DUKE: A Alpha Male Bad Boy Millionaire MC Romance (New Adult & Contemporary Romance) Read online

  “Are you gonna stop me from taking her?” My eyes harden, gauging the reaction from the man who’s raised her like an uncle.

  He sighs, pulls out a joint and picks up his Budweiser. “I’m staying out of it. My money’s on her though.” He pauses turning back to me, getting in my face. “I’m not gonna kick the shit out of you—out of respect for your old man. He was my brother. But if you fuck her over…” He trails off heading out back for a smoke.

  I smile sitting back in my seat. Shit, that old man has twenty years on me and he’s still built like an ox. But I could never raise a fist to him out of respect. He’s been her loyal protector since she was a girl. He kept her safe for me to find one day. So, I’m buying his ass all the rounds he wants.

  Word is when Shanna’s old man got sick a few years back, it was his wish for his daughter to follow her dreams of going to college. Meat made sure that happened. It seems Shanna is a good little girl who wants to run with a more wholesome crowd instead of embracing the legacy she was born into. The legacy of the club that her father founded with mine of living by its code, looking the other way on how we make our money, and never snitch. You keep your mouth shut.

  But Shanna, being the daughter of the Prez would’ve been either off-limits to any member or protected in case she was needed to be bartered in a deal like some sort of friggin’ arranged marriage to someone important in another club that Creed deals with.

  It’s some fucked up shit. No one gets it unless you are in the life, but this chapter of the MC isn’t what it used to be. It’s been broken apart by time, death, and the usual bullshit that happens in life. But our loyalty runs deep and the code we live by never dies.

  Meat’s been keeping an eye on Shanna for her father—keeping dirty men like me away from his ripe, young daughter.

  She can try to fight it; pretending to be someone different during the day by wearing cardigan sweaters and pearls because by night, she'll be wearing nothing but me. I want to dirty her up and make this good girl go bad.

  She doesn’t fool me.

  I see her.

  Right now, she’s moving her wide hips to the beat of the music—hips made to breed children. I shudder picturing her belly, round and swollen with my child. Breaking out in a devilish grin, I bring the cold beer bottle to my lips.

  Our eyes catch.

  Hers narrow at the heat I’m slinging her way.

  There’s a wildcat inside—dying to claw her way out. Despite, what she says—I know what she’s made of. Thank fuck, I decided to come here on a whim. But staying longer than I should have has stirred up forgotten memories and old loyalties. I’m nostalgic for all the summers when I rode dirt roads during the day and anything I could at night.

  But now, she’s all I see regardless if my eyes are open or closed. I watch as her spine stiffens, and her back straightens.

  Challenge accepted sweetheart.

  It’s war then and the hunter in me can’t wait to catch her. The club chicks, whose bras and panties I find littered on the handlebars of my ride does nothing for me but Shanna has an unforgettable face and a body that reduces me to a teenage boy.

  I haven’t even talked to her yet—uttered one word to the girl. A man like me probably scares the shit out of her anyway, not that Shanna would ever let on.

  She’s got grit, just like her old man.

  I’m nothing like the pansy-ass boys at her little clean-cut college whom she probably dates. I helped free the city of Fallujah and watched some of my friends fall—not making it back.

  I killed men.

  I came home.

  I don’t talk about the shit that I saw there—I can’t, even though it’s been over fifteen years.

  Instead, I put on my boxing gloves and pound the heavy bag at the gym until my fists crack and bleed.

  I’m one mean mother-fucker. I don’t make polite chit-chat. I tell it to you straight—with no bullshit. I don’t do the hearts and flowers bullshit. I’m honest. I’m an in and out type of guy until I come—then we’re done. But I make sure to leave all the ladies sated before dropping a kiss on their heads and softly shutting their doors.

  I work out for three hours a day lifting, punching, and running. Some men drink, others use drugs, me—my poison is working out until my body shakes. I push my physical limits, welcoming the pain because I deserve pain.

