by Bijou Hunter
PROMISE ME HEAVEN
BIJOU HUNTER
Copyright © 2019 Bijou Hunter
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmosphere purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
For more information about this series and author, please visit her website.
Cover
Photographer: aalim
Source: Depositphotos
Cover Copyright © 2019 Bijou Hunter
Dedication
Thanks to my trifecta of love;
My brainstorming mommy;
My betas—Debbie, Sarah, Carina, and Sheri;
&
Judy’s Proofreading
Book Summary
Colton Johansson is the heir of the local motorcycle club’s president. Unfortunately, his father is nowhere near ready to hand over leadership of the Reapers. Purposeless and bored with endless hookups, Colton is desperately looking for a big change in his life.
Enter a bat-wielding blonde with a grudge against his fellow club brother. Can the spoiled bad boy get his act together in time to help a girl who only wants to be loved?
TABLE OF CONTENTS
THE CHAPTER WHERE THE STORY BEGINS
STELLA SHIELDS, AKA THE UNWANTED
THE HEIR
THE UNWANTED
THE CHAPTER WHERE THE HEIR WORKS HIS MAGIC
THE UNWANTED
THE HEIR
THE UNWANTED
THE CHAPTER WHERE THE HEIR UNLEASHES HIS CHARM
THE UNWANTED
THE HEIR
THE UNWANTED
THE CHAPTER WHERE THE HEIR ISN’T IMPRESSED BY THE KING’S GROWLING
THE UNWANTED
THE HEIR
THE UNWANTED
THE HEIR
THE UNWANTED
THE CHAPTER WHERE THE UNWANTED GETS DAZZLED AND DEATH THREATS
THE UNWANTED
THE HEIR
THE UNWANTED
THE CHAPTER WHERE THE HEIR WHIPS OUT HIS WANG
THE UNWANTED
THE HEIR
THE UNWANTED
THE CHAPTER WHERE THE HEIR WOOS ALL THE LADIES
THE UNWANTED
THE HEIR
THE UNWANTED
THE HEIR
THE UNWANTED
THE HEIR
THE CHAPTER WHERE THE QUEEN SHINES HER CROWN
THE HEIR
THE UNWANTED
THE HEIR
THE CHAPTER WHERE SECRETS DIE HARD
THE HEIR
THE UNWANTED
THE HEIR
THE UNWANTED
THE CHAPTER WHERE THE KING AND HEIR COME TO AN UNDERSTANDING
THE UNWANTED
THE HEIR
THE UNWANTED
THE HEIR
THE UNWANTED
THE CHAPTER WHERE THE HEIR FINDS A NEW KINGDOM
THE UNWANTED
THE HEIR
THE UNWANTED
THE CHAPTER WHERE THE STORY ENDS
THE UNWANTED
THE HEIR
OH, BY THE WAY, FROM THE FORMERLY UNWANTED
A FINAL WORD FROM THE VERY MUCH WANTED
A FINAL WORD FROM THE HEIR
ABOUT BIJOU
THE CHAPTER WHERE THE STORY BEGINS
COLTON, AKA THE HEIR
My father is never going to fucking retire. I’ve struggled to ignore this fact for years. My pop was barely twenty-five when he took over the Reapers Motorcycle Club from his pop. I always assumed I’d be around the same age when he handed over the reins to me.
Nope. Nu-uh. The jackass has never been better! A few years ago, when his middle-aged brain nosedived into a crisis, I figured he might retire to the rocking chair on his porch while I swooped in to save the day. Applause optional.
Then my oldest sister, Lily, suggested Pop take Mom to the Caribbean. Oh, boy. Those two returned rejuvenated in every way. I still assumed he’d begin training his heir apparent—and only son—to take the reins of the Johansson family business.
I was a fool. A handsome, muscular, incredibly likable fool! Now I don’t know what to do with myself. I can’t even be the VP of the club since my uncle has that spot, and I don’t think anyone would be cool with me killing family for a promotion.
