Bullet Teaser

 

(Grim Road MC)

Motorcycle Club Romance, Suspense, Age Gap

Date Published: April 12, 2024

 

 

Cecilia: The enigmatic biker is the one bright spot in my life. I see him three or four times a week at the cafe down the block. Talking to him about books we’re reading or our hopes and dreams helps me escape my reality, if only for a short time. Most of the time we don’t even sit at the same table. He’s everything I ever wanted but know I can never have. We simply cross paths. Him going… wherever he goes. Me… I know I’m going straight to hell. Nothing but a miracle can save me. The Devil owns my soul.

Bullet: There’s something about the small, dark-haired woman I see at the corner cafe. She’s everything I’m attracted to in a woman, but she’s so young it’s laughable. I didn’t set out to seduce her, but the next thing I know she’s in my bed and I spend the most incredible night with her. I wake up the next morning to a cool pillow. No note. No way to contact her. I chalk it up to a young woman not wanting drama in her life until I see her again a few days later. This time, she’s in my ICU, beaten to within an inch of her life. Someone’s going to pay. God have mercy on their soul. Because I won’t.

 

WARNING: Bullet includes scenes of graphic violence and adult situations that may be triggers for some readers. There’s also a protective hero, a determined heroine, and an eventual happy ending. No cheating, as always.

EXCERPT

Bullet

“Just another glorious day in the ICU, Attie.” The fresh-faced resident was trying way too hard to socialize. I’d noticed the pup did the same with all the attendings. I accepted he was trying to fit in and carve his place with people who would be his peers once he’d finished his residency, but no one -- fucking no one -- called me “Attie.”

“My name,” I said, not looking up from the laptop where I was finishing up a physical assessment for the patient I’d just seen, “is Atticus. Or Dr. Benedict. Call me Attie again, I’ll personally see to it you fail this rotation.” If the kid had been a prospect, I’d have beat the shit outta him. But I couldn’t do that. Not in this world. Which was a Goddamned shame because if an adult hadn’t learned how to treat people with respect by this guy’s age, he needed an ass whoopin’.

I was beginning to think it was past time I left practice in the civilian world and stayed at the Grim Road compound full time. Traveling back and forth was risky anyway. The last thing I wanted was someone following me to the compound. They wouldn’t be able to get in, but it would draw attention to us, which I did not want. Still. Here I was. Trying not to punch an intern.

Fuck. Me.

I didn’t give the kid time to respond. Instead, I shut the laptop, picked it up, and headed back down the hall to the lounge. I wanted to finish my day so I could get a bite to eat -- and maybe some stimulating conversation that didn’t involve body fluids or death. I’d had enough of that in the Air Force, yet here I was. I’d thought I’d fulfill some sense of purpose by continuing to work with critically ill patients in a different setting, but death was death.

“He’s just trying to fit in, Atticus.” One of my colleagues, Phil Davis, clapped me on the shoulder as he pulled up a chair. “Don’t be so hard on the kid.”

“I’ve told him repeatedly not to shorten my name. I’m tired of fuckin’ with him.”

“He’ll make a decent doctor if you help train him right.”

“I’m not a mentor, Phil. I told you that when you hired me. I’m supposed to be an intensivist. Not a teacher.” It was a sore spot. The hospital had promised me I wouldn’t have to supervise interns or residents. Yet here I was.

“You know how it is, man. There’s a shortage of healthcare staff. That includes doctors. Why keep these kinds of hours when you can do family medicine?” He shrugged. “The hospital owns the offices, so they all get paid a salary just like we do. Only difference is the hours. They get nights, weekends, and holidays off. We don’t.”

“Coulda had better pay and better benefits if I’d stayed in the fuckin’ Air Force,” I grumbled. “Kid’s got this last chance. He calls me Attie again, I’ll do more than fail his rotation. I’ll kick his fuckin’ ass.”

Phil chuckled, likely thinking I was joking. I wasn’t. “Just give me the report so you can get your cranky ass outta here. Someone needs a beer. And possibly to get laid.”

I scowled at him, but he was right. On both counts.

Report took an hour. We walked around to each of my ten patients’ rooms, and I gave him a rundown of what was happening as well as introduced him to each of those patients. Not every doctor in the hospital wanted to do hand-off rounds like this, but I thought it helped all of us to see the patients as people instead of simply numbers on a screen. As such, I insisted on it.

We only got caught up in one room and honestly, Mrs. Singleton loved to talk.

“I thought I was taking the right dose, Dr. Benedict. I mean, I might have missed my shot from time to time, but I usually manage better than this.” She smiled up at me from her bed. She was always pleasant. And always called me Dr. Benedict. “Maybe if you explain it to me again?” She looked like she was hoping we’d sit down and go over her medication with her again, but didn’t want to actually say so.

“Maybe we should get you an insulin pump,” Phil said, not looking up from his tablet as he pretended to review her chart. I knew he was just giving himself an excuse not to engage. Mrs. Singleton had been offered the same thing every single time she was admitted. She always refused. Something Phil knew all too well.

“Oh, I couldn’t. It might give me too much. What would I do then?”

“It won’t give you too much, Nanny.” Phil’s irritation showed on his face and in his voice, but he never looked up from his fucking tablet. “It’s programmed to give the exact amount we order. You need to agree to this so you don’t have to be admitted so much. You’re going to ruin your kidneys and your eyesight, among other things.”

“I’m ninety-two, Dr. Davis. If my kidneys and my eyesight were going to go, they’d have done so already. Besides, I know I’m not long for this world.” She sounded like she was going to cry. It made me want to beat the shit outta my colleague.

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” I said, sitting beside the bed and taking Mrs. Singleton’s hand. One thing I tried to always do was be respectful to my patients. Just because she was old didn’t mean she was stupid. “We’ve discussed this before. If you want to keep taking shots instead of using an insulin pump, you can. But, he’s right that you’re hurting your body. I’d like to have long conversations with you for years to come.” I gave her a gentle smile.

