Cole: A Bad Boy Romance

Copyright 2016 Michelle Hart

All Rights Reserved.

Disclaimer: This ebook is a work of fiction. Any resemblance characters in this story may have to real people is coincidental.

No section of this book may be copied or reproduced without the author's permission.

Description

I'm at his mercy...

Blazing hot, inked, and filthy. Cole is every naughty girl's fantasy.

His dark eyes watch me with a hunger. The way his rough hands hold me down... his soft lips on mine. He taught me how to use my body in ways I never thought possible.

But he's also my captor.

I swore I'd never get in the middle of this war. But I had no choice. Cole is going to use me to win. What
a f*cking prick.

I'm falling for him hard but he doesn't give a sh*t about me. Only his himself. I need to escape before I'm too far gone...

The abandoned warehouse of the Rabid Dogs MC loomed before me. It's broken windows and peeling paint showed it's age. The old repair shop sign had faded away from the bright sun. The rows of Harleys in the front was same as it was thirty years ago. This club had been my entire life and I'd finally given it up.

Being the President of the Rabid Dogs MC was no easy task. The amount of blood on my hands would never be washed away. The things I did in the name of my brothers would never be forgotten. And the amount of whores I emptied my balls into could never fill the void. Stepping down lifted a huge burden off my shoulders but I didn't know what to do with the rest of my time. The club was all I knew.

Sawyer was the new President now and he'd do a fine job. He was smart, strong, and above all else—willing to do whatever it took. But I could see the anguish on his face. Sawyer was being slowly destroyed from the inside out. He was about to make the same mistake I made all those years ago. “Take my advice, Sawyer, don't be like me and let the girl of your dreams pass you by. You're hardwired to fuck and forget but you don't want to be my age and wishing you did something different,” I told him.

Sawyer didn't have to give his life to the MC. He could be President
and
find happiness. But only if he could get past his deep-rooted ideas of what it means to be a biker.

I stared up at the motorcycle club, it's white banner with Rabid Dogs written all over it flapping in the wind. My mind returned to the good ol' days when the warehouse was a motorcycle repair shop. We weren't really good at fixing customer's bikes—we could barely fix our own. But it was ours and we loved it.

I remembered spending my days in the hot sun, drinking a cold beer, oil and grease all over my face. It couldn't get much better than that.

The repair shop didn't last very long after Cash was gunned down. He was always the best with numbers. We almost lost the entire warehouse but a few threatening words with the landlord made us able to keep the place even though we weren't running a business anymore. I always had plans to reopen the repair shop but never got around to it.
Real
club business always got in the way.

When Blaze first brought up the idea of a MC in high school, we all thought he was crazy. Most of us didn't even own motorcycles or even have our drivers license. But he was our fearless leader and we would have followed him into the depths of hell.

I walked into the warehouse and the place was bustling with people. The MC was never this busy back in the day. No other chapters. Just the Sacks County MC. Coal used to sling drinks behind the bar and E-Z knew how to consume them. Cash was always in the office staring at financial documents behind his spectacles.

We had a good thing going until Claire came into my life. And everything changed. Her long, curly dark hair with blue eyes could bring any man down to their knees. My mind was lost in a fog of emotions. My club meant everything to me and Claire threatened it all. I always regretted letting her go and I couldn't let Sawyer make the same decision. If he had a chance to live a normal life, he had to go for it.

The meeting room was empty when I entered. My fingers traced over the gavel at the head of the table. The long wooden table dominated the room with a Rabid Dogs spider carved into it. It took Tater months to finish the thing. I sat down in my seat, the chair creaking with age. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. I'd made so many decisions in this room over the years. Some bad and some good. Blaze used to sit in here all day, dreaming about ways to take the club to the next level. But now it was Sawyer's domain. His turn to steer the club in the direction he thought best.

I looked up at the row of pictures framed on the wall of our fallen brothers. There were too many pictures. We'd lost so many over the years. So many under my watch. Did I do a good enough job? We're those lives lost under my rule in vain? My eyes began to tear up and my throat choked.

I never meant to be President. I wasn't meant for all the pressure and responsibility. If Blaze was still around, my life would have been entirely different. We might not have lost so many men. There would have been a lot fewer sleepless nights.

I kissed two fingers and placed them on Blaze's photo. “Rest in peace, buddy. Hope you're giving God hell up there.”

I left the MC and hopped on my old Harley. The thing was still kicking after all these years. Kind of like me. Now it was time to begin the next chapter.

My Harley roared underneath me as I shifted into gear and chased the group of Death Merchants. Coal and Tank were close behind, forming a V formation. I looked behind to see Tank with the biggest grin behind his bushy mustache. We lived for this. The Mexicans were in our territory and we had them on the run.

Sunday morning meant a lot of church traffic: old and slow drivers. The sun was barely overhead but the heat was already burning my leather cut. It was going to be another scorcher in the desert today. We swerved in and out of cars, the Mexicans not far ahead. They didn't dare fire on us with so many civilians around. Cars honked at us as we passed by and I returned their kindness by knocking their side mirrors off. The Black Widows owned these roads and this town needed to give us a little more respect. We were trying to clean their streets after all.

At a four-way intersection the Mexicans split up. I signaled to Coal and Tank and they knew what to do. I took the two Mexicans that made a right turn and followed them down Main Street. The church was at the end and the traffic was jammed. That didn't stop The Death Merchants. They popped onto the sidewalk and sped past pedestrians. Innocents could get seriously hurt but I had to follow them.

