Table of Contents
Fighter’s Claim
Copyright
Dedication
Playlist
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Epilogue
About the Author
Table of Contents
Fighter’s Claim
Fighter’s Claim
Copyright
Dedication
Playlist
Fighter’s Claim
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Epilogue
About the Author
Fighter’s Claim
Fighter’s Claim
Copyright
Fighter’s Claim
Copyright © 2017 D.D. Galvani
Amazon Edition
This book is an original publication by D.D. Galvani
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 locals is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not assume any responsibility for third-party websites or the content.
Cover Design: Renegade Covers & Design
Cover Images: Randy Swell
Cover model: Lance Jones
All Rights Reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic format with our permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
Dedication
To every reader everywhere!
This dedication was harder for me to write than the book itself. I have had so much help along the way. Here’s to the whole indie community for lending a helping hand to a newbie author. From photographers, models, editors, authors, PAs, bloggers, readers, to everyone in between:
Thank You!
To: Jill Radford and Sonya Covert: You ladies have cheered me on, listened to me moan, helped me with critiques and teasers, or whatever I needed. You’ve been the best partners a person can have. I love your faces!
To: The Kinky Crew: Colbie, Booshae, Randy, Michelle, and Tammie: You guys make my day with your comments and your never ending support! Much love to all you.
To: Barb, Kelly W, Kelly G and Kristen: You guys came through for me in a big big way! I couldn’t have done this without your amazing support and input. Thank you so much. I owe you big time. I will never forget your generous spirit and love.
To: Chelsea, Teri, Geri, Andrea, Freya, Mari and RB: You ladies rock! Everyone of you have been an inspiration to me. You’ve given me the guts to put this book out there and have helped me shape it into the best it could be. For that I am forever grateful!
To Natalie: OMG where do I start with you?? You jumped right in and gave me every chance to make this book a success. I was so lost and you made it so easy, and didn’t ask for a thing in return. I love you to the moon and back!
To Norma: What can I say? Your books have given me many hours of joy and relaxation. You were so happy for me, always with a word of encouragement. I will always be a fan, and am blessed to be a friend.
Last but not least, to my family: I love you all for your selfless help and support while I went through this process.
To Joe: For all the hours spent in front of the TV alone while I wrote, rewrote, edited, etc. All my love, babe.
To Joey: For telling all your friends about your mom’s smutty book and being the best promotion man I could want.
To Lisa and Adrianna: For giving me joy and laughter when I needed it most.
To Mom and Dad: Love that you let me follow my dreams and always cheered me on!
To everyone I might have missed: Thank you isn’t enough, but it will have to do!
Enjoy the ride!
Playlist
I couldn’t have written this book without music, so here’s my playlist:
The Fighter - Keith Urban Ft. Carrie Underwood
When it Rains it Pours - Luke Combs
In case you didn’t Know - Brett Young
I Used to Love You Sober - Kane Brown
Hurricane - Luke Combs
God, Your Mama, and Me - FGL Ft. Backstreet Boys
The Weekend - Brantley Gilbert
Body Like a Back Road - Sam Hunt
Dirt on my Boots - Jon Pardi
Die a Happy Man - Thomas Rhett
No Such Thing as a Broken Heart - Old Dominion
I like the sound of That - Rascal Flatts
Strip it Down - Luke Bryan
Better Man - Little Big Town
If I told you - Darius Rucker
Life Changes - Thomas Rhett
Tin Man - Miranda Lambert
Sleep Without You - Brett Young
I’m Coming Over - Chris Young
Head Over Boots - Jon Pardi
Getting You Home - Chris Young
My Kind of Crazy - Brantley Gilbert
Middle of a Memory - Cole Swindell
Break Upon a Small Town - Sam Hunt
Cop Car - Keith Urban
Fighter’s Claim
Prologue
We had been driving for hours. I didn’t know much about our destination, only that driving up to an MC clubhouse was taboo for girls like us. I was tired, hungry, and hurting, but with my busted lip, eating wasn’t an option. Jiji had already taken her turn at the wheel. I could smell the fast food she hadn’t devoured; it turned my stomach. The only thing I could think about was getting us as far away as possible from the nightmare we had just escaped from. Nothing else mattered; not the pain, the blood, or the hunger.
