Wicked
Page 1
Copyright © 2019 KB Winters and BookBoyfriends Publishing LLC
Published By: BookBoyfriends Publishing LLC
Copyright and Disclaimer
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2019 KB Winters and BookBoyfriends Publishing Inc
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of the trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Contents
Wicked - Reckless MC Opey TX Chapter
Copyright and Disclaimer
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
Sneak Peek of Locked
Chapter One
Chapter Two
More From KB Winters
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Acknowledgements
About The Author
Chapter One
Saint
Gunnar strolled into the bunkhouse and held up the Tulip Gazette, looking like somebody put a bug up his ass.
“Have you guys seen this shit?” he said, scowling at us and acting all pissed off again. The guy had it made in the shade. I rolled my eyes. What now?
“Chili cook-off?” Cruz, the new Road Captain, guessed with a snicker.
“Rummage sale?” Slayer, the new club Treasurer, added but only because of the glare Gunnar sent Cruz.
“No, assholes,” Gunnar sneered. “Some fucker’s robbed the downtown business district at gunpoint again.” Gunnar paused, waiting for anger or outrage or some kind of reaction. I rarely could tell what Gunnar expected outside of The Barn Door.
I laughed at the idea that anything in Opey was a ‘district’ much less a business district. “You mean that piece of land where the courthouse, post office and a few other shops come together?”
“Yeah, I do,” he growled. “It’s six blocks of businesses that sustain this town, including Hardtail Ranch and The Barn Door. Nearly thirty-five businesses exist down there. This is the third armed robbery in as many weeks.”
The room fell silent again.
Apparently, I wasn’t the only one in the bunkhouse who didn’t know what Gunnar wanted.
“No offense man, but how in the hell is this our business?”
Leave it up to Wheeler to say what the rest of us were thinking. Maybe that was what made him a solid choice for club VP.
“This is our business because it is literally our fucking business,” he shot back at the VP with fire in his eyes. “First of all, armed robbery means there’s a crew operating around here and we don’t know who it is. That’s a problem.”
“Why? We’re not even criminals so what difference does it make?” None of it made sense to me, why in the fuck did we need to give a damn about a band of criminals? “I mean, it’s shitty for the businesses that got hit, but how is this a Reckless Bastards problem?” The room fell silent, either because I’d voiced what everyone was thinking or, more likely, I’d stepped in the shit. Again.
Gunnar let out a deep, cleansing breath and raked a hand through his hair that seemed to go from ‘just out of the military’ short to desperately in need of a haircut. “No, Saint, we’re not criminals, but we’re the only ones who know that. What do you think the good folks of Opey think of us, no matter how they smile and chat with us in town?”
Slayer barked out a laugh. “Old Debbie Gallagher at the diner swears I’m up to no good and that’s just because of the long hair.” He punctuated his words by running his fingers through said brown locks.
“That’s just how it goes, but that means we have to be extra diligent about what the fuck goes on in Opey. Any hint of a serious crime and we’ll be the first suspects.” I opened my mouth to object but Gunnar stopped me with an ice cold look. “Most of us are new to town which is already a strike against us in this small ass town, but the fact that we also are Harley enthusiasts is bound to make us a target.”
“Then are we doing it? The club’s official?” At first this whole motorcycle club thing sounded good, even fun. But over the past few weeks Gunnar had been trying to make it a big damn thing and I wasn’t sure how I felt about that. “Seriously.”
“Riding’s in my blood, man. This is how it goes. You knew that when you agreed to join. Right?” Wheeler had his back up, shoulders squared so he was at his full six feet four inches of intimidating asshole.
“Well I didn’t realize we’d be targeted as criminals or be responsible for cleaning the town of the criminal underclass!” It was an unusual outburst from me, even I knew that, but this was too much. First, it was just a club, a brotherhood of men with similar backgrounds in search of a place to heal and grow after the military. Then it was shared financial interest, which in all fairness, had been a spectacular perk. Now it was vigilante justice or…some stupid shit like that.
“Is that a problem, Saint?” The way Gunnar said my name, like he was my cold, distant stepfather pissed me off. Made me wonder why the fuck any of this sounded like a good idea to me.
“Hell Gunnar, I don’t know. This is the first I’m hearing of this.” My gaze bounced around the room at the other so-called brothers and of all the expressions I saw, none resembled anything like understanding or solidarity. Mostly blank looks and a few confused ones. “Am I the only one confused about this?”
Holden lifted a hefty, plaid-covered arm in the air. “I must admit Gunnar, I’m a bit confused about this, too. What are you suggesting we do here?”
A moment of uncertainty flashed in Gunnar’s blue eyes but it was gone just as quickly as it had appeared, if it even appeared at all. These days I couldn’t be absolutely certain.
