by Hart, Lane
Brushing her lips over mine, she asks, “Are you asking me to be your old lady?”
“Honey, I’m asking you to be my old lady, my wife, my every-fucking-thing. So what do you say?”
“I say…you’ve got yourself a deal, Mr. President,” Naomi says, lifting a weight off of my shoulders.
“About. Fucking. Time,” I mutter between quick kisses before I throw in some tongue action, kissing her so hard her knees go weak and my arms are the only thing keeping her steady.
* * *
The End
Devlin (Book 2)
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue were created from the authors’ imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual people or events is coincidental.
The authors acknowledge the copyrighted and trademarked status of various products within this work of fiction.
© 2020 Editor's Choice Publishing
All Rights Reserved.
Only Amazon has permission from the publisher to sell and distribute this title.
This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Editor’s Choice Publishing
P.O. Box 10024
Greensboro, NC 27404
* * *
Edited by Angela Snyder
Cover by Melissa Gill Designs
* * *
WARNING: THIS BOOK IS NOT SUITABLE FOR ANYONE UNDER 18. IT CONTAINS STRONG LANGUAGE, VIOLENCE AND GRAPHIC SEX SCENES, INCLUDING ONE M/F/M SCENE.
Synopsis
As one of the enforcers for the Dirty Aces, sometimes I have to hurt people. Using my fists to get results is not something I enjoy – it’s just part of the job. My loyalty will always be to the MC and no one else.
* * *
So just because Jetta James is a hot as hell girl I once hooked up with at a rock concert, it doesn’t mean I can give her brother a break on the gambling debt he owes to the Aces.
* * *
When Jetta finds out I’m a member of the MC, she thinks I’m bad news; but her brother Sean is the one drowning in his bad decisions.
* * *
And the day Sean makes a stupid deal that puts Jetta’s life in danger, I’ll beat, maim, and kill every asshole who stands in my way in order to save her, even her own brother.
Chapter One
Devlin Boyd
* * *
“Dude, where the fuck are you?” I yell into my phone. I’m not sure if Fiasco can even hear me over the crappy band playing on stage and the crowd cheering them on at the fairgrounds.
“Back at my apartment,” he says simply.
“Well then grab your ticket and get your ass back here! Traffic is still a mile long, and Wasteland Authority is going on next, so you’ll probably have to run your bike up the shoulder.”
“Yeah, see, there’s a slight problem with that plan of yours,” Fiasco responds, making me roll my eyes as I start strolling over to the concession stand to grab a beer.
“What now?”
“I locked myself out of my place,” he says. “My keys and my ticket are both inside.”
Why the fuck am I even surprised? Fiasco always finds a way to screw up everything he touches. It’s like a curse he was born with, and those of us who are his friends are usually the ones who suffer. I never believed there was any truth behind the offensive term “dumb blondes” before I met him. I would swear his parents must be a surfer dude and a stoner, but I’ve never met them, and Fiasco doesn’t talk about them.
Squeezing my eyes shut to refrain from calling him an idiot when he obviously can’t help his bad luck in the genetic pool, I tell him, “Break into the window, grab your keys and ticket, and then we’ll fix the broken glass later!”
“It’s supposed to rain tonight,” it sounds like he replies, which is so off topic I don’t even know how to respond.
“What do you mean it’s supposed to rain?” I ask slowly, breathing in through my nose and out through my mouth to try and keep my cool while clenching my fist by my side.
Tonight, the Rockfest festival, is the most important thing in the world to me. I’ve had VIP tickets since the day they went on sale. I’ve wanted to see Wasteland Authority for ten years, but they never toured on the east coast until now, today. Seeing them alone will just be…pathetic.
“If it rains and my window is broken, then all my shit will get wet,” Fiasco explains, which is one of the few things he’s ever said that actually makes total sense.
“You’re right,” I agree with a heavy exhale. “Call your landlord or a locksmith and wait for them, but you’ll never make it back in time.”
Since none of the other members of the Dirty Aces MC are fans of the rock bands playing tonight, Fiasco was the only one willing to spend a thousand bucks for a VIP ticket to come with me and see them from the mosh pit at the front of the stage. He may be a ditz, but he didn’t even blink at wasting a grand on a band he’s barely heard of so I wouldn’t have to come alone. Now that money of his is wasted, swirling down the toilet because there’s no way he’s going to make it back to see the final show of the night. We missed the first three bands because of fucking traffic. Only when we made it to the front gates did Fiasco realize he left his tickets at home.
“You’re probably right. I don’t think I’ll make it back in time,” Fiasco agrees. “Sorry, man.”
“Not your fault traffic was a clusterfuck,” I say with a sigh.
“Want me to come pick you up when it’s over?”
“Nah, I’ll just get a taxi or Uber home.”
“Okay, see ya,” he replies before I end the call and shove my phone into the back pocket of my snug, leather pants.
Looks like I’m going to be enjoying the show alone — well, except for the thousands of strangers around me.
Sure, I could smile at a pretty girl, offer to buy her a drink, and then spend the night with her after the concert. It would be easier than easy to pull off, because the lord has blessed me with irresistible blue eyes and a pretty face.