She patted my hand with her free one. “You’re a good man, Dr. Benedict.” Then she sighed, looking resigned. “If you think it’s best, I’ll agree to your pump. Do you promise it will be OK?”

“I do, ma’am. I’ll even come check on you after you’re released until you get used to it.”

Her eyes grew wide. “You’d do that? For me?”

I smiled. “You’re one of my favorite patients, Mrs. Singleton. Of course, I will.”

Mrs. Singleton was a diabetic who went into ketoacidosis once every couple of months because she didn’t take her insulin correctly and refused to modify her diet. At ninety-two years young, I figured if she wanted to eat cupcakes and moon pies, that was her prerogative. My job wasn’t to judge but to help her when she got sick. I’d often wondered if she didn’t do this to herself on purpose to get some attention because her daughter and grandson refused to put her in a nursing home but were never around to take care of her. She’d been a social butterfly in her younger years, by all accounts, and needed personal interaction. But, she abided by her family’s wishes and stayed at home even if her daughter and grandson were never there to help her.

After we left and started down the hall, Phil chuckled, as if he hadn’t insulted and treated the elderly woman horribly. “I swear, that woman gets chattier every time we have her.” He shook his head. “I don’t have time to spend thirty minutes in her room chatting about the weather or the good old days. Not to mention arguing with her about her treatment.” Yeah. It was past time I either opened my own practice or simply moved back to the clubhouse and disappeared from polite society.

I gave Phil a hard look. “You know, if you had half as much sympathy for Mrs. Singleton as you do that disrespectful punk of an intern, you might be a decent doctor.”

I left Phil alone with Intern Iggy and the rest of the zoo and headed out. I needed the sun on my face and the wind in my hair. Fuck this shit. I’d keep my promise to Mrs. Singleton no matter what, but my days here were numbered.

Coming back in to the doctor’s lounge, I went to the locker room and changed out of my scrubs and lab coat. I left very little at the hospital other than a couple changes of clothes for emergencies, so packing my stuff wouldn’t be an issue. Tomorrow I’d bring my truck and clean out my shit. Tonight, however, I was on my bike. I wasn’t prepared.

I strode out of the hospital, my boots thudding on the pavement as I made my way toward my sleek black Harley V-Rod. The bike that would carry me away from the sterile walls and white coats. I needed the freedom of the road and the comfort of my club. Grim Road MC had been good to me. After my last mission it had become my only real haven. Initially, working at the hospital had fulfilled my need to help people, but it had become more cumbersome than helpful now.

Flashes of the carnage I’d lived through shot through my brain and I gritted my teeth through the pain, needing to keep myself under control. It was those memories that haunted me at night and kept me coming back to the hospital to work. I hadn’t been able to help the people from that day so long ago, but I could help people in the here and now.

I started up my bike, put it in gear, and took off. I needed food and rest. Tomorrow everything would be better. I’d get Mrs. Singleton to stick to her promise to try the insulin pump. God knew Phil would just fuck things up. Besides, I wanted to help her get home so I’d know where to come to check on her and make sure she was using her pump correctly. I also needed to put the fear of God into her daughter and grandson. I was pretty sure they were trying to keep her out of a nursing home so they could keep her Social Security check and that simply wasn’t going to happen.

With a sigh, I pulled into the parking area of a little outside café I often frequented after work. Helped me to wind down and catch my breath. Occasionally I’d run into someone who knew me, but the hospital was in Palm Beach so it wasn’t often. It was also the place where I’d met the most interesting woman I’d ever encountered.

Her name was Cecilia, but she went by CeCe. I thought she was an escort, but the jury was still out. She was here nearly every evening. I found I simply liked talking to her. She was intelligent, with a quirky personality. She could carry on a conversation about almost anything with some degree of knowledge. But it was her eyes that intrigued me. She had the look of someone who’d seen far more than a person of her years should have. I doubt she was much out of her teens, but she seemed to take in everything around her. Several times I’d tested her. Dropping observations about things around us or small details about someone walking down the sidewalk. She always knew the answers. Like me, she always chose a table that let her have the best view of the area with her back against the building.

Walking to my usual table, I glanced around, looking for CeCe. Because of the long conversation with Mrs. Singleton, I was a little late so I could have missed her. I hoped not because I could really use her refreshing personality. The girl really was a rare treasure. I thought about prying into her life, finding out exactly what she did and who she worked for, seeing if my suspicions were correct, but we had a comfortable relationship. Basically, we spoke when we were at this café, and that was it. I didn’t see her anywhere else. We didn’t talk about anything personal. Sometimes we never even looked at each other. Just… talked. About everything and nothing. Nonsense. Whatever was on our minds. I was about to leave when I saw her.

CeCe was dressed in a tight, short red skirt with a white billowy top that cinched around her middle above her waist. A black bustier pushed her breasts up and together, giving her mouth-watering cleavage. Her hair was a straight, gleaming mass dark as a raven’s wing reaching below her waist. This was her usual attire and I’d learned a couple of months ago to live with the hard-on I got seeing her in these outfits.

She sat along the brick wall of the building beside the café, as usual, one table between us. We didn’t acknowledge each other or speak. She simply caught the attention of Teddy. He owned the place and was always there, even if he had someone else working.

“The usual, Teddy.”

“Chocolate pie and a coffee coming up, darlin’.”

“Thanks.” Everything inside me settled. I hid my smile and said nothing. Instead, I picked up a book I’d been reading the last several days while I drank a cup of coffee and ate a sandwich. This evening it was chicken salad.

“You still reading about the guy who kills that old lady and then spends the whole book freaking out about it? Raskolnikov, right?”

