Rev: A Motorcycle Club Romance (Marauders 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.

  Rev: A Motorcycle Club Romance (Marauders MC) 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

  Rev: A Motorcycle Club Romance (Marauders MC)

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Books by Nicole Fox

  Blaze: A Motorcycle Club Romance (Iron Crew MC)

  Grind: A Motorcycle Club Romance (Jagged Souls MC)

  Grit: A Motorcycle Club Romance (Vegas Vipers MC)

  Rider: A Motorcycle Club Romance (Seven Sinners MC) (MCs from Hell Collection Book 3)

  Breaker: A Motorcycle Club Romance (The Wylde Ones MC) (MCs from Hell Collection Book 2)

  Sinner: A Motorcycle Club Romance (The Smoking Vipers MC) (MCs from Hell Collection Book 1)

  Mailing List

  Rev: A Motorcycle Club Romance (Marauders MC)

  By Nicole Fox

  I’d kill for her – if our enemies don’t kill us first.

  She’d do whatever it takes to make it and get the hell out of this town.

  But she might’ve gone too far.

  My rival gave her an offer she couldn’t refuse.

  And then he did the unspeakable:

  He laid a hand on my woman.

  No one does that without paying the price.

  And touching Roxy is the last mistake that Buck will ever make.

  He’s started a war, and I plan to finish it.

  But my blind rage might doom us all.

  Because Roxy’s been hiding a secret from me.

  And when I discover the truth, all hell breaks loose.

  I once thought I had nothing to lose.

  But now I have a son.

  And I plan on surviving, so I can be the father to him that I never had.

  But doing that might cost me everything.

  Chapter 1

  Zane

  A shrill, high-pitched squeal cut through the sparsely-populated expanse of the bar.

  “Yo, Rex!” I shouted out, throwing an eye up from my drum kit. “You want to take it easy on that amp?”

  “Sorry, Zane,” said Rex, the vice president of the Marauders, my motorcycle club. “You know how it is with this old gear. Shit’s got all sorts of … personality, I guess.”

  Motor, another member of my crew, let out a snort.

  “I guess that’s one way to call it ‘old as shit’.”

  Rex stood up, his burly frame now dominating the stage as he put his hands on his hips.

  “You kiddin’?” he asked. “This shit’s vintage. They don’t make amps like this anymore.”

  “There’s a reason for that,” said Motor, his dark eyes two tiny points set in the middle of a wild red mane of hair and matching beard. “Because it’s crap.”

  Rex shook his head.

  “Figures that the dude who has to get the new fuckin’ chopper model every other year wouldn’t have an appreciation for the classics.”

  I reached for the half-empty pint of beer nearby on the stage and took a quick sip.

  “You guys planning on pecking at each other like a couple of damn hens all day, or are you actually gonna get this shit set up?”

  Motor and Rex stopped their little exchange and turned their attention back to me.

  “Sorry, boss,” said Rex, running a hand through his long black hair. “Gotta let the kids know what’s what, you know?”

  I flashed the men a half smile to let them know I wasn’t entirely serious.

  “I don’t know about you guys, but I’m just fucking ready to play tonight,” I said, standing up and taking a look over my assembled kit.

  The thing was a beaut. It was a gorgeous, simple five-piece set handmade from Norwegian spruce. I’d just bought the thing a few weeks ago and, between my obligations with the motorcycle club and the bar, I hadn’t had a chance to really put the kit to work. I was more than ready to smash the skins on stage; my hands were already feeling tense from not being wrapped around a pair of drumsticks.

  Rex jerked his chin up.

  “Hell, yeah,” he said, grabbing his guitar by the neck and throwing the strap around him. “Ready to blow the fucking walls off this place!”

  With that, he flicked on the power for the amp, slipped a pick out of the holder on his mic stand, and let rip. Lightning-fast licks filled the bar, Rex’s fingers moving so fast over the fretboard that they turned into a blur. He finished his little display with a hard, crunching power chord.

  “We’re all really impressed,” said Motor, shaking his head, a smirk on his face.

  “You should be, broham,” said Rex, taking his guitar off and putting it back on the stand. “That’s some pure goddamn skill on display.”

  “Now,” said Motor, “let’s see if you can do it again tonight when the bar’s packed full of screaming fans.”

  Rex let out a “psshh.”

  “Come the fuck on,” he said. “I’ve been fronting this band for the last three years. You think I’m about to get a little stage fright now?”

