Chapter 1
Raven
I know it’s going to be a shit day as soon as I hear the thunder rumble outside my window. Groaning, I pull my comforter over my head and close my eyes, willing the world to go away for at least another few hours.
It doesn’t. Of course it doesn’t. It never fucking does.
My phone buzzes on my pillow and I grope for it with my hand. When I feel the bejeweled skull case of my iPhone, I jerk my hand back and see that I have a text from one of my brothers.
SOS! New girl quit. Get your ass down here… Please.
I glare at the screen. I knew the second my horndog brother said he was hiring his latest fuck buddy, and in turn offering me my first Friday night off since I had started working at our family-owned bar, that this would happen. Raider’s interest in any one girl never lasts past the first week, and as soon as he moves on—which had been the night before—our new girl is out the door.
I mutter a few curses that would have made every one of my brothers swat my ass because ladies don’t swear, and shoot a quick response back to Colt, who’s manning the bar tonight. If he hadn’t said please I would have told him to go fuck himself, but Colt’s the youngest of my four older brothers and doesn’t take me for granted … much.
As soon as the text is sent I toss back my covers, push my long blonde hair back from my face, and head for the bathroom down the hall. My room had been a last minute addition to our house, because I had been a last minute addition to the family, so I don’t have my own private bathroom like my fucktard brothers do. My parents hadn’t been expecting me having decided that four monstrous boys were enough to keep the Hannigan legacy going strong. When I ended up being a girl, not a boy like everyone had been expecting, everyone got the surprise of their lives; there hadn’t been a Hannigan daughter in over seven generations.
A quick five minute shower, where I veto washing my hair because it’ll take a good half hour to blow it dry, and I’m back in my room pulling on a pair of hip-hugging, distressed jeans and a white tank top with the words Hannigan’s Biker Bar on the back and smaller version of the logo on my left breast. My heeled biker boots complete my work attire. I don’t bother with makeup because I hate that shit.
I grab the keys to my black Challenger, a gift from all of my brothers for my eighteenth birthday, and head out the door. It doesn’t surprise me to see that the driveway next door is already overflowing with hogs, muscle cars, and a few prissy sports cars. The two prissy cars belong to the girlfriends of my neighbors. Those two were trust fund bitches dating two of the town’s biggest bad boy bikers to get back at Daddy for not showing them enough attention.
The loud music blares from the house next door, and I rolled my eyes as I climbed behind the wheel of my car and gunned the engine. A few heads come out of the front door of the neighbor’s house when they hear me revving, and I see my brother Hawk waving at me. I roll my window down just enough to yell a goodbye without getting wet.
“You be careful, Rave!” Hawk shouts. “Those damn roads are drenched.”
“Yes, Mom!” I roll my eyes and back out of our driveway.
“Raven Anne!” I hear my middle name as I switched gears quick and sure and punched the gas.
A grin teases my lips as I picture my brother and his dickwad friends glaring. I’m going to get it later when he and the rest of the gang come into the bar, but for now I’ll enjoy the fact that they’re thinking about me and not the orgy I had interrupted.
The roads are really wet but I don’t bother to slow down. It’s ten minutes to the bar and I get there in under four. The parking lot is packed, and I jump out trying to make a run for the front entrance to keep from getting soaked. It doesn’t matter because my hair was dripping by the time I walk through the door.
Familiar rock music blasts from the overhead speakers. The scent of smoke and booze greets me, and I turn a few heads as I weave my way through the overcrowded bar. My white shirt is plastered to my breasts, bringing attention to my black bra, the cool air of the air conditioning causing my nipples harden. Male eyes catch sight of me, narrow, and then quickly look away as soon as they realize who I am.
There is only one true rule in here: no one touches Raven Hannigan.
Hannigan’s is the hangout for Angel’s Halo Motorcycle Club. My dad had been the president of the Club until he died. My Uncle Jack should have taken over as president, but he wanted the Club under a younger ruling. The title had passed to my oldest brother Jet, until recent events had happened, but he’s still technically president. Technically.
Colt and Raider, the younger two of my four older brothers, are high on the totem pole in the Club. It isn’t because their last names are Hannigan either. I wasn’t allowed to know what they did for the Club, culpable deniability and all that crap. They are both hustling to mix drinks and pour beers. They give me a relieved grin as I walk toward them. I shoot Raider the middle finger, disgusted with him for not being able to keep his dick in his pants for at least another twenty-fou
r hours so I can have a night off to sleep, as I rush into the office to get an apron and tie my wet hair back.
Neither of my brothers say a word to me as I grab a tray and start making my rounds. I pick up a handful of empty bottles from the closest table and toss them in the trash before asking if the three bikers want anything else. They barely glance at me as they ask for a bottle of Patron and a salt shaker.