I grinned. “Crime and Punishment. Yeah, kid.” I didn’t look up from my book, but I never did. It was a game we played, where we pretended indifference. It was one we were both comfortable with. “I always found him to be an interesting character -- tormented by his own guilt. Unable to escape the consequences of his actions.”

She snorted. “It’s always something, I guess. Life torments us all in one way or another.”

I thought about that. “Can’t say you’re wrong there.”

“‘Course, I’m not wrong.” She sounded bitter. Not for the first time, I wondered if I was right and she was an escort. She was always very well put together. Even the revealing clothing she wore was done with taste. Her hair was always perfect, her makeup just so. Her body was well toned, fine muscle playing beneath her skin when she moved. I’d never seen such perfectly formed arms on a woman before. They were muscled but sleek. Feminine.

With one last bite of pie, she slapped a couple bills down on the table and stood. She started to leave, then stopped and turned her head to face me. “You think Raskolnikov would’ve done any better if he’d had someone? You know, someone who had his back?”

“Who knows?” I shrugged. A darkness crept into her gaze even though her face was carefully blank. This, I didn’t like. “But I do believe there are times when the ends do justify the means. Maybe not in Raskolnikov’s case, but…”

“Yeah.” She looked away, putting her shoulders back. “Sure.”

“See you tomorrow?” I’d never pushed her before. Never asked when I’d see her or if she’d be back. But my instinct was screaming at me that something was wrong.

She shrugged. “Don’t know. Maybe.”

“Take it easy, CeCe.” I forced myself to let it go even though I wanted to push even harder, to make her tell me what was going on and how I could help. Because if ever there was a woman who needed help, it was CeCe.

About the Author

Marteeka Karland is an international bestselling author who leads a double life as an erotic romance author by evening and a semi-domesticated housewife by day. Known for her down and dirty MC romances, Marteeka takes pleasure in spinning tales of tenacious, protective heroes and spirited, vulnerable heroines. She staunchly advocates that every character deserves a blissful ending, even, sometimes, the villains in her narratives. Her writings are speckled with intense, raw elements resulting in page-turning delight entwined with seductive escapades leading up to gratifying conclusions that elicit a sigh from her readers.

Away from the pen, Marteeka finds joy in baking and supporting her husband with their gardening activities. The late summer season is set aside for preserving the delightful harvest that springs from their combined efforts (which is mostly his efforts, but you can count it). To stay updated with Marteeka's latest adventures and forthcoming books, make sure to visit her website. Don't forget to register for her newsletter which will pepper you with a potpourri of Teeka's beloved recipes, book suggestions, autograph events, and a plethora of interesting tidbits.

 

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Author on Instagram & TikTok: @marteekakarland

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In the Mind of a Spy Teaser Tuesday

 

The Mind Sleuth Series #7

 

Mystery; Spy Thriller

Date Published: 04-25-2024

Publisher: Mind Sleuth Publications

 

 

When Jesse Bolger ran into an old acquaintance from his high school days, Robert Gleason, he wondered if the man still had an imagination that was unencumbered by reality. His question was answered in the affirmative that evening. After insisting they talk inside his homemade, electronically shielded room so no one could listen to their thoughts—no tinfoil hat was good enough for Robert—he confided that he’d stumbled onto two KGB-era Russian spies intent on destroying the United States. And he wanted Jesse’s help to stop them.

Jesse was certain, of course, that it was just a hoax, but he played along. It didn’t prove to be one of his better decisions, however, as the next thing he knew, he was being detained by the FBI under suspicion that he was a double agent. And where was Robert Gleason, the man who had started this whole fiasco, the unemployed eccentric who lived in his grandmother’s basement in a retirement community while he was learning to talk to self-aware computers? He was nowhere to be found.

Knowing he was out of his league to investigate a missing persons case, Jesse hired private investigator Rebecca Marte, hoping she could unravel a case that one minute looked like a spy spoof and the next, a terrorist plot that would plunge the United States into financial pandemonium.

 

Excerpt from the first night Jesse Bolger went to Robert Gleason’s home

“… a cone of silence, of a sort, is why I wanted you to come over here tonight. We need to talk and I’ve got the perfect place.” Gleason raised a hand toward a cube of about six feet on a side. It was covered with a shiny fabric. “That’ll keep our brain waves safe from prying sensors.”

Jesse could feel himself scowling as he tried to make sense of the words. “Is that supposed to be something like a tinfoil hat?”

Now, it was Gleason’s turn to look perplexed, but his confusion only lasted a moment. “Oh, yeah. Like people wear so the aliens won’t listen in on their thoughts. That’s pretty funny, but don’t be ridiculous.”

“Yeah, I didn’t—” started Jesse.

“A tinfoil hat would only protect you from aliens who were directly overhead. I’m not too worried about them if they’re still in the air. But on the ground ….” He slowly shook his head. “Now, that would be bad news. Really bad.”

Jesse was struggling for a reply when Gleason continued. “Anyway, that’s a SCIF, giving us protection on all sides.”

“A SCIF?”

Gleason nodded.

SCIF stood for Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility, a fact that Jesse knew from his job. They were acoustically and electronically shielded rooms in which classified discussions could be held, and Ruger-Phillips West had several for their government projects. But Jesse had never heard of a private citizen owning one. “Where on earth did you find the stuff to build a SCIF?”

Gleason got one of those you’ve-got-to-be-kidding smirks on his face. “If you’re not running cables in and out—and I’m not—then acoustic and EMF radiation shielding are all you need. For the latter, just type ‘EMF radiation shielding fabric’ into any search engine and you’ll find lots of it. I split my orders among a half-dozen stores so I wouldn’t call attention to myself.”

“Someone would care if you bought it in bulk?”

“Are you kidding? They care about everything you look at, everything you buy, and even what you don’t buy. Sure, eventually they may piece it all together, but why make it easy on them? With a small purchase, they probably think I lined my billfold to keep someone from reading the data on my credit cards.”

