Shifting Gears (Satan's Knights Prospect Trilogy Book 1) Read online

  Table of Contents

  ©Copyright All Rights Reserved 2019

  -Prologue-

  -One-

  -Two-

  -Three-

  -Four-

  -Five-

  -Six-

  -Seven-

  -Eight-

  -Nine-

  -Ten-

  -Eleven-

  -Twelve-

  -Thirteen-

  -Fourteen-

  -Fifteen-

  -Sixteen-

  -Seventeen-

  -Eighteen-

  -Nineteen-

  -Twenty-

  -Twenty-one-

  -Twenty-two-

  -Twenty-three-

  -Twenty-four-

  -Twenty-five-

  -Twenty-six-

  -Twenty-seven-

  -Twenty-eight-

  -Twenty-nine-

  -Thirty-

  -Epilogue-

  Other Books by

  Janine Infante Bosco

  About the Author

  ©Copyright All Rights Reserved 2019

  Shifting Gears (Satan’s Knights Prospect Trilogy)

  By

  Janine Infante Bosco

  All rights reserved. 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.

  Published by Janine Infante Bosco

  In loving memory of Anne Foti

  The best grandma a girl could ever hope for.

  You’ll be forever missed.

  -Prologue-

  Lydia

  “Shit,” I hiss as the glass tumbles out of my hand. It crashes to the floor and instantly shatters into a million tiny pieces. It’s another fine mess I’ll have to clean before I go home and more time on the clock. Blowing out an exasperated sigh, I mutter a curse and drop to my knees, carefully avoiding the shards of glass. I don’t mind work—not normally. It’s just that I’m dead on my feet. I need sleep and a bubble bath. Maybe some chocolate too.

  Just a bite.

  When I first took the job at Big Nose Kate’s I thought it would be a piece of cake. Okay, so I wasn’t actually a licensed bartender, big deal. I made a mean margarita and I could pop the top off a long neck with the bottom of a lighter. I was totally qualified for the job.

  Or so I thought.

  I didn’t realize I would be working for the Satan’s Knights motorcycle club. I mean, an Italian woman by the name of Maria Bianci interviewed me and there wasn’t a stitch of leather to be found on that woman. She was all class. Then I met her son-in-law, the owner of the bar, Riggs—or Tiger, depending on his mood. He was most definitely a biker. He had the vest, the rank, and the gunshot wounds to prove it. As intimidating as my new boss was, he was also a real ball buster, who lived to crack jokes and impregnate his girl. He didn’t care that I wasn’t licensed, and I soon learned the bar was more of a front for their clubhouse. It was open to the public, but I mostly served the club and they drank the hard stuff. As long as I kept their glasses full, I was golden.

  It wasn’t until a couple of days ago that I really started to wonder if I had lost my fucking mind by taking the job. The Satan’s Knights were in a heap of trouble and housing a club from out of town. On top of that, the former president of the club, Jack Parrish, was due to surrender to authorities, but before he could turn himself in, his wife was injured in a car accident. They soon discovered the Sinaloa Cartel had been responsible for Reina’s accident and the new president, Wolf, also Maria’s husband put the entire club on lockdown. I didn’t know what that meant and to be fair, I didn’t think it had anything to do with me. I was just the girl behind the bar getting everyone wasted. What the fuck did I care about some drug lords? The Knights, the Charons, Moe, Larry, and Curly…they were all buzzed.

  A job well done on my part if you ask me.

  I didn’t realize how serious things were until Wolf told me I couldn’t leave, that no one was going anywhere until he was one hundred percent certain it was safe. At first, I laughed in his face, annihilating any chance of becoming the employee of the month. In my defense, I was on the heels of a thirteen-hour shift and I was sure the big beast of a man was pulling my chain. The laughter quickly died on my lips when he slid the deadbolt into place and ordered me back behind the bar. Instantly, the memories of a life I escaped resurfaced, and I was no longer the quirky bartender trying to get by. Instead, I was the terrorized woman who stood in her husband’s shadows. A woman who knew nothing but fear, torment, and abuse. The next drink I poured was for myself and I made it a double. I reminded myself that I was safe and hundreds of miles away from the pain and suffering. Nothing and no one would ever touch me. I spent the last two years making sure of it, making sure there were no traces of that life to be found. Whatever was happening had nothing to do with me. I was just a victim of circumstance.

