by Zahra Girard
Crash
An MC Romance
Book 5 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 – Violet
Epilogue – Crash
Want More Steamy Action?
The Twisted Devils MC
Book one: Razor
Book two: Rusty
Book Three: Mack
Book Four: Blaze
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
Violet
“Another round.”
I look up from the bar I’ve been idly polishing for the last ten minutes and snatch up a bottle of bottom shelf whiskey — the second one these four guys have gotten into in the last hour — and pour fill another set of glasses. My customer watches, eager, a little too eager, and then reaches out to grab them.
I push his hand away. Not hard, I know better than to provoke a man like him, but firm enough that he gets the point.
“Before you can have these, I need you to catch up on your tab.”
“You don’t think I’m good for it?” He raises one heavy eyebrow. In the gloomy light of my bar, the hard lines of his face cast shadows that set off his sharp features. Stubble, a scowl menacing enough that it could bring a manic fit to a screeching halt, and a jawline so sharp I could use it to cut limes. He’d be handsome, if he weren’t the exact opposite of my type.
“I don’t doubt you’re good for it. But I know everyone in carbon Ridge, and I don’t know you. Which means you’re from out of town. And I don’t let out-of-town bikers come into my bar and run up a giant tab without asking for a little collateral.”
That scowl sinks to depths that would make the Marianas Trench jealous.
“You fucking serious? I’ve had a long fucking ride to this pissant town, had to deal with the highway being fucking closed — which is the only reason we’re in this fucking shithole bar — and you want to get into a pissing contest with me over four drinks?”
If that glower of his were to level off or, heaven forbid, he was to even smile, I might be tempted to smile back at him. And if he weren’t wearing a cut that’s bulging with an obvious gun beneath it, and if his tightly corded, muscular arms weren’t draped with tattoos, then even with his growly attitude I’d still be tempted to flirt with him. But I’m not. Because he’s acting like an angry jerk and his holier-than-thou attitude reminds me too much of a man I’d rather forget.
“Look, if you and your friends want to drink yourselves into oblivion by swimming in a literal ocean of liquor, that’s fine. Hell, I’ll sell you the snorkels and a set of flippers. But you will have to settle some of your tab before you can have these drinks.”
His eyes narrow. His mouth opens, but he hesitates.
To show him I’m serious, I snatch up one of the glasses of bottom shelf whiskey and finish it in a single gulp. When he still hesitates — though his eyes have widened a bit in surprise — I take up a second and finish that one, too.
Then his hand reaches into his cut. Right toward his gun.
In alarm, though doing my best to seem calm, I reach under my counter and wrap my hands around the Louisville Slugger I keep there. It won’t do much to stop a gun, but I will leave him with a head injury to remember me by.
I heave a sigh of relief when he pulls out a thick clip of bills and peels off a handful of twenties, which he throws onto the bar.
“I like your attitude,” he says in a smokey, still-kind-of-pissed growl.
“Thanks. It’s the one thing that’s free in here,” I say, and I snatch up the cash and then fill the two empty cups. And, before he can say anything — because I have the distinct feeling he might want to hit on me and, no matter how good he looks, I can not allow myself to go to that well of temptation again — I turn away and head to the other end of the bar, where I chop limes and don a bitchy expression that I hope will keep him away.
Why do men like him always end up going for me?
And why do they always turn out exactly like I expect? Great for one night, but anything more than that and they leave me wanting to pull my hair out in frustration.
The guy in leather takes the hint, his glasses, and rejoins his friends at their table. And I keep my focus on chopping limes while my brain scrambles for something else to do next to keep me busy and away from Mr. Smokey-voiced biker, because it’s a slow night in my bar, the Timberline Tavern, and those four bikers are my only customers at the moment. It’s just me, my waitress and best friend, Kendra, the bouncer, Teddy, and the back-of-house cook, Emilio.
What can I do next to avoid those bikers? And that one biker in particular?
Unfortunately, my question answers itself. There’s a heavy thud as the front door to my bar opens and, before I can even look to see who is arriving, Kendra comes scurrying toward me with a frightened look on her face.
“Switchblade is here,” she says.
I nod. “Go check on Emilio in the kitchen. See if he needs help with anything.”
“Thanks, Vi,” she says, with a grateful sigh. “I owe you. He’s just been getting worse and worse each day. I swear I saw him outside my house last Tuesday.”
