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JOAQUIN
RECKLESS SOULS MC BOOK 6
KB WINTERS
Copyright © 2023 by KB Winters and Bookboyfriends Publishing Inc

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and
retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover Photo - Eric David Battershell
Cover Model - Johnny Kane
 CONTENTS

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Thank You So Much!
About the Author
Also by KB Winters
 ABOUT JOAQUIN

I've always been a man of pleasure, never one for commitment.

Friends with benefits is what I’m after. And I’ve had a lot of…ahem… friends.
But Willow is different. She's fiery, sassy, and takes no prisoners.
I thought a fling during lockdown would be fun, but I never expected to see beyond her tough exterior
to the real woman inside.
When she gets shot and the cartel comes after us, I realize I can't live without her. I'll do whatever it
takes to protect her, even if it means burning this town to the ground.
If Willow lives through this, I'll make her mine forever.

Can this reformed gang banger win the heart of the one woman he can't live without?

WSJ and USA Today Bestselling author KB Winters brings you a thrilling new romantic suspense
series about the Reckless Souls Motorcycle Club!

Subscribe to my newsletter HERE and receive Nomad for FREE.

 CHAPTER ONE

WILLOW
“This is all so weird,” I say out loud to no one in particular as I work the register at For Goodness
Cakes.
The Reckless Souls motorcycle club is still on lockdown, which for some reason, includes me.
Everything at the club is tense as hell. Well, it’s tense for the guys and the women who love them, but
for me, it’s been pretty fucking exciting. And dangerous, which is probably what makes it all so
exciting.
Right now, the Reckless Souls are at war with the Iron Kings, a psychopathic motorcycle club that’s
on its last leg, or tire or whatever the fuck you use for a MC metaphor.
Anyway, lockdown means that I am in absolute heaven being surrounded by hot bikers. I have so
many to choose from, all of them delicious in their own way, and the options are so tempting that I’m
having a hard time choosing just one.
Well, the single ones, that is.
Some of the guys who are married or otherwise coupled up are hot as hell, but I don’t touch another
girl’s merch, if you get my drift.
Still, I’m stuck in a candy store and don’t I know it.
Stone and Tank are outside the bakery today, providing security, so I focus on them while Maven
bakes her ass off in the back. Stone is, well, he is the kind of hot that just has to smile to send a girl’s
panties on fire. He’s big and blond, and that Texas accent? Oh my fuck, he’s too hot to focus on
anything as dull as cookies and pies.
Then there’s Tank. He’s not even a real biker yet, just a prospect, so he isn’t really worth pursuing.
Yet. Even still, Tank is sex on a stick. A very big stick if ya ask me.
His blond hair curls just enough to soften his giant appearance, and those eyes say he’s got more going
on inside that head than bikes and engines. He’s got a dirty mouth, which I like, but he’s not patched
yet, so fucking him won’t make me a biker’s chick, not technically.
Nova is the club doctor, and he’s gorgeous in a sophisticated way. He’s quiet, but maybe that’s what a
wild child like me needs. I don’t know. All I know is I have plenty to choose from, and I’m choosing
wisely.
For once.
My phone buzzes inside my apron, interrupting my ogling of the fine man-flesh on display just outside
the window, and somehow I tear my eyes away to look down at the screen. I groan at the sight of my
mom’s face because I know behind her smile, she’s going to be pissed off.
“Hey, Mom, how’s it going?” I ask in my sweetest voice.
“You’d know the answer to that if you’d been home at all over the past week.”
I sigh and nod even though she can’t see me. “I know, Mom, and I’m sorry, but some stuff has gone
down, and Maven needs my help.”
“I hope she’s paying you, Willow.”
“She is,” I sigh. Mom isn’t a bad person. She’s one of the best people I know, but life has been hard
for us. She works two shit jobs, meaning her top priority is always money. “I’m sorry I didn’t call.”
“Right,” she snorts. “Look, Willow, just because you haven’t been home in a while doesn’t mean that
you can stop paying your part of the bills. That was the deal, remember?”
I nod again. As long as I live there, I have to work, and we split the bills. “Yeah, Mom, I’m fine.
Great even. Thanks for asking.”
“Willow,” she sighs in that exhausted tone she’s been using since I was about ten years old.
“Forget it, Mom. You don’t know or care what’s going on in my life. I got it. But I promise I will stop
by soon to pay my part of the rent. All right?”
“Good,” she says, her tone short and distracted. “Thank you.”
I stare at the phone as the screen turns black, almost in disbelief, except that would be totally phony
because I know this is Mom’s way.
She works and pays the bills, and if she has time, she finds a shitty boyfriend to entertain her for a
while.
“Yep, great talk, Mom. See you soon,” I say sarcastically at the black screen.
I hate fighting with Mom, but that’s what happens when two strong-willed women share tiny living
quarters. We’re a team, Mom and me, and we have been for as long as I can remember.
The morning rush is over, and the dining area is clean, so I push the swinging door that separates the
kitchen from the front of the bakery and smile at Maven. “Hey there, hot stuff.”
She laughs and shoves another cake in the oven before setting the timer. “Hey, Willow. What’s up?”
“That’s what I want to know. How are things with your sexy-ass biker?”
I know the answer before she says anything because her smile is so wide it has to hurt.
“Things are great, Willow. Really great. We’re in love, and that’s wonderful, but he’s so much
younger than me.”
I roll my eyes. “And? He doesn’t seem to mind, so why do you?”
She stops in the middle of the kitchen and stares at me. “Tell me honestly. Do we look weird
together?”
Her brows dip in concern as if she’s really concerned about my answer, so I give it careful thought.
“Maven, no one is thinking about you and Wilder except you.”
She rolls her eyes. “That’s not an answer.” Maven folds her arms over her chest and gives me the
look. “Your refusal to answer is an answer, Willow.”
“Oh for fuck’s sake, Maven. No, I don’t think you look weird together. But I’m not who you’re
worried about, am I? Bitches will admire you for landing a hottie like Wilder. Are some gonna hate
on you? Yeah, and we both know it’s because they’re jealous. That man is hot with a capital H, and
bitches want you to doubt yourself, to doubt your relationship, so they can slide right in and take
what’s yours.”
I go to her and rest my hands on her shoulders to make sure she’s looking at me. “If you want to fuck it
up and leave room for those bitches to take him, go right ahead because the club whores? All they
want is to be made someone’s Ol’ lady. And you, Miss Maven Yates, are Wild Man’s ol’ lady.”
“Old Lady? Apparently, in more ways than one,” she jokes, but I can see the worry burning deep in
her hazel eyes.
“Is this just about you and Wilder and the age thing? Or are you worried about the danger of being
with a biker?”
Unlike me, Maven never wanted a biker, so the danger might not be worth loving Wilder.
Maven looks at me and half-nods, half-shakes her head, but the sigh that rushes out of her tells the
truth.
“Yes and no. Wilder will help fix up my place so I can sell it, and then I’ll move in with him. As long
as lockdown is in effect, I know I’ll be safe. But,” she sighs and looks over my shoulder to make sure
we’re alone. “I bought a gun after the whole Cyrus thing, so I’m less worried now.”
My eyes widen. “Holy shit, for real? Watch out, Maven, you just might be the baddest biker bitch of
all!”
Maven smiles, and an adorable blush blooms on her cheeks. Before she can insist she’s not a badass,
the door swings open, and Letty saunters into the kitchen.
“Letty? What are you doing here?”
Still looking uncomfortable in jeans and boots, Letty rubs her palms down her legs with a nervous
smile. “I came to pick up the breakfast order for the club. But I came back here because two cops
came inside with me, asking if I know Maven.”
“For me?” The question comes out as a squeak, and I don’t blame her. Cops are always bad fucking
news around here, even more so when you’re hooked up with a motorcycle club. “Okay, I’ll see what
they need,” she says evenly, but I can tell she’s secretly freaking the fuck out.
I follow Maven and Letty back to the front of the bakery. Stone has come inside and stands casually at
the counter with a blank expression that gives the impression he’s not paying attention, but I can tell
that his eyes are taking in every detail, ears listening to every word. His gaze lingers on the two
detectives pretending to look at the desserts while they case the place.
“Hello, gentleman,” Maven says in her most professional tone, the one she uses on difficult
customers. “How can I help you?”
“I’m Detective Scott,” says the taller man with slicked-back brown hair, a frown on his face. “This is
Detective Powell, and we need to ask you some questions about a Cyrus Palacio. You know him?”
“Cyrus?” She frowns and nods. “I don’t know what I could tell you. The last I saw him, some of your
colleagues were hauling him out of here for putting his hands on me after I told him our relationship
was over.”
I can tell immediately they don’t believe her.
Powell leans in and scrapes a hand over his beard. “When did you last see Cyrus?”
Maven blinks. “I just told you. I don’t know what date it was, but I’m sure it’s on record since he was
arrested by Angel Harbor PD. I presume someone bailed him out, probably his brother. Nogales, I
think, but I don’t know if that’s his first or last name.”
They ignore her tip about Nogales and lean in closer. “Have you spoken to him since his arrest?”
“No. I broke up with him, and then he hit me. That’s the last I saw or heard of him. What is this
about?” Maven folds her arms, giving her best impression of a woman unafraid of these legal bullies.
Detective Scott flashes a sneering smile. “We’re asking the questions, ma’am. And I’m gonna need
you to come down to the station for a formal statement.” He’s asking, but it’s not really a request.
Maven nods. “Sure, I’ll be happy to do that. As soon as I speak to my lawyer on the best way to
proceed.”
I smile at the appearance of Maven’s backbone.
The detectives, though, aren’t as impressed, especially Scott. He’s reaching behind him to the cuffs
hanging from his belt.
“Look, lady, we’re just being courteous because Doherty told us to, but if you’re not going to
cooperate, then we’ll do this the hard way. You’re under arrest.”
“What? This is total bullshit,” I shout. “What are you arresting her for?” I pull out my phone and start
recording them.
“Step back,” Detective Scott growls at me.
Maven lets out a frustrated sigh. “Under arrest for what, exactly?” She seems calm, but I can see the
pulse racing in her throat.
“I told you that we ask the questions,” Powell says, his tone growing angrier by the second.
I step back, my phone still recording. “Aren’t you going to read her rights to her, or is that another
way for you to abuse your power?” Both detectives stop once Maven is cuffed and stare at me, trying
to intimidate me, but I lift my chin in defiance to show those fuckers they don’t scare me.
“Well? I don’t hear anything about her right to remain silent.”
Powell grunts and stands up tall. “You are under arrest for the suspicious death of Cyrus Palacio.”
“Death?” Maven shrieks. “Cyrus is dead? How did he die? Where did you find him?”
“That’s what we need you to tell us,” Scott says with a grimacing smile that makes the hairs on my
arm stand up tall.
Oh. Shit. This is big shit. “Don’t say anything, Maven. Nothing at all.”
Maven nods, and I stop recording because I need to call Wilder more than I need to fuck with these
dickheads.
“Hey,” I shout when someone takes my phone, but the thief is Stone. I calm down, but I keep my eyes
on his mighty fine ass until he’s outside, telling Wilder what’s going down.
“Maven,” I say, “stay cool, yeah? They’re bluffing, and help is on the way.”
Maven nods, and tears stream down her cheeks. She’s terrified, and I hate those fucking cops even
more for doing this to her.
“Thanks, Willow. Don’t worry about me. Keep this place going for me?”
“You don’t even have to ask.” Maven is my ride or die, and there’s nothing I won’t do to make this
easier for her. “Stay completely silent, Maven. Don’t answer even one fucking question, not even your
name or date of birth. Got it?”
“Got it,” she says and lets her head fall forward, fear and embarrassment forcing her shoulders to
slump. “Thank you,” she mouths to me as they take her away.
 CHAPTER TWO

