Broken hearts, p.1
Broken Hearts, page 1
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Broken Hearts: A Motorcycle Club Romance (Rippers MC Book 1)
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
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Broken Hearts: A Motorcycle Club Romance (Rippers MC Book 1)
By Nicole Fox
Either she gives me a baby, or I break her heart.
I NEED AN HEIR BEFORE the biker life takes me to the grave.
There’s no one in my life up to the job...
Until fate brings me the perfect woman.
And I get ready to break her completely.
AXEL
I’ve lived and breathed the MC life for years.
Whatever it took to push the Rippers MC to the top, I did it.
No questions asked.
I killed men who deserved it.
Took women who begged for it.
Dominated any and all who dared challenge me.
But the one enemy I can’t kill is Father Time.
And the motherf**ker is making himself felt.
I want to make something that will last.
A legacy.
And that means one thing to a man like me:
I need a son.
MILLIE
It was my fault.
I was on the phone with my crazy ex while I was driving.
I didn’t see the biker until it was too late.
But I never could have imagined what this one accident would lead to:
The craziest request I’ve ever heard.
The outlaw doesn’t want money, or my insurance info.
He wants to use my body to give him a baby.
And he won’t take no for an answer.
Chapter 1
Axel
I roll up on the red light, cursing under my breath. This light takes forever, and I’ve got shit to do.
I gun the engine of my sweet baby and look over at the city park to my right. This one is always filled with kids and families and I look every time I’m stuck here, always equal parts irritated and fascinated by the dads who are out bonding and playing with their kids.
My old man was not the play-at-the-park type. Nope, he was more of a “get your ass out on the football field type.” He was all about discipline and hard work and overt displays of masculinity. He worked in a factory from the time he graduated high school, drank beer, and expected women to do women’s roles and men to do men’s roles.
I can probably count on one hand the number of times he ever showed an ounce of emotion about any damn thing. The most notable was when I was six or seven and Art Modell announced he was moving the Cleveland Browns to the East Coast. My dad cried like a little bitch; said he’d never watch another NFL game again.
’Course, he’s the Patriots’ biggest fan these days, but whatever.
Me, I find myself cutting by this park more and more these days. I used to park my bike and sit on the benches, pretend I was reading the paper or some shit, but people tend to get weirded out by me, especially when I linger in any one place too long. I’m too big, too tattooed, too mean to look like I’m up to anything other than trouble.
Thing is, I really like kids. I’d love to be a dad, and not a hard-ass one like my pop. No, I’d totally be that dad in the park, too big to go down the slide but doing it anyway for a laugh. I’d love to have a woman knocked up, big belly, looking gorgeous and ready to pop with my kid inside her.
Too bad Hard Rod is so focused on his own old lady and unborn kid that he’s left me to do most of the management of the club. Man, I love that guy like a brother, but the president of the Rippers is not a multi-tasker. That dude is laser-focused on whatever has his attention in a given moment, and nada else. Since his attention is on Lipstick, his old lady, and getting ready for Hard Rod Jr. to make an appearance, I haven’t got shit for time to even get my cock sucked, let alone establish a relationship that might lead to family.
As the third line of traffic moves, I look over one more time, watching the little ones squeal and play. Of course, there’s got to be one helicopter mom who’s noticed me staring. She shoots me the evil eye and lays a protective hand over her little girl’s chest as if I might hop off my bike and abscond with her daughter. I try giving a smile to reassure her I’m actually kind of a nice guy, but she scowls and turns away.
Ho hum. I’m—
Bam!
That’s me narrating the “bam” feeling of getting rear-ended. I was in la-la land, all thinking about making babies and being a daddy, and I missed my green light. Thing is, the car behind me did not miss it. However, she did miss me, and my bike, and the fact that me and my bike were not yet with the program and still stationary in front of her vehicle.
Now I’m upon the ground, my heavy bike pinning the bottom half of my leg to the ground, my back twisted at a strange angle.
Well, fuck. Now that hurts.
Millie
OH CRAP, OH CRAP, OH crap. I just hit a guy. A big guy who looks like he’s made of bricks. With my car.
I shouldn’t have picked up the phone. Shouldn’t have looked at the text. That’s not me. I’m not that girl. I do not text and drive. But it was red for so long, and Phillip kept texting. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. Three texts in a row, and I refused to look at it because I knew it would be him, persistent in his efforts to get me back.
Some might say that persistence is more akin to stalking, but hey, I care for the guy. I mean, I was ready to marry him until I found him in my bed with a naked blonde. Seeing your boyfriend buried in some other women kind of puts a damper on the old wedding planning, if you know what I mean.
I booted him out of our house and he spent three months sowing his oats before he came crawling back, telling me I was the best thing that ever happened to him and he’d changed and blah, blah, blah. The calling and texting are incessant. If I didn’t know him, hadn’t loved him for so long, I’d probably call the cops for a restraining order.
