“Is it straight?”
“It’s perfect,” she says with a smile.
So is she.
Dressed in sweats, without a stitch of makeup and her wet hair wrapped up in a towel, she’s fucking perfect.
Perfect and mine.
She grabs the second frame and hands it to me.
“Slave driver,” I tease, throwing her a wink as I set the frame down on the couch and hammer in the second nail.
“I’ll make it up to you,” she promises. “After target practice, we’ll come home and I’ll let you have your way with me.”
Shaking my head, I let out a chuckle and glance at her.
“Sorry babe, no shooting today,” I tell her as I finish hanging the second photo. Once both are aligned perfectly on the wall, I step off the sofa and turn to her.
Trying to hide her disappointment she cocks her head and studies me.
“But I have therapy today,” she reminds me.
Shooting is our thing.
No matter what, come hell or high water, after every therapy session we drive down to Pop’s and fire off a couple of rounds. The old grump fucking hates me for breaking into his shooting range but he’s got a soft spot for Ally and never denies us.
But today is different.
Today, I get to rewrite another first for Ally.
“We’ll go shooting tomorrow,” I tell her, taking her hands in mine. “You’re a sharp shooter, darlin’.”
She’s got a better aim than me but I’ll never admit that out loud—I might as well hand over my balls if I do.
“But we can’t pull off the perfect crime if you can’t drive a getaway car,” I continue.
“I beg to differ,” she retorts, cocking an eyebrow. “My driving abilities are just fine. They got me to you, didn’t they?”
“That they did,” I agree, smiling. “Still, as much of a badass as you are, I thought maybe we’d get you a driver’s license.”
Her face softens and her eyes widen.
“Time to teach you how to drive, darlin’”
“For real?”
I nod.
“One of the prospects brought in a Mustang the other day. It needs some work and a fresh coat of paint but as soon as I saw it, I bought it from him,” I reveal. “Got your brother working on it already and once he’s done fixing everything under the hood, we’re going to paint that baby candy apple red.”
Her fingers squeeze mine and she leans into me, releasing a little squeal.
“You bought me a car?”
“Baby steps,” I remind her, wrapping our joined hands around her. “Gonna take it slow, yeah? First a car, then a Harley.”
“Baby steps,” she agrees with a smile.
“Love that smile,” I murmur. “Do anything to keep it there,” I add, leaning down to touch my lips to hers.
“I love you, Deuce,” she whispers against my mouth.
We may not be bank robbers, but we’re a lot like Bonnie and Clyde. We’ve got that ride or die love.
The kind of love that burns until you reach the end of the line.
Bonus Epilogue
A man who can’t visualize his future will always return to his past. He’ll play back every moment, every memory and wish for a do over.
A second chance.
Unless that man is me.
Then he knows for certain he’s not worthy.
A man who has made as many mistakes as I have doesn’t get a chance to live life the way he wants. He doesn’t get to choose his path. He gets a sentence for his crimes and is forced to suffer.
My sentence began at a young age, an age when I thought I was invincible—an age when I didn’t understand consequences and still thought the world was a giant fucking playground. A time when I believed in dreams and thought I could make them all come true.
I was born a musician.
Some call it talent but to me, music is food for the soul. It’s as natural as breathing and just as necessary as air. It was my first love and it should have been my only love.
I was foolish.
I was young.
I was fucking hard-headed.
I was eighteen when I met Savannah and she was sixteen. Growing up in Nashville, everyone called themselves musicians. They all thought they had what it took to make it and had dreams of going platinum. But, Savannah needed to create music as much as me. Being young as we were, no one took us seriously. Both, her parents and mine didn’t only try to crush our dreams, but they did everything in their power to keep us apart. They thought our young love wasn’t real and our dreams were invalid.
We knew better.
Or so we thought.
Having had enough, we took off. We ran away with nothing but the clothes on our back and my guitar. We thought we could survive on love and music alone but we quickly learned we were wrong.
Both of us were too stubborn to admit defeat, and we struggled to get by. We lived on the streets, ate leftovers from dumpsters and washed in public restrooms. Every day we’d pick a busy corner, I’d play my guitar, and she’d sing her heart out. Most people frowned at us and few threw us a dime. It was a shit way to live, but we had one another and somehow that was enough to keep us going.
Until one night after I lulled her to sleep with my guitar and her stomach rumbled over the melody. It was then I noticed she was withering away to nothing, and I feared our time was running thin. I had to figure out a way for us to survive. I had to man the fuck up and take care of my girl. Music wasn’t cutting it and so, I took to the streets and left my guitar behind.
My hands were magic.
They not only created symphonies, but they rolled winning numbers. Rolling dice in the basement of some gangster’s restaurant, I found my true calling as a con. There is something to be said about the power one feels when they scam a room of dangerous men and take them for every fucking cent they have.
I earned enough money to rent a room for me and Savi that night. We ate like kings, showered with hot water and fell asleep in a warm bed. After getting a taste of civilization there was no way we could go back to the streets and so my life as a con-artist took flight.
It didn’t matter big or small if I found a way to turn a quick buck I took advantage of it.
