DOWN & DIRTY: ZAK
Dirty Angels MC Series, bk 1
by Jeanne St. James
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Blurb:
Welcome to Shadow Valley
where the Dirty Angels MC rule. Get ready to get Down & Dirty because this
is Zak’s story…
After
spending the last ten years in prison, Zak, former DAMC president, has a few priorities:
to reconnect with his “brothers,” to get drunk, and to get laid. Not necessarily
in that order. When he spots a stunning woman in the clubhouse and mistakes her
for one of the club’s strippers, those priorities get a bit skewed.
Sophie has no idea what happened to her life.
One minute she’s totally focused on building her bakery business, and the next?
She’s delivering a cake to the Dirty Angels motorcycle club’s “homecoming”
celebration for a member who just got out of prison. Little does she know
baking that cake will change the rest of her life, not to mention, make her a
target for a rival MC. Normally, Sophie wouldn’t be caught dead with a man like
Zak, a tattooed, ex-con, badass biker.
When a decades old territory war threatens to
rip them apart, Zak will do anything to keep Sophie, his club, and the town
safe. But being from two different worlds, the threat they’re under may not be
worth the risk.
Chapter One
A high-pitched buzz sounded. The magnetic door latch
released and with a violent push, Zak stepped out into the sunlight.
Not even six feet from the building, he stopped,
closed his eyes, flared his nostrils and inhaled a deep breath.
Smelled like freedom.
He opened his eyes, spun on his heels and raised his
arms to give the double middle finger salute to the guards watching him on the
cameras. He threw his head back and laughed.
Fuck them all.
His breath condensed in the frigid air and he wore no
jacket but he didn’t care.
Life. Was. Good.
A horn honked and he turned to see who it was. Though,
it wasn’t who he’d hoped, he wouldn’t gripe about it. A brother was a brother,
whether blood or not.
He picked up the small bag of personal items from
where he dropped it in his haste to flip the guards the bird and jogged to the
curb where his chariot awaited.
Diesel tossed him his leather cut, as well as a hooded
sweatshirt. After pulling the sweatshirt over his T, he raised his colors to
his nose and inhaled.
Yeah. His vest smelled like leather, smoke, booze and
pussy. Best combination in the world.
The patch was dirty and worn but still made a clear
statement. He was a fucking Dirty Angel and after ten years in the joint, that
still hadn’t changed.
This was his homecoming. And it would be his last one
because he swore to himself he would never go into that concrete box again.
Never.
Diesel, the club’s “Enforcer,” wore a huge grin when
they clasped hands and bumped chests. “Good to see you, brother.”
The man’s smile was infectious. “Same, brother. Been
too fuckin’ long.” He jabbed a finger at the Sergeant at Arms patch on the
man’s cut. “I see nothin’s changed. Still bustin’ heads?”
Diesel only laughed and moved around the hood of the
car to the driver’s side.
Zak yanked open the door of the classic Pontiac
GTO—Diesel’s baby after his bike—and slid onto the seat, holding his vest on
his lap like it was precious. Before climbing in, Diesel shrugged out of his,
turned it inside out and slipped it back over his shoulders.
You never wore your colors when riding in a “cage,”
and if you did, you turned your colors in. Because DAMC was a damn bike club,
not a car club. That was a lesson not to be forgotten. Zak smiled at the memory
of kicking some prospect’s ass for disrespecting the club by wearing his vest
colors out while in a car.
Good times.
As Diesel pulled away from the parking lot, the larger
man’s head swiveled to study him, but Zak wasn’t in the mood to talk about his
time inside so he said, “Let’s get the fuck outta here.”
“Sounds like a plan. Need to get to church anyway, everyone’s
gettin’ together for your homecomin’ celebration.”
Zak glanced at him in surprise. “Yeah?”
“Fuck yeah. Want to welcome home our President.”
Zak shook his head and frowned. “I’m no longer
President, D. Even I’m aware of that.”
Diesel grunted, then said, “That’ll change,” and
turned the key.
The throaty roar of the big block engine was music to
Zak’s ears. He couldn’t wait to get the power of his bike between his thighs
again. He’d missed it.
He’d missed the open road.
He’d missed doing shit on his timetable and not the
warden’s.
Even so, he hadn’t missed being the club president and
didn’t know if he even wanted the hassle anymore. He wanted to enjoy his newly
found freedom for a while. And being constantly saddled with club business
choked that freedom.
But as his gaze slid to Diesel, he didn’t think the
time was right to talk about it.
They had a party to go to.
Beer to drink.
He needed to reconnect with his brothers.
And, almost as important, he needed to fuck some
pussy. Because ten years was way too long to go without.
First order of business back at the club would be to
make his rounds. Second was to drain his clogged pipes.
