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Release Package: Joy by Lilly Atlas
Posted by Jeri in BOOKPROMO, RELEASE
Lilly Atlas
Title: Joy
Series: Hell's Handlers MC
Author: Lilly Atlas
Life, death, trauma, healing; the Hell's Handlers have been through it all over the past year. They've conquered old enemies, acquired new ones, and struggled through devastating upheavals. So far, they've come out on top, knocking down challenges by focusing on one essential ideal: family above all. With Copper at the helm, the Handlers are a patchwork family of bikers who will fight to the death for what they've created.
And after all they've survived over the past three hundred and sixty-five days, the Handlers are ready to lay down their weapons, pick up their drinks, and coast through the holidays with nothing but joy in mind. But as often happens with life in an MC, Christmas takes a back seat to club drama.
As the year rolls to a close, the men and women of the club will experience new life, new chapters in love, and plenty of new beginnings. But not everything is sparkly and bright as dangerous enemies threaten the tight-knit group of rough and rowdy bikers. Will twenty-nineteen end in tragedy, or will the club once again emerge victorious in time to find a little joy for the holidays?
"All right, I think we are pretty much set then, don't you?" Shell asked as she gazed across the booth at two of the most important women in her life, Toni and Stephanie. As friends, they'd come a long way in the past year or so. At first, Shell hadn't been thrilled by Stephanie's involvement with Maverick, at least after it had been revealed the other woman worked for the FBI. Fear for the club, fear for Copper, kept her a little cold initially, but now? After experiencing first-hand Stephanie's loyalty to both Maverick and the club, Steph considered her a treasured friend.
More than a friend, really. Each of the club's ol' ladies had become her chosen family. Sisters of the heart. And one of their sisters was about to add another little one to the next generation of Handlers. Hence the baby shower planning meeting.
"Yeah," Toni said. She and Shell had become instant friends almost from the moment they'd met when Toni took over the diner she'd inherited from her parents. The diner Shell worked at. "I've got the food and drinks covered. Ernesto agreed to cater for us. Holly is on desserts, of course, and she's going to be running the show, day of. Shell, you and Chloe have decorations covered. Jazz is bringing the mommy-to-be around two, and our dear brave Stephanie here has come up with some games to play."
Steph rolled her eyes as Toni and Shell snickered. "I'm having a hard time picturing Izzy playing any game that doesn't involve beating someone bloody, but I'm giving it my best shot. Actually, since her due date was yesterday, I'm really hoping she'll just go into labor before the shower."
Izzy was going to make a…interesting mother, to say the least. A kick-ass tattoo artist who also happened to be an underground MMA fighter—though not for the past nine months—Izzy wasn't exactly the PTA-joining, minivan-driving type. In fact, the pregnancy had been an astounding shock in the first place. Despite her less than maternal ways, Izzy was truly a phenomenal friend and all-around amazing woman. Shell had a feeling boy or girl, Iz was going to raise one incredible kiddo.
"Um, excuse me, Miss Toni?"
All three women turned toward the timid voice coming from the slip of a girl who stood near their booth, staring at the ground.
Toni's expression softened, and she shifted to face the young teen. Her ratty sweatshirt hung off her small frame, and she wore jeans with torn knees. Not the fashionable kind, the old and worn kind. "Lindsey, what did I tell you about dropping the Miss?"
The girl shrugged her slight shoulders. Hanging in straggly strands down her back, her long auburn hair would be gorgeous if it had a good scrubbing and someone to style it properly.
Shell's heart squeezed at the sight of the girl. She'd appeared at the diner a few days ago asking for a job. Since she was only thirteen and under the legal working age in Tennessee, Toni's hands were tied. But of course, Shell's compassionate friend found a way to help the girl without officially hiring her. She'd given her small jobs, taking out the trash, wiping tables, refilling napkin holders, and after each task had been completed, Toni gave the girl a meal and a little bit of cash.
Shell's first thought was that the girl was a runaway and the authorities should be contacted. Toni had been reluctant but eventually agreed to call the sheriff's department. Before they'd had the chance to place that call, Lindsey had sworn up, down, and backward she did not run away from home. She claimed to just be from a poor family and had begged them not to call the police.
Toni seemed to believe that about as much as Shell did, but Lindsey's insistence on having a home limited their options. Toni hadn't wanted to call the police regardless of Lindsey's wishes. If it turned out the girl wasn't lying, the cops would most likely call in child protective services, which wasn't always a good thing. They needed more information before they acted, but details about herself were not something Lindsey dished out.
"You all finished with the trash?" Toni asked softly when it became apparent the gun-shy girl wasn't going to speak again. Due to a rough past of her own, Toni had a soft spot for all troubled teenagers, but this girl seemed to have wormed her way into Toni's heart more than most.
"Yes, ma'am." Lindsey still hadn't glanced up from where her tattered sneaker rubbed at a small scuff on the tiled floor.
"Oh no, ma'am is even worse than miss. Just Toni. Please."
Lindsey nodded without looking up. She seemed as taken with Toni as Toni was with her, but she shut down when in a group. Or around men. So far, Shell hadn't seen any signs of physical abuse, but she certainly had the skittish nature of someone who'd been mistreated.
"Well, thank you for coming around again today, Lindsey. You really saved me a lot of time and made it so I could get some other work done." Toni dug a few bills out of her pocket and held them out.
Finally, Lindsey peeked up at Toni with a small smile on her face and two pink cheeks. "Thank you, ma—uh, Toni," she said, snatching the money and holding it in a tight fist as though someone might try to snatch it from her at any point. Would they? Was that this poor child's reality? Clinging to the lifeline of five dollars?
Whatever the reality of her situation, Lindsey seemed to be struggling just to make it through each day. Hopefully, Toni would be able to break through the girl's wary exterior soon and provide more help than a few hot meals and a couple dollar bills. If she had a family in need of assistance, Toni would most likely move heaven and earth to provide it. If it turned out Lindsey was a runaway, well, Toni would probably let the girl move into the diner.
"Will we see you again tomorrow?"
Back to focusing on the floor, Lindsey nodded.
"Great. And, Lindsey?"
The girl tensed but gave Toni her attention.
"You have my phone number if you need anything, right?"
She nodded.
"Anything. At any time. And I mean that. I hope you'll use it if you need it."
"Thank you," she whispered, then scurried out the front door.
"Gosh, that poor child," Stephanie said, a hand pressed to her chest.
With a sigh, Toni nodded, her brown eyes following the girl as she darted across the parking lot. "Tell me about it. I'm trying to get some more information out of her, but she's pretty locked up. She swears she isn't homeless, but I'm worried. Do you think she's lying, Shell?"
"I don't know. Something seems off. Just breaks my heart." Shell said as she tried to envision how difficult life would have been as a young teen on her own. It'd been hard enough surviving without help in her early twenties.
Across the diner, Shell's own daughter let out a squeal of laughter as she sent her Barbie doll diving over the edge of a table. Shell couldn't imagine a future where she'd kick Beth out of the house or one where Beth felt the need to run away. No, that little girl knew just how loved and cherished she was, no matter who she became or what she did. Hopefully, there was someone out there who felt the same about Lindsey, and if not, she had no doubt Toni would work her magic on the girl.
Shell's lips curled as she watched her child entertain herself. Without thinking, her hand automatically moved to rest on her stomach. Though Beth was conceived in a traumatic manner, she'd been a blessing in ways Shell never could have imagined. And now that they lived with Copper, her daughter finally had the father she'd been denied for the first four years of her life.
Since moving in with Copper near six months ago, Shell—and Beth, for that matter—had never been happier. The man was attentive, affectionate, protective, and sexy as all get out. Shell hadn't known one woman could have so many orgasms and still function.
Life was great.
Perfect, really.
Well, it had been until yesterday…
"Hello? Shell? Earth to Shell, come in Shell."
She blinked. Toni's form morphed into view as she waved her hand in front of Shell's face. Her face heated. Both Toni and Stephanie were staring at her with expectant gazes from across the booth. "Sorry, uh, what did you say?"
Steph laughed. "Well, we said a lot. First, we asked if you were bringing Beth to the shower. Then when you didn't answer, we asked if you were listening. When you still didn't answer, Toni said she saw Copper running around the parking lot naked. When that didn't even get your attention, we gave up. You good, girl?"
"Sorry, got lost for a second thinking about Lindsey. No, Beth and Copper are going on a daddy-daughter date tomorrow afternoon. I think I heard something about Frozen II and a big tub of popcorn."
Toni pressed a hand over her heart. "Aw, he's the cutest. Who the hell would have thought that giant, gruff, beast of a man would be the best daddy in the world?"
Shell smiled. She'd known. Of course, she'd known. How else could she have fallen in love with the man?
"Speaking of daddies," Stephanie began, which had Toni groaning up at the ceiling.
"Please, if this is some sex story about you calling Mav daddy, just stop now. We don't want to hear it. There's not enough bleach in the supply closet to scrub an image like that from my brain."
Shell giggled as she nodded. "She's right, Steph. We love you, we love Mav, and we love that you're all out there with your sex life, but there's a limit to what our ears can handle."
Face red, Stephanie tried to scowl, but her mouth couldn't turn down since she was laughing as well. "That's not what this is." She paused, tilting her head. "Though you give me ideas. Anyway, I was just gonna ask who you think will be next?"
"Next?" Shell asked as she glanced over at Beth again. Her daughter still happily played with her dolls while munching on the French fries Toni had made her.
"Yeah, next on the baby train. Next to get knocked up. Next to repopulate the earth." Steph sipped her coffee.
"Okay, I think we get it," Toni said as she shook her head. "Well, we all know it's not gonna be you." She shot a pointed look in Stephanie's direction.
"Nope. Not me. I'm uber careful about that shit. Babies scare the tar outta me. They're all tiny and vulnerable." She shuddered.
Shell snorted. "They're actually a lot harder to kill than you'd think." She shot Steph a wink.
"Well," Toni said as she waved her hand back and forth. "It's a dumb question anyway because we all know it's gonna be you, Shell."
"What? Me?" she squeaked. "Why do you say that?"
"Uhh, because you're an awesome mom, you love kids, and you've mentioned a few times that you want a sibling for Bethy."
"Not to mention your ol' man is an old man," Steph said as she shoved a ripped off chunk of muffin in her mouth.
"Thanks," Shell said in a droll tone as her stomach fluttered. This conversation hit a little too close to home.
Toni bumped Steph with her shoulder. "He's not old, he's just older than Shell. The man is still sexy AF and probably will be when he's eighty."
True. So true.
"Well, we'll see," Shell said, pasting a smile on her face. It felt forced, fake.
"Yeah, we'll see all right," Steph said with a laugh. "We'll see you get all big when you grow a monster-sized mini-Copper inside you."
Despite her unease, Shell managed to chuckle. "We haven't talked about it much actually. I'm still taking the pill, so…" She shrugged, hating the lies.
But she wasn't ready to voice the truth.
"You're crazy. That man can't wait to knock you up." Steph shook her head. "I give it until March. If you're not carrying prez junior by March, I'll…"
"Ohh, this could be good. You'll what?" Toni said, turning her interested gaze on Steph.
"Yeah, what are you gonna offer me, Steph?" Shell waggled her eyebrows.
The bell above the entrance jangled. Glancing at her phone, Toni said, "Who is that? Zach isn't supposed to be here for another forty-five minutes." She stuck her head out the side of the booth to get a better view of the door then stiffened. "Shit," she whispered.
"What?" Shell asked.