  I have battle scars, but I’m a survivor. Guilt eats at me every day because I came home while men better than me—did not.

  I don’t dream anymore.

  I wish I could.

  I only have nightmares where my nose is filled with desert dust and my ears ring from the sound of rapid gunfire while my body shakes from the vibration of bombs dropping.

  It’s been over a decade, but the remnants of war are something I doubt time will ever heal.

  Shanna’s hips swing back my way, and my thoughts are forgotten. She’s finally noticed that Meat and I are empty and in need a refill.

  Fuck—do I need a refill.

  I was so lost in thought—I didn’t even notice he came back. Bringing the bottle over she pours shots right in front of me giving me a close-up of her breasts spilling from her top. My nostrils flare catching the scent of lotion from her skin. She smells like roses and cream and dresses like a goddamn cock tease. Her tight ass clothing showcases her round curves that any red-blooded man would kill to own.

  She’s perfect.

  Unlike the stick models in California—their frail and bony bodies can’t fuck hard. There’s no flesh to pound into; no massive breasts that bounce from the force of you ramming them while they cry for more.

  I just know Shanna’s full-rack would bounce all over the goddamn place.

  They’re fucking huge—perfect for titty-fucking. I would probably come in five-seconds just from the sight of her huge tits in my face as she rides me cowgirl style. I wonder if her bare pussy would ride me or if its covered with soft, springy curls I’d run my fingers through searching for her nub. Her hair the color of chocolate, would spill around us as she comes. Her matching colored eyes would beg me to make her come again and I would.

  I’d make her come a thousand different ways if she’d let me.

  “Fuck,” I mutter under my breath, putting one hand underneath the bar trying to rearrange my junk that’s suddenly suffocating in my pants. I’m acting no better than the father I just buried.

  She flicks her hair over one shoulder, while her hips shake to the beat as she wipes the counter.

  What the fuck is happening to me?

  Women don’t control me like this. But whatever this is—I need to relieve it. Getting a woman into bed has never been hard, but I’ve never wanted to fuck anyone as much as I want to do her, even though she’s too young for me. But my dick says otherwise and if I don’t make him happy: I’ll have no fucking peace.

  A DROP OF sweat trickles down my back as I sway my hips to the beat and pour three shots of Bourbon.

  My feet hurt.

  My back aches for a pair of strong hands to massage its knotted muscles, and more than a few tendrils have escaped the confines of my ponytail.

  But I don’t care.

  As the chords from the bass guitar fills the air and Mike gets going on the drums the crowd gets wild.

  I grin.

  It’s another Friday night in the dive bar I inherited and even though I busted my ass all day—I feel fucking fantastic.

  This place is mine and the people in it—family.

  I might favor the cool elegance of my mother in looks, but the wildfire that runs through my veins is all from Pops, and in here—I let it take over.

  “I need four shots of Tequila, two Heineken’s and two Sam Adams for table seven,” Kim says, slamming her tray down on the bar near the waitress station. She practically had to yell for me to hear.

  I move from side to side inside the large rectangle bar that sits in the middle of the room. Stan’s Café had a reputation as being a biker bar for years, but ever si
nce my pops got sick and let me run the place—things have changed.

  I’ve worked hard to expand our clientele to include students from the local community college where I used to take classes before I got into Bradbury where I go now.

  Bradbury is a small, expensive private college an hour south and close to the border of Oregon and California. I am damn proud of myself for getting in just in time for sophomore year. I had to take a few semesters off to take care of Pops after his surgery, so I’m graduating a year later than I should—next spring.

  My degree will be paid for by my own sweat and determination. Most nights I work myself down to the bone after doing invoices and payroll all day. I love the business side of running a bar, but I like being out here in the action, with the people even more.

  Pops never wanted me to go to Bradbury because he thinks it’s full of snobby assholes.

  He’s right.

  But they are smart, snobby assholes.

  I used the skills that I learned in my marketing and advertising class to create ads and run the copy in local mailers and online.

