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As president of The Devil’s Right Hand MC, I could get whatever I wanted.
Drugs, women, money, but most of all power.
And it’s the latter I was most interested in, most focused on acquiring. Because without that, you’re nothing. And in the town of Copperhead, Colorado, I had no problem making people bend to my will.
I ran my club with an iron fist, and what we did wasn’t exactly legal, but then again the kind of money we wanted, you didn’t get by following the rules.
So back-alley deals, corrupt situations, blackmail, and just being a downright bastard… that’s what the MC was known for.
That’s what I was known for. Because fear got you what you wanted.
But then she came into my life—this sweet, fresh, and pretty young thing working at one of the bars the MC owned. I should’ve stayed away, should’ve kept my distance, because she was a liability and a distraction I sure as hell didn’t need.
Yet all it took was that one encounter, that one moment for her to cross my path, and I was completely obsessed with her.
I found myself doing anything and everything to get information on her, to find out who she was, where she lived… why she was so far away from home.
So I followed.
But her life wasn’t as innocent and vulnerable as she wanted people to think. She had secrets. She had a past. One she was running from.
But I wasn’t into a fairytale life or ending. That was never in the cards for me.
Because when it came to her, I knew I’d do anything to make her mine.
Chapter One
Butcher
“Either fucking fold or quit pulling our dicks,” I said as I glared at Right Hand, a fellow patch who’d gotten his nickname because he’d nearly lost his damn right hand after he’d been caught fucking his stepbrother’s ex-girlfriend. Even though she’d been an ex, apparently said stepbrother still had a hard-on for her and went after Right Hand with a butcher knife. He nearly took the fucking hand right off like he was trimming meat for Sunday dinner.
Besides, the nickname fit with him being a member of the MC and all. Now, Right Hand had a gnarly scar around his wrist, and a sweet-ass biker name to go along with it. Guess things worked out the way they were supposed to.
And you’d think Right Hand would have learned from that mistake, that a life lesson like that would have knocked some sense into his crazy ass. But nope. Fucker was still sleeping with said stepbrother’s ex on occasion all these years later.
Must have been some damn good pussy to risk having a motherfucker come after you with a butcher knife again and go for another part of the body.
“I’m not pulling anyone’s dick but my own,” Right Hand said and grinned, flashing a silver cap on one of his side teeth.
“I know you don’t got anything, asshole. So fold already, so I can go home and crash. I’m fucking beat.”
He exhaled and threw down his cards, face-up. The other three guys followed suit.
“Too fucking rich for my broke-ass blood,” Boss said.
“I think you bastards like pulling each other’s dicks with this pissing contest.” Nitro was the next one to speak.
And then there was Scorpion, a patch who I even wondered if he spoke English, given the fact that most of his communication was in grunts and nods.
“That’s what I thought,” I said and tossed mine down, showing a pair of twos.
“What the hell? You don’t even have shit.” Right Hand’s face was turning a nice shade of red as his anger rose to the surface.
“Had a shit hand… yet here I am, taking all you motherfuckers’ money.” I grinned and reached for the center of the table, pulling the cash toward me.
“Fuck,” Right Hand muttered. “I’m getting drunk and getting laid. Fuck this shit.”
The rest of the guys started talking shit.
“Go lick your wounds, you fucking crybabies.” I flipped them off and reached for my beer, finishing it off before I left. I had a long-ass day tomorrow, and it wasn’t even doing fun shit, just paperwork and legal bullshit for our legit businesses.
We might be outlaws, but hell, we weren’t stupid. Having on-the-books businesses kept us on the up-and-up. It made sure we looked like law-abiding citizens, even if we sure as hell weren’t.
I was nearly done with my beer—just set down the bottle on the scarred table—when movement out of the corner of my eye had me turning and looking in the other direction.
She walked out of the back room, carrying a tray. She was tiny as she leaned against the bar and waited as Richie made up her drinks. Her jeans were tight, too tight, because they showed off her slender frame and the way her ass popped out.
It looked juicy… like a fucking peach.
