by Joanna Wylde
PRAISE FOR THE NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING
REAPERS MOTORCYCLE CLUB SERIES
“Raw emotion and riveting characters, I fell in love from page one!”
—Katy Evans, New York Times bestselling author
“Seriously sexy . . . meltdown hot.”
—SeattlePi.com
“Sex that blisters the imagination, resulting in a thrill ride as raw as it is well written.”
—Publishers Weekly
“I’m a sucker for true bad boys . . . It’s hot, explosive, intense and will leave you tingling in all the right places . . . For readers who like to be shocked and want to read something outside the box, this is definitely for you.”
—Under the Covers
“A gritty romance . . . raw [and] lusty.”
—The Book Pushers
“Hooked me so hard that I could not put it down. Ms. Wylde . . . will completely take you into the biker world where the motorcycle club has [its] own values, rules, laws, and ways of doing things.”
—A Bookish Escape
“[Joanna Wylde] knows how to balance great characters; a realistic, gritty storyline; [and] hot-as-hell men and women . . . with the perfect amount of romance and tenderness.”
—Ana’s Attic
“Exactly what I’ve been looking to read.”
—Maryse’s Book Blog
“Vastly entertaining.”
—Dear Author
“I am blown away by Joanna Wylde’s writing and how much I love the Reapers MC books . . . [An] emotional roller coaster ride.”
—Red’s Hot Reads
Berkley titles by Joanna Wylde
Reapers Motorcycle Club
REAPER’S LEGACY
DEVIL’S GAME
REAPER’S STAND
Silver Valley
SILVER BASTARD
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
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This book is an original publication of The Berkley Publishing Group.
Copyright © 2015 by Joanna Wylde.
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eBook ISBN: 978-0-698-19178-5
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Wylde, Joanna.
Silver bastard / Joanna Wylde.—Berkley trade paperback edition.
pages ; cm.—(Silver Valley ; 1)
ISBN 978-0-425-28062-1 (softcover)
1. Motorcycle clubs—Fiction. 2. Motorcycle gangs—Fiction. 3. Man-woman relationships—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3623.Y544S55 2015
813'.6—dc23
2014047383
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Berkley trade paperback edition / April 2015
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Version_1
In memory of William “Backfire” Twardokus
Thank you for all you taught me.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
As always, thank you very much to everyone at The Berkley Publishing Group for making this book possible, particularly Cindy Hwang. Thanks also to Jessica Brock for her promotional work and the Berkley art department, which has given me yet another amazing cover. I appreciate your efforts so much.
I owe a special debt to Amy Tannenbaum, who never fails to return my calls no matter how disjointed my messages may be.
This book would not have been possible without the support of my crit partners, Kylie Scott and Cara Carnes. Renee Carlino and Kim Jones have nursed me through many a crisis as well, and Rebecca Zanetti has been an invaluable support when it comes to research (and the occasional celebratory lunch date!). I also appreciate the efforts of my beta readers, including Danielle, Hang, Sally, and Lori.
My online community is the only thing keeping me sane most days. Much love to my Sweet Butts, who always listen to me rant. Love also to the Joanna Wylde Junkies—may your dinosaurs frolic happily for all your days. Thanks to all the bloggers who have supported me all along during this journey, particularly Maryse, Lisa, Milasy, the other Lisa, and so many more. There are so many who have shown me kindness that I find it overwhelming. Thank you so much.
Finally, thanks to my family, including my endlessly patient husband and children. Yes, Mommy is finally finished with her book, and yes, we can go see a movie tonight.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Thank you for choosing to read Silver Bastard, the first in my new Silver Valley series. The Silver Bastards Motorcycle Club was first featured in Reaper’s Property, and the Reapers MC plays a significant role in this particular story. Having said that, this book stands alone, so don’t worry if you haven’t read the Reapers series first.
Unlike the Reapers books, the Silver Valley series won’t be centered around motorcycle clubs, but a location. North Idaho’s Silver Valley is located just east of Coeur d’Alene. It’s a short drive from my home, and our family has been visiting the area for more than twenty years. It’s an area rich in history, culture, and true stories so crazy you couldn’t make them up if you tried. Miners, whores, con artists, and Wyatt Earp himself helped build the boomtowns that sprang up here when precious metals were discovered during the late 1800s. Those mines were so productive that the Silver Valley is among the top ten mining districts in world history, with total value of metals mined rising above $6 billion dollars.
Many of the major historical events and locations in the Silver Valley series are based in reality, although I’ve changed some names and shifted some dates. As always, I haven’t let reality stand in the way of the story I want to tell. Having said that, my motorcycle club friends have reviewed this book for accuracy.