Across the booth, both Toni and Steph grew rigid and tense. Who the hell could it be? Shell stood slightly and glanced over her shoulder to where three men dressed very similarly to their own men strode into the diner. MC cuts, biker boots, bandanas, chains.
But one very big difference—the Chrome Disciples patch on each of their cuts.
Lilly Atlas is a contemporary romance author, proud Navy wife, and mother of two spunky girls. By day she works as a physical therapist for a hospital in Virginia. Lilly is an avid romance reader, and expects her Kindle to beg for mercy every time she downloads a new eBook. Thankfully, it hasn't happened yet, and she can often be found absorbed in a good book.
Release Tour Package: Rocket by Lilly Atlas
Lilly Atlas, Rocket
Title: Rocket
Logan "Rocket" Carrera has a history he prefers to leave buried under prickly layers of standoffish personality. He's seen and done things that would make most people lie awake at night. A master of compartmentalization, he's never had trouble moving on until the night he rescues the redheaded Chloe from a sadistic gang.
Kidnapped, beaten, and abused by criminals, Chloe has a difficult time assimilating back into the world after the most traumatic experience of her life. With each passing day, her anxiety builds until she's forced to find an outlet. Finally, Chloe discovers her own way to make sense of the world and steal a few moments of peace. There's just one problem: she can't tell a soul what she's doing. Who could ever understand the risk she's taking?
Unable to stay away from the fascinating woman who's screwing with his head just by breathing, Rocket tails Chloe as often as he can. His curiosity over her actions borders on obsession. Before long, and despite the MC president's orders to keep his distance, Rocket succumbs to the urge to approach her.
Logan, the handsome man Chloe meets in a bar, gives her exactly what she needs. He's accepting of her unusual requests in a way she hadn't thought possible. The fantasy unravels, however, when she discovers who he really is, the outlaw biker who saw her at her very lowest moment. Will Chloe be able to accept Logan as the biker, Rocket, and allow him into her life enough to help her heal? The answer won't matter if his violent past sucks him away before she has a chance to try.
What the hell was the infuriating woman doing?
Two months of this bullshit, and Rocket still didn't understand what the fuck her deal was. He wasn't a man that appreciated unanswered questions. He tended to dig and dig until he uncovered what he wanted to know. That tenacity was a part of his personality and it had served him well in the past, but sent puzzles like Chloe to obsession level.
"What'll it be, man?" the bartender asked. Rocket spared him a quick glance. This lounge had one man and one woman working the highly-trafficked bar. Smart business move. A broad to subtly flaunt her tits and draw in the men, and a dude with the sleeves of his collared shirt rolled high enough to show his tatted and bulging forearms for the ladies. Rocket's friend's ol' lady, Toni, had described the look as badass gentleman or some shit. Guys who dressed all proper and suave, but under the pricy threads were bad to the bone. Apparently, the look worked to get women's motors revving. At least the women he knew.
According to Toni, when Rocket dressed up—which was usually rarer than a hot pink helmet on one of his bothers, he had much of the same look. Might explain the table of women currently eye-fucking him. With no choice but to blend in with the professional crowd, he'd slipped into some slacks, a tailored shirt, and a tie.
A fucking tie. Noose, more like it.
Enter the table of late-twenties women sending him come-fuck-me vibes. Whatever. While the release would be nice, they weren't a part of his plans for the evening.
"Jack Daniels." He held up two fingers, and the bartender nodded before turning to the bottle-loaded shelves.
Rocket's attention strayed back to the woman who'd set up camp in his mind almost five months ago and had yet to leave.
Chloe Lane.
Five-foot-nine-inches of sex appeal wrapped in a curve-hugging purple dress. And damn, did that woman have curves. Instead of sleeves, the dress had thick straps and a low square neckline showing off her tits in the most appealing way. Every man in the bar got an eyeful of creamy white cleavage, but not too much of it. Classy, while still being erotic as fuck. But it was the color of the dress that had half the men in the room slobbering into their martinis. The deep purple made those green cat-eyes ten times more intoxicating than the overpriced liquor.
Like some kind of witch, she cast a spell over every man within a ten-foot radius, Rocket included. When the hell had he even noticed the color of a woman's outfit, let alone what it did to her eyes?
The fact that she was currently conversing with a man didn't seem to matter in the least to the other dogs in the room. Nor did the fact that many of them had dates or at least hook-ups of their own. No, all over the damn lounge, eyes strayed in her direction, fixating on those small but high and perky tits. Or maybe it was the short skirt riding up a pair of toned thighs that did it for them.
The woman was fine as fuck.
And she was out of her goddamned mind.
"Here you go, man," the bartender said as he placed Rocket's double of Jack in front of him. "You starting a tab?"
"Nah, just the one, thanks." He dropped a twenty on the bar top, and waved the bartender away when he lifted a brow in an unspoken, need change?
One drink was all he'd have time for, if that. Chloe wouldn't stick around long. God knew, after practically stalking her for months, Rocket had her routine down pat. And it was a disturbing fucking ritual.
For the first three months following the assault, Chloe rarely left the house. While concerning, her self-imposed house arrest wasn't exactly surprising considering what had been done to her. Then, one night, out of the blue, she emerged looking like sex on a stick. She drove to this very bar, had one drink, picked up a polished and manicured gentleman, and drove to a fairly nice motel. The pair had disappeared into a room, and Chloe emerged an hour later almost to the second.
And so began a habit she engaged in every Friday and Saturday night.
Every week.
For the past two months.
The bars changed, the dresses changed, but the pattern never did.
One drink.
One guy.
One room.
One hour.
And Rocket, being the stupid fuck he was, followed her every single time.
He told himself it was to protect her. To make sure Lefty never came sniffing around again. In reality, it was the unsolved mystery of what the hell she was doing that drew him in like a fish on a hook. And the boner he got pretty much any time he laid eyes on her? Yeah, that had nothing to do with his stalker act.
Any one of the men she invited to the hotel room could hurt her in ways he'd describe as unimaginable, but unfortunately Chloe didn't have to imagine. She knew exactly what the fuck could happen to an unprotected woman.
Which made this entire thing, including Rocket, crazy.
What the hell was she doing in there?
Drugs? Crying on their shoulders? Raging?
Surely, she wasn't fucking them? Not after what she'd been through.
Drugs seemed the most logical answer. Self-medicating to chase away the demons she hadn't been allowed to purge through therapy. But why snag a random guy? And she always left the hotel room looking as put together as when she went in. Not a hair out of place. Not a wobble in her step. She even drove home without swerving.
Drugs were seeming less and less likely.
Most nights, Rocket lurked in the shadows to avoid being spotted, but tonight, the overcrowded bar had him sitting much closer. In fact, he was on the barstool next to her, however her attention was fully trained on the man sitting to her opposite side. The suit had come on to her before Rocket made it through the door, and she'd never so much as glanced his way. Some snooze fest in a fucking Armani suit. Actually, most of the men in the bar, including Rocket, were dressed in professional attire. The place was hands down a martini and banker bar.
As were all the establishments Chloe visited. Swanky, post nine-to-five meet-up locations Rocket wouldn't be caught dead in, if it weren't for his newfound obsession. A whiskey swilling, music blaring, dive bar was much more his speed. But concessions had to be made if he wanted to continue stalking Miss Chloe. He'd have stuck out like a sore thumb in jeans and a leather cut. Not that he gave a shit. Fitting in with this crowd was dead last on Rocket's priority list, but remaining incognito was at the top. She'd never seen his face, but a Handlers' cut carried the risk of freaking her the fuck out.
"Excuse me if I'm overstepping, but that dress makes your eyes look like two sparkling emeralds," the bro on Chloe's left crooned.
Rocket couldn't keep his eyes from rolling skyward. Was that the shit women in these snazzy joints wanted to hear? Sure, the guy's description might be dead on, but, shit, who spoke like that? In his experience, women preferred a dirty mouth working hard between their legs to a sweet one whispering in their ear. Talk was cheap, but oral? Yeah, that was the shit.
"Thank you," Chloe responded, her soft voice stroking over Rocket's dick.
No doubt about it, he was a sick fuck. No matter how many times he jerked off before tailing Chloe, or how many lectures he gave his damn cock, the prick wouldn't lie limp in her presence. No, it filled to capacity just from the sight of her. Now that he was close enough to smell and hear her? He was in some serious damn discomfort.
A hard cock was probably the last thing Chloe wanted anywhere near her. A mere five months ago she'd been raped. By three vicious men. Rocket gripped the glass in his hand to a near shattering point. His hands ached to squeeze the life out of Lefty. The MC was working hard on finding him, but it'd proven more difficult than they'd anticipated.
"Do you live nearby?" the dude asked in his cultured voice. Cultured, hell, that was just a fancy word for snobby and obnoxious.
Come on, there was no way she'd choose this guy for whatever would go down in that hotel room.
"No," she said. "Just in town for business. I head back home tomorrow morning." Her voice dropped, taking on a husky quality that left no question as to her desire.
The woman wanted to be fucked and she wanted to be fucked now.
Didn't. Make. Sense.
The sultry way Chloe spoke did nothing to stem the flow of blood to his cock. Through the mirror along the wall behind the bar, he had a clear view of her body language. Yep, the woman was open and ready for business, at least that's what her heavy-eyed, pouty-lipped look portrayed. She leaned in, giving the guy an even better show of her stellar cleavage, and her crossed legs brushed against his thigh. On any other woman, this would scream do me big guy. But surely not on Chloe. He just couldn't let himself believe it. What the fuck was her game?
"That's too bad," douche bag replied. "I was hoping to take you out, show you a good time."
Chloe tilted her head, giving the man an assessing gaze. Then, she tossed back the last of her Cosmopolitan. Shit, even the way her throat worked swallowing down the liquid, had Rocket ready to bust a nut.
"You can take me back to my room and fuck me. That'd be a good time."
Rocket choked on his whiskey.
Guess that answered that.
No longer caring if he blew his cover, he spun and stared at the back of Chloe's head. The man she'd propositioned had a deep tan, platinum blond hair that must have come from a bottle, and ten perfectly shaped fingernails. They probably topped off ten very soft fingers. Rocket glanced down at his own chipped nails and callused skin.
A man's hands.
He sure as fuck could do a lot more with them than this motherfucker.
With a bug-eyed stare, the guy gaped at Chloe. He looked as shocked as Rocket felt. For the life of him, he hadn't really thought she was fucking the men. Why would she do that? Her bruised and broken body knew firsthand the damage the wrong kind of man could inflict.
"Uh, yeah, uh, fuck yeah. We can go to your hotel room."
Rocket almost laughed. What happened to the Casanova with the smooth lines?
"Great." Chloe reached out and put a hand on Mr. Smooth's chest. "One thing before we go."
"Sure, anything."
Yeah, Rocket just bet that guy would agree to anything. He was about to get between those very sexy thighs.
"My room, my show," she said. Gone was the come-hither tone, replaced by an undercurrent of steel. "Before we go you need to agree to fuck my way. It's non-negotiable. If you can do that, we'll head out now. If not, I'll keep looking for the man I need."
"No, yeah, that's good. I'm down for anything."
"Okay then." Chloe's voice brightened. "Let's go."
Rocket's gaze fell to that absolutely bitable ass as Chloe led him to the exit. He rolled his shoulders as he processed the new information.
Chloe was fucking the men. And she was fucking them her way. What did that mean? He turned his gaze away from her, telling himself the unease in his gut was concern for her safety, not envy of the man who was about to spend one hour between the sheets with the only woman Rocket had gotten hard for in months.
