by Violet Blaze
A hot rocker boy with a sultry Southern accent.
A Weeping Bones Motorcycle Club daughter turned assassin.
A billionaire auction gone wrong.
Biker Rockstar Billionaire CEO Alpha
Biker Rockstar Billionaire CEO Alpha © Caitlin Stunich 2017
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 embodied in critical articles or reviews.
For information address Sarian Royal Indie Publishing, 89365 Old Mohawk Rd, Springfield, OR 97478.
www.sarianroyal.com
ISBN-10: 1938623394 (eBook)
ISBN-13: 978-1-938623-39-9 (eBook)
Cover art and design © Amanda Carroll and Sarian Royal
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, businesses, or locales is coincidental and is not intended by the author.
this book is dedicated to Poe Poe.
I will love you forever and I miss you.
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Seventy miles north of Las Vegas …
Seven Days Later …
The gun pressed tight against the back of my skull, a kiss of metal held in arcadian stillness. The wind swirled my hair against the barrel and whistled around me, ominous cries of pain that mimicked my sister's whimpering. I wasn't crying yet, but I couldn't blame her for shedding some tears—she'd already been shot.
I swallowed hard and tried to get past the taste of sand in my mouth. The gritty granules rubbed against my teeth and scoured my tongue, drying up what could very well be the last words sitting in my mouth. Why you? That's all I wanted to ask, all I needed to know. Of all the people in my life, why did it have to be him? As hard as I tried though, I couldn't speak. I tried to turn my head, but the gun changed my mind about that in an instant, pressing even tighter against me. It was like a violation, an assault.
A creak of leather sounded behind me before I could feel his breath on my neck. A droplet of blood, twice as scalding as the white sun above us, slid down my tattooed arm and pooled against the silver chain on my wrist. In the back of my mind, I imagined that I could hear the squealing of tires on the pavement, the growl of hogs in the distance. But that was all my imagination. Nobody was coming for us this time. My brothers had always said that one day, I'd bite off more than I could chew.
I guess I had.
And I'd taken Layla along with me.
“Let her go,” I pushed those words out in a whispered hiss, sand soaked saliva sliding over my lips and drying instantly in the sun. My mouth felt cracked and blistered from my fall; I didn't even want to know what my face looked like. Let's see, thirty miles an hour? Hard packed sand and dirt? Some rocks? Gravel. That hurt. That really, really hurt.
“Nobody's going anywhere. Not you, not her. Not even me. We're all going to sit here and wait.” I could hear the disgust in his voice. I supposed if I was in his position—ignorant and arrogant and stupid as hell—I'd have it, too. He knew it all. Everything. The sordid details of my existence for the past week. Out here with the desert sky looking down on me and the mountains' pointed glares, I had no reason to deny it. For years, I'd played it safe, not wanting people to look at me the way he was looking at me right now.
Guess I was getting what I deserved.
Seven days. That was all it had taken for my life to transform completely, set me on a path I never knew I'd be following. From lying to myself to seeing a crack form inside of me that would set all my dark truths and desires free. From hating what I'd become to relishing it.
And it all started with a boy—with an asshole.
I loved it when my ol' man called me into his office—mostly because I liked to screw his secretary.
“Fuck,” I groaned, grinding my hips against the petite little blonde's, twisting my fingers in a handful of her hair. She tilted her head back and gave me access to her pale, perfect throat. I ran my tongue along her skin, tasting the sweat that was beading there, eating up the proof that I was doin' this right, doing her right.
See, I didn't just like to fuck women—I wanted to pleasure them, shake them to their cores and feel them tighten around me when they came. Can you even believe Miss Laura here didn't have her first orgasm until she was twenty-four? That's a goddamn travesty if you ask me. Thankfully, I was able to take care of that for her. Imagine how many other women must be suffering in the same way?
I might've just been one man, but I aimed to make the world a little better—one hot, frenzied fuck at a time.
“Oh my god, Dash,” she moaned as I rammed her into the granite countertop of the ladies' bathroom. Hopefully nobody walked in on us. But if they did? Oh well. I was the prince of this palace so to speak, future CEO of Buchanan Bikes—much to my own damn chagrin. Besides, my sins weren't nothin' when compared to my daddy's. They could deal. “Deeper, Dash. Deeper.”
“Turn your ass over and I'll be happy to oblige.” I slid out of Laura's slick, wet heat and spun her around, pushing her chest into the sink. We both groaned as I filled her up again, pounded my pelvis into her firm round ass.
And I'd thought visiting my dad today was going to be boring?
Hell, if this was on the agenda for the workday, I'd gladly quit avoiding his calls and drag my butt over here more often—even if all he ever fuckin' did was bitch about my music and my band. That crotchety old bastard could go screw himself; he was more twisted than the panties hanging off Miss Laura's dainty white ankles.
I glanced up and caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, sweat beading on my forehead, a stray droplet sticking to my lower lip. I flashed a grin and then leaned over, curling my fingers gently around Laura's pale throat, drawing her head up so I could meet the eyes of her reflection. She bit back a gasp, tucking that red rouged lip of hers beneath white, white teeth. Her eyes were ringed in liner, and they looked huge, open, bare as I kept our gazes locked, ramming into her again and again and again.