Jesse wasn’t sure who “they” referred to, but that question only came in second. “So, you think whatever it is you have to tell me is so sensitive that you built a SCIF to discuss it?”

“Hardly,” Gleason said with a laugh. Jesse started to return the chuckle when Gleason added, “I already had it before any of this came up.”

Jesse figured his puzzled expression asked the question for him as Gleason explained, “I came to Denver because of that state representative who wanted to start the center for extraterrestrial communications. And, as he pointed out, the brain emits electromagnetic radiation in the form of brain waves. They are faint, and we have to put electrodes on the scalp to pick them up. But with more advanced civilizations …?” Gleason held out an empty hand in a shrug. “Who knows?”

Jesse recognized the story about the state representative. It had been all over the news a few years ago with his potential re-election opponents’ comments ranging from “it’s a waste of the taxpayer’s money” to “you can bet Uranus he’s after the little green man vote.” The representative had lost his seat in a landslide in the next election—extraterrestrial communication wasn’t a platform that sat well with Colorado voters. “Well, I’m not sure—” Jesse started.

“Oh, I know he was a kook,” said Gleason. He paused, his nose wrinkling a bit. It took a moment before the odor reached Jesse.

“Jeez, Charlie. I’m going to stop giving you those stuffed mushrooms,” said Gleason. “It’s either that or break out the gas masks.”

Surprisingly, Charlie looked like he had been chastised as he whined once, then laid his head down on his paws and looked up at us with eyes that looked even sadder than before. If the stench hadn’t been so bad, Jesse thought he might have laughed at the dog’s expression.

“Anyway,” continued Gleason, “you don’t need to tiptoe around that guy. His ideas sounded good at first, but they never panned out. So, after a bit of this and that, I got started on my current gig, talking to the other sentient beings in our world.”

“Animals? You’re working on some type of job that involves communicating with animals?” Jesse glanced at Charlie, who, though he had seemed to understand before, now seemed as confused as Jesse felt.

Gleason paused a beat, then said, “Yeah, I suppose animals are sentient … in a way. But I meant computers. Computers with artificial intelligence.”

Jesse could feel himself sit back in the chair as if another half-inch of distance between them would change his perspective. It didn’t, and he wasn’t sure what to say other than, “Oh, look at the time!” But Gleason spoke first.

“Yeah, not everyone thinks that machines are aware of the world around them. I think they are and that other people just haven’t spent the time necessary to get to know these beings. But if AIs aren’t aware yet, I’m fine with being ready to meet them when they are. And that’s why I’m studying prompt engineering.”

It was the last two words, “prompt engineering” that pulled this conversation back from the brink of irrationality for Jesse. Prompt engineering had been a growing technical discipline since the introduction of AI Large Language Models in late 2022. At its heart, the discipline involved designing and testing inputs that would get these systems to produce useful outputs for a given purpose.

“So, getting these LLMs to give you what you want is tricky?” Jesse asked. He was pretty sure he knew the answer but wanted to keep the conversation moving away from the question of machine sentience.

“It can be,” replied Gleason. “They always produce answers that sound factual, but sometimes, they are just making stuff up. Those are called hallucinations. But more often, they just don’t understand what you want.”

Gleason paused a moment rubbing his chin. “You work on a lot of training projects, right? Enough that you know a lot of the principles?”

“I work the procurement end of them, but you can’t do that without picking up a bit about the technology.”

Gleason nodded. “So, suppose you wanted to know the best way to teach pilots the steps of an emergency procedure so they don’t forget them in a pinch? If you ask an AI system that, I’d expect …. Better yet, let’s ask and find out.” He grabbed a laptop from the workbench and started to power it up.

“Do we need to go into the SCIF for this?” Jesse asked.

Gleason gave him a quizzical look, followed by, “No, why would we? And besides, I need the Wi-Fi, and it won’t work in there.”

After a moment, he opened an application on the laptop that Jesse recognized as part of a publicly accessible large language model. Gleason typed in a prompt about training pilots on emergency procedures, and in a second or two, the system responded.

Jesse skimmed the answer, somewhat surprised by what he saw. “You’re right. The question you asked seemed right on the mark, but the AI took it to be something about getting information into human long-term memory. It covers things like breaking the procedure into small steps or using visual aids. I thought the real issue was more about how to make sure people can perform under stress and time pressure. That would get into making the pilot’s reaction nearly automatic, something that he or she doesn’t need to think about to do.”

“I can’t say that I understood everything you just said, but it seems I made my point,” replied Gleason. “You gotta know how to talk to these beings.”

As for his beliefs that machines were or would soon be sentient, Jesse couldn’t decide if that made Gleason the perfect prompt engineer or perfectly wrong for the job. Would the belief that he was talking to a sentient being make his prompts better or taint them with a touch of delusion … assuming his belief was delusional? But getting to the bottom of that issue wouldn’t answer what the heck Gleason was so anxious to tell him, and it was time to move on to that question.

“So, your grandmother thinks we’re down here saving the world. Or was that just a figure of speech?”

About the Author

Bruce Perrin has been writing for more than twenty-five years, although you will find much of that work only in professional technical journals or conference proceedings. After receiving a Ph.D. in Industrial/Organizational Psychology and completing a career in psychological research and development at a major aerospace company, he’s now applying his background to writing fiction. Not surprisingly, most of his work falls in the techno-thriller, mystery, and hard science fiction genres, examining the intersection of technology and the human mind now and in the future. Besides writing, Bruce likes to tinker with home automation and is an avid hiker. When he is not on the trails, he lives with his wife in Aurora, CO.

