by Zahra Girard
Snake
An MC Romance
Book 6 in the Twisted Devils MC
By
Zahra Girard
Copyright © 2020 by Zahra Girard
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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
Epilogue – Adella
Want More Steamy Action?
The Twisted Devils MC
Book one: Razor
Book two: Rusty
Book Three: Mack
Book Four: Blaze
Book Five: Crash
The Rebel Riders MC:
Book one: Thrash
Book two: Riot
Book three: Duke
Book four: Rooster
Book five: Creole
Book six: Bull
The Wayward Kings MC Series:
Book one: Bear
Book Two: Ozzy
Book Three: Hazard
Book Four: Preacher
Other books by Zahra Girard:
His Captive
Liar
Chapter One
Adella
“Mom, I need a tattoo.”
The small, nine-year-old voice that delivers this statement does it with such gravity and determination that I can’t help but look up from the glasses I’m washing and gaze across the clubhouse to where Violet, Sophia, Kendra, and little Matyas are sitting at a table. Josie’s standing next to the table, hands on her hips, and her head angled so forcefully to the side that, if she tilts it any more, she’ll fall over.
“Oh, so you want a tattoo now, little Speed Demon?” Snake says.
He’s sitting at a different table, not far away, drinking beers with Mack. Both men turn to the girl with smiles on their faces.
In the months she’s been here, Josie’s become the adopted daughter of practically every man in the club. It’s sweet to see how they dote on her and indulge her desire to get as involved in the club’s life as she possibly can. Just the other day, I overheard Snake and Brewer speculating on what the smallest, lightest motorcycle out there is, and what would be an appropriate age to teach Josie to ride.
“Not want, Snake. I need it. I’ve decided,” Josie says, then she turns to Kendra. “But I promise it won’t be big, mom.”
Kendra smiles at her daughter.
“Oh, nothing big, huh? So, what kind of tattoo do you want, Josie?”
“Just a small one. And fun. I saw a unicorn in Sophia’s sketchbook the other day. Maybe I could get that. And I’d want it on my cheek.”
Mack bursts out laughing. It’s a full belly-laugh that booms through the entire room.
“A face tattoo? You don’t do anything halfway, do you, Speed Demon?”
“I like unicorns,” she says, as if that should absolutely be enough of an explanation for a face tattoo. “But I’d want it to look tough. And maybe have some blood on its horn. Then, maybe later, I could get a zombie or a vampire on my other cheek. So it’d be like they’re fighting.”
Kendra’s mouth drops open and she stares at her daughter, speechless.
“I think that sounds like a superb idea, Josie,” Sophia says, and the second the words leave her mouth she catches a fiery look from Kendra. “But you don’t want that kind of tattoo on your face.”
“But I do,” Josie says. Her head tilts a little more and I’m sure I see her wobble and almost lose her balance.
“You don’t. That’s the kind of tattoo that would scare everyone — future employers, especially, and even just people you meet on the street. That would be a bad move, because then everyone would know how tough you are and you’d lose one of your biggest advantages in a fight: surprise,” Sophia says. “Mack, you know what I’m talking about, right? Tell her.”
Josie turns to Mack, a suspicious look on her face.
Mack nods. “Toughest fight I ever had in my life was against a guy with Snoopy on his forehead.”
“I think you’re lying,” Josie says.
“He’s not, Speed Demon,” Snake says. “I was there. I nearly got the snot beat out of me by a guy with double rainbows on his cheeks.”
“Now I think you’re lying,” I call out across the bar. I smile at him as he glances over at me, surprised. “Beat up by someone with rainbows on their cheeks? Come on, Snake, I’ve been tending bar for a long time, I know when someone’s telling a tall tale.”
“You’re not helping, Adella,” Snake says. “And you’re wrong. Mardi Gras in New Orleans is no joke.”
“Especially when you’re a fifth of whiskey deep and some drunk punks decide they don’t like the look of your cut,” Mack adds. “Or maybe they thought the leather we were wearing meant we were interested in certain activities that we most definitely are not interested in.”
“The whole night is pretty foggy, if I’m being honest,” Snake says. “Just booze and beads and yelling.”
“So, you’re the kings of Mardi Gras,” I say. “How does that keep Josie from ruining her future with face tattoos?”
Snake and Mack trade a look for a moment. Then Mack nods and Snake beckons Josie closer.
“Listen up, Speed Demon, Mack and I won that fight, but only because we knew those people with tattoos on their faces were some seriously tough guys. It takes guts to wear rainbows on your cheeks or Snoopy on your forehead. If they hadn’t had those tattoos, they would’ve beat us up because they would’ve taken us by surprise.”