  “I don’t know,” I said after polishing off my beer. “When that chick in the front row last show flashed you her tits, you looked like you were about to go white.”

  “That’s because those were about the nicest tits I’d ever seen in my life,” he said. “I wasn’t nervous or some shit—I was in fuckin’ awe.”

  Motor snorted and laughed. “You looked like a damn teenager seeing his first pair. Thought we might lose you there for a sec.”

  I laughed as I walked to the end of the stage and took a look over the place. Amped, my bar, was one of the hottest spots in New York City, and I wanted to keep it that way. The bar was simply decorated— only a few neon signs advertising various cheap beers and liquors were here and there, along with a handful of metal band posters.

  The stage was the real centerpiece of the place. It was where all the up-and-coming bands in the city dreamed of playing. Tonight, however, the band was Revv—the group I drummed for with a couple of other guys from my MC. The lineup changed from time to time, depending on the schedules of the guys in my club. But it was always me in the stool behind the kit, and that was just how I liked it.

  A handful of bikers from other motorcycle clubs were seated at the bar, sipping their drinks and preparing for the night ahead. I let the other clubs come in here when they wanted—business was business, after all—but I had one strict rule above
all others that anyone who wanted to patronize my fine establishment had to follow: no fucking fights.

  I knew my clientele, and knew that if they loved anything, it was getting shitty drunk and throwing down with anyone who looked at them funny. But here at Amped, I didn’t cotton that shit. I’d been in this scene long enough to know that fights meant cops, and cops meant all sorts of nonsense that was bad for business. Anyone wanted to fight, they got told good and quick that there wasn’t any shortage of shitty dives where they could go and get their violence fix. Just not here.

  And speaking of which, right at the moment I strolled up to the bar for another drink, a familiar face strolled into the joint.

  “’Sup, shitheads?”

  It was Buck Colger, the president of the Gremlins, another MC in the neighborhood. He also had a bar—Boozehounds—down a few blocks. But while my joint was the place to be for music and beer, his was a sad little hole-in-the-wall good for little more than dirt-cheap piss beer and all the fighting you could handle.

  He was a tall, rough-looking cuss with a shaved head and a face crossed with ragged scars picked up from brawls here and there. Between his beefy body and smushed-up features, he always looked to be like some kind of English bulldog—the ugly one in the back of the cage that always got passed over for adoption. Buck was dressed in his usual ripped jeans, bulky combat boots, and black T-shirt with the logo for one brand of whiskey or another.

  I watched with disbelief as he waltzed in like it was nothing. He plopped down at the bar and barked out his order for a stiff whiskey. Once the drink was placed in front of him, he took a long, slow sip as he spun in his chair and let his eyes drift over the interior of the place.

  “Lookin’ good in here,” he said. “Kinda fuckin’ dirty here and there, but we can’t get all the details covered, I guess, huh?”

  My boots thudding as I walked, I approached Buck. His limpid gray eyes were locked onto mine, and I thought for a second he might just take a swing. But he knew better than to pull any shit like that in my joint.

  Instead, I reached over the bar, tapping on the sign that had “Banned Customers” written in Sharpie. My finger moved down and landed on a Polaroid picture taken of a drunk-as-shit Buck, his face scrunched up in a tongue-out scowl, two middle fingers raised.

  “You forgot about this, Colger?” I asked, putting my hands on my hips.

  Buck raised out of his seat just enough to reach for the picture. He yanked it off the wall and looked it over, a curious expression on his face.

  “When the fuck was this?” he asked, turning the picture around to get a better look at it.

  “Two months ago,” I said. “When I booted your ass out for getting drunk as hell and acting like a damn fool.”

  He snorted.

  “That doesn’t sound like me,” he said, shaking his head. “You ever known me to be anything other than the picture of proper fucking behavior?”

  I glanced over my shoulder and saw that Rex and Motor were watching the scene carefully, curious as to how I was going to play it. Same deal with the rest of the staff—all eyes were on me and Buck. One of the waitresses scooted by, and Buck gave her a whistle and pulled his hand up to give her a hard swat on the behind.

  But I grabbed his wrist before he had a chance.

  “What the fuck?” he asked, his tone one of shock, his eyes locked onto my grip.

  “I’m gonna say this once, and I’m even gonna be real nice about it: get the fuck out of my bar, and don’t come back.”

  Buck rolled his eyes as I let go of his wrist.

  “Come on, man,” he said. “You’re really gonna kick me out of here for some shit I pulled two months ago? Get the fuck out of here.”