CONTENTS
Praise for the Reapers Motorcycle Club Series
Berkley titles by Joanna Wylde
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Author’s Note
Prologue
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
Epilogue
Bonus Epilogue
Historical Note
PROLOGUE
CALIFORNIA
FIVE YEARS AGO
PUCK
Motherfucker that burned.
The shot was a double, and the fact that it’d come cradled between two beautiful, giant tits attached to a stripper with endle
ss legs and a tight ass didn’t hurt one goddamned bit. Tequila hit my stomach, the alcohol shocking my system, and shit finally got real.
Freedom.
Fourteen months since the last time I’d had a decent drink—all but forgotten what it felt like, too. That sweet, harsh pain that comes from losing the surface layer of skin all the way down your throat? Gorgeous. Never felt better in my life, and that’s a fact. Helped that the queen of body shots had sucked me off right after we’d pulled up to the party.
Spent the last year trying to decide what I’d do first when I finally got out. Kept going back and forth between getting laid and getting drunk, but God apparently has a soft spot for assholes because we’d found one hell of a good compromise.
I’d been free nearly four hours now. Still felt like a dream. The California Department of Corrections took its own sweet time with everything, up to and including processing a man out. I’d spent half the wait wondering if the cockwads would change their minds or if the club lawyer had forgotten something. Figured they’d find some way to fuck with my head.
FBI, state cops, even Homeland Security—they all wanted a piece of my club, the Silver Bastards MC, and not a week went by inside that they didn’t try to cut it out of my hide. Guess they figured a prospect made an easy target.
Not fucking likely.
My old man died for the Bastards. If I turned, he’d haunt my ass the rest of my life because that shit does not stand in my family. I’d been born to wear a Bastard cut. And tonight? For the first time I finally had the right to show those colors off.
A hand slapped my shoulder, then a burly man caught me up in a hug so tight it hurt. My fucking ribs creaked.
“That patch feel right on your back, brother?” asked Boonie. He was the president of the Silver Bastards in Callup, Idaho, and I’d heard him call me a hell of a lot of things—but never brother. Felt good. Damned good. Until an hour ago, I’d been a prospect and I’d never gotten any special treatment because of my old man. That’s how I wanted it.
“Best night of my life,” I admitted. He pulled back, and his face grew serious.
“Proud of you,” he said. “You did what you had to. Protected the club, took care of business. Painter told us how things were inside, how you took his back. You earned this, earned it with your life and your blood. I know you won’t shame this patch, Puck.”
“I won’t,” I replied, his words almost too much. Boonie grinned suddenly, then grabbed my arm and turned me toward the bar again.
“Drink up,” he told me. “Then find yourself some pretty little thing to play with, because tomorrow we’re ridin’ home. Your bike’s in good shape—took care of it for you.”
“Thanks.”
“Another shot, baby?” the stripper asked. She rolled onto her side, reaching out to catch my neck with her hand, pulling me in for a kiss. That brought me a little too close to her face. She was sweaty, and her mascara had started running. Didn’t smell that great, either.
“More shots,” I said, pulling away. I’d appreciated the blow job, no question. But she wasn’t exactly the fantasy I’d been jacking off to the last year and I’d promised myself I wouldn’t settle once I got out. I wanted someone fresh—someone clean and soft and sweet enough to eat. I’d play with her for a while before letting myself go, punching through all that softness until she screamed and begged for mercy.
Mouth, cunt, ass.
That’d been what got me through those long nights wondering why the fuck I’d let myself get caught.
Ignoring the bitch on the bar, I reached across and grabbed the bottle of tequila, chugging nearly a third of it down. Christ, there went the rest of my throat. Then I turned to look out across the room. Four of my new Silver Bastard brothers had come down from Callup—Boonie, Miner, Deep, and Demon. Joining them were four Reapers and two Reaper prospects. They were here to welcome Painter, who’d gone down with me on a weapons charge. This sucked, but such is life. We’d been fighting for our clubs, so no regrets there. Through a combination of luck and well-placed payoffs, we’d managed to stick together for the duration of our time served. The clubs provided the funds and the attorneys—to protect them, we matched that investment with our silence.
Painter caught my eye from across the room, grinning. After so much time together I could almost read his thoughts. I gave him a nod, one of those chin jerks that speaks volumes.
Congrats to you, too, asshole.
“You havin’ fun?” a man asked. I looked down to find a painfully skinny, greasy little man missing half his teeth standing next to me. Tweaker called Teeny. His face was just a little too eager, his eyes a little too bright. Unfortunately, Teeny was our host for the night so I had to be nice to him. We were out in the middle of nowhere, tucked back in a canyon where this douche had somehow acquired a house. The Longnecks MC—one of our “allies,” although their loyalty was questionable—had a warehouse set up in a shop right next to this guy’s house.