“That’s right,” Mack says. “Take every advantage you can get. Even if that means you have to sacrifice a great tattoo.”
“I still want one,” Josie says. She’s got her lips set in a firm line, like nothing on earth will change her mind.
“Come on up, Speed Demon,” Snake says, patting his lap. Josie hops up into it and Snake smiles in a way that tells me he’d be a great father someday. “Yo
u want to know a secret?”
“Yes.”
“I used to be in the Army. In the Rangers. They’re one of the toughest group of guys around.”
“That’s not a secret. You told me that before,” she says.
“I did. That’s true. But, while I was in the Rangers, I was doing some stuff that, if I told you about, your mother would kill me,” Snake says and, for the shortest moment, he pauses and a look of pain crosses his face. It’s so quick, so subtle, I’m sure no one else sees it but me. Then again, no one pays attention to Snake like I do. “We had a rule. Now, there are lots of rules in war; rules for things you can’t do, rules for the way you dress, the way you look, everything. And, even among the toughest of the tough, you’re not allowed to get face tattoos. Because you need to camouflage just how tough you are. Now, Josie, you’re the toughest girl I know — tougher than Tricia, tougher than Samantha, tougher even than Violet — but, even as tough as you are, there are some rules you have to follow, and one of those is: no face tattoos. Can you do that for me, Speed Demon?”
“OK,” Josie says, and she hops off Snake’s lap and walks back to Kendra. “Mom, I changed my mind.”
“That’s great, dear. And Snake, thank you for convincing my daughter to avoid a face tattoo because it’ll help her odds in beating people up,” Kendra says. “I am so grateful.”
“You’re welcome,” Snake says, smiling.
I observe him for a moment as the smile lingers on his face while he watches Josie explain her new plan to her mom — she’s moved on from trying to convince her mom to allow her to get a face tattoo to wanting the Unicorn vs. Zombie tattoo to be a full-back mosaic.
I always catch myself watching whenever Snake smiles — his smiles are so rare but, when they appear, they highlight just how handsome he is; the chiseled lines of his face, the way his blue eyes beam — seeing this side of him that he keeps hidden so often behind his darkness is enough to make my toes curl.
Snake turns, catches me watching.
Shoot.
My cheeks grow hot and I hurriedly look down and get back to washing glasses. I wash one particular glass so much it could shine brighter than any diamond. It takes a while until I’m sure he’s stopped looking at me; the thought of him checking me out makes me smile.
We can never be together, but that doesn’t mean I can’t have my little fantasies. And Snake is usually at the center of them. Even if he is so much older than me.
I’ve grown up around these men. Ever since I was a little girl and my mom and dad adopted me, these men and this clubhouse have been a part of my life. But with all the faces that have come and gone, not a single member, prospect, or hanger-on has made me feel like Snake.
Of course, few of them have even attempted to hit on me, because they know my dad would massacre them but, as I grew up, every so often I could feel eyes on me.
And none of them have affected me like him.
Maybe that’s because I’ve stolen glances at him just as much as he’s stolen glances at me.
Maybe it’s because he’s always been just out of reach, just like my chance to seize the other thing that I want — a chance to have my own identity, my own freedom, apart from being just the daughter of the MC’s president.
I want a life of my own. And, like my freedom, Snake is so close, but still unreachable.
When my cheeks cool, I take two of the freshly cleaned glasses and fill them to the brim with beer and carry them over to Mack and Snake’s table. They didn’t order drinks, but after seeing Snake be so good with Josie, I want any excuse I can get to get closer to him.
Ever since she’s come around, that girl has made his softer side more apparent. Josie looks at Snake like he’s a hero. Like he’s a good man. And, as time has worn on, he’s come to believe that about himself. Just a little.
Snake and Mack are buried so deep in conversation that they don’t notice me approach and I catch a snippet of their conversation.
“Shipment due in tomorrow, then?” Snake says.
Mack grunts. “Aye, around noon, coming up the back roads from the border. Stone will want us at the warehouse afterward so we can disassemble and prep the cargo.”
“Where’s it headed?”
“You and I and a few of the others will take it to New Orleans.”
“New Orleans? We’ve never sent guns there before. We have new customers?” Snake says.
“Aye. Stone met a guy at a gun show. He deals in the top end and exotic stuff for rich types in the Southeast. The kind with more money and time than they know what to do with. People who just want to shoot rocket launchers out of their private helicopters or whatever the fuck those types do. He called Stone up a while ago. His usual supplier got caught up in some shit in Venezuela. Some guerrillas put a bullet in his head. Stone came through, pulled a few strings, and the club will make a good percentage for doing this last minute.”