 

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Prophet Teaser Tuesday

 

A Dixie Reapers Bad Boys Romance

 

Dixie Reapers MC, Book 20

 

Motorcycle Club Romance, Age Gap, Suspense

Date Published: March 29, 2024

 

 

Ares – My life hasn’t always been kittens and rainbows. I spent years as a captive, so when someone breaks into the compound and threatens my little siblings, I go with the kidnappers instead. I’ve survived being enslaved before, but the little ones wouldn’t make it. I can only hope the club will find me in time.

Prophet – I’ve been patiently waiting for Ares to not only be old enough for me to date her, but also for her to be ready. But I waited too f**king long, and now she’s been taken. The bastard who has her is going to pay, and once she’s back in my arms, I’m never letting her go again.

WARNING: Prophet is intended for readers 18+ due to adult content, darker themes, language, and violence. While it can be read as a stand-alone, you may enjoy the story more if you read Joker first.

 

EXCERPT

Ares

Times had changed. The Dixie Reapers’ clubhouse no longer boasted loud parties and naked women. Well, the naked women were gone, at any rate. Music pulsed from the speakers as everyone took a much-needed break. My dad had been in Church off and on since this mess started, and more often than not, the members hung out in the clubhouse discussing the issue at hand. Except right now, the doors were open to anyone.

I sat at the bar with a soda. Portia sat on one side of me and Venom’s youngest, Dawson, was on my other side. Patched members lined the bar on either side of them.

“Pass me a beer, Ares,” Bull shouted from farther down. I reached over the counter into the ice chest, then slid the longneck down the bar top. I caught a smirk from my father as he watched.

“Hey, Pres. Think your girl has a future as a bartender,” Bull said. He chuckled and twisted the top off. “She’s got good aim.”

“Better than Foster’s aim last week,” I shot back, a playful jab at his son’s appalling shooting during target practice. He snorted and took a swallow of his beer, while Foster shot me a glare.

This place was my home. Dad and the Dixie Reapers had been my salvation, pulling me from the abyss with hands as rough as the life they led. Even though I couldn’t be a patched member, I was a Reaper’s kid. My dad had given me permission to get the club colors inked on my shoulder blade. It was a super small one compared to the ones the guys here had. I’d seen quite a few with the colors covering their entire backs. In addition, I’d gotten a phoenix rising from the ashes inked on the outside of my right thigh -- a mirror of my own rebirth.

Foster might be mad at me right now, but I knew he’d get over it. In a lot of ways, he was like a brother to me. All of the kids here close to my age felt like family. Although, Foster, Owen, and Dawson were all older than me. Not that I could tell when it came to Foster.

Cowboy’s son, Jackson, entered the clubhouse, his cowboy boots thudding against the wood floor as he came closer. He put his arms around me and hugged me from behind.

“You smell like horses and dirt.”

“Mom always said it was the best scent in the world.”

I couldn’t help but laugh a little. Yeah, I could see his mother saying that. “Well, it’s better than sweat, I guess. Preparing for your next rodeo?”

“I was planning to head out in the morning, but with everything going on…”

I tipped my head back to look up at him. “You should go. If you put your life on hold every time something bad happens around here, you’ll never get to do the one thing you love most.”

He kissed the top of my head. “Yeah, I know. You’re awfully smart for someone so young.”

“You’re only six years older than me, Jackson. It’s not like you’re ancient.”

“In rodeo years, I’m over a decade older than you.”

I really did laugh that time. “Is that like dog years or something?”

“Close enough. Hand me a beer. I’m going to go with Akira. She’s in the corner with her nose in a book again.”

I reached over for another longneck and passed it to him. He patted my shoulder before wandering off. I watched him, noticing he hadn’t lied. Akira, Wraith’s daughter, really did have a book in front of her face. From the cover, no one would realize she was reading smut. If her parents had any idea of the types of books she bought, they’d both have a fit.

I sipped on my soda and just soaked up the atmosphere. My friends and family were all talking or laughing. Despite everything going on outside the club gates, they seemed at peace in this particular moment. Happy. I hoped things could stay like this. I didn’t want anyone here to suffer the way I had.

“Never thought I’d see the day,” Tank said, approaching with a smile on his face. “Ares Black, quiet as a church mouse.”

I smirked, nudging him with my elbow. “Just soaking it all in. Some days, I don’t remember how blessed I am, until we’re all together like this. Family. Friendship. As long as we have those, we can weather any storm.”

“Damn straight.” He clapped a heavy hand on my shoulder. “We’re always in your corner, Ares.”

“Same here,” I replied. It wasn’t just words -- it was a promise. We were the Dixie Reapers, and we protected our own with the ferocity of a mother bear defending her cubs. I might not be a member of the club itself, but as the President’s daughter, these people were still my family, and I’d die to keep them safe.

I glanced at my watch and stood. Joker wanted Cleo to feel welcome here, and while I wasn’t quite ready to be friends with the woman, I also knew what it was like to be the outsider. I’d promised to head over and play a board game. Instead of driving, I decided to walk. The fresh air would be nice, and it would give me time to get my thoughts in order. It felt like utter chaos inside my head these days.

Ridley and Isabella were already there when I arrived. I fell into step behind them as they entered Joker’s home. Ridley had a few board games tucked under her arm. At least they’d come prepared, because I doubted Joker had any. I’d already given them a few of the ones we had at home that I thought might be fun.

“Hey, Cleo,” I said.

“Good to see you guys.” Her voice sounded hollow, and it looked like she hadn’t been sleeping well.

Isabella walked over to her first, giving her a hug. “How are you holding up?”

“Counting down the minutes,” she said.

Ridley clapped her hands together, the sound sharp in the quiet room. “We’re here to take your mind off things. Right, Ares?”

I nodded. “Yeah, we brought some board games. Thought we could all use a distraction.”

“Thanks,” she murmured.

