All Dogs Bite (Club Chrome 2)

Well, that was a headache for a different day. This moment belonged to her and Bronx — and she was going to savor every second.

-Epilogue-

Perfection. Absolute perfection. That’s what he held in his arms. His tiny daughter waved angry fists as if trying to punch him in the nose, her little face scrunched as she prepared to squall but all he saw was the most beautiful thing ever created. He turned to Delainey, sweat plastering the hair to her head, looking as if she’d been dragged behind a speedboat, and a swell of love so profound rocked his boots. “She’s amazing, just like her mama,” he told Delainey with tears in his eyes. “Gorgeous.”

“That’s awesome,” Delainey said, exhausted. “I’m just glad she’s out. I never want to do that again. Ever.”

Bronx just grinned at his new wife because he’d already made up his mind, he wanted lots of kids. Loads of them. At least five. And he was going to be a real hands-on daddy, too. He wanted to help with homework, teach them to ride bikes, and teach them how to take care of themselves. But as he stared at her little fingers and toes, he was overwhelmed by the miracle he and Delainey had created together. He would do anything for this little bundle — and her mama — and he didn’t know how it’d happened but the blessings in his life were beyond his wildest imagining.

Shortly after Monica and Peaches had “disappeared,” he’d handed the club over to Pyro and left his outlaw motorcycle life behind but he’d been adrift. If he were being honest, times had been rough. He’d almost gone back. But Delainey being the crafty one in the relationship, she managed to talk Jax and Hunter into opening a non-profit organization, a watch-dog group, for social services and he now served as the president. The name, Gage’s Watch, seemed appropriate. And now, he was damn near respectable. In fact, for the first time ever…he’d bought his first monkey suit. And he looked damn good in it judging by how quickly Delainey had torn it off and ridden him like a wild she-beast in heat.

Yeah, life was pretty good. Oh, and nothing had been sweeter than watching good ol’ George and Millie Almanza, the foster family from hell, getting arrested. After a subsequent investigation, cops had found more than enough evidence to put those fuckers away for a long time and that was more satisfying than he ever would’ve thought it would be.

But as good as all that was, staring down at his daughter was the best blessing of all.

Sweet Ava Jade.

Who knew all it would take to neuter this dog was a tiny slip of a girl…who looked just like her mama.

And he wanted four more just like her!

He glanced over at Delainey who might very well lop off his tender parts after an eighteen hour labor if he tried telling her that and thought…well, maybe he’d wait a bit before springing that news on her. Bronx pressed a kiss to Ava’s delicate crown and made a solemn vow just between them.

I will never let a moment slide to show you how much I love you. I promise.

Ava let out a lusty cry and he laughed at her spirit. Yep. Life was pretty damn good.

And it was his time to enjoy it.

***

-EXCERPT-

Kings of Asphalt

The roadside bar reeked of cheap whiskey, spilled beer and bad judgment but Zoe Delacourte wasn’t about to turn tail and run even though her knees were practically knocking together like two castanets in the hands of a Spanish dancer. This was her chance, her big break, her opportunity to show her editor that she could deliver the real deal, a solid story the readers wanted to read about. Maybe even a Pulitzer. Okay, maybe not a Pulitzer but this was some serious journalism and she had chops to prove.

Okay, so technically, no one knew she was doing this but all the more reason to make it count. Fortune favored the bold, or so they say. Time to put that saying to the test.

She’d been blessed — or cursed, depending on how you look at it — with a nose twitchy for information. Her mom called it downright nosiness but whatever, that quality was exactly what was required in the newsroom and when she happened to run across a small blurb about an execution style murder on the west end of the city that sent her nose to tingling, she couldn’t ignore the urge to scratch further. A little inquiry here, a little digging there, and she’d found quite a few tantalizing leads that she couldn’t help but try and chase down for the bigger story. The problem? No one wanted to touch it. Not that she blamed them. Not even the cop reporter wanted to dig into a possible retaliation hit between the two most notorious motorcycle clubs, The Kings and the Road Dogs, for fear of ending up on the wrong end of a bullet but where others saw a one-way ticket to the morgue, she saw a golden opportunity to finally make her mark.

