Hazard

by Zahra Girard

  Hazard

  An MC Romance

  By

  Zahra Girard

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2018 by Zahra Girard

  All rights reserved. This ebook or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you'd like to share this book with another, please purchase a separate copy for them. Thank you for respecting the hard work that went into my work.

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  Table of Contents

  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

  Make sure you have the other books in the Wayward Kings MC series:

  Get book one ‘Bear’

  Get book two ‘Ozzy’

  Chapter One

  Selena

  Two years prior

  In this forsaken cesspit of a bar, perched on the precipice of Reno, there’s only one thing worth paying attention to. It isn’t the groping hands. It isn’t the guttural laughter over some minor violence. It isn’t the drug money changing hands. It isn’t the threats get whispered to me with such frequency that they’ve become part of the general chorus of chaotic noise in this nightmarish hole in a forgotten corner of Reno.

  It’s the unusual things you have to pay attention to, the remarkable things, even if they’re subtle enough that they almost escape your notice. Those are the things that’ll kill you. Or set you free.

  The room swells with laughter and the steady flow of alcohol. Smoke swirls, choking thick and laced with scents that hint at more than tobacco; acrid angel dust, the choking chemical reek of crack.

  It’s Friday night in the Devil’s Den. My leather-wrapped prison. I find a gap in the cloud, breathe in the marginally cleaner air.

  Someone slaps my ass. Hard. I bite my lip and hold my ground. I won’t give them the satisfaction of yelping.

  “Hurry the fuck up and get me a beer,” a nameless bald-headed beard bellows at me.

  “If you’re tired, sweetheart, I’ve got somewhere you can sit,” another tufted-mustached ugly face says, winking at me. This time — my tenth time hearing that suggestion this night — he points at his face.

  I smile at him. He’s fine looking enough that I could imagine a more attractive man’s face over his. Thick arms, no gut, few enough scars, and a full member’s patch for the Devil’s Riders on his cut. If I didn’t have a job to do, I might even take him up on it.

  I like his ingenuity — usually, these guys just point at their dick.

  But I’ve got work to do.

  “Not now, hun,” I reply. I soften the blow with a smile. “Busy.”

  I’ve got to move. Because if I’m standing still too long, the man behind the bar — a savage they call Hard Drop — will let loose with his famous temper. He acts about like I would expect a VP for the Devil’s Riders to act, especially one whose nickname probably came from his mother’s parenting technique.

  I hustle to the bar, pull some pints from the tap, and slam them on the table in front of my mewling customers. Bikers get as pissy as newborns when they’re half-drunk and have to wait.

  “Took you fucking long enough,” the bald one — Cueball according to his patch — mutters. “Bitch.”

  I roll my eyes and circle through the room.

  “Sit your ass down,” another one with grabby hands says, yanking me into his lap.

  I smile at him, bat my eyes, and wiggle my way free.

  “Sorry, darling,” I say. “Maybe later. When I don’t have to worry about getting all your brothers beer.”

  Hank Williams blares from the jukebox for the umpteenth time tonight. It’s the same thing every night — walled in by bikers, navigating a maze of grabbing hands, mewling mouths, and short tempers, all while bombarded by a playlist of country and classic rock songs short enough you could fit it on a single notecard.

  This is my hell.

  And it’s my future until I’ve worked off my debt.

  I cycle through the room, caring for the angry, leather-clad, almost-newborns. None of these men are really threats to me, the club owns me – I’m property, not a person – and I see a couple familiar faces sporting black eyes that I’ve had to dish out when the word ‘no’ just doesn’t seem to translate.

  And then, something in the room shifts. A ripple runs through the tide of music and laughter coursing through the room, like a stray wave rocking a boat on a calm lake.

  I scan the room. And my eyes light on him.

  Hard edges. Hard muscles. Hard eyes.

  He knows he doesn’t belong here — he has to, unless he’s blind and stupid — the patch on his cut sticks out like a sore thumb in this bar of Devil’s Riders and Bloody Jackals, but he saunters in like he doesn’t give a damn. Every one of the side-eyed looks, the mumbled threats, wash over and off him, like waves against a sea stack towering high above the ocean.

  He even grins at a few of them.

  He’s got to be crazy.

  He slides into an empty booth, sits up forcefully straight and somehow makes it look perfectly comfortable while he looks over the room. There isn’t a glint of suspicion or fear in his eyes, just a single, dismissive scan. For a second, his eyes linger on Hard Drop behind the bar and a smirk lifts the edges of his lips before disappearing like a ghost. No one ever looks at Hard Drop like that.

  Then, his eyes brush over me, and the touch of his look stretches that passing second into an eternity. A pleasant shudder passes through me and I smile back at him.

