Save Grace (Blood Legion MC Book 2)

by Rie Warren

  SAVE GRACE

  BLOOD LEGION MC BOOK 2

  RIE WARREN

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

  Save Grace

  Copyright © 2019 by Rie Warren

  Excerpt from Bo copyright © 2015 by Rie Warren

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations.

  https://www.riewarren.com

  Warren, Rie.

  Save Grace / Rie Warren – 1st ed

  1.Contemporary Romance—Fiction. 2. Alpha Male—Fiction. 3. Crime Fiction—Fiction. 4. Erotica—Fiction. 5. Suspense—Fiction. 6. Thriller—Fiction. 7. Mystery, Thriller, & Suspense—Fiction. 8. Romantic Suspense—Fiction. 9. Dominant Male Romance Possessive—Fiction. 10. Dark Romance Alpha Male—Fiction 11. Organized Crime—Fiction 12. Heist—Fiction 13. Action & Adventure—Fiction 14. Possessive Alpha Male Romance—Fiction 15. Dominant Biker Romance—Fiction 16. MC Romance—Fiction 17. Possessive MC Romance—Fiction. 18. Military Biker Romance—Fiction I. Title

  ASIN:

  B07QX4Q97C

  Table of Contents

  SAVE GRACE

  Author Note

  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

  Keep reading for a sexy sample from Bo, Bad Boys of Retribution MC 3 . . .

  Chapter One

  Coming soon . . . No Saint, Blood Legion MC book 3!

  Books By Rie Warren

  Connect with Rie

  About Rie

  Author Note

  Hey folks . . . are you ready for more Blood Legion MC? Again, these books can all be read as standalones, however, we first meet the NOLA Blood Legion MC crew in Storm, Bad Boys of X-Ops 3, and biker dude/former Marine Killian Slade in Bo, Bad Boys of Retribution MC 3.

  Also, this book could contain potential triggers. If you’d like spoilers, just shoot me an email at rie@riewarren.com.

  XOXO~

  Chapter One

  SLADE

  THE DAMN LYRICS FROM that REO Speedwagon song—“Heard it from a Friend”—kept circling around my head. I’d finally heard about a potential lead and possible location for the missing woman I’d been scouring the seediest sides of New Orleans to find.

  The tip came from a traveling tycoon type who’d dropped into the MC’s tattoo parlor, Tit for Tat, under the misguided impression the place was a titty bar. Just another way we snagged tourist trade without actually ever trying. The suited dude hadn’t been too impressed he wasn’t gonna get a lap dance or a striptease, but what are you gonna do? Besides, he wasn’t about to pick a fight with the two huge tattoo artists—Saint and Lennox—who could just as easily snap his limbs like a toothpick as design delicate little tats.

  The mistaken moment hadn’t been a total loss even if the dude didn’t go in for any ink. According to Saint, Suit Guy zeroed in on the stack of flyers we’d printed up with Grace’s photo and details.

  He claimed to have seen Grace a couple nights earlier at an upscale bordello in the Garden District.

  Grace Delahunt.

  She’d disappeared into thin air from the White Lair during the summer. For all we knew, she could’ve been murdered by the neo-Nazi skank-bags.

  She could’ve escaped before we had a chance to get to her when we’d rescued all the other women from the disgusting clutches of the Aryan ass-maggots.

  She could’ve been sold off to another prostitution ring. Yeah, given her current situation, that sounded about right.

  I was just relieved to have some goddamn thing to go on. According to Angel, Mercy’s nasty uncle Ned had boasted about the fact we were never gonna find Grace no matter how hard we looked. Angel hadn’t divulged that particular info to Mercy.

  I zoomed toward the Faubourg Lafayette area on my Harley V-Rod now, hoping for the best, expecting the worst.

  I’d asked Saint to keep his fucking mouth shut about the sighting. Nobody else needed to know unless I could confirm or deny.

