by Naomi West
Ranger
A Motorcycle Club Romance (Cold Angels MC)
Naomi West
Copyright © 2020 by Naomi West
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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Contents
Mailing List
Books by Naomi West
Ranger: A Motorcycle Club Romance (Cold Angels MC)
1. Cassie
2. Cassie
3. Ranger
4. Cassie
5. Cassie
6. Ranger
7. Cassie
8. Ranger
9. Cassie
10. Cassie
11. Ranger
12. Ranger
13. Cassie
14. Ranger
15. Cassie
16. Ranger
17. Cassie
18. Cassie
19. Cassie
20. Cassie
21. Ranger
22. Cassie
23. Cassie
24. Ranger
25. Ranger
26. Ranger
27. Cassie
Epilogue
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Books by Naomi West
Bad Boy Biker’s Club
Dakota
Stryker
Kaeden
Outlaw Biker Brotherhood Series
*Read in any order!
Devil's Revenge
Devil’s Ink
Devil’s Heart
Devil’s Vow
Devil’s Sins
Devil’s Scar
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Other MC Standalones
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Maddox
Stripped
Jace
Grinder
Ranger: A Motorcycle Club Romance (Cold Angels MC)
By Naomi West
A desperate singer falls for a tatted savage in this full-length, standalone motorcycle club romance.
CASSIE
My manager sold me out to the worst men alive.
They want to buy me so they can break me.
I’m in way over my head.
Ranger is the only thing keeping me afloat.
He’s a beast, too—but a different kind of beast altogether.
Because when he growls in my ear…
When he throws me across his bike…
He makes me think that a future might be possible.
If we can just get out of here alive.
RANGER
I’ve got skeletons in the closet. Demons in my head.
She deserves a better man than me.
But I just couldn’t help myself.
I needed her sweetness. I needed her light.
So I did what I shouldn’t have done.
Took what I shouldn’t have taken.
And now…
I’ll burn in hell before I give her up.
1
Cassie
“I think it’s too short.”
I stood in front of the full-length mirror in my dressing room backstage, trying to figure out how to best position the material of my tight, tiny dress in order to cover all the essentials.
“No way,” said Maxell Throne, my manager. “You look sexy as hell. You’re gonna make the guys in the crowd crazy for you.”
A mildly frustrated expression flashed on my face as I tugged up the bustline of the dress. I had enough problems with my too-big boobs already with my normal clothes—wearing something like this seemed to be asking for trouble.
And that was to say nothing of the bottom hemline, which stopped right in the middle of my thighs.
“Look,” I said, pointing to where the dress stopped on my legs.
Maxwell’s eyes flicked to my legs.
“Yeah, looks great,” he said. “What about it?”
“I’m going to be on stage,” I said. “As in, standing above people. What if one of them, you know, takes a creep shot or something?”
“Wouldn’t be the worst thing that could happen,” said Maxwell.
“What?” I asked, my tone disbelieving.
“Just kidding, just kidding,” he said, standing up from the couch and stepping over to me. “But seriously, Cassie, your sex appeal’s one of the best things you got going for you. And with a dress like this, you’re going to make sure everyone in that crowd knows about it.”
It always made me uncomfortable when Maxwell talked like this. I was all about the music and thought my words and voice should do the talking. But he seemed to think tits and ass were all I needed.
“Can’t I just sing my songs?” I asked. “Isn’t that enough?”
“Cassie, don’t get me wrong—you’re talented as hell, and you’ve got a killer voice. But you have to know that this business isn’t just about being able to stay in key. There are a million girls out there who can sing their hearts out, but not all of them have what it takes.”
“By ‘what it takes’ you mean boobs that look like they’re about to explode out of their top.”
“Don’t sell yourself short, Cass,” he said. “You’re more than just a pretty face and a rocking body. But if you’re going to make it, you’re going to need to put all your assets out there. Think about all the pop singers who are making the big bucks—do any of them dress modestly?”
He had a point.
“No, I guess not.”
“That’s right,” he said.
He held up his index finger and stepped away from me, towards his bag on the small coffee table.
“Let me show you what I mean.”
He took out his tablet and swiped until YouTube was on the screen. Then he typed in my username and pulled up the video for one of my songs, “Me and You and the Stars.” He tapped the screen and the thumbnail image came to life, my voice coming out of the tinny tablet speakers.
“What do you notice about this?”