But one-night stands were the old Dev’s MO. The new and improved Dev is all about making better decisions, you know, to avoid another pregnancy scare from batshit crazy, casual hookups. Twice now girls have been late and were certain that I’m the one who knocked them up. Thank fuck both times the stick was negative, Aunt Flow came, and all was well. I’m just not sure how many more chances I’ll get before the stick turns blue and then I’m a daddy like Fiasco and Malcolm, paying a woman I don’t know child support for a kid she won’t let me see for eighteen years. Not that Malcolm’s story went that way, but it easily could have if he hadn’t fixed shit with Naomi, his baby mama, now his fiancée.
Nope. Not me. I’m smarter than all that and have never been one of those guys looking to score with as many women as possible in this lifetime.
Maybe it’s time for me to set some priorities, you know, like finding a nice girl who enjoys the same things I do, so that in the future I won’t have to come to concerts alone.
Somewhere out there in the world there’s a woman who wants more than an unforgettable night in the sheets with a certified sex stud. She, of course, enjoys a good fucking on the regular but could also see herself eventually marrying me, moving in together, and having a family, all in that particular order.
So far, though, I haven’t been more than a good time in the sheets before chicks move on to someone else. I’m just a fun time fuck boy. A good lay. Women use me for my body. And while it’s been a great run, I’m certain that there has to be more out there than one-night stands.
Jetta James
* * *
It is hotter than hell out here this Sunday, but I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. Being at the Cape Fear fair grounds in Wilmington at Rockfest, listening to some of the biggest bands of all time, is the best. And while it suc
ks that I had to come as the third wheel with my best friend Carla and her boyfriend, at least I’m finally here, getting ready to see one of the most legendary bands of all time. Not to mention that Rob Lawrence, the lead singer of Wasteland Authority, is so freaking hot with his long hair, hard body, and beautiful tats.
But since Mitch, Carla’s boyfriend, didn’t want to end up in a mosh pit, and none of us had the cash to go VIP, we’re way back on the lawn, sitting on a blanket. I guess I’ll just have to watch Rob on the giant screens on either side of the stage.
“I’m going to grab a drink before Wasteland Authority hits the stage!” I tell Carla as the last band finishes playing. I get to my feet and brush the dirt off the back of my purple and black floral tube top dress I’m sporting without a bra because the girls need air. “You two want anything while I’m there?”
“No thanks,” she replies with a smile as she snuggles with her man even though it feels like it’s about a hundred and fifty degrees out here.
“Suit yourselves,” I tell them before I hurry through the maze of people making out on blankets to reach the concession stands on the far side of the grassy field.
All the happy couples make me start to miss Oscar before I remember what a low-life mooch he really was. Sure, he was oh-so-sweet to me for the first few weeks. And when he lost his job as a security guard and needed a place to crash, I offered to let him move in with me, thinking it would be temporary. A year later, he was still unemployed, not even attempting to try to find a job, and hadn’t paid a dime for groceries the entire time, not to mention help me out with the rent or utilities. I asked him to move out, and he wouldn’t budge from the sofa where he played video games non-stop between naps. That’s when I convinced my landlord to transfer my lease to him when it ran out, tricked Oscar into signing the paperwork without him taking his eyes off the television screen, packed up my shit, and left Charlotte to come back home to Carolina Beach.
Thankfully, my brother Sean is letting me crash with him until I find another place of my own, but in the meantime, I am planning to pay him rent and utilities and buy all of our groceries as soon as I find a job. It’s the least I can do for barging in on his life on such short notice. Our parents divorced when we were teenagers; and ever since they split, we haven’t seen or heard much from either of them.
For the past few weeks that I’ve been back home, I’ve dated a few guys because I’m lonely and horny. But not a single one of them has called for a second date. Which means I haven’t had sex in months because of me refusing to touch Oscar. And then, of course, there’s my three-date rule. I won’t sleep with any guy who I haven’t gone on at least three dates with. It seemed like a smart thing to do when I first started dating to weed out the losers or those looking to smash and dash on the first date. So far, though, for some reason or another, none of them have been interested in seeing me more than once.
That’s why I’ve given myself a free pass with the next hot guy I meet if he is single and not homeless. Those are my only three requirements for now — hot, not in a relationship, and has a place of his own for us to get busy. I don’t even need to know his name, because I probably won’t see him again. Which is fine. I’ll accept that I’m not two-date material. But if I don’t get some much-needed stress relief soon, I may explode. And masturbating in my brother’s small, two-bedroom apartment where we share a wall and a bathroom is a big hell no.
The odds of me meeting a guy who wants me tonight are slim to none thanks to the heat and humidity that’s got my purple hair looking like I stuck my finger in a socket. And of all the items I loaded up in my fanny pack, and my many hair accessories at home, a hair tie was, unfortunately, not one of the things I packed.
Which leads me to think that the black fanny pack hanging from my hips could be a guy-repellant all on its own. Sure, it looks ridiculous, but I’m not stupid enough to try and keep up with a purse all over the fairgrounds while trying to get drunk. Besides, I needed some place to keep my phone, money, tickets, sunscreen, bugspray and hand sanitizer.
