Biker Daddy Read online

  Table of Contents

  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

  More Stormy Night Books by Kara Kelley

  Kara Kelley Links

  Biker Daddy

  By

  Kara Kelley

  Copyright © 2018 by Stormy Night Publications and Kara Kelley

  Copyright © 2018 by Stormy Night Publications and Kara Kelley

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Published by Stormy Night Publications and Design, LLC.

  www.StormyNightPublications.com

  Kelley, Kara

  Biker Daddy

  Cover Design by Korey Mae Johnson

  Images by Shutterstock/FXQuadro, Dreamstime/Marsimo, and Dreamstime/Dary423

  This book is intended for adults only. Spanking and other sexual activities represented in this book are fantasies only, intended for adults.

  Chapter One

  Drew

  Drew looked up from his school sketchbook, the stench of the alley making his stomach roll, and glanced at his father, AKA Trigger or Prez, across the street. His father held some dude’s shirtfront, probably scaring the shit out of him. He could have been a dealer, a junkie, or a pimp, but whatever he was, he owed the Grinders something.

  Just another day in paradise, Drew decided and rolled his eyes before returning to his drawing. He leaned the book against the handlebars of his dad’s Harley and made a swooping motion with his pencil under the yellow glow of the street lamp. The line was bold and swift but so was the river he was drawing.

  He was good, and not just for a twelve-year-old kid either. His art teacher said Drew had a talent that he’d never seen in a lifetime of teaching. The words had made Drew’s chest flutter with pride a moment before the promise of hope evaporated, taking his pride with it. He’d never be an artist. He’d never be anything other than a biker and for now that meant he ‘kept six’ or lookout for the Grinders. That was his life. He was the youngest member of the Skull Grinders MC, destined to take his father’s place as president one day and no one got out of the Skull Grinders unless they were in a body bag.

  Drew glanced up again, hoping the guys were done because he had homework and his top rocker and one percenter patch wouldn’t get him out of detention, but his heart jumped into his throat at the sight.

  His dad had a gun pressed to the dude’s temple. Drew swallowed, almost choking as his mouth dried. The guy had his hands up, begging, blubbering pleases and promises to do better. The look on his face was so fear-filled, Drew’s own gut quivered. Drew’s instinct was to stop his father. He hated the way the big man was nothing more than a bully, but when a flicker of movement caught Drew’s eye, he yelled out instinctually.

  More movement in the alley alerted Drew that a young boy was following several steps behind the man who had caught his attention, and before Drew fully realized what was happening, the man rounded the corner and was shot to the ground. A guttural shout of pain ripped from the man’s throat as he clutched his chest and fell, the bag of takeout he’d been holding spilling out beside him. The sound of the gunshot registered milliseconds later, loud enough to make Drew’s ears ring. Drew turned his head slightly, and his eyes widened in horror as he saw his father holding the gun, a look of pure satisfaction on his dad’s face.

  Tears pricked behind Drew’s eyes and he glared at the still figure on the ground. The little boy stood frozen, hidden from everyone’s sight but Drew’s, staring at his father. A dark spot grew at the crotch of the boy’s pants.

  “Nosy shithead.” Drew’s father spat the words at the man lying on the ground as if they were something vile on his tongue, and they echoed off the brick and pavement.

  His dad had shot an innocent man and it was Drew’s fault.

  “You got a real sharp eye, kid.” His dad spun and walked casually back to the man his MC brothers were roughing up. Bile rose in Drew’s throat and his sketch pad dropped from his trembling fingers, fluttering beneath the Harley’s back tire. He ran for the bleeding man, sliding on his knees at the last second, scraping denim and flesh across the pavement. The others were too busy to notice as he pressed his hands over the bleeding chest wound.

  “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to. Please don’t die.” Drew’s voice was a high-pitched whisper that he barely recognized. He looked at the boy. His pants were wet down both legs now. He was no more than five. “Run!” Drew’s eyes darted behind him where his father was still busy. “Run, kid, run!”