If his brothers could see him now.
They'd be in hog heaven watching him act like such a fool. Meanwhile their ol' ladies would probably castrate him for slobbering after a traumatized woman.
Or was she traumatized? Maybe she'd moved past the assault. Maybe this was how she'd lived her life before Rocket met her. Maybe her coping skills were stellar and the trauma she'd endured was all behind her.
He rejected the idea as quick as it came. Just didn't sit right.
As soon as they were out the door, he would follow. While he waited for them to navigate their way through the throngs of thirsty patrons, Rocket switched his phone back on. Earlier that morning, he'd received a text that had him powering down and getting his hackles up. Three words, that's all it had taken to have him looking over his shoulder for the past that might coming back to haunt him.
I need you.
Fuck no, he wasn't needed.
He was out. Done with his former life as a glorified mercenary and had the walking papers to prove it. Didn't stop his old employer from seeking him out every so often. Not once had he been remotely tempted to return to that way of life. With each rejection, the requests grew a little more hostile. One of these days, his reprieve would run out and they'd send someone to bring him in. For now, he'd continue to avoid them with radio silence. Hence the turned off phone.
"Fuck," he ground out as the screen came to life. Fifteen missed calls and twice as many texts screaming at him to check in. All from Zach, the club's enforcer.
Some shit was going down. He'd flaked on church last week while tailing Chloe to the grocery store. Copper would roast his ass on a spit if it became a pattern. But calling in meant leaving Chloe.
Torn between loyalty to his club and the hot gut-punch he experienced knowing Chloe was minutes away from fucking some businessman, Rocket paused. What the fuck was wrong with him? It was getting harder to call the souring in his stomach anything other than jealousy.
He had to put an end to this shit. Chloe was a big girl. She, more than anyone, knew what could happen at the hands of a madman. For his own sanity, he had to step back. He couldn't continue to watch over her so much. Not when his club needed him.
Without bothering to listen to the voicemails or read the texts, Rocket left the bar, heading straight for his bike. If he pushed it, he'd be back in Townsend and at the clubhouse in thirty minutes. The guys could catch him up in person.
With any luck, they'd finally gotten a bead on Lefty.
That thought had a sinister smile curling his lips.
Just as he was pulling out, he caught sight of Chloe turning onto the road with Mr. Smooth's car hot on her tail.
Now that his head was screwed on straight, Rocket hit the throttle and shot off toward the clubhouse.
There were just some questions he might never get the answers to and he'd have to learn to live with that.
Release Tour Package: Copper by Lilly Atlas
09 Saturday Feb 2019
Copper, Lilly Atlas
Title: Copper
Release Date: February 5, 2019
Enormous, commanding, and hotter than sin, Copper is the only man Shell has ever wanted. Even as a young teen, when it was impossible and taboo to capture the attention of a grown man, she longed for him. For years, Shell clung to the dream of turning eighteen and finally being noticed by the Hell's Handlers' rough and gruff president. But the universe had other plans, and she was forced to make a horrible choice. A choice that altered the course of her life forever, sealing her fate and ensuring the dream of being Copper's ol' lady would never materialize.
Sixteen years his junior. Daughter of his MC's former president. Single mother whose deadbeat sperm donor doesn't provide an ounce of support. Loved as a younger sister by every man in the club. The list of reasons goes on for Copper to stay away from Shell. Problem is, he's been hot for her for years. Copper finally gets some relief when she moves out of Tennessee, but once she's back, all those reasons to keep his distance grow weaker by the day.
Unable to fight against his own judgment any longer, Copper finally claims Shell for his own. But once again the universe steps in, revealing secrets with the power to destroy them both.
Shell will do anything for Copper, even tear out her own heart and confront the most agonizing parts of her past. But will she be too late to save her dream?
If they caught her, there'd be hell to pay.
Absolute hell.
Michelle didn't even want to imagine the level Copper's anger would climb to if he discovered her trailing after him and his men in the dark woods behind the clubhouse well after midnight.
The fury would be epic.
Biblical.
She may be a fifteen-year-old kid, but she wasn't an idiot. Sneaking out of her home, pedaling her bicycle across town to the clubhouse, and lurking in the shadows until the men emerged was not only dangerous, it was reckless—and probably pointless as well.
She wouldn't be able to see a damn thing when the guys finally stopped trekking. But she had to be here. Had to find out if the club had really captured the man who murdered her father.
Four sets of heavy-booted feet tromped through the woods, making no effort toward stealth, thankfully. Shell wasn't exactly mouse-quiet herself, but the noise from the determined group drowned out her leaf-crunching steps.
She shivered despite the down jacket engulfing her body. Mid-January at the base of the Great Smoky Mountains was pretty freakin' cold. Lucky for her, it hadn't snowed in the past few weeks.
"Fuck, it's dark out here. Wouldn't be able to see my own damn dick. We almost done with this romantic stroll through the woods?" That was Maverick's voice. Easy to distinguish because ninety percent of the nonsense out of his mouth was laden with snark and sarcasm. As one of the newer patches, he was making a name for himself with his wit and constant inappropriate humor.
"We have a fucking flashlight, you big baby. Suck it up and keep walking."
Zach. Another new patch.
Clenching her teeth in a fruitless effort to stem the chattering, Shell stole on after the men she considered family. Loved them like family as well. Loved them more than the majority of her flesh and blood relatives, if she was honest.
The further into the woods they ventured, the more confident Shell grew in her guess of their destination. The guys had to be headed to The Box. Thoughts of what that meant sent a different kind of shiver racing down her spine. Growing up in the MC, Shell had heard countless rumors about The Box. How the club kept a giant underground torture chamber filled with hundreds of Handlers' enemies from years back. How it was about a mile out into the woods behind the clubhouse. How the walls were coated with blood and faded screams echoed through the dungeon. The Honeys loved to gossip and guess precisely what went on down there, and each tale was more gruesome than the last. By the time she was twelve, Shell had heard stories of prisoners having limbs sawed off, eyeballs plucked out, and dicks clamped in a vice. Half of what the club girls said couldn't be believed. At least that's what her mother told her when she was nine and asked what a blow job was and why she overheard a Honey using it in reference to her father. Since that day, she'd always tried to take what they told her with a grain of salt. It's not as though the men actually shared any club business with the women who were little more than whores.
The truth was probably a watered-down version of the legends, even if the Honey bragging about blowing Shell's father had been telling the truth. Turned out the man had been with nearly all of them at one point or another. Something every fifteen-year-old girl wanted to think about. Regardless, The Box existed and wasn't a place anyone wanted to find themselves.
After another five minutes of wordless journeying through the woods, the men suddenly came to a dead stop.
Michelle darted behind the nearest thick-trunked tree. She held as still as possible, not even daring to breathe. Too bad her heart was pounding so loud it could be heard a mile away.
Had the guys noticed her? Did they suspect they had a stowaway? Could they hear the rattling of her frozen and terrified bones?
This was by far her stupidest idea ever.
"Bring him out to me," Copper said.
Shell would recognize that voice anywhere. That Irish brogue belonging to the six-foot-five, tatted biker who starred in every teenage fantasy she'd ever had. His name decorated a diary hidden deep under her bed, scrawled over and over with spritzes of cheap perfume and lipstick kisses. If anyone ever found it, she'd die on the spot, but so far, her secret was safe.
"You sure, brother? Wouldn't it be easier to do this shit down in The Box?" Rusty asked.
Shell frowned. Younger by ten years, Rusty was Copper's brother and a huge jerk. There was no other word to describe him. Okay, there were a few others, but despite their extreme sailor-enviable mouths, the guys got on her case every time she swore. Sick of them always nagging about ladies not cussing, she avoided using any kind of foul language in front of them. Kinda like she avoided Rusty at all costs.
"I want him out here. I want him to feel the air, see the stars, smell the clean scent of the forest. He needs to realize everything he's never going to have the chance to experience again. He needs to feel what I'm taking away from him. I want him to experience one last flicker of hope that we'll let him live, right before I slit his fucking throat."
Shell swallowed. Though she couldn't see his face, she imagined Copper stroking his beard, deep in thought as he plotted someone's demise. There were stories about that, too. About the lengths Copper would go to protect his club. His men and their families.
But now she had a front-row seat to the horror show.
"You got it," Zach said. There was some rustling, then silence that seemed to drag on for hours but was probably only minutes. Everything appeared darker, longer, more intense when outside in the hours following midnight.
Finally, footsteps crunched over leaves again, followed by a grunt and a thud. Shell blew out a silent breath and peeked around her tree. Someone had lit a lantern, illuminating a small clearing in the woods. A man knelt on the ground, arms bound behind him with Copper, Maverick, Zach, and Rusty circled around him.
Back to her, she didn't have a view of Copper's face, but she sure had a clear line of sight to the man on the ground.
Reaper, they called him. Because of the number of men he'd sent to their graves. Those were rumors Shell believed. She'd seen the dark-eyed man in action. Her insides quivered at the memories, and she sucked in a soundless, trembling breath.
This was why she'd followed the guys into the woods when she should have been home snoozing away in preparation for school in the morning.
Reaper was the man who'd killed her father five years ago.
Earlier that afternoon, she'd been at the clubhouse helping some of the ol' ladies prepare dinner. Tasked with letting the men know their meal was ready to be devoured, she'd wandered toward Copper's office only to hear Reaper's name being tossed around in conjunction with plans to head to The Box in the night.
Her mind and body had frozen until the noises from Copper's office alerted her to the men mobilizing. Then, she'd scurried back to the door of the kitchen and pretended to emerge just as they did, feigning her ignorance.
Even by the dim glow of the lantern, it was apparent the eyes staring up at Copper held no remorse. No fear. It was as though life, even his own, held no value to him. Almost made her wish the men would keep him alive and in pain a while before ending him. Most might find it sick. Most might wake with nightmares after watching someone die, but Shell had already been down that road. The soulless look in his eyes was the same she'd seen the night he stole her father from her. Memories from that time had stayed so strong, so fresh in her mind even with the passage of time, and Reaper's brought them right back to the surface.
She'd been with her father that fated night, four years ago, when the madman known as Reaper shot him in cold blood at a gas station.
As long as she lived, Shell would never forget the horror of that night. It was late on a Saturday, and her father was driving Shell and her mother home from a family barbecue at the clubhouse. From the second row of their truck, she'd watched her dad walk out of the quiet gas station market, two coffees in hand. Seconds later, Reaper appeared from the shadows, shot her father from three feet away, then disappeared as fast as he'd materialized. She'd had as clear a view of his pale face that night as she did now.
It all happened so fast, it was over before her brain processed what her eyes had seen. But once it did, her heart broke clear in two, and she screamed so loud she couldn't speak for days.
Now, finally, more than four years later, justice would be served, MC style. And she didn't have it in her to find anything wrong with that. Maybe it was how she was raised, or maybe it was just in her blood, but she had always felt safe, loved, and protected knowing the club would do anything and everything to protect and avenge its own.
Copper had been there that night. He'd witnessed her devastation, seen her in the lowest moment of her life. In her lovestruck teenage mind, she'd hoped some of the reason for Copper's tireless search for Reaper had something to do with him wanting to ease her pain, though, in truth, he'd have done it for anyone associated with the club.
"You've been a hard man to find," Copper said as he stepped closer to his captive.
Reaper snorted. Whoever had taken him prisoner, roughed him up quite a bit. One black eye, a seeping gash on his cheek, ripped shirt, wheezy breathing. His short black hair was caked with blood, matted to his head. Not near enough punishment in Shell's eyes.
