GRIFFIN: Lost Disciples MC

by Paula Cox

  This is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places, events, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.

  GRIFFIN: Lost Disciples MC copyright @ 2017 by Paula Cox and E-Book Publishing World Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embedded in critical articles or reviews.

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  GRIFFIN: Lost Disciples MC

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Epilogue: One Year Later

  DAX: A Bad Boy Romance

  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

  More Books by Paula Cox

  GRIFFIN: Lost Disciples MC

  By Paula Cox

  There’s only one rule: Obey.

  I should’ve kept my eyes to myself.

  But I couldn’t stop looking.

  That was before I realized the consequences:

  Once I have a taste of Griffin’s world, I can never go back.

  It was innocent at first.

  But I’ll never forget how he stared back at me.

  How his eyes undressed me.

  His words seduced me.

  Every touch made me hungry for the next.

  I begged for his kiss, pleaded for his touch.

  Here, there, now, whenever – all I knew was that I had to have him.

  I should’ve never fallen for him.

  But I did – right to my knees.

  I’m scared.

  Not just because the tatted biker owns me now.

  Not just because he demands I submit to him completely.

  I’m scared that, when he demands obedience, I won’t be able to say no.

  Because Griffin always gets what he wants.

  Prologue

  The lazy afternoon sun streamed in through the window of the bedroom, catching the dust in the air and lighting it up like sparks or flecks of gold. The golden light played across the bedroom, falling on the faces of old collectible dolls, of dusty books that hadn’t been read in years. It pooled around the old records and discarded clothing. In spite of the mess of the room, the sunshine made a beautiful sight, but the two people on the bed weren’t paying any sort of attention.

  Griffin kissed down the stomach of the girl—whose name he had already forgotten. She moaned appreciatively as his tongue hit home, lapping at her until she grabbed fistfuls of his dark hair and attempted to bring him up to face her.

  She was hot in that biker chick sort of way, with bone-straight, dark hair that was clearly dyed, and sleepy, unimpressed eyes. Tattoos were scrawled over her body; she looked like a sexy coloring book. Griffin didn’t care, honestly, it all worked for him.

  The girl looked up at him once they were facing each other again, her lips moist and parted, her skin flushed with want and desire.

  “Just fuck me already,” she demanded.

  Griffin reached behind her head and grabbed a handful of her silky hair. With a forceful hand, he pulled, snapping her head back. He leaned over and growled in her ear, “I’ll fuck you when I want to fuck you.”

  The girl squirmed with pleasure as he moved downwards once again, staring at the ceiling until Griffin hit his mark, and then she was panting, writhing on the bed, as though she couldn’t take it anymore. She gasped as she came, and he pressed himself harder between her legs, licking up every drop before pulling back and unbuttoning his pants.

  The girl was still riding the wave of the terrific orgasm, as he slowly made his way back up her body, sliding the condom on and positioning himself between her legs. She looked up at him with those heavily lidded eyes, full of impatience to the point where Griffin considered denying her once again, but there was no point in wasting time. He buried himself inside of her, listening to her squeals of pleasure as he began to move his hips. It felt good, because it always felt good.

  They moved together in the golden light of the afternoon, fucking during that strange and lovely time of day—before the sun started to slouch off towards sundown.

  When Griffin put his mind to it, he could last a long time, thus giving him a bit of a reputation with the girls around town. It was a point of pride to him, but this encounter wasn’t something he planned on lingering over. He drove into her with a frenzy, clenching his teeth and gripping her hips in an effort to go harder and deeper, as she moaned and thrashed in appreciation.

  She hooked her ankles around his waist, allowing him to go deeper. She seemed to enjoy it, but then again they always did. He pulled back for a moment before withdrawing completely and grabbing ahold of her ankle. She looked at him quizzically until her expression burst with understanding as he flipped her over onto her stomach. Guiding himself in again, he worked at her from behind, as she moaned and convulsed into the pillow.

  After he felt her climax around him, he flipped her over again and went hard, feeling it edging up for him, knowing that it was coming.

  “Do you want it?” he growled.

  “Yes,” she replied, her voice muffled.

