Made to Riot_The Ancestors MC Read online

  This is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons--living or dead--is entirely coincidental.

  Made to Riot: A Motorcycle Club Romance (The Ancestors MC) (Beards & Leather Book 5) copyright 2017 by Nicole Fox. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission.

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  Contents

  Made to Riot: A Motorcycle Club Romance (The Ancestors MC) (Beards & Leather Book 5)

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Books by Nicole Fox

  Born to Ride: A Motorcycle Club Romance (Midnight Hunters MC) (Beards and Leather Book 3)

  Built to Kill: A Bad Boy Hitman Romance (Moretti Family Mafia)

  Ride ‘Til Dawn: A Bad Boy Secret Baby Romance (Filthy Fools MC)

  The Traitor’s Baby: Reaper’s Hearts MC

  Filthy Nights: Demon Riders MC

  Filthy Sins: Sons of Wolves MC

  Knocked Up by the Killer: A Hitman Baby Romance

  Knocked Up by the Rebel: The Shadow Hunters MC

  Knocked Up by the Enforcer: Satan’s Legion MC

  Knocked Up by the Hitman: A Bad Boy Baby Romance

  Mailing List

  Made to Riot: A Motorcycle Club Romance (The Ancestors MC) (Beards & Leather Book 5)

  By Nicole Fox

  It starts with a drink. It ends with a baby in my womb.

  “One night only” is a slippery slope.

  I fell hard for the biker – then he disappeared.

  But he’s back now, and this time, when he leaves…

  He’s dragging me with him – whether I like it or not.

  ANYA

  He showed up in my emergency room looking like the devil had worked him over with a tire iron.

  But Bryce Johnson didn’t want a nurse.

  He wanted a gun, a car…

  And a hostage.

  And lucky for me, I was his first pick.

  I’d always wanted out of this small town.

  But I never thought my ticket to freedom would barge into my life like this.

  A gorgeous biker with windswept hair and inky tattoos crawling over his muscular shoulders?

  He might’ve looked like a dream.

  But the outlaw f**ked like a nightmare.

  Like an animal.

  Like a brutal, savage beast.

  I’d never been with a man like him before.

  And after the first kiss, the first touch, the first night, I knew:

  I’d never want another man again.

  But landing in the biker’s bed was just the start of this madness.

  Now, I’m riding shotgun with a killer behind the wheel.

  And there’s no telling if I’ll make it out alive.

  BRYCE

  Life for me as an outlaw biker has always been simple: take the job and get it done.

  By any means necessary.

  Some men were born to create chaos.

  To burn things down.

  To f**k sh!t up.

  And God knows I’m one of them.

  I’ve always managed to escape the mayhem alive.

  But this time, I might’ve bitten off more than I can chew.

  Even though I’ve done dirty things before, and there’s no doubt in my mind I’ll do them again.

  And I thought I’d learned the hard way not to get distracted when there’s a mission on my plate.

  But the curvy nurse with the shining eyes is testing my focus.

  She’s a do-gooder, a saint in scrubs, a angel if ever there was one.

  She deserves a white picket fence, a boring-a$$ husband, and a few obnoxious, giggling little kids.

  But she ain’t gonna get that with me.

  Because my world is a hell of a lot different.

  My world is mobs and MCs, suspense and submission, whiskey and women.

  I drink fast and ride hard.

  I f**k. I break. I hurt.

  It sure as hell ain’t for everyone.

  So I did the fair thing:

  I pointed my gun at her head and gave her a choice.

  She can either run for cover.

  Or she can get in the car with me, and see where the road takes her.

  That’s just the beginning of our story.

  And I’ll make a vow to you right now.

  This will end only one way:

  With my ring on her finger, my brand on her skin…

  And my baby in her belly.

  Chapter One

  Anya

  “Four whiskey sours, coming up!”

  I looked with surprise at Brandi Pyle, my best friend, who’d just placed the order. Her pretty but heavily made-up face was wearing an expression of mischief.

  “You got another round?” I asked, yelling over the commotion of the rest of the bar.

  Brandi leaned up against the bar between me and the burly guy wearing a dirty ball cap and a sleeveless shirt who happened to be sitting next to me.

  “You look like you could stand to loosen up!” she yelled.

  She was a little unsteady on her feet, and as she waited for the drinks she brushed up against the man next to her. He turned around in his seat, a pissed-off look on his country boy features, ready to have at whoever had been stupid enough to get into his personal space. But when he saw it was a cute, tattooed little lady like Brandi, his disposition changed pretty darn quickly.