And if it took more than one woman to do it? So be it.
****
When Diesel pulled the GTO through the gate into the
rear parking lot of the clubhouse, a sense of relief overcame Zak. He breathed
easier and felt himself automatically settling back into the old ways. He was
home. Really fucking home.
He’d noticed there were no bikes or cars parked out front
on the public side of the bar, The Iron Horse Roadhouse. Hawk must have shut
the bar down so everyone could attend the pig roast, which would be held out
back, the private side of the club bar.
“We got the girls to clean out one of the larger rooms
upstairs so you got somewhere to crash tonight. Stay until you get yourself
settled.”
Zak didn’t answer, he only nodded, amazed at the sight
of how packed the back lot was with vehicles.
Large turnout.
Anxiety crept through him, his stomach churning a bit.
He’d been gone a long time. A whole fucking decade. Things looked the same so
far, but he knew there had been changes. Hopefully for the better.
Club life hadn’t stood still waiting for Zak to do his
time. His fingers fisted in his vest as it laid on his lap.
Diesel parked directly in front of the back entrance
to the clubhouse—it was almost as if the spot had been reserved for him—and
shut the car off, not moving to get out.
Zak didn’t, either. Instead, he rolled his gaze up to
read the sign over the grey steel-metal door.
Dirty Angels MC.
Under that, in smaller letters… Down & Dirty ‘til Dead.
His nostrils flared as he sucked in oxygen.
This was his family. They would welcome him home with
open arms.
Well, they
would.
His dad and brother… maybe not so much.
He mentally shook that problem out of his head and
shot a look at Diesel before pushing the door open and unfolding from the
passenger seat. As soon as he was on his feet, he shrugged his vest over his
shoulders.
That was more like it. Now he was home.
He glanced down to where the rectangular patch was
missing, where it had been ripped free from the leather, just a few stray
threads left behind as a reminder.
He was no longer president. Someone else wore that
patch now.
More power to Pierce for taking on the headache.
Though, some of the brothers weren’t thrilled with
Pierce taking the head of the table. Even though they were all brothers at
heart, Pierce didn’t come from either bloodline of the two club founders, Doc
and Bear.
And Pierce didn’t always agree with all of the club’s
business staying on the upside, staying legit. He tended to lean toward the old
ways.
But the old ways had gotten way too many of them
locked up. And when a brother was doing time, that meant less money in the
coffers. One less member paying dues, one less member working in the
businesses.
And that was not good. Not good for the club in
general. Not good for the brothers who remained on the outside because they had
to step up to fill in the financial gaps.
“You just gonna stand there, or you gonna take your
ass inside?” Diesel prodded, making Zak shake himself mentally to get himself
out of his head, his thoughts.
With a smile to his brother, he kissed the tips of his
fingers then leapt straight up, tagging the club’s entryway sign with his hand.
Good to be home.
Diesel laughed, yanked open the door, and shoved Zak
past the threshold into the dim interior.
And then the sound was deafening. The hooting, the
hollering, the cat calls, the whistles, and “fuck yeah’s,” as Zak parted the
crowd like the Red Sea. The common area was packed. Familiar faces became a
blur as he fought his way through the back pats, shoulder bumps, forearms
clasps. His face began to ache from the smile he wore; it couldn’t get any
bigger, any wider.
He pushed his way to the club’s private bar and stared
at Hawk stationed behind it. The big man had his thick arms crossed over his
chest and a serious expression on his face. He looked the same as Zak
remembered, just ten years older. A few lines at the corners of his dark brown
eyes, his dark hair in a short Mohawk. That hadn’t changed, either. Both sides
of his head shaved, his bare scalp sporting tattoos.
His right-hand man.
Or used to be, anyway. Zak’s gaze dropped to the man’s
rectangular patch and was pleased to see the man was still VP.
But Zak knew that. He had been kept up to date for the
most part during his stint at the State Correctional Institution in Fayette
county. Most of the brothers had taken turns visiting when they could. Not that
Zak expected them to, but it was good when they did.
It took everything in his power not to leap over the
bar and grab the man only two years his senior into a bear hug. No matter what
shit went down, Hawk always had his back.
Through thick and thin. Maybe not true brothers, but
brothers all the same.
“Still as ugly as ever, chicken hawk,” Zak growled at
him. “Bet your hair is stiffer than your dick ever gets.”
“You give me limp dick just thinking about how many
salads you tossed in the joint.”
Zak realized how quiet the room became around them.
All eyes on them.
“What’s a man gotta do to get a damn drink ‘round
here?”
Hawk grabbed his junk. “Suck my cock. Probably good at
doin’ that now. Probably a pro.”
“Fucker,” Zak grumbled, struggling to keep a straight
face.
