First Look at My Steamy MC Series
I'll admit - like millions of other women, I got sucked into Sons of Anarchy because of Jax. And Opie. And the idea of Jax and Opie together.
After reading a handful of other MC books out there, it was apparent that a majority of the authors hadn't been on a bike run as they didn't have a handle on the culture. Considering I've spent hundreds of hours on the back of my husband's Harley where my mind was free to roam, it was inevitable that I would one day write an MC series.
Once the decision was made, I vowed my book would be unlike any other. Instead of writing stories that revolved around male bikers and their old ladies, I wanted my heroine to have her own bike like so many badass Harley women I know. And her heroes weren't going to be any Joe Schmo. They're part of a veteran's MC.
I give you Chapter One from Leather & Lace, book one in the Inferno Glory MC series:
[WARNING: STRONG LANGUAGE AHEAD...THESE ARE BIKERS]
ONE
The electric vibration between my legs and against my hands is beyond amazing as I gaze upon the bright colors of spring whizzing past and inhale the delightful smells of freedom as the warm wind whips through my loose hair. I’ve waited three very long years for this moment.
Three fucking years.
A person would be amazed at what can transpire in a matter of a thousand days, give or take a few. In that precious amount of time that was stolen from me, the bitch who set me up got married and gave birth to a baby boy. The country elected a new president. My little brother graduated from high school and became a man. My favorite band released two new albums. My asshole boyfriend left me for some skank he met at the gym.
And my father died.
Meanwhile I was behind bars, fighting for my life. Between dueling gangs and crazy bitches who threatened to rape anyone with any object they could get their hands on, it’s a miracle I was able to escape unscathed with my dignity still intact.
It’s odd to see my now sculpted arms from hundreds of hours of push-ups jetting out to the handlebars of my baby, though the change makes me proud. Some of the women I met were broken down by the system and turned to drugs, becoming shells of their former selves. I refused to lose control of my own destiny and made the best of the time I was given by keeping both my body and mind fit.
The sleeve my friend Jimmy started working on just weeks before I was locked away catches in the remaining sunlight, reminding me I need to make it my priority to get it finished. Now, even more than before, the whimsical La Catrina skull celebrating the dead means so much more with both my parents and nearly everyone else I’ve ever loved in the grave. Money’s not a problem when you’re the sole beneficiary of your wealthy grandparents’ estate, so at least I don’t have to worry about how to pay Jimmy or affording a place to stay.
Another biker approaches in the other lane. A smile stretches across my face when I subtly move my arm down to my side and flash him the sign of respect, the feeling of camaraderie that I’ve so desperately missed. When he returns the gesture, I holler with uncontrolled delight.
I’m fucking back!
Tires gliding across the highway, boots precariously dangling over asphalt, fresh wind filling my lungs; this shit is my religion. Riding started out as something I did with my father when I was old enough to walk and he was still healthy. He taught me everything I needed to know about a bike—from how to change the oil and check the tire pressure to the etiquette of traveling in packs. My ‘uncles’ were his club brothers and I spent most my life around vulgar men who liked their alcohol strong and their women loose.
Kids hanging at the club as much as I did wasn’t the ‘norm,’ so my father kept my hair trimmed short and threw a baseball cap on me, as if to trick the guys into thinking there wasn’t a young lady within the mix.
For the most part, it worked, until around sixteen when my large breasts appeared and my face began to thin out, making it undeniably obvious I was a woman and not one of the guys. My ‘uncles’ became uneasy with my presence, so my father encouraged me to hang out with ‘girls my age’ at school who were into sports and boys. By my junior year of high school, I had surrounded myself with preppy dirt bags and had completely sworn off club life. My head was so far up my ass that I was into dresses, makeup, and football players—girly girl on the outside and hardened biker daughter on the inside. Talk about a walking contradiction.
After my father was diagnosed with lung cancer the first year I was away at college, I tested for my motorcycle license and spent a good chunk of my inheritance on a brand new black Sportster 883. Riding became a way to escape my reality with nothing more than the wind in my face and the smell of the earth filling my lungs. Being kept from both my father and my bike for so long was nearly the death of me.
