, Kootenai County Prosecutor George Bartlett, had to hire a teensy-weensy brunette with a degree in business communications to run his office. As if five experienced office employees needed fancy jargon to help them do their jobs for the prosecutor and his assistants.
"I'm sure you understand," Nikki Tupper said, giving Sara a look of sweet sympathy that was so fake Sara's fingers flexed again. "Mr. Bartlett and his assistants must have a collegial atmosphere in order to do their job effectively. The training you're being asked to attend is simply to ensure you have the skills to do your part in maintaining that atmosphere. Since you, er, don't have the formal business degree that would now be required to fill your position."
'Formal business degree', her lily-white ass. Sara had started working for Kootenai County when she was nineteen. Now twenty-seven, she had as much work experience as everyone except Marlene, the CP and his assistant prosecutors, and a lot more than this twerp in a cutesy suit.
"I have an associate degree from North Idaho College," she began. "And eight years—"
"And I have a Master's in Business Communications," the slender brunette interrupted. "And County Prosecutor Bartlett expects me to ensure our office is run to his satisfaction. I'm sure you don't want me to be forced to report another infraction of our office rules ... hmm?"
As she spoke, the other woman looked down and straightened her open desk diary a fraction of an inch. Her nails were a pale pink to match the ruffle on her blouse.
"Oh, and I'm not sure if it was made clear," Ms. Tupper went on, the corners of her little mouth curving upwards ever so slightly. "Since you won't be able to fulfill your duties during the training, those days will be unpaid."
"What?" Sara rose with a jerk and stared down at the younger woman, who flinched, her eyes widening in alarm, as they should be, since Sara was a tall blonde of Scandinavian ancestry built on the lines of a Valkyrie. "Unpaid days? What the heck?"