Hammer (Heartlands Motorcycle Club Book 9)

by Dani Wyatt

  HAMMER

  Heartland’s Motorcycle Club Series

  Dani Wyatt

  Copyright © 2020

  by Dani Wyatt

  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 publisher

  except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places,

  events and incidents are either the products

  of the author’s imagination

  or used in a fictitious manner.

  Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,

  is purely coincidental.

  www.daniwyatt.com

  Cover Credit Cormar Covers

  Editing Nicci Haydon

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Join In

  Stalkers welcome

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  The Heartlands Series

  Other Titles By Dani Wyatt

  Newsletter

  Let’s Stay Connected!

  The Wenches

  About Dani

  Thank You

  A NOTE TO MY READERS:

  I appreciate every one of you.

  To my fellow Heartland’s Authors.

  You guys rule.

  GET

  FREE exclusive short stories and epilogues!

  No spam!

  NEWSLETTER

  Stalkers welcome

  Sordid fun and other dirty shenanigans

  FOLLOW ME ON FACEBOOK

  LET’S BE FRIENDS

  Dani Wyatt on Amazon

  Now, let’s get on with the show…

  Chapter 1

  Hammer

  “Jesus, it’s a hundred and twelve fucking degrees.” I shake my head. “Tell me again why we live in this state?”

  Chain is pulling a shopping cart from the long line of chrome baskets as I glance up at the digital clock on the wall that is flashing between 2:22 PM and the temperature outside today.

  “I don’t mind it. It’s a dry heat.” He smiles and pulls out a white sheet of paper from the front pocket of his jeans, looking at the grocery list his woman, Meadow, wrote for him. “Besides, if it wasn’t for the heat, you wouldn’t be here.”

  I nod. “True. You were about to cook on the asphalt the day I saved your ass.”

  He narrows his eyes on a shake of his head. “I’d of figured it out.”

  “Uh huh.”

  It was five years ago this week that we met, and I was on the run, not even sure how far west I would have to ride before I’d run far enough to feel safe. Turned out, Seneca, Arizona, was that place.

  That’s not completely true, it was the Heartlands MC that turned this place into home for me. I was on day five of a ride, unsure what life had in store for me, when I saw a bike on the side of the road and a leathered, patched guy kneeling down next to it.

  Not sure why I stopped. I was half crazed with lack of sleep, and looking over my shoulder every hour to be sure my former life hadn’t caught up to me. But, I pulled off to the side of the road when I saw him. Chain’s bike had seized up and it was so fucking hot, his cell phone had shut down. He was sitting there on the long stretch of highway, baking in the heat.

  He looked at me with skepticism, but when I asked what was going on with his bike, and he explained the sound it was making and then it just locked up, I was pretty sure I knew what to do.

  I’d grabbed a few tools I had in my saddle bag and tweaked his carburetor, then blew into the orifice a few times. His bike started back up. I offered to follow him until he got to the next town and he took me up on the offer.

  Seneca was where we landed, at the Heartlands Garage, which was next door to the Ride or Die, the headquarters of the Heartlands MC. Chain offered to buy me a beer in thanks before I went on my way.

  When we walked into the bar, Peaches and Stella were pitching a fit because the air conditioning units had frozen up and since it was Sunday night they couldn’t find anyone to come look at them. It was hot as fuck and the beer was warming up fast.

  My father owned his own heating and cooling repair company and also owned bikes so I learned to fix lots of shit growing up. So, when I walked in with Chain, the place was already pushing 90 degrees, and after listening to the girls and a few members of the club yell at each other about the situation, I offered to take a look.

  They weren’t too trusting, but eventually they let me do my thing and with some tools from the garage next door and with Chain as my assistant, I not only saved his ass on the side of the road, but I saved the beer.

  Both earned me some respect. I think saving the beer more than saving Chain.

  Anyway, that all led to me staying around. Eventually I worked my way into the club and it’s been home ever since.

  “Here…” Chain lets go of the cart and brings both hands to the white sheet of paper and tears it in half. “Let’s divide and conquer. You get the produce and I’ll get started on the rest.”

  I look down at the sheet of paper, and the perfect printing in purple ink. “She’s sort of organized, huh?”

  Chain shrugs. “Sort of? Dude, I’m lucky she didn’t give me an interactive spreadsheet. Just get the fucking produce and let’s get back to the club. They want to start cooking as soon as we get back.”

  “Sounds good.” We part ways and I head toward the produce section, but my mind is not completely on task.

  It’s been a couple months since I first saw the source of my near constant distraction. Robin Greene. I was at the courthouse with Wrath for a meeting with the D.A. about an arson investigation, and there she fucking was, standing her ground, looking bored, while an entitled-looking woman was berating her for something.

