EXCLUSIVE EXCERPT: Smooth Sailing

Excerpt

I parked my little, baby-blue Fiat 500 (satirically, but adorably, I’d named her “Baby Shark”) in my underground spot and grabbed my keys, primarily the hand-held Mace on my keychain. I flicked open the snap on the strap that kept the button covered, palmed the tube with my thumb on the button, took a look around through windows and mirrors, and only when I saw nothing, I got out.

I kept alert on the way to the parking level elevator lobby. I fobbed myself in. I called the elevator. I got on the elevator. I fobbed my floor. 

And then I let out a sigh of relief as the doors started closing. 

Only to have a man slip through. 

Then another. 

And another.

And a last. 

Suddenly occupying the elevator with four large, rough-looking men, I opened my mouth to scream and lifted the Mace to press, but the second guy through, a very tall, brawny man with lots of wild, wavy, thick blond-brown hair and a massive beard, came at me. 

Quick as a flash, he caught the wrist of the hand in which I was holding the Mace, and he redirected the aim away from him (or any of them). He then squeezed my wrist firmly, but not painfully, and yanked the canister out of my hand. 

Well, that was humiliating. 

And alarming. 

He then bellied up to me, forcing me to the back of the elevator. He dipped his head down. His dark-brown eyes locked to mine, nothing touching me except his hand still at my wrist. 

And he spoke. 

“You’re safe. We will not harm you. I’m Hugger. With me are Eight, Muzzle and Cruise. We share a Bosnian problem and we think we can help you out.” 

Oh. 

Well then. 

The elevator doors closed and we started to ascend. 

He let me go and stepped back. 

I cast my eyes through the men. 

Hugger was tall, but one of the others was taller, as in crazy-tall. The final two were also quite tall, one had a man-bun and a hint of a beer gut, the other one was just good-looking (as were Hugger and the crazy-tall dude). 

They did not look like the shiny-golf-shirt-and-slacks-wearing gangsters who drank lattes and kept an insidious presence in the courtyard. 

They looked like men who didn’t know what golf shirts were, and I would lay money down none of them owned a pair of slacks. 

“I’m a brother of the Chaos MC in Denver,” Hugger carried on as the elevator went up. “Eight and Muzzle are brothers of Resurrection MC. Also in Denver. Cruise is a local, and he’s Aces High.” 

“MC?” I asked. 

“Motorcycle club,” he answered. 

That explained the no-slacks-owning. 

“And what problem do you have with the Babić?” I asked. 

The elevator doors opened. 

The three other men filed out. 

I stood in the elevator with Hugger. 

The super tall one kept his hand on the door so it would remain open. 

“We doin’ this?” Hugger queried. 

“What does ‘this’ refer to?” I returned. 

“Talking, explaining, and us offering you and your girl protection because you by no means got that buttoned up,” Hugger replied. “They’re casing you. They’re figuring shit out. They’re making plans. And they’re gonna put them in play when they think they can get the job done without blowback.” 

Thus my need to layer concealer under my eyes due to missing sleep because I knew this exact thing was what was happening. 

I stared at Hugger. 

If he didn’t look so serious, he’d be cute. 

There was a lot of handsome under all that hair. 

So much of it, even all that hair couldn’t hide it. Straight, strong nose. Thick, curling, dark eyelashes. Full, ridged lips. 

But with all that hair, and his big bulky body, he was the kind of guy you wanted to tease you while you pretended it annoyed you, but you secretly loved it. The kind of guy who would chop onions beside you while you seasoned the meat. The kind of guy who would open his arms in invitation so you could curl up on his lap and he’d make you feel better just by engulfing you in him after you had a bad day. 

In other words, cute. 

He might not be into excessive grooming (or any grooming at all), but he was fit. He was wearing a Rage Against the Machine black tee, faded blue jeans and black motorcycle boots, but they were all clean. 

And he smelled of a hint of clove, a hint of sandalwood and the barest trace of citrus—warm, outdoorsy and fresh, which seemed to define him completely, even if I knew nothing about him.

A quick sweep of the other three said much the same thing (sans the scent, they weren’t close enough I could smell them). 

I made another important decision that day and stepped through the doors. 

Hugger came out after me. 

I stopped just outside and didn’t move. 

Neither did they. 

“There are cameras everywhere,” I told him (or them, but I directed it at Hugger). 

“We know,” he replied. 

“We’re having this chat here. I’m not letting you into my place until I understand what’s going on,” I shared. 

“Acceptable,” Hugger grunted.

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Wild West MC - Recommended Reading Order

(standalone stories with interconnected characters)