He Doesn’t Care: A Bad Boy Secret Baby Motorcycle Club Romance (Fourstroke Fiends MC)
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This is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons--living or dead--is entirely coincidental.
He Doesn’t Care: A Bad Boy Secret Baby Motorcycle Club Romance (Fourstroke Fiends MC) copyright 2017 by Naomi West. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission.
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Contents
He Doesn’t Care: A Bad Boy Secret Baby Motorcycle Club Romance (Fourstroke Fiends MC)
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
He Doesn’t Know: A Bad Boy Second Chance Baby Romance (Devil’s Route MC)
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
Epilogue
Ride Dirty: Vegas Vipers MC
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
Baby Blues: Satan Seed MC
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
Books by Naomi West
He Doesn’t Know: A Bad Boy Second Chance Baby Romance (Devil’s Route MC)
Ride Dirty: Vegas Vipers MC
Baby Blues: Satan Seed MC
Baby with the Savage: The Motor Saints MC
Baby with the Beast: Seven Sinners MC
Wild Child: The Wylde Ones MC
Diesel Daddy: Skull Riders MC
The Devil’s Baby: The Smoking Vipers MC
Pay for Her: The Warhawks MC
Axel’s Little Angel: The Rippers MC
Pistol’s Baby: The Brethren MC
Knocked Up by the Biker: The Ancestors MC
Crave: Santora Mafia
Traded: A Dark Mafia Romance
Bad Boy’s Touch: A Dark Bad Boy Hitman Romance (Moretti Family Mafia)
Mailing List
He Doesn’t Care: A Bad Boy Secret Baby Motorcycle Club Romance (Fourstroke Fiends MC)
By Naomi West
HE DOESN’T CARE THAT I’M ENGAGED TO ANOTHER MAN.
Nothing will stop him from claiming me.
He’s not the kind to stick around after he’s had his fill.
But then something happened, something we never expected…
I got pregnant.
Owen Flynn is a dark prince from the wrong side of the tracks.
Tall, tatted, ripped – and utterly, completely wrong for me.
I’m your classic rich girl stereotype:
An art student with overprotective parents.
They want me to do the right thing:
Graduate and get married to a wealthy S.O.B. whose name alone makes me nauseous.
But Owen had other ideas.
He owned me from the second I saw him.
My knees shake and my heart shivers whenever I hear his the rumble of his Harley approaching.
And when he touches me…
I lose all control.
He knows what he does to my body.
He knows I can’t resist him.
He knows I can never be with him.
I’m supposed to be a banker’s wife.
Not a biker’s woman.
But the bad boy rebel just does not care.
Because once he finds out I’m carrying his baby, all the rules go out the window.
He says I’m his family now.
So, like it or not… we belong to him.
Chapter One
Carey
Carey Oakley sat in the back of the auditorium, her stomach growing tighter with anxiety by the moment. A smattering of around six dozen students, her fellow final-year students in the MFA program at Holbrook College, were seated in the hall, all of them waiting for their turn to present their thesis piece.
A slim girl with a petite body topped with cocoa-brown hair and a lovely, heart-shaped face hidden under a large pair of black-framed glasses, Carey seemed dressed to be one of those girls who faded into the background. Today, that wasn’t by accident—she’d been a nervous wreck about presenting her final project, and part of her hoped that she’d be forgotten about and allowed to graduate with her master’s without having to go through the terror of explaining her art to the small group of professors seated in the front row.
“What’d I miss?”
Carey turned slightly just in time to see her best friend, Lily Carmody, plop noisily into the seat next to her, attracting the glares of the nearby students.
“Not much so far,” said Carey quietly, removing her glasses and giving the lenses a polish with the end of her shirt. “Melanie just spent twenty minutes going on about her sculpture, and that’s all we’ve gotten to so far.”
Lily scoffed. “Jesus, how long does it take to say, ‘This piece, like everything else I’ve made during the entire last year, is about my menstrual cycle’?”
