Savage Kiss_A Motorcycle Club Romance_Shattered Hearts MC
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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.
Savage Kiss: A Motorcycle Club Romance (Shattered Hearts MC) (The Bad Boys Who Broke Me Collection Book 1) copyright @ 2018 by Lena Pierce. 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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Contents
Savage Kiss: A Motorcycle Club Romance (Shattered Hearts MC) (The Bad Boys Who Broke Me Collection Book 1)
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
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Epilogue
Sneak Preview of SAVAGE RIDE
Savage Ride: A Motorcycle Club Romance (Chained Angels MC) (The Bad Boys Who Broke Me Collection Book 2)
Chapter One
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Savage Kiss: A Motorcycle Club Romance (Shattered Hearts MC) (The Bad Boys Who Broke Me Collection Book 1)
By Lena Pierce
I took her unprotected just to keep her safe.
I’m holding her here under the president’s orders.
But the fiery mystery that drove Meghan into my arms has hidden layers I never expected.
She doesn’t want my help, but she’s getting it anyways.
We’ll find the answers she wants. Then I’ll pin her down and take what I want, too.
DIRK
When your MC president gives you a job, you do it.
No questions. No dallying.
Just get the sh!t done.
But when the job turns out to be snatching up his baby sister and keeping her under my eye, things get a little more interesting.
It doesn’t hurt that Meghan is a stone cold fox, with the temper to match.
She’s feisty. I like that in a woman.
It makes it all the more fun when I break them.
But what was supposed to be a simple bodyguard job turned into exile and war as we run from the men who seem to want her dead.
Protecting your mark is never easy, but it’s even harder when I’m dying inside to get my hands on her curvy little frame.
Every time she smiles at me, I feel emotions bubbling to the surface.
Things I haven’t felt in years.
Things that make me want to break all the rules to make her mine.
F**k it all.
I’ve decided I want her in my arms.
And I don’t care what I have to do to keep her there.
MEGHAN
I left behind everything to make a life for myself.
The biker world has long since receded in my rearview mirror.
Now, all I want is piece in my little corner of the city.
No war, no choppers, no dead bodies.
Just quiet. Calm. Gratitude.
But I soon learn that it’s not so easy to escape the outlaw lifestyle.
My brother – the one who refused to give up his biker ways when I left – calls me out of the blue.
His voice is different than I remember.
Darker. Deeper. More haunted and cruel.
He tells me I’m in danger.
Whether I like it or not, he’s pulling me back into the world of the Shattered Hearts MC.
He says it’s for my own good.
But the man he sends to collect me doesn’t seem good at all.
In fact, he’s the definition of a bad boy.
Dirk Dvorak is everything I ran away from.
Massive, muscled, tatted, and terrifying.
But he keeps making me react to his presence in ways I never anticipated.
He takes what he wants.
And gives me only what I beg for.
I’m forced to watch from within the MC clubhouse as my little store goes up in flames.
No one seems to give a d*mn about finding out who wanted to hurt me so bad.
Not even my dear brother.
No one, that is – except for Dirk.
And the longer I spend on the hunt for answers with the biker bad boy by my side, the more I find out about the man he truly is.
And the more I fall deeper and deeper down the rabbit hole I tried so desperately to claw my way out of.
Chapter One
Meghan
“You are the Big Bosses’ protector,” Sissy says, and if there have ever been stranger words coming from their source, I have not heard them. Sissy is short and red-headed and freckled, and yet her fantasy-villain voice is as deep as the rumble of a volcano. She stands on my couch and spreads her arms. “You are the Ambassador of Criminality.” She puffs her chest out and flicks her tongue. “You are a Mistress of the MCs!”
I roll my eyes and pour myself a glass of wine. “Whatever you say.” I take a long, slow sip. It’s been a long, slow day, after all: manning the store, dealing with the criminal clientele, navigating the detritus of a neighborhood torn between the Broken Sinners and Shattered Hearts. And it’s not even over yet.
“You are, though.” Sissy slides to the couch and picks up her own glass of wine. She wipes sweat from her face with the back of her hand. She looks like a child as she does it, a large, clumsy movement. “Don’t sit there and give me a whole can of baloney, ma’am.” She tips her head sarcastically. “I know what you are, and you know what you are. A Master of the Dark Arts.”
“I am a store owner,” I mutter.
“Hmm.” Sissy shakes her head slowly. “Sure, that’s the truth, but is it the whole truth?”