To his credit, Pop did throw me a bone by putting me in charge of the pot and moonshine business in Ellsberg. The Reapers took it over from the Mullens family after they were killed, bought off, or moved away to nearby Conroe.
That was three years ago.
Raking in cash, banging college chicks from New Hampton College, and living in my parents’ house—all shit I’ve been doing for years.
What’s next? Do I move out? Where? What’s even the point when I have such a sweet fucking setup at my parents’ massive house? My sister MJ does my laundry. She and Mom cook. No, moving out just to say I moved out is a boner move.
Chick-wise, I’m bored of freshman college girls looking to go wild with a bad boy. They don’t get me. I’m complicated, you know? Not just a sexy meathead, but sensitive sometimes too. Okay, not often, but I like a good book, and I know about the world. I’m deep, but those girls just want me to rev my Harley and flex my muscles. They take pictures of me and send them to their friends back home. “Look at the tough guy whose big dick I ride!”
I’m bored of them. They all sound and act the same. I swear most of them are named Olivia and Sophia too. Interchangeable college babes are in my rearview mirror, but I’ve got no ideas for a future woman. Chicks blur together after having screwed so many.
I keep waiting for magic to strike for me like it did for my pop. He fucked his way through Ellsberg a few times over before meeting my mom. She ended his dick’s reign of bang-and-hang hookups. Now it belongs to her, but she’s a generous owner. At least, that’s what I gather from all their loud romps. My parents’ bedroom isn’t nearly as soundproof as they think.
Most days, I’m not at home or even at the house/office/car lot the Mullens used for their base of operations. I stick close to the Reapers’ clubhouse, Whiskey Kirk’s. My grandfather opened the bar back when my dad was a kid. My grandmother has one named after her too—Tequila Jodi’s—but hers caters more to locals looking for comfort food than booze.
Today, as usual, I’m sitting at the bar, talking trash about my fellow legacy club brothers, and spinning stories about my mighty dick.
Behind me, people play pool. It’s only four in the afternoon, but Kirk’s is always packed. Only three club brothers are around; all younger guys like me. Neal, Rod, and Steve make eyes at a table of summer school cuties in the corner.
Uninterested in buying what those ladies are selling, I remain at the bar and talk up Nevaeh Rogers. Despite her blonde hotness, the bartender doesn’t push my dick’s buttons. Nevaeh is like my cousin in that her pop’s an enforcer for the Reapers and her mom hangs with my mom’s inner circle. Having grown up with the Rogers kids, I just can’t look at any of them with sexual interest.
“Why did you shave off your hair?” Nevaeh asks just as she has every two days for a month.
“I got sick of washing it.”
“But you still have to wash your head,” she points out while mixing a drink for one of the college beauties in the corner. “What’s the difference?”
“I wanted to look tough, okay?” I grumble. “Why do you keep asking me about my fucking hair?”
“I have short-term memory loss.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I could.”
“Sure, and so could I.”
Flashing me a smile, she mutters, “I wish.”
“What does that mean?”
“Nothing, dork.”
Nevaeh is too old to still be riding my ass like an obnoxious little sister, but here we are. I swear she’s worse than my actual little sister, Audrey. She isn’t, of course. Audrey’s the worst, but she also lives in Tennessee, so I don’t see her constantly. Absence makes the heart grow fonder as Lily would say, and I guess it’s true. I always forget how Audrey torments me until she visits Ellsberg. Then I’m reminded that tiny women are inherently evil.
Except for my mom. She’s golden.
Nevaeh’s brother, Cavalry, enters the bar and announces, “Hey, Rod, you pissed off the wrong chickadee today because she’s currently going Hank Aaron on your hog.”
The bar empties out to see the show, but I dodge and dance my way to the front. In a parking lot filled to the brim with Harleys, one is getting its metal ass beat something fucking fierce by a blonde with a bat.