“How long we going to be in New Orleans?”
Mack shrugs. “A week, probably. Few days to make the deal and a few to enjoy that beautiful, sweaty armpit of a city. Tell me, Snake: why the fuck does a place like New Orleans have to be fucking 90 percent humidity all the fucking time? If I didn’t feel like a river of sweat was running down my ass the whole fucking day, I might be tempted to live there for a while.”
“Is that the real reason, Mack? Or is it because you could only get a sitter for Matyas for a week?” Snake says.
“It’s both,” Mack snaps. “It’s economic, and it’s climatic. We Irish aren’t aquatic, we aren’t meant to live where the air is fucking water — it’s not fucking natural; I ain’t a fucking mermaid, Snake. But it also doesn’t help that childcare is fucking disgracefully expensive, and it’s either pay for a quality sitter, or entrust Matty to some fucking feeble-minded, Tide Pod-swallowing catastrophe of a human fucking being.”
“Christ, Mack, calm the fuck down. We’ve got a ride coming up, no need to get heated about babysitters.”
“Have you ever interviewed babysitters, Snake? No, of course you haven’t. It’s a fucking nightmare, the human pestilence that comes out of the woodwork and offers to look after your child. I nearly murdered seven people last Friday, all while trying to find someone suitable.”
“Then how about we hit the Twisted Sisters on the way over, brother? They’re on the way, and we can grab some Texas BBQ afterward. A nice ride, nice view, then some good grub. That’ll cure your ills.”
“Aye, we’re doing the Twisted Sisters. And, whether or not Stone wants to make a detour, we’re hitting the Pig Trail in Arkansas on the way back.”
I smile just hearing the names of those two roads, some of the best riding in the country, and places that I’ve fantasized about visiting someday. I have a cherry red Harley Sportster SuperLow sitting right out front; a beautiful light bike, perfect for riding, but the furthest I’ve taken it is a road trip to Venice beach. Life as the president’s daughter means I don’t get to venture out too much. Especially when there are threats against the club.
I love my family, but sometimes my position in the club absolutely chafes.
Finally, I shake my head clear and decide I’ve been creeping on Snake and Mack long enough. I take the beers and set them down on the table in front of them.
“What’s this for, lass?” Mack says.
“For saving Josie from a lifetime of unemployment and isolation.”
Snake chuckles. I savor the brief glimpse I get of his smile.
“We do what we can. When we can. Sometimes there’s just no stopping her.”
“She gets older and keeps her attitude up, she might end up wearing a patch and I don’t think there’s a damn thing any of us could do about it. You ever tried telling her ‘no’ directly?” Mack says.
“Oh, it’s impossible,” Snake says. “You better watch your back, Mack. In a few years, Josie could come gunning for your Sergeant at Arms patch.”
For a second, the smile on my face wavers. I know they’re kidd
ing — mostly — and I love Josie, but hearing them joke about patching her in spurs a pang of regret and jealousy in my heart. All my life, I’ve wanted to be a part of the club — to have some of the freedom and independence that they enjoy — but I’ve always been held back; it’s not easy being the President’s daughter.
“Enjoy the beers, boys,” I say, flashing another smile at Snake. “And thanks again. For what it’s worth, Mack, I don’t think Josie could ever do your job like you; she’d probably do it better.”
I wink at him so he knows I’m joking.
“Oh, lass, if Stone wasn’t your father, you’d be eating those words,” he says, laughing.
“But he is,” I say, and I leave it at that, returning to my spot behind the bar. I get back to work, letting the repetition of prep work soothe my agitation — it’s hard seeing so many people in the club enjoy their freedom while I carry the weight of being my father’s daughter; I love him, in so many ways I am so grateful to be Stone’s daughter; even though I’m adopted, I feel as close to my parents as if their names were on my birth certificate, but the restrictions I live within chafe me.
After a time, I sidle closer to my mom.
She’s got her head down, chopping onions and garlic for the dinner she plans to serve the club tonight. Most nights, she’ll cook up something simple for the boys — stew, a roast, steaks — and they’ll usually devour it in a flash.
“Hey, mom,” I say, grabbing a spare knife and an onion and chopping along with her.
“Hey, Addie,” she says, her focus still on the knife.
“Dad’s heading to New Orleans soon?”
She nods. “Club business. He says it’ll be a week or so. Do you want him to get you something from New Orleans?”
“No, thanks. You know, there’s a photography show in Santa Monica coming up in a few days,” I say, starting slowly.
Her only answer is a non-committal ‘mmhm.’
