Crossing Lines (Roughshod Rollers MC Book 1)

by Mia Ford

  Crossing Lines

  Prequel to The Roughshod Rollers MC Romance

  Mia Ford

  Copyright © 2019 by Mia Ford

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, including electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  This book is a piece of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people.

  If you are reading this book and book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it to the seller and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

  Published: Mia Ford 2019

  mia@miafordpublishing.com

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Author’s Note

  Blurb

  Liam

  Grant

  Alex

  Tom

  Ethan

  Kyle

  Excerpt

  Author’s Note

  Stay connected with Mia Ford

  Also by Mia Ford

  Author’s Note

  CROSSING LINES is the prequel to my forthcoming MC Romance Series - The Roughshod Rollers. The first book in this series will be available on Amazon towards middle or end of August’19. So do subscribe to my newsletter to get firsthand information on its release date and other details.

  At the end of this prequel, I have also shared with you the description and Amazon link to my latest bestselling boxed set, “Second Chance Babies”. So, do check that out as you can read that for FREE with your Kindle Unlimited membership.

  Crossing Lines concludes at around 97% on your device.

  Happy Reading!

  XO, Mia Ford

  Blurb

  Three handsome men.

  Three steamy HOT romances.

  Life isn’t easy for either Grant, Ethan or Kyle.

  Their club, “The Roughshod Rollers” is under threat,

  And the only help they get from others is discrimination.

  So they rely on each other and hope for the better,

  But it isn’t that easy.

  As they try to chase their own happiness, life gets more complicated…

  Allison would never want to commit herself to a biker.

  Jessica is already holding a kid in her arms.

  And circumstances are stopping Georgia to be the mother to Lily.

  Well, these men will use all the strength to walk forwards…

  Even if it means fighting against the world to give themselves a complete family!

  Liam

  The powerful engine roars beneath me; the sound of it deafening my ears to any other sounds around me. I peer through the visor on my helmet, my gaze set with focus as I aim for my destination, ignoring the biting wind that stabs through me.

  Finally, I turn onto a familiar street and I press my foot on the brake to slow down, paying no attention to the tiny domestic houses that I pass. I see a woman walking her dog on the path and she makes a face at the loud, obnoxious noise I am making before turning her head away, wanting nothing to do with me. I smirk and continue on; I have no regard for the thoughts of people like her, who would judge the moment they see my bike and the jacket I’m wearing.

  I come to a stop as I reach a small overgrown yard. Distantly, I remind myself to bring up the fact that someone needs to mow the lawn every now and then. Then I remember that it may not be something we will have to worry about for much longer.

  The house that sits behind the yard - weeds starting to weave up its walls - is very small and dilapidated. All over, I can see evidence of our attempts to keep it useable; several boards nailed over holes, a metal pole determinedly holding up the porch roof, tape over broken windows… I have many fond memories of doing the substandard work here with some friends and a few drinks.

  I kill the engine on my bike and swing my leg over, stretching my arms over my head to soothe the kinks that have formed after so long hunched over the handlebars. Then I pull my helmet off my head, breathing in the crisp, morning air, and straighten my black jacket. I wonder if that woman would have given me such a look of disgust if I hadn’t been wearing it.

  Not that it matters. This jacket is my pride and joy. There’s no way I’ll leave it behind because of a few dirty looks.

  As I walk up the path toward the house, I note that there are tire marks leading toward the small garage attached to the house, though the door was closed. The tracks are recent and obvious in the ground that is still wet from the rain the night before. Someone else is here, then, and it seems they’ve been here for quite some time.

  As such, I’m more cautious as I open the creaking front door. I get along with most of our club, to the point where I’m happy to have a few drinks with them on occasion. There are some, though, like Bruce King, the money-grabbing asshole that only joined them for glory, and Tom Green, the sadistic dickhead that would rather watch them struggle then help, that I would prefer not to run into.

  “Liam?”

  I turn at the sound of my name and feel relief when I recognize the broad form of Grant Johnson shouldering his way through a collapsing doorway, frowning at it on his way through. Grant is someone I can deal with; he’s as honorable as the day is long and always willing to lend an ear to someone in trouble.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask him.

  “I could ask you the same,” Grant points out. He sighs when I raise an eyebrow. “Thought I’d get a look at the old place. Fucking authorities are going to destroy it soon enough anyway.”

  I scowl at the reminder.

  The Roughshod Rollers, a motorcycle club that has been in existence for nearly seven years, now, have been using this old house for quite some time. It did, in fact, belong to one of our members, who sadly passed away in an accident three years ago. When he died, ownership of it passed to his only living relative, his aging mother. She kindly allowed us to keep using this house as our base, and we do our best to cause no trouble for the community around us in response.

