Brazen Biker: A Hero Club Novel Read online

  Brazen Biker

  Jessica Ames

  Copyright © 2020 by Jessica Ames

  www.jessicaamesauthor.com

  Brazen Biker is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination and are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or establishments is solely coincidental.

  Editing by Word Bunnies

  Cover design by Desire Premade Covers by Jessica Ames

  Cover Image: RLS Model Images Photography

  Cover model: Colby Dansby

  Beta readers: Lynne Garlick, Clara Martinez Turco, Allisyn Pendleton

  Cover image copyright © 2020

  Please note this book contains material aimed at an adult audience, including sex, violence and bad language.

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment. It may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or if it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it to the seller and please purchase your own copy.

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under Copyright Act 1911 and the Copyright Act 1988, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior express, written consent of the author.

  This book is covered under the United Kingdom’s Copyright Laws. For more information visit: www.gov.uk/copyright/overview

  Contents

  Cocky Hero Club World

  1. Carla

  2. Rooster

  3. Carla

  4. Rooster

  5. Carla

  6. Rooster

  7. Carla

  8. Rooster

  9. Carla

  10. Carla

  11. Rooster

  12. Carla

  13. Rooster

  14. Carla

  15. Rooster

  16. Carla

  17. Rooster

  18. Carla

  19. Rooster

  20. Carla

  21. Rooster

  22. Carla

  23. Rooster

  24. Carla

  25. Rooster

  Epilogue

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  Also by Jessica Ames

  About the Author

  Cocky Hero Club World

  Brazen Biker is a standalone story inspired by Vi Keeland and Penelope Ward’s Cocky Bastard. It's published as part of the Cocky Hero Club world, a series of original works, written by various authors, and inspired by Keeland and Ward's New York Times bestselling series.

  To Kerry. Thank you for believing in this story.

  One

  Carla

  He’s sitting at the end of the bar when I come back from my break. There’s no denying the man is built. Even from here, I can see he has thick muscular tattooed arms that strain beneath the white tee he’s wearing and dark hair that is pulled into a tie at the nape of his neck. It makes him look wild, like he can’t be tamed. There’s a layer of scruff on his jaw that’s in danger of moving from a five o’clock shadow into beard territory, and beneath all that hair is a dimple. Not two, but just one, on his left side. Somehow, that makes it hotter.

  He’s also staring right at me, grinning like I’m the best thing he’s ever seen.

  When he holds his empty glass up and shakes it, internally, I groan. I know this guy’s type—cocksure and an asshole to boot—but he’s sitting in my section of the bar, meaning I need to serve him.

  With a sigh, I move over to him, grabbing a cloth as I go. I wipe the counter in front of him, just to keep my hands busy, so I don’t slap that smug smile off his damned face. I’m pretty sure my boss might kill me if I get into it with another patron.

  “What can I get you?” My voice is level, bored even, giving no indication the smile is working, even if it is stirring something in my belly.

  “Are you on the menu, darlin’?” His accent is thick, broad, and he’s clearly not native to Temecula. The drawl of his words tells me he’s a New Jersey boy. I grew up there myself, only moving out to California in my early twenties. I wanted to put as much distance as I could between me and my family. I love my dad, but his lifestyle isn’t one I agree with.

  I roll my eyes at his eyebrows waggling, resisting the urge to groan. Working in a bar, and looking the way I do, I get hit on a lot. My raven black hair is styled in vintage old school curls, like a nineteen forties pin up, and my arms are a colorful array of tattoos. I wear blood red lipstick and while I don’t go overboard with the rest of my makeup, it’s clear I’m wearing it. I’m used to cheesy pickup lines, but I didn’t think he’d be the type to deliver them. He looks like the kind of man you don’t take home to meet your parents, not a regular Casanova.

  I arch a brow at him and this makes his dimple stand out even more, which has my stomach doing somersaults. I keep my expression neutral even so. “Does that line usually work?”

  “I don’t know. It’s the first time I’ve tried it.” He peers up at me, interlacing his fingers on the bar top. “Did it?”

  I stare at him. “What can I get you?” I repeat my earlier question, hoping this asshole might get a clue.

  “How about a date? You, me, on a one-way trip.”

  “I don’t date.”

  “What? Ever? What a sad little life that must be.”

  “I don’t date cocky assholes who hit on me at work,” I correct.

  He was right the first time. I don’t date at all. The last guy I hit on, I followed him back to his motel and took all my clothes off, offering myself completely to him, only to be turned down. I’m a strong woman, but the rebuttal still stung like a bitch, even now, but I don’t have any hard feelings toward Chance. He was crazy over his woman, Aubrey, and I was never in with a shot.

  “What about when you’re off the clock?”

  I sigh, rubbing at my head. This guy is persistent. “Do you want a drink or not?”

