Smolder: Trojans MC

by Kara Parker

  And Luke, who had once thought it simply wasn’t in the cards for him to be a father, took on the role with such vigor and enthusiasm that Shayla often joked his bike was jealous. He rarely rode it these days, busy at home with their little daughter, Athena, watching mommy on TV and learning all about the Greeks of old. And anyway, the only rush he craved anymore was the feel of his woman writhing beneath him in ecstasy. And that particular craving was one that they both had and satisfied quite frequently.

  Sparky’s transition to leadership of the Trojans had been nearly effortless. Of course, it was made easier by Sparky’s ball-busting right hand man, who’d made it clear to anyone who thought they’d be free to make an incursion into Trojan territory with the new leadership that they were dead wrong. Well, right hand man was the wrong phrasing. Right hand woman, more like.

  Shayla still saw Naomi; quite often, in fact. That was one of the side effects of being coworkers. Though they weren’t on the same show, Naomi and Shayla both worked in the mornings and spent many of their mornings doubled over in laughter. They were well liked by everyone, but had earned special respect from the station’s many interns.

  With many of the higher ranking Reapers members behind bars, along with their new best friend Anthony Blake, the struggles Shayla and Luke had faced in Templeton were far behind them. Though life was never without its struggles. They weren’t so full of hubris to think they’d never hear the drums of war again, but they welcomed whatever the world had to offer.

  After all, there was nothing they couldn’t conquer together.

  THE END

  BONUS BOOK 1 – CHANCE

  CHAPTER ONE

  They had told her a thousand times that police work was nothing like what she had seen in movies. There are no high-speed chases, no dramatic shoot-outs, no secret mafia meetings; that’s not real police work. Police work is about due diligence; it’s about protecting and serving the people; it’s about helping people in need. If that doesn’t interest you, then you shouldn’t be a police officer. Still, when Olivia Waters had dreamed of being a cop, when she had sweat and cursed her way through the academy, she had expected something more than this.

  Sitting in her squad car in the passenger seat, Olivia watched as office workers in suits entered and exited a busy coffee shop. She noticed that they usually entered empty handed and left with coffee or some other purchase; her months of training were really paying off. She, herself, had a coffee sitting next to her, which she had barely touched. She was amped up enough and didn’t need the caffeine making it any worse.

  She wanted to do something. She wanted to investigate, search, interrogate suspects, or clear a crime scene—any of the many things she had been trained to do. But instead, she was stuck in her squad car, watching her partner shovel an egg and cheese sandwich into his mouth.

  “Never get a donut,” he had warned her on her first day. “It’s too cliché; the jokes write themselves.” Her partner was Lance Townsend, he was five foot six and over two hundred and fifty pounds. He grunted and groaned every time he had to stand up or sit down, and he seemed to always be sweating. Lance preferred to give tickets from the seat of his cruiser. If someone made him get up and out of his seat, he would find a way to double the person’s fine.

  “Any other words of wisdom?” she had asked him on their first day.

  “Just keep your head down and ignore the calls whenever you can. If you write enough tickets, they won’t give you any trouble for not responding to calls.”

  “Oh...” had been the only response Olivia could offer. It was funny—when they had partnered her with Lance, she had no idea what he looked like or what his personality was like. She had been worried that something might happen between them. But there was no chance of chemistry with Lance; he was married to a miserable wife, and the happiest part of Olivia’s day was when he went home to her.

  Two months later and little had changed. Olivia repeatedly ignored Lance’s order to not answer any calls. She had wrestled the radio handset away from him several times and was still often the first to respond to a call. When the siren went off and the cherry lit up as they raced to wherever trouble was brewing, Olivia’s heart would start to pound and she remembered why she had taken the job in the first place. But Lance hated trouble; he liked egg sandwiches and sitting in the air-conditioned car. The only thing they agreed upon was their shared hatred of litterers and the importance of ticketing them.

  Olivia was staring at the clock on the dashboard, wondering why it was moving so slowly, when there was the blessed sound of scratching as the radio lit up with a call from dispatch. “All vehicles in the area, we have a domestic dispute at 1854 Elder Street.”

  “Dispatch, this is Sierra Five. We are five away from the location, on our way now, go ahead,” Olivia said, grabbing the handset before Lance could even look up from his sandwich.

  “Copy Sierra Five. Reports of a domestic dispute, no weapons reported, the wife has asked for assistance. I will respond that assistance is on the way.”

  Lance rolled his eyes and let out a long dramatic sigh, but he made no motion to start the car.

  “Why do you have to respond to every call? You know we’re not the only cops out here, right?”

  “Because it’s our job to answer calls,” Olivia said. This was not the first time they were having this argument. “It’s not like we’re busy at the moment. We’re just sitting here drinking coffee and eating. Why wouldn’t we answer the call?”

  “Because it could be dangerous; we could get shot. Because it’s going to be annoying; domestic disputes are just couples arguing loudly enough to annoy the neighbors.”