  Unfortunately, one month ago, she passed away of old age. With no one to pass the house onto, a local official by the name of Burke seized the opportunity when the land came under the local authority’s control, and began his crusade to have the building knocked down and the land used for a grocery shop. Naturally, the Roughshod Rollers rose in protest, but it is a battle we are swiftly losing.

  Our only opportunity is to raise the money to buy the land back from the local authority. But we have very little time in which to do this, and we’ve found, even while pooling our resources, that we have come nowhere close to the amount.

  And how could we? Many of us don’t have the luxury of high-paying jobs. Grant is a bartender. I am a builder. Many others work in similar trades.

  “It isn’t looking too great,” I admit to Grant.

  “According to our books, we have raised a good sum of money so far,” Grant says. He scowls. “It isn’t enough, though, and the deadline is fast approaching. Have you had any luck?”

  I smirk. “Suzy was quite willing to donate last night after I offered some persuasion.”

  Grant lets out a bark of laughter. “And how likely will she be to remember that after the haze from your latest fuck wears off?”

  “If you must know, she’s already given me
the money,” I brag, and Grant’s eyes shoot open wide. “She gave it to me before she left my apartment.”

  “Holy shit,” Grant whistles. “You must have left one heck of an impression on her!”

  I smile, but I don’t elaborate. Let Grant think what he will, with the vague hints I have dropped. It’s well known, without our social sphere, that I’m always chasing skirts; the tinier the better. In their eyes, if I can get some of my conquests to contribute to saving our haven, then all the better for me.

  I don’t need to tell any of them that I haven’t slept with anyone in months, that I’ve grown tired of the constant game of cat and mouse that never offers any emotional gratification. I’m not ready to admit that I’m looking for something real.

  I’m certainly not ready to admit that Suzy is, in fact, just one of my favorite cousins, one who is happily engaged and doing her best to encourage some of her other friends to donate to our cause as well.

  Grant chuckles for a moment before shaking his head with a smile. Slowly, though, the smile fades as he takes another good look around the place.

  “We’re going to lose it, aren’t we?” he asks wistfully.

  “Probably,” I admit. “There’s not much we can do, now. Maybe, once it’s torn down, we can use the money we raised to buy somewhere else.”

  Grant grimaces and crosses the room. On a tablet, there are five photographs. All five of them are pictures of friends that we have lost over the years, for whatever reason. Prominently among them stands George Barker, the man whose house is about to be demolished.

  “You know, if we had been anything other than a motorcycle club, this probably wouldn’t have been so hard,” he comments.

  I remember the look the woman walking her dog had given me.

  “Maybe,” I say with a shrug. “Who can say? Besides, it’s only that tool Burke giving us issues; even the neighbors are trying to help out.”

  “I just wish there was something more we could do,” Grant admits, turning away from me with a sigh.

  He’s wearing his jacket too. I catch sight of the huge picture on the back - the symbol of our club - and smirk at it. The design isn’t overly complicated, but as someone who had been there since the very beginning of our formation, I knew just how hard it had been to settle in it. It’s simply a large white skull with two gray tires attached on either side of its jaw and several green vines weaving intricately in, out and around the skull; sharp and brutal.

  Suddenly, Grant snorts.

  “Freakin’ Tony suggested we do a fundraiser,” he says. “As if that could work. We all work weird hours, and what would we even do? Bake cookies?”

  I imagine, for a brief moment, the disturbing image of the entire group in our jackets and white aprons, smiling widely as we bag cookies and cakes at a small stall. I make a face.

  “No, thanks,” I say fervently. “Baking is out. I don’t think many motorists will be interested in stopping at a car wash with us, either.”

  “That’s because you’re all huge, hulking, frightening lugs,” Grant says with a roll of his eyes.

  I give him a deadpan look. Grant is easily one of the tallest and broadest men in the club.

  “Well, it doesn’t matter anymore,” Grant says with a sigh. “I think you’re right and we should start looking at investing that money somewhere else once we’ve raised enough. Seen anywhere you like?”

  “Let’s start looking once we lose this place,” I say. “See you later, Grant.”

  I turn to walk away.

  “Hey!” Grant says, his tone of mock annoyance. “You never told me what you were doing here?”

  “Nothing all that interesting,” I scoff, shrugging carelessly. “I felt like a trip down memory lane, is all. One last look at the place. After all, we have three days until our deadline; you and I both know we’re not going to make it. This time next week, this land will be a construction site.”

  “Will you apply to help build here?” Grant asks curiously.

  “Nah, I’ve got enough to deal with,” I say.

  I walk out. I might be down on money right now, but there’s no way I’m going to help turn this place, the only place that I have felt that I’ve belonged in recent years, into a goddamned grocery store.

  I kick my bike into gear and speed away. I don’t look back.