  Finally, with a grunt, he came, grabbing fistfuls of the quaint little quilt that she had spread out on her bed. The pleasure of it all made his mind go pleasantly blank, and he gave himself a moment to collect his thoughts before feeling the tentative creeping of her fingers as they traced up his back, the trap of her arms wrapping around him. With a sudden movement, he pushed himself away, rolling next to her on the bed. It was important, in times like these, to maintain a distance.

  Her cool eyes turned to him, trying to remain unimpressed, but he could see the poison of tenderness dawning in her eyes. Wasn’t that always what happened? A chick simply didn’t know how to detach. After catching his breath for a moment, he moved from the bed to gather his clothes. The girl stretched like a cat who had been fed f
ar too much cream, smiling at him appreciatively as she watched him bend over to retrieve his shirt.

  “You sure know what you’re doing, huh?” she asked, drawling out her vowels in that lazy Texas accent.

  “Always,” he replied with a disconnected air. Now that his need had been met, his mind had turned to far more serious tasks at hand.

  The girl rolled onto her stomach, levelling him with a gaze that clearly said that she wanted something from him. “So do I.”

  Her words were weighed with such smug self-importance that it gave Griffin pause. He looked over at her. His face was full—not with disdain—but with an exasperation that ran deep. He felt as though this sort of thing happened all too often, so it was best to nip it in the bud completely.

  He assessed her blandly before shrugging on his tight, black shirt. The muscles underneath the tattoos on his forearms rippled, and he knew that she was watching. She was hot enough, all lean curves and cat-like grace, and her tongue was quick and clever, as well. Unfortunately, she also was the same as every other biker chick he had ever met.

  “So, what do you think,” Griffin began. “That you’re going to be the bad girl who turns the bad guys good?”

  She faltered for a moment, her eyes narrowing in hurt, or was she just shocked that he had called her out so completely?

  “Now listen…uh…,” he paused, realizing too late that he didn’t even know her name.

  She realized this as well, and Griffin could feel the frostiness radiating from her side of the room.

  “It’s Desiree,” she said, clearly displeased. He tried not to laugh at that—although it was more from relief than anything else.

  “Right, Desiree. Well, Desiree, since we run in similar circles, I’m sure you’ve heard about me.”

  The corner of Desiree’s mouth twitched in an unwillingness to acknowledge it, given the fact that he had no idea who she even was. Finally, a little bit of her gave up, and she nodded.

  He smiled insincerely and continued, “Then you know I have a reputation. I’m a good lay but not good for much else when it comes to girls like you.”

  “What if I’m not the girl you think I am?” she asked, a challenge in her eyes.

  “You are…trust me.”

  He sat on the bed, as he laced up his boots. Desiree slithered up behind him and traced her fingertips down the fine, strong lines of his back. He sighed, as though in annoyance under her touch, but continued to lace his boots up anyway.

  “Sure, I know about Griffin, the big bad vice president who loves to love them and leave them…but don’t you get tired?”

  Whether or not he was, he had no plans of telling some chick he had picked up at the bar whether he was tired of the game—besides he wasn’t. He brushed her off and stood, reaching for his leather jacket and hanging it over one shoulder.

  “Listen, you’re a decent lay. Good for you. So if you want round two, I might be up for it. But if you’re just going to try to spring this on me again, then pick someone else up from the Bootheel, because I don’t want to have this conversation again.”

  He ignored the hurt look on her face, as he grabbed the keys to his bike. He could still feel her eyes on him as he walked out, accusing and hurt, feeling every feeling he warned her that she would feel in a situation such as this. As he made his way into the living room, he heard her curse under her breath and move. As he got to the door, he heard a noise in the living room and stopped.

  She was standing in the doorway of her bedroom wrapped in a silky bathrobe. Her hair was still messy, her eye makeup smudged, and for a moment, he could feel himself getting a little hard again. It was no use. Of course, he didn’t have time for it, and she was also far too clingy for it. She cocked her hip in the doorway and put a hand on it, assuming the universal pose of a woman exasperated with a man.

  “So where are you going now?” she asked, still trying to maintain the connection, still attempting to make him stay.

  Griffin took another deep, annoyed breath before turning and opening the door. He didn’t stop and linger one more time; he didn’t do any of that. Instead, he merely tossed his parting words over his shoulder as he left: “To plan a funeral.”