The concession stand line is a mile long for beverages because of the heat, but I wait patiently since there’s still a few minutes before the main event.
Just when I reach the front of the line, more than ten minutes later, and am about to order my soda, a dude in a sleeveless white ribbed tank and black leather pants, looking like a wanna be rock star despite the scorching temps, jumps in line in front of me. He flashes the VIP lanyard hanging around his neck to ask for a beer, making me want to deck him for not only cutting in front of me but because he’ll be so close to Rob Lawrence, he’ll probably be able to see the sweat dripping down his abs.
“Excuse you,” I say, tapping the guy’s shoulder in frustration. “There’s a line, buddy!”
The jerk turns around, flashing me a panty-melting grin as he pushes his jet-black chin-length hair behind his ear as he stares down at my cleavage. “Not for me, baby. I’m a VIP,” he says to my breasts.
“Even Very Important Pricks should have to wait in line like the rest of us,” I tell him, making his smile crack into a chuckle.
“Tell you what, how about I pay for your order to make it up to you?” he asks.
“What about everyone else in line behind me?” I huff.
He lifts his incredibly gorgeous blue eyes above my head and says, “Sorry, babe, but there’s no one behind you. And if you don’t hurry, you’re gonna miss Wasteland Authority.”
“Fine! Let me get a big ass Diet Coke,” I say.
Turning around, the guy orders my soda word for word as I requested it and pays the twenty-dollar tab for just my drink and his bottle of beer, which is ridiculous, but the event sponsors know schmucks like us will pay it before we die of dehydration.
And by the time the line passer hands me the ice-cold beverage and I drain half of it in one slurp, I’m already feeling less antagonistic towards him.
“Thank you,” I say with a sigh.
“You’re welcome,” he replies before taking a sip of his beer. “So, are you a fan of Wasteland Authority, or did your boyfriend drag you here tonight?”
“Oh no, I’m a huge fan of Wasteland, and I don’t have a boyfriend.”
“Prove it.”
“What?” I ask between sips of soda. “How do I prove I don’t have a boyfriend?” I ask as I start to think that he’s trying to flirt with me.
“No, prove you’re a fan of Wasteland Authority. Who’s the lead singer?” he asks.
“Easy – Rob Lawrence. The band’s first album was Wasted Talent back in 2010. They’ve had three albums since but haven’t released a new one in over two years. My favorite song is “Ripped Open.” My second favorite is impossible to choose from since I love every song on Wasted Talent.”
“Holy shit! Me too!” the guy exclaims. “What are we waiting for? Let’s get moving and see how close we can get to the stage.”
“Oh, um, I don’t have a Very Important Prick pass like you,” I tell him. “I’m sitting over there in the grass with my friend and her boyfriend in the cheap lawn seats,” I say as I point out the way.
“No. No fucking way,” he grumbles. He tips back his beer, finishing it off before tossing it in one of the recycling bins. “Come on,” he says, grabbing my arm that’s not holding my soda and dragging me away from the concession stand.
“Where are we going?”
“I’m gonna sneak you over into the VIP section. Then I’m gonna put you on my shoulders, and you’re gonna flash your tits to get us to the front of the stage.”
“Oh my god! You’re insane!” I tell him with a bark of laughter. That plan of his is beyond crazy! “There’s no way you can get me past the guards without a pass!”
“Wanna bet?” he asks, waltzing right up to the man standing at attention in a yellow shirt and black pants, the standard guard uniform at the VIP entrance.
“Yo, man, I’m VIP, and she’s got a great rack,” he tells the dude while flashing his lanyard. “Show
him.”
“What?” I gasp.
“Just show the man your tits, baby. Do you want to get close enough to see the sweat drip down Rob’s six-pack or not?”
OMG! How did he know that’s exactly what I want like it’s my sole purpose in this life?
“When you put it that way…here, hold my drink,” I say, shoving the soda into his chest so that I can tug the elastic top of my dress down for the guard to see my boobs.
The guard’s eyes widen, and he lets loose a whistle while staring at my breasts.
“Goddamn,” the line-passing prick mutters as he gets a nice long look too. “Titties this beautiful deserve nothing less than VIP, am I right?” he asks the guard.
The man in yellow looks left and right before he actually waves us through!
“Haha!” the maniac I’m with laughs before we walk through the entrance and he crouches down. “Now get on my back and keep your tits out. We’re going to the front row, baby!”
“If you say so,” I agree, unable to believe the first step of his ridiculous plan worked to get me in VIP. He leans forward, still holding my drink so I can climb up and then ease my legs over his shoulders before he slowly rises with me draped around his neck. I grab two handfuls of his long black hair to hold on as he starts forcing his way between the people at the back of the VIP section that are standing in loose groups before we get to the tight cluster around the stage.
“Watch out! Coming through! Hot, topless girl on my shoulders!” I hear him shout from below, causing the crowd, who is about seventy percent male, to look up at my freed breasts that bounce with every step the man under me takes.
Slowly but surely, we make our way closer to the stage until I’m actually touching it when he crouches down for me to climb off his shoulders.