  The man tried to speak, looking frantically at his boy and Drew leaned closer, hearing nothing but a gurgle escape his blue lips.

  “I’ll make sure he’s safe,” Drew said, figuring the man was worried about his son.

  Drew stood, his glassy eyes finding his father again. His father’s gun, pointed at the guy he’d been threatening, rang out and that man fell too. A lifeless lump and a vacant stare as the dead man’s head lolled to the side. Drew’s gut rolled and his skull felt like a balloon filled with helium. Tears fell from his eyes as he looked back down the alley.

  The kid hadn’t moved. Drew jogged to the kid, grabbing his arm and shoving him behind a dumpster. He put his finger to his lips to tell him to stay quiet. The boy, wide-eyed with terror, nodded. Drew stared for a moment at the bloody handprint on the kid’s arm where he’d grabbed him.

  If Drew hadn’t yelled out, the man might have lived and this boy might not have been traumatized—he might have still had a father. Drew whispered an apology to the kid and went back to the father, holding his hands over the wound again, before anyone noticed where he was.

  The man’s lips formed the words ‘thank you’ and then he was gone. His eyes were vacant as Drew hovered over him, holding pressure on the bloody hole. Panic welled inside him. The guy was dead and his child, so young and innocent, had seen everything.

  “Is he dead, kid?” Drew nodded at his father’s question, looking at his hands covered in sticky blood. “Come on.”

  “Hey, I got his patch name, Trigger. Reaper… the kid’s just like a fucking reaper sending them off to the other side.”

  Drew didn’t move; his eyes were frozen on his hands. His bloody palms.

  “Kid, we gotta move it.” Sirens called out in the distance. “He did good, didn’t he?” his dad said and Mauler, the vice president, made an agreeing grunt. Dingo, his sergeant at arms, howled and barked, but Drew was too numb to move. A family had been destroyed. Somewhere someone was waiting for her husband and kid to come home with dinner.

  “Jesus, Trigger. We gotta go. I’m not going down for murder,” Dingo said, making Drew look up. His father walked his bike to Drew.

  “He’s earned a drink tonight, eh, boss? Somethin’ strong so he’ll grow some hair on his balls,” Mauler said with a chuckle but before Drew could protest, his father grabbed the scruff of his jacket and yanked him to his feet.

  “Get on, Reaper,” he demanded, his eyes showing impatience. “And wipe the goddamned tears from your face. You’re acting like a fucking pussy.”

  As they sped off, Drew pressed his face into the back of his fat
her’s leather cut and ignored the loud roar, vibration, and the ruckus of laughter and hoots as they outrode the law.

  He didn’t want a drink. The only things he wanted were for the two dead men to be alive again. And for him and that kid to have normal lives.

  * * *

  Drew shot up from the couch, sweat coating his entire body. Hating the recurring nightmare he had at least once a week, Drew threw his legs over the side in frustration and rubbed his bearded face. Goddammit. He needed a drink. Leaning his elbows on his knees and resting his face in his hands, he fought to ease the jitters the nightmare had left. He’d done his time. Drew had served four years in a youth offender facility and had done two more of parole. But no matter how much penance he’d done, no matter how illogical it was to feel responsible when he was only a kid, he’d never be free of the guilt.

  Drew rose, looking at the clock. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep but he hadn’t slept more than an hour the night before. Drew stretched his long body before yanking on a pair of black jeans and pulling a black Metallica t-shirt over his head. He shoved his hands through his shoulder-length hair and grabbed the plain leather cut off the back of his kitchen chair.

  Shoving his feet into his black, mud-crusted biker boots, he headed for his Harley with only one thing on his mind—rot-gut whiskey. He could afford better, but he didn’t deserve it.

  As he started the bike, the rumble of the easy rider filled him with one of the few pleasures he allowed himself, and it made him close his eyes a second before he drove off. There was nothing like having a hog between your thighs, except maybe a woman’s mouth, but today that didn’t interest him. Bad whiskey, straight up, with nothing to cool the burn from his gullet.