  In the days that followed things were intense, and I suddenly found myself grateful for the women of the club who provided me with clean clothes on the daily and somehow managed to keep my mind from wandering to that dark forbidden place. The men on the other hand, were pulled in different directions and came and went as duty called. They were working closely with the other club and at one point I found myself curiously staring at the Charon left in charge of guarding a bunch of books. He went by the name of Bash and I told myself I was only intrigued by the literature that held his attention and not his soulful blue eyes that kept mine. He was quiet and expressionless but there was an intensity to him that made him just as lethal as the rest of the bunch. Solitude wasn’t a choice, it was a means of survival for me, so it was crazy and completely out of character for me to be interested in anyone. Especially a man. But there was something about him. Something that called to a part of me I thought was buried.

  Earlier today the Knights and the Charons neutralized the threat and the ban to leave the bar was lifted. However, instead of everyone clearing out of Kate’s, they all decided to hang around and celebrate the fact they were alive which meant more hours on the clock for me. Luckily the Charons were leaving in the morning so the boozing wrapped up a little while ago. Now, after I clean up all this broken glass, I’m out of here. I don’t care if Jesus Christ himself walks through the door and asks for a shot of bourbon. He can use his powers to pour his own drink.

  “Need a hand?”

  At the sound of the deep southern drawl, my body instantly locks and my gaze shoots to the man hovering over me. Bash’s blue eyes pierce through me and the exhaustion I felt only seconds ago suddenly flees me. I open my mouth to reply but nothing comes out as he drops to his knees in front of me. His eyes leave mine as he makes quick work of picking up pieces of broken glass and I study his features, taking in his angular jaw that’s covered in a few days growth of scruff and the slightly crooked nose. The more my gaze wanders, the more intrigued I become. He has a full sleeve on his left arm, and I wonder if it curls around his shoulder, if the ink travels towards his chest or maybe down his back. I bet he has an incredible back full of taught muscles that leads to an even more incredible ass.

  The thought shocks me and I immediately tell myself to take a step back and put some distance between us. But I’m paralyzed by him and the realization is unsettling.

  Lydia, cut it out.

  Knowing I’m close to undressing him with my eyes, I shake my head and finally will my feet to move. I
blame my newfound attraction to the quiet Texan on exhaustion and rack my brain for something to say but the first thing that pops into my head is boxers or briefs. Note to self: don’t engage in conversation with a man while tired.

  “Shouldn’t you be sleeping?” I stammer, silently praying he doesn’t want another drink. My eyes drift to the top of his head, focusing on the fitted black baseball cap. He hasn’t taken the damn thing off since he’s arrived only sparking my curiosity more. Judging by the lack of sideburns I think it’s safe to say he’s not keeping much hidden under there.

  Other than my husband, I’ve only been with two other men. None of them have been bald. If you’re not threading your fingers through their hair while they’re fucking you, what do you do with your hands? Clutching the sheets is for romance novels. I need something to hold on to. He’s got nice shoulders. I suppose they’ll do.

  “Thank you,” he quips, lifting his head slightly. Startled by the sound of his voice, I watch as his hands still. His eyes find mine under the rim of his hat and there is a glint of humor in that gorgeous sea of blue.

  “For what?” I ask confused.

  “You said I have nice shoulders.”

  Fuck, Lydia, you’re a mess.

  There’s no use in denying it so I shrug my shoulders in response. I mean, he does have nice shoulders.

  Oh my God! Time to go.