We settled around her kitchen table. Before we’d even had a chance to set up the game, someone knocked on the door. Joker went to answer. Ridley started to set up one of the games, and Isabella and I helped. I noticed Cleo kept glancing toward the door.

He returned with an envelope and handed it to Cleo. “For you.”

“Who’s it from?” she asked. She ripped open the envelope and as she read the contents of the paper inside, she paled a bit.

“Everything all right?” Isabella asked.

“Fine,” she said. Did anyone else notice the tremor in her voice or the way her hands trembled? “Just a reminder about my appointment.”

“Ah, can’t forget that,” Ridley said.

“Let’s focus on the game,” Cleo suggested.

I rolled the dice and gave a little shout of excitement, hoping to make things seem as normal as possible. “All right!”

Everyone took their turns rolling the dice and moving their tokens. When it went around to Cleo, she stared at the board, almost as if she wasn’t fully present. I glanced at Ridley and Isabella, and realized they’d noticed it too. Cleo must have a lot on her mind between the issues with her family and her heart problem.

“Your move, Cleo,” Ridley prompted.

“Right,” she mumbled.

We played for quite a while, until the sky started to darken. I didn’t know if this had distracted Cleo or not, but it had kept me from focusing on things for a while. I hadn’t realized how much I’d needed this until now. I helped clean up the games, then we told Joker and Cleo goodbye.

Ridley offered me a ride, but I waved her off. The walk would do me some good. I paused at the clubhouse and stared at my car. It didn’t make sense to leave it here overnight, but at the same time, I’d prefer to get home on my own two feet than by driving there. I decided to leave it and kept walking.

A sudden chill prickled my skin, a whisper of danger that tightened my muscles. A feeling of unease skittered down my spine, and I wondered if trouble was drawing closer than any of us realized.

When I got home, there was a wrongness I felt all the way to my core. I slowly approached the house, keeping an eye on my surroundings, just the way Dad had taught me. I twisted the knob on the front door and pushed it open.

“Mom? Are you here?” I called out. Nothing. Not so much as a whisper of sound. I eased farther into the house, wondering if I should call Dad. Dessa’s car was outside, which meant she had to be here. She hadn’t ridden with him to the clubhouse earlier, even though she’d been there with the kids.

“Junie, Judd, Marnie!” I shouted.

No one answered, and I couldn’t find anyone at home. I went back outside, wondering if maybe they went to a neighbor’s house. Before I’d made it to the end of the driveway, I felt the cold kiss of metal against my neck.

 

About the Author

Harley Wylde is an accomplished author known for her captivating MC Romances. With an unwavering commitment to sensual storytelling, Wylde immerses her readers in an exciting world of fierce men and irresistible women. Her works exude passion, danger, and gritty realism, while still managing to end on a satisfying note each time.

When not crafting her tales, Wylde spends her time brainstorming new plotlines, indulging in a hot cup of Starbucks, or delving into a good book. She has a particular affinity for supernatural horror literature and movies. Visit Wylde's website to learn more about her works and upcoming events, and don't forget to sign up for her newsletter to receive exclusive discounts and other exciting perks.

 

Author on Facebook, Instagram, & TikTok: @harleywylde

 

Publisher on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, and TikTok: @changelingpress

 

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A Win Won Situation Teaser Tuesday

Crossroads to Collaboration, A Personal Development Journey to Building Successful and Synergistic Relationships

Motivational/Business improvement

Date Published: March 12, 2024

Publisher: Elite Online Publishing

In A Win Won Situation, Reggie Gray embarks on a profound exploration of personal development, interweaving his life experiences with insightful lessons on building successful and synergistic relationships.

WIN WON comes from what Reggie puts into practice in his business and personal relationships.  WHAT I NEED – WHAT OTHERS NEED

Through engaging chapters filled with personal accounts deeply woven with important life lessons, Reggie imparts wisdom gained from his unique blend of experiences. He challenges the reader to rethink conventional notions of success and relationship building, offering a fresh perspective on how to lead a more fulfilling life. This book is not just another motivational read. It is a call to action, inviting readers to scrutinize the motives behind the self-help industry and to seek authenticity in their personal growth journeys.

Perfect for anyone at a crossroads in their personal and professional relationships, A Win Won Situation is a guide for those who seek to live a meaningful last third of their life, leaving behind a legacy of collaboration, success, and genuine connection. 

Excerpt 

When making decisions and considering both sides of a situation, it boils down to the person’s or organization’s viewpoint. 

 How are you looking at the situation or issue? What is its value to you or the other side? What is the background of how you got to this interface? What are the backgrounds of those influencing the outcome. What motivates them? 

 This is a series of questions for you to run through your consideration as you begin the process or at least right before you make a decision impacting the process. 

 Are you the solution to problem(s) or are you the problem? When I hire someone, it is usually because I have a problem that I need solved. Make sure you don’t hire people that just become another problem for you to resolve. 

 Many people also use problems (excuses) not to complete tasks or projects…not enough training, not enough, information, not enough assistance, etc. One can always find excuses and ways to not succeed, but employers and leaders like those that look for ways to overcome the problems. 

 Be tolerant of others’ views. Don’t even say I disagree with them, they are their rights, but they stop when there is any force, verbally or physically, to express or apply yours to others. Your rights have stepped over their boundaries into someone else’s. You have yours, they have theirs. The views of accepting people regardless of religion, sexual preference etc. It’s not my paygrade to judge people.

About the Author

As the President of the Intercontinental Chamber of Commerce, Gray has been a pivotal figure in the Houston area, with a strong presence in the community for over 25 years. Gray has served on numerous area boards and received numerous awards from those area organizations for his commitment and service to Houston-area communities. Previous to the Chamber, he was a Vice President of Marketing in the real estate management and development industry and Vice President of Business Development for an international logistics corporation.