A year into it, I played my first major card game and won ten grand. It was my biggest score to date, and the high was incredible, making it easy to forget all about my music. One win and I thought I was unbeatable.
I also thought I was the luckiest son of a bitch to ever walk the earth and I started gambling. We were living large, so large on Savannah’s eighteenth birthday I hired a private helicopter to take us around the city. I promised her this was just the beginning and told her I was going to marry her one day. I’d take her to Hollywood and get her the best agent. She’d sing in front of crowds of people and all her dreams would come true.
I had every intention of fulfilling those promises.
Then I lost.
And I lost big.
I owed over thirty grand to a man who went by the name of Butcher. Back then, I hadn’t read between the lines. I stupidly believed he owned a pork store and chopped up cows. When I couldn’t pay I learned, it wasn’t cows he ground through those machines.
My poor judgment…my greed cost Savannah her life.
The Butcher grabbed her from our room and made me watch as they brutally dismembered every part of her beautiful body. The motherfucker spared me having to watch him dispose of her but before he threw me out on my ass; he made sure I knew what he was going to do and flicked on the grinder.
If I had any balls whatsoever, I would’ve killed myself. I stood on the train tracks more times than I can count but I never followed through with it.
I returned to the streets and wished for them to end my nightmare but of course, it didn’t happen. You see, that’s where my sentence began.
And now, here I am paralyzed in a wheelchair, still paying for my sins.
The doctors say its te
mporary but, who the fuck knows. Watching my girl die, knowing her life was ending because of me wasn’t enough. God wanted more from me. He’s rooted me to this fucking chair and left me with nothing.
I may have been born a musician but I’ll die a loner.
A loner who has one chance to save his club.
A single chance to bring a cocksucker named Vladimir Yankovich to his death.
And I’m going to use cards to do it.
It’s now or never.
Do or die.
With nothing but my life to lose, I’m all in.
COMING SOON
The conclusion to The Nomad Series
LONER
Excerpt of From the Ruins
Prologue
Twenty years ago, I found my religion. I didn’t find it in a church or at some temple. There was no holy figure praying for me, welcoming me into his kingdom as he submerged me in water.
There was me.
And there was Satan.
Dressed in leather, I kneeled before his altar and instead of chanting well-rehearsed prayers I took an oath. Fearing nothing, I vowed to ride through the valley of the shadow of death with my brothers at my side. I swore to serve and protect. To uphold simple values like honor, integrity, trust and respect.
Old school shit.
The kinda shit the punk ass kids of today know nothing about.
People think being a biker is all about riding. They think it’s an excuse to wear leather and fuck the law. They know what society tells them and that’s all they’ll ever know because, like any other lifestyle, if you don’t live it, you don’t know it.
They don’t know loyalty is the core of a biker that it’s the one thing that binds one brother to another. In a world gone soft, loyalty means a fuck of a lot. It’s the thing that takes years to build and only seconds to destroy.
For years I built that shit up but, in every life there comes a day of reckoning. For the righteous it’s a joyous event, for the wicked it’s the day when values are severed. It’s the day darkness is exposed and sinners are punished for their trespasses. My punishment, my day of reckoning came when my wife died.
Finding her amongst the ruins maimed, her head barely connected to her body, ruined me. I’ve seen a lot of shit in my life, most of it ugly as fuck but watching them close the body bag, having to let go as they wheeled her to the morgue—that fucking wrecked me. Left with nothing but a pair of red shoes and a need for revenge, I lost my religion.
Once the man who believed in the sanction of brotherhood, I am now a widower whose club got his wife killed. I’m the man who stripped off his leathers and ran to the woods. The man who gave Jack Parrish and his club a pardon when they deserved death.
Now, here I am in upstate New York, in a podunk town fucking two whores to remind myself I’m alive. Turning to the brunette, I watch her finger fuck herself as she keeps her eyes pinned to the blonde riding my cock. My fingers curl into blonde’s hips and I lift her off. She whines as I reach for the brunette, pulling her fingers from her pussy.
“Your turn,” I growl, as I roll over and settle between her legs. My eyes dart to the blonde as she brings a bottle of whiskey to her lips. Reaching over, I snatch it away from her before she gets a taste. A phony pout works her lips as I take a swig of the alcohol.
“Don’t share my booze, bitch,” I sneer, as I lean over and set the nearly empty bottle on the nightstand. Then I grab another condom and replace the one already covering me. “Now, sit on her face and fuck her mouth,” I command as I spread the brunette’s legs wide and position myself between them. I slam my cock deep inside without any regard. The bitch can take it—her fucking pussy has more mileage than my Harley.
The obedient blonde matches my stance and straddles the brunette’s mouth. She grabs my hands and places them on her fake as fuck tits. Twisting her nipples between my fingers, I continue to pound into the other bitch. Then I close my eyes, forget who I am and what I lost and let the whiskey take me away.
The blonde wails as she comes.
The brunette claws my ass as she does too.