>
Carey let out a snort-laugh that cut through the still air of the auditorium. This too attracted the attention of nearby students, causing a hot blush to spread across Carey’s face.
“You excited?” asked Lily, giving Carey a little poke to the side.
“Not even a little,” said Carey, the anxiety feeling like a hot piece of metal in her stomach.
“Come on—you’re just talking about your piece,” said Lily, sliding down into her seat. “It’s not like you have to make a new one on the spot or something.
“I’d almost rather do that,” said Carey. “I mean, I’m fine with making art; talking about it is a whole other thing.”
“You’ll be fine,” said Lily, turning her attention to Professor Wilkins, who was in the process of looking over the pieces assembled up front, bending her reedy body over slightly and inspecting them carefully.
“I just don’t have the stupid vocabulary down yet,” said Carey. “Like, everything has to be about a ‘meta-commentary’ on, like, post-colonial power structures or whatever. Nothing any of them says makes any sense.”
“Then there you go,” said Lily. “Just get up there and spout off some nonsense and let your art do the talking for itself. You’ll be fine.”
Carey glanced over at Lily, wishing she could have even a taste of the boundless confidence that her friend possessed. Lily was beautiful, with a warm, open face of perfect symmetry, a head of long hair as sunny and eye-catching as her personality, and the sort of body that never left her in want of male attention.
“Easy for you to say,” said Carey. “Your stuff is awesome.”
“Are you serious?” asked Lily, raising her slim, dark eyebrows in surprise. “Your piece is, like, easily the best up there. It’s not even close.”
As she always did when on the receiving end of a compliment, Carey blushed. “You’re just saying that so I feel better.”
“I’m saying it because it’s true, and it should make you feel better.”
Carey glanced up towards the stage, spotting her painting among the many other pieces. It was, to her, a simple painting that wasn’t worth talking about. A landscape piece of the coast down at the cape where her wealthy family owned a second home, she strove for a realistic depiction that reflected the influence of the artists who had inspired her to begin painting so many years ago.
The rest of the pieces on stage, however, were of the abstract variety. Some were strange sculptures that looked more like collections of garbage than actual art, and some were so crude that she couldn’t believe the artists were comfortable putting something like that on display. She knew she was a bit of a sheltered rich girl, but she didn’t think that her standards of decency were that outlandish.
“Okay,” said Professor Wilkins, a middle-aged woman with silver hair in a simple bob, a slim body dressed in professional attire, and a face with features so sharp they could cut glass. “I’d like to thank Melanie Thorne for being brave enough to go first. As I said before, we will be giving special consideration to those of you who volunteer to be the first to go. Something to think about if you’re looking to get this process over with more quickly.”
Carey considered the option. She knew that just sitting here stewing would be an easy way to become a nervous wreck by the time her name came up on the list, but she couldn’t bring herself to volunteer. Out of the corner of her eye, Lily’s slim, toned arm shot into the air.
“Lily Carmody,” said Professor Wilkins. “Please, come down.”
Lily bounded out of her seat, flashing Carey one of her winning smiles as she sidled down the row. Soon, she was up on stage and pulling her sculpture out from among the collection of art towards the back of the speaking area.
Carey looked over the piece as Lily brought it up front. It was a well-crafted, colorful sculpture made from clay, and though Lily had explained the thought behind it to her countless times, Carey still had trouble making sense of the jargon that went into her friend’s thought process. And though Carey appreciated the skill that had gone into it, the piece struck her as strange, abstract, and a little off-putting. She’d nicknamed it in her head “the hungry octopus,” due to the fact that she’d always thought it looked like the aforementioned animal wrapping itself hungrily around a big sandwich.
“Now, that’s certainly interesting,” said Professor James Cohen, one of the professors on the panel. “Where would you like to start?”
“Okay!” said Lily, clasping her hands together, a beaming smile on her face.
Carey glanced around the rest of the auditorium, noting that Lily was already the center of rapt attention.
Just one of those girls, I guess, thought Carey, finding herself wishing at that moment that she wasn’t so impossibly mousey.
