Dark Pharaohs MC

Dark Pharaohs Book 1, Chapter Three: Kasey

Spencer stands up, his chair almost tipping over backward. He starts to stalk around one side of his desk, so I go around the other, making sure to keep it between us. I don’t really think he will physically hurt me. But then, I’ve never thought he’ll work with a drug cartel boss, either. Right now, I don’t know what to think.

My foot strikes something on the ground and I cut a glance down. It’s a gym bag that’s open enough for me to see the stacks of money inside. I look away from it, feeling agitated as I move around the desk. Spencer is looking at me strangely, a maniacal glint in his eye that sends a cold chill running through my veins.

And then, he stops. He scrubs his face with his hands, then looks at me. The anger is still simmering in his eyes, but he manages to rein it in for the moment.

“Look, it’s not like I’m part of the cartel, Kasey. All I’m doing is moving money around. And they pay me very well to do it,” he tries to explain.

“They murder people. You’re helping them murder people.”

“Oh, grow up. I’m not helping them murder anybody. And let’s be honest, you haven’t complained about the lifestyle I’m providing for you,” he fires back.

I feel my face grow warm with anger as he throws that in my face. It’s not the first time he’s done it, and it never fails to piss me off every single time. I’ve never been a materialistic woman. Things don’t interest me nearly as much as they interest Spencer. And definitely nowhere near as much as he seems to think they interest me.

Having material wealth has never been high on my list of priorities. I can be happy in a small home—one that actually feels like a home—rather than this sterile monstrosity. But more than his inference that I’m a money-grubbing gold digger, what infuriates me more than anything is knowing exactly what I’ve sacrificed. For him. And the fact that he doesn’t acknowledge it.

“I could have provided for myself, you know. I was on track to be a lawyer. Just like you.”

My voice is cold. Hard. Yet he just smirks at me, kindling my rage.

“Probably not just like me,” he says blithely. “And let’s be honest, it’s not like you were going to be the next Gloria Allred or anything.”

“How dare you, you rude, arrogant, condescending son of a pitch,” I say, my voice barely more than a whisper.

His words hit me like a punch to the gut and leave me breathless for a moment. A tear rolls from the corner of my eye and my vision shimmers as the anger coursing through me temporarily robs me of my ability to speak. All I seem to be able to do is stand there, gaping at him like a fool.

For him to say that to me is as unbelievable as it is hurtful. Not to mention the fact that it’s totally and completely untrue. And he knows it. He knows exactly what I’ve sacrificed—what I’ve given up. For him.

“Things haven’t been good between us for a long while now,” I say quietly. “But I never expected that you’d start lying to me, Spencer. Nor did I think you’d work with a flocking drug cartel.”

He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “Don’t you think you’re being a little dramatic about all of this? It’s not like I’m on the streets selling. Or cutting people’s heads off. I’m moving money around. That’s it. That’s all I do.”

“And by moving that money around, you’re helping those people out on the streets sell drugs and cut people’s heads off,” I counter.

“Seriously, you’re being hysterical. This is ridiculous,” he snaps. “What’s the difference between moving money for Miguel Zavala or some Wall Street CEO?”

“Other than Wall Street CEO’s not leaving a trail of corpses behind them?”

He blows out a frustrated breath and throws his hands up, shaking his head. He’s acting like this is nothing more serious than me catching him doing something innocuous like fudging on our taxes or having one too many when he is out with the boys. He acts like working for a man who murders people by the hundreds—maybe even the thousands—is nothing to be worked up about.

I shake my head, feeling the last pieces of my heart shatter. We’ve drifted apart and our relationship hasn’t been good for a while, but deep down, I’ve always hoped he’ll snap out of whatever he’s been dealing with and come back to me.

“I thought you were just going through something. That you’d get through it and be the man I fell in love with again,” I say, my voice trembling. “But I don’t even know you anymore, Spencer.”