  My eyes flit back to his mouth and I watch his lips move. That deep southern accent fills my ears but for the life of me, I have no fucking idea what he’s saying. Something about dusting…

  “Darlin’?”

  I shake my head.

  “Yeah, I can’t understand what you’re saying,” I admit, leaning closer. “Try one more time and this time say it a little slower.” I don’t mean for it to sound rude or insulting, but I’m pretty sure he’s not asking me to dust the ceiling and yet that’s all I’m hearing.

  “Do you have a dustpan or something to get these lil’ pieces?”

  My eyes widen as I decode his drawl.

  “A dustpan! You want a dustpan!”

  Amusement flickers in those baby blues of his and I swear his lips quirk. He may talk a little funny but he sure is nice to look at. Snapping out of the trance his southern charm has put me under, I tear my eyes away from his.

  “You don’t have to do it,” I say, waving him off. “You helped me out enough tonight,” I add, recalling how he jumped behind the bar earlier to help me man the hooligans. I tried to shoo him away, but he kept at it for a good while before he was called away to say goodbye to Scout. Apparently, the president of the Charon MC got himself booked on a separate flight back home. If we ever cross paths again, I’ll be sure to thank him for leaving this fine specimen behind for me to ogle. At least now I know my libido isn’t dead.

  Scrambling to my feet, I grab the tiny broom and pan from under the bar. I guess I was too busy counting the minutes until I could leave and breaking glasses to notice Bash had returned. Dropping back to my knees in front of him, I move to sweep the rest of the mess but his hand closes over my wrist.

  “I’ve got it,” he says softly, prying my fingers from the dustpan and broom. “You look like you’re about to drop.”

  Hmm. When I stare at his mouth, I can almost make out every word.

  “I’m fine,” I argue, reaching for the broom again. He moves out of my reach and diverts his attention to the task at hand, pushing all the tiny pieces into a neat pile.

  “I’m a servant,” he continues, sweeping every scrap of glass into the dustpan.

  My brows knit together as I try to make sense of what he’s saying. I highly doubt he’s a servant of God but if he is, I’m going to church on Sunday. Maybe it’s time I get right with the big guy.

  “A servant of what?”

  “Observant,” he says with a chuckle. “I said, I’m observant and you’ve been runnin’ on empty for days, darlin’.”

  An objection sits on my tongue as he rises to his full height, shifting both the dustpan and broom into one hand as he extends his free one. Feeling defeated, I huff out a breath and slide my hand into his. The simple touch of his fingers against mine shakes me to my core and I try to recall the last time I didn’t flinch at a man’s touch.

  Lifting my eyes to his, I draw in a deep breath as he continues to warm me with his gaze.

  “It’s always the quiet ones,” I whisper as he helps me to my feet. Chuckling, he gives my hand a squeeze before releasing it and I watch him walk, appreciating his swagger. Again, I shake the ridiculous thoughts from my head as he drops the glass into the garbage. With a glance in my direction, he pulls the bottle of Fireball from the shelf and sets it on the bar. Realizing he wants another drink I fight the scowl tugging at my lips.

  “Last call was an hour ago,” I remind him, watching as his lips quirk ever so slightly. He ignores my comment and pours two shots, nudging one towards me with the tip of his index finger.

  “Not looking to have you serve me,” he croons, letting his gaze travel the length of me. It’s not the first time I’ve caught him checking me out. However, he wasn’t as conspicuous about it when we were pouring drinks for both clubs and I was smart enough to ignore it. Now, my defenses have somehow been broken down, and it’s just a matter of accepting his advances.

  “Well?” he questions, inching the glass a fraction closer. “You going to let me take care of you or what?”

  Keeping my eyes on him, I lift an eyebrow and take the glass.

  You’re not that woman anymore.

  You can live without fear.

  It’s just a drink.

  He’s not him.