Izzy walked behind the bar and in between the two men
having a stare down. “Boys. Just kiss and get it over with. And then get the
man a damn drink.”
Zak’s eyes slid to Isabella. “Damn, Izzy, you’re
lookin’ good.”
“Anything with a pussy probably looks good to you
right now. But,” she put both palms on the bar and leaned toward Zak, “it
helped that I got rid of that dead weight.” She slapped a shot glass in front
of him and cocked an eyebrow.
“Jack.”
Izzy nodded then turned to grab the Jack Daniels from
the shelf behind the bar. “Call me Bella, Zak. I’m trying to erase anything
that reminds me of that rat bastard.” She poured him a double.
He raised the glass up to her in a salute. “Here’s to
freedom. For both of us.” Then downed the whiskey. The burn down his throat
felt good. Real. A reminder that he was now free and needed to keep it that
way.
“Amen to that,” she muttered.
But she did look good. Her wavy, long dark brown hair
went past the middle of her back. Her dark brown eyes looked guarded, as they
should with the shit she went through with her husband—now ex. Even though it
was chilly out, she wore a tight black tank top with the letters DAMC over her
ample breasts with her pink bra straps showing. A wide black leather belt
cinched her narrow waist, and her hips... damn, they’d widened out perfectly.
Grab worthy, hang on tight as she’s
bucking wild on your lap worthy.
But even so, he wouldn’t fuck her with a ten-foot
pole. And one reason was standing directly behind her, watching him check her
out. The other reason sidled up next to him. Diesel. Both men were brothers for
real. And both men were her cousins who now kept a close eye on her. Very close. And he certainly didn’t need
a double ass-kicking fresh out of the joint.
“Know it’s been ten years, but don’t even think about
it,” Diesel muttered near his ear.
Zak lifted both palms in surrender. “Wouldn’t even go
there.”
“Good.”
They seemed to be more protective of her now than
ever. And with good reason. He had heard what her ex had done to her. And he
understood them getting their hackles up when a male showed interest. Though,
she worked at The Iron Horse and he couldn’t imagine she didn’t get hit on a
lot. Her curves had matured over the last ten years and he had to admit she was
drop-dead gorgeous. He wondered how many asses Hawk and Diesel thumped because
of that.
Izzy shifted down the bar to talk to someone else and
Hawk stepped back up, pouring him another double then pouring one for Diesel
and himself. They clinked shot glasses then downed them in one swallow.
Zak slapped the glass down on the bar top and got
serious. “Anyone see my dad or Axel?”
He didn’t miss when Diesel and Hawk’s eyes met
briefly, a silent message, then their gaze broke and went back to him.
“See ‘em ‘round town, but haven’t had any real run-ins
with ‘em.”
“Guess they won’t be here tonight,” Zak said softly,
trying to fight the disappointment, but having a hard time keeping it from his
voice.
“You know how it is with those fuckin’ cops, Z,” Jag
said, walking up behind him and pounding him a welcome on the back. “They stick
with their own. They don’t wanna get dirt under their nails by fraternizin’
with us.”
Zak turned to his cousin, and they clasped hands as if
they were about to arm wrestle and then bumped shoulders.
Jag muttered, “Fuck that,” and wrapped his beefy arms
around Zak and squeezed him tight.
Zak thought he spotted a tear in his blood relative
and the club Road Captain’s eye.
Nah. Couldn’t have been.
Dirty Angels never cried. Even when they did.
And if they did, no one noticed or talked about it.
Ever.
One time a prospect made fun of a patched member who
got emotional and he ended up disappearing. Just like that.
Poof.
But then that was in the old days.
Even a hard-assed MC member shed some tears once in a
while. But, again, somehow no one ever noticed.
“Uncle Mitch and your brother have been scarce. When
the pigs show up here, for whatever reason they feel’s ‘necessary,’ they
usually send anyone but them. And from what Dad says, they’ve circled the
wagons ‘round Jayde since she’s come home from college. They don’t want her
gettin’ anywhere near the club or any of us dirty fuckers.”
“With good reason,” Zak joked. Or tried to. He missed
his little sister, too. The last time he saw her she was around fourteen years
old. His mother and she had sat in the back of the courtroom for his sentencing
and once it was over, he turned to look at them and they were gone.
Disappeared. It probably had been too much for them.
So, he didn’t blame them. And he tried not to take it
to heart that no one from his immediate family had ever visited him once while
he was at Fayette. He understood their desire to keep their lives separate.
Though, his grandfather would have been pissed if he’d
still been alive. The club had been his grandfather’s heart and soul.
Fuck.
He was supposed to be celebrating, not getting morose.
Zak cleared the thick out of his throat and said,
“Proud of you for gettin’ voted in as Road Captain.”