But just because I don’t threaten him with stalking charges doesn’t mean I’m soft on him. My momma didn’t raise no fool, so I have not let him back in my life. But it’s hard. He was my boyfriend in high school and we moved to Cleveland together from Sandusky. It wasn’t that far, really, but it felt like a world away from home and he was the only person I really knew.
And I loved him. So there’s that.
When the phone rang, I picked it up only to tell him to stop calling and texting incessantly. And I saw the green, so I hit the gas, but the very large biker had not moved yet. As such, said very large biker is now holding his head, assessing his bike, and looking very, very pissed.
I drop my phone on the passenger seat and hop out of the car, doing that weird, hoppy little run that women do when they’re in uncomfortably high heels.
“Oh my goodness!” I squeak. “I am so, so sorry! Are you okay?”
He turns, his piercing blue eyes on me, his lips turned down in a scowl. “I’m fine,” he growls. ”But my custom motorcycle is another story. Hope you’ve got good insurance, girlie.”
I cringe, feeling my shoulders push up around my ears. “I ... don’t ...” I say quietly, my eyes on the badly mangled back end of a very pretty bike.
He pushes his lips out, his brows meeting in a V on his forehead. “You don’t what?”
“Have ... insurance?” I peep, a question rather than a statement.
He works his jaw. Crap.
He takes a big breath in and then lets it out slowly. “Well isn’t that my shitty luck,” he says.
“Please don’t call the cops,” I beg. “I’m going through a shitty time right now. I’m trying to pay my mortgage on my own for the first time. My insurance lapsed because I’m still figuring out my budget. I can’t ... I need my license so I can get to work. I can work this out with you. I’ll pay for the damages. Please.”
He steps toward me. Once. Twice. I don’t even realize I’m moving backward until he’s in my space and I’m pinned against the hood of my car. My car, which shows no sign of damage, by some small miracle.
This big outlaw-looking biker is kind of hot. Not my normal type, not by a long shot, but he’s sexy for sure. Huge biceps nearly bust through his long-sleeve black T-shirt. Tattoos crawl up his neck and down onto his hands. His hair is short on the sides and long on the top, very in-style and modern considering he’s in typical biker wear of jeans, boots, and some kind of club colors. He’s got a cigarette behind one ear and a pair of sunglasses on his head.
By the way he’s licking his teeth, I can tell he’s assessing me, too. His eyes roam my face and neck, down to my barely-visible cleavage. I’ve got a white blouse on with a black pencil skirt. Nothing too fancy or sexy, just professional. I have a quick thought that he might be thinking I’ll pay back the damage in some way not involving money. I should be creeped out, right? Except ... I’m not. Not one bit. This guy is making my lady parts tingle.
I open my mouth, not knowing what, exactly, I plan to say, just as a cop rolls up. His siren goes off once, the blue and red lights bright in the waning evening light.
He rolls down his passenger-side window. “Everything okay here, folks?”
The big guy steps back a foot and
“Everything is A-okay,” he says, giving the cop a thumbs-up.
“Looks like your ride is pretty smashed,” the cop says, eyeing the mangled metal laying in front of my car. “Need an accident report?”
“Nah,” the guys says. “Hit-and-run. I didn’t get a good look at the guy who hit me. This nice young lady pulled up to give me a hand.”
“Ah,” the cop says. “Okay, then. Do you need help?”
“Nope,” the guy says. “I’ve got a buddy coming down to get me. I’ll move this beast off the road to open up traffic.”
“Thanks,” the cop says, rolling up the window and rolling away.
I breathe a sigh of relief. “Thank you so much ...”
“Axel,” he says.
“I’m Millie,” I say. “Let me write down my number for you and help you get this off the road.”
Ten minutes later, I’m getting into my car.
“I’ll be in touch,” Axel says as I put on my seatbelt. You will pay for the damage, one way or another. Got that?”
I nod, gulping. “Got it. Thanks again for not filing a report.”
“Stop looking at your phone while you’re driving,” he says, noticing my phone on the passenger seat.
I push my lips together and nod as he shuts the door and steps aside.
I drive the rest of the way home like some old lady with poor eyesight. Both hands white-knuckled on the wheel, eyes straight ahead, no music playing. I think I go five miles per hour under the speed limit. I’m a nervous wreck by the time I get into my house.
My cats accost me as I make my way inside, turning on lights as I go. They meow and try to trip me by going in and out between my legs as I struggle to make my way through to the kitchen.
“Okay, okay,” I say, “I’ll feed you. I’m sorry I was late.”
Thank goodness for these two fluffballs. I don’t really like living on my own and they keep me sane. They make me feel safer.
I make myself some Ramen noodles for dinner. I’m on a tight budget now that I don’t have Phillip paying half of the bills. It’s really kind of pathetic, I guess, but I am a glass-is-half-full kind of woman, and I believe that things will all work out for the best. Even though I just nearly killed a man on a motorcycle and now probably added thousands of dollars to my debt load.
Rainbows! Puppies! Laughing children! Positive thoughts!
I thought about giving that guy, Axel, my address, but then thought better of it. A guy like that? He seemed volatile, dangerous. Sexy as all get-out, but dangerous. I don’t need that guy anywhere other than on the other end of a phone line. And even that I’m not so sure about.