  Chapter 1

  “We’re going to have to do something. You know that, right? There has to be some sort of retaliation.” Griffin slammed down an empty glass that once contained whiskey. It burned in his stomach, which felt pretty good to him. It fueled the anger that had been burning inside of him since he first heard the news about Emanuel.

  He was seated in a rather neglected kitchen, completely clean but not used very often. The occasional empty can of beer lay on the yellow tiles of the countertop. The kitchen table was clearly an old wood one, but still comfortable. A faded yellow tablecloth that must have been some sort of plaid at one point covered the scarred wood of the table. It was homey, a lot homier than Griffin’s apartment, but that wasn’t saying much.

  The owner of the kitchen was quiet for a while, clearly unsure about saying anything. Finally, after a moment, he said, “I’m not so sure about that, Griffin.”

  “What are you talking about? They’re clearly provoking us!”

  Brazos was a town in West Texas, perched on the edge of a desert. Growing up there, Griffin had been convinced that this place had been like the wild and exciting days where cowboys and outlaws roamed the lawless desert. It made what turned out to be a rather isolated and strange childhood seem almost magical, or at least adventurous.

  As he grew, he began to realize that his original assessment was true, and nothing compounded that more than when he joined the Lost Disciples.

  He started out in the lower ranks of the Lost Disciples’ Mesa charter. He was just a kid, barely eighteen, but what he found there was far more adventuresome than any Western film he had ever seen.

  The Disciples trafficked guns and narcotics across the border into Mexico, something that probably should have carried moral objections if Griffin didn’t figure that they would have gone over anyway. Starting small, he usually served as a lookout during these transactions, but once he started to work out and build muscles, he began working as more than a simple lookout boy. It wasn’t too much longer after that that he started doing some runs himself, and it was all thanks to Emanuel, who had seen something in the young upstart that no one else had.

  For a long time, Griffin thought he was just going to be some drifting loner with no real direction—until Emanuel brought him into the fold and taught him how to be a man. He had been a father to Griffin; they had forged a family…until Emanuel had gone and gotten himself killed.

  Now Griffin sat in the kitchen of the newly minted president of the Disciples—Damon Stokes—making plans to bury the best man Griffin had ever known.

  And Damon was being a goddamned coward.

  Emanuel had been—without a doubt—one of the best leaders that anyone could ask for. He was fair, no nonsense, brave, and a genius—if Griffin had anything to say about it. He kept watching the back door to see if Emanuel would show up, wearing the same bandanna he always wore and his beloved denim vest with all the patches. Griffin half expected him to walk right in, pour himself a shot, and make fun of them all for buying into such a terrible joke. Emanuel had been the glue that held the Lost Disciples together.

  And now he was dead.

  “That’s exactly what the Los Diablos want,” Damon replied, with the serious and straight-forward voice of a tax attorney.

  Damon Stokes had stepped up as the new president immediately after hearing the news in order to keep the motorcycle club going. This was something that Griffin had grudgingly respected, especially because he hadn’t had the guts to stand up himself.

  Damon was younger than Emanuel had been, closer to thirty-five than fifty, and he kept his reddish-brown hair cut close to his skull and was clean shaven. He didn’t look like the president of any other motorcycle club that Griffin had seen, the others with their long ponytails and beards. This, of cours
e, wasn’t any sort of indication about Damon’ leadership skills; it wasn’t as though Griffin looked much like the others did either.

  The new president wasn’t bad, but he hadn’t fully earned Griffin’s trust yet.

  “We should give it to them,” Griffin snarled.

  “I think we should focus on the funeral first, okay, Griffin?” Damon answered.

  Griffin wasn’t too thrilled by the tone, but he calmed the hackles in his heart for long enough to agree. There wasn’t any point in fighting right now when Emanuel was on a slab in the morgue.

  They turned back to the funeral arrangements, something that both of them had wanted to do out of respect for their former friend and boss. This wasn’t the first funeral either of them had planned, even when business was good it was still dangerous. Yet, this one carried so much more weight. When Griffin would usually opt for a standard coffin and a respectful service, followed by a wild night of drinking in respect for the dead at the Bootheel, he found himself faltering this time. Nothing seemed to be enough.

  He lingered over wood finishes and satin lining, knowing that bikers from each of the charters—Mesa, Marfa, Goliad, and Vallejo would be attending. Griffin wouldn’t be surprised if some members from other, friendlier gangs would show up, too.