"Been easy to slip under the radar with you idiots looking for me," Reaper slurred like his tongue was swollen. He smiled, actually smiled, revealing missing teeth.
From the cover of her tree, Shell locked her knees to keep from charging forward and raining a hell of her own down on the smug bastard.
Copper chuckled. "That may be, but we got your ass now. Been waiting on this moment for a long time." As he spoke, he drew a wicked looking blade from a sheath on his belt.
Shell's eyes widened, and she covered her mouth to muffle a gasp. Maybe she hadn't been as prepared as she'd thought to watch Copper take a life.
Yet she couldn't tear her gaze away.
The rest of the men stood with spread legs, folded arms, and flat expressions as they watched Copper close the distance to Reaper. Pressing the blade against the man's throat, he said, "This is for my President, his ol' lady, and Shell." The venom in Copper's voice had Shell's eyes widening more than the act of blatant violence she was about to witness. He sounded like a different man. A lethal man completely capable of killing in cold blood. "This is for Shell most of all because an eleven-year-old girl should never have to live with the image of her father being gunned down. Rest in hell, motherfucker."
Reaper laughed, making Shell flinch. The sound was so maniacal it could have been a psychotic movie villain's cackle. And the man dared to do it while Copper held a deadly knife to his throat.
"There's so much you don't know Prez," he said as though mocking Copper.
"Details don't matter. You killed my president, now you die."
Reaper might be a psychotic killer, but he was freaking brave. Not once did he cower, beg for his life, or break eye-contact with Copper. Just as Copper's arm muscles flexed with the telltale sign of impending movement, Reaper said, "Too bad I didn't notice the girl watching me that night. Might have taken her with me. She'da made a good plaything."
The growl that came from Copper sent chills skittering across all Shell's nerve endings. He didn't bother speaking, just drew the blade across Reaper's throat in one fluid motion.
Easy as slicing through butter.
Blood immediately flowed from the slash followed by a horrendous gurgling sound. This time, Shell couldn't catch the shocked gasp before it left her mouth. The moment it was out, she held her breath and prayed no one heard. Copper didn't so much as twitch. Zach watched the life drain from Reaper. Mav bounced his leg as though impatient to get the process over with.
But Rusty, Rusty met her gaze with a cold, sadistic stare. Shell gulped down the disgusting taste of bile that flooded her mouth.
As he glared at her, Rusty's lips curled into a smile that could only be described as predatory.
The hairs on Shell's arms stood straight on end. Something about that smile set her on edge because she'd swear it had nothing to do with Reaper's death and everything to do with her.
Shit. Would he rat her out to Copper? The jerk would probably take great pleasure in that. Now that she'd been busted, she could only wait and see what fate had in store for her.
Cover Reveal – Jigsaw by Lilly Atlas
Posted by Kate in BOOKPROMO, COVER REVEAL
Jigsaw, Lilly Atlas
Title: Jigsaw
After being disappointed by her family one too many times, Izzy's convinced the only person she needs is herself. Seeking a life with fewer relationships, she leaves the bustle of the city and moves to small-town Tennessee. Her plans for quiet and solitude don't last long after she's adopted by both the men and women of the Hell's Handlers Motorcycle Club.
Once upon a time, Lincoln had a picture-perfect life. Sweet, loving wife, beautiful daughter, enviable career. But one fated night, it's all wiped out, leaving him scarred both mentally and physically. Now known as Jigsaw, he's a force to be reckoned with, and a valuable asset to the Hell's Handlers MC. He's also done. Done with love, done with dreams, done with women…unless it's to work off some tension.
Despite their resolve to avoid entanglements, chemistry blazes between Jig and Izzy and becomes harder to resist with each encounter. When the club's enemies set their sights on Izzy, the Handlers pull her even further into the fold. Everything Izzy believes about families is challenged as Jig and his club prove they can be counted on again and again.
Fighting side by side with a fearless woman, even one as smokin' as Izzy, isn't something Jig wants, but it might be exactly what he needs. If club business doesn't destroy them, do Jig and Izzy stand a chance of letting their pasts go and finding happiness?
A full five minutes early for his appointment, Jigsaw shouldered through the door and into Inked, the one and only tattoo shop in Townsend, Tennessee. But even if it wasn't, even if there was a shop on every corner, it'd be the best by far. Rip was a master with a tattoo machine who could bring anyone's vision to life.
Maverick and Rocket filed in after him, immediately taking seats on the ratty couch butted up against the display window. His brothers had tagged along despite knowing how much Jig hated an audience for this.
He had a tat on his thigh that he added to every year on his wife and child's birthdays which just happened to be only three days apart. Without fail, it put him in a shitty mood, and his brothers damn well knew it. But they couldn't just leave him the fuck alone. They had to stick their fucking noses in his shit and follow him, so he didn't "do something stupid."
Every damn year.
Assholes.
"Hey, Jig," Rip called out. "Lemme talk to you for a second." He stepped from behind the privacy curtain pulled around his customer. To say the shop was simple would be a ridiculous understatement. Inked about as no-frills as it came, with two tattoo chairs, a reception desk, a second-hand couch and a few sketches on the wall. Rip didn't give a shit about the décor or ambiance. He gave damn good ink and had the reputation to prove it.
"What's up, Rip?" Jig asked after Rip waddled his large frame cross the shop.
"Hey, I'm running about forty-five minutes behind, man. I'm sorry." Rip gave Jig a sheepish half smile.
From the couch, Maverick laughed and rubbed his hands together. "Woohoo, does this mean Jig gets to have his face inked on you?"
Not one to find much shit funny, Jig snorted. Rip was a bit of a psycho when it came to lateness. Threatened to tattoo his face on a client if they were late to their appointment. He'd done it before too, the bastard. That was the reason Jig never let himself be later than five minutes early. Last thing he needed was Rip's ugly mug on his ass cheek.
"I really am sorry, man," Rip said. He ran a hand through his hair and shifted uncomfortably, seeming flustered which wasn't him.
"Everything good?" Jig asked.
Rip lowered his voice. "Yeah, just had this broad come in crying a few minutes ago. Breast cancer survivor who recently had some reconstructive surgery. Wanted me to ink nipples on her."
"Well fuck me, Rip," Mav said. "Why didn't you start with that? Now I feel like an ass for ragging on you."
With a shrug, Rip swiped the back of his hand across his forehead. "Shit, I'm sweating, guys. This is a lot of pressure."
This time, Jig let out a small laugh. "You did all our Hell's Handlers back pieces without blinking an eye, and you're afraid of some nipples?"
"It's a big deal," Rip grumbled.
Jig slapped him on the back. "Hey, man, no worries. I can reschedule." In reality, the change to his schedule pissed him off, but what the fuck could he do? He wasn't about to be the asshole who pulled Rip away from a cancer survivor. Jig might be an unfeeling bastard, but he wasn't a robot.
"Nah, not necessary," Rip said as he walked toward the desk. "I got someone else who can do it."
Jig froze and scanned the shop. It was then he realized there was a curtain pulled around the second chair as well. Muffled voices could be heard from behind the fabric wall but not well enough to make out what was being said. "You telling me you actually hired some help?"
For the past two years, Rip had been saying he needed to hire a second artist. Ever the control freak, no one actually thought he'd let another professional into his shop. He found fault with every other artist out there.
"Yeah, I did. They're just finishing up the aftercare convo. Then you can meet 'em."
"I don't know." Jig frowned. No one but Rip had gone near his skin with ink and needle.
"They're good, Jig. Wouldn'ta hired 'em otherwise. Trained 'em myself actually. Years ago. Take a look at some of their work." He dug around behind his desk and pulled out a beat-up binder, laying it out on the counter.
Like a bunch of teenage chicks who didn't want to miss out on the gossip, Mav and Rocket hopped up to join him at the counter.
Mav, who had more inked skin than not, whistled. "Shit, Rip. These are fucking amazing. This guy might do better work than you."
It was meant as a joke, but Rip snorted and nodded. There was definite truth to Maverick's words. The lines were so precise, the images so vivid and perfect it was hard to believe they were done by a human hand. One of the photos was a butterfly that literally looked like it was lifting off some chick's shoulder. Amazing.
"Give 'em a shot," Rip said. "Promise they'll do you right."
Jig sighed and rubbed a hand across his jaw. Time to trim his beard. He'd gotten lazy the past few weeks and had let the beard get a little out of control. He always kept some amount of growth because it covered the bottom third of his scar, but he tried to keep it neat. Most of the time. "All right, man. Let's do it."
Seemed like Rip was really trying to push the new guy. Probably trying to build up his clientele. If the work in his portfolio was an accurate reflection of the guy's skill, he'd be a fool to turn down this artist.
"Great." Rip's yellow-toothed smile beamed. "Oh, here she comes now."
She?
Maverick coughed in a weak attempt to cover his laughter, but it quickly turned to a gasp.
Oh yeah," he said. "That one'll do you right, Jig."
"Holy fuck," Rocket whispered.
Rip wore a shit-eating grin, the fuckstick. He'd purposefully misled them into thinking it was a dude. Jig didn't want some bitch getting anywhere near him with a needle. He flipped his brothers off and spun to check out this lady tattoo artist for himself.
Ho-ly shiite.
About five-eight inches—and that was without the four-inch stilettos—of pure sex and sin strutted her way straight toward him. Somehow, this woman had poured herself into the tightest black leather pants he'd ever seen. They molded around her long, shapely legs and damn if he didn't wish for her to turn around. He just bet she had a stellar ass that would only be enhanced by the grip of soft leather.
With each step, the back and forth sway of her hips drew his eye like he was watching the pendulum of a clock swing side to side. Forcing his gaze from her hips, he trailed it upward, not oblivious to the tight black tank top that cupped her breasts as snugly as the leather cupped her thighs.
"Hey, boys," she said, her voice on the lower side. Husky, he'd call it.
Mav whistled. "Damn, woman. And I say this in a totally non-creepy, non-flirting way because I have a woman that would shoot off my junk if I so much as hit on another chick, but you are some kinda fucking gorgeous."
Jig clenched his teeth together as the new lady tattoo artist threw her head back and laughed. Fucking Maverick. Flirting and charming woman was just part of his DNA. He truly meant it when he said he wasn't hitting on her. The man just couldn't let a beautiful woman walk away without her knowing she was gorgeous.
"Aren't you the charmer," she said, placing her hands on those fantastic hips.
Damn her body was out of this world. Not skinny, not even too curvy, it was more…athletic. Sleek lines, the swell of muscles in her arms, flat stomach. The girl must spend some serious hours in the gym.
"Guys, this here is Isabella. I taught her everything she knew about ten years ago. She finally agreed to move here and work with me." Rip beamed with pride as he introduced his protégé.
"Please," she said. "Call me Izzy. One of you boys looking for some ink?"
Fuck no.
Wasn't happening.
Rocket cleared his throat like he had a whole steak lodged in there. If the asshole wasn't careful, he'd have Jig's fist lodged in there instead.
A hand slapped down on his shoulder. "My man Jig here needs some ink."
Fuckin' Maverick.
"Don't want to mess up your schedule," Jig said. "I'll come back when Rip can fit me in."
Rips face fell making Jig feel like scum. Wasn't the shop owner's fault that Jig wanted nothing to do with most women. Unless he was fucking them. That was pretty much the only time he associated with them. Of course, his brother's ol' ladies couldn't seem to leave his ass alone. Always trying to bring him food, fix him up, and acting like freaking mother hens around him.
