Trapping Wasp (Dead Presidents Book 3)

by Harley Stone

  Contents

  COVER PAGE

  COPYRIGHT

  DEDICATION

  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

  EPILOGUE

  LANDING EAGLE SNEAK PEEK

  THANK YOU!

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Published by Harley Stone

  Copyright ©2018 – Harley Stone

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States

  This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the authors, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

  eBooks are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work.

  For the single parents out there pulling double duty. Yours is a thankless job, stretched thin by long hours, strong personalities, and worries that keep you up nights. May you be blessed with hours of extra sleep, a brimming bank account, and the kind of love that sets your heart free.

  Carly

  I WAS GOING to be late for work.

  It was six thirty-nine p.m., and my bartending shift started in twenty-one minutes. My apartment was six blocks from the Copper Penny, and I’d have to sprint like an Olympic hopeful to make it. Thankfully, the biker bar that I’d been working at for the past three months didn’t require its bartenders to wear high heels, and so far, nobody had commented about my frequent tardiness. Still, I needed to keep this job. Slipping my feet into running shoes, I shoved my cowboy boots into my backpack and zipped it up before returning to the kitchen to reengage in dinner negotiations with my five-year-old son.

  “Take a bite, Trent,” I said in my best no-nonsense mom voice, sliding the plate he kept pushing away back in front of him.

  He curled up his lip in disgust. “But you said I could have cereal for dinner since I didn’t get it for breakfast. You promised,” he complained. Again. We’d been over this so many times, even I wanted cereal for dinner.

  “I know, but you forgot to remind me that we needed milk and we didn’t stop by the grocery store.”

  “You didn’t tell me I was supposed to remind you. Or I would have. My memory is way better than yours.”

  Reasonably certain my sweet little monster had siphoned away my brain cells during his trip down my birth canal, I had to agree. “Yes, Trent. You remember everything.” Unfortunately. I shoved silver hoops through the holes in my ears and glanced at the clock again. Six forty-two.

  “Like I remember you said I could have cereal for dinner,” my relentless little tyrant replied.

  And we were back to square one. Truthfully, we’d never left square one. At this point, I wasn’t even sure there was a square two. I was sadly outmatched with no hope of ever winning… against a preschooler. This was my life, every damn day. Still, I could be almost as relentless as Trent, especially when I was desperate, so I kept trying. “You like chicken nuggets,” I pleaded, picking one up and dancing it toward his mouth.

  “But you said—” His lips clamped down as soon as I reached them. Nugget, denied.

  Frustrated, I tossed the nugget back onto his plate and pushed away from our small wooden table. “I know, Trent. I know.” And I’d failed him. Again. It was amazing how a simple act like forgetting milk could make me question my entire ability to parent.

  “You’re still here?” our roommate, Jessica, asked as she stepped into the kitchen. “Go. I’ve got the little man.”

  Jessica was a Godsend. I’d first called her from a hotel in Kennewick, Washington a little over three months ago, when I found her “roommate wanted” listing online during a mad dash to Seattle from my hometown of Silver City, Idaho. Jessica and I had agreed to meet up for coffee as soon as I made it into town to discuss the possibility of me and Trent invading her space. But, when my nineteen-ninety-seven Honda Civic with about a billion miles on it limped into Seattle’s city limits and promptly wheezed its last breath, I had nobody else to call for help. Thankfully, Jessica rescued me and Trent from the side of the freeway, stuffed the trunk of her car with our clothes, and took us home. Then she helped me call around until we found a donation center willing to tow my hooptie and take it off my hands.

  Now she was doing me a huge favor by watching Trent in the evenings, so I didn’t have to pay a sitter. She was an angel, and there was no way I’d leave her to face the fiery wrath of a five-year-old who had been promised cereal.

  “Mom forgot milk,” Trent blurted out, throwing me right under the bus.

  “I have coconut milk,” she offered.

  See? She’s an Angel. “Thanks, but he won’t drink it.” I knew from experience since I’d “borrowed” a little of her coconut milk last time we had this issue.

  My problem wasn’t forgetfulness, it was time. Every day felt like a battle against the clock, and between my two jobs and taking care of Trent, I rarely managed to get in a full five hours of sleep. Squeezing in time to hit the grocery store was a luxury I couldn’t usually afford. Not to mention the little problem of no car to carry the groceries in. A gallon of milk got pretty damn heavy after four blocks, especially when I had to balance it with bags of groceries while keeping Trent close and making sure nobody snatched him. Trips to the grocery store gave me anxiety.

  Another glance at the clock told me it was six-forty-eight. Time to tap into my single mom superpowers and get creative. I popped open the fridge and studied its contents, homing in on a pint of vanilla creamer. I shook it, estimating that there was maybe a half cup left.

  Vanilla creamer had zero nutritional value and all sorts of harmful chemicals that the school’s mommy group would ostracize me for, but I was desperate. I added water to the container until it was roughly the consistency of two percent milk, and then dumped it over Trent’s granola. At least the granola was healthy. That was something, right? Smiling widely, like I’d made him some sort of treat rather than MacGyvering his dinner to atone for my failure as a mother, I offered it to him and held my breath.