  I swirl the whiskey around like the professional I pretend to be and take a step closer. I might be exhausted but I’m coherent enough to recognize when a man wants me and maybe I deserve to indulge in the attention for just one night. To feel like a woman and not a victim. To remember what it’s like to live in the moment and not in fear.

  Swallowing, I lift my gaze to his.

  He’ll be gone in the morning.

  I’ll never have to see him again.

  No risk.

  He’s perfect.

  “Not sure if a shot will cut it, cowboy. But thanks for the offer,” I say evenly or at least that’s the tone I shoot for. If I’ve learned anything in the last two years, it’s how to fake a bravado.

  Lifting the glass to my lips, I down the shot. It slides smoothly down my throat, and I wipe the excess liquor from my mouth with the back of my hand as I set the empty glass on top of the bar. We stand there idly, our eyes wandering and our hands still. When he doesn’t make a move, I wonder if I’ve misread his intentions. It’s a strong possibility seeing how long it’s been since I’ve entertained a man or the idea of sex. As the seconds tick by, I start to feel foolish. Vulnerable. Everything I swore I’d never feel again. The urge to bolt engulfs me and I decide to leave the task of cleaning our empty shot glasses for tomorrow. Reaching under the bar for my bag, I quickly sling the strap over my shoulder and divert my eyes back to the handsome man just passing through.

  It would’ve been nice.

  It would’ve been liberating.

  “Have a safe flight.”

  Without saying a word, he closes the distance between us and my breath hitches at the proximity. He lifts a finger to my shoulder, gently wedging it under the thick strap of my bag and tugs it down my arm. I watch as he places it next to my empty shot glass and lifts his full one. Knocking the amber liquid back, he turns to me. I wait for him to say something else, but all he does is stare. My insecurities start to get the best of me, and I wonder what he sees when he looks at me. Does he notice all my flaws? All my imperfections? Am I just a body and a means to his release?

  “The shot was just a warm-up, Lydia.”

  With a wink, he rounds the bar and strides for the front door. Reaching it, he slowly slides the deadbolt into place, and I wait for the fear to suffocate me, but it never does. Nervously, I divert my attention away
from him and grab a rag. I pretend to wipe down the bar as I try to remember if my bra matches my panties, not because I’ll be punished if it doesn’t but simply because it exudes femininity. I also try to recall the last time I shaved my legs.

  Acting on the nervous energy pulsing through my veins as he slides up behind me, I lift the bottle he used to pour our shots and return it to its rightful place on the shelf. His hand touches my hip and I go completely still. My eyes close as I relish in his gentle touch. Every thought and all my worries drift away from me as his fingers trail over my skin. Soon, the air leaves my lungs as he turns me in his arms, guiding our joined hands to the back of his neck. My heart hammers with anticipation as our eyes lock and the tips of his fingers gently graze the inside of my arm.

  “You sure are pretty, darlin.”

  He wasn’t kidding about the shot being a warm-up.

  For in a single night, a mere couple of hours, Bash lit my whole world on fire.

  And the best part?

  I let him.

  -One-

  Bash

  I’ve lost my fucking mind.

  It’s a realization that hit me the moment I spied Riggs outside the airport, leaning against his SUV while holding a sign made of construction paper that read ‘Moses.’ As he rounded the front of his truck, I became all too aware of the fact that I had acted on impulse. I let the grief of losing my ma guide me to purchasing a one-way ticket to New York City and forfeited the patch I spent the last two years busting my ass to earn. For fuck’s sake, I barely said goodbye to the men who have had my back through thick and thin. The men—no, the brothers who stood beside me as my mother was lowered into the ground. If riding with the Charons has taught me anything, it’s loyalty, respect and honor are the creeds of a man. When he starts pissing on those three things, he loses all credibility.

  A sickening feeling creeps into my bones as I peer out the window. The infamous skyline whizzes by as Riggs crosses the Verrazano Bridge, bringing us to Staten Island and closer to the home of the Satan’s Knights.