This Teeny asshole wasn’t even part of the club . . . apparently his brother Bax was patched in, though, so they used him as a pit stop. Something didn’t quite add up about the situation, but fuck if I cared. In the morning I’d be riding for home. With luck my future association with the state of California in general and Teeny in particular would be extremely limited.
“See anything you like?” he asked. “That’s my old lady, there. You want her? She’s real good, welcome you home right.”
I shrugged, glancing over toward his woman. She was probably in her midthirties, I decided. Pretty enough, but she had a hard, tired look around her eyes that didn’t appeal. Not only that, she was wiry and skinny as fuck. Probably smoking meth to block out the fact that she had to live with this dickwad.
“No, she’s great but not my type,” I said, casually taking another drink of tequila. Wasn’t burning so much now, which in retrospect should’ve been a sign to slow down. Maybe things would’ve turned out different.
Shitty thing about time—only runs the one direction.
“What’s your type?” he asked. I shrugged. The day I needed some tweaker to find me pussy, I’d cut off my own cock and get it over with. Swallowing another drink, I glanced across the room, pointedly ignoring him.
That’s when I saw her.
Now, I fuckin’ hate clichés, and shit like this only happens in movies . . . but I swear to fuck, I think I fell for her in that instant. She was small, with long brown hair in one of those knot things on top of her head. Not dressed to show off her figure, either. I could still see she had a tiny waist, though, along with generous tits and the kind of round, healthy curves you just know will cradle your hips perfectly when you’re pounding her.
I had to have her.
Like, needed her. Now.
“Good call,” Teeny said. I ignored him, focusing on the angel I had every intention of owning just as soon as I talked her out of her pants. God, she was pretty. Kind of out of place, too. Not flirting with anyone, and not a ton of makeup. Just wandering around, picking up empties, and avoiding conversation. Fascinating.
“I’ll introduce you.”
Teeny walked across the room toward my Dream Fuck. I started after him, because I didn’t want the asshole speaking on my behalf. Then Boonie caught my arm.
“Heads-up,” he said, his voice pitched low, difficult to hear through the noise of the party. “We think somethin’s going on with that guy. Don’t be afraid to talk him up, okay? Can always use good information.”
I nodded, wondering why the fuck Teeny had to pick me to buddy up with. Tonight was for relaxing, enjoying myself. Just looking at him made me feel dirty, and considering some of the shit I’ve pulled in my life, that’s an accomplishment. Another hand slapped my back, then Painter caught me by the neck, squeezing me as he laughed.
“Never ends,” he said. “Boonie cock-blocking you?”
I punched him in the gut—not hard. Just enough to make him back off.
“No, right now you have tha
t honor,” I muttered, glaring at him. “Christ, we just spent a year together in a fuckin’ cell. Think we’ve covered everything, so let me get laid? Please?”
He answered by punching me back, and I reeled . . . damn, hadn’t realized how drunk I’d gotten. Still, I wasn’t about to go down easy. I swayed, watching him as our brothers started crowding around us. The wild gleam in his eyes—a mixture of almost manic happiness and pent-up energy—matched my own.
“Take it outside,” Boonie said. “I got fifty on Puck.”
“Hundred on Painter,” Picnic Hayes, the Reapers’ president, answered and then we were bundled outside for the fight.
I couldn’t wait.
We’d sparred before, of course. Nothing but time to kill in the pen, so I knew Painter’s moves like they were my own—and he knew mine, too. We were a good match, could go either way. Neither of us had much in the way of formal training but we’d both picked up a fair amount along the way. Hell, I’d gotten caught in my first bar fight when I was fourteen years old, seeing as my pop wasn’t exactly Father of the Year material. Still loved the old bastard, though.
The sun was fading as we stepped outside, painting the sky in pinks and oranges shot through with smudged clouds. I paused a moment, struck by the incredible beauty all around me, and smiled, breathing deep. So fucking good to be outside again. Nobody knows what it’s like, trapped in a cell like an animal. Nobody but the guys who’ve heard the sound of those gates closing behind them.
Fortunately for me, I wasn’t exactly the first Silver Bastard to do time for the club, which meant my brothers got me. They knew what this was like.
“Okay, we got a circle here,” Pic was saying. I blinked, starting to process the fact that maybe boxing with Painter while I was drunk might not be such a hot idea. Of course, he was drunk, too, and the booze would numb the pain . . . “Fight goes until one of you is down or taps out. Time to make your bets, brothers.”
Boonie caught my arm, pulling me to the side and looking into my face.
“You ready?” he asked. I nodded sharply, because drunk or not, I wasn’t going to pussy out in front of my president on the same day I got my colors. I glanced across the dusty circle to see Painter, who gave me a friendly sneer. Laughing, I flipped him off, then shook my arms out, loosening up.