Hard Core (Hard As Nails Book 3)

by Hope Conrad

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Description

  More from Hope Conrad

  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

  Epilogue

  Coming next in the Hard As Nails Series

  About the Author

  Copyright

  HARD CORE

  Hard As Nails, Book Three

  by

  Hope Conrad

  DESCRIPTION

  Built, tempting, and deadly.

  Axel Jackson is an ex-marine, haunted by what he’s done, but when he sees her, he dreams of the man he can become…

  When Axel returns home, he’s shrouded in darkness, unable to forget the blood that stains his hands or the screams that haunt his dreams. When a dark force from his past offers him a job, he wonders if taking it will be his salvation or his downfall.

  Then he meets Alyssa, a waitress working at a strip club, and he steps in just in time to save her. She’s beautiful, with her dark hair and darker eyes, with a body made for sin. He has to protect her, but he can’t love her.

  She’s too good for him. Too innocent, too pure.

  He knows he should let her go so she can find a better man.

  But all he wants is to claim her, body and soul.

  CONTACT HOPE HERE

  Website: www.hopeconrad.com

  Twitter: @hopeconradbooks

  Email: hope@hopeconrad.com

  Facebook Fan Page: www.facebook.com/Hope-Conrad-204768223233946

  MORE FROM HOPE CONRAD

  Hard As Nails Series:

  Hard Time (Book 1)

  Hard Case (Book 2)

  Hard Core (Book 3)

  Hard Place (Book 4)

  Hard Act (Book 5)

  Chapter One

  Axel

  There’s nothing like a midnight ride to rid my mind of the images that haunt me. There’s nothing like the blur of city lights to make me feel like I’m headed somewhere rather than going nowhere.

  For over a decade, I’ve counted on my bike to ground me, and she’s never let me down. Even now, discharged from the Marines and stripped of any sense of direction or stability, my head is clear. My heart, if not light, is far less burdened.

  I know that will change as soon as I’m standing on solid ground. But for now, I relish the rush that comes with feeling unfettered and free.

  My sole headlight shines against the blacktop, the revving machine between my legs roaring with excitement that we’ve found our way home. Finally, I slow to a crawl as the tires beneath me crush against a gravel parking lot.

  My eyes pass over Nailed Garage. Still the same after all these years, but empty and abandoned in the deep hours of the night. Far removed from the towering skyscrapers of the city, the building is cloaked in a haunting white moonlight. In the distance, I swear I can hear the howling of a wolf, but I know I’m not that insane.

  Still, I hear cries in the memories that suddenly envelope me.

  I remember the exact day my friends and I bought this garage and made it our own. We were brothers, born from different bloodlines, but bonded together in ways that not many people ever are.

  I remember the day I bought my first house. It was only because of the brotherhood, and our tireless efforts, that I was able to finance my own little slice of heaven.

  A slice of heaven that never quite lived up to its potential before I joined the Marines.

  In the military, I found my purpose. It was never easy, but I did my job with pride, and I did it the best I could, and then it was all over in the blink of an eye.

  Now I’m back, and even though part of me dreads seeing firsthand just how much things have changed, I can’t help but feel hopeful. My friend, Street, is out of prison and back in the relative safety of our brotherhood. Even though he’d been pissed to learn what Slate, Jericho, and Davis had done to ensure his early release, word is he’s found himself a good woman. That right there is a damn good example of a fresh start, and I’m hoping to get my own.

  I steady one foot against the gravel and prepare myself for takeoff, glance at the garage for a moment longer, and then move on. Disappearing into the thick of the night, heading to a house that for all my dreams and expectations has never really felt like a home.

  * * *

  Nobody would expect a guy like me to own property in a neighborhood such as West Hallifax. It’s not the wealthiest area in this damned city, but it’s certainly no slum.

  I pass familiar houses, which look the same as the last time I saw them three years ago. The same neutral paint colors, and the same perfectly landscaped front yards. It’s a private Utopia on the outskirts of a sprawling city, at least that’s how I feel until I turn the corner and spot the fancy black car in my driveway—a fucking Benz.

  Instantly, I know it’s King. I want to turn my bike around and haul ass. I want to run, just like I always want to do when confronted by my past. But I can’t. I won’t. Mostly because it won’t do any good. But also because it’s what a sane person would do—run—and I’m not sane. Not anymore. After seeing the shit I’ve seen, sanity is like caviar. It’s expensive as hell, and I have too many bills to pay to afford therapy. I pull my bike to the curb and shut off the engine, then stride up to the car.

  My heart thumps in my chest as a car door opens. A pair of well-shined shoes land against the asphalt, and then King rises to his feet, straightening out the lines in his black suit. It’s well past midnight, but he’s wearing dark shades.

  “Axel,” he says with syrupy enthusiasm. “I heard you were back in town.”

  “Did you?” I push my tongue against my cheek, annoyed and angry that he’s the first person I see upon returning home. “And I care why?”

  He cracks a knowing, familiar wide grin. “Now, now. Is that any way to greet…” he removes his shades, “the King?”