  “You want to see how serious I am, then keep that narrow ass of yours right on that seat. See how that works out for you

  Buck, now finally realizing that I was serious as a goddamn heart attack, narrowed his eyes.

  “You know, Zane,” he said. “You think you’re so fucking cool with your goddamn bar and your goddam band, but you’d be real wise to watch your back. It’s a real short drop to the bottom, if you get my drift.”

  “You done?” I asked. “Or you got anymore empty threats you want to throw my way?”

  Another snort. Then Buck’s hand shot out. My hands clenched and my body tensed, ready for a fight. But instead of his hand moving towards me, it reached for the whiskey. His eyes locked onto mine, Buck tossed back the rest of the booze and set the drink down onto the bar with a hard thunk.

  “You’re lucky I don’t feel like getting my hands dirty,” he said.

  “Why don’t you hightail it back to that shithole of yours, Buck?” called out Motor from the stage.

  Buck’s expression flashed murderously for a brief moment. I quickly looked over my shoulder towards Motor and held up my hand, making it clear that this was to be the end of the back and forth.

  “See ya around, Zaney,” Buck said.

  With that, he wiped his mouth with the back of a tattooed hand and left. Silence hung over the bar for a brief moment.

  “Back to work, all,” I said. “We got a fuckin’ show to start!”

  Affirmative sounds shot up from the staff and soon everything was back to normal. As I headed back to the stage to take one last look over the gear, I considered Buck’s words. I knew he wasn’t just blowing smoke—a man like him held grudges for as long as it took. Things were gonna get hot between him and me, and I knew I needed to be ready.

  But that was life—between the bar and the band, it was one damn thing or another. I wouldn’t change a damn thing, however.

  The next hour passed in a blur, and soon, Amped began to fill with people eager to see the show. The staff operated like a well-oiled machine, and Rex and Motor and a few other members of the Marauders were chilling with me backstage. Beers were drained, shots were taken, and we were all ready as shit for the night ahead.

  Finally, one of the staff members stuck her head into the green room.

  “You guys ready?” she asked, a big smile on her face.

  “Sure as shit,” I said, standing up.

  “Then you’re on.”

  Rex, Motor, and I took one last round of shots with the rest of the MC before heading out the door. The roar of the crowd was almost deafening, even in the hallway leading to the stage. By the time we strode out onto it, the noise had reached a fevered pitch. Amped was packed, and every one of the boys and girls in the audience was ready for us to start.

  I plopped down into my seat, cracked my knuckles, and grabbed my sticks. Motor threw on his bass, and Rex strapped on his guitar.

  “You all ready to fuckin’ rock?” called out Rex, his mouth only inches from the microphone.

  The cheers from the crowd made it clear what they wanted. I clacked my sticks to three, and the music began with a deafening blast.

  Chapter 2

  Roxy

  “Ah, shit!”

  The speed bump sent my cheap car into a harsh lurch, causing coffee to slosh over the rim of the cup and onto my legs. Luckily, the drink had long-gone lukewarm. But that didn’t stop it from covering the list in my other hand in a big brown—not to mention wet—stain.

  I pulled over onto the side of the road and wiped myself off with the towel I kept under the driver’s seat from just such occasions. Once my legs were clean, I did my best to shake the coffee off of my list.

  “Okay,” I said out loud, squinting my eyes and trying to make out the name of the next bar on my great job hunt. “We’ve got … Amped.”

  A knot tied in my stomach as soon as I’d spoken the name out loud. Amped wasn’t just any bar—it was the bar. No rock band in this city could come even close to making it without playing on the stage at Amped, and my band, Vampire Hideaway, was no exception.

  My very desperate goal today was to find a waitressing gig at one of the bar venues in town. So far, my luck had been as bad as it got. All I wanted was a gig at a joint where I could slin
g some drinks, listen to some live music, and maybe get a gig for my own band. But so far, every place I’d applied had taken a look over my experience and decided right then and there that it wasn’t enough.

  One rejection, right after the other. It was all starting to remind me of the miserable situation of my love life. But I wasn’t deterred. I knew that the life of a musician was all about staying strong and pursuing your dreams, despite what anyone else said. So, with a new burst of determination running through me, I pulled back onto the road and in the direction of Amped.

  A spot opened up just as I arrived, and I was more than ready to take that as a good omen. I slid into the open space, killed the car engine, and took a deep breath. Taking a glance over at the brown-stained piece of paper with the bar list, I realized with a mild shock that I was getting near the bottom. I had to find a job, and I had to find one fast.