An orgasm caught her first; I could see it building in the curl of her spine, the tightness of her fingers as she clawed at the countertop with her perfectly manicured nails.
“Dash!” she screamed, loud enough that I wouldn't be surprised if one of the security guards came traipsing in here. “Oh God, yes.” Her voice broke like a wave cresting on a rock, crashing around me as she squeezed tight, holding my body captive for one, perfect moment. One fucking perfect moment where I didn't have to be anyone or anything except myself. Sex is like a drug, ain't it? And I couldn't seem to stop myself from leaping between highs. “Wow,” Laura said as I pulled away and dropped my used condom in the stainless steel trash can. I fixed my jeans as I watched her turn around and gather herself together, smoothing strands of blonde back into place, adjusting her suit jacket and skirt, pulling up her panties. “That was amazing. Please tell me you'll be coming into the office more often?”
I shrugged and reached into my back pocket for a smoke.
“I'm going on tour this summer with the girls,” I told her and pretended not to notice when her face crumpled. Laura was nice and all, but she had this attention to detail that drove me nuts. Everything with her was so perfect, so put together. I liked angry, messy girls, girls with wild hair, makeup on one eye but not the other, a bedroom floor strewn with books and T-shirts and high heels still in the box. I didn't have to ask myself why or get introspective
about it—I knew why I liked chaos. The answer was pretty simple: my father made me this way. That son of a bitch raised me in nothin' but chaos. “I'll see you when I get back?” I lit my cigarette and watched as Linda's eyes crinkled at the corners. Last time I saw her, she gave me a packet of brochures on the dangers of lung cancer.
“Sure thing, Dash,” she said and then pointed a red-nailed finger at me, “just don't tell your dad we did it again.”
I stood outside the door to my father's office with my hands tucked into my front pockets. There was nothing—and I mean nothing—in this world that made me feel like less of a human being than my dear ol' dad. I was twenty-nine years old, but standin' here like this, I felt like I was thirteen again, fumbling through life with nothing but his drunk cursin' and the weight of his disappointment to keep me company. You'd think a man who'd spent a good portion of his adult life as a criminal, an addict, and an outlaw biker would be a little less … judgmental. Nobody outside his own family would ever believe my pa used to go to church and sing in the damn choir. Fuck. If I'd been told the man was ascended straight from hell, I'd have believed it.
“Don't just stand there, boy,” he said, wrenching open the door before I even got a chance to knock, “come in.” I lifted my head up and took a breath, running my fingers through my hair as I stepped into the cool, air conditioned palace that served as his office. One entire wall was seamless glass, staring down at the city like the eyes of God. I shivered and tucked my hands back in my pockets. “Where've you been? You're late.”
I shrugged again and didn't mention Laura. Knowing my father, he'd probably fire her if he found out we'd slept together—on more than one occasion—but only because she wasn't sleeping with him too. Perverted old asshole. I think he suspected us at last year's Christmas party because he watched her like a hawk when I was around, like she belonged to him or something. Made me sick to my damn stomach. The man was like a bloodhound, able to sniff out even the smallest misdeeds. One time, when I was fourteen, he found a half-smoked joint that I'd hidden in the back of the toilet and beat my ass for not sharing it with him. Crazy motherfucker. I shivered and shook my head to clear it; I wasn't a teenager anymore. Thank Jesus for that.
“You've remodeled recently,” I said, hoping my words came out as the insult they were intended to be. Xavier Buchanan's office was slick and shiny, steel and leather and glass, and it looked more like a room that'd be found in an uptight East Coast corporate shithole—not in a Las Vegas motorcycle club conglomerate funded with blood money.
“I ain't got time for your bullshit,” Xavier said, lighting up a cigarette in his fancy New York style office as I smiled sharply. I guess you could take the outlaw out of the gang, but you could never take the gang out of the outlaw. The expensive suit and the fancy haircut couldn't disguise the fact that my dad, he was backwoods trash and always would be. His brothers—before he betrayed them, I mean—used to call him Veer because he always gettin' drunk and crashing his bike.
And now look at him—a motherfucking billionaire in a tailored suit playing the part of an entrepreneur. How … quant.
“Then why'd you call me in here?” I asked, my accent thick and dripping with mixed-up, mashed up Old South. I knew it drove him up the wall to hear my mama all the hell over me. I'd moved around so damn much I could affect whatever accent I wanted, but around dear ol' daddy, it was this. Aw, hell, who am I kidding, it was always this.
Served that fucker right for stealing me away from my mother.
“You know I'm nothin' but bullshit,” I drawled, leaning against the wall and crossing my booted feet at the ankles. Dad might've wanted to pretend he hadn't crawled out of a white trash trailer in the middle of nowhere fuckin' Nevada, but I didn't have any need for that particular illusion. My mother was a Southern belle from a good family, and I had roots.
Besides, nobody needed to tell me that I was better than my ol' man. I knew him better than most, and I knew that there was nothing—and I mean nothing—inside that awful black heart o' his. The man was gettin' too big for his expensive tailored britches, and yet nobody around here seemed willing to test his limits.