“So, my piece is about the sub-textual relationship between urban spaces and systematic inequality. My references draw upon everything that I’ve encountered over the years, such as the logic systems of Wittgenstein and the Hegelian theory of thesis and antithesis. It’s about everything, from the oscillation of individual moments to the pulse of lust that undergirds every moment that atomizes individuals’ experience in a late-capitalist society like ours. And …”
She went on like that, and Carey found herself struggling to keep up with the jargon and names that Lily fired out at an incredible pace. Minutes passed, the stream of words unceasing. When she was finally done, Lily didn’t appear to be exhausted or overwhelmed in the slightest.
“Very good, Ms. Carmody,” said Professor Wilkins. “Now, if you’re prepared to answer a few questions about your piece …”
“Of course!”
This was the part that Carey feared the most. The idea of being under the gun like that, having professors with decades of professional experience firing question after question, making her justify and explain the art that just seemed to come from a place deep inside of herself that she didn’t understand, struck Carey as terrifying beyond belief. She knew, however, that if she wanted to leave the university with the MFA that she prized, there was no getting around it.
Lily handled each of the questions expertly, and by the time she was done the professors seemed to be quite impressed with her.
“Thank you, Ms. Carmody,” said Professor Wilkins. “That will be all.”
Polite applause sounded out through the auditorium.
Moments later, Lily was back in her seat, Carey offering her heartfelt congratulations.
“I have no idea how you did that,” said Carey. “I could barely keep up.”
“Please,” said Lily, waving the words away. “I just tell them what they want to hear. It’s easy-peasy.”
“Now,” said Professor Cohen. “Do we have another volunteer to go next?”
“Do it, do it,” said Lily. “Get up there and get it over with.”
“No freaking way,” said Carey. “I’m putting this off for as long as possible.”
Lily rolled her eyes. Before Carey had a chance to react, Lily grabbed her wrist and shot it up into the air.
“Ah, Ms. Oakley,” said Professor Cohen. “Please, come down.”
Carey’s face turned a deeper shade of red than she’d ever thought possible. She shot Lily a dumbfounded look, as though she couldn’t believe just what she’d done.
“You’ll thank me when you’re done,” Lily said quietly. “Now get down there and kick their asses.”
Carey took a deep breath and stood up, her legs already feeling weak beneath her.
“You’re gonna do great!” said Lily quietly.
The trip down to the stage was a blur. Before she knew it, Carey stood in the center of the auditorium, the eyes of everyone in the place locked onto her. The panel of four professors seated in front regarded her with expectant, skeptical eyes. Carey could’ve sworn they could already tell that she didn’t belong.
“Um, thank you,” Carey started, her voice weak.
“I’m sorry?” asked Professor Wilkins. “Could you speak up a bit?”
Carey cleared her throat, her heart pounding. “Um, first of all, thank you for letting me talk about my piece. It’s been a pleasure to attend Holbrook, and—”
Before she could say another word, Professor Cohen raised his hand to stop her.
“Thank you for your kind words Ms., ah, Oakley, but if you could fetch your piece before you continue.”
“Ah, right,” said Carey.
Light chuckles sounded out from the students. Carey rushed towards the art, her face red and the beginnings of sweat forming at the top of her brow. She couldn’t believe that she’d been on stage for less than a minute and had already screwed up by not pulling her art out right away.
“Oops,” she said, bumping into one of the nearby pieces as she grabbed her piece by the stand upon which it rested.
More chuckles sounded out at Carey’s clumsiness.
Moments later, her piece was set front and center, with Carey standing next to it.
“This is my MFA final piece. I call it ‘An Evening at Throgg Cape.’”
The panel looked over the large painting with careful, skeptical eyes. Carey realized she might’ve been imagining things, but it almost seemed to her that they didn’t know quite what to make of it.
The painting was a sweeping landscape, the perspective set upon an elevated position that overlooked a coast, the ocean stretching into the distance. The sun was depicted as setting over the ocean, and the view along the land seemed to go on for miles. Off-center was a small colonial-style home.