(Club Chrome MC 2) All Dogs Bite

All Dogs Bite

By Alexx Andria

Club Chrome series, Book Two

By Alexx Andria

ALL DOGS BITE

By Alexx Andria

© 2014 Alexx Andria. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher. All characters are fictitious and any resemblance to an actual person is purely coincidental.

Cover design by EDH Graphics

The following novel is approximately 51,000 words and an original work of fiction.

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USA Today
bestselling author Alexx Andria crafts another MC romance that will leave her readers breathless.

*

When BBW Delainey Jones pictured the love of her life, she never imagined a hard-as-nails MC leader who is as bad as they come but when a man climbs through her window, bleeding from a gunshot wound and needing a place to hide, all she can see is one hot, sexy man in need of her help and she doesn’t hesitate.

But Delainey’s compassionate nature might be her undoing because this man isn’t the kind a sweet, trusting woman like Delainey should let in her bed…or her heart.

In fact, he’s the worst kind of man for a woman like her.

Too bad she can’t seem to get enough…

*

Bronx Harris doesn’t know what to think of the curvy strawberry blonde but he does know that she’s pretty sexy and he’s down with recuperating with her as his personal nurse while he lays low. But all too soon, Bronx finds himself feeling more than he should — more than what’s safe — for the curvy, innocent woman and he knows he ought to walk away. But Delainey is like a drug in his system and before long, walking away feels like the last thing he wants to do…even though he knows he’ll never be the man she needs him to be.

Can their love survive the collateral damage of two worlds colliding? Find out in the thrilling sequel to Alexx Andria’s Kings of Asphalt, Club Chrome series.

Dear Reader,

Oh my! That’s all I can say about this amazingly hot book. The love story between Bronx and Delainey scorched my fingers as I typed and at times I was breathless from the sheer emotion dripping from the page. My muse was alive and kicking for this sensual couple and I hope you agree, this story is thrilling from start to finish.

Also, if you managed to miss the first book in this series,
Kings of Asphalt
, I’ve included an excerpt for you to sample as well as a handy buy link in case you’d like to one-click it.

I love hearing from readers so please, stop by my Facebook, Twitter or web page to say hello.

You can find me here:

Facebook: facebook.com/alexx.andria.796

Twitter: @alexxandria2772

Website: www.eroticalexxandria.wordpress.com

Email:
[email protected]

Thank you so much! Onto the next story!

Warmly,

Alexx Andria

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-1-

Fire wracked Bronx Harris’ body as he ran blindly away from the deadly zing and crack of gunfire, gripping his side as blood pumped from his body like an open faucet. Fuck! He wasn’t going to die face-down in a dirty alley, not like this! The shouts and screaming tires receded into the city night as he painfully climbed the first fire escape he could grab and pull down. The metal groaned in the night, echoing like a squealing narc pressed too hard by the cops but he couldn’t stop. If he stopped, they’d find him and if they found him — he was dead. Drops of rain began pelting him in an uncharacteristically cold storm as he made his way to a window cracked far enough to push through. Swallowing the agony from the gunshot wound leaking the life out of his body, he slid through the window and collapsed on the floor, black dots swimming in front of his eyes. Something crashed to the floor but he was too weak to climb to his feet and run before whoever lived in this apartment, came with a shotgun. Hell, this was better than the grime of an alley, right? He blinked against the coming darkness, his eyes adjusting to the gloom just as he was about to pass out from blood loss…whoever lived here liked quirky art. Not his scene but he supposed it wasn’t so bad if this was his last look around this thing called life. A delirious smile found his lips as a woman came into view. Hey, the devil had a sense of humor it seemed. Ahh, a strawberry blonde. His favorite. And looks like luscious tits beneath that sleep shirt…yeah, so maybe dying wasn’t going to be so bad…

Her mouth moved as if she were trying to say something but Bronx couldn’t hear her. Hell, he couldn’t hear anything.

***

Delainey Jones gasped as the hot stranger passed out on her carpet, all leather and bad attitude, as if conjured from her deepest, most secret fantasies. Should she call 911? The police? Zoe? She flipped the light and swallowed a shriek when she saw the blood trail leading from the window to where he’d stopped to pass out. He was hurt! Wasn’t it her moral obligation to help the poor man?
What if he’s an axe murderer?
Delainey paused and gave the area around him a quick look. Okay, no axe. Maybe not an axe murderer. But he could be a psychopath just the same. Maybe this was divine intervention and it was his time to go. Or maybe she’s supposed to help him because of all the windows he had to crawl through, it had to be hers because only she had the tools to save his life. She frowned, caught in her own web of indecision, chewing on her bottom lip as the moments ticked by. So, she couldn’t just stand there and watch him bleed, right? Right.

Many, many moons ago when she’d been trying to find a respectable, reliable career choice, she’d taken ROTC nursing classes her senior year in high school. It was there she learned she emphatically did
not
want to be a nurse and she’d rather wait tables or dance with pizza signs on the street corner than deal with sick people but she had managed to pick up a few skills that might come in handy at the moment.
Time to get to it
. She grunted with the effort it took to roll him out of his leather jacket and then gently pulled his shirt up to reveal a small, gaping wound in his side dribbling blood. Oh God — she straightened — that was a gunshot wound! This was a horse of a different color. Gunshot wound? Who’d been shooting at him, or rather, what’d he done to deserve getting shot? She surveyed him more critically. Jealous husband? Yes, she could definitely see that. The crimson smears did little to disguise the hard, chiseled abs of that physique.
Yep. Jealous husband is totally believable.
Maybe it served him right. No one liked to be cuckolded. He groaned in the most piteous of manners and she softened a bit more, realizing her moral compass wouldn’t allow her to sit and pass judgment on the poor man while he was grievously wounded. “You might’ve deserved what you got but I can’t just let you die on my floor. What if you came back and haunted me? Total disclosure, I’m scared of the paranormal so that just wouldn’t work for me, you haunting my ass because I was stuck in a moral quandary,” she muttered as she rolled him over to check for an exit wound. Hallelujah! An equally sized hole was punched through his backside, telling her that the bullet wasn’t still lodged in his guts somewhere. After further examination, Delainey concluded that the bullet had also missed every major organ — luck of the Irish, this one — but he could still die from blood loss if she didn’t get that wound to stop leaking.