I note that her glass is already near-empty, and she drained the last one just as quickly. Sissy is too small for two glasses of wine to have no effect. She finishes this one and then claws for the neck of the bottle, almost falling as she goes on: “Because I work with you, ma’am, and even an old part-timer like me can see what you’re doing. It’s a dangerous game, missy-bossy, a dangerous game indeed.”
“You are the oddest person I know, Sissy.” I sip my wine and close my eyes and try and let the day wash away from me. It’s like a layer of clothing sticking to my body.
“Maybe I am.” I hear her shrug; that’s how impressively loud she is. “But that doesn’t change the fact that I can see into your soul, Meghan. You are my friend. I am worried about you.” The last sentence is incongruously genuine, dropped at the end of a bunch of nonsense.
I open my eyes. “You don’t need to worry about me,” I say. “I can take care of myself.”
“Sure, you can … until you can’t.”
“What do you expect me
to do?” I ask, sipping my wine more quickly. The day won’t leave me; it surrounds me, stays there. “Just up and leave?”
“No, but—I don’t know, Meghan—find someone to protect you, to protect this place!” She points at the floor, since my apartment is above the store. “You have bikers coming round here every single day. You’re really telling me you can’t—”
“Don’t even say it!” I interrupt. I finish my wine and go for the bottle, but Sissy has drunk it dry. I go into the kitchen, talking over my shoulder. “I would rather bring a bunch of pigs in here and let them have a go at me, Sissy, I really would. I’d turn my apartment into a sty before I let some violent, psychopathic biker in here.”
“And by here you mean …” She raises her eyebrow.
“My apartment!” I hiss, taking a beer from the fridge.
“What are you thinking, Meghan?” Sissy asks after a silence.
“About how far this place has come,” I whisper, feeling I can be honest since I’m tipsy and she’s past tipsy. “I mean, I always knew I’d try to make it into a viable business, you know? That’s why I went to college: to do something productive in this community for once. I didn’t want people to hurry by this neighborhood on their way to Hollywood because it looked too dangerous. Or, if I couldn’t do that—people still hurry now, I see them every day—at least I could make it a little bit better for the people already living here.”
“I think you have,” Sissy assures me. “Giving the Broken Sinners and the Shattered Hearts somewhere to meet is a good thing. I was only joking about you being the ambassador and all that stuff, Meghan.”
“I know.” I smile at her. “Don’t worry about it.”
She crosses her legs and rests her hands on her knees. “What are your plans for this place, then?”
“Hang on …” My mind wanders back, far back to the origins of this conversation. “You’re changing the subject. You were telling me about your second job.”
She blushes, glances at the floor, and then decides that her fingernails are more interesting, and then the window which looks out upon the purple-sunlit street. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she says placidly.
“No?” I laugh. “Because as I recall it I was asking you what you did in the evenings and on the weekends, since you can never work evenings and weekends. And I know for a fact you don’t have a boyfriend or a husband or a child, or a pet, actually; and you’re not doing any sort of college course or … I don’t know, learning a language or whatever. So there’s something. Either you have a very specific TV schedule or you have a second job.”
She scoffs, feigning disinterest, but I see through it.
“Come on,” I urge. “Just tell me. I promise I’ll keep it a secret.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says.
“Then work tomorrow,” I retort. Tomorrow is Saturday.
“I can’t!” she snaps.
I grin. Maybe there’s some malice in my grin. She certainly leans back like I’m dangerous.
“Then tell me!” I cry.
She folds her arms. “I am not telling you.” She meets my eyes like a stubborn child. “And that’s that, okay?” She’s only a few years younger than me (I’m guessing; she’ll never tell me her age) but right now she really could be decades my junior. “So ask me all you want,” she goes on. “But I will not crumble!”
“Okay, drama queen.” I sit back on the couch. “No need for a monologue.”
She returns to her previous yoga position and grins at me. “I win,” she declares.
“Sure, Sissy, you win.”
“So, you’ve secured this place as a sanctuary—what?” She cuts off when she sees my face twist.
“It’s just when you say things like ‘secured this place as a sanctuary,’ I feel like a cuddly toy has just given me advice about my plumbing.”
“I’m not a toy!” she hisses. “You know I hate that.”
“I know you do … toy.”
“The no-conflict zone is working, then,” she says, ignoring me.