  Trent looked from me to the creamer container, eyeing us both skeptically. He took a small bite, chewed, and then smiled. “Thanks, Mom.”

  How could two words be so powerful? They filled me with pride and love as I released my breath and bent to kiss his forehead. Maybe I wasn’t a complete parental failure after all. “You’re welcome.”

  “This is yummy. You should let me have this milk all the time.”

  Nope, I was a failure for sure.

  “I don’t know whether to be appalled or impressed,” Jessica said, shaking her head.

  “I have that effect on people.” I peppered the rest of Trent’s face with kisses, until he waved me off, and then I slipped the straps
of my backpack over my shoulders. “I gotta get out of here. Trent, be good for Jess.”

  He saluted me with his spoon. Smiling at his silly soldier impersonation, I waved and hurried out of the house, keeping an eye out for both the nutrition police and the mommy group.

  ***

  The Copper Penny Bar and Grill always had at least one biker at the door checking IDs. Tonight’s burly, tattooed stud was a Hispanic guy who went by the name of Spade. All the bikers had nicknames, and since I kept to myself and didn’t mingle with the Dead Presidents, I hadn’t asked why. Truthfully, I didn’t even care why. I was in survival mode: blinders on, staying in my lane, minding my own damn business, and taking care of my son. I rarely even noticed how hot the bikers were.

  At least I tried not to notice.

  Spade worked the door often, and as soon as he saw me he waved me past the forming line.

  “Thanks, Spade!” I shouted as I ran by.

  “No prob, babe, I got you!” he shouted back.

  Babe. That was a biker thing, not a term of endearment. Probably due to the bikers all being man-whores who couldn’t remember the names of the many women swarming around them, vying for the “D.” And reminding myself that they were hit-it-and-quit-it kind of guys made it a little easier not to notice their hotness.

  Still winded from my jog, I breathed deeply and entered the building, tugging my backpack off. Since it was summer and still sunny outside, I had to give my eyes a second to adjust to the dim hanging lights. Like everything else in the club, the glass fixtures were coated with a layer of nicotine and time that no amount of scrubbing could hope to remove.

  With its wood floors, wood paneling, and an arched wood ceiling, walking into the bar always felt like stepping back in time to the late seventies. Scents assaulted me: perfume, cologne, alcohol, sweat, leather, all fermenting with the underlying stench of old cigarette smoke. I hurried past speakers that played a mix of old-school rock bands with a few new songs sprinkled in and into the employee break room. Tugging my boots from my backpack, I replaced my tennis shoes and shoved everything else in my locker, sliding the key into the pocket of my Daisy Dukes.

  Glancing into the mirror, I straightened my Copper Penny logoed tank top, tightened my pony tail, and wiped away the sweat-smudged makeup beneath my eyes. By the time I clocked in, grabbed my apron, and headed for the bar, I was nine minutes late. Time had won yet another round.

  Flint, the bar manager, was pouring drinks, which was never a good sign since he should be doing manager-type shit rather than covering for my tardy ass. Still tying on my apron, I slid in beside him.

  “Hey, Boss, where’s Jen?” I asked, looking around for the other bartender on the schedule.

  “She’s sick, so I sent her home,” Flint replied, drawing a beer and handing it to one of at least twenty sexy bikers crowding the bar. Seriously, my workplace held so much man-candy it should be named Vaginal Diabetes. But I was determined not to notice, blinders on, staying in my lane, minding my own damn business, and all that bullshit.

  “Sorry I’m late.” I washed my hands at the bar-side sink then spun around, preparing to take my first order.

  “Shit happens,” Flint replied.

  Wasp, the biggest, sexiest biker of the group was perched on the stool directly in front of me, half leaning over the bar. “That’s okay, babe. I’d say you’re right on time.”

  An involuntary shiver went up my spine as his gaze swept down my body. His eyes were dark grey, his dishwater blond hair hung just below his shoulders, and his arms were easily the size of my legs. Like the rest of the bikers, he wore jeans, a T-shirt, and a biker vest with patches to show his rank and name. Wasp was the Vice President of the Dead Presidents MC. I knew, because I often studied his patches while trying to avoid his hungry eyes, mischievous smile, and stubble-covered jaw.

  “What can I get for you, Wasp?” I asked, trying to keep my tone business-like.

  “A pint of that pilsner on tap.” He grinned, flashing me perfect teeth. “And… your number.”

  I was a single mom with a stellar track record for attracting the wrong kind of men. Okay man. There was only one, but he was bad enough. I had no time for games, and Wasp was clearly a player. I could see it in the confident way he held himself and the easy way he asked for my number every damn time he ordered.

  Not like I was special. He probably asked for every woman’s phone number, and most of these biker sluts wouldn’t hesitate to hand theirs over. But I wasn’t about that life, so I poured his beer and set it down in front of him. “Put it on your tab?”