  I wouldn’t put Mercy through any more heartbreak, and I didn’t need Angel—the Blood Legion prez—breathing down my neck.

  As I gunned closer and closer to the address, I barked out an unlikely laugh.

  Un-fucking-believable.

  The cathouse sat almost directly behind the Force-Reckon safe house Storm and Blaize had used during their Blood Legion bust. The takedown that’d nearly cost them their lives and had ended many more. That was two plus years ago, and Blood Legion MC had risen from the ashes on the wings of an angel. Literally. I was veep to biker club president Angel L’Esperance. From a Force Recon Marine to a CIA operative, I’d turfed the spook life to turn true blue MC dude.

  And for months now, I’d been drilling down on every underground sex ring. I’d been beating the shit out of every woman-hitting pimp I’d come across. I’d given money to prostitute after prostitute without wanting so much as a handy in return for the cash.

  All I’d needed was information that was never forthcoming.

  All for a girl I didn’t know.

  All because I’d made a promise to Angel’s girl, Mercy. Mercy who’d been used, abused, drugged, and nearly killed by her fucked up White Lair kinfolk.

  I feared an even worse fate for Grace.

  Riding up to the big white-painted structure with my Harley throttling down, I scanned the immediate area for hidden threats. Detecting no imminent danger, I decided there was no point doing further recon. No point in trying to sneak in, either, for that matter. From what I’d discovered, the bordello was legit. The expansive antebellum mansion boasted all the architectural bells and whistles I couldn’t even name.

  The place was a far fucking cry from that shit-pit the White Lair, that was for damn sure.

  Bells and whistles included valet parking, apparently. When I stopped and dismounted, an underling dressed in black pants and a white shirt scurried forward with palm outstretched.

  I took off my brain bucket, dangled it over a handlebar, and scowled. “Don’t you even fucking think about touching my bike unless you’ve got a death wish.”

  I almost felt bad when the boy stammered, “Um . . . okay . . . but . . . it’s just . . .”

  So I slipped him a fiver like I was one of the hipsters tipping after happily accepting one of their noxious pussy drinks at Thunder Road Bar.

  Then the real danger began.

  As soon as I stepped onto the long, wide, brightly lit porch, I was beset on all sides by tangos. Women. They seemed to appear out of the woodwork. Dressed scantily, they surrounded me in perfumed flesh and frilly corsets and glossy cupid bow lips.

  “My, aren’t you a tall dark drink of want-me-some-of-that.” One babe dragged a pointed nail down the center of my chest.

  Another brothel temptress smushed her tits against my back then blew hot breaths against my ear. “You don’t look like one of our regulars.”

  Shit. These ladies definitely constituted an incoming immediate threat, coming on to me with zero boundaries.

  “I saw him first, Miss
y.” Octopussy plastered herself against me, her arms and legs tangling between mine.

  An ear-splitting whistle cut through all the purrs and the pawing.

  Then a throaty yell, “Break it up, pussycats!”

  The ladies fell off me one by one, pouting and preening, as a woman who stood as tall as me shimmied out from inside the house.

  Dressed in sequins and feathers, she boasted flaming red hair.

  “Mm mmm mmmm.” Standing in front of me, she waved her head in one direction, her index finger in the other. “Now I see why you got the kitties all begging for attention.”

  She gave a hard tug on my arm that nearly yanked me clean off my feet, which was almost impossible. Pulling me inside where the bordello was completely fake romantic—because I knew real romance, riiiight—in wine-colored velvets and sheer curtains and yet more flesh for sale, the apparent madam sashayed to a tall obelisk-like desk.

  She stepped behind, grabbed a clear bottle, and squirted gel into her hands before offering the cleanser to me. “Hand sanitizer? I’d be happy to rub it allll over you. These bishes, ugh. They just don’t get the art of seduction.”

  I declined with a shake of my head.

  She rubbed her long broad hands together before presenting me with her palm.

  “Miss Bunny at your service.” Then she did another head snake. “Or Mistress Bunny if you want to get nasty. And I do hope you want to get nasty.”

