Meant for Sin: A Motorcycle Club Romance (Thunder Riders MC) (Beards and Leather Book 4) 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.

  Meant for Sin: A Motorcycle Club Romance (Thunder Riders MC) (Beards and Leather Book 4) 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

  Meant for Sin: A Motorcycle Club Romance (Thunder Riders MC) (Beards and Leather Book 4)

  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

  Epilogue

  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

  Meant for Sin: A Motorcycle Club Romance (Thunder Riders MC) (Beards and Leather Book 4)

  By Nicole Fox

  I’m nothing but a toy in the biker’s hands.

  Nothing in this world comes for free.

  If I want Granite’s help, I’ll have to pay for it.

  But he’s only accepting one form of tribute:

  My bare body bent over his bed.

  ALLISON

  Everything happened too fast.

  One bad idea after the next, until I ended up somewhere I never thought I’d be:

  Bared in the lonely bedroom of a man who’s dying to break me.

  I can see it in his eyes – those sharp, predator’s eyes.

  So hungry and cold.

  Staring right through me.

  Stripping me, breaking me, teasing me, owning me.

  All while he stands in the entrance, with that taut, tatted body of his at complete ease.

  His hands are by his side right now, but in a moment, they’ll be on me.

  And I’ll have no choice but to submit.

  Because, as sick and twisted as this whole situation is, one thing remains true:

  I need him.

  I need Granite more than I ever thought possible.

  I need him to help me rescue my brother from the clutches of a drug-dealing street gang that will kill Brandon if he ever tries to leave.

  I need him to keep me safe from the other brothers of the Thunder Riders MC, each of whom is more eager than the last to run their filthy tongues across my skin.

  But most of all, I need him to tame the fire that’s raging between my legs.

  I thought I was a good girl.

  But in Granite’s hands, I’m slowly learning the reality.

  As long as I’m here, I’m only meant for sin.

  GRANITE

  She’s terrified.

  Anyone could see that.

  Hell, I would be too, if I were a skinny, innocent little girl like her.

  There’s no one else here.

  No one to hear her scream or cry for help.

  No one… but me.

  But that’s what happens when you choose to conceal yourself in lies and step right into a bikers’ den.

  This ain’t no carnival. It’s not a damn country fair.

  It’s an outlaw motorcycle club, one of the most ruthless around.

  Real sh!t happens here – there’s drugs, guns, girls, and more cash floating around than a little princess like her could ever dream of.

  And if you step outside the lines while you’re in here… you’re gonna get hurt.

  She thought she could lie to my face and use me and my brothers for her own purposes.

  But I saw right through that silly act.

  And I made up my mind, then and there.

  I’ll help this delicate angel – in return for something that only she can give me:

  Her complete and utter submission.

  There’s no saints in this clubhouse, darling.

  Around here, we take what we want – brand it with our ink – and let the whole world know it’s ours now.

  And that’s exactly what I’m about to do to her.

  Chapter One

  Allison

  “I’m not going to stop calling you, so you might as well pick up.” I pace to my window and look down on the street at the kids playing baseball in the park and the older kids crouched near the bike shed, sharing a cigarette. An old lady walks her dog, giving the kids a wide berth, and the Texan sun blares down mercilessly. Several American flags fly from the nearby houses, although ‘fly’ is a generous way to describe these limp things.

  “End of message. Would you like to record your message again?”

  “Ah!” I snap, throwing myself onto my bed. My room is messy, clothes strewn everywhere, but it’s been hard to focus lately with Brandon skidding off the rails. I call him again. I keep expecting him to answer, but he never does; perhaps the mistake is thinking that he cares about his little sister more than his new friends. “Listen,” I say. Calm, I remind myself. “I’m not angry at you,” I lie. “I just want to talk to you. Don’t you think I deserve that? I haven’t done anything to offend you, have I? I haven’t done anything to make you hate me, so why are you acting like you do? I don’t want to come by there. Really, I don’t, because I know you’d hate that, but what else am I supposed—”

  “End of message—”

  “Fuck!” I leap up and go to the window again, grinding my teeth.

  The old lady stares up at me with her mouth hanging open. She’s one of those old ladies whose hair has turned completely white but whose skin has turned completely brown, giving her a look of stark contrasts. “You do know that your window’s open, don’t you, missy? There’s no need to swear on a beautiful day like today!”

  “Sorry!” I call down, repressing the urge to swear again.