“Aside from the fact that I’m a baby in the video?”
The song was one of my first, written about an ex-boyfriend back in high school. It was only four years old or so, but I couldn’t get over how young I looked sitting in my pink-walled room, my guitar propped on my lap. Everything about the video, from the poor recording quality to the washed-out light from my desk lamp, was amateurish. But it was the best I could do in my bedroom.
“There’s that,” he said. “But nothing wrong with youth. No, Cass—it’s all so wholesome. Look at you—you’re sitting in your teenage-girl room, romance movie posters on your wall, wearing a big, baggy sweater and your hair in a ponytail.”
“So?” I asked. “The video got ten thousand views.”
“Ten thousand views is nothing,” he said. “Hell, a hundred thousand is nothing these days. Now, look at the first one we did after you brought me on to help.”
He swiped until he had the video for “Run Away,” a song that I’d written about a year ago, the
video only a few months old.
He was right—it was totally different. My hair and makeup had been professionally done that day—my strawberry blonde hair was luminous and my green eyes shone like emeralds. The stark-white room where I played drew all the attention onto me, and the lighting was movie-quality. And instead of baggy, comfy clothes, I was dressed in a very tight T-shirt that was thin enough to give the viewer a good idea of what my bra looked like.
“A little change of lighting and clothing and setting and bam, four hundred thousand views.”
I couldn’t argue with results. But that didn’t mean it was any less weird to see me all sexed up like that. I’d never really thought about my looks, but the few times I’d considered them, I’d always imagined myself as the girl-next-door type, not some super glammed-out LA girl.
“It’s just so weird,” I said, turning back to the mirror and letting my eyes move over all the skin I had on display.
A thoughtful expression crossed Maxwell’s face.
I couldn’t believe it’d already been a few months since he and I’d begun working together. He’d spotted me at an open mic at a coffee shop near my apartment. At first, I’d thought he was some kind of salesman. Dressed in a flashy, expensive suit, highlights in his bright blond hair, gold-rimmed sunglasses on indoors, he had seemed almost larger than life.
“I think I know what you need, pretty lady,” he said.
He spun on his shiny black shoes and made his way over to the dressing-room bar. After a few seconds, he returned with a pair of glasses, each filled with ice cubes and what looked to be vodka.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I’ve already had a drink. I don’t want to get sloppy.”
“You won’t get sloppy,” he said, handing me the glass. “You’ll get loosened up, and that’s pre-cise-ly what we want.”
I took the glass and glanced down into the clear liquid. My stomach had been doing flip-flops, and wearing this low-cut dress was so strange to me that it almost felt like looking at a stranger in the mirror.
So, I tipped the glass back and took a long sip, the booze burning on the way down.
“Here,” he said, handing me a can of soda. “Give it a good chase.”
I set down my glass of booze and took the soda, giving it a long sip. The sweet taste got rid of the gasoline-like flavor of the vodka right away.
I poured the soda into my vodka and sat down on the couch, waiting for the booze to kick in and do its mellowing-out thing.
Through the thin walls of the dressing room I could hear the heavy thump of bass from the rock music playing on the PA system of the bar. The location where Maxwell had booked the set for tonight was called Winslow’s, and he’d pitched it to me as a hipster-y dive bar in the downtown area. I’d figured it was one of those placed dressed up to look like a dive but actually frequented by college students and professionals buying ten-dollar craft beers.
“And I don’t know about this place,” I said. “It seems … really rough.”
“What do you mean?” asked Maxwell.
“I don’t know,” I said. “All those bikers, those guys in leather. They looked like the kinds of guys who wouldn’t have any problem reaching up on stage and grabbing my ass.”
“Those guys?” asked Maxwell. “They’re harmless. They give the place some color, you know? And they love a girl in a miniskirt.”
“That’s what I’m worried about,” I said. “And what if a fight breaks out or something?”
“Trust me,” said Maxwell, coming over and sitting next to me on the couch.
He placed his hand on my shoulder and rubbed it, his flashy gold bracelets dragging over my bare shoulders. He was such a touchy guy, and it sometimes made me feel a little weird. But he never made any obvious moves, so I figured it was just the kind of person he was.
He went on.
“I’m your manager, and I’d never have you play at a place where you’d actually be in any danger. These guys here, once they get a look at you in that dress, they’re gonna be freaking crazy about you. They’re gonna tell all their friends about the little blonde hottie and her amazing voice. And that’s exactly what you want—good word of mouth.”