Especially Mav's woman, Stephanie. He'd helped rescue her from a fucking psycho not long ago, and he seemed to have become her special project.
"Oh, I'll, uh, check my book." Rip waddled behind his desk and flipped through his old-school appointment book.
Izzy's dark, almost black eyes just stared at him, hands on her hips, earning her Jig's scowl. Who the hell did this bitch think she was?
Instead of caving under his murderous glare, one of her perfect black eyebrows arched high into her forehead. "You afraid your dick will invert if a woman puts some ink on you?"
She had a set of balls, he'd give her that much. "Nah, I—"
"I've inked hundreds, actually thousands of dudes." She gasped and covered her mouth with her unpolished fingertips. "Shit, I've even tatted some bikers."
Behind him, Mav and Rocket chuckled. Fuckers were enjoying this way too much.
Izzy leaned closer and dropped her volume. "Promise you, Bubba, not one of those guys grew a pussy because I was the one holding the needle."
A strangled sound came from Rocket, and Maverick flat out laughed. Rip joined in, and soon the three of them were howling like a bunch of fucking hyenas.
Goddamnit. Not only had she interrupted him, sassed him, and tossed attitude at him, she'd thrown down a challenge. His damned male pride left him no choice.
"Show me to your chair," he grumbled.
A massive grin of victory broke out across her gorgeous face. "Follow me, Bubba," she said as she spun on one of those pencil-thin heels then sashayed to her station.
And fuck if he didn't feel a twitch of his dick and a twitch of his lips. Where his cock's interest came from, he had no idea. Miss Izzy couldn't be further from his usual type.
He liked 'em blonde, blue-eyed, small, sweet, and docile. Not tall, dark-haired, and mouthy. She'd even shaved the sides of her head, adding to her badass-bitch look.
But as he watched the very long tail of a tight braid swinging back and forth across the top of what was without a doubt a stellar ass, he couldn't deny the animal attraction to her.
This was gonna be a shitty few hours.
Release – Maverick by Lilly Atlas
Posted by Kate in BOOKPROMO, RELEASE
Lilly Atlas, Maverick
Title: Maverick
Stephanie Little firmly believes the world exists in two states: right and wrong, good and evil, unlawful and law-abiding. She chose her side the moment she joined the FBI and pledged to rid the world of as many criminals as possible.
Maverick is everything Stephanie isn't: inked, pierced, flirty, masculine as sin, but most of all, an outlaw. When corruption in Stephanie's crime-fighting world lands her in the clutches of a dangerous gangster, Maverick is there to keep her sane and battle for her protection.
With Stephanie's neat existence so turned around that she can no longer distinguish the good from the evil, she finds herself thrust into a world so gray she can't see three feet in front of her face. To survive the confusion, she turns to the only person who keeps her grounded—the sexy outlaw who melts her heart and weakens her knees.
But law enforcement and criminals can never mix. Not in the way her body and heart are begging for. At some point, someone is going to learn her secret, and when that happens, her fierce protector could become her greatest enemy.
The world existed in two states: right and wrong.
At least that's how Stephanie Little had always seen it.
A clear, divisive line separating saints and sinners kept life manageable.
Good and evil.
Truth and lies.
Rule followers and rule breakers.
Criminals and law-abiding citizens.
All the murky gray areas and half-truths were just excuses and loopholes for people who weren't willing to make the right choices.
After careful consideration, Stephanie always made the right choice or at least she tried to. And if she didn't, she owned it and faced the consequences of her actions.
The split between right and wrong was what drew her to law enforcement straight out of high-school. Well, that and the fact that she grew up with the police chief for a father.
Born and raised in Pittsburg, she'd hardcore hero worshiped her father through her childhood. He'd received countless commendations for his life-saving work reducing the murder and crime rates in their city.
Stephanie had wanted that. Craved the opportunity to leave that kind of mark on the world. Rid the planet of some darkness and inject good back for those who deserved it. Those who followed the rules and lived in the light.
So, at twenty-one, with a shiny new criminal justice degree, she'd joined the police academy. Dreams of confiscating drugs, saving kidnapped children, and locking up murders powered her to the top of her class.
On the eve of graduation, her father showed up at the apartment she shared with another female cadet. In a matter of twenty minutes, he'd shattered Stephanie's perfectly compartmentalized world.
"Steppy," he'd said in the way her younger brother used to say her name. Jake had trouble with the F sound until he was four, but by then the name stuck and she'd been Steppy to her family from then on. "I know you're excited to graduate and eager to dive into your first position with the PPD, but I need to tell you something important."
She'd frowned and leaned her head on her father's broad shoulder. "What's that, Dad?"
"The world doesn't always work the way you think it does, Step. You see black and you see white. Well, honey, in the real world, those colors don't even exist. It's all a grayscale. You need to know that, really know it, in order to survive the life you chose for yourself. There may be things you're called on to do that don't fit neatly into the boxes you've created."
That conversation was the beginning of the end of her relationship with her father. She'd smiled, nodded, and told him what he wanted to hear, but rolled her eyes the moment he left. He was older, nearing retirement, out of touch with the way the world worked.
Such youthful arrogance and ignorance.
But Stephanie managed to hold on to her ideals through her first year on the force. Even when her father lost his position in a shameful bribery scandal that earned him fifteen years in prison, she hadn't budged.
He'd done the crime, he deserved the time.
Then, somehow, she made it through two years working for the FBI before her perfectly divided world was smashed to bits. And it wasn't smashed with a sledgehammer either. No, a damn wrecking ball in the form on an undercover assignment crashed through the glass house she lived in, launching millions of sharp shards at her delicate skin.
And it hurt.
God, did it hurt.
"One more chance, bitch. What the fuck are you doin' here?" some dead-eyed brute asked her about five seconds after his fist connected with her face.
For the second time.
The second punch disoriented her for a second. Long enough to lose her sense of upright and meet the ground.
On all fours, with palms and knees throbbing from the bits of gravel and dirt embedded in the skin, Stephanie spit out blood that had pooled in her mouth from the split lip. "Hiking," she said, the sound a bit muffled from her swollen lip. "Got lost."
And…damn…who knew talking with a split lip would hurt so damn much. Tears pooled in her eyes, but she'd rather die than let one of those suckers slip free. She wasn't the toughest of chicks out there…physically at least. A few arrests during her time as a beat cop had resulted in physical altercations with bumps and bruising. She'd always put on a tough mask in front of her fellow cops but bawled like a baby in the privacy of her own home.
Dead-eyes threw back his head and laughed before looking at his buddy, a guy so overweight, Stephanie was pretty sure she could outrun him even if they broke both her legs. "You believe this bitch, Top?" he asked the larger man.
Top grunted and shook his head, his many chins wobbling like Jello. "Fuck no. No reason for a bitch to be hiking out here, Shark. Ain't even any fuckin' trails."
Like he would know?
Stephanie bit back the smart-assed remark on the tip of her tongue. Silence was her best bet. Plus, this little gangbanger pow-wow gave her a second to reorient and breath through the pain.
"What about you, King? You believe her?" The man called Shark asked the man on his right and Stephanie held her breath.
This was it. Her way out. Sure, there'd be hell to pay later for the rookie-level mistake of getting busted snooping in the woods outside their compound, but she'd take an ass chewing form her boos over being beat to shit or worse by pissed off gang members.
All her partner, Eric, or King to these pieces of shit had to say was that he believed her. Saw her tromping around like an idiot. Spotted her looking lost and stupid in the woods. He could volunteer to drop her somewhere and scare the piss out of her so she wouldn't talk.
Shark and the Top dude were scary as fuck and she wanted gone in the worst way.
"No I don't fuckin' believe this, bitch," King said, lifting his military grade rifle and stomping forward until the weapon was pressed dead center against her forehead. "I say we just waste her now. Bury her and get back to those bitches we left naked and needy."
Stephanie had never worked so hard in her life as she did to keep the shock off her face and the vile words in her mouth.
Calm down.
King wasn't serious. He couldn't be. Her partner was a veteran FBI agent for crying out loud. There had to be a plan to get her out bouncing around in his head.
That knowledge helped her relax despite the fact one twitch of King's finger would splatter her brains all over the Tennessee woods.
"Nah," Shark said. "Where's the fun in that? Let's take her with us. A few hours hanging with the boys and she'll be ready to talk."
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
She stared hard into King's eyes trying to send him a mental message. This was as bad for him as it was for her. They'd torture her for information and she'd crack.
Everyone cracked.
Especially if they had zilch training in enduring torture.
"Who gives a fuck why she's here? Let me kill her and be fuckin done with it."
Stephanie was in serious danger of puking all over the forest floor. As she stared at her partner of two years, the partner who taught her everything she knew about working for the FBI, the partner who teased her endlessly for her opinions on the black and white nature of the world, his lips quirked.
And she knew.
There were no fucking shades of gray.
She'd been right all along.
Only black. Only white.
And King had officially been swallowed by the darkness.
He'd always told her working undercover would change her view of the world. That undercover agents often had to live the life of a criminal and learn to deal with living in the shadows for the sake of doing good. But this wasn't a case of doing what he had to maintain cover. This was a monster who wore human skin for a time and managed to fool even the most skeptical.
"What the fuck did I say, King?" Shark asked. "I want her at the compound. You can kill her eventually, but it's been a shit week. The boys need some fun first."
Stephanie swallowed. Boys? Fun?
There weren't too many ways to interpret that.
The gun fell away from her head and she sat back on her heels.
Why? What was so appealing about this lifestyle that a decorated FBI agent would do a one-eighty and betray everything he once stood for.
Frustration with the system?
Sticking it to the man?
It seemed too dramatic to be making a point.
The ultimate hissy fit.
"Let's roll," Shark said, turning on his heel and strolling toward the building she could see through the trees in the distance.
The fat one leered at her for a second more before waddling after his master like an overfed but well-trained dog.
Somewhat alone with her partner, Stephanie rose to her feet. Whatever was about to happen, it would happen while she was on her knees in front of him. He'd have to look her full in the eye. For one second, she had the insane urge to call out to Shark. To yell as loud as she could and let the scumbag know his precious King was an undercover FBI agent.
It wouldn't matter if he pledged his loyalty to Shark forever. He'd be killed. That's how it worked with gangs.
Nothing less than he deserved at that moment.
But she didn't give into that urge. Because it would be wrong.
And she always chose right.
"Why?" she whispered when Shark was out of earshot.
King grunted and shook his head. "So fucking naïve, Stephanie. You always have been. It's all gray out here."
No. She refused to believe it. This situation was clearly not on any gray spectrum. King was evil. Plain and simple.
"No, Eric, I'm not naïve. But you sure are a fucking traitor."
"You'll never get it. And you'll never survive this world. Wake the fuck up," King said as he thrust his right arm forward and rammed the butt of his rifle into her head.
His murderous expression was the last thing she saw before her vision blacked.
Cover Package: Zach by Lilly Atlas
Posted by Jeri in BOOKPROMO, COVER REVEAL
Lilly Atlas, Zach
Title: Zach
Series: Hell's Handlers MC Book 1
Toni knows what it means to make mistakes. She has experienced firsthand how walking down the wrong path can send life spiraling out of control. Fortunately, she had someone in her life to pull her from the gutter and help set things right again. As penance for her past, she pledges to suppress her baser desires and focus on finding a steady, dependable connection with a man, even if that means embracing a boring lifestyle.
Zach is anything but dull. As Enforcer for the Hell's Handlers MC, he embodies the outlaw lifestyle, rife with violence, women, and motorcycles. When Toni moves next door, Zach can't resist the possibility of a quick, hot, fling. He discovers, however, that she's not the easy conquest he's used to.