  “The wife called, not the neighbors. She’s asking for help. Are you really ready to ignore her?”

  “You remember the story of the Boy Who Cried Wolf,” Lance said, as he finally balled up his sandwich wrapper and tossed it into the back seat. “All of these calls are people crying wolf. They love to fight; they love fights that are nasty and mean; they love it when the cops are called. It makes them feel important. These people, all they want is an audience, someone to pay attention to them. They’re crying wolf and should be ignored.”

  “Have you ever heard the story of the Boy Who Cried Wolf?” Olivia asked, buckling her seatbelt as the car began to move. “Because that story ends with a little boy being torn apart by wolves.” Olivia hit the switch and the sound of the siren echoed around them as the cherry lit up. She felt her blood start to pump as the car picked up speed. In front of them, cars moved out of the way as they sped down the street, breezing through stop signs and red lights, bringing them closer to their destination.

  This was what Olivia wanted. She never expected to live in some sort of cop movie fantasy, but she wanted to do something. She wanted to get involved in the neighborhood; she wanted people to know her and know that they could trust her. She wanted to help people in the most direct way possible. She never wanted to sit behind a cubicle under fluorescent lights all day; she wanted to be out in the world getting her hands dirty and feeling alive.

  The neighborhood around them was growing worse. Marina’s Crest was a large town located on a tributary of the Colorado River. It was warm in the winter and scalding hot in the summer. Olivia and Lance patrolled the northern section of the city, half retail space and half residential. The pair got an interesting mix of calls. But the further north they went, the farther they traveled from the center of town, and the worse the land got. Houses with nicely manicured rock gardens turned into trailers sitting on patches of loose sand. Few good things happened in the north part of town.

  As the car came around a turn, the address appeared in front of them. It was a dilapidated trailer with broken lawn chairs scattered across what could generously be called a yard. There was a rusted old car up on blocks, and a shiny motorcycle next to it. As they pulled into the driveway, Lance cut the cherry and the siren, and Olivia’s ears continued to ring for a few seconds after the noise had stopped.
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  “Dispatch, we’re on the scene, about to enter the home,” Olivia said into the handset. She checked her belt, making sure her gun, mace, and baton were all where they should be. Now that the silence was gone she could hear the yelling coming from inside the house, a woman’s high-pitched, indignant screeching, and the sound of things being thrown and broken.

  “God dammit, Olivia,” Lance said, shaking his head at the house. “You happy now?”

  “Not yet, not until we get inside,” she said with a smile, as she opened her door and stepped out into the sunlight and towards the screaming couple inside.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “David Creely, great to see you man. Thanks for coming in so early.”

  “It’s no problem, Rick. I’m ready anytime you need me,” David responded. It was a lie of course. He hated getting up early; one of the many perks of being in a biker gang was the late hours. He hadn’t woken up this early in a very long time. But when Rick Giddings calls, you answer. Standing tall, Rick was the second-in-command of God’s Reapers, the biker gang that ruled Marina’s Crest.

  “I know it, man, and I want to let you know that we’ve seen your hard work and your loyalty. In this business, hard work and loyalty are rewarded. Mike wants to talk to you. Why don’t you come on up to the office,” Rick said, nodding towards a steep set of metal steps that led to the main office, high above the clubhouse floor.

  David nodded and then swallowed. Mike was the president of the club, and a meeting with him was either the best thing that ever happened to a man, or the last thing they ever did. As David climbed the stairs, he ran his hands through his blond, shaggy hair, trying to tame his hair and look slightly respectable.

  “David, good morning,” Mike said, standing as David entered. There was a woman in the room with him. She had an overly tanned face and bleach blond hair with long pastel-colored fingernails and a white, skin-tight skirt and matching shirt. When David entered, she was chewing loudly on a piece of gum and staring at her fingernails.

  “Here you go, Sweetie,” Mike said, slipping a baggie with white powder into her hand and helping her up. “Why don’t you let the boys talk, huh?” he continued, giving her a slap on the ass as she left. Mike was a balding bear of a man, over six feet tall and over sixty years old, he ruled the club with an iron fist. He controlled everything from scheduling to buying and selling; nothing in the club was done without Mike knowing about it. He had been a member since he was sixteen, had done five years in state max, and was not someone you wanted to mess with.

  “I’m glad you’re here, David. I wanted to let you know that you did good work on that Toledo run. We were all very impressed.”

  “Thank you, sir,” David said, his sense of pride building up. Unlike most of the members of the club, David hadn’t been grandfathered in. Most members were sons or grandsons or nephews of members, and their entrance and acceptance was guaranteed. Rick, the second-in-command of God’s Reapers, had a father, grandfather, and three uncles in the gang when he started. Legacy counted for everything. But David didn’t know who his father was. He was raised by a single mother who worked as a waitress in a diner on the highway. She had died of lung cancer when David was nineteen. At twenty, David had picked up some work for the gang. He put his time in, helping out when they would let him; he got a bike and learned how to take care of it. At twenty-five, he had been officially invited to join the gang, and now, at thirty, he was finally being rewarded for his hard work.