  “Put another Scotch in there, Carla.”

  I freeze mid-reach for the glass, my creep alert going haywire. Slowly, I straighten my spine and I narrow my gaze at him, giving him my best glare. “How do you know my name?”

  He grins back at me. “Retract the claws, Kitten. Your dad told me it.” He pulls something from his back pocket and slides it onto the counter. “Even gave me a picture of you. I’ve got to say, sweetheart, it doesn’t do you justice.”

  I peer down at the photograph on the bar and see it’s one of me just before I left home six years ago. I’m younger and my hair is loose, falling straight down my back. I hadn’t discovered my love of vintage yet. I’m sitting outside the Savage Riders’ clubhouse, though I don’t remember the picture being taken.

  I snatch it off the bar and he reaches for it at the same time. I’m faster and I clutch it to my chest like it’s a live bomb.

  “Where did you get this?” I hiss at him.

  “Told you… your dad. Gunner gave it to me, so I’d be able to recognize you.”

  I flinch at the mention of my dad’s road name. It’s been a long time since I’ve heard it used. Too long since I’d last been in New Jersey, involved in that life, and that’s how I liked it.

  “My dad sent you?” He nods. “Why?”

  “To bring you home.”

  I must have misheard because there’s no way in hell I’m going back to Jersey, and my father knows it. We talk often on the phone and he’s come out to Temecula over the years, but I haven’t been home in a long time, and I have no plans to
go back either.

  “No.”

  “Not up for discussion, sweetheart. I was sent by Prez to bring you home, and I’m bringing you home, even if I have to tie you to the back of my bike.”

  He looks like the prospect of this absolutely thrills him. Anger burns a path through my gut at his words.

  “I’m not a member of your club. You don’t get to boss me around.”

  “I’m not going back without you.”

  I drop a hand to my hip and glare at him, shooting fire from my eyes. “Why do I need to go back?”

  He rubs a hand over his jaw, his eyes serious. “Some shit’s going down at the club. Your pops wants to know you’re safe.”

  My stomach lurches at his words, fear climbing up my spine. I know things happen, but hearing about it first-hand scares me. “What kind of stuff? Is Dad okay?”

  “It’s club business,” which means keep my nose out of it, “but it could be bad.”

  All signs of his grin have disappeared and he looks as serious as his words. Ice fills my belly. What the hell is my father into now?

  “What’s your name?”

  “Rooster.”

  I blink and then narrow my eyes. “Your name is Rooster?” He’s definitely a biker with a name like that. They all have crazy monikers. My dad’s real name is Robert, but everyone calls him Gunner. I don’t remember the last time I heard his real name spoken.

  He smirks. “Said so, didn’t I?”

  “Where’s your cut?” He’s not wearing the leather vest all bikers wear—their club colors. I’ve never known a brother get on a bike without them, so it’s strange to see him sitting there in just jeans and a leather jacket over the top. It makes me suspicious. Just because he knows things about me, doesn’t mean he’s who he says he is.

  “Didn’t think it was a good idea to announce to the world who I am, all things considered.”

  That statement sends chills racing through me. It means the club itself is a target, which is probably why my father wants me back. Out here, in California, I’m thousands of miles from home and the protection of the Savage Riders. I’m easy pickings.

  “What’s going on?”

  “I told you—it’s club business—but for your own safety we need to leave. Now.”

  “Well, Rooster, I can’t just leave. I have a job.”

  “Your job ain’t important. The club’ll take care of you, but we need to go.”

  “No.”

  “Your pop said you might put up a fight.” His grin returns. “I was hoping you would. You’d look so good tied to the back of my bike.”

  I scowl at him. “You touch me and I’ll cut your fingers off.”

  “Come on, sweetheart, don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

  “I’m calling my father,” I mutter, pulling my cell from my apron pocket.

  Rooster sits back at the bar, still looking smug as hell as I dial.

  Dad answers on the second ring, his gruff voice temporarily a balm to my soul, until I remember I’m pissed at him for sending this Rooster asshole to me. “Sweetheart, I know what you’re going to say—”

  “You don’t have the first clue what I’m about to say,” I fire back, fury making my words sharp. “What the hell is going on?”

  “You need to go with Rooster. Please, darlin’. Shit is hot back home and I need to know you’re safe.”

  “Hot how, and if you say ‘club business’ I’m going to scream.”

  He lets out a breath. “Come home, Carla, and I’ll explain everything, I promise.”

  “If I leave I’m going to lose my job.” I probably won’t, but I’m feeling dramatic.

  “Better than your life.” When I draw in a sharp breath, he adds, “Don’t want to scare you, darlin’, but that’s the reality we’re facing here. Do as Rooster says, yeah? I trust that crazy fucker with my life.”

  I grit my teeth. I want to argue with him, but growing up in the Savage Riders, I know when the club is telling me to hunker down, I better hunker down—even if I don’t like it.