J OAQUIN
“Are there always so many hot chicks around?” Tank asks as he changes tires on a Honda Accord.
“Holy fuck. I mean, no offense to the patched guys and their old ladies, but how can one club have so
many hot chicks?”
I laugh at the shock in his tone. “Yeah? All chicks are hot. Who do you have your eye on?”
We have a full house going on now with this most recent lockdown.
It’s not necessarily a bad thing with so many hot, unattached women hanging around. It's an easy job,
really, as long as they’re all under one roof. It gets tricky keeping them all safe when they have to go
to work and school and shit like that.
Tank shrugs. “I don’t know, but Gia’s friend, Ro? She’s hot as fuck. She has that whole innocent shit
going on, but she’s got a sassy, potty mouth that really does it for me if you know what I mean.” Tank
looks up from his work and wiggles his eyebrows.
Dix lets out a loud bark of laughter and shakes his head. “Holy shit, dude, I think even a blind man
knows what you mean.” He turns to me with an inquisitive expression. “What do you know about
Kelsey’s friend, Ruby? She’s stacked and curvy and seems totally interested, which makes my dick
want to party with her.”
I laugh at them for being so fucking thirsty for a chick, but my mind immediately goes to the hot as
fuck kiss I shared with Willow last night.
The girl is a flirt, but she’s hot as fuck, mouthy and she’s not one of those shy chicks who need to be
taught how to fuck. Oh no. She knows what she wants, and right now, I’m at the top of her list. That’s
perfect because I could use a few nights of hot fucking.
There’s too much shit going on with the MC to worry about anything other than burying myself deep
inside her cunt for a night or two or three. A quick fuck here and there will keep me focused on what
the club needs to do next.
Nothing more.
“Don’t be stingy, man.” Dix is smiling, but he’s serious about Ruby. “What can you tell me?”
I shrug. “Ruby’s cool. She and Kelsey have been tight for a long time. She’s a party girl, but she
doesn’t fuck off at her job, so you might have a shot if you play your cards right.”
I think back to when I met Ruby and had her up against the jukebox. I was damn ready to fuck her that
night, but the Kings broke it up. Assholes.
“A working girl? I can get with that,” Dix growls. “Her curves, that sweet round ass is worth it.”
I shake my head and focus on the old ass Yamaha bike that would fit better in the trash heap than a bay
at the repair shop. “Then shoot your shot.”
“Don’t worry, young buck, I plan to.” Dix’s eyes light up with mischief, and if I didn’t know how well
Ruby could handle herself, I might be worried.
The garage door opens slowly, but the metal door flings open, and Wild Man stomps in, looking like
someone pissed in his cheerios. His gaze scans the room and finally lands on Dix.
“Dix,” he growls. “You got a minute?”
“Yeah,” Dix answers with a frown. “What’s up?”
“Fucking Angel Harbor detectives arrested Maven on suspicion of murder for that fucking Cyrus
asshole.”
Dix stands behind an old-school chopper that’s getting a full overhaul. A wrench falls to the concrete
floor with a loud clatter. “That’s fucking impossible. We cleaned that house from top to bottom, every
goddamn nook and cranny, and the body is long gone. There’s no way those assholes found enough to
arrest anybody for anything.”
Wild Man stares at Dix, and he stares back, both of them locked in a stand-off until reality crashes in.
“You sure?”
Dix nods. “They are full of shit on the Cyrus angle. My guess? They’re trying to use the pressure of a
fake murder investigation to get Maven to tell what she knows about us.”
“For what?” Wild Man scrubs a hand over his face with a long, drawn-out frustrated sigh. “It doesn’t
make any damn sense. She’s an upstanding citizen, a business owner.”
Dix nods. “She is all that, which is exactly why they will put the fear of God into her to convince her
to turn on us. Angel Harbor PD is also investigating the death of Frank and Ruth Braden. My guess is
they have fuck all for leads.”
His words shock me. “They’re trying to pin the preacher’s death on us? Un-fucking-believable!”
“Not so unbelievable,” Dix says with the wisdom of a man who’s been around the block a few dozen
times. “They need a scapegoat for the…what? The disappearance of a fine upstanding citizen,” he
says, punctuating the words by rolling his eyes. “And our existence makes us the perfect choice.”
“I don’t give a flying fuck what they think they have or what they plan to do. I need to get Maven out
of there, and if I can’t, I need to make sure she’s comfortable and safe.”
Dix nods his agreement and reaches for the gel cleaner to get all the black gunk off his hands. “I’ll go
down with you, but first, we need to call Camden.”
Wild Man nods and pulls out his phone.
“Who is Camden?” I’d been a prospect for a couple years, but I didn’t know that name.
“Camden Pinero,” Dix clarifies. “He’s the best goddamn defense attorney in all of California. We
have him on retainer. Just hope you don’t ever need his services.”
I laugh. “I had enough of the prison system, thanks.” My stint in the joint was terrifying and
unpleasant, and I would do everything I could to avoid that fate again. “They might be trying to pump
Maven for information on another set of murders they want to pin on us. Frank and Ruth Braden.”
“Shit,” Wild Man growls and turns away, walking outside to make a call.
“All right, boys, I’m heading out. Joaquin, you know what’s on the schedule for the day. Make sure the
pickups for today are done before you get started on tomorrow’s shit, yeah?”
I nod. “On it. Good luck.”
Dix flashes a crooked grin and shrugs his shoulders before walking out, leaving just me and Diesel to
work on the cars and bikes for the afternoon.
“Damn, is it always this crazy around here?” he asks.
I nod. “For as long as I can remember. Definitely, every day since I’ve been patched. The Kings have
been a real pain in the ass, and we’re this close to getting rid of them permanently.”
I can’t tell Diesel everything since he’s just a prospect, but he needs to know what this life is really
like. “How much has Lucky told you?”
“Some but not a lot,” he admits and turns his attention back to the vehicle in front of him. “I’m not
worried, just curious. I’m also curious about what’s going on with you and that blue-eyed freak,
Willow.”
I smile at the mention of the flirty chick. She’s definitely got an eye on me, but I don’t know what she
wants. Yet. “Willow is cool. She’s hot, and she loves to flirt, which I like.”
“Cut the shit, man. You banged her yet, or is she still in play?”
I shrug. “Let’s just say we get each other for now and leave it at that. Oh, and hands off, fucker.”
Diesel starts chuckling and shaking his head. “That’s all I needed to know.”
“Dick,” I mutter under my breath but loud enough for him to hear.
“I just want to know the lay of the land. She’s yours. Hands off. Got it.”
Hands off. Mine. None of that is true yet, but Willow seems like a good-time girl, and I’m a guy in
search of a good time.
 CHAPTER THREE

WILLOW
“Hey, Letty, how’s it going back here?” My voice shakes as I check in with my temporary employees.
I try to sound like I’m in control of For Goodness Cakes, even though I’m still freaking out about
Maven’s arrest.
Grinning, Letty looks up from a big ball of dough. “Going well. I haven’t baked on this scale ever, but
in general, not in a long time. It’s crazy how quickly it all comes back.” She looks around at the goods
piling up on every flat surface. “How did things go with Maven yesterday?”
I roll my eyes. “Shitty. The stupid fucking detectives took forever to process her to make sure none of
us could get in to see her. She was able to meet with the lawyer, though. Hopefully, that made her feel
a little better.”
Stupid fucking cops are determined to scare Maven, which makes me think this isn’t about that loser
Cyrus at all.
The front door opens, and Kenna rushes in. “Sorry I’m so late, Willow! Kelsey took forever in the
shower and rocking the little one back to sleep put me back to sleep too.”
Kenna smacks her face as she shoves her purse under the counter and signs into the register. “I take it
I’m on the register today?”
I nod. “Yep. You have experience doing this from the pizza place, right?”
“Yes. I can work any point of sale system. I know how to upsell my ass off, and I’m very good with
customers.”
I laugh. “It’s amazing you’re so good with customers considering that underlying bitchiness, but I’ll
take it.”
Kenna flashes a fake pout. “Hey, I’ve toned down my bitchiness by like, a lot.”
“That’s because you get dick from a hottie all the time,” I tell her with a grin. “I’ll be in back
decorating more goodies and bringing them to the display. If you see anything like crumbs or trash,
give it a quick clean and get back behind the counter. The guys are out front, so I don’t expect any
trouble.”
“Got it. You can trust me, Willow.”
“I know.” Kenna’s a bitch, but she’s got a squishy center for her friends, and being with Ace has
somehow turned her into a better person. “Holler if you need anything.”
The next hour passes in a blur of frosting and fondant, of cookies and cupcakes, muffins, and dozens
of loaves of bread. The displays are full with plenty of replacements to last a few hours, and Letty is
still baking.
I tell her, “I think we’re good for a while.”
Letty nods. “Seems like it, but word is bound to get around about Maven, and customers will come
here to get the gossip.”
“Oh, shit, you’re right.” In my worry over doing a good job and making Maven proud, it didn’t occur
to me about the uptick in sales that Maven likes to call the gossip tax.
“Kenna! Let’s add a two-for-one special on cookies and cupcakes.”
Kenna’s head pops into the kitchen, smiling widely. “Two for one on cookies and cupcakes. Anything
on the bread?”
I nod and think about what Maven would do in this situation. We make good profits on the bread, so
we can afford a discount. “Yeah, let’s do buy one loaf and get one half-off.”
That’s good. Right? I try to sound confident, but I’m going to run it all by Maven if I can get in to see
her today. “Cool?”
Kenna nods a little too enthusiastically. “I’ll write ’em up on the specials board.” She disappears,
and Letty laughs.
“I think someone is excited to get out of the clubhouse and off baby duty,” Letty says with a shake of
her head.
“Now that giddiness makes sense.” It’s not like Kenna, even on her best behavior, to be so cheerful.
“I think she got some really good dick last night.”
“You’re bad,” Letty says, a bright blush starting to bloom on her cheeks.
“And that blush tells me you’re the one who got some good dick this morning. Or last night. Recently,
anyway.” I stare at Letty as her face gets redder and redder before a loud laugh explodes out of me.
“Willow,” she sighs like an exasperated soccer mom.
“Sorry, not sorry,” I tell her and pour more flour into the giant floor mixer. “I’d like to get some dick
sometime, for sure!”
The swinging door pushes open, and Letty and I look up at the same time as Joaquin stands there,
looking like a fish out of water among all the flour and sugar.
“Ladies.” He flashes a wide grin that makes his brown skin look like burnt honey. “Smells amazing in
here.”
Letty laughs. “Gotta love a man who appreciates the smell of fresh baked bread.”
He grins even wider. “I’ll be sure to let Shades know you said so.”
“I didn’t…never mind.”
Joaquin and I both laugh. “Don’t tease the baker,” I tell him and swat in his general direction. “What
are you doing here?” I ask with a flirty smile. I wonder if he’d heard my last comment to Letty. “Not
that I’m unhappy to see your handsome face, especially since you couldn’t even go a few hours
without seeing my face.”
He stands a little taller, puffing his chest out before he rolls his eyes. “I’m here to take you for a ride,”
he practically purrs in my direction. I feel that deep sound settle low in my belly and shoot heat
through my arms and legs.
“Is this a naked ride or…something else?”
Letty gasps. “Willow!”
Joaquin lets out a deep masculine laugh. “I’ll have to get back to you on that, babe. For now, I mean a
ride to see Maven.”
“Oh. Oh!” First, disappointment whirls through me, and then excitement at seeing for myself that
Maven is all right. “Right! Cool.” I turn to Letty. “Are you gonna be good for a few hours?”
Letty nods. “We’ll be fine. Both of us. I promise.”
“Okay. If you need anything, just call me, but I’m pretty sure it’ll be off inside the jail.” I nod and look
around the kitchen, nervous about leaving but desperate to see Maven. “All right. Let’s go,
handsome.”
I eye Joaquin’s bike with excitement. The last time I was on the back of his bike, I was shit-faced and
upset, so I didn’t get to fully enjoy it like I will now. “Memories,” he asks with a hint of a smile in his
tone.
I look up. “You remember that night?”
He nods. “Hot drunk chick on the back of my bike? Hell, yeah, I remember, especially how handsy
you were.”
“Was I?”
He nods, smiling brightly and teasingly.
“Oh, good. I thought I might have been too drunk to enjoy myself properly.”
Joaquin shakes his head and hands me a helmet. “Put this on. Protect that pretty head of yours.”
He thinks I’m pretty! Instead of relishing that idea, I put it on and hop on back easily before snuggling
close to his hot, hard body that smells like pure man, leather, and motorcycle.
I hold him tight and enjoy being close to Joaquin, but my thoughts drift to Maven. She’s a cool chick, a
nice woman Hell, she’s one of the best women I know, but she isn’t cut out for jail. I mean, not that
I’m cut out for jail either, but at least I’m crazy, and I have no problem cutting a bitch. We have to find
a way to get Maven out sooner rather than later.
When we get to the jail, Wilder is there waiting impatiently, and we all go into the small visiting
room together. There’s no six-inch thick glass between us, just a small round table with an officer
looming in the corner.
“Maven!” I rush to her and wrap her in my arms as tight as I can. “Honey, are you all right?”
She pulls back with a shaky smile and red eyes, nodding to reassure me when I can see how shitty
she’s doing with my own two eyes. “I’ve been better, Willow. How’s the bakery?”
“Good. I mean, great, really. Kenna is manning the register and using her rich girl manners to stop all
the gossip. Letty is in the kitchen baking up a storm. I’m doing a couple specials,” I tell her and wait
for her approval or rejection. “What do you think?”
“Sounds good. Stop worrying so much, Willow. You’ll do great. I just know it.”
I nod. “Do you need anything while you’re in here? Clean underwear? Vibrator? File and chisel?”
Maven laughs. “I’m all right for now but thank you. Just keep For Goodness Cakes going while I’m
here, and I’ll love you forever.”
“I’m gonna hold you to that,” I tell her with a soft smile. “I’m sorry this shit is happening to you,
Maven. I’m sure Wilder and the guys will have you out of here in no time.”
“Thanks.” Her gaze slides to Wilder, and I know it’s time to give the lovebirds a minute alone. “For
everything, Will. Seriously.”
“No thanks necessary, babe. That’s what girlfriends are for. I’m glad to see you’re all right. Next
time, I’ll bring you a toothbrush shank, just in case.”
She laughs and pulls me in for another hug. “Thanks for being you, Willow.”
I squeeze her back and sneak a look at Wilder. “I’ll let you two get a quick finger bang in under the
table.”
“Willow!” Maven laughs again, and I know my job here is done.
“Come on, good-looking. Let’s give these two some alone time.”
Joaquin nods and wraps Maven in a hug, whispering something in her ear that makes her smile.
“Good to see you, Maven.”
With a hand on the small of my back that makes my brainwaves fizzle out, Joaquin leads me out of the
jail and into the bright California sunshine.
“What did you say to Maven?’
He leans in and smiles as he whispers in my ear. “Jealous?”
“Curious,” I shoot back with my flirtiest smile and put a hand to his chest.
“I told her when in doubt, a kick to the pussy hurts as much as a nut shot.” His teasing smile puts a
smile on my face.
I don’t believe him at first, but the more I think about it, the more it sounds like the kind of advice he
would give. Outrageous but helpful. I laugh out loud and shake my head. “Does it?”
He nods and licks those full lips. “Fuck, I don’t know. I don’t have a pussy, but I’ve heard it doesn’t
feel good.”
My gaze stays on his lips, so full and pink against his smooth brown skin. “You know, Joaquin, I
haven’t forgotten about that kiss. In fact, I haven’t stopped thinking about it since it happened.”
“Good to know,” he says and rakes his brown eyes over my body, a gaze as heavy and real as an
actual caress. “Because I’ve been thinking about where else you might like to be kissed.”
Holy. Fucking. Shit.
I take a step closer until his masculine scent surrounds me and press my body against his. “The
answer is everywhere, Joaquin. Now you’ve made me eager to see how well you kiss those other
places.”
His hands grip my hips, and he pulls me even closer, so close that I can feel the hardening of his cock
behind his jeans. My breath hitches, and his smile grows bigger. “Play your cards right, Willow, and
you just might get your wish.”
My tongue goes to my lips and slicks across the bottom and then the top. My heart is racing at the
thought of Joaquin’s lips all over my body, making me vibrate with need. “Fuck yeah,” I growl.
“Sounds like a plan to me. A damn good one.”
He laughs. “I like you, Willow. You don’t play games.”
I shrug. “Oh, I’ve been known to play a game or two, but mostly of the erotic variety.”
He steps back and growls, adjusting his cock in his pants. “Come on. Let’s get you back to FGC.”
I pout and hop on the bike behind him. “How will I get anything done with the dirty images you put in
my mind?” I ask and let my hands slide down his belly to cup his cock.
Joaquin looks over his shoulder with a grin. “You won’t.”
 CHAPTER FOUR