His projects and positions have taken him throughout the U.S. and to nearly 60 countries worldwide, where he has collaborated with a variety of industries, corporate executives, international leaders, and royalty. Gray has received awards of designation, appreciation, and partnerships from numerous countries, such as Canada, Mexico, El Salvador, Malta, China, the Philippines, Saudi Arabia, Monaco, and Panama.

Gray spends time and speaks often of his three sons and his focus on them or, as he has repeatedly been quoted, “They are the oxygen in his lungs.”

 

Contact Links

Website

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Purchase Link

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Ghost Teaser Tuesday

 

(Shiva’s Road MC)

 

Motorcycle Club Romance, Interracial & Multicultural

Date Published: March 22, 2024

 

 

 

Ghost -- Against my better judgment, I went to Chicago to meet my father. Instead I find a sexy siren who’s fighting a daily struggle to survive. I claim her for my own the first chance I get, but that’s when our troubles really start. She won’t leave without my sister Rachel, her best friend, and I’m a long way from home and my brothers. When the bad guys attack, I’ll do whatever it takes to keep them both.

Simone -- I need a way out. When Ghost arrives, I take a chance and ask him for help. But he’s the son of the man who sells my body. I don’t know how far I can trust him. My life and Rachel’s hang in the balance. Ghost says he wants me by his side forever. I’m trusting him with our lives, but can I trust him with my heart?

 

 

EXCERPT

Ghost

“This place is something else,” Beowulf said over the sound of their idling bikes.

Ghost didn’t respond, knowing his best friend didn’t expect him to. He just stared at the place his mother had called home for the last twenty-five years. The McMansion and surrounding grounds presented a vulgar display of wealth against the suburban Chicago backdrop. The pink granite drive wound around the two-story house, lit by spotlights in the center of the immaculately manicured lawn. In bright sunlight, he’d no doubt need darker shades to withstand the glare of the mica-flecked walls and white shutters. He’d known about the setup from the intel Bytes had gathered on his father before they left the compound in Central Ohio, but seeing it in person shocked the man who had grown up dirt poor in a single-wide trailer on the Mescalero Apache Tribe Reservation.

“Name,” snapped a male voice from a box built into the brick column to the left of the wrought black iron gate.

“Lucas Blackfoot,” Ghost replied. His voice sounded rusty, even to his own ears.

“You were told to come alone.”

Ghost shrugged, sure the security cameras would pick up his response.

After a long pause, the voice instructed, “Park your motorcycles in the open garage bay. You will be met at the interior door. Do not enter without an escort or you will be shot.”

“Friendly type, your Pops.” Wulf chuckled.

Ghost let his unease out by revving his old Harley. The Knucklehead vibrated the ground as the gate with a stylized W in the center pulled back to allow them entrance. They followed the drive to the right of the house, moving at a slow pace on the loose gravel, and found the place they were to leave their bikes without issue.

Almost as soon as they swung their legs over the fenders, a door at the far end of the far end of the garage opened. A limo occupied one bay. Midlife crisis cars sat in the remaining two, each of which probably cost more than Ghost had seen during his entire childhood.

A large, bald man in a black suit he couldn’t button over his flabby stomach -- a security drudge so stereotypical as to be laughable -- motioned them to come closer.

“What do you wanna bet he gets handsy?” Wulf said loud enough to be overheard.

Ghost grunted. This was gonna suck. He had planned to get in and out as quickly as possible, having minimal interaction with his sperm donor.

“Which one of you is Blackfoot?” the guard asked as they approached.

Like that wasn’t obvious. Even a toddler could tell the black-haired Native American from the Nordic blond. “I am,” Ghost replied.

“Your… companion… can wait here.” The guard put a wealth of innuendo into the word companion, still trying to get a rise out of him.

“No.” Ghost didn’t make a threatening move, but he wasn’t going into this house alone. He’d never spoken to Donald P. Willard, never went looking for his parents after his mother left the Reservation when he was eight. His father should be happy he’d only brought his best friend for backup. No way in hell would he allow himself to be separated from Wulf this early in the game.

“You come alone, or you don’t come at all.”

“Fine,” said Wulf, “We’ll be home in our beds by morning then.”

The dumbass reached out to grab Ghost by the arm. “I said --”

Ghost grabbed the guard’s hand by the thumb and bent it back. When the man tried to twist out of his grip, Ghost held on long enough to make sure the man knew Ghost was choosing to release him.

Another man, this one a little older and in better shape than the first, appeared in the doorway. “Problem?”

“He doesn’t want to come quietly, boss,” Dumbass said.

“Let him bring his little friend if it makes him feel better,” the new arrival replied. “I’m sure they won’t cause any trouble. Right, boys?”

“We’re housebroken,” Wulf assured him. “Can’t say the same for your team though. Need a lesson in manners.”

“Boss” stared at them for a few beats, then turned on his heel and walked back into the house. His lapdog followed, leaving Ghost and Wulf to take up the rear. As soon as they cleared the doorway, another man came up behind them, closing the door and walking practically on their heels. They moved through the mostly dark house in that formation until they reached a closed door with soft light spilling through around the cracks.

A knock on the door received a curt, “Enter.”

A hand on his back pushed Ghost ahead of Wulf into the room. No less opulent than the rest of the house, the study had dark built-in shelves at the back wall and thick, velvet green drapes bracketing the floor-to-ceiling windows along the side. Donald P. Willard sat behind a polished walnut desk. A Tiffany desk lamp illuminated Donald’s thick features and extremely short-cropped, graying hair. His hands were laced together in front of him, resting over a sizeable belly straining the buttons on his tailored shirt. His blue suit jacket hung on the back of his leather executive chair. The picture of a prominent light-skinned black businessman, surrounding himself with obvious signs of wealth and opulence. Ghost was pretty sure it was all a front, meant to impress.

“Son, please have a seat. The rest of you are dismissed,” Donald said.

