Facade: Facade

by Ashley Suzanne

  You can usually find Ashley sitting in bed, with her laptop, playing on Facebook, pretending to write, entering giveaways (she’s also a swag whore) or on a football field with her oldest son, Tyler. Yep, not only is she a football fan, she’s a football mom!

  When she’s reading, it’s typically something to do with romance, erotica being her favorite genre. Ashley co-owns a blog, 2 Chicks and a Blog, with her GBFF Manda. She’s a total fan-girl over a few authors, Pamela Ann, Brooke Cumberland, SE Hall, Madeline Sheehan, Jasinda Wilder, Angela Graham, CM Stunich and Riley Rhea to name a few.

  Ashley has no pets, unless you count her children and she is a little OCD. Her favorite color is pink. Her favorite drink is cherry vodka and coke and double chocolate brownies are a must.

  Stalk Ashley on Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/ashleysuzannebooks

  Twitter: @itsashleyyo

  Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/7212411.Ashley_Suzanne

  Other Works by Ashley Suzanne

  Mirage (book 1, The Destined Series)

  Inception (book 1.5, The Destined Series)

  Awakening (book 2, The Destined Series)

  Façade (book 3, The Destined Series)

  Epiphany (book 4, The Destined Series) Coming Summer of 2014

  A sneak peek at Entice by SE Hall

  Available Now on Amazon, Barnes and Noble and Kobo

  Entice

  Prologue

  Where do dreams come from? No one knows, and that’s what makes them cool; some are random as fuck, some stem from recent events, but never knowing what you’ll dream each night, how weird or erotic they’ll get, gives you that time with your mind to look forward to.

  When your dream’s the same every night, it becomes a god damn nightmare.

  I know, every single night, what I’m going to see from the time I close my eyes to the moment I drag my sorry ass out of bed in the morning. Without a doubt, I’m going to toss and turn in frustration, a rerun marathon of that night this past summer taunting me.

  This bachelor party, for Parker, who I’ve known maybe eight weeks. God, I’m jealous as hell of him. That Hayden of his fucking adores him, and she’s even hotter knocked up than she was before. And she dotes on his ass in a very independent, non-bloodsucking leech kinda way. Why can’t I find a girl like that?

  Obviously I’ve had too much tequila since I’m hosting my own little titbag party over here, feeling sorry for myself. Fuck this. I hold up two bills in my hand, I think they’re twenties, and Silver Cowboy Boots comes over, way too eagerly.

  Challenge me, dammit! Engage more than my dick!

  “What’s this get me?” I slur, shoving the bills at her.

  She kicks one ankle, then the other, getting my legs just as far apart as she wants them and climbs over them, onto my lap. “This,” she croons and starts to grind. Her attempt to pet my chest all sexy-like is an epic fail, snagging one way too long silver nail on my nipple ring. She better not rip my fucking shirt—I love this shirt.

  “How much to go in the back?” Two months on a farm is damn lonely.

  She cuts quick, nervous glances around, then leans into my ear. “Not my usual club, so not in here,” she whispers. “But for a hundred, I’ll meet you outside, after.”

  Just when I’m about to finalize the exact details, “Shook Me All Night Long,” my favorite song ever, starts blaring. Now this dance I gotta see, moving Dracula Nails off my lap and outta my view to the stage, aka the flat area in this place.

  Spank me and put me to bed…who the fuck is that?

  “Zach?!”

  Nothing.

  “Zach?!” I yell louder.

  “What?”

  “Who. Is. That?” I point to the, um, we’ll go with “dancer” for now.

  “Cause I know her? I think they said Karma or something, but I doubt you’d find her in the phone book under that. Why?”

  Look at him, trying to be all smartass… Well, he fucked it up, who the hell uses a phone book?

  “No reason.” I bounce my shoulders in what I hope looks like casual nonchalance, never taking my eyes off her. That may blow my cover, but damn if I could look away even if I tried.

  I’m thinking it’s the beer, strike that, tequila goggles; has to be. I was just dogging every chick who came near me, ready to pay for a meaningless quickie, a scratch to an itch, and sheer perfection happens to strut in to my favorite song?