“Serious? Outside your home?”
“Yeah. I�
��m freaked. What’s it going to take to get him to stop?”
“I don’t know. But I’ll think of something. Get back in that kitchen. Take your time,” I say, and then, feeling my stomach rumble, I add, “Maybe make me a sandwich.”
She laughs, puts her hand on my shoulder. “You’re the only person I’d ever let tell me that.”
“Not even Teddy?” I say, winking.
“Not until he actually makes a move and asks me out,” she says. Then looks back over her shoulder. There are four more bikers posting up at an empty table. They’re members of the local MC — the Death’s Disciples — and I can already feel a headache coming on. There’s Switchblade, their enforcer, their president, Roger ‘Dread’ Deacon, and two others that go by the names Knuckles and White Skull. Though I have no intention of getting close enough to them to actually read the road names on their rockers. “Anyway, I have to go. Be safe.”
“I’ll be fine,” I say to her back as she hurries away toward the kitchen.
I turn my attention back to my limes. I’ve made a mountain of them and have no plans on stopping. At least, not until my customers from hell go away.
“Hey. Bartender, get your ass over here,” Dread shouts the second his fat ass plops itself into a chair.
Setting down my lime-cutting knife, I scurry over to their table. I can feel eight sets of eyes — the four Death’s Disciples and the four newcomers — on me every step of the way. It’s not a pleasant feeling.
“Can I get you guys something?”
Switchblade looks me up and down like a butcher surveying a hog he can’t wait to string up and dissect. “Where’s your waitress?”
“She’s in the kitchen.” I answer, curtly.
“Get her out here. Now.”
I smile at him, sweetly. “You know, you are the last person I expected to have a problem with a woman being in the kitchen. Are you secretly a feminist, Switchblade?”
“I don’t give a fuck about that shit. Where’s Kendra?” He growls.
I keep my smile and turn my attention away from Switchblade and to his president, Dread. Despite his nickname — which is well-earned, from all the rumors I’ve heard since I moved to Carbon Ridge four years ago — Dread is one of the more reasonable members of the Death’s Disciples MC. Which, admittedly, is not a very high bar.
“Dread, how about a round on the house for you and your boys?”
He nods, once, slow, his chin sinking into the fat around his neck and forming two more chins. “Fine. Whiskey. And if it’s some of that bottom shelf shit, you won’t like what happens.”
“Sure thing,” I say, still smiling, and I hustle back to the bar. I spend a second looking over my bottles, trying to find one that’ll meet his requirements without hitting me too hard in the wallet; Carbon Ridge is a small town in Colorado, close to Aspen and, until ski season starts up and tourists start coming in, business is slow. And it’s been real quiet lately because ski season is still a month or two away.
“You have a problem with those dickheads over there?”
I turn. It’s the same stranger as before. With another handful of cash and a semi-concerned look on his face. He’s easier on the eyes now that his expression has softened a bit. I look from his chest to the road name on his patch.
“No, Crash. I mean, I have a problem with them, yes, but it’s nothing I can’t handle. Don’t worry about it.”
“I ain’t worried. And I ain’t getting involved, either. But if they’re going to keep you busy, then how about you make this next round a double?”
I roll my eyes. “Glad to see chivalry isn’t dead.”
I pour him a round of doubles, then snatch up four glasses and a bottle of some good-quality whiskey, and head over to the Death’s Disciples. Four glasses go down on their table, I fill each to the brim — cringing as I do, because I can feel my pockets getting lighter with each glass — and pray that the free booze is enough to keep these meat heads out of my hair for a while.
As soon as I’m done, each of them snatch up their glasses without so much as a ‘thank you’, and I hustle back to my bar and to cutting limes.
I get two chopped before my mystery guest is back at the bar.
“For someone who doesn’t want to get involved, you sure are hanging around a lot,” I say. I try to keep my eyes on my work, but there’s something about his face — and his deep blue eyes — that messes with my concentration.
“We’re just passing through on business. And I’d like things to be nice and uneventful.”
“And you want to know if the Death’s Disciples will make your business trip into something messy?”
He smiles. It’s charming, but cold. “Right.”
I shrug, pour myself a drink, and think while I sip it. “Unless you sprout breasts, red hair, and change your name to Kendra, you will probably have a pretty quiet night here in Carbon Ridge. As long as you remember to tip your bartender.”