Dark Pharaohs Book 2, Chapter Four: Domino

The growl of motorcycles fill the air and I see the Warriors riding down the road toward us. The one in the lead is Tarantula, the club’s Road Captain. He’s a stocky man, about five-ten, with a tail of thick dark hair that falls to the middle of his back. He reminds me a lot of Danny Trejo.

His second is a guy named Bala. He’s tall and lean, with well-defined muscles through his shoulders and arms. Bala comes across as pretty casual, but he’s got a quiet intensity about him. Dude is like a loaded gun just waiting to go off. His head is shaved clean and he’s sporting some new tats that wrap around the sides of his head, adding to his aura.

He’s got an intimidating, slightly off kilter, dangerous vibe about him, and if you’re a Road Captain, it’s probably what you’d want in your second.

“What’s up, ese?” Tarantula says, his English thickly accented.

He and Cosmo embrace briefly, thumping each other on the back, as Bala and I stand there staring at each other. I’m doing my best to project the same sort of menacing presence that seems natural to him, but given the smirk curling the corners of his mouth upward, I’m not sure I’m being too successful at it. Tarantula looks over and extends his hand and we shake firmly.

“Got a baby biker with you today, ese?” he says with a grin.

“Gotta take the training wheels off sometime,” Cosmo quips.

“Si mon. About time you popped that cherry, holmes,” he says, then turns back to Cosmo. “We doin’ business today or what?”

“You show me yours, I show you mine,” Cosmo tells him.

Tarantula nods to Bala, who squats down and opens the bag. It’s filled with fat stacks of bundled cash. Cosmo nods to me, so I give Derek the sign to open up the side door on the can. He rolls it back, revealing the bundled and wrapped weed we’re carrying.

“Do I need to weigh that, ese?”

Cosmo shoots him a smirk and points at the bag. “Do I need to count that?”

“Touché, holmes. Touché.”

He nods to Bala who calls for the guy in his van and they walk over and start to load their van with the weed. I reach down and pick up the bag with the cash in it and zip it up. We stand in silence, watching them load the weed into the Warriors’ van for a moment before Tarantula turns to Cosmo.

“Heard a rumor about you, ese,” he starts.

Cosmo arches an eyebrow at him. “Yeah? What’s that?”

“That you got into some big shootout with the Zavala cartel.”

“Oh yeah? Where’d you hear that?”

Tarantula shrugs and spreads his arms out wide. “Around. Just word on the street and all that sheet.”

Cosmo chuffs. “You believe every rumor you hear, compadre?”

The burly Mexican offers him a smile. “Only the ones that have that ring of truth to ’em. You know what I mean, holmes?”

“And what makes you think this rumor you’re hearing has a ring of truth to it?”

Still grinning, Tarantula shakes his head. “Because I know bullchit when I smell it, ese. And this rumor I heard? Not even a whiff.”

After the shootout, Prophet told us all to keep a lid on it. Sheriff Singer was doing us a solid by walking the tightrope that kept us out of the story. I’m not surprised the story got out anyway. People love to gossip. But all I can say is my degree of confidence that the story didn’t come from any of our guys is extremely high. Most all of us are veterans and know not to flock with mission security by running our mouths. And those few guys who aren’t vets have enough respect for Prophet and the club that they aren’t going to spill the story either.

“The way I hear it is you and your gringos here got into a gunfight with Zavala’s men. Almost took out the big guy, is what I was told,” Tarantula says.

“Interesting story,” Cosmo replies dryly.

“Si. It’s very interesting, cabron. But that’s not the most interesting part.”

“Don’t leave me in suspense. Tell me the most interesting part.”

Steel Knights MC

Angel’s Phantom: Chapter Two

Lockjaw, my beefy, all-white pit bull, had gotten used to sensing danger whenever my gun clicked. The second I set the barrel to the back of the head of the man following me, Lockjaw let out a low, menacing growl. Unbeknownst to my pursuer, I’d unlatched Lockjaw’s harness when I climbed off my bike, just in case. All it would take was one word, and he’d be out of his seat and latched onto whichever body part he could get to first.