  “Oh, hey there,” said Brandi, lapping up the male attention like she always did.

  Before she could start her routine, however, the four drinks were placed on the bar in front of her.

  “Brandi, focus,” I said, gesturing to the bartender, a fat little guy with a shaved head, arms crossed over a big belly, and ugly features in an expression of hurried impatience.

  “Oh, right—sorry,” said Brandi, pulling her sparkly red purse up and poking through it.

  “This round’s on me,” said the man at the bar, a broad smile on his face. “A girl like you shouldn’t ever pay for her own drinks.”

  “Why, thank you,” said Brandi, now into the “who, little ol’ me?” part of her routine.

  I shook my head and smiled, ready to get back to our table.

  “Let’s go, man eater,” I said, wrapping my fingers around Brandi’s slim arm and grabbing the small tray holding the drinks with the other.

  “Aw,” said Brandi as I pulled her away, her eyes on the man. “But I was making a new friend.”

  I chuckled to myself; all it took was a little flutter of those big green eyes and
the men were putty in her hands.

  Letting go of Brandi as I took hold of the tray, she and I weaved through the tightly-packed crowd of the roadhouse. The place was a zoo, to put it mildly—the bar packed full of roughneck guys looking to drink and fight and skinny little girls hoping for a dance with them. Country music blasted over the speakers, and the neon signs that adorned the walls gave the place a disorienting ambiance. There was a low roar of chatter, and every now and then a glass breaking or a man yelling at another rose out of the din.

  And on top of everything, it was miles from home, closer to the city where Brandi worked than to me. To say I was out of my element was to put it mildly. But Brandi, as she was so good at doing, had managed to talk me into coming out with her and a few of her coworkers from the strip club where they worked. They weren’t normally my crowd, but I’d been working like a dog over the last few weeks, and a night out of drink did sound nice.

  “’Bout damn time,” said Tiffany, a dark-haired girl with olive skin, eyes done up with too much mascara, and big fake tits.

  She took her drink from the tray eagerly as I slid into the curved seat of the booth.

  “We was wondering if you two got … distracted,” said Tequila, snatching her drink from the tray and draining half of it in a single sip.

  Tequila—I had no idea if that was her real name or not—was a short, curvy girl with blonde hair and the sort of cute mousey features you wouldn’t expect to find on a girl in her line of work. Tequila and Tiffany were sweet girls, though maybe a little dull.

  “Well, I was talking to that cute guy over there,” she said, pointing through the crowds on the dance floor and at the bar, “but little Miss Buzzkill here had better things in mind, I guess.”

  I smirked as I took a sip of my drink, knowing that the free drinks we were enjoying were about as much as Brandi was hoping to get out of that little relationship.

  Brandi Pyle, stage name “Daisy,” had been my best friend since grade school. We’d grown up together in Adeline, the tiny town here in Georgia where we’d both been born and raised. She and I had always had big dreams of getting out of Adeline and making new lives in Atlanta, but out of the two of us only she’d managed to pull it off. But she had taken the easy way out, getting pulled into the world of “exotic dancing,” as she liked to call it, while I stayed in Adeline to finish my nursing degree. She made money, all right, but I couldn’t help but wonder for how much longer she could live the hard-drinking, hard-partying, different-man-every-night lifestyle she was in the middle of. She was already starting to look older than her twenty-five years, and not in a “wise and mature” kind of way.

  “Come on!” shouted Brandi, grabbing her drink and getting out of the booth just as fast as she’d gotten in. “I’m ready to dance!”

  Tiffany and Tequila were more than ready to join in.

  “Get up, An,” said Brandi. “You’re not gonna meet a man sippin’ your drink in the booth.”

  “Who says I’m here to meet a man?” I responded.

  “Please,” said Brandi, her body pulling her towards the dancing, “why else are you here?”

  “To enjoy the company of my good friend,” I said with a smirk.

  “Then enjoy it on the dance floor!”

  Brandi then grabbed my arm and pulled me out of the booth, and within seconds I was on the floor. The music swirled around me, and I bumped into what seemed like just about everyone there as Brandi pulled me into the thick of the crowd. I did all I could to keep my drink from sloshing over the rim. Brandi grabbed my hands, doing a weird little dance that involved her swaying her hips back and forth in a manner that made her profession of “stripper” clear to any man who was watching—and there were men watching, all right. Soon, some muscle-bound small-town type swooped in and pulled Brandi into the crowd, leaving me all by myself.

  Needing some air, I sidled out of the crowd and made my way to the fringes of the dance floor.