While Zach works to convince Toni she belongs in his bed, a tenuous relationship with a local gang blows up and threatens his MC family. Zach's world is turned upside down when he's unable to keep the danger from touching his club. As Toni fights to resist Zach's pull, her own peace is shattered by demons from her past. With enemies both old and new barreling down, Toni throws out her rules and turns to Zach for aid.
Before she can help it, Toni finds herself entrenched in Zach's outlaw world. Is it possible for her to curb her desires, or is she doomed to repeat the mistakes of her past?
None of it will matter if Zach can't keep the enemies at bay.
It was finally fucking over.
Or maybe it was just beginning.
Either way, years, years of busting his ass, taking shit, and being treated like a worthless maggot were finished.
The vote was unanimous.
He was finally a brother.
Well, he was ninety-nine-point-nine percent of the way in. They couldn't just vote him in and chuck him the patch he'd been salivating over for the past three years. No, they had to throw in one last challenge, and a bitch of a test it was.
A branding. The Hell's Handlers Motorcycle Club emblem. On the left forearm. It was as important as the patches on the leather cut each brother wore. So important, if a man was tatted on his left forearm he couldn't even prospect. No, the emblem had to be seared into clean skin, so anyone and everyone would know who belonged to the motorcycle club.
And if being branded wasn't bad enough, there were rules that went along with the barbaric ceremony.
Every brother had to be in attendance. Heckling, ribbing, waiting to see just how much the new member wanted to be a part of the life. Waiting for them to crack.
No screaming.
No tears.
No passing out.
A grunt of pain was allowed, but beyond that, any outward show of weakness would null and void the unanimous vote to end the prospecting period and make him a fully-patched member of the Hell's Handlers MC.
He wouldn't make a peep. They could cut his fucking arm off and beat him with it and Zach still wouldn't utter a sound. That patch was his, and the only way he'd give it up was if some lucky motherfucker managed to pry it from his cold dead hands. Even then, he'd haunt the bastard and wear the thing as a spirit.
A shrill whistle cut through the raucous laughter and drunken male partying. Usually, the sound of fucking joined with the rest of the noise, but not tonight. This was just for the men, brothers in all but blood. At least this early part of the night. After Zach got his patch, they'd bring in the club pussy and he'd have his pick of the litter. One, two, hell even three women if he wanted. He'd earned it watching brother after brother partake in the sweet privilege that was not bestowed on prospects. Club pussy was for patched members only.
And now he was one.
His dick twitched in his pants but died the moment his president spoke. "Okay, fuckers, listen up."
All around him, his soon to be new brothers lowered their drinks and gave their president, Copper, their full attention. At twenty-nine, Copper was young to be in the role of club president, and since he'd been at it for almost four years already, he was officially the youngest leader in the club's near fifty-year history.
"We're just minutes away from welcoming another brother into the club. Shit, Zach's been one of the best prospects we've had. Tough as fuckin' nails, pulls more than his own weight, never runs his mouth, loyal." A puff of steam drifted from Copper's mouth as he spoke to the group.
The prez wasn't one to be fucked with. A good few inches over six feet, with a beard the color of a dirty penny, and plenty of hair to match, he was mean as a starving pit-bull. But Copper had the respect of every man in the club. Not just because he was the president, but because he'd earned it dragging the club from the brink of disaster and making it a thriving brotherhood once again.
Zach blew on his hands, trying to infuse some warmth into the frozen digits. The night air was colder than a witch's titty and standing around shirtless for the past half hour hadn't helped anything.
"Just one more test of this asshole's strength before we let him be one of us. Ready boys?" Copper waved Zach over to the mountain of wood crackling and spitting sparks. Sticking out of the bonfire, a long branding iron roasted away, just waiting to scorch some of Zach's skin.
Shouts of encouragement and a few hecklers betting on how much of a pussy he was and what octave his scream would hit, reached him as he made his way to the fire and his waiting president. Careful to keep his expression neutral he drew up next to his prez and waited. Wasn't that the whole point? Act like he wasn't scared. Wasn't about to shit his pants in anticipation of what would probably be the worse physical pain he'd ever experienced.
Fuckin' Copper's beard split and his teeth gleamed in the flickering fire. Prez lived for this bull. And if he didn't, he sure acted like he did with that shitty grin of anticipation. "Anything you want to say first?"
Zach shook his head while he bounced on the balls of his feet, hitting his pecs as hard as he could. Maybe if he could get some pain going somewhere else, the burn of the iron wouldn't be so bad.
"Won't work," Copper said as though reading his mind. "Tried the same thing when I was in your spot. Ain't nothing gonna make this shit any better." He bent and retrieved a bottle from next to his foot. Zach had no idea what it was full of, moonshine probably. "You know the drill. Bottle in your left hand. Ten seconds to drink as much as you can. Hold your arm out straight. I'll mark ya. No dropping the bottle. No spilling. No screaming. No puking. Stay on your feet for two whole minutes. Then you're a fuckin' brother."
Zach nodded. His chest rose and fell in a rapid rhythm as his breathing increased and the blood sped up in his veins. After blowing out a breath, he grabbed the bottle and brought it to his lips, tilting his head back and opening his throat as much as he could.
Some of the nastiest hooch he'd ever tasted filled his mouth and flowed down his throat, burning a path to his stomach. Ironic really, since he was about to be burned all to a crisp anyway. Somewhere, in the distance, he could hear his soon to be brothers cheering like a bunch of wild baboons, but he managed to drown out most of the noise. All but the sound of Copper counting down from ten.
"Three…two…one…arm!"
Zach tore the bottle from his lips and extended his arm. Unable to look away, he stared in fascinated horror as the glowing end of the iron made contact with the thin skin of his forearm. There was a fraction of a second where his eyes registered the flesh-to-iron connection, but the pain hadn't yet reached his brain.
And then it did.
All-consuming, searing pain like he'd never experienced fired through his nerve endings. Though the spot being branded was no bigger than a silver dollar, agony seemed to encompass his entire body until he couldn't recognize where it originated from. There was also an audible singe accompanied by the stench of melting flesh.
Blinding pain was a phrase he'd heard before, but now he'd lived it. Darkness clouded his vision and he slammed his knees back, determined not to give into the blissful oblivion that hovered just out of reach.
All around him, men screamed and hollered, but he couldn't make out their cries over the rushing in his ears. Nostrils flaring with each forceful inhalation and exhalation, he mashed his teeth together probably pulverizing the enamel as he fought to remain conscious.
Then the nausea hit. Instead of helping to lessen the pain, the damn moonshine sloshed in his gut and started a trip back up his esophagus, just as disgusting the second time around.
His eyes locked with Copper's. The grinning bastard was definitely enjoying it. All the more motivation to remain standing, quiet, and avoid vomiting the moonshine all over.
Copper pulled the iron away and tossed it to the ground, but it did nothing to diminish the agony. After what seemed like an eternity, he pulled his gaze away and checked his watch. Seconds ticked by slower than the thickest motor oil dripping from an engine. Finally, Copper looked at him again and this time his smile was genuine, welcoming. "Two minutes, brother."
Brother. Sweeter fucking words had never been spoken.
Copper grabbed him by the elbow and held up his throbbing arm. The pain was still there, but now the rush of excitement at achieving his three-year long goal overrode the worst of it. That and the moonshine was kicking in.
With a loud whoop of triumph, Copper held up Zach's branded arm. "Say hello to your newest brother, men." Cheers rose up all around.
Zach swayed on his feet as pain and nausea still warred for victory over his consciousness.
Copper whistled, reigning in the crazy. "He's now to be shown the respect any other brother receives. He's going to make a damn fine addition to the club."
Zach's chest constricted as pride surged.
"Proud of you, brother," Copper said, for Zach's ears only. "You were one hell of a prospect and you'll be one hell of an addition to the club."
"Thanks, Prez."
Raising his voice again, Copper turned to the rowdy crowd. "Now someone get Zach a beer and some pussy. The man's waited long enough."
They wouldn't be giving him any pain medication for the burn but losing his dick in a club girl should take care of the last of the discomfort.
Brothers converged on him from all angles, slapping his back and welcoming him. Not only would the moment be burned into his skin forever, but it was seared into his brain as well.
Best night of his life.
He was in.
Now it was time to set his sights on an executive position.
Enforcer would do quite nicely.
Escapades by Lilly Atlas
Escapades, Lilly Atlas
Title: Escapades
Series: Trident Ink Book 1
Genre: Contemporary Romance/Erotic Romance
Alyssa Jackson is one of the lucky ones. She has a thriving business, great friends, devoted husband, adorable daughter, and a scorching hot sex life that would be the envy of any married couple. Then, one tragic loss flips her world upside down. Floundering and unsure of how to cope with their grief, Alyssa and her husband drift apart until they are living as roommates instead of a deeply connected couple. Alyssa will do anything to get the intense passion back into her life and marriage, no matter how far out of the box she has to step.
If there is one thing tattoo shop owner Derek knows, it's that once he set his sights on his wife, he never wanted another woman. Years together haven't begun to put a dent in his desire for her. But everything falls apart when the anguish of loss barges into their lives. Adrift in his own suffering, Derek doesn't realize how damaged his marriage is until his wife forces him to confront their issues. Now, he'll do whatever it takes to get their lives back on track, even if the plan seems outrageous.
Snake by Lilly Atlas
Lilly Atlas, Snake
Title: Snake
Series: No Prisoners MC #5
Grimm Brothers MC president, Snake, battled his way to his position by any and all means necessary. He was powerful, respected, commanding; but most importantly, he was feared. Then, at the height of power, one ruthless misstep crumbled his kingdom in an instant. Beaten within inches of his life by a member of a rival MC, betrayed and left for dead by his own club, Snake has only two things left to focus on: healing and revenge.
As a physical therapist working in the trauma unit, Amanda thought she had seen it all. That is until she met a patient known to her as Nick, a broken man who had sustained the most severe beating she'd ever encountered. Surly, brooding, and angry, he should be a nightmare patient. But under the rough exterior, Amanda couldn't help but be drawn to his determination to heal. Not to mention he was ridiculously attractive, to the point that she found herself giving him some extra attention.
Women like Amanda—kind, sweet, intelligent, independent, respectable—don't exist in Snake's world. When she offers him a place to live after his hospital stay, he can't figure her out. The more time they spend together, the more torn he becomes between two realities: a gruesome MC world full of lies, betrayal, and hatred, or a life with Amanda that promises healing and peace.
As Snake helps Amanda through some troubling times, passion flares. For the first time in his life, he actually cares about a woman. It's enough to make him question everything. But after leading a life as a dedicated outlaw, is it too late to turn around? And if not, is he willing to leave his vendetta behind?
"He still alive?" The pissed-off voice cut through Snake's hazy confusion.
"Think so. The bastard makes a wheezy, gurgling noise every so often. I'm surprised he lasted the whole trip. That big man worked him over good. His face is unrecognizable," a second voice, as well-known as the first, yet not identifiable, said.
"That was Jester," the first man said. The high pitch, almost whiny quality of his voice so familiar, but just on the edges of recognition. In fact, both voices seemed to hover on the outskirts of Snake's reality. Like they were coming from a television. Present, but not real.
Pain, however, was there in real time. That was for damn sure. But even the hurt was difficult to place. It seemed to come from every pore in his body. But that wasn't possible, was it?
"What's the plan here, Casper?" A third man, also a familiar voice, spoke up.