J OAQUIN
After dropping Willow off at For Goodness Cakes, I make my way back to the clubhouse to figure out
what the fuck else could possibly go wrong. I can’t stop thinking about that firecracker of a woman
and the way she made me feel today, grabbing my cock like she had the right.
We’re all lounging around, waiting to hear what comes next, allowing me to relax while we wait.
Relax and think about Willow, tempting me beyond all reason when I’m not in the headspace to be
tempted like that. But there she is, first and foremost in my mind, her lush pink lips, smart-ass mouth,
and wanton curves.
“Dammit,” I growl because I’m not supposed to be thinking about her right now. I should have the MC
on my mind and what I can do to keep everyone safe. Secure. Alive.
“Yo, I got a lead,” Gia says, interrupting my thoughts of Willow and what could happen between us
later.
Ace perks up at Gia’s words. “Whatcha got?”
Gia sighs and turns her laptop toward the President. “I found a property owned by Nogales straight
up. But it’s listed as a rental property, and the renters are his brother and sister-in-law. The strange
thing is it’s not a residential property, though. It’s a free-standing building that seems to serve no
purpose. It’s been rented for years under their names, but the only active utility is electricity. No gas,
no water.”
It didn’t make sense to me either, a rental property that seemed to serve no actual purpose. “Sounds
fishy.”
“Damn right, it does,” Dix adds with a shake of his head.
“We need to check it out,” Ace says, his gaze on Dix.
Dix nods. “Joaquin, Shades, let’s go check this shit out.”
Without any further questions, I make my way to the door, and we ride out about forty minutes to the
unknown building.
I don’t know what I expected, maybe some kind of nefarious warehouse or some building full of guns
and ammo, knives, and other weapons. But this isn’t that.
The building is three stories tall and for the most part, empty. “This feels like a setup,” I say to Dix
before I make my way around the side of the building.
“You think you can get in?” Dix, on my heels, looks around and shakes his head. The building has two
metal doors, one in front and one on the side with no visible keyholes. I don’t see any clear way to
fucking breach the opening.
I take a step back and look at the structure. The doors are out of the question, but the building is low
enough with plenty of other ways to get inside. I start to nod as I spot my way in.
“Yeah,” I assure him and start climbing up the side of the building. Finally, I find an open window
that’s easy enough to slip through for a lean fucker like me. I find my way down the stairs and to the
front entrance to let my brothers inside, looking around carefully to survey my surroundings as I go.
“Come on,” I say to Shades and Dix with a wave of my hand.
The small building is full of shit the Iron Kings stole from the Reckless Souls. The drugs and guns, the
bootleg videos, videos of our working girls, designer handbags, ammo, and plenty of other shit we
probably didn’t even know was missing. I let out a low whistle at all the shit they’d piled up.
“This might as well be an auxiliary location for Reckless Souls surplus product,” I grunt and shake
my head.
But the thing is, it’s not just our shit populating the building. Oh no. It looks like they stole from every
gang in Southern California.
“You see this?” I point to what looks like a brand-new kutte with the Rogue Riders MC logo on the
back.
“Fucking parasites,” Shades growls.
Dix looks around with a groan. “How are they so well organized? It looks like they plan to sell some
of this shit.”
I nod and look around with an exhausted sigh. “Looks like it’s Nogales’ exit strategy. Sell this shit for
a mint and get the hell out of Dodge before we get our hands on him.” I shake my head. “It’s at least a
few hundred grand worth of product to sell, never mind whatever else is inside the boxes and safes
on the other floors.”
Dix claps me on the back with a wide smile. “Good job, Joaquin. Let me call Ace and see what he
says.”
“It’ll feel good to get back at these assholes,” I grunt while Dix confers with Ace on the phone.
“Ace wants us back at the clubhouse for now,” Dix offers with a shrug and a grin. “We’ll come back
tonight to take care of business. For now, we eat and drink and be merry, all that shit.” His smile is
wide and bright.
I nod and take one last look around, checking the other door in search of another way inside that
wouldn’t require me to scamper up the building like a goddamn squirrel. “Doesn’t look like there’s
any electronic surveillance of this place,” I note as I open and close the door to see if there are any
alarms. “Jack fucking shit.”
“Excellent. I guess that means we can leave it as is,” Shades says, looking around the quiet interior
one last time. “Just make sure we can get in later tonight when we come back to destroy this place.
We don’t want anyone suspecting anything.”
I nod and shove a piece of canvas inside the lock before opening the door to wave Shades and Dix
out. “Until later,” I mumble under my breath and walk over to my bike.
Dix looks at the building one last time. “We need this gone by tonight,” he says, a hint of finality in his
voice.
“We’ll do it,” I say confidently, kickstarting my bike. “Don’t worry about it. We got this.”
Shades grins and turns to Dix. “Ready for the fireworks?”
Dix laughs. “Hell yeah!”
Tonight was going to be one for the books.
 CHAPTER FIVE