  It was a success, and I pulled in the suits who work in the nearby business park for lunch specials and happy hour. I snort, remembering a conversation that I overheard one day about how they felt “cool” eating here. As if coming to my bar was like going on some kind of fucking field trip. One man was afraid to sit his ass down. As if it would somehow cheapen his suit if his body touched anything. But I pasted a smile on my face and crooned over them. I took their big, fat tips and put it straight into my savings.

  Those rich pricks are paying for my Ivy League education, and the inflow of cash was enough to renovate this place.

  I always had good grades, but never the money to afford much better than where I was at. That’s starting to change. Pops had a fit when he found out what I was doing. He hates change and liked his bar how it was. But it always has been my dream to take what Grandpop started to the next level.

  I felt sorry for upsetting him, but there’s not much he could do about it, since all the years he spent smoking a pack a day has caught up with him. He only has one lung left, and the other one isn’t that great. Hooked up to an oxygen tank for life now, he can’t easily leave the house.

  Emphysema is a bitch.

  Now, the bar and restaurant are mine to basically do what I want with it. But I don’t have the heart to tell Pops I’d like to sell when I graduate. As much as I love this place—I don’t want to pour drinks for drunk men and serve them fried food for the rest of my life.

  I have dreams that I’m determined to pursue.

  “Shanna! We need four shots of tequila.” I hear a deep voice shout at me from across the bar. I look up quickly, immediately averting my eyes when I notice the ruggedly handsome man who’s sitting at the bar watching me with eyes full of danger.

  He’s here again.

  This is the tenth time I’ve seen him in the past two weeks. He hasn’t uttered one word to me—he doesn’t need to when his eyes do the talking.

  There’s an element of danger about him that I find kinda hot. It’s weird that he just showed up out of the blue one rainy night and has been a regular ever since.

  I couldn’t help myself. I was curious. So, I asked Meat to tell me his name, and now I savor the sound of it on my tongue when I’m alone in the dark.

  Duke.

  Duke Masters.

  I’m tempted to flirt with him, maybe go out on a date or two, but he’s connected to the MC, and I have plans to get away from what’s left of the MC and start a new life in Santa Monica. It’s so different from the rain and fog of Springdale. With the money I could get from this place—I’d have a real chance to start over as someone other than Colin Flynn’s daughter.

  Even though the chapter my father ran has basically broken up; the loyalty remains. It’s unspoken that you are in for life either by birth or by choice and nothing can break that code but death. And I’m only twenty-three with no plans of dying anytime soon. For me, the only escape I can get is to live somewhere else, hopefully leaving the men that watch over me behind. They’ve always been there in the shadows—scaring boys away from asking me to out. I don’t even have many girlfriends since mothers never wanted their precious princesses to play with the girl whose father was a tatted-bad-ass biker king. When Pops was in his prime—sometimes, he even terrified me.

  I open the cooler grabbing the cold, bottle-necked beers, freezing when I catch Duke staring at my ass. The skin’s drawn tight over his cheekbones, his nostrils flare and his lips press into a firm line, as he slams his empty shot glass down.

  Sometimes I swear the man looks at me as if he owns me. I feel a blush heat my cheeks as his eyes shift down to my breasts—which are barely covered by my top. My nipples harden, pointing straight at him. His nostrils flare and then his eyes meet mine with a fucking promise so terrifying, I turn away before he can see how much it excites me. My pulse is racing. He is so fuckin’ gorgeous, like a dark devil and his eyes promise so much sin. Being exposed never bothered me before but when his eyes sweep over me, it feels like a possession.

  I like to give the men who come in here all the eye candy they want since everyone knows—I’m off-limits. Thursday through Saturday, I barely cover myself. Tonight, my racerback tank dips in the front showing a fair amount of cleavage, stretching across my tight tits. And tits—mean tips.

  No one gives me a hard time, and if I ever need help with a drunk who gets too handsy I have Federico, my beefcake bouncer, take care of them. Having him on the payroll is well worth the hit to profits every month.