The three bodyguards tried to grab Wulf to remove him bodily from the room, but he evaded their grasps and sat down on the green leather sofa which rested against a creamy damask wallpaper. “I think I’ll stay. I like it here,” Wulf said mildly.

“This is a private conversation between my son and myself. Please do us the courtesy of letting us have this family moment,” Donald replied.

Wulf looked to Ghost, who gave him a slight nod. Beowulf could take care of himself, and it didn’t seem like anyone was going to talk in front of his friend.

“Come on, boys. Show me the kitchen. I could use a snack after the long ride.” Wulf jumped up from the couch and led the way out into the hall.

Once they were alone and the door shut, Donald gave Ghost an appraising glance. “You look like your mother.”

Ghost knew what he meant. His father’s African American heritage didn’t show much in Ghost’s features. There didn’t seem much point in replying so Ghost didn’t bother.

Donald sighed. “Have a seat, son. We have a lot to talk about.”

Ghost sat in one of the chairs in front of Donald’s desk that matched the leather sofa. It was as uncomfortable as it looked. Still, he said nothing. He’d learned a long time ago prolonged silence had a way of getting people to start rambling just to fill the void.

“I have to say, your existence came as quite a shock to me. In all the years I’ve been married to Caroline, she never once mentioned you. Do you know why?”

“No.”

“Has she ever contacted you since she left the Reservation?”

“No.”

“I’ve always wanted a son to carry on my legacy. Surely, she would have known I’d have welcomed you with open arms.”

Ghost shrugged. His mother had signed over custody of him to his grandfather when she left, giving no explanation. His memories of her were happy, but dim. He couldn’t say why his mother did what she did, and wouldn’t tell this man even if he did know. He owed this man nothing.

“Did she tell you anything about me before she left? Anything at all?”

“No.” Ghost knew he sounded like a broken record but really what was there to say? He’d received word of his mother’s death from a lawyer, closely followed by a summons from Donald P. Willard to discuss her “affairs.” Ghost already regretted his decision to come here and couldn’t wait to get the fuck out.

“Man of few words, eh? I can respect that. Too many people don’t stand by their word these days. I’m not one of those. Old school to the core, just like my daddy.” He probably practiced his “trust me” smile in the mirror. Ghost wasn’t falling for it.

“Why am I here?” He knew why, but he wanted to see how the other man would spin it.

“I wanted to meet you, talk to you. I am your father, after all.”

“Are you sure?” Ghost was. Bytes had done the research. Donald’s name wasn’t listed on his birth certificate, but his mother had left a letter with his grandfather. The old man never said a word, but the document had been among his things given to the tribal leaders upon his death. An old friend read it to him over the phone. His father had been a high roller at one of the casinos on tribal land. His mother worked there and caught his eye. Eventually they started a relationship. She got pregnant. Eight years later, she left the Reservation to be his wife.

“Of course, I am. Your mother was faithful to me, even before we married. Or are you trying to tell me you know otherwise?” The thought seemed to anger him.

“No.”

“Well then, there you are. You’re my son. And I’d like to think we could have a good relationship now that we know about each other.”

Ghost almost said no again, just to see what the other man would do, but managed to stop himself. Instead, he changed tracks. “Your letter promised legal action if I didn’t show. That’s not very… fatherly.”

“That was before I got to know you. My security team did a little digging. Can’t blame a man for wanting to get to know all about a son he suddenly finds out about, can you? And now I know you’ve served your country well, but you’ve fallen on hard times. That motorcycle club you’re with, well, I’d like to see my son socializing with a better class of people. I can and will help you there.”

“No.” The word came out fast and emphatic. Shiva’s Road MC was his family now. Not this man.

“OK, OK, I can see I’m moving too fast for you. A habit in my business. You don’t make money letting grass grow under your feet!”

Donald’s business, according to Bytes, barely paid the mortgage on this eyesore these days. Donald’s father had been a solid contractor for large scale buildings in downtown Chicago. But cutting corners to underbid other contractors, shoddy supplies, and other bad business practices had given the family business a bad name. Donald scrambled to cover his monthly debts and if he didn’t hire better lawyers, he’d be facing jail time. Then there was the little matter of his gambling debts…

Instead of replying right away, Ghost let his attention drift around the office. There were business books, decanters containing various kinds of alcohol with the usual glasses, and several framed pictures. One of the pictures caught his eye. Two young women were laughing with their arms around each other in front of a fountain. One had black hair, dusky skin and a more than passing resemblance to Donald. She must be Rachael, his half-sister.

The other woman -- he didn’t recognize her -- was nothing less than stunning. Platinum-blonde hair surrounded her tanned face in a halo as the sunshine poured down on her, seeming to illuminate her from within. The red top she wore hugged her more-than-a-handful breasts and rode up enough to show a strip of her belly. The matching skirt flared out from curvy hips that begged to be gripped with his large hands and held onto for a wild ride. Though he couldn’t tell the exact color of her eyes from the photograph, they seemed to sparkle with mischief. And her full lips, painted the same red as her shirt, were a form of temptation all their own. He wanted to lick and suck and taste every inch of her. His cock came to life behind his zipper as he studied the image. He’d never had such a visceral reaction to a woman, let alone one he’d seen only in a picture, in his life.

About the Author

Every book is a mystery to Dana. Whether it’s writing one or reading one, she delves into the who, what, when, where and why with a thirst for knowledge. Getting to know the characters and following their journey as it unfolds gives her a thrill she hasn’t been able to duplicate in any other activity. She’s been known to devour as many as three books in a day, and would write until her fingers bled if her muses allowed.

Although Dana is just getting started on her publishing career, please join her on Facebook and Goodreads, and visit her website often as her MC collection grows to see what Dana has in store for her readers next!

 

Contact Links

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Publisher on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, and TikTok: @changelingpress

 

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