She ran to her bathroom, grabbing rubbing alcohol and butterfly bandages and then hustled back, still not quite sure she was doing the right thing — what if she made it worse? Maybe she ought to stop playing nurse and call 911? — but even with the doubts ringing in her head, she didn’t stop. “If I end up killing you, please remember that I was doing my best to help,” she said, hands shaking as she washed the wound on both sides and then with a silent prayer she pinched the skin together to apply the butterfly bandage. The wound was small enough but it probably could’ve used stitching —
hell no, she wasn’t going to try that!
— but she was relieved to see that the blood had stopped at the very least so maybe he was going to make it long enough to ask his name. She rocked back on her heels, slightly amazed that he’d slept through all of her clumsy ministrations and then, on impulse, pushed a lock of dirty blond hair from his face.
Wow
. He had the face of an angel. So pretty. What the heck had he gotten himself into? Delainey grabbed the leather jacket and examined it more closely. She squinted at the patch on his arm and then straightened with her mouth gaped.
Oh heavens to Betsy!
He was part of that awful Road Dog motorcycle gang. The one that The Kings were always at odds with. Maybe she ought to call Zoe after all. Delainey bit her lip with indecision. Zoe Delacourte was her best friend and currently off living
la vida loca
with her biker bad boys, Jax and Hunter, who just happened to be the leaders of The Kings, the rival motorcycle gang. Maybe she’d have some insight as to what to do with this particular bad boy. But then again, it didn’t seem right to rat the poor guy out when he was obviously having a terrible night. She could always call in the morning. Where was the harm in waiting a few hours? At the very least she could ask his name and find out what’d happened, right? Darn her innate nosiness. Zoe had always said her natural curiosity was wasted in her current career as a graphic artist. Delainey settled cautiously in the sofa nearest to the injured stranger and grabbed the throw blanket to gently place over him. Grannie Jane would turn over in her grave if she saw her crocheted masterpiece draped over a criminal or maybe she’d find it quite amusing. Grannie Jane had been an odd duck.

Sort of like her, she supposed.

***

Bronx groaned as the pain returned with a vengeance, slamming into him like a mack truck and leaving behind a mangled mess to contend with. He opened his eyes and blinked sluggishly, struggling to focus on the spinning room. Worse than a tequila hangover, he thought blearily to himself as he tried to keep it together. Where was he?
Think, Bronx
.
Where the hell did you end up?
His vision finally cleared and he heard light snoring to his left. Startled, he swiveled his head slowly to find a disheveled strawberry blond, tucked into a quilt, oblivious to the world and the fact that a bloody stranger had slept on her floor. He started to move and winced as the fresh searing pain of his wound reminded him that he wasn’t about to go partying anytime soon. His hand strayed gingerly to the wound and found bandages taped to his side. Had she done that? He couldn’t remember anything beyond crawling through that open window. He must’ve passed out from the blood loss. Ah hell, this was some shit to get himself into.

“Oh!” the soft, surprised, distinctly feminine gasp caused him to turn and run right into the blue-eyed gaze of the woman who’d saved his life. They locked stares and he was pinned by something he hadn’t felt in a long-ass time — hell, if ever — and it freaked him out more than a little.

“What the fuck you staring at?” he growled and she rose up on her elbow to scowl. “Stop fucking looking at me like that.”

“Like what? Like a wounded stranger who came barreling into my house to die in the middle of the night?” she said, scowling as she rose to a sitting position. Her hair — crazy, damn hair — was loosely piled on top of her head and all manner of bits and tendrils sprang free with wild abandon and he was briefly compelled to reach out and touch it to see if it was as soft as it looked but he caught himself before doing so. The woman continued to regard him with open curiosity and he supposed he didn’t have to be such a dick but the words had just come out. “Sorry,” he bit out, nearly choking on the words. “Caught me off guard. You got a cigarette? I could use one right about now.”

“A cigarette is the last thing you need,” she disagreed, rising to walk to the kitchen. He caught a glimpse of generous thigh and his imagination sent a vision of milky skin and strawberry curls on her pussy straight to his cock, proving that even shot up, he could still get it up — which was not something that was helpful right now. “I do have coffee, though. Want some?”

“If that’s all you’re offering,” he said grumpily, rubbing at the scruff on his chin. He rose stiffly from the floor and limped to the sofa where he surmised she’d slept —
she’d slept beside him? Why hadn’t she just called the cops?
— and fell into the soft cushions, swallowing an embarrassing, unmanly yelp as the pain sent stars flying behind his eyes. Fuck. A gunshot wound was serious shit. He supposed he ought to be thankful this was the first time he’d taken a bullet, considering the kind of people he ran with. “Black, no sugar or cream,” he told her as she brought him a steaming mug. His shaking fingers wrapped around the mug and he took a bracing sip. He risked a short, “Thanks” before going back to his coffee, not quite sure what to say given the situation but she didn’t seem to have any such reservations about jumping right in with the obvious.