When I pull into the club’s parking lot on the edge of town, a crippling feeling of déjà vu strikes my core. The metal one-story structure looks exactly as I remember it: plain and obscure, easily mistaken for an out-of-business repair garage without any markings or signs, even though two of the big doors on the side have been welded shut.
Shit. How can a person have so many fond memories tied to a mere building? I don’t care if I ever return to the last house my father and I owned because this is home. Despite having a troublesome childhood void of a mother’s influences, my father tried like hell to do the best for his baby girl and gave me the kind of life everyone deserves.
Parking beside a long row of black Harleys, I sit frozen to my seat, staring at the building as if expecting it to come to life. I could’ve asked for a furlough to attend my father’s funeral, but I was too pissed that I wasn’t there to say goodbye when he took his last breath and it would’ve been downright impossible to face my ‘uncles’ who were crushed for not being able to keep me out of prison despite their best efforts.
A man emerges from the back door of the club, strutting in my direction without looking up. I’ve seen my share of badass bikers over the years, but there’s something about the hot hunk that’s so very different from the rest. The dude’s face is chiseled and square like the kind of manly-man I fantasized about hooking up with while on the inside. Wavy brown hair hangs down to his angular jaw covered in light stubble, somehow putting his incredibly kissable lips on display.
He has the usual veteran biker’s collection of various patriotic and Harley tattoos running up his muscular arms and disappearing beneath the short sleeved button-down bearing the club’s logo. From the sizable bulges beneath his shirt, I imagine he’s impossibly cut and capable of great strength. When I picture myself running my hands across the solid muscles, I can’t help but shudder.
Shit. I may have just moaned out loud.
Lord help me, he’s the perfect mix of beautiful model and surly bad boy that makes me want to spank his ass and ravish the rest of him.
Swaggering like he owns the place and has nowhere else to be, his black boots crunch against the loose gravel as he hums a tune beneath his breath. Clad in blue jeans, leather jacket hooked on a finger over his shoulder, it looks as if he’s headed to the fucking runway.
As he flips a stray lock of hair behind his ear, beautiful sky blue eyes land on me.
I stutter on a shallow breath. This guy is sexy as fuck. Damn if my underwear isn’t already wet from just watching this man candy practically strut his stuff in front of me.
A dangerous, smoldering gaze takes me in from head to toe as he closes the distance between us. With a deep smile set over his beautiful and oh-so-kissable lips that bring two dimples into place, he makes a noise of approval inside his throat. That low growl that erupts from him may be the hottest noise I’ve ever heard.
Fuck me. I wouldn’t mind if he had his way with me in the parking lot right now. Realizing my underwear has gone from wet to so soaked I may be creating my own swimming pool at my feet, I ball my hands into fists.
What in the hell is happening to me? Since when do I act like a teenage girl with her first crush and become a pathetic pool of girly hormones over some random guy?
I suck in a deep breath, completely paralyzed on my bike and at a total loss for words. Not only is the bastard smoking hot, it’s been forever since I’ve been with a man. And I can safely say I’ve never been with a guy like this one. Something tells me one night with him would make for a once in a lifetime experience.
“Aren’t you adorable,” he says. “Are you lost, darlin?’”
Though the smooth, deep roll of his voice sets my insides ablaze, my blood
boils. Adorable? I’ll show him fucking adorable.
“Where the fuck’s your president?” I ask with a scowl.
“Easy now, darlin.’” He leans on the handlebars of the bike beside me. Blue eyes wide, he releases a deep laugh. “Is there a problem?”
“There will be if you call me darlin’ again.”
“Okay, I get it,” he replies with a rolling laugh. Hands held up in mock surrender, he takes a step backwards. “I can get you in to see Remmy, no problem.”
The moment he utters the name of my father’s old buddy, my eyes close and I relax. I wasn’t sure Remmy would still be in charge and had taken a chance by coming here. But the truth is, I have nowhere else to go. After our mother died, my brother opted to live with her sister and essentially severed all ties to me and our father. This place is my only family.
“Hey, you okay?” the gorgeous stranger asks.
When I open my eyes, the edges of his beautiful mouth twitch in amusement. Shit, I’d give anything to suck on those delectable lips. In an attempt to lessen the painful pangs between my legs, I adjust my hips before dismounting my bike.