From her furtive digging she managed to dig up two names: Jax Traeger and Hunter Ericksen. Bad boys to the core, Jax and Hunter seemed to be running The Kings, while she wasn’t sure who was calling the shots for the Road Dogs, possibly a guy named Bronx, no last name that she could find. The guy who ended up dead was a member of the The Kings, which meant she wanted to get to Jax and Hunter and see what she could get out of them by way of intel. But it wasn’t as if they were just going to spill their guts. She had to be crafty, real sly-like to get the goods, which brought her to the current reason why she was wobbling on too-high heels into The King’s known clubhouse, Bad Whiskey, squeezed into a skirt too tight with her breasts pushed nearly to her chin, and risking everything by going deep under cover for the story. That’s what real journalists did — not like the paper-pushing wimps currently occupying space in the newsroom. What happened to the golden age of investigative journalism? What happened to digging down to the bone of a story to suck out the marrow? What happened—

“You lost?” A thick, gravelly voice interrupted her internal dialogue and she stopped short, nearly bumping into a mammoth of a man with a beer belly big enough to double as a trampoline. He jabbed a stubbed finger past her, pointing at a grimy sign hanging off-kilter on the wood-paneled wall to grunt, “Members only.”

“I-I was invited,” she stammered on the lie, her gaze darting as people within the rough crowd began to stare. “By J-Jax.”

“Dimas sent you?”

Dimas? “Um, yes.” She bobbed a nod and then yelped as the man grabbed her by the arm and pulled her toward a back room to thrust her inside. She realized too late that her lie might’ve just landed her in really hot water but before she could try to back out the man had already left her behind, slamming the door behind him. Oh heavens to mergatroid, what had she just gotten herself into? “Wait…I think—“

“A brunette with curves…I like. It’s as if Dimas read my mind.”

Zoe whirled at the sound of the sultry voice at her back and she found herself staring at the most sinfully handsome man she’d ever seen. Lounging like a giant jungle cat on the worn black leather sofa, Jax Traeger’s stare burned two holes into her soul as he regarded her with open interest. Goodness, he was handsome…in a dirty, I-will-likely-break-your-heart-and-ruin-your-credit sort of way. She hadn’t expected that. Talk about being blindsided. There’d been precious few pictures of Jax on the Internet. It seemed the bad boy was c

amera shy, go figure. “I-I’m sorry…I think your guy got the wrong idea…”

One black slash of a brow went up in question and he leaned forward, saying, “And what idea would that be?”

“The idea that I’m…oh, I don’t know…um, available for…” Shut up, you idiot! This was what deep cover was all about! Riding the knife’s edge to the ultimate story, finding your discomfort level and pushing past it to get to the good stuff that everyone else was too chicken to look for. Right. Inhaling a discreet, stabilizing breath, she straightened and braved a smile as she sauntered over to Jax, ignoring the flutters in her belly as his gaze darkened with interest. “Available for just anyone.”

“Oh? Isn’t that the whole idea behind being a whore?”

“A ww-hore? Excuse me? I’m not—“

“You’re not what? Not a whore?” His smile slowly faded. “Then you’re not from Dimas and if that’s the case…just who are you?”

Oh crap. Her damn mouth. “I-I just mean…well, of course, I’m from Dimas. I was just taken aback for a minute. I mean, well, I wasn’t sure I was in the right place.”

Faster than she could react, he had her pressed up against the wood paneling, crowding her personal space and sending her heartrate through the roof. He smelled of leathers, a cool midnight ride, and the faint wisp of alcohol clinging to the edge as if as a reminder that his angelic face and body was simply a ruse to lure unsuspecting women to their doom. It should’ve repulsed her — truly, bad boys weren’t to her tastes — but she was oddly, and dangerously thrilled by the threat of caged violence she saw in his eyes and could see rippling through his biceps as he pressed forward. Was he going to ravage her right there like a modern day pirate or simply punt her outside the doors with a growled warning? Was she crazy for hoping — for a wild, irresponsible moment — that he would choose to grind those sensual lips across hers as punishment for daring to breach their inner sanctum? Yeah, don’t answer that. She already knew — it was fucking lunancy.