Zeke (Book 2), page 1
Zeke (Book 2)
Zoey Parker
Published by Sopris Page Press, 2019.
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.
Zeke: A Motorcycle Club Romance (Slayers MC Book 2) copyright 2017 by Zoey Parker. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission.
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Zeke: A Motorcycle Club Romance (Slayers MC Book 2)
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
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Zeke: A Motorcycle Club Romance (Slayers MC Book 2)
By Zoey Parker
I won’t take no for an answer.
THE INNOCENT BEAUTY must’ve missed the memo:
I own everything that walks in this bar.
She might have her hands full with the mechanical bull right now.
But by the time this night is over, she’ll be riding something else instead:
ME.
I don’t care if she wants to put up a fight.
I’m happy to fight her all night long.
On MY terms.
That means savage. Sweaty. And RAW.
One last thing: before I can get little Bailey bucking between my sheets, I’ve got business to take care of.
There’s a new gang in town showing me a hell of a lot of disrespect.
I’ll have to take care of them before I take care of her.
But believe me, princess.
Once I’ve handled the SOBs intruding on my MC’s territory, I’m coming back home to handle you.
Get ready for the ride of your life.
Chapter 1
Bailey
I’ve never felt anything like this pleasure in my life. Zeke’s fingers on my pussy, his rough voice in my ear, keep taking me higher and higher, but he won’t let me go.
I whimper as his rough, callused fingers circle my clit, moan as he fucks me with his finger. It’s so close to being enough; I want it so badly. He might be a rough guy, but his hands and mouth on me drive me wild in ways no one else ever has. The only thing I want right now is him inside of me, and I ride his fingers greedily. I’m so close, I’m so fucking close, but he takes his fingers away.
I’ve never wanted anything the way I want to come right now. So I break and give him what he wants.
“Come on, Zeke, fuck me,” I beg.
He growls and pulls away. I whimper again, ready to beg for his cock. But instead of unzipping his jeans and fucking me like I’m dying for, he stalks across the room to the door.
What the hell? My pleasure-addled brain can’t keep up.
Is this some kind of game to him? Was he just toying with me? I’m perched on his desk, entirely naked and helplessly aroused. The worst part is, I know with one look from him I’ll be right back in it. Is this payback for threatening to call the cops? I pull my borrowed shirt back on as my cheeks go red with humiliation. The brush of the cotton over my hard nipples makes me shiver, and I hate Zeke a little bit for doing this to me.
That’s when I hear the knocking. I scramble to cover myself, but Zeke opens the door and sticks just his head out.
“What?” He sounds pissed, as pissed as I am. The embarrassment recedes a little. Just a little. The arousal, unfortunately, doesn’t seem to be going anywhere. God, I want him. My juices are all over the desk, a humiliating and obvious sign of how desperate I am. I cover my face in embarrassment, but pleasure shivers down my spine regardless.
I can’t hear their conversation, just Zeke’s colorful cursing. Shit, this isn’t good.
The door shuts, and Zeke turns back to me, rubbing his hand over his eyes. The sex god I saw a second ago is gone, replaced with a hardened, weary man. My heart sinks, and my blood cools.
“There’s been an incident,” he says. The front of his jeans is still tented, but the gravel in his voice isn’t arousal.
“What kind of incident?” I ask warily. Maybe he’s bullshitting me. If he tells me he needs to go, like, organize the garage, I’ll kill him. He doesn’t get to do this to me and then just fuck off when it pleases him.
That would be too easy, though. And nothing about this night has been easy. His expression is too grave for that, and my stomach drops. The hope I’d been holding onto that it was just some minor club business vanishes.
“Looks like the gang that attacked us is on a spree.” He exhales, and there’s a world of responsibility and regret in the sound. “They attacked another bar.”
Desire still shimmers in my veins, but it’s been thoroughly iced over by worry. “What do you mean, attacked?” I don’t know what to do with myself, and so I cross my legs to give myself the illusion of modesty.
“Shot up. Maybe hostages. We’re trying to confirm.” He glances back at the door and frowns. “It might take a little bit to get all the details.”
Jesus Christ. Those poor people. How did this become my life? “Where?” I ask. It’s not a big town, and I can think of only a couple of places that might make sense as targets for some kind of biker gang turf war.
“Maynard’s Saloon. It’s one of ours, out on the highway.”
My heart clutches, and the bottom falls out of my stomach. I lunge off the desk for my purse, heedless of my state of undress. I’m pure adrenaline as I dig through for my phone and open my texts with shaking fingers.
srry babe out with Mims, were hitting maynards, u shld come
I’m struggling to breathe. But I shouldn’t jump to conclusions. Chelsea and Mimi are flaky; they could have gone anywhere. They could have left and gone somewhere else. Maybe Mimi was crying about her ex-boyfriend again, and they stayed in and drank boxed wine.