  Yeah, and when I’m done here, I’m gonna ride home to the Playboy mansion on the flying fucking dragon that I bought with my lottery winnings.

  This isn’t real; up close she’s probably a big mess with bad breath and a whiny voice…and herpes. Gotta be.

  But here’s what I do know, no guessing, no wishful thinking, no maybe to it—take it to the bank: her hair is so dark and shiny that you can damn near see reflections in it and it has purple streaks in it—hot as hell. AND, wait for it… IT. IS. IN. BRAIDS.

  Usually two braids or ponytails are known as “handlebars” in my language, but on this girl, they’re cute; cute, wet dream-inducing braids.

  Her eyes are as dark as her hair, and hold the fear and anxiety of a kitten stuck in a drainpipe when it’s raining. I may never know where it came from, this instinct that up until this point I would have sworn on a stack of Bibles I didn’t possess, but I swear I hear her mind screaming to mine, “You’re big and strong, protect me, Sawyer, take care of me, hold me and make me unafraid!”

  That body of hers is tiny. Not frail, just petite, and tan and muscular…and her own. She turns it to the side and away from the onlookers and keeps her hands over her barely-covered breasts like the tease is part of the dance, but it’s not. I’d bet you a nut this girl has never danced or stripped before in her life. And if she has, she should stop immediately, because she absolutely sucks at it.

  Those come fuck me heels she’s wearing? They’re two sizes too big and she’s never walked in them before. Also something she should stop doing immediately. If the teetering and wobbling didn’t draw attention to her shapely legs, it’d just be sad, but the legs are worth the painful show. Oh and fuck me, she’s skipping around in a circle. I hope she doesn’t think that’s a good cover for her lack of dance skills…skipping, for crying out loud.

  And lastly, she loves this song. She’s mouthing the words, keeping her eyes unfocused and on the back wall, dying for everything but the song itself to be over. And when it is, she runs like she’s on fire for cover behind the curtain.

  “Who was that?” I ask Dracula Nails, still standing beside me.

  “New girl,” she answers snidely. “First night, can’t you tell?” she laughs.

  “Yeah, I can.”

  “So, I’ll see you later?” she curls those inflated lips at me.

  “Maybe. If I see ya I see ya.” I get up, walking over to Dane. “Where’d you get these girls?”

  “Hell if I know; Brock hooked it up.”

  “So the company, it’s local to us, like in Statesboro?”

  “I think so, why?”

  “Find out for sure. I’m gonna hit the can. Be right back.”

  I really do need to take a leak, but somehow I veer off course, peering behind the curtain like the Great and Powerful Oz will be waiting to hand me the 411 on this girl. I don’t see him, or her, only several other scantily clad women who only remind me how different she was. I want to bust in a demand they tell me her name and where she is, but I’m forced to duck out and shove the curtain back when their escort/bodyguard/whatever guy spots me.

  No worries, Dane can find out for me, that man has scary ways of digging up the buried. I hurry back from the bathroom and catch him just as he’s hanging up his phone. “Well?”

  “Local company, kinda off the radar, Brock isn’t sure they’re on the Better Business Bureau, if you catch my drift.”

  “I don’t.”

  He leans into me, talking low and discreetly. “I know nothing, and I’m going to say this, walk out of here and ne
ver speak of it again. I may also fire Brock for being a dumbass. It’s some on the side thing for one guy, mostly underage college girls needing money.”

  “Fuck,” I mumble.

  “Fuck is right. My name is never to be associated with this, ever. I had no idea and I’ll kill Brock if he jeopardized any of us in any way. You hear me?”

  “Wait, so college, as in our college?”

  “Yes,” he sighs, running his hand through his hair, mad as hell.

  “My old job ready at The K?” Wait, better yet… “I’ll replace Brock even.”

  “You always have a job with me, Sawyer, you know that. Just say the word.”

  “Word. I’m heading back early. Don’t fire Brock until I say, okay? I need to talk to him first.”