  And that’s when I saw him.

  He was just about the most gorgeous man I’d ever seen. Dressed in a white sleeveless undershirt, a pair of aviator glasses hanging just at the area where his buff chest was exposed, he was sitting at the bar, a small glass of neat whiskey in his hands. His face was stunning, with a strong, wide jaw, cleft chin, sensual lips, and a head of shaggy black hair that framed his model good looks perfectly. His eyes were narrowed, as though he were scheming, their color a rich hazel.

  And he was looking right at me.

  I froze in place. It was though his gaze was a spotlight, and I was on stage without a clue of what my lines were. The music around me seemed to die down, and for a moment, it seemed like there was nothing in the world but me and this gorgeous man. I looked away, trying to pretend that I didn’t notice him, but it was too late. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see him look me over, his eyes moving along my body as he took a slow, thoughtful sip of his whiskey. I felt like an animal being sized up by a predator; I didn’t know what to do.

  “Hey! Watch where you’re walking, you dumb motherfucker!” called out a familiar voice from across the bar, a voice that snapped me back into reality.

  I, along with the rest of the bar, turned my attention in the direction of the commotion.

  Sure enough, it was Eddie and Connor.

  They were my brothers. Eddie was the older of the two, a part-time security guard at a local tire factory and a full-time drunk. Connor was the younger. He worked at a bar back at one of the local dives in Adeline and was a wannabe criminal full of piss and vinegar. With worried eyes I watched as the crowd spread away from the two, giving the fight that was sure to break out plenty of space. As they parted, I could see the short, wiry frame of Connor and the tall, stocky build of Eddie. They were squared up with a pair of scuzzy-looking men covered in tattoos.

  “Good lord,” said Brandi, “can those two go out for one goddamn drink without getting into some shit?”

  I shook my head, worried, as I always seemed to be when my brothers and booze got together, that they were going to get into some serious trouble.

  “You think you can just bump right into me without even so much as a goddamn ‘excuse me’?” yelled Connor, inches away from one of the men. “No fuckin’ manners in this town.”

  Connor had somewhat of an inflated sense of self-importance. He was moving up in the ranks in the little gang of hoodlum drug-runners and car thieves that he ran around with, but didn’t seem to realize that the small bit of reputation that he had in Adeline didn’t mean a damn thing here.

  “And they’re not even gonna say sorry,” said Connor, his low voice sluggish and slurred from the hours of drinking he’d already had under his belt before he came out.

  “You’re lucky we don’t just beat the shit out of you right now,” said Connor, not waiting a second before getting into the tough talk. “We oughta ju—”

  But before he could finish his sentence, the man directly in front Connor threw a quick hook that cut through the air with lightning speed. The fist connected with Connor’s jaw, a wet thud sounding through the air as Connor reeled back from the punch. Cheers sounded from the crowd as the spectacle broke out, and I could only shake my head as I began to plan out the rest my evening—treating my idiot brothers’ cuts and scrapes almost seemed assured to be in my future.

  Eddie watched as Connor toppled over the high-top table behind him before turning his attention back to the pair of men. With a roar, he rushed towards the two, his arms outstretched in a wild clothesline. His bulk barreled over the men and sent the three to the floor.

  This was all the rowdy drunks in the bar needed to see; within seconds, more fists were thrown, and I was scrambling away from the bar for dear life. Hoots and hollers sounded out, more bottles smashed onto the ground, and thuds and grunts sounded as the melee broke out.

  Holding my drink close, I got away from the dance floor as quickly as possible. But it didn’t seem to do any good—the fight was quickly enveloping more and more people
into it. The women were fleeing to the walls of the bar, and before too long, nearly every man in the place was trying to either join in the fight or break it up.

  The fight moved closer and closer to me, and I kept backing away, now feeling fearful that a stray punch or thrown bottle might find me in the commotion. My heart began to beat faster and faster, and I searched frantically for the girls. Between the yelling, the music, and the chaos, I couldn’t think straight, let alone search for the exit.

  And as I continued to back up, I slammed into something hard, my drink spilling all over my hands. Thinking I must’ve hit a wall, I turned. But a gasp slipped into my mouth when I saw that it wasn’t a wall that I’d backed into.

  It was him.

  Chapter Two

  Bryce

  Thirty minutes earlier …

  “Yo, Bryce! You about ready for round … four?”

  I looked down at my glass, and saw that it was already empty, only a drop or two of the dark brown whiskey remaining at the bottom. It’d been a long night, and I was in a thinking kind of mood, which meant whiskey, and plenty of it.