  “Still calling yourself that?”

  “It’s my name, after all.”

  “No.” I shake my head. “Your name is Harvey Prince.”

  He waves off my disdain with a polite smile. “To you boys, I’ve always been King and I always will be.”

  “Fine. What the hell are you doing here, King?”

  His pleasant expression slips a little. He snaps his fingers, and the three other doors of his fancy Benz are thrown open. Out come three men, tall and muscular. They close in until I’m surrounded.

  When I laugh, King frowns.

  “Really?” I question and point to the nearest of the Three Stooges. “You need backup to talk to me now? You’re getting soft in your old age, King.”

  His expression contorts and his fists clench, but when one of his men moves forward, he shakes his head, freezing the guy in his tracks. King bows his head and chuckles. “I had hoped the Marines would curb your authority issues, but obviously not. Now that you’re back, I need you for a job.”

  I squint, as if the guy’s gone mad, and truthfully, he must be off his fucking rocker to think I’ll ever work for
him again. I’m not a thirteen-year-old orphan reeling from everything I’d lost anymore. “I’m working at the garage. And I may be back, but I’m living my life the way I have for the past ten years—out of your grip.”

  He leans in close. “Perhaps you haven’t heard what I did for Street.”

  “Oh, I heard. And I heard you roped Slate, Davis, and Jericho back into your world of bullshit, but you obviously know I wasn’t involved in the deal.”

  “True. Doesn’t mean you’ve escaped my ‘grip’ as you call it. Because you know as well as I do whatever your friends are involved in naturally extends to you. And that will always be your choice, Axel. No one else’s.”

  I clench my jaw because he’s right. King’s power over me has always been a result of his power over the five of us—Street, Slate, Jericho, Davis, and me. I understand why the others indebted themselves to King again to get Street out of prison. The thought of my friend serving any time, let alone his original ten-year sentence, makes me nauseous. Still, we’d spent so much of our lives trying to escape King’s grasp, and if I had been here, I would have tried to find another way. As Jericho’s told me a million times, though, there was no other way.

  “Just say what you need to say and then leave.”

  “I need an enforcer at one of my clubs. The customers and maybe even the staff at Sugar Bare don’t seem to be getting the message that the girls are to be treated with care. I know how you, in particular, are sensitive to such an issue.”

  “Fuck you,” I snap.

  He doesn’t take to that too kindly, gently shaking his head with contempt. He doesn’t even have to say anything to his henchmen, they know their jobs.

  But they obviously don’t know me.

  The one to my right raises his arm to grab me, and within seconds, I have him on the ground grunting from pain as I twist his arm behind his back and brace my foot on his neck.

  “No,” King snaps to hold off his other men. Then he sighs. “Sorry about that, Axel. Sometimes my men—these men, anyway—are a little too eager to serve me. Let him up.”

  Say please: it’s on the tip of my tongue. But I’ve been gone three years. I have no idea how far King is willing to go to establish his authority over me again. I have a gun in the bag strapped to my bike, but I’m not carrying, and I have no idea whether King or his men are. With a final yank, I let King’s man go.

  King’s man slowly gets to his feet.

  “It’s of course up to you,” King says. “If you have no interest in helping the girls at Sugar Bare, then perhaps I’ve been worrying about nothing. If you change your mind, just show up. The manager, Walt, will know who you are.” He pushes his shades back over his eyes. And then he crawls back into his expensive car, his goons in tow, not taking their eyes off me until they’re safe behind tinted windows.

  I watch the four of them pull away. As soon as they’re gone, I’m reminded how satisfying silence can truly be, yet peace continues to elude me. It has my whole life. King knows that, and he knows why, and he knows I’ll stop by his damn club, if only to check things out.

  Ever since I left Thornbridge, I’ve told myself the only power I’ll ever give King over me again is power I’m willing to surrender. He’s sucked me in once again. We both know why he came to me for this particular assignment. I’m the best possible man for the job because I care how women in general, and women who work the pole specifically, are treated. I probably care too much. It’s my Achilles’ heel.

  It’s the reason no matter how many miles I ride on my bike, I’ll never be truly free.

  My past won’t let me go. I’ll carry its burden on my back for the rest of my damn life.

  And that’s exactly what I deserve.

  Chapter Two

  Alyssa

  The bass thumps off the walls. It’s deafening, but in the time I’ve been working at Sugar Bare, I’ve adjusted to it. A tray lies flat against my palm as I make my way down a pair of neon-lit steps, and into a cluster of tables surrounding the ‘T’ shaped stage.

  The silver tray is full with Jack and Cokes. For whatever reason, that seems to be the go-to drink in shady joints such as the one I find myself employed in.

  I carry the tray to the table nearest the entrance, parked in front of the left wing of the ‘T’.

  “Good evening, gentlemen,” I scream over the blaring music. “These are a treat from the management,” I say as I place the drinks, one in front of each of the nine middle-aged men in pressed suits. I spin the tray and park it under the pit of my arm. “I will be serving you tonight, just let me know if there’s anything I can do for you.”