  “You just fire him when you have what you need. My hands are washed of this whole thing. Now get the fuck out of here and pay for the party in cash. No paper, you hear me, Sawyer?”

  “Got it. Go, man.”

  Look out, Skipper, Daddy’s coming home.

  A sneak peek of Undeniable by Madeline Sheehan

  Available Now on Amazon, Barnes and Noble and Smashwords

  PROLOGUE

  There will always be a reason why you meet people. Either you need them to change your life or you’re the one that will change theirs.

  —Angel Flonis Harefa

  Mark Twain said, “The two most important days in your life are the day you were born and the day you find out why.”

  I don’t remember the day I was born, but I remember the day I found out why.

  His name was Deuce.

  He was my “why.”

  And this is our story.

  It is not a pretty one.

  Some parts of it are downright ugly.

  But it’s ours.

  And because I believe everything happens for a reason, I wouldn’t change a thing.

  CHAPTER ONE

  I was five years old when I met Deuce. He was twenty-three, and it was visiting day at Rikers Island. My father, Damon Fox or “Preacher”—the president of the infamous Silver Demons motorcycle club (mother chapter) in East Village, New York City—was doing a five-year stint for aggravated assault and battery with a deadly weapon. It was not the first time my father had been in prison, and it wouldn’t be the last. The Silver Demons MC was a notorious group of criminals who lived by the code of the road and gave modern society and all it entailed a great big fuck-you.

  My father was a powerful and dangerous man who ruled over all Silver Demons worldwide and was highly respected but mostly feared by other MCs. He had government connections and ties to the mafia, but what made him the most dangerous and most feared was his many connections to average, everyday people. People who didn’t run in his circle. People who were off the grid. People who could get things done quietly.

  His way with words and his killer smile made him friends everywhere he went—and considering he’d been riding since he was in my grandmother’s womb, when I say everywhere, I mean everywhere.

  My father’s shortcomings, the constant crime, and the club lifestyle weren’t strange to me; it was all I knew.

  I was holding my uncle “One-Eyed” Joe’s hand as we walked through Rikers’ family visiting room. Since my father was my only parent, my uncle Joe and aunt Sylvia had been given temporary custody of me. My mother, Deborah “Darling” Reynolds, had split a few weeks after I was born. Many men would have crumpled under the responsibility of a newborn baby, especially a biker who couldn’t handle more than a few weeks without needing the open road.

  But not Preacher.

  Aside from going to prison every once in a while, my father was a good dad, and I’d never wanted for a thing.

  Dressed in an orange jumpsuit with his long brown hair pulled back in a ponytail at his nape, Preacher spotted us immediately and jumped up. He was hindered slightly by the handcuffs around his wrists, ankles looped together by a chain, and the prison guard standing behind him who shoved him back down.

  “Eva,” he said softly, smiling down at me as I climbed into an uncomfortable plastic chair. My sneaker-clad feet didn’t reach the floor, and my chin barely cleared the table. Uncle Joe slid into the chair beside me and put his arm around me, pulling my chair close to his.

  “Daddy,” I whispered, trying so hard not to cry. “I want to hug you. Uncle Joe says I can’t. Why can’t I?”

  My father blinked. Then he blinked again. I didn’t know at the time, but my big, strong, rough-and-tough father was trying not to cry.

  Uncle Joe squeezed my shoulder. “Baby girl,” he said gruffly, “tell Daddy ’bout the spellin’ bee.”

  Excitement battled my tears and won. “I won the spelling bee, Daddy! My teacher, Mrs. Fredericks, says even though I’m only in kindergarten, I can spell as good as a third grader!”

  My father grinned.

  Seeing this grin and not wanting to lose it, I kept going.

  “Do you know how old third graders are, Daddy?”

  “How old, baby?” my father asked, laughing.

  “They are eight,” I whispered excitedly. “Or sometimes nine!”

  “Proud of you, baby girl,” my father said, his eyes shining.

  I beamed. When you are young, your parents are your entire world. My father was my world. If he was happy, I was happy.