  I met her palm but declined her second offer too.

  “Well then, what can I do for you? Can you do me?” With a hopeful gleam to her heavily made-up eyes, she fluttered fake lashes that had to be at least an inch long.

  Only the deep voice and the slight bump of her Adam’s apple gave Mistress Bunny away as a drag queen. Otherwise, she had almost as much va-va-voom as my V-Rod.

  NOLA was full of colorful characters, and Bunny wasn’t the first queen I’d met. But she made me chuckle for the first time in weeks.

  Leaning forward on both elbows, she puckered her lips. “So, what exactly is your flavor, sexy?”

  “I’m looking for a woman named Grace.” And my senses remained on high alert because I faced away from the door, my back unguarded.

  Even though I thought Mistress Bunny was on the up and up . . . I didn’t have a fucking clue who fronted this operation or if Grace was even on the premises.

  Tapping a glittery fingernail against her chin, Bunny considered me.

  And then considered me some more.

  I was used to hours’ long stakeouts and endless nights spent wide-awake in a goddamn gilly suit in the middle of a wadi. I wasn’t about to be faked out by a madam, no matter how vibrant or intuitive she was.

  Finally, Bunny blinked.

  She frowned.

  Then her lips curved in a smile full of guile. “She’s not entertaining guests right now, but Mistress Bunny here would be happy to hop on your ride.”

  I knew this game.

  I slid a fat wad of cash toward her.

  “Ooooh. You really want a one-on-one with our Lady Grace.”

  Our Lady Grace.

  Mistress Bunny flicked through the money then slid the green into a lockbox. “That’ll cost you even more extra.”

  More money exchanged, I motioned for her to precede me. “Take me to Grace.”

  “Bossy.” She rimmed her lips with the tip of her tongue before smacking them together in a moue. “I like it.”

  With her hips switching back and forth, she led me farther into the cathouse, which I had to admit was kitted out a hell of a lot better than Thunder Road. I hadn’t exactly spent a lot of time in brothels, but this place would probably impress any dude looking to drop a load of cash so he could dump a load of jizz in the woman of his choice.

  Soft music played, and ladies lounged here and there against richly colored walls and on plush seated couches. Displaying considerable amounts of flesh, the women sent me come-hither eyes.

  And I rolled mine.

  When we reached a wide polished staircase, one of the femme fatales slithered toward me. She then proceeded to slither all over me while purring in my ear.

  Mistress Bunny grasped her by the scruff of her neck, pulling the chick off me like a naughty little kitty. “Hands off, Betty Boobs.”

  The brunette flashed a nasty look when Bunny released her. “You’re just jealous because mine are real.”

  Then Mistress Bunny—who towered over the unrepentant minx—full on hissed at her. Nails clawed and all.

  Cathouse.

  The madam of the establishment was downright outrageous.

  Betty Boobs slinked away.

  We continued up the staircase.

  Up and up and up through the first two levels. And I began to wonder if Grace was being held in the attic or if I was being led to a fucking torture chamber.

  Torture. I’d survived that once. In the Helmand Province.

  I wouldn’t survive it if Grace was dead.

  Behind closed doors, the sultry sounds of sex—bought and paid-for—filtered out. Nothing seemed alarming. But I still kept my ears attuned for sounds of violence and my eyes peeled for signs of danger.

  On the top floor, Mistress Bunny halted abruptly at a door, and I half expected her to pull out a skeleton key from her elaborate red hairstyle to fit into the lock.

  Instead she rapped softly.

  She jerked her head for me to back out of the line of sight.

  Okay, now this could get dicey. I gripped the hilt of my KA-BAR, targeting the door that swung open just a hint of a crack.

  After a few hushed words, Bunny spun to me with a falsely bright smile. “It seems it’s your lucky day. Grace has agreed to see you.”

  And I hoped to fuck she was my Grace after all this time.