Jag dropped his head, breaking eye contact, and
murmured, “Nah, it was nothin’. Someone had to step up.”
“I’m glad it was you.”
Suddenly, he was body slammed from the back. Then
slammed again. He turned to see Ace, Diesel and Hawk’s father, and Dex, their
cousin and Izzy’s brother.
“Holy fuck, boy, you don’t look worse for wear,” Ace
boomed. “C’mere, you fucker.”
Ace pulled Zak into his arms and squeezed tight,
making it hard for Zak to breathe, but before he let go, he murmured in his
ear, “Thank fuck you’re out. Gotta get this club back on track.”
Zak schooled the surprise from his face before he turned
to Dex, who only smiled at him and said, “Fuckin’ A, brother. You’ve been
greatly missed.”
Zak’s lips thinned and he nodded. The back of his
throat tickled with unshed tears and he blinked away any evidence of weakness.
To cover up his emotions, he pointed at Ace’s patch
which read Treasurer, and shouted, “You assholes still trust this guy with our
money?”
Laughter surrounded him. Then he spun on Dex and
pointed to his patch. “Secretary? Who taught Dex how to read an’ write?”
Dex laughed, pounded him on the back and grabbed the
shot glass Izzy shoved at him. He lifted it toward Zak in salute and then
downed it.
Ace grabbed Zak’s arm and pulled him over to the side,
leaning in. “Left a message on your father’s phone to let him know you were
comin’ home today.” Ace shook his head, his face dropping. “Sorry, son. Didn’t
even get a text back.”
“To be expected,” Zak said, then gave him a reassuring
half smile. “Thanks for tryin’, though.”
Then a booming voice rose from out of the crowd. “Get
the fuck outta my way.”
Grizz.
Goddamn. It was going to get even harder to hide his
emotions once that old man got to him. The crowd of onlookers let him through
and he stopped about five feet from Zak, inspecting him from head to toe.
“You don’t look worse for wear,” Grizz echoed Ace.
“Hell, no,” Zak answered. “Was like Club Fed in there.
Couldn’t ask for a better vacation.”
“Boy, come give this ol’ man a bear hug.” And with
that, he opened his thick arms wide and Zak, with a smile, stepped into them.
“Fuckin’ A,” Grizzly mumbled and sniffed.
“Don’t you start,” Zak warned softly. “You start an’
I’m a goner.”
Grizz nodded and then shoved Zak away from him. Zak
caught his balance before facing the older man who was like a grandfather to
him. Hell, like a grandfather to most of the members of the club. He’d been
around forever. Zak couldn’t remember this club without him. His beard was longer,
bushier, and definitely greyer than the day Zak got locked up. But his light
blue eyes twinkled. He was still as sharp as a tack.
“Ten years in the slammer, son. You earned your wings.
I’ll get my ol’ lady to put ‘em on your cut. An’ get Crow to add ‘em to your
tats.”
Zak nodded to avoid creating any drama, but he didn’t
want the wings. On his cut, on his body, or otherwise. He wasn’t proud of being
a convict. A felon.
A jailbird.
And he didn’t need a permanent reminder of that,
either. But he kept that to himself.
“Okay, enough of this fuckin’ mushy homecoming. It’s
time to party like real men. Bonfire’s rollin’, pig’s turnin’, and there’s
plenty of pussy for everyone.”
Zak turned toward the bar and saw Pierce, the current
club president, standing on the polished surface, high above everyone crowded
around it. A collective shout went up at his announcement and the crowd started
filing out the side door to the courtyard where they had an outdoor pavilion,
picnic tables, and all the shit they needed to party like a club should.
More people patted him on the back as they passed him.
Some he knew. Some he didn’t. Some wore cuts, and a few of the women wore them,
too.
Ol’ ladies.
He wondered how many of the members were now saddled
with a ball and chain.
Fresh out of the box, he was going to make sure he
didn’t have any of the female hang-arounds dig her claws into him. When it was
warm enough to drag his bike out, he wanted no one on the back clinging on to
him. He had plenty of time for that later.
Now... Now, he was going to enjoy life.
But first, he was going to get shit-faced. Then get
laid. Or vice versa.
Author Bio:
JEANNE ST. JAMES is a bestselling erotic romance author who loves an Alpha male (or two). She was only thirteen when she started writing since it gave her an escape from teenage angst! Her first paid published piece was an erotic story in Playgirl magazine. Her first erotic romance novel, Banged Up, was published in 2009. She is happily owned by farting French bulldogs. She writes M/F, M/M, and M/M/F ménages. Want to read a sample of her work? Download a sampler book here: BookHip.com/MTQQKK
To keep up with her busy release schedule check her website at www.jeannestjames.com or sign up for her newsletter: http://www.jeannestjames.com/newslettersignup
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