by C. Tyler
EVERNIGHT PUBLISHING ®
www.evernightpublishing.com
Copyright© 2017 C. Tyler
ISBN: 978-1-77339-485-5
Cover Artist: Jay Aheer
Editor: Karyn White
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
DEDICATION
I’d like to thank everyone who helped support my constant need to create stories, and the wonderful team at Evernight for taking a chance with me.
HOPE
Romance on the Go ®
C. Tyler
Copyright © 2017
Chapter One
The bar is in full swing when I arrive, which I expect. I just want a drink, want to be around the familiar, and whether people would believe me or not—these crazies were my familiar.
Women hung on the shoulders of rough-looking men, bikers dotted the entire area, and the music was loud. This was the sort of place people with common sense didn’t travel, and even law enforcement was a bit skeptical. Then again, half the cops were on the payroll, so…
I park my car near the back and head towards the bar. It has no name because it isn’t meant for the normal public. The block I’m standing in belongs to a single owner. It houses a mechanics shop, a bar, and a repo/junkyard. It was a substantial amount of real estate, but all of it was designed to make money. The bar sold drinks, the mechanics fixed cars, and the repo yard brought in commissions from the banks and dealerships that hired them. It was a decent setup.
Wearing a plain t-shirt, jeans, and an oversized hoodie, I stand out. With my hair tied sloppily into a bun and a pair of large-framed glasses resting on my nose, I draw a few eyes from the patrons. I look nothing like the women wearing skimpy strips of leather, fishnet stockings, and crop tops. But I don’t care. I really don’t, and I can’t make myself if I tried.
I push through the crowd and into the building to find more of the same. Some of the aforementioned women are dancing on poles set up in the corner of the bar, some are straddling different men offering lap dances, and some are brazenly offering services to the guys without a care as to who may witness. A single brow arches as I stare at them openly sucking dick before I make my way towards the bartender.
“What?” he barks at me when I make it to the lacquered bar.
“Beer,” I reply.
He reaches into the cooler just beneath my line of sight, pulls a bottle from the icy bath, and pops the top before handing it to me. I vaguely hear him tell me the cost, but I brush him off. I have no intention of paying, and the leather cut he’s wearing around his back doesn’t frighten me.
“Hey!” he yells at me when I walk away. Again, I don’t respond as I take a long pull from the bottle. “Goddammit,” I hear him spit angrily before there’s a clamor. A moment later, he grabs my arm, and spins me around to face him. I stare back blankly. “I said four bucks, bitch.”
I scoff and eye him as though he’s less than nothing, and I can see the anger it brings out. His frantic dash to catch me has begun to draw attention, but neither of us pay attention.
“I’m not paying,” I tell him flatly.
“Oh, you’re gonna fuckin’ pay,” he says. “I’m either getting the cash, or I’m takin’ it out of that ass of yours.”
“Touch me, and I promise it won’t end well for you.” I’m not trying to threaten him. I just want him to be aware of what’ll happen.
His eyes ignite, and I can tell I’ve struck a chord. Clearly, this guy isn’t used to women talking back to him. I don’t know if it’s the last few years, the epic drive I’ve been on all day, or my impending exhaustion that gives me the courage to backtalk, but I have it, and I’m not in the mood to back down.
He raises his hand to backhand me, which is a trigger of my own, and I react before I can think better of it. With the eyes of the bar on us, I rear back and kick him almost as hard as I can in the balls. He lets out a loud, tortured sound and crumbles to his knees. I don’t even hesitate to punch him in the face.
My body is vibrating because my flight or fight reflex has kicked in, and he suffered for it. I’m well aware I overreacted, given where I was and who this guy was associated with, but I couldn’t help it. With a long, deep breath, I turn and head for the front door, knowing that the second I turn my back someone is going to run and tell the local MC what just happened. You see, that’s where I am—right in the middle of a biker hangout, and this particular group practically runs Hope.
I take another long pull of my beer as I step into the fresh air outside once again. Like before, I weave through the crowd, but instead of leaving, I sit on the trunk of my car. I’m not exactly hidden, but I don’t much feel like running.
Word spreads quickly of what I’ve done—I know it does—and soon people are starting to eye me from their spot a few yards away. I don’t bother turning my head as I finish off my beer. For a moment or two, I’m considering throwing the glass bottle over the metal wall separating the bar’s parking lot from the repo yard. I know the crashing sound would be satisfying to hear, but I’m still on the fence about it when I hear the loud rumbling roar of an approaching herd.
My head rolls to my right, and my eyes fix on the opening to the long, narrow parking lot where I know they’ll appear. The Devil’s Sons. This was their turf, their bar, their block, and it was one of their Prospects I nailed in the balls. That’s an offense punishable by any number of things in this world.
I had stuck my index finger through the mouth of my empty bottle and was swinging it lazily from side to side while I watched the mouth of the lot. A moment later, they appeared. A horde of men in black with Harleys to match swept into the long drive like a swarm of locusts and were met by a cheering crowd.