  “Weed’s turning into quite the business, David,” Mike said, sitting down in his chair and leaning back, resting both of his hands on his large belly. “It’s still far more illegal than it is legal, and people are getting jealous. Why should Colorado and California get to have all the fun? We’ve been working with some guys south of the border, and they want to bring it through Marina’s Crest. We’ve decided that the warehouse on Seventeenth and Marigold is the perfect pick-up and drop-off site. Rick is going to be in charge of the site, and we’ve decided to put you in charge of keeping us off the cops’ radar. Is that something you can do for us, David?”

  “Absolutely,” David answered, not hesitating for even a moment.

  “You’ll be given some discretionary money for bribes, but it’s a tricky business; too much and it cuts into our profits, too little and it’s not enough to keep the cops away.”

  “I can work the cops, Mike. No problem,” David said.

  “Good. We’re not too worried about it. That part of town just has beat cops on duty. Those guys just want to sit in their cars and nap; we should do everything we can to encourage that behavior. You will need to get names and info on the cops assigned to our neighborhood. Get to know them, know what they like, know who they love, find out what matters to them, and find out the things they aren’t willing to sacrifice. If you have to encourage them to accept the payment, if their conscience bothers them, tell them everything is fine and that no one's getting hurt; we’re just providing a much needed service. And if they refuse to see reason, well, I leave the details up to you.”

  “Got it,” David said.

  “This is important David, very important,” Rick said. “If the cops bust the warehouse a lot of members are going to end up in jail and will have a lot of time to do. You did six months in state, David, did you enjoy it?”

  “No,” David answered. The six months he had done had been for the club. The police had cornered David and three other members while in process of moving some guns. David had stayed behind and led the cops away from the stash and his brothers. The cops had interrogated him for days about the gang, wanting to know about their activities and who was in charge. The cops promised to set him up with a cushy life in witness protection if he would turn tail and rat. David refused. He got six months on a trumped up charge, but it had been worth it; he came out of prison a hero to God’s Reapers. Still, prison was exactly as awful as everyone said. David wasn’t eager to go back, and he didn’t want to send anyone else there.

  “If you need men to help you, just let Rick now. We’ll give you whatever resources you need—within reason,” Mike said. And then he heaved his heavy frame up and out of his chair and stood next to a window that looked down into the clubhouse area. There was stocked bar, a few couches and TVs, but most of the space was given over to the garage where bikes of all makes and models sat in various stages of repair.

  The clubhouse felt more like home than any other building David had ever been in. There was always someone at the clubhouse. A member whose girl had kicked him out for a few nights, or a guy who was between jobs and houses. Any time, night or day, David could come to the club and be amongst his brothers—play pool, play darts, work on bikes, drink. He cared about this club more than he cared about anything else. He would do anything to protect it, to save it. He wasn’t scared of those fat pigs in their cruisers; he wasn’t afraid of anything.

  “You can count on me, Mike. I would never let anything happen to my brothers. I can handle the cops. I’ll bribe them if I can, but if they don’t want to take the bribe, I can find other ways of making them look the other way. No one will know about the warehouse; no one will interrupt business.”

  “Good, glad to hear it,” Mike said. “I’ve always liked you David; you’re a hard worker. It’s hard for the men to accept a non-legacy member, but you do yourself proud, and you’ve come to be accepted. Now, when you have your sons, they’ll be welcomed into the family as well. Who’s your lady these days?”

  “Don’t have one, sir,” David said. “Haven’t met one that I wanted to keep around very long.”

  “Well, we’ll have to correct that. There’s a lot of sisters and daughters who could use a good steady man in their lives. I’ll keep my eye open for you, David.”

  “I appreciate it, Mike. But girls come second, club comes first.”

  “Indeed it does David. Now go and figure out who’s watching us and convince them to look the other way,” Mike instructed.

  “Yes, sir,”
David said, standing up to shake the great man’s hand.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “Police! Open up!” Olivia called out, banging her fist four times against the weak frame of the ripped screen door. It was hot out and she could feel sweat beading on her forehead even though she had only been out of the car for a few moments. There was a sudden silence from within the trailer. Olivia could imagine the couple frozen in place like kids caught with their hands in the cookie jar.

  Finally, a thin, bearded man came over to the door and glared at Olivia through the screen. His shirt was in tatters and his jeans were filthy; he wasn’t wearing any shoes, and as he stared at Olivia through the screen door, he brought a cigarette up to his lips and lit it.

  “What?” he finally demanded, the word coming out of his mouth like a curse.

  “We received a call about a domestic disturbance. Do you mind if we come in?”

  “Yeah, I fucking mind, and no you can’t come into my house,” the man spit, looking Olivia and Lance up and down with a sneer on his face.