Except for me.
“You've got duties here and yet I see this shit lyin' across my desk when I come in.”
He tossed a stack of printouts and I watched them fall, fluttering to land on the polished marble floors beneath my feet. This place was cheesier than Caesars Palace with its pretentious poshness, but I supposed it fit in well out here in the desert. Las Vegas was nothin' but a con, a thriving city that survived on the stolen lifeblood of wetter regions. Like my poor pa, taking the club's money to open his business.
I didn't bother to bend down and check out the papers on the floor—I knew what they were about. My band, Pistols and Violets, was all over the news nowadays.
“Lord willin' and the creek don't rise, we'll keep on being on the front page,” I said as I stood up and purposely strode across the paper, leaving the prints of my boots behind. “I don't want anything to do with a business that's built on blood. You are a walkin', talkin' dead man far as I'm concerned. You think I want to inherit your shit?”
“Whether you like it or not, you have inherited it, Son. Buchanan Bikes is a multibillion-dollar beast now. You think you can use my money up and prance around like some choirboy?”
I laughed, letting my head fall back and my eyes close.
A choirboy.
Me.
I dropped my chin back down to look at Veer, the ex-treasurer for the Weeping Bones Motorcycle Club, and I smirked.
“You stole me from my mama, auctioned me off, and then took her family's ransom money and raised me in dirty hotels. And then, when you managed to get your shit together, when we had one good thing in our lives, you went and you fucked it. So, Daddy, yeah, I think I will live on your money and I won't do shit for your business, how does that sound?”
“I oughta tan your hide, boy,” he growled as I lit up a cigarette and watched as he raised his hand to me like he'd done too many times to me as a kid. I held my smoke with one hand and snatched his wrist with the other.
“I'm not knee-high to a grasshopper anymore, now am I?” I snarled back at him, shoving his arm away and turning toward the door before things escalated. The fights my pa and I could get into, they weren't pretty.
“They're in town!” he shouted at my back as I pushed my way through the door. “You'd best watch your back, boy.”
Fuck.
If the Weeping Bones were in Las Vegas, then there was only one reason for that.
They were here to kill my old man.
“There is no way I'm going to a rock concert tonight,” I said as my older sister Layla leaned in the doorway to my bedroom dressed in a torn black tank over a vibrant orange bra. Her pants were too tight and too low, and her belly button ring glinted in the dim light of my bedroom. “I have a ton of work to do and—”
“Work?” she asked, sashaying into the room and looking around. We used to share this room when we were kids, but with my oldest sisters married and living in houses of their own, there was plenty of space now. Half of me relished the change, and the other half of me was lonely. For somebody who grew up with four sisters and four brothers, that was a strange concept. “What work? You're a bartender, Adelaide. Bartenders don't bring their work home with them.”
“There's a lot more to it than just pouring drinks—”
She interrupted me again, and I slammed the lid of my laptop.
“Not at a biker bar, sweetie. If you want to make cosmopolitans, you're going to have to move out of Ridgecrest.”
“No, are you serious?” I asked sarcastically, batting my lashes and pushing my computer aside. As the youngest of nine, I was used to getting bossed around by my siblings. If Layla really wanted me to go to this concert, I'd probably get dragged along whether I wanted to go or not. You'd think by age twenty-five, I'd have figured out how to tell them no. But it was less that I didn't think I could and m
ore that I didn't really want to. I liked my family, flaws and all. “So where's this concert at?”
“Vegas,” she said, and I got a chill down my spine. Las Vegas was sort an unspoken no-fly zone for the Weeping Bones MC and their families. That's where Buchanan Bikes was set up, their fancy company protected by the swollen ranks of traitors and rats and common criminals.
I gritted my teeth.
“Oh, don't get like that,” Layla said with a sigh, sitting down on the bed beside me, her hair the same color as the dead scrubby grass outside the window, this pale dishwater blonde she'd inherited from her mother. My brothers and sisters all had basically the same hair color, but three years after their mother passed away, my dad remarried and I got his new wife's—my mom's—dark raven locks instead.
I hated them so much that I'd stripped the darkness down with bleach and dyed my entire head purple—a glossy aubergine that sometimes looked black anyway, an annoying fact that my siblings teased me about mercilessly. And the eldest was forty-seven years old for fuck's sake. Bastard.
But … my hair had given me a nickname: the Violet Assassin.
It was only funny until I was slitting your throat.
“Cainen and the boys went into town for business, and Maverick is joining them later tonight. He invited me to go, and he said I should bring you along since if left to your own devices, you'd never get yourself out of the house.”
A chill slithered down my spine as I tucked my feet up on the bed and leaned forward, curly purple hair sliding past my shoulders.
If Maverick was inviting me—even vicariously through Layla—to come to Vegas, then he really needed me to come.
Fuck.
I swept my hands back and over my hair and looked at Layla with a smile I didn't feel.
“Who's playing?” I asked and watched as her maroon painted mouth twisted up in a grin.
“Pistols and Violets,” she said, and I felt my own smile crack.