They roll slowly down the length of the parking lot until coming to the spot designated for them and them alone. Along the massive fence across from me was where they parked. The fence was closed and locked, but when open, it led to the back of the mechanic’s shop and the other half of their massive property.
I continue to sit on my trunk watching them, swinging the bottle from side to side as they steer themselves into place like a well-orchestrated ballet. Only a moment or two later, the line of nearly two dozen bikers was still. I could feel the rumble of their motorcycles even sitting on my trunk, it was so deep.
They cut their engines shortly after and at their own pace begin to dismount their rides while still being greeted by everyone like rock stars. In Hope, they kind of were, and you could tell by the smirks on their faces that they love it. My eyes dance along them until I hear someone yelling angrily.
“Hey!” I turn to see the man I’d hit racing towards me with rage-filled steps and a bat raised high over his head. “You fucking bitch! I’m going to teach you a lesson!”
I know I should be more afraid than I am that there’s a crazy man racing towards me with a baseball bat. It’s not rational for me to be as calm as I am, but I know something he doesn’t.
“Hey!” someone else hollers loudly.
The booming, sharp sound of it forces the Prospect to stop immediately and turn his attention towards the men of the MC. His outburst had drawn their eye along with everyone else, but they were more than willing to intercede.
“What’s going on?” their leader asks.
“This bitch,” the Prospect points the bat in my direction, “refused to pay for her beer and when I tried to
get the cash, she cracked me in the nuts and busted my nose.” He points to the blood on his face as proof.
Most of the MC chuckle and laugh at the Prospect’s misfortune, but a couple don’t seem amused. The leader turns his attention to me, and I meet his eye without blinking.
“That true?” he asks me in a deep, resonant voice. He continues to saunter forward as he tugs his riding gloves off his aged hands.
“Yes,” I answer without hesitation.
He finally stops his advance when he’s about five feet in front of me. His dark brown eyes drift over me, and I can tell he’s either weighing his options, or sizing me up. It’s likely both.
He’s huge, over six feet and easily commands control of a room. He’s the alpha male in a sea of alpha males, a man who deals with things violently if need be, and the area’s gone silent as a result. They’re all waiting to see what the Devil’s top Son will do.
As he stares at me, his thin lips begin to twitch into a soft smile almost completely hidden beneath his silver-white beard. He leans forward until he’s close enough I can see every hint of chocolate color in his eye and smell the cigars on his breath.
“That wasn’t very nice, Mikey,” he says.
My lips pull back into a smile, and I offer a shrug. “He touched me.”
He lets out a loud, booming laugh that’s echoed by the men behind him as he closes the distance between us.
“That’s my girl!” he declares as he hugs me tightly. I let him and squeeze him for all I’m worth.
Alan Graves is a giant amongst men. He’s tall, broad, muscled from decades of hard labor, sports a shortly cropped hairstyle (left over from his military days) and a bushy, long, white, ZZ Top beard. He looks like the average biker, and he is in many ways. He takes the oath of family—be it by blood or by pledge—as seriously as anything else. In fact, it’s his one unassailable rule. And he’s my dad.
Well, metaphorically, at least.
What follows is a sea of men ranging in age who all come forward and hug me tightly in greeting. I haven’t seen these guys in years, and I miss them all. I can feel the tears welling in my eyes at the familiar smell of gasoline, cigarette smoke, and leather. God, it’s good to be home.
When we finally part, the guys notice the poor Prospect, who hasn’t the slightest idea of what’s happening. He’s promptly dismissed and shooed off back to the bar without an immediate explanation.
I’m one step away from Alan, blubbering like an idiot as I wipe the tears from my eyes and cheeks. I’ve never felt so safe in my life as when surrounded by the ruthless, and it’s almost too much for me to take. As I stand there taking their jabs and teases for my tears, the guys in the back who I don’t know (they probably joined after I left) part and I feel my heart quicken.
The man standing before me is someone I’ve known all my life and somehow barely recognize—though I have no idea why. His ash-blond hair is slicked back, unaffected by his helmet. His strong jaw is speckled with stubble while a goatee encircles his full lips. His crystal blue eyes glitter in the dim light of the parking lot, and the smile he bears makes me form one of my own. He’s only thirty now, two years older than myself, but he looks so grownup compared to when I left.
“Hey, Spence.” I smile softly.
“Hey, baby,” he replies.
Spencer steps forward and doesn’t hesitate to wrap his arms around me, hugging me tightly and even lifting me high enough my feet leave the ground. I bury my face in the nape of his neck. I can feel the heat of his sun-kissed skin, smell the soft scent of sweat, and I start to cry again. My fingers clench around his leather cut as I practically cling to him.
“Hey,” he whispers softly. I know he can feel me shaking. “What’s wrong?”
I shake my head before I can reply. “Nothing,” I mumble. “I just missed you guys so much.”
He chuckles deeply and squeezes me tightly once again. This was my life, these people were my family, and I’ve missed them more than I can put into words.
