Devil's Angels Boxed Set: Bikers and Alpha Bad Boy Erotic Romance

by Joanna Wilson

  She got to the top of the stairs and froze as she heard Christian’s voice. What on earth was going on and why wasn’t he at home? She’d never heard him sound so coldly furious.

  She tiptoed closer, putting her ear to the door. She wished she hadn’t.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  “Lacey Cooper. Remember her?” Atticus said the words with enough venom to kill.

  “I remember Lacey. She was a sweet girl. Kind of wild, but nice.” Christian’s forehead wrinkled with confusion. What the hell did Lacey have to do with anything?

  “Lacey was my God-daughter. Did you know that? I loved that kid almost as much as I love Sandy. You knocked her up and sent her off to have an abortion so nobody would know. She died trying to get rid of your bastard kid. Bled to death. That’s what YOU did.” Atticus sat back, so angry that he was breathing hard. It didn’t feel good to get it off his chest like everyone always said. It felt like fire was eating him from the inside out. He wanted to wrap his hands around the little shit’s neck.

  “I see. Let me guess, that information came from Gary, your former second?” Christian felt everything click into place. The reason he’d hated him taking the spot of the second. The reason he wanted him away from Sandy. The reason he’d hated him all this time was over another man’s lies.

  “He told me everything. How you got her drunk before you fucked her, then pretended it didn’t happen when she came to you and told you that she was pregnant. How when she wouldn’t let it go you threw a wad of cash at her and told her to go ‘take care of it’. He told me every little detail that Lacey gave him when he was driving her up to Houston to have that abortion.”

  Atticus’ face was twisted in rage, but Christian didn’t care. He was just as enraged, only because he’d been the unwitting scapegoat for someone else’s mistakes. “I never laid a hand on Lacey. Lacey was already involved with someone when I came here. Someone who didn’t want anyone to know about his little piece on the side. Especially his wife.”

  “You think you can pin this off on someone else? Do you really expect me to believe that it was someone else? Especially considering the information came to me from someone I trusted with my life?” Atticus used his finger to punctuate each word.

  “I guess you never bothered to ask just how far along Lacey was in her pregnancy, did you? Mariah knew. She was almost four months along. I’d only been here a month at the time Lacey left.”

  All the color drained from Atticus’ face. “That can’t be true. Gary would have never lied to me. I can call Mariah right now and ask her.”

  Christian sat back and gestured towards the phone on his desk. “Call her then.” He waited while the old man just sat there staring at him. He could see the wheels turning. “Gary was the father of Lacey’s baby. I guess I made a convenient scapegoat. If you’d ever bothered to find out anything about me, you’d have known that I would never let any woman who was pregnant with my child out of my sight.”

  It couldn’t be true. He didn’t want it to be true. Gary had been more than a second, he’d been like a brother. Conversations they’d had about the situation came back to him. How he didn’t want Atticus to confront Christian and kick him out. That it had been a private matter and that, ultimately, Lacey had made the decision that cost her own life. That he couldn’t just kick Christian out of the club for something Lacey herself had wanted done.

  Gary had lied to him. Even if he didn’t want to admit it, he could tell that Christian was telling the truth. There was nothing in his eyes now but pity. “What have I done?”

  The door opened behind him and Sandy walked into the room, unadulterated disgust on her face. “What you did, Daddy, was judge a man without any real evidence, then condemn him to years of mistreatment. You deserve to go to jail for what you had done to Christian. I thought you were better than this. Thought you were a man that people could look up too.”

  “Sandy, please—” Atticus stood and reached out for his daughter but she pulled away, tears of anger and disgust running down her face. She shook her head at him then turned and ran out the door.

  *****

  Atticus made to go after her, but Christian stood and stopped him. “Let her go, Atticus. She needs time to calm down.”

  The older man walked back to his desk and sat heavily in his chair. He didn’t know what to say or do. He’d been so angry that it had made him stupid. All these years of hatred would cost him his daughter. Mariah too, probably. “What are you going to do, Christian?”

  “Question is, what are you going to do, Atticus?” Christian’s head was starting to hurt from all the stress and anger that had been riding him since Mariah had shown up at his door. “Right now, only a couple of people know what you did. You can be a coward, pretend it didn’t happen, and lose your entire family—or you can stand up and turn yourself in, take your punishment and start earning everyone’s respect back.”

  Christian’s words shocked him. He’d figured that he’d call the cops, but he wasn’t doing that. He was giving him a chance to redeem himself. He’d obviously misjudged the young man. “Why would you do that after everything I’ve done?”

  Taking a deep breath, Christian said the words that he’d never expected to say in his life. Words he thought would never be meant for someone like him. “Because I’m in love with your daughter, and I want her to be able to be proud of the men in her life. I’m doing it for her.”

  Atticus nodded, then picked up the handset on the old phone in his office. “Who do I ask for?”

  “Detective Mann. He’s a good guy.” Christian waited while he dialed and was patched through to the Detective.