  The only biker bar in the small town of Fell was mostly empty at just past two on a Wednesday afternoon, which suited him fine. He had no more interest in company than he did a picnic in a field of daisies.

  “Fitz,” Trevor, a part owner of Last Resort Bar and Grill, said with a nod as Drew clomped into the dimly lit establishment. “What’ll it be?” The people of Fell only knew him as Fitz since he’d changed his name to Andrew Fitzer after leaving the Skull Grinders MC.

  “Ten High, straight up.” Drew threw himself onto a stool and ignored the grimace on Trevor’s face.

  “How you stand that shit I’ll never know.” Trevor shook his shaved head and poured two fingers in a glass. Drew waved his hand for more before slumping against his forearms on the bar and hitching his booted foot on the railing of the stool.

  “You sell it,” Drew answered with an irritated sigh.

  “Only because you ask for it, and I’m guaranteed to empty the bottle weekly and the Iron Code appreciates your business.” He slid the drink to Drew. The Iron Code, the local MC Trevor was a patched member of, was the other part owner of the bar. “You should choose a top shelf in honor of Ray today.”

  Drew lifted the glass and saluted before taking a liberal gulp. He clenched his teeth, hissing as the burn turned his gut to lava. Thinking of Ray, the man who had unofficially adopted him after he’d run away from the Skull Grinders, heightened the fire in his belly. He still couldn’t believe Ray was gone.

  “Ray didn’t drink, so if this drink was in honor of him pushing up daisies, I’d be slinging back milk.” He shook his head. “Fucking chocolate milk.”

  The thirty-something biker with the road name Gunner, for his time in the military, chuckled deeply and put the Ten High back on the shelf. Drew admired his cut with the Iron Code patch on it. They weren’t a one-percenter club like the Skull Grinders and although they were often rowdy and toed the law at times, especially when it came to keeping justice in their town, they did more good than harm. They were the kind of MC that Drew could understand the appeal of. They were a brotherhood that had each other’s backs—a family.

  “Any action I should know about?” Drew asked as Trevor swiped the bar with a cloth. He asked every time he came into Last Resort. At Drew’s request, Trevor kept an eye out for any MC members coming into town. Trevor didn’t know which club Drew was watching out for or why and he didn’t ask. Drew sure as hell wasn’t offering either.

  “I wasn’t going to tell you this until after Ray’s funeral, but Loki was on a poker run and a couple of Skull Grinders were at one of the stops showing your picture around.”

  Drew’s fist tightened beneath the bar. He’d been looking over his shoulder for a decade and had never been mollified by news that they hadn’t gotten any closer and this was why: Drew knew one day they’d catch up with him.

  “Don’t worry, he didn’t say a thing and none of the other Iron Code members would either. You know Loki wants you as a prospect. Ever since you fixed up his bike, he’s been bugging me about it. You turned that piece of roadside shit into a highly coveted machine.”

  Drew nodded, relieved that he hadn’t been found, but still edgy at how bold the Grinders were getting in their search.

  “Hey, Fitzie.” A bleached blonde with blood-red fingernails and a matching fringed leather skirt leaned close. The smell of her cheap-ass poison perfume made his eyes burn like his gut. Her low-cut shirt showed off too much of her sunburned, freckled cleavage.

  “What do you want, Layla?” There was nothing friendly about his gruff voice, but Layla only giggled and ran a red talon across one of his fully tattooed arms. He’d done some of them himself and she was always fawning over them. She wasn’t really looking at them then though. She was looking at Trevor with a taunting gleam in her eye. Drew glanced between the two with narrowed eyes.

  “Just thinking you might want a little company. My roommate’s out.”

  “He’s your son, not your goddamn roommate and no, I don’t want any fucking company.”