WILLOW
“Another shot of tequila, please.” I’m standing at the bar, eyeing the bottles of tequila that are calling
my name. But I don’t want to get fucked up and celebrate. Tonight, I just want to get fucked up because
I’m sad and afraid for Maven. Her teary eyes have haunted me all damn day, and I feel useless
because there’s not a goddamn thing I can do to help her.
“Here ya go, hon,” says Stella, my favorite bartender.
“Thanks.” I raise my glass and take a sip before making my way over to the empty row of dartboards.
Lockdown is still in effect, and one of the things I’ve noticed is that the Reckless Souls aren’t a big
fan of darts. But tipsy and in the mood to be alone, I make my way to the wall and yank the darts from
the board at the end.
I should be in a good mood. I should be fucking jovial as hell, locked inside with a bunch of sexy as
fuck bikers, an endless supply of food, booze, and weed. What more could a girl like me ask for?
Her best friend, for one. Shit is so fucked up right now with Maven in jail that I can’t even enjoy my
dream situation. But it’s not just Maven. I haven’t heard from my friend Sandee in weeks. Something
is definitely wrong there. She’s a stripper, sure, but Sandee is not a flake. She keeps in touch with
people who worry about her. People like me.
I pause in my limp-wristed dart-throwing and pull out my phone to try Sandee’s number again. Maybe
she’s been on a bender with some rich prick, who’s promising her the world. I doubt it but hoping for
it is better than the ideas drunkenly stumbling through my mind with every passing minute.
“We’re sorry. The voicemail box you have reached is full.”
I growl and squeeze the phone with all my might, but of course, it does nothing. “Of course, it’s
fucking full.” She’s been gone for weeks, and I’ve left at least twenty messages myself.
In desperate need of another shot, I shove the phone in my back pocket and make my way back to the
bar. “Hey, Stella, you think I can have that bottle of Cuervo?” I lay two twenty-dollar bills on the bar.
I don’t want her to think I’m taking advantage of the MC’s generosity.
Instead of the Cuervo, she hands me a bottle of silver Patron with one hand and shoved the bills back
at me with the other. “Looks like you need something better than that cheap-ass Cuervo, sugar.”
“Thanks, Stella.” I shove one of the twenty dollar bills back at her for a tip. The guys make sure the
girls are taken care of, but every little bit helps.
“Feel better, hon, she says kindly.”
Feel better. I would love to feel better, and I will as soon as Maven is out of jail. As soon as Sandee
shows up at For Goodness Cakes with a new tan and a bright smile, regaling me with tales of her lost
month with a tech billionaire who likes to lick her toes or some other weird shit.
When the world is right again, I will feel better.
For now, I do shots and shoot darts and try like hell not to cry. This is no place for tears, not when the
men are in trouble every time they set foot off the compound. Not when there are women here who
have been put through physical hell by the Iron Kings.
There’s a new baby around, and she’ll need her mom and dad to get her through this fucked up world.
What right do I have to cry and fall apart now?
I swallow down my tears and shoot darts with more speed and intensity than I’ve ever done anything
before—including shooting darts.
A low whistle sounds behind me, and I ignore it, assuming it’s something else going on that doesn’t
involve me. “Who’s heart are you imagining sending those darts through?”
A small smile forms on my lips at the sound of Joaquin’s voice. It’s deep and he has a slight gangster
accent that tells a girl he’s much more than a pretty face. I go to the board and remove the darts before
I turn to him with the flirty smile he expects. “Do I have to choose just one?”
He laughs and slips the darts from my hand in a move far too smooth for a gangbanger, and I like it,
dammit. “Up for a game?”
I shrug. “Sure.” Things are so fucking fucked up right now that I can’t even enjoy being up close and
personal with a hot biker giving off big dick energy. I don’t dwell on it. I enjoy being with Joaquin
now because he’s fun and makes me feel better.
We play a few rounds without exchanging any words. We’re neck and neck on the score, and my
shoulders start to relax. Maybe it’s Joaquin, or maybe it’s Señor Patron.
“Willow, what’s wrong?”
I turn to Joaquin, half-tempted to tell him, but in the end, I just shrug. “Nothing.”
He laughs. “I know what that kind of nothing means. It means it’s something, but you don’t want to
talk about it.”
“Yet, here you are, asking anyway.”
He gets all up in my space, his masculine scent as potent as the tequila coursing through my veins.
“Maybe I don’t like to see a pretty girl with sadness in her eyes.”
“Does that line work for you, ever?”
He shrugs. “Only matters if it’s working for you.”
His words make me laugh, and I shake my head, turning away to yank the darts from the board. “It’s
working. A little.”
Joaquin’s smile is wide and bright, so white his skin looks even darker than its usual sun-kissed tone.
“I’ll take it. Let’s do a shootout. Three darts each, high cumulative score wins.”
“Okay.” I fold my arms and lift my chin. “What does the winner get?”
“Whatever he—or she—wants.”
“Intriguing.” I hand him the darts. “You, first.”
“If you insist.” He flashes an innocent smile that sends a shiver down my spine, shrugging as if the
order is of no consequence to him. His body is relaxed, but I can see the look of determination
burning in his brown eyes as he lines up his first shot. “Bullseye.”
“Horseshit,” I say without any heat.
Joaquin laughs and sends a sexy wink in my direction before he sends another dart flying at the board.
“Shit. Triple twenty.” He shrugs it off, and with laser focus, sends the third dart right into the heart of
the bullseye. “Your turn.”
I take the darts and ignore the satisfied smile lighting up his face. There’s no way in hell I’m going to
beat his score, but I’m not a quitter, and I really want to dictate what I get from Joaquin tonight.
“You got this,” he says in a low, supportive tone. It really shouldn’t make me hotter, but holy hell, it
does.
I look over my shoulder at the heat in his eyes, and my pussy pulses so wildly between my thighs, I
have to squeeze them together until my kneecaps ache. With my gaze on his, I shoot the first dart,
relying on Joaquin’s reaction to see what I hit. “Good?”
He nods toward the board. “See for yourself.”
“Bullseye!” It’s a lucky shot, but it makes me happy, and I lean into it since there’s not much to be
happy about right now. The next two shots, a double twenty and a triple five. “Son of a bitch.”
My shoulders sag in disappointment, but when I turn toward Joaquin, he has a full shot glass in his
hands, shaking it temptingly. “Drink up and tell me what’s wrong.”
I take the shot and knock it back quickly, letting the feel of the burn flood my veins and my extremities.
I shake my arms out and nod for him to pour another shot as I prepare to do something I rarely do, tell
my inner thoughts to a man.
“It’s nothing big, I’m just worried about Maven and how she’s going to hold up in jail, and then
there’s my friend, Sandee. I haven’t heard from her in a while, and I’m worried. Really worried.”
Just thinking about Sandee again breaks the dam, and I feel the tears sting the backs of my eyes. I
shake my head and turn away. “I’ll, uhm…I’ll be back. Thanks for the chat.”
I head toward the back exit where the guys usually smoke because I need something else, something
stronger than tequila or maybe just something that will quiet the worry.
At least for a little while.
The night is cool, and the sky is cloudless, allowing a few stars to shine despite the light and
pollution. I exhale deeply and pull out my hot pink vape. It’s loaded with the Afghan Kush that helps
me sleep at night. The pain and worry don’t go away, but they both shut the fuck up a little bit, and I
start to relax.
Footsteps sound behind me, and I don’t look because I know, somehow I just know, it’s Joaquin. He
hands me the bottle. I take a sip and hand it back, watching as he puts his lip on the edge to take a sip
for himself. “It’s all right to worry about your friends. We all worry.”
“Even you?” It’s weird to think about a guy like Joaquin or any of the Reckless Souls having such
basic emotions as worry.
He laughs. “Of course. Two of my closest friends are missing, and I have no fucking clue where they
are. I’m worried as fuck, but I have to be able to move ahead, to live my life because it’s not just
Devon and Jordi relying on me. It’s the guys that are still here and their women and kids, all of those
people need us to be at our best, no matter what other shit is going down.”
His words hit me weird. Like he understands what I’m going through, and is actually trying to help,
instead of just getting in my pants. Then again, I really want in his pants, so I kind of want him to want
to get into mine.
“So, you’re saying suck it up and deal with it?”
“Yes and no. Feel your feelings, Willow. You have to, or they’ll bite you in the ass at the worst
possible time.”
His words are a warning, and I nod my acceptance. “Thanks for that.”
He lets out a huff of laughter. “Thanks, but shut the hell up?”
I shake my head and take the Patron bottle from him, stealing a quick sip before I set it beside the
ashtray on the picnic table. “Just thanks, Joaquin. For the advice. For the company.”
His hand finds its way to my hip, his thumb hooks through my belt loop, and tugs me closer. “You’re
welcome.”
My breath hitches at his nearness, the feel of his cock growing hard against me. “You’re welcome,
too. Welcome to kiss me again, anywhere you like.”
“Anywhere?”
I nod, my heart beating wildly against my chest as his fingertips brush against the bare skin on display
between my waistband and the hem of my tank top. “Anywhere.”
Without another word, Joaquin’s mouth crashes down on mine, and I lean back, letting his thick lips
and talented tongue devour me until my body is quivering with want.
He tastes like tequila and something that is unmistakably, undeniably Joaquin, something that pulls a
moan from low in my belly. The potency of his kiss has my heart racing and my pussy pulsing like it’s
about to go into shock. I pull back with a smile. “That’s a good start. What else you got?”
His nostrils flare, and his eyes darken with molten lava intensity. “What do you want.”
“You,” I say honestly. “Here. Now.”
Without a word, Joaquin spins me around and pulls my back flush up against his chest. A second later,
his hand is inside my pants, fingers flicking over my swollen clit while I pant and moan into the night
air. “You’re so fucking wet for me already.”
I arch my back, so his hard cock presses against my ass while his finger slips inside my pussy. “Well,
it was one hell of a kiss,” I tell him through breathless moans.
“Fuck,” he growls and yanks his hand from my pants. His lips, teeth, and tongue torture my neck and
shoulder while his hands quickly work on my button and zipper. One hand dives back in to play with
my pussy, making me hotter and hotter for him. “This hot pussy for me?”
“Only if you’re man enough to take it,” I tell him, knowing he can’t resist my smart mouth or my
challenge.
“Man enough,” he growls and nips at my earlobe as he shoves my pants down and bends me over the
picnic table.
Goosebumps break out all over my body, and it has nothing to do with the cool night air and
everything to do with the man behind me. I hear the clang of his belt buckle, the slow hum of his
zipper lowering before I feel the loud smack of his palm against my ass. “Yes!” I arch into his touch,
and Joaquin does it again. And again.
“You like that,” he growls and rubs the blunt head of his cock up and down my pussy, already
drenched and leaking. “Ah fuck, babe, you’re soaked.”
“What can I say? You make me like this.”
“Fuck,” he grunts and shoves his cock deep in one long stroke. “So fucking tight.”
I am tight because it’s been a while since I’ve had a good fucking, but it’s also because Joaquin is
bigger than he looks. He’s thick and long enough that I’m almost uncomfortable but not enough to back
out of this encounter.
“Right. There.” My body is on fire already. He’s so thick that I feel full, and he’s so long that a few
strokes on that spot will make me come like the horny bitch I am. “Yes!”
His hand lands on my ass again in another hard smack as he pulls out slowly, so achingly slow that the
move pulls a long, howling moan from me.
He surges deep, over and over again, his hips pumping hard and fast as if programmed to hit that
perfect spot that sends fireworks shooting off behind my eyes.
“Fuck, Willow,” he growls and thrusts harder and deeper, so fast that I arch even more because I’m so
desperate for more of this man.
“Joaquin,” I moan and grip the sides of the table, getting up on my toes so that the next stroke goes just
a little deeper. “Ah, fuck! More!”
One hand squeezes my ass, and the other grabs the other cheek, squeezing them together to give him
even more friction. It’s such a hot move, one of a man who knows exactly what he likes, and my pussy
clenches with my impending orgasm.
“Willow,” he moans and fucks me harder.
On the tips of my toes, I grip the table so hard I can feel the grains of the wood imprinting on my
palm, and I don’t give a shit. I’m too greedy, too hungry for the big cock slamming in and out of me.
“Joaquin, please.”
“Please?” His hips increase their intensity, the sound of his flesh against mine mingling with the
crickets and frogs somewhere in the distance. “Tell me.”
“Make me come. Please.” Even as I say the words, my hand slips between my legs and rubs at my
clit.
He pounds hard and deep into me, so fast it’s making my head spin, and I’m pretty sure I’m going to
float off on the wave of erotic pleasure making its way up the backs of my thighs, my arms and my
hands. Joaquin is fucking me good, so hard and so deep that I can feel him to the very depths of my
being.
His fingertips dig into my hips, holding me tight like he doesn’t want to let me go, and the dam breaks,
along with my ability to keep my orgasm at bay. “Joaquin! Holy fuck, I’m going to…ah!”
The orgasm jerks my body violently before I can finish the warning, and I’m pulsing hard around his
cock as he plunges in and out of me in deep, erotic strokes. “Fuck,” I moan because every stroke
starts the orgasm all over again. “Shit.”
He grunts a few times, and seconds later, his cock is thicker and harder inside of me, and I know he’s
close.
“Fuck,” he growls, and I take the hand between my legs and reach back until I feel his sac, tight and
hard and ready to release its load.
“Willow,” he says, stroking harder and deeper. “Babe.”
“Right here with ya, handsome,” I pant and tug at his sac. My body is still convulsing with pleasure
when his sac tightens even more. I give them a firm tug, and he’s gone.
His hard body is stroking wildly, hitting that perfect spot that sends sharp aftershocks through my
body. “Ah, fuck!”
He grunts and growls through those intense vinegar strokes before he collapses on my back.
I laugh, but it turns into a moan as his cock pulses deep inside of me, rubbing up against my sensitized
walls and sending another bolt of pleasure through me. “Yes,” I say on a low, pleasure-filled hiss.
After a long minute, while we both get our breathing under control, Joaquin stands and gives my ass a
smack. “Willow.”
I stand tall and shake my arms and legs with a satisfied grin. “That was perfect.” I reach down and
pull up my thong and jeans, fastening them with a content sigh.
“It was fucking wild,” he says with an appreciative smile.
“Yo, Joaquin.” Dix appears with a knowing grin on his face. “Time to go, brother.”
Joaquin nods in Dix’s direction before he turns to me, still smiling. “Totally fucking wild,” he growls
and leans in to brush a panty-melting kiss to my throat.
“Better than therapy,” I tell him and pull him close, smacking a hard, hot kiss to his mouth before
shoving him away. “Go. Be safe. Have fun.”
He rewards my words with a lopsided grin as he backs away from me, one hand up in a casual
goodbye. At the door, he turns and jogs to catch up with Dix.
Holy shit, that was so fucking hot! I wonder how long Dix was there watching.
My body is shaking, even though I can no longer see Joaquin. I can feel him. My pussy pulses and I
can feel his jizz sliding down my thighs. “Fuck, yeah,” I moan and reach for the Patron, taking a long
pull to calm my racing heart.
My body races with pleasure, my skin tingling every single place Joaquin touched me. Just thinking
his name makes my nipples harden, and in seconds, I’m horny all over again.
Good dick definitely does a body good because right now, I feel good. Really fucking good.
Maven is still in jail, and Sandee is missing, but now on the high of multiple orgasms? None of it
feels insurmountable.
I’m strong, I’m a badass, and I can figure this shit out.
 CHAPTER SIX