Still, that was totally my fault, and I really do need to find a way to pay him back for the repairs. I just hope he doesn’t end up being some kind of psychotic weirdo. And I hope he doesn’t sue me.
Chapter 2
Axel
Goddamn, my back hurts.
I do try not to be a whiny little bitch. Everyone who rides has aches and pains from time to time, and I have club members who cry and complain about literally every little boo-boo and scratch like they need their mamas to come and kiss and make them better. Not me. No, I am stone cold about pain management, a master poker player, even when I’m in pain.
Except, I got hit by a car, and now my back feels like the too-tight strings of an over-tuned guitar. I am not singin’ a pretty tune today.
My buddy Eddie came to get me and my busted baby off the side of the road and we hauled her all the way back to the club garage. Tommy, our bodywork guy, said he can get her back in tip-top shape, but it’s going to cost a few grand to do it.
Everyone was all hyped up, ranting about how people never see bikes on the road and how bullshit it all is. I just shook my head. I kind of feel like it was own fault since I was the one gawking at the little kids, gooey over wanting to be a dad. I won’t share that with my buddies, though. They’d tell me to stop suckling my mama’s tit and grow a pair already.
Eddie and his old lady both told me I should go see the club medic, just to make sure I didn’t have a hairline fracture or concussion or something. I, of course, did not listen. Instead, I grabbed two cold beers from the kitchen and drank them in front of a Monday night football game in the rec room.
I fell asleep like that and had the most vivid dream of fucking a skinny, biracial babe with brown corkscrew curls, freckles, and hazel eyes. And lips. Those thick, luscious lips that look like pillows.
My bike might have been down and out because of that girl, Millie, but my cock most certainly was not. Nope. I woke up in a cold sweat on the couch with a raging hard-on. I’d have rubbed it out right there but as soon as I tried to even move, my back was barking like a mad dog.
She didn’t give me anything but her first name and phone number. I assume it’s a real number, though I didn’t call to make sure. She didn’t strike me as the type to pull a fast one. If anything, she was probably afraid of me after I got all up in her space like some creeper. She probably has six locks on her door by now.
I think I’m gonna do a little homework on young Millie today. Maybe pay her a surprise visit and see if we can square away some of what she owes me.
Once I can walk again.
Millie
THERE’S A BANG ON THE door. A loud, threatening sound that makes me jump. It continues as I tighten my bathrobe and pad to the door. It’s him on the other side, angry, baring his teeth. Oh God. I open the door and start to explain but he doesn’t give me a moment to speak before his lips are on mine, his hands digging into my ass as he lifts me from the floor, spreading my cheeks wide as my legs wrap around his waist.
I’m lost the moment his tongue finds mine. We could be moving. We could be standing. We could be in space. I have no idea because my head is fuzzy and my insides are aching. His belt buckle, thick and metal, rubs at my nethers through my thin cotton panties. I should be ashamed by the way I grind against it, but I’m not. It feels good, makes me want more.
He rumbles dirty words in between kisses. When my backside hits the bed, he pushes me back. My head hits the mattress just as his hands shove my legs apart, as far as they will go. I’m splayed wide for him, his mouth quirking at the edges as he takes a long time looking at his prize.
I push my hips up, groaning. “Don’t tease me,” I beg. “Please.”
With a wicked smirk, he shoves his face between my legs, feasting on the buffet awaiting him. His tongue does dizzying things to my swollen little button and I hold onto the back of his head, grinding into him because I have only one need right now.
“Greedy,” he says when he comes up for air. I shove him back down. This is so unlike me. So unlike me to be forceful with a man. So unlike me to feel so much desire, such a desire to find ecstasy.
His fingers find my entrance, pushing through, finding a rhythm as his tongue continues its assault on that oh-so-tender spot.
It builds, it builds. I’m frantic with need. Just need to ...
When he moves, his lips and teeth bite and suck at my inner thighs and then ... then he’s got his tongue in a place a tongue has never been, and oh, I love it. I like where his tongue is, and where his fingers are and oh, oh, oh ...
I wake up sweating, panting. My breast is hanging out of my tank top and my panties are soaked. That was one of the most vivid sex dreams I have ever had, bar none. I’m blushing just thinking about it. And the star of the show? None other than Mr. Axel, the big, tattooed biker guy I nearly killed yesterday.
As I blink into reality, I realize my phone is ringing. Phillip. Again. I just let it ring, because I am still overstimulated from my sexy, sexy bad-boy-biker dream. I reach into my panties and feel the wetness there. My little button is swollen, pulsating, ripe with need, so I pull my little rabbit vibrator from my nightstand and let it buzz, buzz, buzz me to climax as I close my eyes and think of coiling tattoos and giant biceps and piercing blue eyes.
For once, I don’t fret over whether or not to take that call. I don’t even think of Phillip, or our history. I don’t worry that I made the wrong choice.
At least nearly running over that biker had one good outcome. Well, maybe two ... if I try hard enough.