  “Fine,” I grind out. “I’ll see you in a few days.”

  I hang up and pocket my cell. Rooster is staring at me like the cat who got the cream.

  “Ready to leave?” he asks.

  “I have to tell my boss I’m going. I can’t just walk out.”

  He gestures with his hand, as if to say by all means.

  Asshole.

  I make up some excuse about a family emergency to my boss, Tim, and get the hell out of there before any more questions can be asked.

  When we step outside the bar, the air is warm, even despite the late hour. I come to a stop when I see a Harley parked up at the curbside.

  “You brought your bike?”

  He shrugs. “Don’t do cages.”

  By cages he means cars, but seriously, is he expecting me to ride nearly three thousand miles behind him? He’s crazy if he thinks that’s going to happen.

  “I’m not riding bitch behind you, Rooster.”

  His shoulders shift again in that infuriating way. “Ride bitch or walk—those are the choices.”

  I stare at the bike, taking in the beauty of the chrome pipes and the artwork covering the tank. It is a stunning piece of machinery and in my younger years, I wanted nothing more than to be able to ride with the boys. I realized quickly that wasn’t going to be an option, that because I was a girl I would never be able to get my cut. That drove me crazy for a long time. As I got older, I realized the dangers that came from being in a one percent motorcycle club and I came to understand that life wasn’t one I wanted. I’d seen my share of brothers die or disappear into the penal system. I didn’t want to be looking over my shoulder, expecting the cops to turn up at any time, or wondering when I might get a phone call saying my dad was dead. I didn’t want any of it, and I sure as hell didn’t want a biker in my life romantically, which makes Rooster’s flirting annoying. He might be attractive as all hell, but he doesn’t have a chance.

  “I’ll walk.”

  He cocks his head and stares at me a beat before he asks, “Are you always so difficult?”

  “Only with bikers,” I mutter.

  “This ain’t ideal, sweetheart, but it is what it is.” He hands me one of the helmets that is attached to the back of the bike. “Safety first.”

  I scowl at him. “It’s going to ruin my hair.”

  “You’ll live,” he tells me, and I want to smack him.

  “If you want me to ride miles across the country, we need to stop at my apartment, so I can get some stuff. I can’t ride in this.”

  He glances down at the knee-length skirt I’m wearing, taking in the heels on my feet before bringing his gaze up to my blouse, lingering, I notice, on my tits, before he stops on my face. I cross my arms over my chest, clucking my tongue at him, letting my disapproval shine through.

  “Yeah, okay.”

  I blink. “No fight?”

  “You can’t ride like that. You’re right. It’s okay for a short distance, but you come off the bike you’re going to shred your legs.”

  I wait for him to climb on the bike and then I hesitate as I peer at the seat behind him, my heart hammering wildly in my chest.

  “You getting on or what?” he demands over his shoulder and I snap myself out of my thoughts.

  I put a foot on the pillion and throw the other one over the back of the bike with the ease of someone who has been around bikes most of their lives.

  I sit slowly behind him, mindful of the fact my bare legs press against his jean-clad thighs. It feels more intimate than it has any right to be. I swallow hard and try to ignore my proximity to this man.

  Without warning, he reaches out and squeezes my thigh. Electricity races through my skin at his touch and it takes everything I have not to moan.

  I clamp my teeth together as he mutters, “Let’s get your shit, Kitten.”

  This is going to be a long trip.

  Two

  Rooster

&
nbsp; This woman is about as high maintenance as they come. She’s been barking orders at me since I first introduced myself in the bar and while it should piss me off, I find it weirdly attractive. I find her attractive, period. Carla is hotter than hell, with sex appeal that makes my tongue glue itself to the roof of my mouth. That hair and those pouty as fuck lips have my dick hard as a rock, and if that didn’t the tattoos covering both arms certainly do. She’s like every guy’s wet dream, even if she has a tongue like a viper and a temper just as vicious. She gets that from Gunner. Prez has chewed me out more times than I can count over the years.

  As we ride, the feel of her pressed against my back has my cock sitting up and taking notice. In the five years I’ve been in the club, I’ve never had a woman on the back of my bike, and I never planned on it either, but this situation is different. We need to travel fast and smart if we’re going to make it back to New Jersey in one piece. I wasn’t lying when I told her dangerous shit is going down, although I may have downplayed just how dangerous. Prez trusts me to keep his daughter safe and I’m not going to let him down. I’ll protect her with my life.

  She shifts behind me and I have to mentally call my dick to stand down. We’re not getting any, not from her. Gunner would cut my cock off if I touch his daughter, though, danger to life has never stopped me from pursuing a woman before. I’ve never met a female yet who could resist my charms and even though this kitten has claws, I’m sure she’s a pussy cat beneath it.