But what if they didn’t? Chelsea loves to party, and she loves Friday nights at Maynard’s. Says it’s always full of hot bikers who like to buy her drinks. Oh God, what if she was hurt, what if she was shot? I saw what Zeke was willing to do to Stinger. Would anyone intervene if she was hurt? Zeke said hostages, what if—no, it couldn’t be—
Zeke’s strong hands grip my shoulders, gentling and grounding me. “Bailey,” he says. “Breathe. Come on, nice and slow.” The voice that was driving me wild earlier now calms me down.
I pace my breathing with his, in and out, until I no longer feel like I’m going to fall completely apart. When I can speak again, I explain.
“Chelsea and Mimi like to go there sometimes. I think they were headed there tonight.” I swallow hard against the tears that threaten to overflow. I can’t fall apart in front of him.
To his credit, Zeke doesn’t offer me any false assurances. “No way to know until we know.”
I nod and tap out a text with shaking fingers. Hey, Chels, I heard there was trouble at Maynard’s. You guys okay?
“Okay, okay, I’m sure it’s fine,” I say, more to myself than to him. Maybe Mimi’s tempestuous on-again-off-again relationship with Greg finally yielded something good, and they’re painting their nails on Chelsea’s couch and drinking cheap Chardonnay.
Zeke helps me gather my clothes and get dressed. I’m so anxious and worried I don’t even have the spare energy to be embarrassed when he fishes my bra out from behind his desk. He turns away from me as I strip off my shirt to put my bra back on. The moment of privacy is a nice gesture, and he soothes me with his words. “My guys are looking into it; we’re going to get to the bottom of this and figure out what’s happening.”
His broad back looks so reassuring. Even in this terrifying moment, he’s unshaken. I let myself believe in his words, just a little.
My panties are still soaked when I pull them back on, but there’s nothing I can do about it. The reminder of my earlier lust is totally jarring against the sick, nauseating worry that permeates me now. God, while I was busy screwing around with a biker, Chelsea was maybe getting shot at. What the fuck. Still, I take a deep breath and pull my borrowed sweatpants back on, feeling a tiny bit more composed. My phone buzzes, and I sigh in relief. Chelsea’s inability to keep to a plan has never felt like a blessing before, but I thank my lucky stars for it tonight.
I open the text message, and at first, my brain can’t process what I’m seeing. My first thought is that it’s some kind of sick practical joke, that I’m going to kill Chelsea for putting me through this.
Then it connects, and it’s like my lungs are full of concrete, like my blood has frozen. It’s an image of Chelsea, her hands bound in front of her, gagged with a red bandanna. Her eyeliner has left black tracks over her cheeks, and her eyes are wide and frightened. My earlier fear is a faint shadow of the terror that grips me now. My vision starts going dark at the edges. I can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t speak.
A large hand covers the screen and takes my phone from me. My fingers are numb and unresisting. The floor seems so far away.
Zeke cups my face with his rough, callused hands. “Bailey, look at me. Right now.”
“Breathe with me; that’s it, good girl.” His thumb strokes along my cheekbones. I let myself sink into the touch. “In a few minutes, I am going to leave this room and go downstairs and get my boys, and we’re going to ride out to Maynard’s and get your friends and bring them back safe, okay? I promise you. I need you to breathe and keep it together and stay here and wait for me.”
The crush of panic recedes as my lungs expand and contract. I nod slowly. I realize I can move my limbs, that I’m not frozen in place. But my body still feels so far away. I don’t know how to do this, be strong through this.
“You promise?” Maybe it’s foolish, but I focus on that. I don’t know Zeke that well, but I do know he’s not a man to give his word lightly.
His eyes flash. “I swear to you, Bailey. Come with me. Let’s go downstairs.”
Somehow, I trust him. In spite of everything that’s happened tonight—or maybe because of it—I trust him to find Chelsea and bring her home.
I follow him in a fog, back down into the common area of the club. Men are milling around, grabbing helmets and putting on jackets. I catch the gleam of guns on a couple of them, and I avert my eyes quickly. This night has already held so much violence. I think again about calling the police, but if what Zeke says is true, any escalation would hurt Chelsea and Mimi first. More than that, when he promised to bring her back, I believed him.
I sit on the couch, numb to the chaos and preparations that surround me. People come and go, talking and shouting to one another, but none of it means anything to me. Zeke comes back a few minutes or a lifetime later and pauses before me, fully geared up. He’s got a pistol holstered under his arm. But it’s his eyes I focus on: their brutal determination. He’s going to keep his word.
“Good luck,” I whisper.
He nods. He turns without another word and leaves; there are no assurances he can make right now. Soon, I hear the roar of the bikes pulling out. That’s answer enough.
Chapter 2
Zeke
The rumble of my bike and the stretch of the highway in front of me is usually a blessing, but tonight is too grim for me to take any joy in the ride. The sky is dark above us. We’re a trail of headlights as we speed towards Maynard’s. My blood clamors for retribution, and I know my men feel the same way. But we can’t lose control—I can’t lose control. Because there are hostages, and if this goes south, they’ll get hurt. This whole situation has already escalated too quickly and too unexpectedly, I can’t risk another damn thing tonight. And that means keeping a lid on it.