She swings hard and wide onto the front wheel. At first, I think the sexy slugger is screaming obscenities, but when I get closer, I realize she’s grunting with exertion like a badass tennis player. I ought to stop her from damaging my club brother’s precious ride. I don’t halt the destruction, though. No, I let her have a little more fun while I enjoy the view of the wiry blonde going basket case on the Harley.
“Fucking cunt!” Rod hollers when he finally gets past the crowd and exits the bar.
Looking ready to pound her pretty head, he rushes forward until I yank him to a stop.
“Dude, it’s a fucking chick,” I utter when the dark-haired dipshit struggles pointlessly against my larger build. “And you’re in public. Put your menstruating pussy into neutral.”
“That’s my fucking bike,” he growls up at me.
“Let me finesse her into showing mercy,” I say and push him back as a warning not to challenge my authority again. I mean, shit, the guy might have more years in the club than me, but I’m still Colton Johansson. When I say shut the fuck up, he needs to go mute.
I turn away from the fuming fucker to find Blondie still beating the hog. She’s losing steam by the time I reach for the lumber. The chick still manages to swing around at me. The sound of the bat colliding with my palm startles her. She stares with raging pale brown eyes, super shocked I’m not screaming in pain like a baby girl. I mean, yeah, it fucking hurts, but I have a big dick, so that helps with the pain.
“I think the hog’s learned its lesson, little lady,” I tease, yanking the bat from her grip. “I’m Colt, by the way.”
“I don’t fucking care,” she seethes in a really sexy hiss.
“Babe, we both know you’re lying.”
The sexy nutjob frowns confused at me. My presence often causes women to lose the ability to think straight. Some people say it’s my handsome face that works chicks into a frenzy. Other people claim it’s my muscular body. Why can’t it be both?
“Hey, bitch, what the fuck?” Rod yells, ruining what I feel is a special moment between my hotness and this sexy chick’s feminine wiles.
Turning her gaze to him, hot mental patient snarls. I swear she looks just like a pissed raccoon—adorable and possibly rabid.
“You raping fucker!” she screams, exhibiting no volume control.
“She’s crazy,” Rod says, suddenly very calm as he waves off her comment.
Two things—1) How did her scream not shatter glass when I’m sure it damaged my eardrums? 2) Rod is so fucking obviously full of shit.
“Little one,” I tell the delicious madwoman, “why don’t you walk with me, so we can figure things out?”
“I don’t want to talk to you,” she balks as if she wasn’t JUST undressing me with her eyes. “Fuck off.”
“The cops can handle it, or asshole Rod can handle it—”
“Hey,” he grumbles.
Ignoring him, I lean down enough for the frazzled hot chick to stare into my big brown eyes. She’s no doubt amazed by my peepers, which have been described as “gorgeous” on more than one occasion. And not just by my mom.
“Or you can explain to me why you trashed the bike and why we shouldn’t just trash something of yours in retaliation.”
The batty blonde blinks rapidly as if it never occurred to her that her destructive tantrum might cost her anything. She suddenly notices the crowd. Her gaze scans their faces, pausing to narrow for Rod, before she finally focuses her wary eyes on me.
“Fine, whatever,” she says, deflated. “What do you want to know?”
“Let’s start with a name,” I say, gesturing for her to follow me away from the crowd of gossipy hags—also known as my friends and colleagues.
The cracked cutie exhales deeply, exhausted from her earlier tirade. We walk about ten steps before she finally spits out a name that suits a woman of her hella hotness.
STELLA SHIELDS, AKA THE UNWANTED
I’ve never been a happy person. There are fleeting moments here and there when I feel joy, but it never lasts for someone like me. I wasn’t wanted before I was even born. My grandparents made my mother have me, and then she refused to give me to people who might actually care about me. She kept me to spite the same parents who wouldn’t let her get rid of me.
I was a pawn in their battle of wills. They’re long gone from my life, but I still lack worth. I ruin everything I touch, and that’s why I’ll never be a happy person.