“It is,” I agree. “It seems ridiculous to me sometimes.” I take a long sip of my beer, remembering the small girl I was, her father the officer at arms. I remember her like she is somebody else, before this mission was injected directly into her soul: protect, improve. She cared more about dolls than reality, and back then her brother was just a pain in the butt. “But yes, it’s working. But one corner store in the middle of a war doesn’t fix everything. It doesn’t even fix half of it, or a quarter.”
“So what, then?” Sissy asks. Her eyes are drooping. She looks like a kid who’s spent a long day at the fair who can’t stay awake for the car ride home. Which is strange, since she is leaving in a while. Once again, I wonder where she disappears to, especially since she can turn up drunk.
“I need to expand,” I say. “The store’s turned a profit for a good two years now, and I’ve been saving. I think with another year, maybe a year and a half, I’ll be able to rent another location across the other side of town. That way there will be two no-conflict zones, one nearer the Shattered Hearts clubhouse and one nearer the Broken Sinners. Badger Burnes and Jackson won’t ever have to see each other, if they don’t want to.”
“Jackson,” Sissy says, eyeing me closely. “You hardly ever say his name.”
“Why would I?”
“Because he’s your brother, for one?”
“Some brother.” I finish the last of my beer and get myself another. Combined with the wine, the world is softer around the edges than it was this afternoon. Everything is fuzzier, inside and out. “What sort of brother decides to join the club that got his father killed? What sort of brother abandons his sister so that he can go and play outlaw?”
“I don’t think they’re playing, Meghan.” She is turning white. “They’re not playing at all.”
“Fine.” I shrug. “Maybe they’re not, but it doesn’t make up for it, for the way he abandoned me.”
“So why stay?” she asks, taking a deep breath. The alcohol, most likely, though I’m not sure. I’m also not sure what else could make her look so full of dread. “Like you said, you have money. You could go someplace else. Sell and get a place in Hollywood.”
“Ha, ha, ha.”
“But somewhere else,” she says. “Go and run a store in Maine where the worst thing you have to worry about is your neighbor coming over with a blackberry pie.”
“That’s a very specific dream,” I say, raising my eyebrow. “Maybe not mine?”
“Maybe,” she breathes. “Yeah, maybe. But not for a long time. There’s too much I want to do—can’t do, but want to …” She looks up sharply, as though remembering I’m here. “I’m talking you to sleep!”
“No. Not at all. You can talk to me if you want—”
Then Katy Perry cuts through our conversation. I glare at Sissy. One of her perpetual pranks is changing my ringtone. I turn my cell phone over. Unknown Number. My blood goes cold as I stare at the phone, as Katy tells us about Californian girls and all the ways they’re better than other women. I swallow and clench my fists. I stare down at my hands and it seems that my knuckles are cutting through my skin.
“Aren’t you going to answer it?” Sissy asks.
“It’s an unknown caller.”
“Who do you think it is?”
“I know who it is.”
“Then why aren’t you answering it?”
I close my eyes, take a soothing breath. What’s meant to be a soothing breath. But when I open my eyes, I am not soothed. “Because I told him never to call me.”
Chapter Two
Meghan
“I’m going to talk first,” I say, answering the phone. I don’t even need to hear him talk to know it’s him. I know by his breathing, which sounds just like Dad’s. “You need to know that it’s a real asshole thing to do, calling me like this, especially when we agreed that you would never contact me directly. What? Is it about the club
?” I am on my feet, gripping the back of the couch as Sissy pretends to watch the muted TV. “Because any club stuff—we do that through middlemen. You know that. Is it about Dad? Oh wait, Dad’s dead, died in the life you’re currently living. Is it about Mom? Oh wait, she’s gone too. Which still didn’t stop you abandoning me. So what? So what?”
“Meghan,” Jackson says. “Now isn’t the time for arguments.”
“I should just hang up on you.” I go into the bedroom and sit on the edge of the bed, but I can’t sit still for long. I end up pacing up and down. “I told you, Jackson, I fucking told you! Why can’t you ever listen? I said don’t call me. I said that!” I’m vaguely aware that my anger is making me repeat myself, or maybe it’s the alcohol. But it’s like he doesn’t understand. “Why couldn’t you just do this one thing for me?”
“Just stop!” he roars. His voice echoes from his end. It sounds like he’s in a tunnel. When we were kids he used to go to this old rail tunnel up in the valley where he’d sit for hours and drink and smoke cigarettes. I wonder if he’s found another private place. “I don’t want to argue,” he goes on, calming himself only with an audible effort. “But I don’t have time for your bullshit, all right?”