  “Sheesh, you don’t have to be so rude, Fitz. It’s not like you haven’t warmed my bed a hundred times.” She leaned against the bar, ran her hand up his arm to the bicep, and rolled her eyes playfully.

  Drew’s eyes found the bottle of Ten High and focused on it, but he didn’t fail to notice the flicker of discomfort on Trevor’s face as his eyes slid by. The sight of Layla made Drew sick, but the look in Trevor’s eyes made his gut sink. His hand tightened on his glass, his fingertips whitening.

  “Three, Layla, three fucking weak moments. Three.” He held up his long paint- and grease-stained fingers to aid his point. “Go home and clean the beer bottles and hash stink from your trailer before your son gets home.” His jaw ticked at the thought of her six-year-old, Brent.

  Trevor started slamming shit around behind the bar, but Drew ignored it, lost in thought.

  Drew had woken up after his final weak moment to find the boy sitting at the shitty Formica table that doubled as his bed, overloaded with ashtrays and beer cans. His sweet face had been crunched in concentration and his tongue sticking out as he colored on the inside of a pack of cigarettes. Some shit cereal with zero nutrition was getting soggy beside him.

  It had been like seeing himself at that age. He’d stayed, made the kid a real breakfast, and taught him a bit about drawing, but then he’d left, getting out of Layla’s filthy trailer before she got her lazy ass out of bed. He dropped by often to check on Brent, and when his mother was shit-faced he’d take him to have dinner at the diner and then to the cliff house to paint, but that was as far as things had ever gone between Layla and him.

  “Asshole,” Layla spat, letting her hand fall from his arm, and waved to Trevor for a beer. Trevor growled as he slammed a can of Coke on the bar.

  “Get home and clean up for your kid, Layla, or this’ll be your last drink here ever.” Trevor’s hand flexed when she huffed, but she nodded.

  “Fine.” She grabbed the can, mumbling, “You’re both assholes.”

  Drew took another swig of whiskey. That I am, Layla, that I am.

  “Don’t you pick up the kid from school in an hour?” Trevor crossed his thick arms, staring Layla down. Drew knew Trevor looked out for the kid too.

  “He ain’t fuckin
’ yours, Gunner, so mind your own business.”

  Drew scratched his beard, watching the bartender’s teeth grind. Perhaps there had been a possibility Brent was Trevor’s, but Layla had fingered some guy from the next town over who’d been unfortunate enough to stop at the diner where she worked one night after having one too many. He was too decent to ask for a DNA test, but not decent enough to do anything more than pay child support. He never saw the kid.

  “This place is my business,” Trevor said and leaned one of his bulky arms on the bar so he could get closer to Layla. “No alcohol for mothers driving to pick up their kids is a company policy. It’s also a club policy.” His long finger stabbed the bar top as he made his point. Drew knew Layla had wanted to be part of the Iron Code for years, and when Trevor refused to give her his property patch, she attempted to become one of the club whores. That didn’t go over well either and she’d been out in the cold, nothing more than a hang around.

  “I’ll just go somewhere else.” Layla flipped her hair and headed for the door, wiggling her ass.

  “Don’t fuck with me, Layla. I’ll call child services.”

  Layla gave Trevor the finger. “Try it, that asshole already did.” She pointed at Drew and walked out, lighting up a cigarette as she did. Drew shook his head.

  “You did?” Trevor’s brows rose, and Drew mentally chuckled at the man’s surprise.

  He’d done his best to fly under the radar over the years, to keep his good deeds—however insignificant—as quiet as his sins. If he had any reputation at all, it was for laying low and not getting involved.

  He was sure Trevor would be shocked to know that Drew had donated millions of dollars in commissions to Victims of Violent Crimes, the charity he’d founded when he’d sold his first piece of artwork six years ago when he was only twenty. But not nearly as surprised as he’d be to learn that Drew was the real artistic genius in town, and that he’d only hidden behind his friend and mentor, Ray Moore, to keep his father and the other Skull Grinders from ever finding him again.