“We have to stop this ring of armed robbers. One way or another,” he said, his voice laced with determination.
I groaned but kept my mouth shut because this sounded a lot like murder, something I sure as shit didn’t sign up for. I’d already done my time killing on behalf of other people, and I was done with that shit. Done and had the scars—mental and physical—to prove that shit. “You want ‘em dead?”
“Not necessarily, but people like these robbers need to know that Opey is ours, and we are willing to protect it and the people in it.” His expression was fierce, determined and at least Cruz and Wheeler were on his side.
“If it’ll make you feel better Saint, we can talk to ’em first.”
“Make me feel better? What the fuck kind of bullshit is that? We’re vets, Gunnar. Ex-soldiers. Marines. Ranchers. Sex club operators. We are not vigilantes and we’re not fucking gangsters, are we?”
“No,” his shoulders sank. “We’re not.”
“Maybe not,” Wheeler stood and placed a big hand on Gunnar’s shoulders, showing solidarity among the leadership. “But Gunnar is right about one thing, we can’t let criminal activity in town go unpunished, not just because we’ll take the blame, but because it’ll end up on our fucking doorstep eventually.”
“You believe that, Wheeler?” He was a straight shooter, whether we wanted to hear the truth or not, but I didn’t like this crime talk.
He scoffed and looked me right in the eyes. “Yeah, Saint, I do. Think about if a non-club member found out about The Barn Door, a criminal in need of money. They could do a hell of a lot more than rob the place. They could blackmail every goddamn name in the book.”
“Not to mention the MC shit,” Cruz added. Unnecessarily.
Fuck. Wheeler was right. Gunnar and Cruz were right too. “I understand what you guys are saying but, I’m not sure if I’m up for this.” I waited for the inevitable bullshit razzing from the guys or maybe something worse. Mocking.
The room fell silent, and I stared at the mud that had settled into the cracks of my black boots for so long I nearly missed the knowing looks the others shot each other, about me no doubt. Like I was some fucking head case they needed to watch and looked after like a goddamn infant.
“Saint, outside. Now.”
No matter what else happened, Gunnar was the boss. I followed him outside, leaving the rest of the bunkhouse in total silence.
***
Five feet separated Gunnar and me but it might as well have been a gulf as wide as Texas. His steps were brisk, resolute. Angry. With dusty jeans and a ripped t-shirt, he looked more like a farmer than a biker, but his attitude was all biker. He stopped and put his hands on his hip with a deep, frustrated exhale.
“Help me out here, Saint. You said you wanted in the club, did all the work to do it, and now you have doubts.”
“Not doubts, man. Just questions.” I stopped right beside him and stared out at the sun kissed land with my arms folded over my chest. “This ain’t the military, Gunnar. If I can’t have questions, then this won’t work.”
There would never again be a time when I blindly followed someone’s orders, especially when taking someone’s life was involved.
“I’m not talking about that,” he spat out angrily and looked at me.
“Then what the fuck are you talking about because I’m really confused.”
He huffed a frustrated breath. “I’m talking about the thing we’re all trying hard not to think about, Saint. Mitch is here and I really think you should talk to him.”
“That’s what this is about? I don’t need to talk to anyone, Gunnar, but thanks for your concern.”
“It’s not just my concern, Saint. This is friendly advice. You’re not doing well. Hardly sleeping, and you look like shit. You’re not the first serviceman to suffer from PTSD, Saint. I hope you know that.”
Of course I knew I wasn’t so special as to be patient zero for PTSD, but I also knew that talking about it wouldn’t make the memories or the dreams go away. “I do, thanks.”
“So why are you so reluctant to talk about it?”
“I’m trying to move forward. That’s what the ranch and the club and the Reckless Bastards is all about. Isn’t it?” Moving on was the only way to keep my head above water from one day to the next, the only way forward was to try to forget the past.
“Maybe you’re right, maybe I don’t belong here. Hell, I don’t even know how to ride a fucking bike.”
He froze and turned slowly; eyes wide as saucers. “You what?”
“You heard me,” I said reluctantly. It wasn’t something I wanted to admit, but now that we were hashing shit out, now was as good a time as any. “I’ve never ridden a bike. A motorcycle. A hog.”
Piercing blue eyes stared at me before he tilted his head back and barked out a laugh. “Holy shit man, you really can’t ride?”
I shook my head, and he laughed even harder. Asshole.
“No wonder you’re so freaked. Come on.” He was already walking away before issuing the command.
I had to scramble to keep up with his long-legged stride. “Come on where?”
“We’re gonna get you comfortable on a bike. Can’t be in an MC without the motorcycle, Saint.” He flashed a wide, genial smile and clapped his hands loud enough to echo in the field. “Let’s go. We’ll go to the northeast side of the property so no one else can see you fall on your scrawny little ass.”