I hugged my broken arm to my side; it throbbed in time to my fingers tapping on my thigh, so I drove with one hand, gripping the steering wheel tightly. My hair hung down my back in a bloody sodden mess, and I could feel the side of my face swelling, my eye almost totally shut. My lip hurt; a metallic taste lingered on my tongue from the blood inside my mouth. I didn’t think I had any broken ribs; although they hurt, breathing was becoming a
n issue. The cuts on my legs, along with the marks across my back and buttocks, stung, but those I could live with. If anything, the sting kept me awake, helping me focus.
Looking in the rearview mirror at the girl huddled under the blanket made the decision easier; I loved that girl. Jiji was my best friend, and I would do anything to protect her. She had been hysterical earlier when we talked, insisting we go to her brother Jameson. I was worried she had a serious head injury. She had been sleeping ever since we traded places at the wheel.
Was taking her to Jameson the right move? Could we just show up, then expect him to take her, take me? Would he care about us, help keep us safe ‘til we could figure out what to do? I didn’t know, but we had to find out. It had been a long, long time since I last saw him, although Jiji kept me updated on his life. Today she had been adamant we had to get to him; he would be our anchor, give us a safe harbor to not be afraid and stop us from jumping at every shadow.
We had little cash, a full tank, and, hopefully within a couple of hours, a place to be safe while we both healed and figured out what the hell we were going to do. With that thought in mind, I put my foot to the floor, pushing my little Chevy as fast as I dared.
One
I rolled over, pushing the woman tangled in my sheets out of the way ‘til I could sit up and reach for my smokes. She sighed, turning her face on the pillow and trying to get back to sleep. I whipped off the sheet, smacking her naked ass. “Cristal, get gone.”
She turned to me with a frown, rubbing her stinging ass cheek. “You don’t want me to stay, Fighter?”
“Not tonight, I got some things to do early.”
She reluctantly got up from the bed, searching for her shorts and tank top before pulling them on. She tried to entice me with an ass-swaying walk to the door, peeking over her shoulder to see if I’d changed my mind. I squinted at her through the smoke, but didn’t say a word. Disappointment clouded her face but she reluctantly left the room.
I sighed, leaning back on my elbows as I finished my smoke. That girl was prime pussy, but she was beginning to get clingy. I had to stop that shit right fuckin’ now. She might be able to suck my dick like a champ, but I don’t allow any woman to have a hold on me. You want to share my bed, ride my dick, sure, but anything long term? No, not for me. The club girls knew not to try for anything more than a good time for a few hours, and that’s as far as it ever went.
I headed for the shower, needing to rid my body of her smell and get my head together for the charity ride today. In the shower, I hung my head, letting my shoulder-length black hair get wet. Soaping up a rag, I quickly washed the smell of smoke, sex, and her perfume off my body. Sure, I liked pussy. Shit, I got as much as I wanted, when I wanted. Not to be conceited, but the women flocked to my 6’4” muscular frame. I stayed in shape because I liked the way it made me feel—not to mention, the ladies liked the end result.
Fisting my cock, I washed away her mouth, letting the encounter swirl down the drain. I never fucked the club girls without a condom no matter what shape I was in. That was my number one rule. I would rather rub one out myself than make the mistake of not using one.
Shaking off my thoughts, I finished showering. Grabbing a towel, I dried off then lay back down, still naked.
“Shit, I’m tired,” I said, scrubbing a hand over my face. Eventually, I drifted off to get a few hours’ shut-eye, thinking about tomorrow’s charity ride.
THE NEXT DAY
A couple times a year, the club held a charity ride for the town we called home. It was usually followed by a festival for the kids, including music, food, rides, and a place where we could mingle with business owners and people we saw every day. The townspeople had a healthy respect for us and we tried to promote goodwill between us and them by doing these rides. At Christmas, we helped the local hospitals gather toys and clothes for the kids who couldn’t go home and for some of the town’s low-income families who needed some help bringing good cheer around this time of year.
The prospects needed to make sure the bikes were clean and the chrome polished, beautiful and ready to ride today. I spent most of the day yesterday making sure they were getting the job done. The prospects the club had now were good guys, but rowdy and without discipline. As enforcer, it was my job to curb that rowdiness and keep them on task.
The line of bikes riding through town was a sight to see. There were people standing three-deep on both sides of the streets waving flags, excited faces shouting encouragement to the guys.