It takes me thirty minutes to make my way through the bar until I get to the booth in the back. I hadn’t bothered with the patrons of that table until now because I know that once I get back there I won’t be able to leave for at least ten minutes.
As soon as I reach the six men sitting at the booth, I offer them a smile. This is where the Originals sit. The Originals along with my dad had founded the Club and all the younger members looked to them for the guidance in life, sex, and business. They only come in on Friday nights. Shoot the shit, handle business. Make sure that the pups still know that in the biker world they were the law, second only to the Club’s president.
“Hey there, girl!” They all greet me with a welcoming smile. Their old eyes light up with affection and appreciation. I look just like my mother, or so I’ve been told at least a million times. I don’t remember her because her life had been tragically cut short, but I’ve seen the pictures and there is a resemblance. If I’m half as hot as she was, I guess I’m not that bad.
I stop beside my Uncle Jack. He’s not really my uncle but that’s what I call the Originals, each and every one of them. “What kind of trouble are you old fuckers causing tonight?” I ask, bending my head to smack a kiss on Jack’s cheek. I don’t expect them to actually tell me what they’ve been doing back here all evening. Not knowing is my safety net.
A beefy arm wraps around my waist. “You and that smart-ass mouth, Raven.” He shakes his head at me but he’s grinning. “Your poor momma is rolling over in her grave at how those boys let you talk.”
I shrug. My mother supposedly never even raised her voice, let alone cursed. Everyone that describes her says the same thing. “Maggie Hannigan was a lady.” I’m nothing like my mother. I had grown up in a house with five bikers and no female influence at all, unless you counted the trail of one night stands that had come and gone through the front door. I talk and act just like I am—the spawn of a biker.
“You guys need anything?” I glance at the open bottles on the table between them: a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels, quarter of a bottle of Patron, longneck beer bottles, and a few glasses of draft.
“We’re good for now, Raven,” Uncle Chaz assures me. “But we sure wouldn’t turn down a few minutes of sunshine in this stale ass place.”
I wink at Chaz. He’s sixty-three and has a granddaughter my age that he never sees. Chaz doesn’t see any of his family much, except for the only one of his sons that had joined the club at eighteen. His wife tucked tail and ran after Chaz had nearly died from a knife fight here in the bar long before I had even been a gleam in my dad’s eye.
“I’m always happy to oblige, Uncle Chaz.”
The door opens letting in the scent of rain and summer air. I wouldn’t have normally looked up, but the heat of eyes on me has the fine hairs on my neck rising, forcing me to turn my head …
All the oxygen traps in my lungs as my eyes land on the beast of a man standing by the still-open door. Uncle Jack, his arm still around me, feels me stiffen and raises his head. I hear him mutter something that sounds like a curse before he stands. The other five Originals follow suit, heading toward the man that just entered the bar,
Leaving me standing there feeling like someone just stabbed me in the heart.
The enforcer is back.
Chapter 2
Raven
I’m not sure how long I stand there. Every biker in the bar is on their feet greeting the man, shaking his hand, clapping him on the back, while I stand there feeling shattered and a little nauseous.
When I realize my hands are trembling, I clench them into fists, hating how affected I am. Clamping my jaw shut, I move away from the Originals’ booth and start collecting empties from abandoned tables. I hear my name a few times by different rough voices but ignore each one as I cleaned up the bar as best I can with a hundred bikers in my way.
Satisfied I’ve done all I can do for the time being, I head to the bar where Colt is. Looking up from wiping down the bar, he sees me and frowns. “What are you doing over here? Why aren’t you over there with …”
“He’s not here to see me, Colt. He’s here to take Jet’s place.”
Colt clenches his jaw at the mention of our oldest brother but doesn’t say anything as he stacks a few more dirty glasses in the industrial size dishwasher behind him. I come around the corner and start to square the cash register. It’s a wonder we make any money on the nights Colt takes care of this damned thing. Crazy enough, considering the mess of the register, he’s more accurate than either Raider or Hawk the majority of the time.
“Bash!”
The door opens again and in walks Hawk with his friends. I mentally sigh and refuse to lift my eyes from the money as I hear the pounding of strong hands on lean, muscular backs in familiar man-hugs. Then comes the feminine squeals of the trust fund princesses.
I know why they’re squealing. Who wouldn’t when coming face to face with Sebastian “Bash” Reid? Bash is six-foot-four and pure male perfection: muscles that ripple with every breath he takes; shoulders wider than any door; jet black hair just past his chin; startling silver-blue eyes that pierce right through the soul. I’ve seen the biker sluts line up for a chance just to talk to him.
“How about some beers over here, Raven?” Raider calls, and I have no choice but to finally look up. Hawk, Raider, and Bash are sitting with the Originals at the back booth. I glanced over at Colt, who is hustling to pour drinks now that the majority of the commotion’s over. I can’t ask him to take the beers while he’s so busy.