  She was wearing a black skirt and tucked in white shirt and fucking red patent leather heels. She is the perfect kind of curvy. Like pin-up girl curvy with a little extra padding in her ass which makes my fucking mouth water.

  It was fairly clear the woman was her client and she was not happy about being there, but from the look Robin was giving the screaming woman, she was in no uncertain terms telling her she got herself into this mess, and if she wasn’t careful, she wouldn’t have any helping getting out of it.

  As we got closer, her eyes snapped to mine and I swear I saw fire there. The flash in her eyes matched her hair. All shimmering copper. And she set something inside of me ablaze.

  The district court near Seneca is small town all the way. So, I stuck by Wrath until he got through his interview, but before we went into the D.A.’s office, I grabbed my phone and took her picture from down the hall.

  Just as I clicked, she turned my way and caught my stalker ass, but I didn’t care. I’d find out who she was. We spent enough time there that I knew some of the security guys that manned the front entry where you had to pass through the metal detectors.

  And sure enough, on our way out of the courthouse, I showed her picture to one of the more friendly security guards and he slipped me her name.

  As soon as he did, I knew I was in trouble. God, fate, or whatever the fuck it is was, was having some fun with me for sure.

  Ever since, I’ve been in constant turmoil. I’m not a relationship sort of guy. I keep everyone at arm’s
length, even at the club. They don’t know the entire story about my past and that’s the way I like it.

  It’s safer.

  For them and for me.

  If I were to get close to Robin? Fuck. I know I’d lose my chill and put her at risk. No way.

  It hasn’t stopped my stalker ass from following her though. Finding out where she lives which is only about a half mile from my place.

  She’s sharp. She’s seen me. She nailed my ass watching her at the The Grindhouse coffee shop about a week after that day at the courthouse. To my surprise, she shook her head with a smile and walked right up to me.

  “You’re following me,” she stated, clear and concise, without any fear in her eyes. “I’m not afraid of you.”

  “I don’t want you to be,” I answered taking in the freckles that dotted the bridge of her nose. The tiny diamond stud earrings. Most people are fucking afraid of me and many should be. I stand nearly 6’5” and when I’m wearing my leather and patches most people will barely meet my eyes.

  “Then what do you want?” She asked, taking a sip out of her coffee, and I wasn’t sure if I was more taken aback by her beauty or the straightforward, no bullshit way she was talking to me. She is there every morning at 7:30 am sharp, and generally so am I unless I’m doing club business or working an early morning side gig.

  I do heating and cooling for club members and their family and friends generally for a good price and cash only.

  It’s not going to make me Bill Gates, but I’ve got savings and do fine. I help with club business as well, so my cash flow is solid and I hardly spend anything anyway.

  “Just like to watch you. You’re very watchable.” I decided to give her back the no bullshit talk she was giving me.

  “Fine,” she answered. “What’s your name?”

  “Hammer.”

  She stifles a laugh, raising her eyebrows. “Well, Hammer. Watching is one thing, but be sure, if you do more than watch, if I feel threatened at all, I will bring down the hammer on you? We clear?”

  After that day, we’ve developed an odd acquaintanceship, for lack of a better word. She’s polite, but distant, and fuck it only makes me want her more.

  So, I come around the corner at the fucking grocery, looking down at my list, ready to search the aisle for the first alphabetically-arranged item: asparagus. I look up, scan the produce section, looking for where to head, and I see the waves of red hair and the curve of that ass and I know right away.

  She’s here.

  Chapter 2

  Robin

  I have a habit of humming while I grocery shop, do housework, laundry... pretty much anything really. Out at the store, it usually draws some looks from fellow shoppers and I used to try to control myself. Then I realized, my humming didn’t hurt anyone and if people were honest, it should make them hum along and smile as well.

  Today, I had one of my mom’s favorite church hymns stuck in my head. Praise God from Whom all Blessings Flow… As I hummed, I could hear her soft voice singing as though she was next to me, like when I was little and would stand between my parents in church.

  I miss them bunches, even though they come to visit me every couple months. They still live in Bloomington, Indiana, where I grew up. They’ve even talked about buying a winter place here in Arizona, but my father is still teaching at I.U. and as much as he talks a big game about retiring, he loves his job too much so I’m not betting on that anytime soon.

  I settled here in Seneca after I finished my law degree at University of Arizona, because my Uncle Terry, my father’s brother, invited me to come work at his law firm after I passed the bar. His daughter, Emily works at the firm as well and although we were cousins, since I’ve moved here she’s become my best friend as well.

  I’ve been practicing with him just under a year, and although taking personal injury cases, divorces and other general cases isn’t my dream job, I’m employed and around family so I count myself lucky.