J OAQUIN
Midnight arrives, and we’re on our bikes heading back to Nogales’ building full of pilfered shit. Dix,
Shades, and I lead the way on two wheels while Tank provides cover in the rear with the van. It’s a
small team because we don’t need more than four guys to do what needs to be done.
We drive up and find the building still as empty as a keg at the end of a night. Tank parks the van at an
angle on the side entrance, shielding our entry from the road. That allows all three of us to slip inside
the door I rigged on our earlier trip this afternoon.
Once we’re in, Dix says to the guys, “Shades, Tank, start at the top floor and work your way down.
Grab any and all cash you lay eyes on. Got it?”
Shades flashes a wide grin. “A big-ass cash grab? Hell, yeah.” He nods to Tank, and they head up the
dark staircase.
I frown and look at Dix. “Why just the cash?”
“We don’t want these people to think we stole their shit, not now. Besides, the goal is just to smoke
out Nogales and his crew. So, the cash is just a bonus.”
“Makes sense.” Nogales is our main target right now. His reign of terror is costing the MC a lot of
money and makes us look bad. As soon as he’s gone for good, shit can go back to normal.
“Let’s look around for anything flammable we can find. We want to make this look like a clear case of
arson just in case we need more time to find that sorry motherfucker.” Dix grins and picks up a case
of gin. “This isn’t gas, but it’s a good place to start. Come on.”
I nod and follow Dix up to the top floor as Shades and Tank come down with three big bags. “That’s a
lot of cash.”
“Tank spotted a big-ass floor safe, probably at least a hundred g’s in it. Heavy as shit,” Shades says
with a giant shit-eating grin on his face.
“Get in the van, and we’ll meet you at the exit,” Dix says, still climbing the stairs.
On the top floor, we pour the booze over dozens of boxes, and I find a suitcase full of nail polish
remover and small bottles of airplane booze. I pour it on the suitcase and everything else nearby.
“Un-fucking believable,” Dix shouts from the other side of the room.
“What’s up?”
He holds up a familiar red and yellow can. “Gasoline. I must have one of those four-leaf clovers up
my ass!”
With the widest grin I’ve ever seen on his face, Dix starts pouring gasoline everywhere. The boxes,
the floor, and even the walls drip with gasoline. So, I get into it, pouring the nail polish remover and
booze over as many surfaces as possible before we move to the second floor.
Floor by floor, we make sure everything is wet with flammable liquid. We’re handling this job—and
fast.
“So, what’s up with you and Willow?” Dix asks out of the fucking blue.
I look up with a frown, a bottle of booze upside down and drenching a box of fake designer purses. I
shrug at the question.
“It was inevitable,” I say honestly. “We’ve been circling around each other for a while, and tonight it
just happened.”
Willow is a fucking hellcat, wild and hungry for a good fuck just like me. Even thinking of her now
makes my cock hard. Her tight little cunt wrapped around my cock like a greedy bitch who can’t get
enough. The way she chased down her own pleasure, begging for more of my cock. Shit, she’s a good
fucking lay. “I’m probably gonna hit it again.”
Dix grins. “And again and again. And again?”
I laugh. “Yeah, something like that.” I’m not looking for an old lady, but Willow is young, hot, and fun
as fuck. For now, she’s the perfect fuck buddy.
“Good. She’s familiar with the club. She’s not crazy, and she won’t put you in a sticky situation.” His
approval is important to me, but I don’t reply because I’m thinking about his advice.
“Is that all the shit I need to think about when fucking a chick?” Back in my gangbanging days, it was
the same. You never knew when a bitch was cuddling up to you just to set you up for a rival gang. I
thought that shit was behind me.
“Right now? You’d be a fool not to.” Dix shakes his head and walks around the room to make sure
nothing survives the fire. “Nogales is known for using girls to get ahead, whether they want to or not.”
“Good to know,” I say and survey my work on the bottom floor. “I think we’re all set. Everything is
ready.”
“All right. Time to torch this bitch,” he says and claps me on the back as we make our way back to the
top floor. “You think about what you want your role to be in the club?”
I frown. “I’m patched, and I pitch in wherever I’m needed. What else is there?”
Dix looks up from the small fire he set in the corner away from the window. “You don’t just wanna be
a patched member, though, right? You want a stake in the MC, a say in what we do and how we move
forward. Don’t you?”
I haven’t spent much time thinking about my future with the Reckless Souls since I was patched in and
had no seniority in the MC. That felt like a big accomplishment at the time, but Dix makes a good
point.
I don’t want this to be like my banging days where I just followed orders without thinking about my
future or my fucking freedom. “Yeah, I want that.”
“Well, think about what you can offer beyond your ability to fix anything with an engine.”
I nod and think about it as we set small fires on the second and third floors. On the first floor, the
smell of smoke is increasing as we outright torch this floor, setting bigger cluster fires that would
grow out of control in just a few minutes.
“To be honest, Dix, I’d be interested in filling the role of Road Captain.” It’s something that’s been on
my mind. “I know I’m young and new to the MC, but I can do it. After lockdown, when we’re back to
making deliveries and meeting with other MCs and shit, I can be the one to help us dodge cop traps,
plan the logistics of long hauls, and navigate around any problem areas.”
Dix’s smile spreads from ear to ear. “So, you have given it some thought?”
I nod. “Yeah, I just figured nobody was gonna take orders from a noob.”
“There is no noob, Joaquin. You’re in, or you’re not, and you are. You’re a brother, and I’ll let Ace
know.” He claps me on the back as the room starts to fill with thick, black smoke. “For now, let’s get
the fuck out of here before we pass out from smoke inhalation.”
I laugh. “Not eager to go back to the joint?”
“Fuck no,” he growls. “The scenery is so much prettier out here.” Dix shoves me toward the door
where Shades and Tank wait for us outside.
“The van is full of cash, and we’re ready to go,” Tank assures us.
Dix nods and looks at the building, the orange glow of the fires now visible through the windows.
“Wait at the exit. Joaquin and I are gonna stay close to make sure this fire catches.” He gives a fist
bump to Shades and Tank bump before they follow his directions.
“The fires are gonna catch,” I say and look up at the orange glow on the top floor. “I used to set fires
all the time for insurance money back in the day.”
“I know,” Dix confirms. “But we don’t leave shit half-done. When we see it’s a full-blown inferno,
then we go.”
“Got it.” Sure as shit, two minutes later, black clouds slowly waft out the slightly open windows. I
point to the third and second floors. “We need to get back a little.”
Dix nods and hops on his bike without starting it, just rolling it back with his feet, gaze never leaving
the building. Another minute later, the second-floor windows blow out, and he grins. “All right, Pyro,
good lookin’ out.”
Before I can say anything, the third floor explodes, and we crank our engines to life and get the fuck
out of harm’s way. I ride home alert but satisfied with my talk with Dix.
A bigger role in the club, more money in the bank, and a job I’m damn good at confirms that joining
the Reckless Souls was the right move.
As the clubhouse comes into view, there’s only one thing on my mind.
Willow.
 CHAPTER SEVEN

