Copyright © 2018 by Harley Stone
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States
Back Cover:
Fresh out of jail, Dead Presidents MC Sargent at Arms, Marcus “Havoc” Wilson, is trying to lay low and keep his PTSD-induced temper under control while helping other military veterans rejoin society. In search of relaxation techniques, Havoc stumbles upon an alluring bookstore owner with a violent past of her own who’s able to calm him down in ways he’s never experienced.
Julia Edwards gave up her life of privilege the minute she tried to kill her ex-husband, and she doesn’t want it—or him—back. As a small Seattle bookstore owner, she’s determined to spend her days hidden between the covers of romance novels until her real-life fantasy appears and shakes up her entire existence.
Can these two attempted murderers find peace together? Or will the loose ends from their past unravel their future?
Havoc
SEATTLE DRIVERS ARE assholes. Our traffic jams are legendary, and today, 5th Avenue is a parking lot. By five-thirty p.m. it was already getting dark and the normal January drizzle had started up again, screwing with visibility and slopping up the roads. Then, some narcissistic motherfucker in a Mercedes decided he was too important to wait, made an illegal turn, squeezed in front of a minivan, and almost clipped my bike.
The asshole probably didn’t even see me since he was staring at his phone the entire time. Thankfully, I saw him and swerved my Fatboy out of the way, coming within inches of a parked car in the process.
He had the gall to honk at me. At me! Like I’d almost run him over. Maybe he thought I didn’t deserve to be on the road because I was driving a Harley instead of a Mercedes? Who knew how the minds of rich, conceited motherfuckers worked? Since there wasn’t a damn place to go, he came to an abrupt stop. I squeezed my bike between him and the parked car and knocked on his window.
Looking at me like I wasn’t worth the air I was breathing, he rolled his window down half an inch like a fucking coward.
“Didn’t get very far, did you, asshole?” I asked.
“Fuck you,” he said and rolled up his window.
It would be so easy to rip my helmet off and use it to bash in the side of his car. Rewarding, even. At least for a couple of minutes. Then the guilt would set in as I remembered how goddamn hard I’d worked to not be the man who flew off the handle anymore. I’d gained a lot of ground over the past few years, and I wasn’t going to let some pansy-ass bitch-boy make me lose it.
“He’s not worth it.”
They weren’t my words, but they’d been drilled into my head by Sage, the Dead Presidents Motorcycle Club’s counselor. Most clubs didn’t have counselors, but when you shove a ragtag bunch of military vets with post-traumatic stress disorder together, a counselor is necessary. Believe that.
Sage would also tell me to take a beat and chill the fuck out. That sounded like a good plan, so I parked my bike, fed the meter, and scanned the area for some place I could cool my heels. A bar named The Line sat in the middle of the next block. Determined to take five and not let some entitled asshole get the best of me, I hoofed it down the street and slipped inside the bar.
Sports paraphernalia was plastered all over the walls and the basketball game was on. I got a couple of sideways looks, but nothing I wasn’t used to, especially while wearing my cut. Confident I’d found a watering hole I could somewhat relax in, I pulled up a barstool and ordered a stout.
The game was a close one, stressing me out far more than it should have, but if the Blazers didn’t get their shit together, they’d be out of the playoffs again. Two free-throws were missed, and I shook my head and went out back to smoke.
I was just about to light up when I heard the muffled cry of a girl.
The city was loud, but I knew what I’d heard. Straining my ears, I put my smokes back in my pocket and ventured out into the covered picnic area.
“Don’t you fuckin’ bite me, you little whore,” a male voice said.
There was a slapping noise and the woman called out again. Grunting followed.
I rounded the divider to find some wiry asshole plowing into a girl bent over a picnic table. He had his hand covering her mouth. She met my gaze, and her eyes begged me for help.
Her attacker was so busy rutting into her that he didn’t see me. I crept around behind him, grabbed him by the back of his shirt, and hauled his ass off her, holding him inches above the ground. His little pencil dick swung from side to side.
“I see why you can’t get women the right way, but this shit ain’t gonna fly,” I growled.
“What the fuck are you doing?” he asked, helicoptering his hands to swing at me. “Let me go! This is none of your business.”
The girl was crying. I couldn’t see enough to make out her features, but I could hear the sobs pouring out of her. He’d been fucking raping her while she cried. The reality of the situation boiled rage up inside me.
“Let me go!” he demanded again.
“Not gonna fuckin’ happen.” I needed to shut him up, so I set him down and wound up. Right hook to the jaw, resulting in a satisfying crunch. Now he was screaming. It sounded much better than her crying. Left hook to the gut, another crunch. Probably a rib. Maybe two. He tried to block me, and I snapped his arm.
“Ahhh what the fuck, man?”
I was too far gone to respond. I dropped him and he spun around, giving me the perfect shot at his left kidney. Bam! Bet the motherfucker didn’t expect that. He fell to the ground and I went with him, my vision exploding in red.
The next thing I knew, men were hauling me off him and trying to contain me. Sirens closed in on us. Lights flashed. I was in handcuffs and being read my rights. They pulled me out front and stuffed me into the backseat of a cruiser. Looking over my shoulder one last time, I saw the girl being loaded into an ambulance. She’d be okay. That made it all worth it.
I knew the drill, so I kept my mouth shut through all the questions and threats until the boys in blue let me have my one phone call.
Dialing Link, my club president and closest friend, I rested my forehead against the wall and waited for him to pick up.
He accepted the collect call, like I knew he would.
“Havoc? What’s going on?”
“I’m in jail, brother. I fucked up. But this time, I swear to you, the bastard deserved it.”
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