We zoomed past the storefront windows, the wind flicking back my long hair. My grip on my handlebars tightened like I was stroking my cock to finish. Old women in their Sunday best dived out of the way,spilling coffee all over their flowery dresses. The Mexicans turned the corner and onto an empty street. I followed, whipping out my Remington 1911 handgun and firing a couple shots. I wouldn't be able to hit a weaving target at this range but I wanted them to know I was close on their asses.

The two Death Merchants split up and I trailed the one that hit the dirt road. My bike bounced up and down over the bumps, the dust hitting my face from the motorcycle ahead of me. I shot a few more times, hoping for a miracle.

His back tire burst with my last shot and he went fishtailing, crashing into the bushes. My bike came to a skid at the Mexican's motorcycle but he was nowhere to be found. He couldn't have gotten far. I got off my hog and checked the magazine in my Remington—only three bullets left. More than enough to end this fucking wetback.

Before I could pop the magazine back in, the Mexican charged at me from the brush. The collision knocked me to the ground, sending my pistol and loose magazine soaring far away. I balled my hand into a fist and pummeled into his ribs, crunching bone. The motherfucker cursed at me in Spanish, holding his side. I kicked him off me and quickly got to my feet. I connected my boot to his face and he instantly shut up.

I went through his pockets as he writhed on the ground. Just a few dollars and change. He didn't even have a gun on him which reaffirmed our thoughts that The Death Merchants didn't even have the money for weapons. They weren't ready to play with the big boys yet.

I lifted the bloody wetback up and put him on his knees. His leather cut had the name Garcia and the symbol of Death with a scythe was on the back. “You boys dare come into our town and don't even bring guns. Who the fuck do you think you are?”

The Mexican looked back at me with furious eyes. He spat at me, his spit narrowly missing my face and hitting my cut. Now he had really done it. Nobody disrespects me and gets away with it.

I brought out my switchblade and the blade sprang out in front of his eyes. “I think I'm going to have a little fun with you before I send you off to meet your maker.”

He cursed at me with some more Spanish. I couldn't understand but I got the gist of it.

“You fuckers can't even speak English?” I grabbed a hold of his leather cut and began slicing. I took off his nameplate and member patch. “Your kind don't deserve to be a motorcycle club.”

The wetback tried to get up and grab me but I kicked him in the ribs and he doubled over, howling in pain.

“I'm going to leave you a gift to remember me by. Whenever you look in the mirror, you'll know that Sacks County is off-limits to your kind.”

I squeezed his face between my fingers and let my blade run down his forehead and across his left eye. His screams were lost in the wind as I carved up his face. He passed out as soon as I finished, falling over into the dirt. I stepped on his chest with my boot for good measure. I wiped my bloody hands on his jeans and safely stowed my switchblade in my back pocket. It would be a waste to kill him now. He was a work of art. The Mexicans would think twice about coming back into Sacks when they saw his fucked-up face.

Police sirens wailed off in the distance. My gunshots from earlier must have tipped them off. Didn't matter much. I was already done here. I collected my Remington from the dirt and put it in the back of my waistband. The Mexican lay in the desert, the sun baking him. He was going to be a sunburnt bean in an hour. I spit on him before going back to my motorcycle.

I swung my leg over my bike and strapped my helmet on. I wished I could take a picture of this scene and put it up on the wall. There was so much blood and dirt that had mixed into mud. I stepped down on the ignition and my bike came to life under me. The law was getting closer but they'd never find me. I knew this town better than the cops.

I returned to the MC to find Coal and Tank's bikes already parked outside along with the rest. Good thing they got back safe. A few of the prospects were working in the repair shop as I walked by. We didn't have very many customers these days but Cash assured us that things would turn around.

I strolled into the clubhouse and found the place crawling with people. Iron Maiden's “Aces High” was playing in the background. It was barely noon and the party was already in full swing. Drinks were flowing and half-naked sluts had their arms around every guy.

“Holy fuck, Cole! We were wondering where you were.” Coal came through the crowd and embraced me. His shaved head reminded me of a cue ball. A stark contrast to all our long hair. “Shit! You smell like a dead Mexican.”

“An almost dead Mexican. I left him a few scars. The wetbacks will think twice before coming back into our town. You guys get any?”

Tank came over and slapped me on the back. “We chased the wetbacks until the law got on our tail. We barely escaped. The Prez will want to hear what you did.”

I nodded. “I'll tell him soon. I need to take a shower first and wash this stench off me. Then maybe I got a date with Coal's mom. She called me and said her giant tits needed to be milked.”

Tank fell over laughing. Coal grit his teeth and clenched his fists. His mom was a fucking knockout and each one of would kill to bury our cocks inside her. “You better take that back, Cole. I'm going to have to rearrange that pretty face of yours.”

I dodged behind Tank's huge body, using him as a shield to avoid Coal's blows. I escaped through the crowd of people and made it to the bar. Tater slid me a beer and gave me a nod. I took a sip and my body relaxed instantly. I turned around and surveyed the room. There was a flood of wet pussy in here. My fiery balls were begging to be drained. Any one of these chicks would do. The feel of their lips around my cock, sucking the cum right down their throats. I was tempted to sling a slut over my back and carry her to my room. But first I needed a shower to wash off all that Mexican blood.