Coal (Regulators MC Book 3)

by Chelsea Camaron

  I watch her face as her eyes tear up at the question in red icing.

  Will You Marry Me?

  The ring is the dot at the bottom of the question mark, shiny and blinking at her.

  Standing here, I wait for an answer.

  And I wait more.

  Thing is, it’s too quiet. There are silent tears running down her face, but she’s not said a single word.

  Fuck.

  What if she isn’t ready for this?

  I open my mouth to try to fix this, but suddenly my little sprite is squealing loudly, jumping up and down.

  I should be fucking thrilled that she’s happy, but all I can see is that knife bouncing up and down with her little body. She’s talking so fast I can barely understand what she’s saying.

  “Oh-my-gosh-Trevor-are-you-serious-right-now!”

  “Babe, happy as hell that you’re excited, but can you do me a favor really quick?”

  Paisley stops jumping up and down and nods her head repeatedly like a bobble head doll. I have to stop myself from laughing at her.

  She smiles brightly at me. “If you wanna know my answer, it’s yes!”

  “Well, that, too. But, Pixie, can you please put down the knife? Would really fucking hate it if one of us got accidentally stabbed on the night that I’m asking you to become my wife.”

  -The End-

  About the Authors

  Chelsea Camaron

  USA Today Bestselling author Chelsea Camaron is a small town Carolina girl with a big imagination. She is a wife and mom chasing her dreams. She writes contemporary romance, erotic suspense, and psychological thrillers. She loves to write blue-collar men who have real problems with a fictional twist. From mechanics to bikers to oil riggers to smokejumpers, bar owners, and beyond, she loves a strong hero who works hard and plays harder.

  For more information on Chelsea Camaron:

  www.authorchelseacamaron.com

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  Or you can send Chelsea Camaron an email at:

  chelseacamaron@gmail.com

  Jessie Lane

  Jessie Lane is a best-selling author of Paranormal and Contemporary Romance, as well as, Upper YA Paranormal Romance/Fantasy.

  She lives in Kentucky with her two little Rock Chicks in-the-making and her over protective alpha husband that she’s pretty sure is a latent grizzly bear shifter. She has a passionate love for reading and writing naughty romance, cliff hanging suspense, and out-of-this-world characters that demand your attention, or threaten to slap you around until you do pay attention to them.

  She’s also a proud member of the Romance Writers of America (RWA).

  For more information on Jessie Lane:

  http://jessielanebooks.com/

  Sign Up for Jessie’s Newsletter

  Follow on Facebook Page

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  Add Jessie to your circles on Google Plus

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  Or you can send Jessie Lane an email at:

  jessie_lane@jessielanebooks1.com

  Dangerous Secrets

  By

  Abbie Zanders

  Copyright ©2014 Abbie Zanders

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted

  in any form or by any means without written permission from the author.

  Two secret pasts... one passionate love story.

  Taryn Malone is stranded, broke, and desperate for help. But even if the sexy bartender she's been eyeing offers her a job for the evening... even if he seduces her with his impossibly intense blue eyes... even if every fiber of her heart tells her to stay with him... she can't.

  Because Taryn Malone doesn't exist.

  Jake Callaghan has been running the family's Irish pub for years now. When he sees Taryn standing out alone in the rain, he does what he's been trained to do as a SEAL - he rescues her. It has nothing to do with her full, firm curves, or her loose, golden-blonde hair, or the way she brushes against him that sends lightning bolts through his body. It's just the right thing to do.

  Really.

  But both Taryn and Jake are hiding secrets from each other. Dangerous secrets. And neither one of them knows just how dangerous it can be to fall in love...

  Excerpt:

  The closer Jake got to her, the stranger he felt. He likened it to an electrical current flowing through his body, which, unfortunately, he had experienced. Comparatively speaking, this instance was much more pleasant.

  Who had eyes like that? Layered, like a custom paint job. If he had to guess, he’d say her eyes were purplish with a couple of clear coats of smoky gray on top, the exact hue of the sky moments before a summer thunderstorm. It had to be a trick of the lights, though, because no one could actually have eyes like that. Thankfully, there was no trace of the haunted look he’d seen earlier, making him think he might have imagined it.

  “What was that last order?” he asked, locking his blue gaze with hers.

  “Excuse me?”

  “The last order I took. What was it?” He fixed her with a level gaze.

  “Oh, come on, Jake,” began Ian, but Jake ignored him.

  The woman took a breath. He knew, because his eyes were drawn to the subtle rise and fall of the nicely-endowed chest peeking through that jacket.

  “Two pints of Killian, one Irish coffee, a Baileys and cream no ice, and two fingers of Grey Goose with a splash of lime.”

  The corners of Jake’s mouth twitched. “What’s the secret to pulling a good draft?”

  She appeared to consider his question for a moment, then leaned forward. Jake mimicked the movement, putting his ear within inches of her lips. Even with all the noise, Jake had no trouble hearing her low, quiet-toned answer. “Giving it just the right amount of head.”

  The twitch became a full-fledged grin.