WILLOW
Another day of lockdown winds down. I make myself useful by helping the club girls lay out food and
drinks for dinner on the tables that line the walls.
I can’t in good conscience call them whores like some folks do. The girls aren’t just fuck buddies.
They keep the MC running when the guys are busy with real-life shit. They make sure everyone is fed
and cared for during the lockdown. From what I’ve seen, they’re more like mother hens than just party
girls.
“I’m gonna take a plate to Kelsey,” I tell Stella. “She’s still worried about Rocky picking up germs.”
Not that I blame her for worrying about her baby. Hell, I can’t imagine her fear with a newborn on
lockdown.
“Ruby is here too,” Stella says. “Ask her if she wants a plate.”
I nod and head down the long hallway where Kelsey and Coop stay with their little girl. “Food’s
here,” I say as I tap on the half-open door.
“Thank you, Willow,” Kelsey says, flashing a genuine but tired grin and waves me inside. Ruby
beams me a cheery smile.
“I can come out and get the food, you know. You girls don’t need to serve me.”
“You’re a new mom worried about germs. We all get it. I brought you a little of everything since
tonight’s dinner is barbecue.”
Kelsey growls her approval. “Good. Who knew breastfeeding makes you so hungry?”
Ruby laughs. “I read somewhere it burns a ton of calories.” She grabs her big tits and releases them
with a groan. “Maybe I should get knocked up.”
Kelsey rolls her eyes and laughs as she hands her daughter to her best friend. “How does that fit into
your five-year plan?”
She shrugs. “I’ll delay my plans if it’ll burn up more calories. Thank you very much.”
“Even after your recent promotion?”
“You got a promotion?” I asked excitedly. Ruby isn’t a club girl or even a party girl. Well, not a big
party girl anymore. She graduated from college and got a good job doing marketing somewhere. She’s
living a real life. “That’s awesome.”
Ruby sighs. “Yeah, it is awesome. Actually, I really am stoked that my boss recognizes my hard work,
but now I’m a boring old lady because my ride-or-die is all loved up and a mama to this gorgeous
baby girl.”
She looks down at little Rocky with a wide, love-filled smile. “So, now I have no life. What’s new
with you, Willow?”
I shrug. “Just working at For Goodness Cakes, making sure the place doesn’t go under while I’m
looking after it.” I would never forgive myself if something happened to Maven’s business on my
watch.
“Oh shit, that’s right,” Ruby says as she strokes the baby’s red curls. “I’m sorry. I heard about Maven.
If I can do anything to help, say the word.”
I nod and silently accept her words. “If you’re serious, I could use some tips on how to keep
customers coming in without Maven Cakes on the menu. We can make the muffins and breads and
stuff, but only Maven has the special touch for her cakes. It would be nice if there’s still a business
when she gets out of jail.”
Whenever the fuck that’ll be. The cops are behaving like dicks, not giving any status updates, even to
her lawyer on her status, which I’m pretty sure is fucking illegal.
Ruby nods. “I’ll give it some thought and stop by the shop in a day or two. A good sale like two-for-
one always gets asses in the seats.”
“Good to know,” I tell her. “Thanks. Hungry?”
“I wasn’t,” she growls and gives Kelsey’s plate some major side-eye. “But with those delicious
smells tempting me, I might as well taste the calories before they hit my ass.”
Kelsey rolls her eyes. “Your ass is fine. No one but you complains about it.”
Ruby laughs again. “That’s because you haven’t been talking to my pants. Those bitches have so much
to say,” she jokes.
“Everyone knows pants shrink in the dryer,” I tell her.
Ruby flashes a wide grin. “You are officially my favorite person in the world.” Rocky coos and Ruby
gives her an adoring smile. “All right, second favorite,” she says in a baby voice.
“I’ll be back with your food,” I tell her and head toward the door, hoping she comes up with a few
ideas I can use to keep customers coming in while Maven isn’t around.
AFTER DELIVERING plates and checking everyone has what they need to start eating, I finally drop
down to an empty table with a beer in one hand and a plate of food in the other. By now, I barely have
the energy to sigh, I’m so exhausted.
Days at the bakery start early, but nights at the clubhouse seem to go on forever. After just a few days,
this routine is starting to catch up with me.
When my phone vibrates on the table and Mom’s text message flashes on the screen, I know my night
just got longer.
“Honey, rent is due. I can cover most of it, but I’m short until the end of the week. Do you think
you can cover the rest?”
Shit, rent. I can’t let Mom carry the whole month’s rent on her own. She mostly lives on tips, and the
last time she covered the rent by herself, she walked to work rather than asking me to cover her bus
pass. Not to mention the pervy old landlord will offer to let her pay in sex, and I won’t let that
happen. Again.
“On my way,” I text back, abandoning my barbecue and beer to bolt out of my seat. I have to search
for Ace since I need his permission to leave.
But just then, Joaquin steps in my path. “Going somewhere?” he asks with a panty-melting grin.
“Yeah, I need to find Ace,” I say, half-turned on and half-distracted by my new task.
“Ace is off with McKenna,” he says in a deep purr that wakes my clit up and makes my nipples go
hard.
“I need to talk to him,” I say and quickly explain to Joaquin my predicament.
His flirty grin disappears, and a serious expression replaces it. “I’ll talk to Ace. Don’t leave without
me, yeah?”
I nod and watch Joaquin walk away, his steps determined. I can’t help but smile because I realize
Joaquin is more than a pretty face. He’s hot as fuck, sure, but that protective streak is just as big a
turn-on as his thick cock.
Jeezus, just like that, my body is craving Joaquin again. Thinking of wrapping my lips around that
cock and making him growl my name when I should be thinking about Maven and For Goodness
Cakes and paying the rent.
Joaquin returns with a slightly less serious expression on his face. “Let’s go,” he says and motions to
someone behind me. “Diesel is coming with us to keep watch.”
“No one travels alone,” I say, mimicking the words Ace says all the time just in case his troops are
tempted to forget.
I hop on the back of Joaquin’s bike, my hands instantly roaming his body. He’s so strong and so hard
everywhere, and I want him. Again. Now. His breath hitches when my hand slides down his abs, and I
grip his waistband.
“Willow,” he growls over the roar of the engine. “You’re distracting me.”
“Sorry?” I tease, not sorry at all.
His deep laughter sounds as we turn onto my block.
“Park in the back,” I tell him. “I don’t want to run into the landlord if he’s home. His windows face
the front of the building.”
Joaquin nods and slows the bike to circle down the narrow alley that leads to the back entrance of our
apartment. I can feel the heat of his body against my back as I step inside the place I share with my
mom, wondering if what he sees—a tidy but shabby home—makes him see me differently.
“It’s just you and your mama?”
I nod and search for my checkbook that I never use except to write the rent check since the pervert
upstairs refuses to take a bank transfer or any other payment method from the twenty-first fucking
century.
“Just been us since my dad split ages ago. I was about ten the last time I saw him,” I say as I sign my
name. “Last I heard, he’s locked up in Tennessee.” I tear off the check and toss a breezy “Be right
back” over my shoulder.
Joaquin says, “Oh,” and follows me up the narrow staircase, where I slip the rent check under the
landlord’s front door.
I turn quickly, eager to get away before the old, perverted fuck opens the door, but I slam right against
Joaquin’s chest.
“Well, hello there,” I say with a wicked grin.
He grins back and shakes his head. “Sup?”
I put my hand on his chest and let it slide down his jeans until I find his cock, long and hard. “You.”
“Is that right?”
I nod and squeeze his cock through his pants. “I can feel how hard you are, Joaquin. The question is,
what are you gonna do about it?”
I give his chest a shove, and he walks back down the stairs and pulls me inside the apartment.
‘That’s not the question,” he growls. “The question is, what are you gonna do about it?”
I bite my bottom lip to stop the groan from escaping from my mouth. Every nerve ending lights on fire
at the sexy challenge in his voice, the heat burning his eyes black.
“What about Diesel?”
“Fuck him. He’ll wait. What about your mother?”
“Working.”
“Perfect,” he sighs.
I suck in a deep breath and let it out slowly as a smile forms on my lips. I take one of his hands and
lead him down the hall to my bedroom. Inside, I push him against the door until it closes and drop to
my knees.
“Fuck, Willow.”
I smile up at him. “This first, fucking next,” I tell him as I’m unzipping his jeans and pulling them
down along with his boxers until I have his thick, brown cock in my hands.
“Such a pretty cock,” I say and flick my tongue over the slit until that pretty little bead of liquid makes
an appearance.
“Willow,” he growls and fists one hand in my hair, giving it a firm tug that I feel all the way down to
my pussy.
“That’s exactly what I want to hear,” I tell him and fist his cock in my hand, stroking it until he’s rock
hard and ready for me. “My name on your lips.”
I taste his cock, all eight and a half inches of him until he’s at the back of my throat. Again and again, I
give him my best head game because after the first fuck, I knew I wanted him, but as I suck him off in
my bedroom, I know I’m gonna make him mine.
“Willow,” he moans when I release him and lick his balls while I stroke his cock. “Ah, fuck, babe.
Yes.”
I cradle his balls in my hand and take him deep, wetting his cock until it glistens. Then I feel them
tighten in my hand, and I smile around his thickness. His hips thrust forward, and I groan, so fucking
aroused that I can’t think straight. I’m fucking his cock with my mouth, my eyes closed, and savoring
him as he moans my name over and over again.
“Fuck,” he growls and yanks my hair until I’m leaning back and staring up at his dark gaze. “Enough.”
My eyes are wide, and my nipples are hard at his forceful tone. My pussy leaks down my thighs while
he tears my shirt from my body and yanks my pants and panties down my legs. He is a man on fire,
and the only thing he wants is me.
“Enough?” I gasp.
He nods and pushes me back on the bed, but I get up on my hands and knees, wiggling my ass to tempt
him. “Willow,” he groans, and when I look over my shoulder, he’s stroking his cock.
“I haven’t been able to stop thinking about how your cock felt when you fucked me like this under the
stars.”
“Fuck,” he growls, and a second later, his thick cock thrusts deep.
“Oh, God,” I cry out and arch my back, silently begging him to go deeper.
“So fucking wet.” He smacks my ass and fucks me hard and fast. He’s so turned on by the way I
sucked him off that he’s fucking me hard and deep, so fast I can hardly keep up with the pleasure he’s
giving me.
“Just for you,” I tell him on a breathless whisper.
Joaquin lets out another feral growl and grabs my hips, lifting me up, so not even my knees touch the
bed. Nothing but my hands are keeping me grounded as his cock pounds into me, hard and deep, just
how I like it.
“Harder,” I command, and Joaquin gives me exactly what I ask for. It takes less than a minute of hard,
balls-deep pounding before my pussy pulses around his cock, milking him dry as I jerk with
uncontrollable pleasure.
“Oh, fuck,” he roars and fills up my body with his orgasm. Thank God for birth control pills.
Knowing my pussy is gripping him the way he likes it is powerful, and I savor the feel of him inside
me, the sound of him growling my name.
“Shit, Willow. Your pussy is magic.”
I smile over my shoulder at him. “You ain’t seen nothing yet,” I assure him because I will have this
biker.
Sooner than you think.
 CHAPTER EIGHT

J OAQUIN
“Juniper, sweetheart. You got some cash for us?” I lean across the granite counter of one of our MC’s
brothels and give a big-ass grin to the proprietor.
She rolls her eyes like I’m some damn kid, which doesn’t bother me as much as it used to. “Come on
back, lover boy,” Juniper says with a fake com-on purr. “I got what you need.”
My eyes widen at her words, and a laugh escapes. “I knew you couldn’t resist me.”
She casts a glance over her shoulder at Ace. “Is this kid for real?”
Ace lets out a loud laugh and shrugs. “Depends on if you’re buyin’ what he’s sellin’.”
I leave Ace at reception and follow Juniper back to the office where she hands me an oversized duffel
bag.
“What do your girls have, whiskey-flavored pussies?” I say as I test the heft of the bag. It’s at least
double the amount of money we usually pick up from Juniper’s place.
She shrugs while flashing that come-hither smile that makes her place popular with businessmen,
gangsters, and everybody in between.
“Business is good, especially with the Iron Kings out of commission in LA, so there’s more than
usual.”
“Ace will be pleased.”
“I’m pleased,” she says with confidence. “That’s all that matters to me. Anything else?”
I take a step forward, tempted to ask for time with her later like I usually do, but something stops me.
I pause and shake my head. “Nah. You stay safe, beautiful.”
“Always. You too, Joaquin.”
I smile and lift the duffel bag before rejoining Ace in the front. “Good business,” I say when his eyes
widen at the sight of the bag.
“Fuck yeah,” he says. “Let’s hope the rest of the stops are as good.”
Ace and I spend the morning picking up cash from all the club’s legit business interests. Several
dispensaries and a few whorehouses. Our last stop is Nova’s clinic. “He’s doing stitches,” the busty
receptionist says with a friendly smile.
We step outside so we don’t freak out the sick and injured people in the waiting room. It’s no secret
that the Reckless Souls own the clinic now, but according to Ace, it’s more of a vanity project. Good
for our image in the community. If we make money, that’s a bonus.
“So, Road Captain?” Ace asks with a crooked grin. “That’s a lot of responsibility.”
I nod, not sure what he’s getting at. Does he think I can’t handle it? “It is, but I’m up for the job. I
know I have the skills to do the position justice.”
“All right. We’ll give it a trial run and see how it goes.”
My brows shoot up. “Seriously? Just like that?” I expected a little bit of protest, maybe shock and
surprise.
“What, you want an obstacle course or some hazing shit?”
“No,” I shake my head. “I just expected it would be more difficult, I guess.”
“Well, I can’t just name you Road Captain, and that’ll be it. Dix told me you were interested, and it
sounds like you’ve given it some serious thought. So, we’ll do a trial run and then take it to a vote.”
“You know I won’t let you down, brother.”
“I know you won’t.”
“Cool,” I say because what else is there to say? I don’t wanna come off as some eager kid, so I just
nod and pretend like I’m not happy as fuck to move up the ranks in the MC.
Nova finally calls us back to his office and unlocks the safe that’s hanging behind his multiple framed
degrees. “I told you this place could make enough profit to make it worth it,” he says and hands over
an envelope full of bills.
“You were right. Is that what you wanna hear?”
Nova shrugs at Ace with a knowing smile. “It doesn’t hurt to hear if that’s what you’re asking.”
“This don’t hurt either,” Ace says and wiggles the envelope. “See you later at the clubhouse?”
“We close early today, so unless there’s an emergency, I’ll be there before dinner,” Nova sighs. “Be
nice when lockdown is over.”
“Soon,” Ace promises, and we leave through the back exit and jump on our bikes, saddlebags now
loaded up with cash.
It’s a nice day in Angel Harbor. The sun is shining, and the sky is a fine shade of blue without a cloud
in sight. It has to be a good omen or something, right? My abuela is all about signs and omens and one
thing meaning something else, and today, as my bike chops up the road, I hope like hell she’s right.
Before the thought is over, I hear gunshots. They’re close. I turn to Ace, nodding because he hears
them too. Over my shoulder, I see three shiny sports bikes behind us. There are no visible patches, no
kuttes, but it’s clear Ace and I are the target. “Who the fuck are they?”
Ace shrugs. “No fucking clue,” he shouts over the roar of his chopper engine.
I risk a glance over my shoulder again. The bikers haven’t advanced on us, which is weird since
those bikes are meant for speed. There’s no time to stop and call or text for help. So, it’s just me and
Ace against these three assholes.
Another shot whizzes by my helmet, and I slow down just enough to keep my bike straight while I pull
out my weapon. I nod for Ace to go ahead of me, and I slow down a bit to see what these fuckers will
do if I get too close. I watch them in my mirror while Ace pulls out his massive Desert Eagle. He lets
his shooting arm hang at his side.
The next shot that rings out hits my right handlebar, and I suck in a deep breath, remembering the first
time I shot at someone.
I was on the back of someone else’s bike, just a sixteen-year-old punk, but my cousin’s words come
back to me. “Breathe in and aim, exhale and shoot.”
I turn and do just that at the asshole on the bright blue bike, smiling when his head shoots back. He
falls off the bike, and his buddies swerve like they’ve never ridden bikes before just to avoid
crashing.
“Thank fuck,” I shout and speed up. I keep Ace in my sights, and we’re a comfortable distance from
those fuckers.
“Nice shot,” Ace shouts and then swerves, twisting in a defensive motion to avoid the shots suddenly
ringing out behind us.
“Cover me,” he says, and I do, laying down fire so he can jet forward, spin in a one-eighty and bust
out two shots that hit the dude on the red bike twice, center mass.
I catch up to Ace and offer up my fist for a bump. He taps it and nods for us to speed up. We do,
pressing our bikes to the limit for a good three or four miles before looking back. The yellow bike is
still behind us, but way behind because, apparently, he doesn’t want any of what his buddies just got.
“Let’s get back to the clubhouse. ASAP,” Ace mouths into the air, whizzing past our speeding bikes.
I nod, and with a smile, gun it on the new blacktop. Cheating death is the second-best adrenaline rush
to filling up a woman with my cock, and knowing we were just outnumbered and outgunned but came
out the victors? That shit feels fucking great.
Pulling into the Club HQ just a few minutes later, with my heart still racing, I hop off my bike and
lock the security gate that leads into Angel Harbor Choppers while Ace heads to the clubhouse.
Until lockdown is over, the business operates on limited hours, so we keep a close eye on who comes
and goes on the property. After that highway shootout, we will be on extra alert for the next few days.
I unpack the loads of cash strapped on my bike and head inside. Ace is describing the ambush to
Shades, Dix and Coop, so I drop the cash in front of Shades since MC money is his job and turn to
Ace.
“You think those fuckers are rogue Iron Kings?”
“Could be,” he answers with a grunt, “but the lack of insignia means it could be anybody. The Kings
aren’t the only ones who want a piece of Angel Harbor.”
“True,” Dix adds, “but who else would be dumb fuck enough to come after us in broad daylight?” He
shakes his head, his hands balling into fists because he knows what we all know. This isn’t close to
over yet.
“My money says it’s retaliation for the fire,” Ace answers finally. “It’s likely the Kings, but we don’t
know what lies Nogales is spreading. And that’s exactly why we need to find him.” He flashes a
devilish smile. “If so, that’s two more dead Iron Kings, which I consider a damn good start to any
day.”
“Amen, brother,” Shades says, smirking. He smacks a hand over the bags of cash around him for
emphasis.
Wild Man walks in, frowning at the five of us. “A meeting I wasn’t invited to?”
“Nah,” I say and explain to him about the shootout. “You look like you got something on your mind?”
Wild Man nods and turns his attention back to the tablet in his hand. “I got some more intel on
properties owned by Nogales. He and Hector are a little too fond of shell corporations, but the
dumbasses aren’t smart enough to hide them. Anyway,” he sighs and flips the screen around so we can
see his intel.
“A house here in Angel Harbor in a quiet residential neighborhood and a boat at the marina. But this
is where it gets interesting.” He points out two spots on a map of Angel Harbor. “Two warehouses.
One in Hector’s name and rented by Nogales, and one owned by none other than Geoffrey Morgan.”
His expression says it’s a name I should know, but I don’t.
I ask the obvious question. “Who is Geoffrey Morgan?” I say, wondering if I’m the only person who
doesn’t know who he is.
Dix snorts and shakes his head. “He’s a really rich fuck in the import/export business. He owns
Morgan International, a shipping company with no loyalty to any flag or any government. He does
business with cartel bosses, warlords, gun runners, and Fortune 500 companies. He has a daughter
who works with him, and she’s his only weak spot.”
“Based on what?” I ask. “Having kids and women makes you vulnerable, period, but why is she his
only weak spot?”
“The fact that until recently, she never went anywhere without a big security detail. And her only job
experience is with daddy’s companies.”
Wild Man shrugs as if that answers the question.
“And,” Dix adds, “she’s spoiled as fuck. He gives her whatever she wants, so he might do just about
any damn thing to get her back.”
There’s a glint in his eyes I know well. It usually means trouble for somebody.
“That’s some info we can work with,” Ace says, his gaze fixed on Dix. “You’ve been watching the
Morgans, so I want you to get close to the daughter.”
I know what normal people think getting close means and what Dix thinks it means, so I turn to Wild
Man with a grin. “Is she hot?”
Wild Man grins in Dix’s direction before swiping the screen and turning it to show us a picture of
Aria and her father at some black tie event. She’s hot as fuck, and Dix agrees because he nods and
licks his lips, but he doesn’t say one fucking word.
“Tough gig,” I say with a laugh.
Dix shrugs and spreads his arms wide. “What can I say? I am the right man for the job. Even Ace
agrees.”
We all laugh to relieve some of the tension over our current situation, on lockdown and constantly
looking over our shoulders.
“Good,” Ace says sharply, getting our minds back on point. “ Wild Man will get you all the intel you
need to make it happen on father and daughter, but mostly on Morgan International. Find out what
Wild Man and Gia can’t find. Get my drift?”
Dix nods and pushes away from the table. “No time like the present.”
“I’ll check out the other warehouse,” I volunteer, eager to find anything that will help us locate
Nogales and put him in the ground.
“I’ll go with you,” Coop volunteers.
Shades laughs. “Ready to do something other than breastfeed?”
“Fuck you,” Coop says with a laugh. “But getting out in the sunshine, fucking some shit up sounds
really fucking nice. Rocky is great. I love that little munchkin with all my heart and soul, but goddamn,
parenting is exhausting.”
Ace nods. “Take Lucky with you. I’ll take Preacher and Tank to check out the house and the boat.
Meet back here later to go over what we find.”
We all disperse, each of us hungry as fuck to end this escalating war.
Another random document with
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The Project Gutenberg eBook of On the art
of writing fiction
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States
and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no
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you are located before using this eBook.