How did he know these men? Maybe he should say something. Ask for help. With the level of pain, he was experiencing, something was obviously wrong. Snake moved his mouth to speak, but the only noise that came out was a garbled mess of unintelligible sounds.
And then the pain localized.
Holy shit, his face throbbed like it had been pounded repeatedly with a sledgehammer. Inside his mouth, his tongue occupied the entire cavity like an air-filled balloon, making speaking near impossible. He dragged in a breath, but the air met resistance before it ever reached his lungs, blocked by a throat that felt swollen shut. Choking coughs racked him, jacking the pain to an almost unbearable level.
Snake's brain registered the things happening with his body like a laundry list of items, and it recognized that he should probably be in panic mode, but that was as far as it went. Everything else was fuzzy and he couldn't get himself together enough to make sense of his reality or actually care about the seriousness of the situation.
"Toss him down the ravine. I'll fire a couple slugs in him. See how overgrown it is down there? He'll rot out here long before anyone ever finds the body."
It was the higher pitched voice that spoke. Casper, another had called him. God, that name…it was dancing on the edges of Snake's diminishing consciousness. So memorable… Was he a family member?
"You got it, boss."
Rough hands grabbed under his shoulders, jerking him forward and then he was airborne. The weightless flight couldn't have lasted more than five seconds, before a crushing jolt and the insane sensation of the world spinning out of control ensued.
Laughter rang out from a distance. "Shit, brother. Look at him roll down that ditch like a fuckin' sack of potatoes. You probably don't need to waste any bullets, Casper. No way he survived that trip. It's what? Thirty feet. And with all those rocks and branches. Something musta smashed in his fuckin' skull."
"Yeah, well, Snake's a slimy bastard. I want to be one hundred percent sure. Can't have him slithering back into our lives six months down the road," Casper replied.
After what seemed like an excruciating eternity, Snake's broken body slammed against something hard and the tumbling stopped. His head was still spinning out of control, but at least the physical movement stopped.
He tried to move, tried to lift a limb and open his eyes, but there was a disconnect between his body and his brain. None of his muscles obeyed commands and all he could do was lie there, a giant, vulnerable target.
A pinpointed, hot, burning pain bloomed in his thigh, followed by another in his shoulder. Bullets. Hadn't they said they planned to shoot him?
Odd.
He'd been shot before and it had hurt like a sonofabitch; a lot more than it did now. His brain must be pretty fucked up not to be registering the pain of two bullets. Of course, the rest of his body was one giant ball of agony. Maybe there was a limit to how much pain the flesh could experience. Maybe after the body hit the pain ceiling, it no longer registered something new.
Snake thought he'd known pain before, but it was nothing compared to this full body tormenting sensation. He'd taken bullets, survived knife wound or two, and experienced betrayal. A man didn't live his kind of life without pain.
His kind of life…
Casper.
Recollection was right there. If he could just reach out and grab the fuzzy memories.
"Nice fucking knowing you, Pres."
The words were called out about three seconds before a final hot flash of pain entered his side. Gut shot. The fatal blow.
As the darkness behind his closed eyes grew even blacker, realization dawned.
Grimm Brothers Motorcycle Club. Sandy Springs, Arizona.
Casper. His long time right-hand man. Close and trusted friend. Brother.
Reality faded into the distance, taking some of the pain with it. Would there be peace in death? Not for him. Not going out this way. There were men who had to pay whether now or in the afterlife.
Men like Casper.
His loyal vice president.
A murderous traitor.
Hook by Lilly Atlas
Posted by in RAMBLINGS
Title: Hook
Series: No Prisoners MC Novella
After ten years away, Marcie is finally venturing back to where she grew up. She isn't in town for twenty-four hours, when she crosses paths with Hook and Striker, the two boys who kept her safe and happy as a young girl. Only they aren't boys anymore. They are fully grown, muscular, and alpha men. Members of the No Prisoners' motorcycle Club. All through her teenage years, Marcie's heart belonged to Hook. Not that he ever seemed to notice. And it appears that as an adult, not much has changed with regards to her feelings toward the sexy biker. But a bossy, alpha man is not what independent Marcie is looking for.
The moment Hook lays eyes on Marcie, it's as though the last ten years apart never existed. He wanted her back when she was off limits, and it doesn't take long before he realizes he still wants her. Marcie's changed, though. She's no longer a frightened teenager in need of a safe haven. Now she's a beautiful, confident, and a bit too independent woman. Will Hook be able to convince Marcie a life with him wouldn't stifle her independence? Their relationship is tested when Marcie clings to her hard-won life and when an aspect of that life threatens not only their future together but their safety as well.
"It's got twists and turns, it's steamy and sweet. It's a fast read and can standalone." – OMG Reads
Marcie lifted the long-necked bottle to her lips and drank a sip of the warm, stale beer she'd been nursing for the past forty-five minutes. As the tepid liquid filled her mouth, she cringed and forced herself to swallow. The desire to finish the beverage had long fled, but she needed something to keep her hands and mind occupied. With a small grunt of disgust, she set it down on the table and let her gaze wander around the smoke-filled bar.
She couldn't imagine any place she would rather be less than she wanted to be in this bar, back in her hometown of Crystal Rock, Arizona, sitting next to the boyfriend she desired about as much as the lukewarm beer. It wasn't his fault. Timing sucked. They'd only been dating for two weeks when her mother passed. Really, she hadn't been all that interested in him, but it was nice to have something to do a few nights a week. Ugh, that sure sounded shallow. Poor Tanner had tried to coax her onto his lap, but that would have made her look dependent on him for comfort. And she wasn't. She barely knew the guy.
For the first time in ten years, Marcie had made the trip back to Arizona. She'd returned to bury her mother, a miserable woman who spent the majority of Marcie's childhood stoned and in bed with one random man or another. They hadn't spoken in almost five years, and while she wasn't surprised to learn of her mother's passing, Marcie was truly shocked to discover what little the woman possessed was left to her only child.
A second shock came when her new boyfriend—if she could even give him the strong label—Tanner, offered to accompany her from Seattle to the unassuming town of Crystal Rock, claiming he wanted to assist in settling her mother's affairs. The show of support touched her, and in a weak moment she caved to his request. Had she been in her right mind, she'd have turned him down. His help wasn't necessary. She could handle the trip and her mother's meager affairs on her own, as she handled everything else life threw at her. Independently. Alone. Lonely.
But Tanner insisted, and for the first time in years, she relented and allowed someone the possibility to take care of her. And she'd been secretly relieved by the knowledge that she wouldn't have to make the journey alone. That was until he invited two of his friends, and turned the trip into a bro's trip complete with a two-night stop in Vegas.
From the moment Tanner hit the gas and left Seattle in the dust, aspects of his personality she hadn't yet been introduced to began to emerge. Unfortunately, he transformed into an overgrown frat boy would couldn't see past his next drink. Even his buddies Cameron and Billy seemed surprised by his slide back to his college days. What did she expect? This is what she got for giving a man she just met some control over her life.
His party mentality wasn't impressive and she wasn't they type to overlook poor behavior on the off chance it would improve with time. Nope, she was done with him.
The kind thing would probably be to just inform him tonight that they were through, but her brain was fried and she'd much rather do it back in Seattle, and not in a town where more bad than good memories lurked around every corner.
So, she'd end it as soon as they returned, and she'd be on her own once again. And wasn't that just how she liked it? It wasn't the eighteen hundreds. She could and would take care of herself. Too much of her childhood was spent afraid and cowering behind the protection and care of two very special friends. Now, she lived how she wanted without depending on anyone for anything.
Fatigue weighed heavy on Marcie's shoulders. She'd spent eight hours, today, sifting through a run-down trailer full of tragic childhood memories, and that was after a very simple and unattended burial service. Spending another night with three men who were happiest when in whichever bar was closest was about as appealing as a trip to the gynecologist.
Glancing down at her lap, she smoothed the front of the simple, yet elegant, black skirt she'd worn with a black blouse to the lonely burial. Marcie had been the only person in attendance, unable to wake a hung-over Tanner before she had to leave. Her prostitute mother hadn't had true friends, and alienated her family, so Marcie was it.
Tanner downed his own drink then grabbed her abandoned beer to polish that off as well. He clanked her beer bottle on the table and she jolted, lost in her own melancholy thoughts. "Damnit, Marcie, this is piss warm. Go grab me a new one from the bar." As he spoke he gave an unaffectionate tug on her short blonde hair. "I gotta take a piss. Where the hell's the john?" He glanced around the crowded bar. "Jesus, there's so many people here it's gonna take me a year to get to the damn can."
Marcie shot him a death look, but refused to allow him the satisfaction of seeing her rub the sore spot on her head. Tanner had been in a rotten mood all day, complaining about being stuck in Crystal Rock with nothing to do while Marie dealt with her mother's personal effects. God forbid he offered to help. Not that she need it. She handled it without him. If she had enough energy to deal with the fallout, she'd just walk away tonight, but she couldn't handle a confrontation right now.
Relief was almost immediate as she left the three men at the table. The one and only reason she followed his command to grab a beer was to get away from them a few minutes. Tanner was right about one thing. The bar was jam packed. It took quite a bit of fancy maneuvering to work her way to the bar without rubbing up on every body in the place.
With a heavy sigh, she took a seat at the bar in no rush to grab the attention of the cute bartender.
A commotion from the opposite side of the dimly lit bar caught her attention, and she turned in time to see a group of large, gruff bikers enter the establishment. Growing up in Crystal Rock, there was no way to escape knowledge of the No Prisoners motorcycle club. They ran the town, and had always patronized Black's as their bar of choice.
No surprise, the tattooed men in leather were accompanied by a gaggle of women with tiny skirts and even smaller tops, leaving less than nothing to the imagination.
"What'll it be, darlin'?" the young, thin man slinging bar asked with a flirty smile, most likely hoping to garner a larger tip. A bull ring ran through his septum and his hands resting on the surface of the bar had the words game over tattooed across the knuckles.
"Another please," she said, indicating the bottle she'd returned to the bar.
"Sure thing, sweetness. Be right back." He winked as he turned to grab her beer. Shaggy dark hair stuck out from under a backwards baseball cap and his tan was nicely on display around his dark grey wife beater. Obviously, this was a casual establishment.
She smiled, charmed by his friendly nature. Crystal Rock boasted an eclectic mix of people from all walks of life. A few seconds later, he returned with the uncapped beer and another flirty wink. Marcie paid and swiveled on the stool. Looks like she'd stalled long enough. Time to rejoin the bromance at her table.
"Holy shit! Marcie? Marcie Barringer?" The voice was familiar, but she couldn't quite place it.
Her head snapped around, and she came face-to-face, well face to chest—the man was tall as a building—with Dylan Parker.
"Dylan?" she asked, unable to keep the delight from her voice. Without thinking, she launched herself off the stool, landed against his hard chest with a grunt, and wrapped her arms tight around the body that was no longer that of a young boy, but a full-grown man. And a hot one at that.
He seemed just as elated to have run into her, and returned the embrace with gusto. "I can't believe it, Marce," he said, gripping her arms and holding her away from his body. He raked her up and down with his eyes. "Damn girl you grew up into something gorgeous. I like that pixie haircut. Fits you."
Marcie blushed, but couldn't remove the giant grin from her face. She'd known Dylan for as long as she could remember. Without him, she may not have survived her childhood, at least not in one piece. Neither had any siblings, and, being six years older, Dylan had appointed himself her surrogate older brother and protector.