His smile fades. “How long have they been after her?”
“It’s not ‘they’. It’s just one of them: Switchblade.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“A while. It’s nothing. But…” I say and then, thinking better of involving him in my business, I finish my drink and turn back to my limes, hoping he’ll take the hint. This isn’t his mess, and the last thing I need are two groups of bikers tearing up my bar because they don’t know how to handle their problems except with guns and violence.
He reaches across the bar and grabs my wrist. There’s fire in his eyes. Apparently women being hurt is a trigger for him.
“But what?” He growls.
Before I can answer, there’s shouting from the kitchen. Emilio. And Kendra. I look up to see Switchblade’s seat is empty. And, from the kitchen, I hear Switchblade’s voice cutting through my best friend’s screams.
“You can’t hide from me forever, bitch,” he roars. “I am tired of your fucking games.”
My blood goes cold and my stomach drops.
Tonight will not be a calm night. Far from it.
Then I hear Kendra scream in pure terror.
I shake my hand free of the stranger’s grip and reach beneath the bar counter to grab my baseball bat. My heart pounding in my chest, I glare at the stranger. “Go back to your seat, I got this.”
Then, I turn and run back toward the kitchen, with Teddy right on my heels and my bat raised and ready to strike.
I’m steps away when the door to the kitchen flies open and Switchblade emerges. With one arm around Kendra and a knife to her throat.
Chapter Two
Crash
She’s right. This isn’t my mess. And, even if she weren’t straight-up telling me that I should stay out of her business, I’d still stay out of this mess. Because, sitting in the parking lot out in front of the Timberline Tavern, is a truckload of cargo that’s bound for Kansas City and needs to stay as far away as possible from any law enforcement attention.
Though, for all she tells me to stay away, the fire in her green eyes and the swivel in her curvy hips sure makes it hard.
Shouting erupts in the kitchen and I take my glass and head back to the table, where Mack, Blaze, and Snake are all waiting for me.
“So, are you going to hit that, or what?” Snake says.
I shake my head. “Not a chance. First thing tomorrow, we’re on the road. That means no fucking around tonight.”
“Seriously? We can’t spend a little while here? This town is nice, and I’ll bet there are some wicked trails in the mountains. I could use a good hike after spending too much fucking time behind the wheel of that fucking truck,” Blaze says.
“No way. We’re up early and we’re back to driving in shifts, just like before,” I say.
“Crash are you really going to pass up a chance to spend a little quality time with that ice queen with the nice rack? Because, what, you’re worried your ass will be tired?” Mack says.
Snake laughs. “If he gets with that bitch,
his ass might not be tired, but it will be sore.”
“What are you saying?” I say.
“He’s saying that she looks like the type to want to put a collar around your neck and that baseball bat up your arse,” Mack says. “And she’s hot enough that, if I were single and if she asked, I just might fucking consider it.”
“Look, what people do on their own is their own damn business, but that isn’t it. I’m just not interested. This trip is about business, we can relax once we’re to Kansas City and drop the cargo off with the buyer.”
Blaze, Mack, and Snake all trade looks.
“He’s still pissed about Rosa,” Blaze says.
“That’s got to be the reason he’s being such a fucking idiot.”“Watch your mouth, Blaze,” I snap. “I ended it with her, yeah, and it fucking sucked after all these years, but it was time. But the reason I don’t want to get involved with the goddamn bartender is because we have fucking work to do. There’s no time for other shit.”
I stop talking as I notice Blaze, Mack, and Snake all have their eyes trained somewhere behind me. Until this moment, I’ve tuned out the shouting and commotion going on back there because it most definitely is not my business, but now I turn around. And can’t help but take in a sharp hiss of breath.
One man from the scumbag local MC — the Death’s Disciples — has his arm firmly around some young woman, with one hand on her breast and another holding a knife to her throat. This creepy motherfucker, who I assume is Switchblade, has hair so oily you’d need a goddamn dipstick to get a handle on it, and is not only is putting his hands on the red-haired young waitress, but he’s in an armed standoff with the bouncer and the bartender.
“For fuck’s sake,” I growl.
We’re minutes away from local law enforcement being all over here. And the last thing I need is some posturing, small-cocked local sheriff deciding to go poking his nose where it doesn’t belong simply because he doesn’t like the look of my cut.