  Grant

  I sigh as I hear the sound of a bike roaring away and shake my head. Liam Hill is always so closed off, as though he can’t bear to have anyone see who he really is. As one of the founding members of the Roughshod Rollers, I know he feels some responsibility for allowing this place to be seized by Burke. I sometimes wonder if he feels that he has let George down.

  Not that any of us has had any choice in the matter. A series of very unfortunate events have led us to where we are now.

  I scowl at the peeling wallpaper on the wall. Burke… If I can just get my hands around his scrawny neck…

  My watch beeps at me and I glance at the digital display. A half hour until my shift starts at The Anchor Bar. If I want to get there on time, I need to leave now.

  I cast one last regretful look around the room, knowing that it will be the last time I will be back. Eventually, Liam or another of the founding members will return to pack up our things before the building’s ownership is finalized, but I see no point in coming back anymore when all I’m doing is just bemoaning what has happened.

  I roll my bike out of the old garage and drag the door down, locking it securely once more. I doubt many thieves will be interested in a place like this, but I’m not going to take any chances; not with George’s bike still stored in there, unused since his accident. I wonder, distantly, what will happen to it.

  Then I shake my head and swing my leg over my bike, fitting my helmet on my head securely. It’s not my problem.

  The Anchor Bar is only a few miles away, and it isn’t long before I’m pulling up outside. I park my bike and chain it up before tucking my helmet under my arm and walking in.

  I see an expanse of long, golden hair first, and my heart thumps in my chest, my steps faltering in the doorway.

  Jessica…

  Then the woman at the bar turns around and the world resumes spinning. It’s isn’t Jessica; of course it isn’t her. It’s Fiona, the bartender that I’m here to take over from. She smiles at me, and I manage a smile back, hoping that it doesn’t look too pained.

  Fucking fool, I tell myself savagely.

  “You’re early,” Fiona comments, wiping down a glass and glancing at the clock.

  “I wasn’t far away,” I said gruffly. “Want to clock off early?”

  “No, you go get ready, take your time, maybe have a drink… You look a little rattled.” She looks closely at me. “Is there a problem?”

  “Just considering some home truths,” I say with a wry smile.

  “Is this about the house?” Fiona guesses, grimacing when I nod. “Sorry, Grant. I wish there was more that I could do to help.”

  “You’ve done all you can when your paycheck is about the same as mine,” I say, shaking my head at her. “Don’t be an idiot, Fiona.” I shrug. “Liam and I discussed it… We’ll use that money to find somewhere else.”

  “That sounds nice,” Fiona says with a sigh. “Any idea where?”

  “Nope.” Done with this conversation and uncomfortable with the tight feeling in my chest, I wave any other questions off and head to the breakroom. “I’ll be out back if you need me.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Fiona says, rolling her eyes.

  The breakroom is small, but there’s a little cupboard where I can store my helmet, my jacket and my bag. Then I sit on the small plastic chair and stare unseeingly down at the table.

  I need to get a handle of myself, honestly. Three years later, and I’m still jumping at goddamn shadows.

  I stand again, restless, and my wallet clatters to the floor, snapping open on impact. I pause and look down at it. There isn’t any money in the wallet, and only a handful
of cards tucked hastily into the slots. A single picture was slid into a windowed pouch, and I slowly pick my wallet up, staring at it.

  Three years later and you still have her damn photo, I mock myself. No wonder you see her everywhere…

  The woman in the picture is smiling softly at me, her eyes sparkling with joy and love. I try to remember when it was taken. Maybe sometime around the start of our relationship, when she could still look at me like that. It certainly hadn’t been toward the end, when…

  I close the wallet and tuck it back in my wallet. I have no desire to go on a trip down memory lane.

  Before I know it, fifteen minutes pass in the blink of an eye, and Fiona wanders into the room, yawning widely.

  “Any problems?” I ask.

  “Nah, it was a slow afternoon,” she comments.

  “It’s Wednesday, it’ll likely be a slow night,” I return. “It’s always the way. Only a couple of regulars come in, play some pool or darts, and go home. I usually close up before midnight, after they’re all gone.”

  “Yeah,” Fiona snorts. “Well, I’m shooting off. See you tomorrow, Grant.”

  She waves jauntily to me and heads off. I remember, earlier in the week, her gushing about her new boyfriend, and I scoff as I wonder how long this one will last. Fiona is a tough cookie, and more than capable of dealing with some of the bar’s rougher clients, but she can be a ditz, too, and something of a fool to boot.

  I wander out into the bar. There’s only two men in the corner, huddled over a little table with mugs of beer, and I leave them be. All the glasses have been washed, so I start putting them away, taking note of how few of them there are. Fiona wasn’t been kidding when she said it was a quiet afternoon.