I turned the glass of vodka in my hands, my eyes on my nearly-bare legs. Part of me was hesitant about all this, but another part of me knew that Maxwell was the professional—his job was to make girls like me famous, and he knew what it took to do it.
“Okay,” I said. “I think I’m ready.”
Right at that moment, a knock sounded on the dressing room door.
“Come in!” called out Maxwell.
The door opened and a massive man with a thick Viking beard stepped in. He was clad head-to-toe in leather and denim, his arms covered in tattoos. His eyes went right to my body as he entered.
“Your wonder girl ready?” he asked.
“What do you say, Cass?” he asked. “Ready to blow them out of the freaking water?”
I threw back the rest of my drink and set the glass on the table.
“Yeah,” I said, trying to put some confidence in my voice. “I’m ready.”
“That’s the spirit!” said Maxwell, clapping his hand down on my shoulder and giving it another squeeze.
I stood up and made my way over to the door, the biker-looking guy’s eyes moving from my breasts to my legs to my ass. I took one more look at my dress in the mirror, giving the hemline one more tug. But it didn’t do me any good—if I pulled down on the bottom hem it just showed off more of my boobs.
But I did look pretty good, if I did say so myself.
“Okay,” I said. “Let’s do this.”
The biker nodded and stepped aside from the door.
It was showtime.
2
Cassie
I followed Maxwell and the biker down the hall, the fear in my stomach giving way to the excitement I always felt before going on stage.
There was nothing like the feeling of excitement that came in those few minutes before going up to play. It was thrilling and scary all at once, and made me feel like there was nothing else in the world but me, my guitar, and the stage.
We stopped in front of a door at the end of the low-lit hall. Through it I could hear the soft roar of the crowd.
“Here you go, little lady,” said the biker, opening the door and revealing the small stage, my baby-blue guitar propped next to the microphone stand.
“Let me do the introductions,” said Maxwell, a big grin on his face.
He slid his slim body between me and the biker, hurrying up on stage. Maxwell was a theatrical guy, through and through. He loved being on the stage almost as much as I did, and I could easily picture him as an MC at some glamorous club.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “Your attention, please!”
The chatter in the crowd died down.
“You may have seen tonight’s singer tearing up the charts on YouTube. With her girl-next-door looks and killer voice, she’s got exactly what it takes to be the next pop sensation. But you all get the chance to see her here, up close and personal, and not on the stadium stage she’s destined for. Ladies and gentlemen, Cassie Kennedy!”
He waved his hands towards me, and I stepped out onto the stage.
The hoots and hollers and catcalls started right away. I adjusted my eyes to the stage lights and plastered a big smile on my face as I scanned the crowd. The audience was a strange mix of burly, bearded bikers and the sorts of hipsters I’d expect to be at a place like this. I could feel the eyes of every man in the audience on me, moving from my legs to my boobs to my butt to everything else.
Just part of the process, I told myself. And Maxwell wasn’t wrong—the dress sure is catching their attention.
I made my way to the mic and picked up my guitar. I threw the strap over my chest, being careful not to let it pull one of my boobs free and give the audience a free show. Maxwell gave me another shoulder squeeze as he headed offstage.
“Good evening, ev
eryone,” I said, taking my pick into my hands. “My name’s Cassie Kennedy, and I’m pleased as hell to be here playing a show for you tonight.”
“Trust us,” called out a gruff voice from the audience. “The pleasure’s all ours, baby!”
Cheers broke out from the crowd as the guys in the audience all made clear how much they agreed.
“Settle down boys,” I said with a smile. “No songs if you misbehave.”
I gave the crowd a wink, my banter seeming to go over well with them.
“This first song of mine is about a love gone wrong,” I said. “It’s called ‘Why Couldn’t You Be Mine?’ I do hope you all like it.”
I gave the guitar a big strum of an open G chord before going right into it. Applause sounded as I finished the first song. I went through my set list, and it could’ve been my imagination, or maybe just wishful thinking, but I was pretty sure that, after the first few songs, the audience was more interested in my voice than my body.
I played for a half hour or so, going through all the songs that had made their little splashes on YouTube. By the time I was done, I’d won over the crowd. They cheered and applauded, and I could’ve been mistaken, but I could’ve sworn I saw a tear or two in the eyes of some of the bikers in the crowd.