Title: On the art of writing fiction

Contributor: W. E. Norris
S. Baring-Gould
Alfred John Church
Sir Robert K. Douglas
Lanoe Falconer
Maxwell Gray
Katharine S. Macquoid
L. T. Meade
Mrs. Molesworth
Louisa Parr
Lucy Bethia Walford

Release date: February 9, 2024 [eBook #72910]

Language: English

Original publication: London: Wells Gardner, Darton & co, 1894

Credits: Bob Taylor, Aaron Adrignola and the Online Distributed

Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was
produced from images made available by the HathiTrust
Digital Library.)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ON THE ART

OF WRITING FICTION ***
ON THE ART OF
WRITING FICTION
 ON THE ART
OF
WRITING
FICTION

WELLS GARDNER DARTON & Co

LONDON & WESTMINSTER
1894
 CONTENTS

I. W. E. Norris
Style in Fiction Page 1
II. Mrs. Parr
A Story to Tell 16
III. L. B. Walford
The Novel of Manners 22
IV. S. Baring-Gould
Colour in Composition 35
V. Katharine S. Macquoid
On Vision in Literature 46
VI. Maxwell Gray
On the Development of Character in Fiction 60
VII. The Author of “Mademoiselle Ixe”
The Short Story 75
VIII. Mrs. Molesworth
On the Art of Writing Fiction for Children 84
IX. Professor A. J. Church
The Historical Novel 98
X. Professor Robert K. Douglas
The Ethical Novel 109
XI. L. T. Meade
From the Editor’s Standpoint 124
 On the Art of Writing Fiction

STYLE IN FICTION

W. E. Norris

T HE art of writing fiction has of late years been

made the subject of innumerable articles by The main thing
persons most, if not quite all, of whom are
doubtless competent and well-informed; and it seems to be pretty
generally agreed upon between them, as a nice, definite sort of
dogma to start with, that “the main thing is to have a story to tell.”
Possibly that may be the main thing: possibly also the main thing—if,
indeed, there be one where several things are indispensable—may
be, not that the writer should have a story to tell, but that he should
be able to tell it. To tell it, that is, after a fashion which shall move,
interest or amuse the great novel-reading public, which, patient and
tolerant though it may be—patient and tolerant as some of us must
needs acknowledge, with a due sense of contrite gratitude, though it
is—nevertheless demands something more than a bald narration of
supposed events.

The beginner T HE beginner, therefore (for it is only to

beginners that the present dogmatiser has the
effrontery to address himself), will do well to bear in mind that it is
not enough to be equipped with an admirable plot, nor even to have
clearly realised in his or her inner consciousness the circumstances
and personages involved therein: both have to be made real to the
reader; both, moreover, have to be so treated of as, in one way or
another, to tickle the reader’s mental palate. This is much the same
as saying that the beginner, in order to be a successful beginner, has
to acquire a style. Not necessarily, it must be owned, a correct style;
still at least a distinctive one. Otherwise he cannot hope to make his
audience see people and things as he sees them.

Acquiring a
style
B UT why talk about “acquiring” a style? Does
not every human being already possess a
style?—dormant, no doubt, yet plainly perceptible
in his accustomed turns of speech and methods of expressing
himself. And can he do better than utilise this when he sits down with
pen and paper to write his story? Perhaps he might do rather better;
but there is no need to raise the point at the outset, because the
beginner who essays, without preparation or apprenticeship, to tell
his story in his own way will very soon discover that that is precisely
what he cannot do. The words, somehow, will not come; or, if they
do, they come in a manner palpably and grotesquely inadequate; the
sentences are clumsy, tautological, badly rounded and jar upon the
ear; the effect produced is very far from being the effect
contemplated. The tyro, in short, finds out to his sorrow that writing is
not in the least the same thing as talking, and that even so modest
an achievement as the production of a novel is, after all, an art, the
inexorable requirements of which do not greatly differ from those
claimed by other arts.

A ND, indeed, why should they? Nobody would

ever dream that they did, were it not that the Writing an Art to
be learnt
literary art has no schools, colleges, paid
professors, no system of salutary checks to intervene between the
student and his public. To one who is conscious of ability it seems so
simple to seize a pen and go ahead! In a certain country-house there
was a Scotch cook whose scones were beyond all praise. Implored
by a Southern lady to reveal the secret of her unvarying success,
she replied, after long consideration, “Aweel, mem, ye just take your
girdle, ye see, and—and make a scone.” Quite so: you just take pen
and paper and—and write a novel. No directions could be more
beautifully succinct; but, unfortunately, it is almost as difficult for a
writer who has reached a point of moderate proficiency in his calling
to say how this is to be done as it was for the cook to explain how
scones ought to be made. He may, however, be bold enough to
affirm that the thing cannot be done off-hand—that the knack of
manipulating language has to be mastered, just as that of swimming,
riding, shooting and playing cricket has to be mastered, and that
preliminary failures are more or less a matter of course. Swimming is
very easy; yet if you take a boy by the scruff of his neck and fling him
into deep water, nothing can be more certain than that he will
flounder, struggle desperately for a few seconds and then sink like a
stone. Probably there are but a very few people who cannot learn to
swim; there are many who cannot learn to shoot or ride; it seems
doubtful whether an equal number cannot—if only they will
condescend to take the necessary pains—learn how to write.
But the trouble is that plenty of men and women who cannot really
do these things nevertheless do them after a fashion. Have not the
lives of most of us been placed in jeopardy through the erratic
performances of some worthy gentleman who is fond of shooting,
but who is obviously unfit to be trusted with a gun? Is there an M.F.H.
in England whose soul is not vexed every year by the hopeless,
good-humoured, dangerous incapacity of certain members of the
hunt? Every now and again one sees a steeplechase won by a horse
who has carried off the victory in spite of his well-meaning rider; and
in like manner it would be an easy, though an ungracious, task to
name authors whose books have commanded a prodigious sale
without being, in the true sense of the word, books at all.

W ELL, the neophyte may say, it does not

particularly matter to me whether you are public
Pleasing the
pleased to call my book a book or not; so long as I
can please the public, and thereby make sure of receiving a
handsome cheque from the publishers, I shall be satisfied. To such a
reply no rejoinder can be made, save a warning that successes of
the kind alluded to have been achieved under heavy handicap
penalties. They prove no more than that, as a good horse will
occasionally win a race, although he be badly ridden, so a large
section of the novel-reading public will tolerate inartistic work and
slipshod English for the sake of a good story. And, since you are
supposed to be beginning, why should you wish to carry extra
weight, or imagine that you are able to do so? It is not given to
everybody—alas! it is by no means given to everybody—to conceive
a really good and original plot; yet some among us, whose
pretensions to excel in that direction are as scanty as need be, may
contrive to give pleasure, may to a certain extent please ourselves
with our handling of the vocation for which we believe that we are
best fitted, may even pocket the cheques which we have earned
without feeling that we have robbed anybody.
In other words, novels do not give pleasure or
Infinite variety of meet with acceptance simply and solely by virtue
the Novel of their subject-matter. The novel, at least so far as
England, which is the great novel-producing
country, is concerned, may be regarded as a sort of literary omnibus
—a vehicle adapted for the carrying of all manner of incongruous
freights, heavy and light. Descriptions of every grade of
contemporary society have their places in it; descriptions of scenery
and very little else have a right of entry; history is not excluded: its
springs are even strong enough to bear the weight of amateur
theology and psychical research. Perhaps, strictly speaking, this
ought not to be so; but it is so, and if, after so many years of laxity,
we were to go in for strict rules and principles, we should be all the
poorer for our pedantic exactitude. According to Tennyson, England
is a desirable land in which to reside, because it is

“The land where, girt by friends or foes,

A man may speak the thing he will;”

and so the English novel affords a fine, broad field for a man to
stretch his limbs in, the sole condition of admittance into it being that
he should do so with some approach to grace and symmetry.