  I’ll call him for the last time, I promise myself. Then it’s time for action. “Listen to me,” I say, pacing the room. “I know you’ve had a tough time of it since Mom died, but that doesn’t mean you should just throw your life away. Remember when we were kids and you caught me with that bag of cocaine my friend gave me and you made me throw it away? You
did that because you knew what was best for me when I didn’t. Well, now I know what’s best for you. So please just call me—”

  “End of message …”

  I return to the window. There’s a layer of dirt on the window sill that is begging to be cleaned, but it can beg all it wants. “Hey, ma’am!” I call down into the street.

  The old lady looks up. “Yes?”

  “I want you to know I’m really sorry for swearing.”

  “Oh, well, that’s okay. You’ve learned your lesson. Just be more careful in future.”

  “Yeah.” I give her my widest smile. “That was really fucking stupid of me.”

  I go into the bathroom where I can’t hear her ranting and raving, stand in front of the full-length mirror for a moment—there I am, with long dark pixie-cut hair and wide green eyes and the look of a perpetually startled deer unless I consciously make the effort to change my expression—and then go down the stairs to the hallway. I pull on my sneakers and walk across my uncut lawn to my beat-up old car. It’s time to stop tiptoeing around this problem. It’s time to do something.

  I drive to Brandon’s new house with a pit in my belly. This is what I’ve been dreading, but I suppose sometimes we have to face what we dread otherwise it’ll never stop scaring us. Yeah, right, like that isn’t just some justification. Maybe I ought to go wrestle a shark next.

  Brandon’s new house is a small two-bedroom on the other side of town, the once-red paint now discolored and flaking in the sun. The front yard is covered in my reason for staying away: around fifteen motorbikes, the big kinds, the biker kinds. Harleys and the like. The sorts of bikes men ride when they want to let other people know that they’re not messing around. I tie my hair back and practice my serious face in the rearview mirror. It takes some effort, but I can do it. It’s the face I use at work—when they deign to give me shifts—the same face I used in high school so that I didn’t stick out like a deer-faced thumb.

  I walk to the door quickly, afraid I might be too afraid if I take my time. My knock is firm. I make sure of that. From inside the house, rock music plays, shaking the walls, and men call out to one another. I can’t hear any words but it sounds like classic man-stuff, that jeering quality I’ve heard from catcallers and men in clubs.

  The door snaps open so suddenly, I take a step back. It’s not Brandon, but a tall, wide man with a red handlebar mustache and a shaved head with a tattoo of a winged woman across his forehead and head; the naked body stretched around to the back of his neck. “What do we have here?” He tilts his head at me, appraising. “Call me a son of a bitch, ’cause it looks to me like a fine piece of ass has just waltzed right up to the door the second I was gonna come out and smoke.” In one hand he holds a bottle of whisky, a cigarette in the other. “Color me surprised, ma’am, but you surely are one fine piece of homegrown Texan ass.”

  Fear seizes me, crushes my speech, tightens my insides. I open my mouth; I close it. Words escape me. The pressure to speak grows and grows the longer he stares at me with eyes the same shade as his mustache.

  “Little princess, you really that nervous?”

  Ah, little princess. He couldn’t have chosen a worse epithet if he’d tried. It was what my deadbeat dad used to call me, before he decided that calling me anything at all was too much of a pain in the ass and skipped town.

  “I’m not nervous,” I say, and it’s a miracle but I don’t sound nervous. I sound like I did back in high school when the cheerleaders would laugh at me and I’d shoot some insult back at them, despite my drumbeating heart. “I just don’t have the time or the patience to stand here having a debate with you about whether or not I’m here to service your needs.” I tip my head sarcastically. “Sir. So if you could be so kind to go and fetch my brother Brandon, I’d be very grateful.”

  He opens his mouth. Just at that moment a glass smashes, the sound so loud it overpowers even the blaring music. For a second, it’s like the smashing-glass sound comes from him. “Whoa.” He raises an eyebrow. “Goddamn. I never expected that to come out of you. Shit. You’re lucky I don’t hit women, sweetheart, otherwise you’d be laid out like a fuckin’ pancake right about now. So Brandon’s your brother? I guess it makes sense that his sister wears the pants. He ain’t exactly the pants-wearing type. No. No, ma’am. He’s more of the doormat type, ain’t he?” He grins maliciously. “I’ll get your brother if it means that much to you.” He turns into the house. “Brandon! Some slit’s here to see you!”