The prospects had been working all night, polishing the bikes so the chrome shined in the sun. The noise of the pipes, the rumble of the bikes could be heard for miles. I smiled as I rode along beside Breech. He lifted his chin at me, smiling back. These were the days I lived for. Riding my bike with my brothers beside me.
The people in this town knew who we were; they respected us but they also thought we were a little rough. None of them wanted their daughters to get involved with “that club.” Little did they know just how many of those daughters ended up at the club parties, their tits and asses on full display.
After I got out of the Marines, I felt lost. My buddy, Paul, from my unit in Iraq, had moved to a little town in Upstate New York, joining the Devil’s Wind MC. We stayed in touch when his tour was up, and when I got out he called me to come hang out for a while, see what he was up to, what the club was all about. My first week there, I knew I’d found a spot to land. These guys were like those in my unit. They treated each other like family. They enjoyed living and working together on a daily basis—and the club girls were an added bonus.
Breech—Paul’s road name—sponsored me to join. With the Devil’s Wind president’s permission, I started prospecting for the club. It took me a year to patch in, and now, five years later, I was the enforcer and all the prospects were my responsibility—one I didn’t take lightly, either.
Busting heads was just one fun perk of my position, though.
Since most of us in the club were ex-military, we had an extensive knowledge of weapons and how to use them. When Dukes, our club president, was honorably discharged from the service, his grandfather passed away, leaving him a large plot of land with several outbuildings. He turned the barn on the property into the Devil’s Wind MC compound, then took over running the gun clubs his family owned.
His dad was a drunk piece of shit, always banging him and his mom around, but his grandfather was a tough old bird. He took them both in, raising Dukes after his dad almost beat his mom to death.
Opry was our gunsmith. He was SART in the Marines. He also taught classes on how to be comfortable with a weapon, gun laws, and safety. Currently, we were converting an old warehouse into a gym called ‘Crunch Time,’ where the guys were going to teach self-defense. It also meant we’d have our own place to train.
Sonny, our VP, took care of the day-to-day operations of the gun clubs, a total computer nerd.
Danko was our Sergeant at Arms and a real ballbuster. He didn’t have an easy life, but he was smart as a whip, a fearless fighter, and one of the few men I trusted at my back.
Breech, the man who took care of club finances, was the other. The man was a wiz with numbers. He kept the club in the black. Most of us came to him for investing advice, since we didn’t know what to do with our money. He helped us stay independent of the nine-to-five life.
The guys were my life, the club my home. I had a job, plenty of pussy, and my brothers at my back. I didn’t need anything else—until Tish came busting back into my life.
Two
I was getting tired; I could feel my good eye drooping. Gripping the steering wheel harder caused my nails to bite into my palms. The sweet sting of pain helped me focus and stay awake. Jiji had finally fallen into a restless sleep in the backseat. I kept waking her up every hour, making sure she didn’t have a concussion. She needed a doctor—we both did�
�but we still had a way to go. I wouldn’t feel safe until we got to the Devil’s Wind compound.
Jameson was there.
In my mind, I pictured the first time I laid eyes on Jameson Wilks. I was a scrawny fourteen-year-old with no boobs, red hair, and freckles. He was the boy next door—well, almost next door. He lived a few houses down from me in a tiny town in Florida. It was just a map dot, but it was home.
My mom was a widow. She supported us by working at the local hospice as a nurse. I don’t remember my dad; he died in the Army right after I was born. My mom shared her memories and pictures of him so I’d know who he was. When she talked about him, she would light up. Her face would change, her love for him shining in her eyes. It moved me to watch her talk about him. It was the only time she showed real emotion. The rest of the time, she was brisk and efficient. I know she loved me, but I think when my dad died so did most of her heart. She spent her days taking care of terminally ill people while taking care of me at night. She was a good mom, made sure I lacked for nothing, and gave me all she had; I had no complaints.
The town was small enough that all the kids went to the same school from kindergarten to the 12th grade. I was fast friends with Jameson’s little sister, Jiji. She was three years younger than me, but from the day we met, we just clicked. When my mom worked overtime or took extra shifts, Jiji’s mom, Mrs. Wilks, watched out for me.
One day after school, Jiji and I were riding bikes out on the block when this big black motorcycle pulled into her driveway. Jiji squealed, immediately pedaling frantically back to her house, screaming for the man getting off his ride. She jumped off her bike when she was close enough, running straight into his arms. He grabbed her up, swinging her around in circles and hugging her hard.
Fighter's Claim Page 1