Unfortunately for me, the typically simple task of speaking was eluding me for the time being. The confidence I’d just had when I slunk behind the alley’s dumpsters to get the jump on my stalker abated in an instant. His dirty-blond hair was a bit longer, even a bit unkempt, and the clean, baby face I had etched in my brain was hidden behind a growing scruff of a goatee, but there was no denying the voice or those emerald eyes.

Colin, my childhood love, was the man at the other end of my gun.

I kept the barrel against his head as I sidestepped him slowly and paced to his front to view his face better. What wasn’t covered in facial hair was covered in various scrapes and scratches, along with a couple of places that looked like someone had held a lighter against his skin. I studied him closely, making sure I wasn’t projecting one of my lingering high-school dreams, but as I locked my eyes on his, it felt like being suddenly thrust backward in time.

It was him.

“Colin?”

He tilted his head with a crooked smile. “A decade made you forget me? It’s CJ.”

I furrowed my brow. I wasn’t misremembering the name of the first guy I’d ever fallen in love with. I had half a dozen notebooks still packed in storage at my parents’ house with his name scribbled all over them. The boy I was infatuated with was named Colin.

“CJ?” I asked.

“Yeah. Blue house four doors down. I accidentally broke your front window, trying to get your attention,” he responded.

That was definitely Colin. I smiled as I remembered the silly, nine-year-old boy. A failed attempt to pull the romantic rocks-at-my-window cliché ended with a rather large stone in my living room and my dad loading up a shotgun because he thought someone was trying to break in. He was so terrified when my dad came storming out of the house that he bolted and jumped into a nearby trash can. I had to wait for my dad to calm down before I could go and coax him out. He was the cutest Oscar the Grouch I’d ever seen.

First name Colin, last name Jones. I would never forget it.

Colin’s presence halted my typical tendency to fly on the defensive. Was it just because I was so happy to see him again? Were those intoxicating green eyes working me over the same way they always had?

I tried to understand the name change. Maybe he was abbreviating it for some reason? I’d known plenty of people who stopped letting people refer to them by a childhood name and picked a different name to live with for the rest of their days. CJ was different enough, I supposed, and it distanced him from his childhood, which I knew was rough.

It would also explain why I could never find Colin Jones on social media when I searched. If he’d stopped going by the name on his birth certificate in lieu of something more concise, he’d probably be using that name on social media. I wanted to continue to poke at it for the full truth, but my inner eleven-year-old was berating me for not already having kissed him.

I couldn’t justify continuing to press when he seemed like he was on the verge of death. Gorgeous though his face still was, he looked worse for wear. It wasn’t just the abrasions on his face, either. His clothes seemed ragged and looked like he’d been wearing them for multiple days in a row, and he was holding his left arm against his stomach, with blood-soaked bandages visible through the holes in his gloves. He was hurting—badly.

“CJ, of course,” I said finally. “How could I ever forget?”

Colin smirked, seemingly unbothered by the state he was in. “No idea.”

“Ten plus years will do that to you,” I responded.

Colin eyed my gun before slowly turning his gaze to Lockjaw. “Are you gonna pull away your weapons?”

“Should I?” I let out a sharp whistle, and Lockjaw hopped out of his seat and bounded over to my side, his snarl worsening as he prepared to attack on my behalf. “Old friend or not, you were following me, and it’s been longer than thirty seconds.”

Colin’s smirk pursed a little. It wasn’t fear, but something else. Intrigue? “I need your help. My house caught fire, and someone is trying to kill me.”

It was almost humorous that Colin tried to pass off such an outrageous statement as a satisfactory excuse without further explanation. Colin had always been laconic, but that was too much, even for him—or too little.

“That’s all I get? Your house caught fire, and someone’s trying to kill you?”