  Then he steps around me onto the porch, drops into the only chair, and lights up his cigarette. My big brother appears a moment later, wearing a leather jacket that is one size too small for him, his eyes as wide as saucers from all the drugs he’s snorted or smoked. His hair is normally brown and soft, but right now it’s shaved almost bald with a zigzag carving on top. He’s a short man, but he’s wearing biker boots with a heel giving him a boost to five foot ten.

  “Allison?” he hisses, glancing over his shoulder. He steps onto the porch and slams the door, looks at the other biker, and then nods to the other end of the porch. “Just … come on. What are you doing here? You can’t just show up like this.”

  I follow him to relative privacy. “I’ve left you several messages.”

  “Have you? Ah, shit.” He snaps his fingers. “My phone is dead. I can’t find the charger.”

  “But it rang to voicemail. It didn’t go to voicemail straightaway, like it does when it’s dead. It rang and then it went to voicemail.”

  “Maybe some phones do that.” He shrugs. “I’m not a phone expert.”

  “Cut the crap.” I step right up to him so that I’m looking almost directly into his eyes. He’s normally my height but those heels give him an edge. “We both know that you saw me calling you and decided that you didn’t want to speak to me, so you let it go to voicemail. So why don’t we start off telling each other the truth and go from there?”

  “Look. I didn’t see the calls, okay? I don’t know what you want from me. You can’t be here. Look around.” He nods at the bikes. “Do you really think that showing up here like this is a good idea? Doesn’t that seem ridiculously dangerous to you? Because it should. It sure should.”

  “Well, you’ve just explained why I have to be here.” I put my hand on his shoulder. When we were kids and he was going through one of his phases, I could put my hand on him like this and something in him would weaken. Whatever mad fury had captured him would dissipate, not that he’s ever gone through a phase even remotely like this before. “If you’re in a situation that’s so dangerous your little sister can’t come by to visit you, doesn’t that tell you that you shouldn’t be in this situation, either? Listen to that, Brandon. You bought this place with the cash Mom left you, right, in her life insurance? At least that’s how you paid the deposit?”

  “Yeah,” he allows.

  “And you’ve let them turn it into a crack den.”

  He takes a step back, hands raised like I’m attacking him. Maybe I am, though I don’t mean to. Controlling my tone is much easier with people I’m not related to. “Please don’t start on me with that melodramatic stuff. I know you like the melodrama, always have, but I don’t see how melodramatics are going to help here.”

  “Just listen to the way you talk!” I snap, grabbing him by the wrist. “You sound like some doofus college kid, not a hard biker or whatever it is you’re trying to be.”

  He snaps his hand away. The curtains behind him open quickly, somebody inside getting some light, and I spot guns laid out on the table and a whiteboard with the words Operation: Fuck Them Up written at the top. When the biker sees me looking, he shuts the curtains quickly.

  Brandon’s head snaps back and forth during the quick exchange. “You really can’t be here.” He takes me by the hand and drags me down the porch. I try to struggle but he’s stronger than me, always has been even if he is a twerp.

  “You’re in some real trouble,” I tell him when we’re at my car. “They’re not p
lanning a hunt in there, are they? Or some range-shooting? You know I’m not a huge gun nut, but I’m not an idiot. Something bad is going to happen if you stay with this gang. It’s simple, Brandon. Just get in my car and come back to my place: to our childhood home. Think of it like that. Coming home. And then we can call the cops and put all of this behind us.”

  His face twists. “You need to leave. Right now. I’m serious. This isn’t a joke. You can’t come by here and start talking about cops. Are you crazy? No, no. It’s time to leave.”

  A man the size of a bear walks onto the porch, with the hair to match. “Somethin’ wrong, Brandon?” he shouts.

  “If you don’t go now,” Brandon whispers, “you’ll get me hurt. And maybe yourself. Please, don’t be stupid.”

  “This isn’t over,” I tell him, climbing into the car. “Not even close. I love you and I’m not going to let you fuck your life up like this!”

  Chapter Two

  Granite

  Mr. Ivarsson sits opposite me in his big chair behind his big desk. The whole office is designed to make folks sitting in my chair feel small, I reckon. I’m in a stool and he’s in a throne. The boss is a tall pale man whose dad was from Iceland, but he’s got a Texan accent just like the rest of us. His eyes are blue and his head is shaved. He’s twice my age, at around fifty but the only wrinkles he has are from the sun. His neck and cheeks are red; he never tans, the boss, only burns.