It’s also why I’m swinging a bat at a motorcycle in the parking lot of a biker bar. I know nothing matters. Not me. Not Rae or Kori. We’re trash in this world, and no one will miss us when we’re gone.
So why not go out in a fit of rage-filled glory?
No matter how hard I hit the bike, I can’t make it look as bad as I feel. I wish I could use the bat on the prick who owns the motorcycle. He deserves to die slowly, but I’m too chickenshit to follow him into the biker bar where he has friends to help him destroy me.
Instead, I choose to ruin my life without having the balls to ruin the prick’s face.
This isn’t how I saw my day going when I woke up. I hadn’t planned on revenge, but then I saw him and his smug face, and I wanted to do something. I usually keep my rage contained where it only eats at me without hurting anyone else. I always picture the fury as hiding in a jar deep inside me. Every year, I mentally change it out for a larger one. One day, I’ll run out of space. When the last one shatters, I’ll drown in my rage, and that’ll be the end.
As much as I often look forward to the day when everything comes crashing down, and I can stop hoping for anything better, I still assumed I had years before the jar ruptured and sent a lifetime of anger flowing through me.
Then I see that smug prick’s face as I wait for the next bus. I move without making a plan. Thinking isn’t my strong suit. Even when I try to be smart, shit never goes my way.
Today, my brain remains numb, dazed, lost in the unhappiness always clinging to me.
Three bats lean against the wall of the bar. Without stopping, I reach out for one of them. I keep my eyes on the smug prick until he disappears into the bar. I don’t consider following him. I’m aware enough to worry about never being allowed to leave.
I stop at the line of Harleys and catch sight of his distinctive silver one. The bat comes down on the control dashboard, startling me. Can trashing his bike be this easy? I hit it again. How many swings before my hands hurt? Whatever the answer, the pain only feeds my rage.
Rae and I want so little, but men l
ike this smug prick refuse to let us be. They take everything until we’re emptied out. Do they care if we end up as husks? No, and that’s why I keep swinging.
Then I see movement. People rush out. I don’t know if the smug prick is one of them, but I assume he’ll hurt me. It’s what men like him do. It’s why I won’t stop trashing his bike because he thinks this hunk of metal matters more than a person. More than Rae and Kori.
A man approaches. Maybe it’s the prick or another one of the bikers. On autopilot, I swing at him without thinking. The bat meets his hand and stops in the same way it might against a brick wall. The impact awakens me from my rage-filled stupor.
He effortlessly steals the bat from me as if I wasn’t holding it with all my strength. I’m tiny in the wake of his shadow. He can do whatever he wants. The prick is raging nearby, cussing about bitches and sluts. I wish I had it in me to take the bat and hit his face like I did his bike.
Stuck between rage and fear, I’m not sure what’s happening anymore. The guy who took the bat is talking to me. He says I should come with him. I think I speak. Maybe I scream, or maybe my words make sense. I can’t be sure. I’m tired and suddenly embarrassed to have lost control. Have I ruined what little I have left in life? Will these people call the police? I think I hear the man mention the cops, and I see myself in jail. How will Rae and Kori survive without my salary? We barely get by now.
I’ve ruined everything. Not just today but also when I was so damn sure we’d be better off in Ellsberg. Why do I always let myself hope for anything more? Why can’t I accept I’ll never have more than the bare minimum?
I follow the enormous, sweaty biker away from the crowd and smug prick. He looks back whenever my footsteps slow. I think he might smile, but I’m very aware of my current lack of safety.
The guy—whose name I can’t remember—walks into the convenience store next to the bar and stops at the back cooler. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. Is running a better option? He doesn’t know me. I can’t even remember if I told him my name.
The smug prick knows where I live, though, and we can’t move. Last night, we slept in our broken-down car, and we’ll be in it again tonight. We’re trapped, and I just made an asshole a bigger threat. Typical me.