But more than that—I made a promise to Bailey. I promised her I would bring her friends back safe, and I’m a man of my word. More than my promises to lead the club, more than my need to keep the peace, it’s my promise to Bailey that keeps my anger in check. And that scares me. I can still smell her arousal, still feel her kisses and hear her desperate little moans. My head is full of her, of her sweet body—and worse, of her tear-filled eyes when she saw her friend was in danger. It’s not something I’ve ever felt before. Nothing in my life has ever distracted me from my job, from doing what it takes to lead the Slayers. But one night with her, one frenzied moment alone, and all my careful control is coming apart at the seams.
I’ve got to focus. Whatever I promised Bailey, my first responsibility is to my club. I’ve got to keep us and our territory safe. If war is coming with the Bandidos, Bailey’s tears are going to be the absolute least of my worries. There are more people depending on me than just her, and that needs to be my focus.
We ride into the uncertain night. The only thing I know is nothing good can come of this.
It’s not that far to Maynard’s. Even from the outside, I can tell it’s a wreck. We park outside, but dread is already filling me. The windows are smashed, and from here all I can see is overturned tables and broken glass.
Jake and Emmett square up behind me, with the rest of our crew following behind. The door’s off its hinges, and we proceed with weapons drawn. My gun is a comforting weight in my hand after the craziness of tonight. Maynard’s isn’t usually that busy if we’re not in attendance, so I hope damage to bystanders was minimal. The damage to property is looking pretty bad, though. The place is destroyed—the floor is scattered with peanut shells and broken glass, and a few bullet casings mixed in. It smells of spilled beer and gunpowder and fear. No blood though, and no bodies so far. Small mercies.
“Cash’s gone,” says Emmett from behind the bar. That makes sense. But putting this down to a robbery would be the worst kind of stupid. This is a sign, a warning. Anyone with eyes can see that. The place isn’t torched, but it’s one step shy of it.
“Where the hell did they go?” mutters Jake at my left.
“Let’s keep looking around,” I say. It’s too early to come to any conclusions, and acting without all the information could be disastrous.
We fan out through the bar, picking through the wreckage and looking for clues. Right in the middle of the room is a red bandanna spread across the floor like a pool of blood. Of course. But it’s so easy, so obvious, and I pocket it uneasily. Something about this isn’t right.
Emmett disappears down the hallway to the restrooms. A minute later, there’s a crash and a high-pitched feminine scream.
“Z!” Emmett shouts, but I’m already moving.
Emmett stands in the doorway to what I assume is a storage closet, one hand extended and his gun pointed down and away. The scream came from a girl about Bailey’s age, still wearing her waitress apron with MAYNARD’S SALOON screen-printed on it. Her makeup is smudged dark over her cheeks by tears and her eyes are bloodshot from crying. To her credit, she doesn’t start up again, even though Emmett clearly surprised her. Her wide, frightened eyes dart to our guns, and we both quickly holster them.
“Opened the storage closet and found her,” Emmett mutters to me. “Hey, sweetheart, we’re not going to hurt you,” he says to the girl in a much gentler tone. He spreads his hands in a calming gesture like you would with a spooked animal.
“What’s your name?” I try to ask as softly as I can, but I feel completely out of gentleness tonight. Still, scaring her won’t help us any, even though I want to demand answers.
She sniffs and wipes at her eyes. “Gina.” Her eyes flick between me and Emmett, and then down the hallway behind us to the fire exit sign. “You’re not with them, are you?”
I pull the bandanna out of my pocket, and she flinches. “These guys, right?”
She nods. None of this makes sense. Things between the Slayers and the Bandidos have been bad in the past, but involving civilians is something else entirely. We chose the biker life and all the freedoms and dangers that come with it. This girl, Bailey’s friends—they didn’t make that choice. But it seems it was made for them. My blood boils. The sonofabitch who did this is going to answer to me.
“We’re not with them, no,” Emmett says softly. It seems to shake her out of her shock.
He offers her a hand to guide her out of the storage closet. She takes it carefully and lets him lead her down the hallway and back into the main room. He rights a chair for her and ushers her to sit, angling the chair towards the back wall, rather than towards the wreckage of the bar. I’ve never seen him so attentive to a woman. He’s usually the love ’em and leave ’em type. But by the time she sits down and has a glass of water in front of her and Emmett beside her with his notepad, she’s calmed down enough to talk.
It was early in her shift, quiet for a Friday, when some guys in red bandannas busted in. She can’t say how many—more than five, less than twenty. The patrons scattered, and some got out through the fire exit. The intruders fired a couple rounds into the ceiling and started wrecking the place. It was when they started taking hostages that she slipped away and hid in the back. She hid again when she heard us come in, thinking they had come back for her.