  While Atticus was talking, he pulled the disposable cell out of his drawer and set it on the desk. He wouldn’t be the only one going down today. When he hung up from the Detective, he dialed his lawyer and told him to come immediately to the office.

  Atticus stood and walked around the desk, offering Christian his hand. There was a short moment when he thought the younger man might refuse, then he stood slowly and shook it. “Go find my daughter.”

  Christian managed a small smile. “I know just where to look.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

  Much like the last time they’d been here, the sky was darkening with the possibility of a storm. The air seemed to crackle with electricity. He’d gotten one of the guys to drop him off at the entrance to the pond. This was her favorite place to go when she needed to think.

  His leg was really hurting by the time he walked the hundred feet to where she was sitting on the picnic table where they’d had their first encounter. She was crying so hard that her body shook. She never even heard him coming up behind her.

  She didn’t react when he put his hand on her back and pulled her against his chest. “Hey, pretty girl.”

  Sandy just cried harder. How could he be here, trying to comfort her when her Daddy had nearly killed him with his hatred? It didn’t make sense. It was partially her fault. She’d known how her Daddy had felt, yet she’d gone against his wishes and started something with Christian that she shouldn’t have. Something that nearly cost him his life.

  “You think I don’t know what’s going through that pretty little head of yours?” Christian shifted her over and sat down, pulling her back against his chest immediately. “You’re blaming yourself for what happened. Thinking that if you’d never been with me that Atticus would never have done what he did.”

  She nodded. “I wouldn’t blame you if you never wanted to see my face again.”

  “And yet, here I am, sitting on this crappy picnic bench, trying to find a way to make you stop crying because seeing you cry is killing me.” What he had to say was probably going to make it worse, but he wasn’t about to start lying to her now. “He turned himself in to Detective Mann. He wants to make this right. For you. For Mariah. He loves you both very much.”

  Sandy sighed and dried her eyes with the backs of her hands. “I know he loves us. I just don’t know if I’ll ev
er be able to trust him again.”

  “Do you believe people can change?” He took her hand in his and held on.

  “Yeah, I do.” She leaned against his shoulder, looking out over the water. Lightning streaked across the sky and they could feel it on their skin. “Storm’s coming.”

  Christian lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it softly. “We’ll get through it. Together.”

  RETURN TO TABLE OF CONTENTS

  SAFE IN YOUR ARMS

  EMILY STONE

  CHAPTER ONE

  Paxton Keller made several quick motions with his left hand and then pulled his motorcycle into the parking place in front of the Wild Kat Bar. Jimmy and Short John, his wingmen, pulled their bikes in alongside him, making sure, as he had, to keep the bikes pointed out toward the street in case this was a trap. Tommy, the front buffer, continued on around the block to look for signs of trouble. Dave, who had been riding back buffer, also pulled into the parking spaces, but his bike faced outward in the opposite direction of the others to give him a clear view of traffic approaching from the rear.

  Pax sat astride his bike with his left foot holding him in balance. Out of habit, he revved the engine several times as he waited for Tommy to return. The Wild Kat wasn’t a biker bar—it was a college bar near the University of Arizona campus in Phoenix—but that didn’t mean it was safe. You didn’t have to be at a biker bar for it to be a trap. You didn’t have to be on enemy turf for them to kill you.

  Short John put down his kickstand and dismounted. He stood beside his bike looking carefully at the surrounding streets and buildings. Rooftops were clear. No windows were dark and open. No vans were parked nearby.

  Short John was almost six-four, but the former president of the Camden Knights was known as Long John, and so Short John, although much taller, was stuck with the name.

  Actually, Long John was short. He was only about five foot eight. There were many women who believed that Long John’s name was accurate, but referred to a totally different aspect of his anatomy. The truth was, however, that it had nothing to do with height or physical endowment. When Pax and John were in grade school together, one of their teachers made them read Treasure Island. Since John’s last name was Silverman, he immediately became Long John Silverman after the pirate of a similar name in the book. Later he grew into his name, so to speak, and became somewhat of a legend in high school.

  Now Long John was dead. It was an accident, or at least that was what the official police reports had said. Pax wasn’t so sure. Yes, it was a dangerous curve. Yes, the impact with the trees had been at high speed. Yes, it had all the signs of someone who had lost control on the curve and careened off the road into the trees. But something wasn’t right. If Long John was going off the curve into the trees, he would have dropped the bike. But the bike didn’t slide into the trees as if it had been laid down. It went into them head-on.

  Maybe it was an accident. Motorcycles aren’t so much dangerous as they are unforgiving. Long John might have made some minor mistake that at lower speed in a wider curve wouldn’t have been significant. But at speed in that tight curve, it had been fatal.

  Or, maybe it wasn’t a mistake. Maybe it was just shit luck. Maybe a deer or some other animal had run across the road in front of him. He could have even hit a bird or flying debris as he went into the curve. It could have been anything. It could have been an accident, but late last night Pax had received a whispered phone call that said: “If you want to know who killed Long John, be at the Wild Kat Bar at seven o’clock tomorrow night.”