Yeah, he’s hot and everything, but I'm torn between wanting to throat punch the fuck out of him and just wanting to fuck him. Everything about seeing a chick on a bike must seem like a joke to him. “I’m fucking perfect,” I snap.
“That you are,” he answers with a deep grin.
As he turns back to the club at my side, I catch a tantalizing whiff of leather and
musky cologne and nearly crumble to the ground. Having gone this long without having a man inside of me is going to be the cause of my mental undoing, especially if I hang around this hunk of hotness much longer. When his hand touches my lower back, I audibly wince and pull away.
Jesus. I feel like a bomb ready to explode.
His brown eyebrows knit together. “Sure you’re alright?”
“Long day of riding,” I blurt, mentally kicking myself for acting like such a freak.
“The name’s Colt,” he says, offering his large hand. It’s calloused and slightly dirty, the sign of a hard worker.
I shove both hands in my back pockets. Not only am I not the type to shake hands, but I’m almost positive that touching this guy will catapult me over the edge of sanity. “Harley,” I mutter under my breath.
He crosses his arms, lips curled in a sexy smirk. “As in the bike?”
“As in you’re going to have a boot up your ass if you don’t shut the fuck up.”
“You’re a lively one,” he says with a deep chuckle. We reach the door to the club and he holds it open. “I like that,” he whispers, tossing me a sexy wink.
Gasping with the familiar sights and smells of the clubhouse, I stop dead in my tracks. Very little has changed since I was a girl and it’s like stepping back in time. Piles of empty liquor and beer bottles litter the same worn couches and armchairs from the 80s where I’d witnessed plenty of club members getting it on. A haze of smoke hangs in the dimly lit room among dancing dust particles. Zeppelin croons from the old-school jukebox in the corner, competing with the harsh laughter of men in another room.
The mural spanning across an entire wall of the US flag surrounded by eagles and Harley-Davidson wings beneath the club’s name INFERNO GLORY has been touched up recently as the colors are impeccable and vibrant. Drawings of service patches from wars each of the members served stretch across the top as a striking reminder this club takes their patriotism seriously and anything less won’t be tolerated.
Casual pictures of members past and present cover the far wall and my eyes immediately find my father. Painful aches strike me in the chest with the sight of him. Before chemo wore him down to a weakling—something a retired Marine didn’t tolerate well—he was a strong, incredibly handsome man. In the picture he isn’t much older than I am now and the smile on his face is one of the brightest I’ve ever seen. Looking at his long, dark hair, the light mocha shade of his skin, and the sparkle to his kind, brown eyes, is like glimpsing into a mirror three years ago.
Two men sitting at the bar in leather vests with the club’s logo turn when the heavy door slams shut behind us. One’s long and lean with a bun of dark hair secured on the back of his head while the other’s bald as a cue ball and a wall of solid muscle.
“Jesus H Christ,” the bald man hisses, rising to his feet. His dark eyes don’t stray from me as he stumbles to a nearby door and hollers, “Remmy, get your ass out here! You’re gonna wanna see this!”
“You know her?” Colt asks, looking back and forth between me and the bald
man marching toward me.
“Harley,” the man coos, collecting me in his thick arms. “Jesus, kid. It’s been too long.”
“Buzz, how’ve you been?” I ask casually, trying to choke down the lump rising in my chest as my hands hang loose at my sides. I’ll be damned if I come off as weak after all I’ve been through, and these bikers hate nothing more than an overly emotional chick.
But as soon as the MC’s president steps out of his office, gray eyes landing on me, I nearly lose my composure. He’s aged considerably since I last saw him. Long, dark hair once peppered with grays has been completely replaced with a buzz cut of all white. Sharp lines cover nearly every inch of his tanned face, making him appear exhausted from all he’s been through. His bulk has faded with time, making way for a sinewy frame covered in faded ink. The corners of his thin lips twitch when he charges at me.
“Remmy,” I whisper, ready to give in to my wavering emotions and wrap my arms around the man I once knew as a surrogate grandfather. The deep creases on his face harden once he’s standing in front of me, enveloping me in the strong scent of leather and tobacco. Something unreadable passes through his expression before he raises his hand and delivers a sharp slap to my face.
Grab the first book in the series