  Uncle Joe squeezed my shoulder again. “Eva, honey, why don’t you go get somethin’ from the snack machines so Daddy and I can have a word.”

  This was typical. At the club everyone was always “having a word”—words I wasn’t allowed to hear. Most times, I didn’t really care since all the boys loved me, gave me lots of hugs, let me ride on their shoulders, and bought me presents all the time. To a five-year-old biker brat, an MC full of surrogate big brothers and daddies is the equivalent to a normal child being able to celebrate Christmas every day.

  I took my uncle Joe’s money and skipped off to the snack machines. Two people were in line ahead of me, so I did what I always did when I was bored—I started singing. Unlike most children my age who were listening to New Kids on the Block or Debbie Gibson, I was listening to the music played around the club. A particular favorite of mine was “Summertime” by Janis Joplin. So there I was, shaking my butt and singing “Summertime” way, way out of tune, waiting in line for stale potato chips in the Rikers Island family visiting room, when I heard, “You like Hendrix, too, kid?”

  I swiveled around and was met with a pair of denim-clad legs with the knees worn clean through. I looked up, and my eyes widened in delight. He was tall and tan. His arms and legs were thickly muscled, and his waist was trim. His forehead was wide, and his jaw was strong and square. His head was shaved, only a fuzz of blond hair showing, and his forearms were heavily tattooed with different depictions of elaborate dragons. I’d never seen a more beautiful man.

  There are three different types of men in this world: There are weak men—men who run and hide when life slaps them in the ass. Then there are men—men who have a backbone, yet occasionally, when life slaps them in the ass, will rely on others. And then there are real men—men who don’t cry or complain, who don’t just have a backbone, they are the backbone. Men who make their own decisions and live with the consequences and who accept responsibility for their actions or words. Men who, when life slaps them in the ass, slap back and move on. Men who live hard and die even harder.

  Men like my father and my uncles. Men I loved with all my heart.

  Men like Deuce.

  “I like Hendrix,” I said. “But Janis rules. I listen to ‘Rose’ almost every single day!”

  He grinned down at me and dimples popped out all over the place.

  “I like you, kid,” he said, still grinning. “You got good taste in tunes, and you’ve got a pair of Chucks on instead of those stupid fuckin’ high-tops everyone’s wearin’.”

  He liked me. This was hands down the best day ever.

  “I hate high-tops,” I said, wrinkling up my nose.
<
br />   He winked. “Me, too.”

  I was so throwing out all my high-tops when I got home.

  When it was my turn in line, I stood on my tiptoes and popped change into the machine. I took my time studying the selections, deciding on a small bag of salted peanuts. Moving out of the way, I watched as the man bought two bags of potato chips, three candy bars, and a big chocolate chip cookie.

  “Wow,” I said. “You’re really hungry.”

  He laughed. “Not for me.” He pointed across the room. “My old man.”

  I spared a quick glance at my father and Uncle Joe. Their heads were bowed over the table, still “having a word.”

  “Can I meet him?” I asked.

  His eyebrows popped up. “Uh, he’s kinda cranky.”

  I laughed. All the men I knew were kinda cranky.

  I slipped my hand in his and looked up, ready to go meet his father. His hand was warm and comfortable, like my bed was after I’d slept in it all night.

  He stared down at our joined hands, his expression confused.

  “Ready,” I told him, tugging on his hand. Shrugging, he led me to a nearby table where an older man with a long gray beard and a shaved head sat, cuffed the same way my father was. He released my hand to take his seat, and I climbed into the seat next to him.

  “Hi,” I said cheerfully.

  “You got somethin’ to tell me?” the old man asked his son.

  “She likes Janis,” he replied.

  The old man studied me. “You like Janis, kid?”

  I nodded. “And Steppenwolf and Three Dog Night and the Rolling Stones and Billie Holiday—”

  “Billie Holiday?” he interrupted, sounding surprised.

  I popped some peanuts in my mouth and nodded. “She rules.”

  The old man grinned and his entire face changed. I knew immediately; a long time ago, this cranky old man had been as beautiful as his son.