  I don’t know why he’s here. I don’t even know his name. But I’m glad he came.

  I know an opportunity when I see it. And he has that flashing above him in signs big and neon enough to put anything in Reno to shame.

  I make a beeline for him, passing groping hands and empty glasses, the rising tide of discontent and mumbled threats from the other patrons spurring me forward. Even without the anger around me and the fact that I do not want to see another bar fight tonight, I doubt I could avoid this new customer.

  “You know, there’s a good bar down the st
reet. Alonzo’s — they’ve got good beer,” I say. “And the food’s a lot better. You’ll find a lot less spit in your meal if you went there.”

  “Oh really? How are their waitresses?”

  I roll my eyes.

  “They exist. That’s about all I can tell you,” I say. “That and they’ve also heard every line at least a hundred times. But they’d never let you know that. They’ll smile and make you feel like you’re the first person to ever write their number on the receipt and that they’ll definitely call you.”

  “So do you work here, or do you secretly work for Alonzo’s?” he says.

  “Here,” I say. “And I’ve been here long enough to know that this isn’t the best place for you.”

  The edges of his lips twitch upward. “That’s awfully helpful of you.”

  “Are you from out of town? Or just thick?”

  “Maybe I just want a beer and this seems like a good place to get one.”

  “You do know what kind of bar this is, right?”

  “I figured it’s a place that serves alcohol. Unless I’m wrong?”

  So he’s most likely here to start trouble. Just some biker looking to get drunk and pound his knuckles against somebody’s face.

  I guess I was wrong about him. I thought he’d have some brains in his skull.

  “You’re not wrong. Just don’t fuck around, ok?”

  He smirks and gives me a small salute. “Yes, ma’am.”

  There’s no getting through to him. He’s not from around here, the patch on his cut is going to cause trouble, and I’m going to be stuck mopping up whatever’s left of him. Though for being in a place that’s definitely hostile to him, he doesn’t seem the least bit worried. Which means, there probably isn’t much in the way of smarts behind his enticing emerald eyes.

  Why do the hot ones have to be so dumb?

  I shake my head. “Who do you think helps clean up when they close this place up for the night? Do you know how difficult blood stains are?”

  “Bloodstains are a bitch to clean up. Hydrogen Peroxide helps if it’s fresh. If it’s a set-in stain, WD-40 will do the trick. WD-40 will fucking fix anything.”

  Is he fucking with me?

  “So, is this just a weekend warrior thing?” I say, pointing to his cut. “You work a day job as a janitor and get your fun pretending to be a one percenter when you’re off the clock? Get your fucking thrills in an outlaw bar, living out some fantasy as a getaway from your fucking 9 to 5?”

  “The cleaning tips are courtesy of the US Army, 75th Airborne Ranger Regiment, and every hard-assed commanding officer who felt the need to instill a little attitude adjustment in me,” he says. “They didn’t do a very good job.”

  I sigh. He’s obviously not leaving. Not that I mind him being here, he’s easy enough on the eyes and, when that faint smile of his surfaces, it’s more than a little bit attractive. What I mind is the trouble I can see him causing and the cleanup I’ll get stuck with.

  “Keep your head down, then, alright?” I say. “The Devil’s Den belongs to the Devil’s Riders and the Bloody Jackals. The Bloody Jackals own most of this town. Even the mob pays them protection. Don’t go starting any shit, because the last thing I need is cleaning up what’s left of you.”

  “Two clubs share this bar, huh?” he says, smirk surfacing again.

  I nod. “The Devil’s Riders kick up to the Jackals. The Jackals run Reno and most of this part of Nevada. So be smart, ok? You don’t want to fuck with them.”

  “They don’t look like much.”

  “Are you fucking stupid? Look around.”

  Quietly, he runs his eyes in meandering course over me from top to bottom, lingering longer than usual — even for this kind of bar — on my breasts. My cheeks grow hot and my nipples harden beneath my bra.

  “Is that what happened to you? You fuck with someone? Or is that just a drunk Mardi Gras kind of mistake?” he says, nodding towards my chest.

  My tattoo. Fuck.

  I hastily close a few of the buttons on my blouse, covering up the black ink marker of my mistake. I know it’s too late, and Hard Drop will just have me open my blouse later — the whole club needs to see what happens to someone who fucks with them. I’m a living example of what happens when the best-laid plans go to waste — but for right now, the last thing I want to talk about is the mark on my chest.

  “What do you think?” I snap back.

  “I think, depending on your answer, I might go looking for some beads,” he says. That smile that previously just flickered on his lips comes out in full. I like his smile. There’s something in it that warms up his sharp green eyes.