“Scrawny? I have a really nice ass I’ll have you know.” The only thing that I hadn’t let go of since leaving the service was my dedication to physical fitness, and that was only because it was one hell of a stress reliever. And a great way to get two or three hours of sleep each night. If I could find a way to sleep without the nightmares, life might end up perfect.
Gunnar gave me a once over. “It’s all right, but I’ve seen better,” he said seriously, only laughing when I flipped him the middle finger.
“How is it that you’ve never ridden before?”
It was a fair question. “Grew up in New York and didn’t even get a license to drive until just before I started basic training. Between the subway and cabs, I never had a need to learn and motorcycles aren’t all that prevalent in the sand box.”
“Smart ass,” he grumbled. “Nothing feels better than all that horsepower at your fingertips. There’s a certain amount of freedom on a bike. Just you, the machine, and the open fucking road. No worries. No problems. Just eating up the pavement.”
He made it sound like a special kind of heaven, not just another method of transportation.
“Sounds better than a woman.”
Gunnar laughed. “In some ways it is. Nothing is better than a hot beautiful woman, but this comes damn close.” His smile was pure bliss, enough so that it sounded appealing. Damn appealing.
What the hell did I know about any of that? Women had never been anything more than a good time for me, a few hours to satisfy my physical needs—and theirs—but nothing more. I’d never been in love, never even lived with a woman. But the way Gunnar spoke about both of those things made me wonder if I was missing out on something important.
“Let’s do it, then.”
Chapter Two
Hazel
I had to get this job. Had to. Hell, I needed this job more than I’ve needed any of the other shitty jobs I’ve held in my twenty-six years of living. More than the greasy spoon diner where I waited tables while the middle-aged manager pretended that groping my ass was accidental. More than the fast food place where teenage girls gave head in the freezer to earn better shifts from the manager’s greasy son. It was one more shitty job, but it paid cash money, which was helpful if I wanted to continue to have a roof over my head and food in my belly, which I did.
Not getting this job wasn’t an option because I had no fall back plan. No loving parents waiting for me to return to the family fold or begging me to come home for a long overdue visit. Nope, all I had was a string of foster families who’d gotten a check for taking care of me. All of them had opted out of my care as soon as the checks stopped coming. So I was on my own. Completely and totally on my fucking own.
So yeah, I needed this job.
Badly.
I’d fished out my best pair of black jeans with the hole in one knee that hugged my toned thighs and ass just enough to let the interviewer see I was attractive enough. Fit enough. I tied my white blouse at the waist, a look that gave me even more up top than I actually possessed. Cheap black stilettos completed the look along with natural makeup and neat hair. It was the best I could do with my limited wardrobe. My personality and work experience would have to do the rest.
At the last minute I added a coat of
Kiss Me Crazy red to my lips and stepped out of my jalopy of a car, ready to nail this fucking interview. The Barn Door was a discreet adult club. Reading between the lines, I figured it was some kind of sex club and I’d traded my normal interview outfit for something a little sexier. Maybe even a little trashy? It had to work.
I took in several fortifying breaths, adjusted my minimal cleavage one last time before I opened the proverbial barn door and stepped inside a dimly lit security space with cameras situated on all sides. Top notch security, which was comforting. If I got the job. I waited alone while camera’s whirred, and I stared at several locked doors. Nearly a minute later the door to one of the offices clicked, and I pulled it open easily and stepped inside an adult playhouse.
Leather and velvet or maybe it was suede, covered every surface. Shades of black and red and purples dominated the room, along with a long, dark wood bar gleaming with brass accents. Two cages hung suspended from the ceiling on my left, each of them big enough for people. Grown up people. Naked grown up people.
“We’re not open,” a deep voice sounded to my right, startling the shit out of me. I swiveled my head until I saw the man, tall with wide shoulders and a menacing glare I just bet he used with wild abandon.
“Good thing or I’d be very late for my interview. I’m Hazel and I have an appointment with someone named Joplin Saint.”
His shoulders relaxed just a bit, and I wondered who he’d been expecting. “Hazel, good to meet you. I’m Gunnar, and I own this place. This man right here is the manager, Joplin Saint.”
He clapped the other guy on the back as he took a step forward. I took a step back and he gave me a dark look, like I might be a piece of bad meat before he extended his hand.
“Right.” I covered up my nervousness with a firm shake of my own. “Good to meet you Gunnar.” I offered my hand to Joplin as well. “You, too.”
“Yeah, you too,” the manager mumbled, barely even sparing me a glance. That was just fine with me. Joplin was good looking with slightly unkempt light brown hair and jade green eyes that he probably used to hypnotize women into falling for his lines. He was over six feet with wide shoulders and a narrow waist that faded into square hips and muscled, denim-covered thighs.