  I have plans for the future that don’t include small town general law, but for now it’s a good way to get myself grounded and some money in the bank for what comes next.

  I push the cart toward the cucumbers and start picking them up, inspecting them before shoving the best few into a clear produce bag and knotting it at the top. It’s Saturday afternoon and the store is busy. Elliot’s is the one and only grocery in town unless you drive ten miles out of town to the big box place by the freeway.

  It’s dumb, but as I pick through the cucumbers, my thoughts drift somewhere they shouldn’t. Hammer.

  He invades my dreams, and I do everything in my power to ignore the pulse he creates down deep in my center, but it’s getting harder and harder. What sort of name is that anyway? I know it’s like a biker name or whatever, but still. When you introduce yourself to someone not of the leather persuasion, wouldn’t you use your given name?

  I grit my teeth, trying to shift my thoughts, when a hand darts in front of me into the stack of green phallic vegetables and I feel suddenly crowded.

  I dart my eyes sideways just as some random dude grabs the biggest cucumber off the pile and holds it ominously between us as I spin my head and see two other guys that look like they all belong to the same douche-bag frat house.

  “Excuse me.” I shift, lowering my eyes and pointing to my cart which is behind one of the guys standing behind me. “Knock yourself out on the cuke’s guys, just let me by.”

  The first guy is still holding the cucumber up with a dumb smile, twisting his lips. He’s a good foot taller than me and twice as wide, and instead of turning to give me space he leans forward, nearly touching the end of the vegetable to my lips.

  “Just kiss the tip,” he says, and his associates chuckle as I size up the situation.

  “You first. Show me how. Bet you’ve had way more experience at tip kissing than me,” I spit back, shoving his hand back toward his chest and pushing my way through toward my cart.

  “I doubt it.” He re-doubles as I grab the cart and take a step forward, just as his arm darts out and grabs the metal, stopping me again.

  “What the fuck is your deal?” I narrow my eyes, glaring at him, then shooting his two idiot followers with the same daggers.

  “My deal?” His manner turns from just obnoxious to sinister as he licks his top teeth with a snapping sound. “My deal is that you were supposed to represent a friend of mine. Lacy Parker? But what happened was you withdrew from her case the day before she was going to court.”

  Fucking Lacy Parker. So that’s what this is all about. She was trouble from the moment she called looking for someone to represent her in her third DUI case. I did withdraw, because she showed up at my office for our last meeting before going before the judge.

  Drunk.

  When I asked if she drove herself to my office, her affirmative answer through slurred words and red eyes made my position untenable. From there, I withdrew from her case, told her I would file a motion to delay her appearance so she could find new counsel. She proceeded to clear the top of my desk with one swipe of her arm, threw my lamp on the floor and gave me the double bird, calling me some creative names as she exited the office.

  She told me she would represent herself and she didn’t need my help delaying anything.

  Wasn’t the best decision when she showed up for her appearance under the influence, but that was her choice. I can’t force my clients to take my advice.

  “I don’t discuss clients.” I staple my eyes to his and shove the cart forward with his fingers between the metal grid, forcing him to let go of the cart or have three broken bones.

  Douche bag number one steps in front of the cart while his compadres flank me on both sides. I’m not scared, just fucking annoyed at being confronted in the grocery store of all places. I love the grocery store, I love food in general, and these guys are fucking with my mojo.

  “Well, you’re going to discuss—”

  Before he can finish, there’s a thumping noise from behind
me. When I spin, I see the two dudes behind me crumple to the floor after watching their foreheads be smashed together by…

  O.M.G. He’s here.

  Hammer.

  Six feet five inches of everything I keep telling myself I don’t want. Leather, patches, tattoos, scars and jeans that fit in that perfect way. Just loose enough, because he doesn’t care to show off, but just tight enough I can see the outline of where his business hangs to the right and a good handful of inches down the inside leg of his Levi’s.

  He’s been following me, and it’s annoying because I don’t want to want him. But I can’t help myself. I have plans. And those plans don’t include being stuck for much longer in Seneca, Arizona, and certainly not with a biker whose life goals are wobbly at best.

  His eyes are hypnotic, green, intense and unmoving, as he stomps forward, and my belly is doing somersaults and back handsprings.

  “Hey, what—” I stutter out, but he’s already got his hands on the guy standing in front of my cart, bringing a knee to his gut as he grabs his shoulders and drops him to the floor along with his two buddies.

  I gasp and struggle for words, but instead Hammer grabs me around the waist and picks me up against his hip like a child, and yanks my cart away from the now moaning heaps of man-trash, carelessly running one of them over with two of the wheels before working us both away and down the aisle.

  “Uh, put me down?” I manage, pushing on his arm, which feels like iron and my head is spinning from what just happened but also from his scent.