I T shall not be asserted or pretended that the

average reader consciously exacts these things, The average
Reader
that he is conscious of having them when he has
secured them, or of resenting their absence when he has been
defrauded of them. But when he tosses a book across the room, with
his accustomed cruelly concise criticism that it is “bosh” or “rot,” the
above-mentioned species of resentment is, in most cases, what he
unconsciously feels. We ourselves, from the moment that we cease
to be average writers, become average readers, and are no whit less
unmerciful than the rest of the would. We are not going to be bored
by anybody, if we can help it. Possibly, from being in the trade, we
may know a little better than those who are not in the trade why we
are bored; but that does not soften our hearts, nor are we likely to
purchase a second work by an author who has bored us once.
Therefore it is worth while to conciliate us, and to consider how this
may best be done.

The value of
Style
D OUBTLESS, as has been admitted all along,
there are more methods than one of capturing
and retaining the public ear; but this brief paper
professes to deal only with one—that of style. The beginner, we will
take it for granted, wants to have a style of his own, wants to make
the most that he can of his mother-tongue, wants to clothe his
thoughts in readable language, wants above all to send them forth
with the stamp of his individuality upon them. And he is confronted at
starting by the annoying discovery that he is unable to do this. How
is he to do it?
“My dear,” said an experienced chaperon to a young débutante,
“study to be natural.” Whereupon everybody who heard her laughed.
Yet the old lady knew what she was talking about and had not really
been guilty of a contradiction in terms. Under artificial social
conditions it is not possible to be natural until the rules of the game
have been learnt. Situations are continually cropping up in which
Nature, unassisted by Art, will play you the shabby trick of turning
her back upon you and leaving you to demean yourself in a
ludicrously unnatural manner. No débutante, however great may be
her inborn grace and ease of deportment, would venture to be
presented at Court without having gone through some preliminary
rehearsal; scarcely would she face a first ball or a first dinner-party
unless a few previous hints and instructions had been conveyed to
her. But, fortified by an exact knowledge of what is the right thing to
do, she sails forth confidently, she dares to be herself, and she
makes, let us hope, the desired impression in quarters where it is
desirable that an impression should be made.

Study how to
please
N OT dissimilar is the case of the budding
novelist; although there is no denying that it is
easier to show a young lady how to carry herself
than to show a would-be prose-writer how to please. His
apprenticeship must needs be a longer and a less definite one.
Rules, indeed, there are for him—cut and dried rules, relating to
accuracy of grammar and punctuation, avoidance of involved
sentences, neologisms, catch phrases and the like; but these will not
take him quite the length that he wishes to go. They will not take him
quite that length; yet they will help him on his way, and he must
condescend to study them. Furthermore, he should study slowly and
carefully the works of those who have attained renown chiefly by
reason of their style. Addison, Gibbon, Macaulay, Carlyle, Ruskin,
Sterne—to select at random half a dozen names out of the throng
which at once presents itself—he ought not only to be familiar with
the writings of all these and other masters of English prose, but to
scrutinise closely their several methods, so that he may come by
degrees to understand what the capabilities of the language are and
what admirable, though widely divergent, results have been arrived
at by those who have vanquished its difficulties.
With that language it is true that some of the writers just cited have
taken liberties: one, in particular, has allowed himself enormous and
audacious liberties. But that is only because he had made the
language so completely his servant that he was in a certain sense
entitled to do as he pleased with it. The student is not recommended
to imitate Carlyle; for the matter of that, he is not recommended to
imitate anybody, direct, deliberate imitation being as surely
foredoomed to failure in literature as in all other arts. But he may be
advised to dissect, to analyse, to search patiently for the secrets of
proportion, of balance, of rhythmical, harmonious diction. Haply he
will discover these; in any event he will reap the benefit of having
mixed with good company, just as, in playing no matter what game,
we all insensibly improve when we are associated with or pitted
against our superiors. And the stricter the rules by which he
determines to bind himself down the better it will be for him in the
long run. In musical composition many things are said to be
“forbidden”—so many that the bewildered student of harmony and
counterpoint, knowing how frequently great composers have
transgressed the limits within which he is cramped, is apt to exclaim
in despair, “But you won’t let me do anything! Why may I not do what
Bach has done?” The only answer that can be returned is, “Because
you are not Bach.” Ultimate ease and liberty are the outcome, as
dexterity is the outcome, of early discipline; it may be that they are
never truly or certainly acquired by any other means.

The necessity of
“infinite pains”
IT is, in short, the old story of “infinite pains.”
Whether “the capacity for taking infinite pains” is
or is not satisfactory as a definition of genius is
another question; but we may at least be sure that infinite pains are
never wasted. Not that we have any right to expect an immediate
and abundant harvest. It is the slow, but sure, education of the taste
and the ear that has to be aimed at, and this will only come to us by
imperceptible degrees. Gustave Flaubert, than whom no more
painstaking writer ever lived, was so persuaded of the artistic
compulsion that lay upon him to use the right word or the right
phrase, so convinced that for every idea there is but one absolutely
fitting word or phrase, that he would spend hours in tormenting
himself over a single sentence. Often at the end of all he remained
dissatisfied—could not but be dissatisfied. In one of his letters he
draws a pathetic parallel between himself and a violinist who plays
false, being well aware that he is playing false, yet lacking the power
to correct his faulty execution. The tears roll down the unhappy
fiddler’s cheeks, the bow falls from his hand....
Ah, well! we cannot all be artists like Flaubert.
We are mediocrities at best, most of us; we know Writers too
that we are mediocrities, and we are not going to lenient with
cry about it. But let us acknowledge, with the themselves
humility which beseems us, how immeasurably he
was our superior, not in genius alone, but in industry, in
conscientiousness, in self-sacrifice. We mediocre folks, who have
acquired a certain facility of expression, are apt to be only too lenient
with ourselves. The exact word that we want, the precise phrase
suitable to our purpose, are not forthcoming; but others are ready
and will serve well enough. We take the others, hoping that nobody
will notice their ineptitude. The beginner also will, in process of time,
arrive at this fatal facility, and it is not in the least likely that he will
have strength to resist a temptation to which ninety-nine authors out
of a hundred succumb. All the more important, therefore, is it that he
should adopt and observe the strictest rules at starting; so that he
may form a style of which, once formed, he will never be able to
divest himself. We made a comparison just now between the arts of
literature and equitation. They have not a great deal in common; but
they are so far alike that early training has the first and last word in
each. There are men who are almost in the front rank amongst
riders, but who have never reached, and never will quite reach, that
rank, because of the errors of those who instructed them in their
youth. Heavy-handed they are, and heavy-handed they will remain
till the end of the chapter. So it is, not only with mediocre writers, but
even with some who belong to the first class. These have taken up
tricks and mannerisms, pretty enough and pleasing enough while the
charm of novelty still hung about them, but provoking and perilous
from the moment that they have lost that charm, that they have
ceased to be servants and have become masters. Macaulay, for
example, had an admirable style; yet after a time one grows irritated
with it, knowing so well in what manner he will deal with any given
subject under the sun. At the opening of some sonorous, well-
balanced paragraph the reader is prone to say to himself, with a
sigh, “Ah, I see you coming with your distressing antitheses!” And
there, sure enough, they are, neat, polished, brilliant, turned out to
order—wearisome. But if, during his lifetime, some reader of his had
had the impudence to point this out to him, and if, with the modesty
which is a part of true greatness, he had admitted that the criticism
was not unjust, could he, do you think, have written otherwise than
as he did?

T HEREFORE, let the tyro put away from him all

Success
insidious temptations to be brilliant or original; attained
let him think chiefly, if not solely, of being lucid; let
him store up for himself a vocabulary from which all ambiguous
terms shall be rigorously excluded. So, having studied, he will be
able, like the débutante, to be natural, and will have gained
possession of a style which will, at any rate, be correct and his own.
So, too, he may perhaps be able to look back not discontentedly
upon a measure of good, solid work accomplished, when the time
shall come to hang up the fiddle and the bow, to lay aside the worn-
out old pen and make his final bow to a public by whom he may
anticipate with some confidence that he will be speedily and
mercifully forgotten.
 A STORY TO TELL

Louisa Parr

The first T O feel that you have a story to tell, seems to

me a primary essential for a novice in the art of
essential novel-writing, especially with beginners young in
years and experience. I know that there are
masters in fiction, who tell us that their method is to create one or
several characters, and round them build up a story; but I doubt if
this applies to first efforts, unless those efforts are not made until the
writers have gained that insight into men and things, which only
comes with years of life and observation.
Now, to any beginning under conditions such as these, the few
suggestions and remarks I shall offer will not apply. My object is to
be of service to young beginners, and to try and give them some little
help and encouragement to surmount the difficulties which usually
appear when we first venture to commit our fancies and ideas to
paper. I feel somewhat timid in undertaking this task, because its
success seems to me doubtful, for the reason that no hard and fast
rules can be laid down for the fictionist, who, generally, leaves on
each production the impress of individuality. Frequently it is
individuality, when combined with originality, which is the charm of a
new writer, and gives to a story which we have had repeated a
dozen times, and to characters whom we have met again and again,
the freshness of a new setting.

T O start, then, we will suppose that you are the

possessor of a story which for some time has
A story to tell
dwelt in your mind, and has taken such a hold of you, that you are
engrossed with the plot and the actors in it. These creatures of your
brain become so familiar to you, that they stand out in your
imagination like real persons. You give them names, you invest them
with qualities, you decree that they shall be happy or miserable, and,
having sealed their fate, you are seized with the desire to make
others acquainted with them. Then comes the eventful moment,
when success is imperilled by over-anxiety and a distrust of your
own powers.
Too frequently the young writer is not content to
Faults of set down what is to be said with the straightforward
beginners simplicity that would be used if this story had to be
told vivâ voce. There is a desire to explain, to
digress, to elaborate. It is thought necessary to tell the reader that
this person is very clever and witty, that that one is stupid and
odious, much in the same way that a child draws some strange
creature, under which it writes, “this is a cow—this is a horse.” We
smile at its being necessary to inform us of what we ought to see for
ourselves. Yet it is the same in fiction—the dramatis personæ of your
tale should themselves discover to us their idiosyncrasies, and by
their actions and conversation reveal to the reader their dispositions
and characters. Young authors often write very good dialogue, there
is a freshness, a crispness about it which more practised hands may
seem to have lost. In this form the new ideas of the rising generation
come pleasantly to us, which is seldom the case when they give way
to digression, explanation, and the dissection of motives and
propensities. The novel of character—the able study of an inner life
—is almost always the outcome of deep thought added to the gift of
acute observation. This is not to be expected of a young beginner.
Indeed, for my own part, were I to learn that one of these clever
analytical studies was the work of an author young in years, I should
be filled with regret. If you possess the capacity, the fitness of age
will come all too soon, and, believe me, when it does come, you will
not regret that you have not forestalled the proper time.

T HUS you will see that my theory is that the

young should write young. We all know the How to write
pleasure we derive from the fresh, natural, unaffected conversation
of an unspoilt girl. Well, then, I want you to write as you talk, and
remember this does not mean that you are to have no ambition; on
the contrary, aim at the topmost point, or you will never rise. Neither