Spence eventually lets me stand on my own two feet and kisses my cheek before we part. He takes my hand in his and guides me into the bar where most of the guys had already disappeared to.
“Where’s Chas?” I ask as Spencer pours something expensive into a glass for me.
“He got locked up last year,” he tells me. I feel a sad jolt through my body, but I’m not entirely surprised, either.
“For what?” I sigh.
“Assault,” he replies. “He got nineteen months.” A wicked smile takes Spencer’s lips. “He’s gonna be so pissed when he finds out you’re back.”
I smile and shake my head. I love Chas as much as I love Spence. They’re my everything, and while I’m sad Chas is gone, it’s not exactly anything new. I’ll just have to take a trip to visit him.
Spencer hands me the drink, and the night really begins.
Chapter Two
The buzz racing through my body is the perfect level of light and I don’t give a fuck. At this point, it’s all about maintenance, but the smoky air inside is stifling. It’s actually making me a little dizzy and nauseated, so I head outside to breathe. Spencer hasn’t been far from me the whole night, and when I feel a hand on the small of my back, I know it’s him without having to ask.
The two of us weave through the increasingly drunken patrons and outside once more. The picnic tables set up near the bar are occupied, so the pair of us head to my car once again. Together, we pull ourselves up onto my trunk. Spence sifts through his pockets to find his pack of cigarettes and his Zippo.
“So,” he says as he bites into the filter of a cigarette and pulls it from the pack. “What brings you back now?”
I don’t immediately answer. Instead, I rest my feet on my bumper and lean forward, hugging my knees as I stare absently into the darkness.
“It was just time to come home,” I reply.
I can feel his eyes on me as he takes one drag after another from his cancer-stick without speaking.
“You stayin’ at your dad’s place?”
I’m surprised he passes over any other probing questions and nod. “Yeah.” My voice is muffled because my knee is digging into my cheek while I stare at him. My dad died years ago and the house has been in my name ever since, so it makes sense for me to return to it. Thank God for automated payments with yearly taxes because I might have lost it while I was gone otherwise. “Don’t have shit there, though. Went out and bought an air mattress.” He shoots me a questioning stare, and I snicker. “And I have paper plates and shit.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah.” I laugh lightly. “Ugh, I don’t want to blow that thing up tonight. I’m so not in the mood.”
“Why don’t you just stay here?” he offers with a shrug.
“You mean in the Hoe-tel?” I openly mock.
He chuckles again as he exhales a lungful of smoke. Flicking the butt of his cigarette away, he slides off my trunk and takes my hand. “Come on.”
Still holding my hand, Spencer leads me back through the crowd towards the building we were once in. Through a door behind the bar were a few small rooms. One’s a gym, one an office, and another a room with a pullout bed. It was there for hookups, for guys needing to hide from pissed off Ol’ Ladies and for those who just needed to crash. It wasn’t much, but it was enough.
Spence flipped the switch after opening the door, and I walk inside. It’s just like I remembered it being—dingy as hell. The old couch is shoved against the left wall, flanked by nightstands with burn marks and ashtrays on top. There were cheap racks with spare shirts lining the wall just beside the door, filing cabinets on the other side, and a door that leads to the small bathroom right across from us.
I reach the couch and don’t hesitate to yank off the ugly decorative pillows. I hear Spencer laughing behind me at my sloppy behavior, but I don’t care. Unfortunately, I don’t seem to have strength for much else and simply crumble onto the old couch without bothering to continue. He joins
me a moment later.
“Tired?” he teases.
“Hm,” I mumble as I lean to the side and let my head fall onto his shoulder. “So, what’ve you been up to?”
“You mean since you cut contact with the whole Club?”
I groan and pull away, sitting upright and sinking into the couch while he stares at me. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Well you’re going to at some point, you know that, right?”
I chew on my bottom lip. I know I’m going to have to explain why I dropped off the face of the earth. I just don’t want to. “But not right now, okay?” I look at the man at my side. “Please?”
His eyes dance over my features. They miss nothing. They’re sharp and focused no matter the amount of alcohol in his system, and they see right through me, I know it. But he humors me and says nothing.
Spencer lets out a long sigh. He threads his fingers through mine and holds my hand tightly. “Fine.” He doesn’t sound amused, but he knows how stubborn I can be and if I refuse to talk at the moment, there’s nothing he do to persuade me otherwise. “Love you, Baby Girl.”
“Love you, too,” I tell him with a soft smile, “ass-hat.”
He laughs again, and I do the same. Spence leans forward to close the small distance between us and kisses me softly on the lips like he has a thousand times in the past, but before he can pull away completely, I grab his cut and keep him close. He doesn’t put up a fight or even hesitate to kiss me again, deeper than before, and I reciprocate in kind.
His tongue tenderly swipes across mine, massaging it as we kiss one another. He cradles my face while I cling to him. Spencer gradually presses his body against mine and together we lie on the couch. It takes minimal shifting before he’s on top of me, my legs are wrapped around his hips, and my fingers are entwined in his hair.