  He tilted his head to the side, studying me. “Aren’t you forgetting something, babe?”

  Even his voice was sexy. Deep. Commanding. A total contrast to his easygoing jokester personality. Refusing to let it—or the lick-worthy biceps peeking out from beneath his sleeves—affect me, I leaned over the bar, looked him square in the eyes, and let him know where we stood. “You’re not getting my number, Wasp. Ever.”

  I probably sounded like a bitch, but I needed to be direct with guys, sternly voicing my disinterest. I’d learned that lesson the hard way, and no one would be getting mixed signals from me ever again.

  Wasp returned my stare, his gaze full of heat and the kinds of promises that made my thighs clench. “We’ll see about that, won’t we?”

  “Dammit, Wasp,” Flint roared. “How many times do I gotta tell you to stay the fuck off my girls? Leave Carly alone and let her work.”

  Beer in one hand, the other held up in surrender, Wasp backed off, but the smirk he gave me promised he’d be back to harass me later. Another shiver went up my spine. I had no intention of dating a biker—of dating anyone for that matter—but it was nice to still feel desired every once in a while. And man, did Wasp ever make his desires known.

  With him heading back into the crowd, I focused on the steady stream of customers and lost the night in a blur of leather and alcohol. By the time Flint kicked everyone out so we could clean up, I was spent. Determined to get home with enough time to at least get in a nap before I had to take Trent to school and go to my second job, I fought through the exhaustion and busted my ass cleaning up.

  It was a little after two-thirty a.m. by the time I got home and found Trent curled up next to Jessica on the sofa. Jessica had some trashy romance novel covering her face, and Trent had every plastic army man he owned on the floor surrounding them. The scene made my heart break a little as I swooped in to scoop up my kid.

  Jessica stirred and sat up, placing her book on the coffee table and rubbing her eyes.

  “Another nightmare?” I whispered, patting Trent on the back.

  “Yeah. It wasn’t as bad as the last one, but he still decided we needed protection.” She gestured at the platoon of green soldiers.

  My sweet little man had seen way more than any child should, and although the nightmares were lessening, I worried that they’d never go away completely. We’d escaped the fire of our past, for now, but it felt like we’d forever be singed.

  Carrying him into the bedroom we shared, I glanced at his little race car bed and dismissed it, tucking him into mine instead. He was a kicker, and I’d most likely regret it, but I wanted him beside me if he had another nightmare. I kissed his forehead, and before I could walk away, his little fingers clutched my shirt, holding me beside him.

  “Hey buddy,” I said, brushing his hair out of his face as I smiled down on him, trying not to let my concerns or exhaustion show.

  Trent’s eyes snapped open, his expression hopeful. “Mom, the bad man came, but the soldiers saved us.”

  I kissed his forehead. “Of course they did.”

  He’d been obsessed with soldiers since they’d started volunteering at his preschool with some anti-bullying initiative. They’d somehow convinced him that soldiers could do anything and save anyone.

  I knew better. I’d seen way too much shit to believe in heroes. The only person we could depend on to keep us safe, was me.

/>   Still, if lining our entire apartment with a protective barrier of army men made my little man feel safer, I’d buy him every plastic soldier in Seattle. And, if the bad man ever found us, I’d wish like hell they were real.

  Wasp

  FORMATION AUTO REPAIR had felt like home since the first day I’d walked through the doors, and the familiarity had only increased over the five years I’d been working there. All the mechanics were patched in brothers of the Dead Presidents Motorcycle Club, so I got to work with the same sons-of-bitches I hung out with after hours.

  They were the best damn crew in Seattle, and I wouldn’t want it any other way.

  Pushing through the front door, I was met with music—the latest Tool song playing on a local rock station—and a smile from the cute little blonde behind the counter.

  “Mornin’, Wasp,” she said, blatantly giving me the once over.

  Tiffany was thirsty and didn’t bother to hide it. She’d flirted with me throughout her entire interview, but I’d hired her anyway, knowing our customers would love her. In addition to a nice rack that she liked to display through thin, tight-ass T-shirts, she had great customer service and computer skills, and a solid resume. She’d been working the front desk for about six months, and had recently discovered the perks of being around a club full of men who liked to fuck. She’d had her sights on me ever since she signed up to be a club whore, but I wasn’t about to tumble into bed with an employee. There were few lines that I drew, but that was one.

  Keeping eye contact with me, Tiffany sucked on a pen, working her tongue around it. I expected my dick to take notice, tempting me to bend her over the counter and show her why she shouldn’t do that shit, but it didn’t. Strangely enough, she didn’t do a damn thing for me, because my mind kept comparing her to the hot brunette bartender who’d spent the past three months brushing me off. And as hot as Tiffany was, she couldn’t hold a candle to Carly.

  “Mornin’, Tiff,” I replied, ignoring my receptionist’s advances as I headed toward the section of the shop dedicated to motorcycle repairs and customizations.