  It was a crazy idea. Jake didn’t tolerate just anybody behind his bar. But he was desperate. Plus, for some strange reason, he liked the idea of having her back with him instead of out in the rowdy crowd. Quite a few of the men were already looking at her as if she was a tasty snack. He rationalized the impulse by telling himself he wasn’t doing it for her or even him, for that matter; having someone like that behind the bar was simply good for business.

  “Right,” he said. “You’re hired. Get your ass back here.”

  The smile she gave him lit up the entire room, but it quickly faded when she tried to move. He understood the problem immediately: to get where he was, she would have to cross the length of the long bar and around the other end, which, given the current mob, would take about half an hour. She looked at him helplessly.

  “Oi, Big John!” Jake barked. “A little help for my new barmaid, please.”

  A huge, bearded man shifted next to her; plate-sized hands circled her waist and she was suddenly suspended over the bar. A host of cheers and catcalls went up in the immediate vicinity as Jake grabbed her out of the air and brought her down on the other side.

  Jake was stricken by yet another strange sensation as his hands closed around her waist. It was like hitting the sweet spot on a baseball bat, or releasing the perfect three-point shot, knowing it was going to be a total swish without even having to look. And his thumbs didn’t skim the underside of her breasts. They didn’t. Because if they did, he’d have to think about how full and firm they were against his fingers, and that would be bad…

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  Bound by Family

  By

  Ryan Michele

  Copyright ©2017 Ryan Michele

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted

  in any form or by a
ny means without written permission from the author.

  Cooper Cruz knows what it means to be surrounded and bound by family. Loyalty, brotherhood, and protection are all learned, earned, and respected by him and the Ravage Motorcycle Club family he grew up in. At the same, he’s a man, having fun and living the life he has always envisioned, until a trip to Florida changes everything.

  Bristyl Daniels knows what it means to be smothered and bound by family. Bonds run deep with her father and all the members of the Sinister Sons Motorcycle Club she has grown up in. But now she’s all woman and wishes they would see she isn’t a little girl anymore. Then one phone call gives her a chance meeting with a hunk of a man she can’t get off her mind.

  When her favorite band comes to play at a motorcycle rally in her hometown, Bristyl decides it’s worth the risk to sneak off for a little fun. When a situation gets heated, though, Cooper and the Ravage MC step in, setting off a chain of events, both good and bad in both their lives.

  As the dust settles, Bristyl will have to come to some very hard decisions. Meanwhile, Cooper knows exactly what he wants. To hell with the consequences.

  Note: Bound by Family (Ravage MC Bound #1) is a standalone full-length novel. You do not have to read the Ravage MC series to follow this book, but if you’d like to see where it all started, you really should.

  Excerpt:

  Prologue

  Cooper

  This life.

  My life … is Ravage.

  Some say it’s my destiny. Others call this my curse.

  Lucky for me, I don’t give a fuck what anyone thinks. The man I’ve become is because of a choice—none of that other bullshit. Everyone in life has a choice, a path. What direction you take is up to you.

  For me, I had this moment in my life, a moment when I knew who and what I’d become.

  It wasn’t forced or coerced as the talk has been around this small town. No, the moment that haunts my dreams at night is what created the man you see today.

  Family.

  From the beginning to the end, family is what you start with and what you end with. I’m bound to it, honored by it, and respected in it.

  Chapter One

  Cooper

  The echo of the hammer hitting bone crackles through the air in the small, dank room. The man’s screams fill the space with pain, anger, and contempt. He doesn’t want us here anymore than we want to be in this dump. Unfortunately for us both, he fucked up and it wasn’t an option. No, it’s a necessity.

  Fucking Stu.

  Ravage Motorcycle Club, my family, we run a tight ship, so to speak. There is a code, rules of sorts that must be followed. Fall out of line, there will be punishment. Stu fell out of line.

  Ryker laughs off to the side, pulling me away from my thoughts as I let go of the man’s wrist, hammer still clenched in the other hand. The asshole, Stu, falls to his knees on the dirt floor, holding his broken finger.

  That’s not the only one he’s going to get today for his stupidity.

  He knows better. Everyone in Sumner, Georgia knows better. Hell, make that anyone who has ever heard of Ravage knows better.

  “You’ve got a hell of a blow with that thing.”

  Ryker is twisted and warped. He does this shit for fun and entertainment. Part of me thinks he gets off on this, but to each their own. Me, I do this shit out of duty and responsibility. Regardless, he’s been by my side for years, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

  When no response comes from me, Ryker walks up to the man and gives him a savage kick to the gut, making the man curl into a ball to protect himself.

  “I’m thinkin’ we need to take off some piggies,” Ryker eggs on, and a chuckle escapes me. He does have a way with words, saying exactly what he thinks with not an ounce of filter.

  “Give me a shot,” Jacks, another one of my brothers and a friend from high school, says as he holds his hand out to me, waiting for the hammer.

  Handing it to him, I then take a step back and cross my arms. It’s not me being a pussy. It’s me wanting to get this shit done so we can get the fuck out of here.