Colin shrugged and glanced down at himself as if to say, “It’s obviously true.”

“Why is someone trying to kill you?”

Devil’s Bullet: Chapter Three

Any excitement that Colin turning back up in my life gave me bled out when I saw my dad and brother. I deliberately asked the doctor not to contact my dad because I knew that there was a pretty good chance Taylor was still with him. I could explain certain things to my dad, not just because I was a bit of a daddy’s girl, but also because I was his vice president and noted right hand. He’d listen to me if I told him to trust me and that I was taking care of an old friend.

Taylor, however—well, he was a different story.

I couldn’t pinpoint exactly when Taylor lost his mind. Our mother died before either of us was really old enough to remember her, so my dad had raised us by himself and did a hell of a job at it. I distinctly remembered having a normal, loving brother as a little girl, but then it suddenly seemed like any guy that even looked in my direction got his head bitten off. Figuratively, at first, but as he got older, he started to get slowly more physical and violent. I tried to call his bluff with my first boyfriend after I pledged for the Steel Knights, and it turned out to be a huge mistake. Taylor broke into my house while we were having sex, dragged my boyfriend out into the backyard, and shot him before I could get a word in edgewise. My dad had it covered up like a break-in gone bad. To say it traumatized me would be an understatement.

After that, I committed myself to never doing anything other than letting the odd, wavering guy take me home for a one-night stand, and even those encounters were treated like such a big secret that they could have been stored in Area 51. I imagined Colin’s crooked grin and green eyes, and my stomach twisted into a knot. Adulthood had been good to him, and he still had his brother to think about. I couldn’t get him killed by trying to rekindle an old flame, even if he still looked at me like I was the most important thing in the world. Now that Taylor was aware he existed or would be aware soon, I had to make sure that nothing happened between us.

For a really long time, my dad tried to convince me that Taylor was just being overprotective—it’s what a brother is supposed to do—but somewhere along the way, I realized that Taylor didn’t have much other than blind aggression inside his body. Sometimes, I felt like he was doing it because he felt more like I was his property than his sister, and someone who touched his property had to die. Most of the time, though, I thought it was just because Taylor was crazy. Around five years ago, my dad had stopped defending his behavior and just tried to steady the waters. He was starting to realize his son was unhinged, too, even if he didn’t want to accept it.

“Hi, Daddy,” I finally greeted him. I reserved familial association for when we weren’t around the other members of the brotherhood. Otherwise, I called him Squared or Nick like everyone else.

My dad, a man with short brown hair, a severe jawline, and several scars across his stubbled skin, gave me a smirk. “Hey, baby. Working late, I see?”

“A friend of mine needed some help,” I replied. “I told Marteau not to bother you with it.”

My dad chuckled. “You know good and well that everyone has orders to tell me everything. Big or small, if it’s worth your time, it’s worth mine.” That was my dad’s way of saying that he was paranoid about everything that happened without him, but I’d never dare say that out loud. “We were still at the Taphouse when he called. Taylor was right there with me, so we both decided to come and make sure you were okay.”

I sat down in one of the armchairs that sat perpendicular to the couch and tapped my leg, and Lockjaw finally tore himself away from my dad and came to me, setting his head in my lap and waiting patiently for scratches.

I set a hand on his head and rubbed for a few seconds silently before continuing. “I’m okay, Daddy. Really. A friend came to me and was a little banged up, and I called Dr. Marteau to get him a little help.”

Taylor raised an eyebrow immediately. “Him?”

“Yes. A friend from high school. CJ.” I locked eyes with Taylor. “Just a friend.” I decided to omit the fact that it was Colin from my childhood that was in the other room. I wasn’t sure what my dad or Taylor would do if they knew it was my childhood crush, but I was hoping they wouldn’t put two and two together so that I didn’t have to find out. I shifted my gaze from Taylor to my dad. “I’d like a private audience.”