  I feel hot eyes searing my back as I turn and pour the shots. I say his name in my mind again, Duke Masters.

  His name alone—makes my thighs quiver.

  I was a toddler when he left and don’t remember him at all. But my father’s regulars remember. They said that Dad was best friends with his father, during the early years of my childhood. They both started the MC together. I don’t know why he’s suddenly been coming around—I’m afraid to ask. I’m dead set on my plan to make it in LA and live a different life. If it’s club business, I want no part of it.

  The other chapters are not only still active but thriving. Now and then men wearing the Creed patch from out of state come in the bar when they are on a run up north to Canada. The big, bearded men full of tats scare the shit out of the suits when they tear ass into the lot one by one on their chrome machines.

  It’s bad for business.

  The two worlds don’t mix.

  But thankfully the men respected my wish only to stop by at night. At night, just about anything goes in here. There are plenty of dark corners and back halls with doors that open to the lot out back that borders the woods and it’s not unusual for me to see an “after party” going on after closing when I walk to my car.

  Some things you just can’t change. And frankly, I wouldn’t want to. Since Stan’s place opened, it’s been a place you can let yourself go, get wild and feel free without judgment. Lately, as I’ve been working, my eyes find those very dark corners, and I allow myself to imagine he hauls me over to one.

  Blushing again, I meet his eyes promising me the world, before sighing and looking quickly away. I’m focused on this place, Pops, and establishing a new life once I get my degree. Not a beast of a man with the devil’s smile and bulging biceps full of ink.

  Besides, I have a date next week with Spence. He’s in one of my business classes at Bradbury and the type of clean-cut, all-American college guy—I should be thinking about.

  But he’s only seen the straight side of me; I can never let him see my bad side. Because his Santa Barbara-stick-up-their-butt family would never let him run with a wild-child like me.

  One who grew up in a motorcycle club spending my days here playing darts and learning cards while women in bikinis and daisy dukes got fucked and high in the dark corners of this very room. But from their breathy moans, I could tell they all enjoyed it. The MC was my babys
itter and the education I learned from the men in it—rivals Bradbury for sure.

  “SHIT’S GONNA GET ugly real quick.”

  My eyes slide over to Meat’s. “Damn straight it is. If those drunk fucks even lay one finger on her—”

  “I know,” Meat says laying a hand on my shoulder pushing me down on the bar stool, “but they haven’t yet, so calm the fuck down.”

  “Christ.”

  I’m fucking worked up over the bachelor party that just walked in. My fingers tap the wood bar and my knees start to bounce. “They probably got hammered at the titty-bar on the corner of Dixon and Eighth.”

  Meat just shrugs and sips his beer, seeming calm and relaxed. But he doesn’t fool me. His eyes watch hawkishly as they talk all kinds of shit to her.

  “You’ve got the sweetest tits I’ve seen all night, sugar.” Some dumb-fuck says leering at her. She bats her eyes at him, eating this shit up.

  “WHAT. THE. FUCK? That’s it I’m going over there.”

  “No, you ain’t.”

  Meat’s heavy hand lands on one shoulder pushing me back down on the stool. “I don’t have enough liquid cash to make bail.”

  She leans over, cooing something in one of those pretty boys’ ear.

  Un-fucking-believable.

  My fists clench and I release the shot glass before it pops in my hand. Christ, they’re saying the same shit to her that I’ve been thinking for days, but never said out loud. A woman like Shanna, you treat with respect before fucking her into oblivion. You wine and dine that shit; treat her like a lady, not some fuckin’ pole dancer.

  My body stills, turning into the soldier I’ll always be. My eyes become cold and deadly as I watch them from across the bar. Sitting in the shadows, I wait for one of those pricks to lay one fucking finger on her.

  Just one.

  A thousand men couldn’t hold me back if that happens. Fuck bail money; that shit would be on. Men like these are a dime a dozen. Rich pricks flashing green billfolds thinking it entitles them to touch a woman.

  My Woman.