  “Money,” I bark out to Stu as Ryker gives him another hard kick, this one to his thigh.

  Stu owes our club fifty thousand seven hundred dollars and some change for merchandise he purchased. We gave him a week after the initial payment of fifty grand went smooth. Ravage and Stu have a history, and in that time, this is the first instance when Stu hasn’t paid up in full. It’ll be the last time as well.

  “I-I can have it b-by the weekend,” Stu stammers out as Jacks swings the hammer, hitting Stu in the ankle. Another crunching sound reverberates throughout the room.

  Ryker smirks, coming to stand next to me and giving me a slight bump on the shoulder with his elbow. “Believe this fucker? Weekend?” He shakes his head and spits down at Stu. “Motherfucker, you have twenty-four hours to come up with the cash.”

  “If we don’t have it by then, you’re done,” I add as Jacks takes another swing.

  The smell of his pain fills the air, along with the sounds of his verbal pleas. After an hour of making sure Stu gets the picture by using our fists and hammer, we ride.

  ***

  Fresh air. The freedom of feeling the elements surround me. The delicate balance of navigating a road or eating asphalt.

  It’s the best part of every day.

  The ride.

  My bike is a beauty. A Heritage Softtail Harley painted black and red—Ravage MC colors. Working on her has been my pastime for years, tuning and cleaning. I take care of her, and she takes care of me. Wouldn’t have it any other way. There’s something about taking garbage and turning it into something you love. That’s my bike. She began as a pile of shit and turned out to be absolutely perfect.

  Life ties us down. Materials hold people back. The open road is about freedom. Ravage is freedom. We live to our code, our standards, and we take care of our own.

  My mind clears on the open road awaiting me, nothing but blacktop and paint ahead. Riding allows me the peaceful time to think. Sometimes my rides last hours, while others only last minutes. Normally, whenever my mind figures out what it needs to, that’s the time I pull my bike to a stop.

  Lately, the Ravage MC has been bringing in some serious money with all the deals that Pops has worked out over the years. Some of them bring more than others, but it’s becoming more difficult to filter the money. Especially with the amount of cash. There’s only so much we can put through the garage and Studio X, the strip club.

  It’s been working well, but we’ve had to stock pile cash in several of our vaults in the basement of the clubhouse. Having cash on hand is great in the times we need it, but it will continually increase over time if we keep at this pace. That being said, we need something else to funnel the money.

  The thing is, I’ve been around the club my whole life. I prospected in early. I’ve held my place for almost four years now. I’m ready to step up anywhere needed. More so, I’m ready to give a fresh mindset and view to the way we do business. It’s all for family.

  My Ravage family.

  My top idea is a car wash. It’s an all-cash business, unless you let the customers use credit cards, which I would advise against. If we kept it all cash, we could put some of the money through there. I’ve searched the internet about all the working parts of one of the machines and how much it would take to build and maintain it. Ravage could easily do it, but the downside is all the moving pieces. Sure, we can go and fix the shit, but I want to work smarter, not harder.

  There’s a way, and I’ll damn well find it.

  My parents taught me many things. The first and foremost is to be my own man. If that means carving a new path for the Ravage MC, I’m up to the task.

  ***

  Pulling up to the clubhouse, we park in the lot, all next to each other, turning off the engines and taking off our helmets.

  This building is home.

  My memory is damn good, which is both a bles
sing and a curse. My father doesn’t know, but I remember living with my biological mother and seeing stuff as a young child that was flat-out wrong. It’s not that he doesn’t care to know; we just don’t talk about it.

  Besides, remembering those times only pisses me off. Seeing men come in and out of the small apartment, going into that woman’s room then coming out a while later. She was always doped up on something. Back then, I thought she just wasn’t feeling well.

  When she started hitting me, that was when I knew what fear was. A woman is supposed to love their kid, at least somewhat. Mine didn’t. Not at all.

  The moment my father told that woman—my incubator, as we call her now—I was staying with him, that’s what I consider my rebirth. It was a new start. Not only that, but I had a new mother, as well. One who loved me, took care of me, and put all of my needs above anyone else’s, not giving two shits what anyone thought about it.

  When I started living, this ugly-as-fuck, cement-blocked building became home. Don’t get me wrong, we had a house, as well, but the clubhouse is where it all started for me.

  “How’d it go?” Pops, the president of Ravage MC and my grandfather, asks upon us entering the building as I get chin lifts from the guys.

  Pops has been the president since I was a kid, so at least twenty-one, almost twenty-two years. He’s done a great job building the Ravage Motorcycle Club into very profitable entities. Not only that, after the bullshit that went down when I was a kid, Pops has kept a tight leash on any and all of our friends and enemies. One doesn’t do what we do and not have a huge basket of both, but Pops has kept it all in line.

  “Ryker got a little too happy, and the guy won’t be having kids, probably ever, but the message was sent. If he doesn’t have it by the weekend, then we’ll take care of it.”

  Pops chuckles.

  “Hey, the fucker was tryin’ to stand up. If he would’ve stayed down, his nuts wouldn’t have cracked.”