  That was all it said, but that was enough. So, tonight Paxton Keller, President-elect of the Camden Knights Motorcycle Club, waited outside the Wild Kat Bar while his bodyguards scanned for unknown enemies in the shadows around him.

  Actually, his primary enemy was already known... the Hell’s Marauders. They were more of a protection association for the Hispanic community, but any power without accountability becomes corrupt. The Knights had.

  The Marauders’ president, Theo Johnson, tried to keep them in line, but many of his members had relatives in Mexico and therefore access to drugs. They wanted to emulate the Camden Knights in bringing product north through the deserts of southern Arizona. Long John’s death could have been an attempt by the Marauders or some of their members to take over the Knights’ lucrative business. The Knights didn’t sell, and they didn’t buy. They just transported, but there was a lot of money to be made in that type of transportation when you were as good at it as the Knights were. They had never yet lost a shipment.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Inside the Wild Kat Bar, bartender Sammie Johnson set down the glasses she was putting away and cocked her head to listen to the noise from outside. Four--or perhaps five--motorcycles were at the curb. One or two were slowly revving their engines. What puzzled Samantha was the sound of the engines. They weren’t hogs. They didn’t have the characteristic kah-poca, kah-poca, kah-poca of a Harley. But at the same time they didn’t have that higher pitched sound of the Japanese bikes favored by the local college students. And yet, they were modern bikes; they didn’t have the chuff-chuff of the old Indians or Nortons. Even the modern models of those bikes had a somewhat hollow sound to them. These were big bikes with big mills, but what were they?

  Then an image of a policeman popped into Sammie’s mind, and almost immediately she said aloud, “Goots.” They were Moto Guzzis, popular in California, Texas and even Arizona as a police bike because of their large engines, power, and speed. Something told her, however, that these were not policemen gathered out in front of the bar.

  That was verified when Short John stepped into the bar and looked around. He carefully scrutinized the few patrons who were there. He also looked carefully into the apparently empty, darkened corners of the bar. Then he stepped back outside.

  As he turned to leave, Sammie could see the large K with a lance protruding from its center emblazoned on the back of his jacket. The K was the beginning of the word Knights, which was written in large, white gothic script across the back of the jacket. Beneath Knights, it said in red, “Camden.”

  So, she thought, the Wild Kat was being visited by the Camden Knights.

  A few moments later the biker returned, followed by a young man who appeared to be just shy of thirty years old. He, too, was wearing blue jeans and a black jacket that undoubtedly carried the Knights emblem. This one, however, was much more handsome and had an air of authority. He was a leader, and something about him attracted Sammie in a way that she had never felt before. Another Knight entered behind him.

  As Pax stepped further into the Wild Kat, Sammie called out from behind the bar, “Corner booth, no windows behind it, solid wall, with view of both entrances plus the door to the kitchen.”

  He smiled at her in response and asked, “What makes you think that I would want the corner booth?”

  Sammie matched his smile and answered, “I have no idea what you want, but I am sure that your bodyguards will insist on the corner booth.”

  “You got that, lady,” answered Short John curtly.

  “Be nice,” said Pax to Short John, but intentionally loudly enough so that Sammie could hear him at the bar.

  “No waitress tonight,” she announced. “But if you’ll just be seated, I will come over and get your order. Or one of you can come up to the bar. We have any drink you could want and just about any food that can be warmed up in a microwave, including slices of pizza.”

  “Double Jack on the rocks for me,” Pax said as he approached the bar. “And a Pepsi and 7-Up for my ‘friends.’”

  He set his hands on the bar and stared into Sammie’s green-blue eyes. “They’re driving,” he added with a slight laugh as he took in her beauty.

  Pax was captivated by this stunning girl. She was in her early to mid-twenties, and had lost that early bloom of beauty so common to Hispanic women. Most girls of her heritage bloomed early and faded quickly into a darker-skinned version of Pax’s own German grandmothe
r, who was built somewhat along the lines of a stout barrel.

  He read her name tag. Sammie had acquired the size of a post-bloom Hispanic girl, but she was definitely not barrel-shaped. Her ample body was rounded in all the right places and narrowed slightly at the hips to highlight her DD breasts. Had she been wearing a loose-fitting outfit like most women her size wore, her curves would not have been visible. But her tight, University-of-Arizona-blue stretch pants with an equally tight red top hugged and showed off every curve. And there were a lot of them. Obviously, she was proud of her voluptuous body.

  Pax laid several twenties on the bar. “Reverse tab,” he said. “We might be here a while. If we leave early, you get a bigger tip.”

  Sammie took the twenties and put all but one of them under a heavy glass next to the cash register. She rang up the three drinks, put the twenty in the drawer, and put the change in the glass. “I never work an open drawer,” she said to Pax. “Keeps me honest.” She set the drinks in front of Pax, smiled, and added, “Besides, if the owner saw any of us not ringing something up or not closing the cash register, he would throw our asses out of here.”