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“Relax.”
If there was ever a word spoken in
the human language that had the ability to cause the opposite effect it was
intended to, relax was at the top of that list. In fact, Saint couldn’t
think of a single instance in the history of the word relax where
someone had responded to it by calming the fuck down. His brother should
know that but judging from the way he was kicked back in his chair nursing his
beer, he’d clearly forgotten what it was like to have it uttered at him
when he was stressed.
“Brutha,” Saint cautioned, slamming
his empty bottle on the desk, and taking satisfaction in seeing it shatter, “if
you tell me to relax one more time, I’m gonna forget we’re blood and kick your
ass to the beach and back.”
“Save your energy for when we find
Sinn.”
“You mean if we find Sinn!”
“We’ll find him.”
“You can’t promise that!” Saint
raged, “You can’t promise he’ll be okay either!”
“No, but what I can promise is
that whoever has done this will be made to pay.”
Snarling, Saint slammed his hand on
the front of the desk and wound up with a piece of glass embedded in it. “And
that’s supposed to be comforting?”
“Did I say…”
Snarling, Saint cut Mark off by
whipping a heavy glass ashtray at his head. Fucker didn’t even have the good
graces to try and get out of the way. Would have been nice if he’d pretended it
had come close to hitting him, but Saint’s aim had always been shit when it
came to throwing. Mark probably figured moving would be what got him hit. That
or he just didn’t give a shit. He didn’t flinch when glass and plaster exploded
outward from the dent the ashtray put in the wall, nor did he twitch when
shards slit his cheek and sent blood spilling down it much like the flow
trickling from Saint’s hand.
“If this was Teddy, Kat, or god
forbid, one of my nephews, you’d have destroyed half the town by now!” Saint
roared.
“And you’d have been right there
beside me.”
“Then why the fuck aren’t we out
their doing it now?”
The casual way Mark reached up and
brushed glass fragments out of his hair took Saint to a whole other level of
pissed off. “Because we’re older and supposed to be wiser at this point in our
lives, and we both know the cops are itching to swarm this place and lock us
under the jail. Between those fuckheads taking a shot at me in the dinner and
sending Lucky to the hospital, and the brawl with Shaw’s crew, we’re on thin
ice with the local authorities, or have you forgotten their warning Kat bailed
us out that day?”
Saint groaned and rolled his eyes,
knowing his brother was right, despite not being in the mood to hear him
sounding reasonable. “Wasn’t going legit supposed to keep them off our asses?”
“Could be we underestimated how
difficult it was gonna be to keep the personal from spinning sideways even when
the businesses were on the up and up.”
“You think!”
“Saint! Cool it! I mean that shit
too. I can’t think with you going ballistic every twelve seconds and I’m tired
of telling you that no one has called in to report the smallest damn thing.”
“Well what the fuck are they waiting
for?”
Rollin' Jokers Sale!
Lucky Strike McAllister isn't very lucky. In fact, he isn't much of anything most days, to hear his MC tell it. Since the death of his father from cancer and the suicide of his pops, he's done nothing but find ways to get into trouble. He's talented with an airbrush gun and an amazing artist when he sets his mind to it, but more often than not, the things Lucky sets his mind to are pretty self-destructive.
When Thorn and his partner Cain, are forced to fish Lucky out of the ocean on a chilly fall night, both men decide he needs a keeper and who better than them to keep Lucky from destroying himself? Too bad Lucky can't see that they're trying to help. Bitter and lashing out, he does everything he can to sabotage the only chance he's ever been given at truly belonging to someone.
Will Lucky be able to put aside his anger long enough to get to know the two men who have taken such an intense interest in him, or will he run from them, his club and everything he's ever known, and burn the last of his luck in the process?
When Lucky moved to the Outer Banks to work in Thorn and Cain’s surf shop and eventually fell in love with them, Cody lost himself in gambling to dull the ache of missing his best friend. The flashing lights of the casino, the feel of cards beneath his fingers, and the rough-smooth texture of poker chips all served to drag him deeper into an addiction he was slowly giving himself over to. It helps that he works security there, easy access, and an increasing reason not to go back home. The Rollin’ Jokers are family, always would be, but there’s an ache Cody can’t fill with the roar of his machine and the wind in his hair. The best he can hope for is to dull it one bet at a time.
Wreck owes a lot to the Rollin’ Jokers MC, after all, his old man was a founding member. So, when the Joker’s president asked for a favor, no way would he turn him down. Even if the favor meant playing babysitter to Mark’s out-of-control son, Cody, who seemed to get a kick out of pushing buttons Wreck didn’t know he had. Still, he has no intention of letting Mark down, and if that means teaching Cody some discipline, well then, there are plenty of ways he could make it fun…for them both.
Only…Cody’s got different ideas, and issues that are only just being brought to light. Add in bad boy Bellamy, the wandering nomad biker who happens to land on the same road Cody’s cruising down, and Wreck finds his carefully ordered world turned upside-down. Now he’s wrangling kittens, including a human-sized one hell-bent on making a home in Wreck’s lap when he’s not looking to scratch his eyes out…and Bellamy? Let’s just say that’s the mystery element in an equation Wreck’s not certain he can solve.
With the past closing in and the future uncertain, Wreck’s desperate to find a way to protect Cody….from himself, from his demons, and from a past that’s come back to haunt him.
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