  Somehow, I can’t be angry at him.

  And I’m certain I’ve misjudged him — he knows I’m in deep, he just doesn’t give a damn.

  I laugh. “There’s a Joann’s Fabrics about a mile down the road, near where Peckham and Kietzke Ave meet up. They’re even running a sale. So can I get you something to drink…?”

  “Jarrett,” he says. “And yeah, I’ll take a beer.”

  “I’m Selena,” I say, making a mental note to pour this man’s beer myself. Hard Drop will probably spit in the damn thing.

  The rest of the night passes in a whirlwind. Jarrett drinks like it’s his last night on earth, but somehow keeps upright in his booth. I don’t get much chance to talk to him more — the other customers keep me busy and Hard Drop orders me around like he knows every thought that passes through my head — but nothing goes down between Jarrett and anyone else in the bar. Someone says something to him at one point, he spits something back, but the sparks of rage never catch fire to violence and most of the guys give him a wide berth.

  One on one, they’re scared of him. And no group of them is drunk enough, or angry enough, to get together to try their luck.

  This guy is exactly what I need.

  Just before the end of my long night, Jarrett disappears. A handful of cash is the only memento I have of him. I don’t stop to think any more about him. I’ve got enough on my mind and an hour of cleaning ahead of me before I can get out of here and catch a few hours of sleep before the cycle starts again.

  Finally, the night ends.

  I put give the bar one final wipe-down, and step outside.

  The night air gives me a bracing slap in the face as I step outside into the quiet parking lot. My hands ache, my feet are numb, and my eyelids hang heavy.

  It’s going to be a long ride home.

  Something light smacks me in the cheek and clatters to the pavement by my feet.

  “What the hell?”

  I bend down.

  Beads.

  I look around. Just outside of the circular illumination of the lone streetlight, Jarrett’s standing there. Leaning against his bike, half-empty bottle of brown liquor in his hand, sideways smile on his face and his eyes as bright as a jade moon.

  “Time to pay up, Miss Mardi Gras.”

  “Right. You’re about as subtle as—”

  “As getting smacked in the face with a bead necklace?” he says.

  “What are you doing here, anyways?”

  “Here seems about as good as anywhere to put together a bead necklace.”

  “You mean you made this?” I say, looking at the necklace in my hands. Even in the dim light, it looks pretty shoddy. I don’t know whether to be somewhat flattered he made the thing at all, or pissed off that the best my tits are worth is some half-assed bunch of beads on a string. “You did goddamn beadwork in the parking lot at this roadhouse? Are you that desperate to see some tits?”

  “Come on, even you have to admit tits are great,” he says. “Besides, I was hoping one of those Devil’s Riders might decide to try his luck. Reno’s not a very exciting place.”

  For all the insanity coming out of his mouth about picking a fight in the parking lot of one of the most dangerous motorcycle clubs in the state, he doesn’t look insane. Handsome, endowed with some great hair, and cocky, but definitely not crazy.


  “You came here looking for trouble, huh? Do you have a death wish?”

  “Not really, I’ve got a ride to finish and a club to get back to. But I really wanted something to get my blood pumping before I left town. Maybe you can help?”

  “You want to fight me?”

  “If that’s what you want, I don’t discriminate. But I was thinking you might prefer another way of getting your heart rate up.”

  I decide to change the subject. And I still waver on my opinion of whether this guy is crazy.

  But I like him.

  “So you’re on a ride? Where are you headed?”

  He gestures vaguely east. “It’s sort of an open-ended thing. More about taking the time to figure things out and think.”

  “Fuck, am I going to be part of some montage, now? Like in those action movies? Is Jean Claude Van Damme going to pop out from behind that dumpster over there and offer to teach me the secret of doing the splits?”

  “Hardly. Though if you wanted to record something, I wouldn’t say no,” he says. “Mostly, I was planning to see if you wanted to grab a drink.”

  “A drink, huh? And what about the beads?”

  “Well, I’m not blind; I still want to see your tits.”

  I pop loose the buttons on my blouse and give him a quick flash of my bra. His effort at actually going to a craft store’s earned him that much. “Fine. Let’s go get a drink. But I’ve got one question for you, first.”

  “Shoot.”

  “How would you like to help me rob this place?”

  He takes a pull from the bottle of booze, long and slow. When he lowers the bottle, his jade eyes shine brighter, lit with liquor and confidence.

  He smiles.

  “Now you’re talking.”

  Chapter Two

  Jarrett

  “Gather round, boys. It’s time to pay some fucking attention, because this isn’t story time and if you make me repeat myself, you will be heading to the ER to have my boot surgically extracted from your fucking asshole.”