He was the one person from the childhood that she could remember truly caring about her. It was a sibling kind of love, and she hadn't seen him since the day she left Crystal Rock almost ten years prior. The boy grew up in to one hell of a sexy man, and apparently was now a member of the motorcycle club, if the leather cut he wore was any indication.
She could barely believe he was here, in front of her. Time melted away at being near her surrogate big brother and she felt like the past ten years had never occurred. He was tall, muscular, and deadly looking, with dark, almost black hair and chiseled features that made him look every bit the dangerous man he probably was now. The thought made her laugh. She knew way too much about him to ever consider him a danger, at least not to her.
Damn it was good to see him.
"I can't believe I ran into you, Dylan," she said, giving him another quick squeeze.
"It's Striker now, babe." An arrogant smirk played across his lips.
"Striker?"
"Handle given to me by the club, on account of my impressive skills." A teasing glint lit his eyes and he bounced on the balls of his feet, fists up in a boxer's stance. He was forever getting into fights as a kid. As he grew into his teens, he put that energy to good use learning to box, and becoming quite proficient in the sport.
"Striker it is then," Marcie returned.
"What are you doing here, hon? How long are you in town?" he asked, genuine concern filling his voice.
That concern was so familiar, a warmth she hadn't experienced in far too long bloomed in Marcie's chest. As long as he'd known her, he'd been concerned about her wellbeing, and at the time she'd been too young to appreciate the rarity of a man who wanted nothing more from her than her happiness. Marcie shrugged. "My mom passed. I'm here for a few days dealing with the details."
Striker grimaced. He'd had a front row seat to the shit show that was Marcie's childhood, and knew full well what a deadbeat her mother had been. "Shit, Marce. I wish I'd known. I'd have offered to help you. Is there anything I can do now?"
"No, Striker, there isn't much left and I can handle it."
He slung an arm around her shoulders and steered her back to the bar. "Well then, we at least need to have a drink or ten, while you're here. Wait until Hook sees you here. He's gonna flip his shit."
She raked her memory but came up with nothing. "Hook?"
Striker laughed. "My bad, honey. Man, I forget how long you've been away. Remind me to yell at you about that later." He gave her a playful scowl. "TJ."
Every last drop of saliva dried up until her mouth could rival the arid desert. TJ and Dylan, Striker, had been inseparable as teenagers and if she'd loved Striker as a brother, her tender young heart and innocent body had loved TJ in a very different way.
"Oh, there he is." Striker gestured toward the end of the bar. "Hey, Hook," he hollered over the music and loud chatter, getting the other man's attention. "Get your ass over here. Bet you a lap dance you won't' believe who's here!"
Marcie was not in any way prepared for the punch to the gut she experienced when she got her first look at Hook in ten years.
Holy hotness. The man was the sexiest thing she'd ever laid eyes on. The boy had been every teenage girl's fantasy, but the man, the man was more than she'd dared to fantasize about.
Every feeling she'd ever had for the bad boy she lusted after as a teen came rushing back full force when that sinful mouth lifted in a wide, genuine smile.
Acer by Lilly Atlas
Title: Acer
Series: No Prisoners MC Romance
After one unforgettable night with a dangerous outlaw, Fia knows she must limit contact with the kind of man who could never fit in her wealthy circle. Unfortunately, she can't keep their brief but passionate encounter far from her thoughts. When she seeks him out for reasons unrelated to their chemistry, the worst happens, and Fia is attacked by a madman. With her life turned upside down, she seeks help from the one person she can't get out of her mind.
Betrayed by someone he should have been able to trust above all, Acer spends the next two decades of his life avoiding entanglements that have any chance of ending with a knife in his back. The MC life provides a safe way to have personal connections and loyalty due to its simple rule: betray the club and punishment will be severe. Still, he keeps a large part of himself locked away inside, hidden even from his MC brothers. When the woman who's been messing with his head for months reappears in his life needing sanctuary, Acer jumps to her aid. He's committed to help her reclaim her life, but determined to keep her at arms-length in the process.
As Acer and Fia fight their growing feelings, his club is in danger from a new and different kind of enemy. Will his refusal to put his full trust in anyone, including the woman he's falling for, end up destroying more than betrayal ever could?
"This book is everything and more then what I expected. Lilly Atlas is such an amazingly talented author. She brings you into this world making you feel as if you are right there in the midst of the No Prisoners." ~Sister Spot Book Blog
Fia stepped into the ballroom and smoothed an unsteady palm down the front of her deep purple dress. She pasted what was probably an overly syrupy smile on her face and nodded at the pompous son of a California State Senator who raised a hand in greeting as she approached. It wouldn't serve her well to wear her anger on the outside, so she put years of practice and grooming to good use and played the rich, friendly, tolerant-of-jerks socialite.
The senator's son abandoned his conversation with a politician whose name she couldn't recall and strode toward her, a smug, women-love-me-for-my-money-and-looks smile on his face. Fia resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Gordon had been pursuing her for a while now, and she had less than zero interest in the man who thought he was God's special gift to females everywhere.
He gripped her hand in a limp hold and drew it to his lips, kissing her knuckles in an old-world gesture. "Good evening, Serafina. I must say, you look lovely tonight."
She winced. Strike one. She hated her full name. It was too pretentious, too formal, too…celestial. "Hello, Gordon. You're looking very handsome yourself, and please, I much prefer to be called Fia."
He wrinkled his perfect nose. "I don't know why you insist on people calling you by that foolish nickname. Serafina is a lovely name, and you should be proud to have it." Still holding her hand, he drew her out on the dance floor.
It took every ounce of restraint she possessed to avoid ripping her hand from his feeble hold. Arrogant jerk didn't even have the decency to ask if she'd like to dance with him. No, he just assumed any woman would be honored to have the privilege of being lead around the floor by his greatness.
Sure, his five-hundred-dollar haircut had each platinum strand coiffed in a perfect arrangement, and his manicured nails were impeccable, but the soft hands they adorned did nothing for her as a woman. A man needed a few calluses. Nothing felt better against her skin than the subtle scrape of a man's rough hands. Gordon's metaphorically turned up nose and literal lack of work ethic didn't exactly get her motor revving either. Some things a thousand-watt smile and striking deep green eyes just couldn't overcome.
She hated these events. If rich people actually donated as much money to the charities as they spent on the balls and banquets, the unfortunate would be much more fortunate. But, tonight's charade was for a cause she supported whole-heartedly, so she was here. And with no desire to embarrass herself or her family, she'd behave. Even if that meant enduring a dance with a man who viewed himself as an angel sent to earth for the sake of the fairer sex. Fia preferred her angels with a bit of a crooked halo. Her own was just a bit off kilter.
Today had been a long day full of frustrations and failures. What she really wanted was peace, quiet, and a warm bath overflowing with bubbles. Oh, and wine, lots of wine. But she wanted to show her support for the cause, so her wishes would all have to wait a few more hours.
Once a year, at a different one of his prestigious hotels, Reginald Wellington held a large gala to raise money for state penitentiaries in whichever state the event was held. Money raised was used to provide counseling services to inmates in that state's prison system.
When Fia was in college, she had friend who ran into some trouble with the law and spent a year in jail. After her release, she remained on a straight path and was now a successful defense attorney, but her time in prison had taken a large psychological toll, and Fia had watched her friend struggle with a consuming depression for years.
This event meant something to her, and with her own career in jeopardy, it gave her something to focus on besides her drama. She had some significant life-decisions to make, and no clue which direction she should take.
With a sigh, she left her head and allowed Gordon to draw her into his embrace if only to avoid an uncomfortable scene. Conscious of keeping a bit of distance between their bodies, she swayed with him to the music.
Too bad he couldn't take a hint.
He leaned down and brushed his nose along the curve of her neck. "You smell lovely, Serafina."
She recoiled from his unwanted touch. Did the man know any complimentary words besides lovely? "Fia," she ground out between clenched teeth.
As though she were a child who said something cute, he chuckled against her ear, and she pulled her head farther back, narrowing her eyes at him. He really was handsome, in a straight-off-of-a-magazine-cologne-advertisement way. He was tall and wore a designer suit well. Unfortunately, she'd seen him at the country club, and what lie under the suit could only be described as soft. He was a man who spent his time indoors, behind a desk.
Not her type.
"Okay, fine, Fia."
While they danced a familiar waltz all society girls learned by age ten, Gordon rambled on about his ambitions to assume his father's seat in the senate, and she tuned him out, instead letting her gaze drift around the room. After scanning past several acquaintances, her focus landed on a man, standing in the corner with a scowl on his face as he listened to an older gentleman speak.
She couldn't quite put her finger on what it was about the man that captured her attention. At first glance, he looked similar to many of the other males in the room, expensive tuxedo, expertly styled dark blonde hair, flawless facial features. Then he shifted his gaze and his eyes locked with hers. The energy flowing form him was almost palpable, like that of a caged tiger seconds away from attempting escape. She shivered. If all that power was unleashed, the effects could be devastating.
Gordon twirled them and Fia lost sight of the intriguing eye candy.
As they turned, Gordon let out a surprising and unrefined curse. "Shit, there he is." He shook his head. "And I wagered this would be the year he finally quit turning up here and upsetting his family."
Fia drew back and looked up at him. "Who are you talking about?"
He spun her a second time so they both faced the very man she'd been studying, only he wasn't in the same spot he'd been in seconds before. The back of his head drew farther away as he trailed after the man he'd been speaking with.
"See the blonde guy, the one walking out of the room?"
"Yes, I see him, who is he?"
"That's Adam Wellington."
Her jaw dropped and Gordon chuckled. She knew the name well, at least the rumors surrounding it. Her father and Adam's had been friends for the past ten years. Reginald Wellington owned this and many luxury hotels around the world.
Adam was a bit of an urban society legend. She never laid eyes on the man, but she'd always been curious as to whether the tales were accurate. Story was, he'd dropped out of society to join a gang after a friend of his went to prison for assault.
While it was enthralling, Fia wasn't stupid enough to believe the story was that simple. It took guts to leave the fold. The idea of throwing all this aside, all these fluffy parties and endless senseless conversations for a life without rules was appealing. Not that she'd ever be daring enough to achieve such a thing herself, but her curiosity about the man who did was definitely piqued.
"He comes to this one charity event every year. No one knows why." Gordon went on, his tone almost mocking. "Some say he's planning something. Biding his time until he can get back at everyone he blames for his low status in life now."
Fia rolled her eyes. "That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard."
The man in question turned, meeting her gaze as though he heard her from fifty feet away. Like a deer caught in blinding headlights, she froze under his attention. Why was it this particular event he attended each year? What was his connection to this charity? Had he been in prison? His eyes smoldered with a mixture of anger, frustration and…could that be desire?
As though his attention had been physical instead of visual, her nipples tightened in the confines of her bra. Damn, he gave off some powerful sexual energy.
A ripple of nervous energy ran its way up her spine and her stomach fluttered. She tore her gaze away and stepped back from Gordon as the song ended. "Thank you for the dance, Gordon. Please excuse me, I'm going to get some air."
"Would you like me to join you, Serafina?" His tone suggested she'd be getting more than air if he escorted her.
Strike three, you're out Gordy. She tried not to show her revulsion.
Much as he'd done moments ago, she hovered close to his ear. "No, Gordon, I'd like a moment alone. And if I have to tell you to call me Fia again, I'll be doing so while you're doubled over with my knee against your balls," she whispered.
She turned and walked away from a slack-jawed Gordon, heading in the opposite direction of the mysterious Adam Wellington.
Whoops. So much for acting like a lady.
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