  The clacking of heels echoed as Bunny runway-walked back down the corridor to the stairs, and I stepped up to the door.

  I peeked inside, but the room appeared empty. Cautiously entering, I kept my back to the wall, sliding in and shutting the door. My hand still on my blade, I did a quick scan.

  Sensing no threats, I called out, “Hello?”

  The woman named Grace appeared from a second room. “I wasn’t expecting guests tonight.”

  And I wasn’t expecting my tongue to fall out of my mouth but . . . Jesus Christ.

  My hand slipped off the hilt of my knife, and I stood there stupid-brained.

  She was gorgeous.

  Long, wildly curly black hair skimmed across the exotic features of her face in glossy waves. High cheekbones, leonine eyes, and a very full mouth . . . she wasn’t just stunning. She absolutely glowed with vitality. She was a picture of health, and none of this made any sense.

  This situation was one hundred percent different than what I expected. I’d imagined never locating her. I thought at best I’d find a beaten and emaciated sex slave. At worst, nothing but an unidentifiable corpse.

  I’d imagined her being drugged out of her skull, like the last time we’d found Mercy when she’d been forced into an overdose by a hot shot punched into her vein by her goddamn uncle.

  In coloring and stature, Grace resembled the photo Mercy had dug up. But at the time of the picture she couldn’t have been older than her early twenties. Now, she’d blossomed into full womanhood.

  “Are you mute or something?” Coming closer, Grace wore a teasing smile on those plump lips.

  She knew the effect she had on me.

  My gaze roamed down, below her captivating face. Tall, racked, and stacked, she wore a semi-sheer yellow-green dressing gown belted haphazardly around her waist. The robe left an immense amount of flesh exposed. Her tawny skin, the deep cleavage, the smudge of her nipples . . . shit, one long leg peeping through a slit . . . she made me sweat.

  Fucking hell. Like I’d never been around a woman before.

  Reeling my tongue back in, I pushed off the wall.

  I held out my hand. “Killian Slade.”

  She glanced at my hand then turned her he
ad in profile. “Names don’t matter here.”

  So that was how she was gonna play this. Her the hooker. Me the john.

  “I think names do matter, Grace Delahunt.”

  Her feline eyes darted back to me, narrowing. “And I think you’ve got me mixed up with someone else. Sorry, mister.” Sauntering to a tiny two-seater sofa across from the big wide bed, she beckoned me to her. “If you want to stick around, it’s five hundred for a blowjob. A thousand to touch me.”

  Aaaaand that’s how she’s gonna play this.

  Fuck me. I was already on the hook, a thousand percent intrigued. Never mind the fact I’d already goddamn paid a bucket-load. Guessed that was just the handling fee.

  I needed to make more tips off the Man Bun constituency or cash in on my hazard pay to afford this stint, that was for sure.

  I slapped another few Benjamins on the coffee table then sat on the arm of the couch. “Ain’t here for a handy or a BJ.”

  Liar.

  “I’m here to talk,” I amended.

  Truth.

  She fanned out the one hundred dollar bills. “You’d be better off finding the nearest cabbie or bartender for that sort of thing.”

  Funny.

  “Mind if I smoke?” Pulling out my tobacco pouch, I unfolded a Rizla.

  “Near the window if you open it, please.”

  Interesting.

  My boots rang on the floor as I crossed the room. I sat on the wide sill, rolling a cigarette. Lighting up, I made sure to blow the rings outside the gap I opened.

  I snuck looks at the woman, startled down to my damn balls each time. Legs for days and a body to die for, I just couldn’t equate her with the girl Mercy had described.

  Loaded on smack.

  Under the thumb of the Aryans.

  Living in one of those fucking concrete huts out the back of the White Lair.

  But if she was being held here against her will, I needed to get to the bottom of this shit ASAP.

  I stubbed out my smoke, rubbed a hand across my beard, wanted to drink an entire bottle of whisky.

  I crossed back to the couch and planted my ass on the short table in front of Grace.