Then just when I’m about to join them, I hear the rumbling engine of a bike. Knowing it’s not mine and pairing it with the knowledge that there ain’t much chrome around these parts, I pull out of the cunt and scramble off the bed. Grabbing my gun from the top drawer of my nightstand, I head toward the window and push the vinyl blinds out of my way. The bike turns into my driveway and I’m temporarily blinded by the headlights.
“Are you going to finish?” the brunette pants.
Blinking, I focus as the engine dies and the headlights dim. Then I lift my eyes to the man straddling the bike and watch as he throws his leg over.
Fucking Parrish.
Grinding my teeth, I turn to the two bitches in my bed playing with one another.
“Party’s over. Get your clothes and get the fuck out,” I order as I lower my gun and pull the rubber from my cock. Tossing it into the wastebasket, I wrap my hand around my shaft and wonder if I got enough time to rub one out before Parrish comes barreling through my front door.
Then his fists pounds against my door, answering my question.
“You’re replacing us?”
“I said get your shit together and get the fuck out. That’s not an invitation to ask questions,” I clarify as I pull on my jeans.
Lifting the zipper is painful and I forgo buttoning the top button before, pulling open the door and padding through my house. Glancing at the gun in my hand, I pull back the safety as Jack’s knuckles rap one final time against my front door. Then my eyes dart down to the mat covering the worn floorboards, to the red heels resting neatly next to my boots.
“Open the door, Pipe,” Jack demands. His voice echoes as I stare at the shoes and my wife’s lifeless eyes assault my memory.
Trying to erase the image from my mind, I swipe a hand over my face and scratch at the scruff lining my jaw before I open the door. Eyes as dark as the soul of the man they belong to peer back at me and the last twenty years flash in front of me, reminding me of a time when we would race against the rain. Days when Parrish and I would ride the wind and chase sun on our bikes. Days when brotherhood was the conditioning of a man’s soul. Days when I was proud to call the man standing in front of me family.
However, those memories fade as quickly as they appear and are replaced with the bitterness of truth. Jack Parrish is no brother of mine. He’s nothing.
“You going to invite me in or we going to do this on your front porch?” he questions, rolling a toothpick between his lips. Then I watch his eyes dart toward the house next to mine. “Got an audience, Pipe. You want me to blow this shit wide across your lawn to your neighbors? Might tarnish your good reputation around these parts.”
He pauses and glances over my shoulder as the two girls stumbling down the hallway.
“Never mind,” Jack grunts. “Looks, like you got that covered.”
Red hot anger pulses in my veins and hammers against my chest as I step forward and narrow my eyes at him.
“You judging me Parrish? That’s pretty fucking rich coming from you considering it wasn’t all that long ago you would’ve been looking for an invitation to join the fun,” I growl.
Silently his eyes penetrate through me as he shoves his hands in his pockets and takes a step back.
“That was a long time ago,” he finally replies. “Things were different then.”
He’s not wrong.
Back in the day, things weren’t just different, they were fucking good. Great even. Jack was voted president and our club fucking soared. We made money hand over fist, partied until the sun came up and rode until our tanks ran out. The times have changed. Brotherhood no longer means respect and wearing Jack’s patch isn’t a thing of honor but a thing of destruction.
The brunette and the blonde slide beside me and stare between me and Jack.
“Hi handsome,” the blonde croons.
Jack’s eyes don’t waver
from mine.
“Not interested,” he dismisses automatically.
“That’s right,” I snarl. “Parrish, here, has a good woman at home waiting for him to fuck her senseless.”
“Overstepping, brother,” Jack warns, his jaw ticking with anger.
Hearing him call me his brother causes something inside me to snap and I step forward, poking my finger into the brick wall of his chest.
“You don’t get to call me brother,” I grind out.
Remaining completely still, his eyes drift toward the girls next to me.
“Time for you two to leave,” he orders.
“You don’t get to come into my house and demand shit, Parrish. I don’t take orders from you anymore, which means neither does anyone I’m fucking,” I growl, poking my finger harder against his chest. He doesn’t react, a sure sign that the fucking lithium he takes daily has decided to work for today.
Lucky me.
Realizing his maker isn’t controlling him and that he’s not going to go away until he’s spoken his piece, I drop my hand and slice my eyes back to the two girls.
“Get out,” I tell them.
“Will you call?”
Call? I don’t even know their fucking names. I picked them up at a fucking gas station and they followed me back here on the promise of a couple of orgasms.
“No,” I answer honestly as they step over the threshold and brush past Parrish. I watch briefly as they stumble down my front porch.
“What the fuck are you doing, Pipe?” Jack calls, dragging my attention away from the two slobs. I ignore the concern etched on his aging face and turn around. There ain’t no point in closing the door in his face, the motherfucker will only take it off the hinge—when Jack Parrish wants a word, he moves heaven and hell to get it.
Making my way into the kitchen, I open the fridge and grab myself a beer and damn myself for wasting my whiskey. Listening as Jack’s boots pound against the worn floor, I twist the cap off and slam the fridge closed.
“I gave you time,” he starts as I bring the bottle to my lips. Pausing, I drop my hand and slam the bottle down on the counter.
Roamer (The Nomad Series Book 3) Page 35