Taylor was the spitting image of my dad apart from his auburn hair that was closer to mine. When he scoffed, he and my dad were nearly indistinguishable. “Aw, come on. We’re all family here. Why the secrecy?”

“This isn’t a family matter,” I responded, but I directed the comment to my dad. “I’m asking for a private audience as your vice president.”

The smirk that Taylor had turned into a scowl. “That’s low.”

My dad tapped his fist against Taylor’s arm. “It’s fine, Taylor. Why don’t you head home? We’ll talk tomorrow.” Taylor didn’t move. I shifted my attention toward him and saw that he was staring at me like he wanted to set me on fire. My dad cleared his throat and turned to look at Taylor. “Leave. Now.”

Blazing Rebels MC

The Blazing Rebels Book 1, Chapter Three: Wrench

The light from the sunrise beaming through the windows on the main floor was much brighter than in the attic, making me wince and cover my eyes with my forearm as I walked down the staircase. Tank was smoking even with his arms crossed, a red flag that something had him even more pissed off than usual.

“I’m going to ask you a question and you’re going to answer honestly,” he said once I reached the bottom of the stairs. “Are you dealing again?”

I stopped in my tracks, my face dropping to a frown before quickly turning to a strange mixture of anger, disgust, and shame. That was what had him so mad?

“What the fuck, Tank? You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

“Answer the question.”

“You wake me up at seven in the morning and accuse me of dealing drugs? Fuck off.”

“I said, answer the question, Wrench,”

“No! Jesus Christ, Tank, fuck.” I fell into one of the empty wooden chairs sitting near the prep counter and ran my hand over my buzzed head, my veins pumping with adrenaline that I hadn’t felt in a while. I heard Tank’s footsteps move across the room to drop his cigarette butt into an empty beer bottle, but I was focusing on the floor, taking deep breaths, trying not to let my anger get the best of me.

“This place is filthy,” he said, “Tell the cooks I told them to get their shit together.” I could tell he was trying to lighten the mood. Once he realized I wasn’t biting, he said, “For the record,” sticking his hands in his pocket with his head hanging an inch and as close to sheepish as Tank could look. “I didn’t think you were. Just had to make sure for myself. See your honest answer.”

“And?” I asked, though not really sure what answer I was looking for. Annoyance toward the man still clouded my mind. The man I had looked up to since I rode into Mascid ten years ago.

A smirk crept up his face and his dark brown eyes got a funny look in them. “You looked a little guilty.”

“What? How?”

“Guilty people act defensive, like you just did.”

“Can you blame me for being defensive? You woke me up before I could even—”

He cut me off and ignored me. “But lucky for you, I know you’re not. There’s no way you’d be dealing without using, and I know a user when I see one,” he said. “I know you’ve been clean.”

I scrunched up my nose and looked back at the floor. I didn’t know if I should accept it as a compliment or an insult. Thankfully, I felt his hand on my shoulder and he said, “Proud of ya, Wrench. You’ve come a long way.”

The comment touched me. People didn’t say those types of things often enough. But the tender moment was interrupted by Tank’s obvious discomfort, and he slapped me on the back before taking a large step away from me. I decided to be the first to change the subject. “So, what the fuck is going on, anyway? Why’d you even ask?”

Tank rustled in his jacket pocket until he pulled out two items and displayed them on the large wooden table in the middle of the kitchen where the cooks would take their dinner breaks. One was a newspaper article and the next was a tattered piece of fabric that was yellow and green with a portion of a flame stitched onto it, clearly ripped to pieces. Except it didn’t look like it was torn by a man, it looked burnt. My eyes widened at the sight of the fabric, identifying it immediately.

“Tank, is that—”

“Yep,” he answered. “That’s our patch.” He pointed at the newspaper article next and I picked it up to see a picture of the remains of a house explosion in the northeast of Mascid.