  “Will do, sweetheart,” the man sitting next to me says as he raises his glass to cheer his friends or coworkers.

  I turn and head back to the bar. Making my way through the dense Saturday evening crowd, I glance at the stage that’s painted in a red glow. At each point of the ‘T’ are women dancing their way to freedom one song at a time. They’re acrobatic magicians, putting on a show that leaves the audience captivated and wanting more.

  I’ve been working here two months. Like me, most of the girls, strippers and waitresses alike, are trying to make fast money in the hopes of moving on to bigger and better things. Two are fellow actresses. One is saving for medical school. Several just enjoy the feeling of power that dancing on a pole gives them. Most of them have kids with deadbeat fathers who are behind on child support. We’ve all lost something, or stand to lose something. It doesn’t matter which. For the moment, we’re stuck in this place for better or worse.

  Smack! A hand slaps against my ass. I flinch, the tray almost fumbling from my grasp. I purse my lips and prepare myself before craning my head to look at my assailant with a fake smile plastered across my face.

  “Mr. Goodwin.” I twist to face him fully. “What are the rules?”

  He bites his lip, trying to look seductive and charming, but succeeding only in looking creepier than normal. With any luck, he’ll be blackout drunk soon. If he doesn’t try to instigate a fight before the night is over, it will be a miracle.

  “Maybe you’ll be up on that stage someday,” he suggests. “I’d love to see you put on a show.”

  I look around, but see no sign of Rhett or Hector, the two bouncers on duty. I’m not surprised. They often disappear with Walt, the manager; the joke is that they’re having illicit three-ways in Walt’s office. Regardless, we’ve all learned to look out for ourselves and each other. Girl power has never been a more necessary than it is in here.

  Inside I’m seething, but I keep a smile on my face. I tell myself this job is doing wonders for my acting skills. “We’ll see, Mr. Goodwin,” I say dryly, and the smile slips from my face as I turn away and sigh.

  Little does Mr. Goodwin know I plan on getting on that stage soon. Not because it’s what I want—hell, my current uniform of tight shorts and a snug, well-fitted top is showing too much skin for my own personal comfort—but because it’s what I need. When Mr. Prince, the owner of the club, hired me, he’d told me I could waitress for a couple of months while I got the lay of the land, so to speak. Since I’d told him about my dad, he’d even said he’d pay me a stripper’s salary while I waitressed, but that he wanted me to take some lessons from a friend of his, and then start stripping on stage soon thereafter.

  How could I say no?

  Before my dad got sick, I was just another actress dreaming of hitting the big time. Now I’m here for reasons much more important than pursuing my dream career.

  I’m here to save the only man who’s always been there for me. And I’m not going to let a butt-slapping Mr. Goodwin or my preference for wearing clothes over stripping for a bunch of horny toads stop me from making sure my dad gets his treatments.

  Mr. Prince will be contacting me soon to get me in touch with his “friend,” the one who’s going to teach me all I need to know about working a pole. And I’m just going to have accept my fate.

  I reach into the pocket of my apron and retrie
ve my cell phone to check the time. A relieved smile hitches across my face because I’m due fifteen minutes away from all this noise, chaos, and debauchery.

  I make my way down a narrow hall, where girls in skimpy clothing line each side, mentally preparing themselves to cross the threshold from privacy into exhibitionism. I push through the thick, green, metal outer door and inhale a sharp breath of the cool autumn breeze, but with the night air, I also inhale the last remnants of cigarette smoke as Becky twists her heel against a cigarette lying on the asphalt.

  I’d started smoking when I was sixteen, but after my father was diagnosed with cancer three years ago, I’d quit. Sometimes, I want to take a hit so badly, and working at the club has made it even harder to abstain. Sometimes, I think a cigarette might be the one thing capable of calming my nerves when I’m most frayed. Sometimes, I think one quick hit of nicotine could pull me back from the brink when I feel like I’m going to lose my mind.

  But I refuse to let my cravings rule me. Cigarettes are not important. My father is. He’s the reason I breathe in an increasingly claustrophobic world, and because I want to be around for him, and because I don’t want to someday end up in the same predicament as him, I shake my head when Becky offers me a cigarette from her open pack.

  “No, thanks.”

  “No problem, Ally Cat. See you inside.”

  She heads back into the club, but no sooner is she gone than the door opens again. It’s only with quick reflexes leftover from my high school volleyball days that I’m able to avert the blow of the metal door against my back.

  “Shit,” Marley crows as she digs into her pocket for a lighter to light the cigarette dangling from cherry lips. In the past two months, she and I have gotten tight, mostly because my first day here I’d felt like a fish out of water, and when some guys had cornered me by the restrooms, Marley had stepped in and made them back off with nothing but her sharp tongue and her observation that only guys with needle dicks would back a woman into a corner. I reach across the thin space between us and offer her a light from the lighter I carry around in my apron, and she graciously accepts. “Thank you so much, babe.”