Confused, I looked back at Tank with my brows knitted and he continued talking. “Last night after our meeting, I went home and was thinking about the Freeways and them being on our territory. Then I remembered I read about a house explosion in the paper earlier this week. It was in one of those ritzy areas, you know, with all the rich people, but I guess, coincidentally, no one was living in the house.”

He was pacing back and forth, reminding me of Sherlock Holmes, if Sherlock smoked cigarettes instead of pipes and said, “Somethin’ didn’t seem right about that. Explosions don’t just happen in rich neighborhoods, especially in empty houses. The police called it a gas explosion, an open-and-shut case. But a gas explosion would have done more damage to the surrounding houses… This seemed more… confined. So, I decided to investigate myself.”

The Blazing Rebels Book 2, Chapter Five: Archer

When I pulled into the Tavern, it wasn’t even noon, but I was already craving a beer. Hopping off my bike and trudging to the door, I kicked a small stone that was in my path. “Stupid rock,” I mumbled under my breath and opened the door to see the usual crew, minus Tank, there for breakfast.

“Hey, if it isn’t lover boy,” Ripper said, in between mouthfuls of pancakes. “Why aren’t you with your little damsel in distress?”

“Hmph.” I pulled out a chair and slumped into it before calling over to Evelyn. “Hey, Ev, can I get a beer with my pancakes?”

“It’s eleven in the morning,” she said, narrowing her eyes, but grabbing a pint glass. “And beer doesn’t go with pancakes.”

“Yeah, whatever.” I shoved my hands into my pocket and looked away.

“Not going as planned in paradise?” Wrench asked.

“She’s just so… mad at me,” I said, baffled at the emotion.

“For what?” Crow growled. “For savin’ her life?”

I shrugged my shoulders. “Apparently.”

“Ha. Spoiled brat,” Crow said, and Ripper turned to him.

“Why do you blame her?” he asked. “Maybe Archer just isn’t as good with women as he thought he was?”

Wrench piped up next. “Quality women are harder to please than the women you pick up here.”

“I’m great with women,” I said underneath my breath, though Wrench’s words got under my skin. It had been years since I talked to a woman who wasn’t obviously turned on by the biker lifestyle. What if I was doomed to never have a chance?

“The poor girl is frightened.” Evelyn came walking up with a plate and a tray in her hand. My mouth watered as she set down the plate of fluffy pancakes drenched in gooey syrup and slab of butter on the top. Next, she set down the pint of beer I requested along with a mug of steaming coffee. “You’ll thank me for the coffee at two when you’re awake instead of having a nap.”

“Thanks, Evelyn,” I said, the delicious aroma of coffee alone perking me up. “I know she’s scared, though. I thought of that already. But this morning, I don’t know, I made her coffee and breakfast, and she didn’t even say thank you or good morning.”

“Waste of time, tryin’ with that girl,” Crow said, and Evelyn swatted his shoulder.

“Archer, she’s scared, confused, and probably lonely without her father,” Evelyn said. “It’s going to take more than food to get her to open up. She needs to trust you.”

“But what else am I going to do?” I said. “I’ve already offered to protect her and cooked for her. That’s literally more than I’ve ever done for any woman before. And the other women liked me.”

“If you like her, you’re going to have to figure it out.” She patted my shoulder. “I believe in you.”

She walked back behind the bar before calling, “Oh, I forgot to tell you guys. Tank is taking the day off, says it’s slow and he’s feeling a little rundown. Says you should too.”

“Great,” I said and cut off a piece of pancake. “Won’t even have anything to keep me out of the house today.” Pondering as I let the sweet and salty flavors melt in my mouth, I swallowed. “How the hell do you make a woman trust you, Wrench?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “I dunno. Just prove you’re someone worth trusting.”

“Well, I am someone worth trusting.”

“How does she know that, though?” asked Wrench. “For all she knows, you’re just waiting until she lets her guard down until you swipe.”

“That’s insane,” I said. “I’m doing this to protect her, not to hurt her.”