Diablo Disciples MC

Axel – Exclusive First Chapter

Only two biker sleeps to go.

Brutality came with the job description of being an MC president.

Mark ‘Axel’ Tucker wasn’t a violent man by nature.

He didn’t get off on bones breaking, and blood splattered over his clothes. But he knew how to handle himself and his business when people stepped out of line or tried to get one over him. He had zero tolerance for bullshit and backstabbers.

“Clean this garbage up,” he spat, looking down at the wasted pile of shit that was once one of his dealers who’d thought it was clever to skim off the top and no one would notice. He’d worked the piece of shit over with his fists, preferring teaching a lesson the old-fashioned way.

Until he’d turned twenty, Axel had been dirt poor. A kid who didn’t know where his next meal was coming from. His teen years were spent permanently hungry, never having good sneakers or new clothes. So for some piece of shit to assume Axel didn’t know, down to the last cent, how much money his club was bringing in was a bad mistake.

The guy was bleeding and bruised, hanging onto life by the plaque of his teeth. He’d begged for his life like the rat he was. Axel didn’t feel gleeful for putting the hurt on someone; he didn’t have Ruin’s constitution for torture. But examples had to be made of traitors, and he was bitterly disgusted that he had discovered someone untrustworthy in his employ.

Little maggot got off lightly because he was still being sent home to his family alive and not dumped in the river. Moreover, he had enough on his plate already dealing with a serial maniac who’d been dropping dead bodies on their doorsteps for weeks to frame the Diablos.

One day, Axel would catch a break. But today wasn’t that day.

Two of his prospects rushed forward and dragged the guy to his feet. Blood dripped out of him like a faucet.

“Get your family packed up and fuck off out of my town, Will. If we see your face, it won’t go as nicely as now. You understand?”

“Yeah, yeah, Axel, I’m sorry, man.” He dripped blood from his lips. Excuses and apologies were ignored.

“Get him out of my sight.” He issued with authority, and the prospects dragged the guy over to the rig to drop him off.

“What happened to honor among criminals?” asked Chains. Axel’s VP was just as disgusted.

“Fucking Gen Z.”

Behind them, Reno chuffed a laugh. “Thank fuck I scraped in as a millennial. What are you, Chains, a boomer?”

“Fuck you, kid.” Laughed Chains. “Now, we heading back to the clubhouse? Because I have business with my future Mrs.”

Axel smirked, leaving the scene behind Chains’ strip club, The Den, and got into step with his friend and VP as they headed toward their bikes. “Is Monroe giving you trouble?”

“She’s as ornery as that cat that wandered into the club last winter and scratched everyone up when we tried to feed it.”

Axel smirked. He wished his friend luck with his future wife. He still didn’t know why Chains had put his neck into the noose and volunteered for a marriage of convenience with a business associate’s daughter.

It sure as hell was not something Axel would sign up for.

His one turn at domestic bliss was more like a Freddie nightmare.

His daughter, Roux, was the only good thing from his short-lived relationship with Selena.

No seventeen-year-old kid wanted to be a father, but Roux was the best accident of his life. And now he had two hellions to call him Grampy.

A grandfather at forty-two. No wonder his bones creaked when he got out of bed each morning. Those kids were aging him before his time, but he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Family and love were Axel’s driving forces.

Everything he’s ever done was for the good of those he cared for.

Roux might now be under the care of her husband, The Butcher, a member of the Renegade Souls MC, and Axel knew that the man had already been through hell for Roux and would go through more. But that didn’t mean Axel took his foot off the father pedal. He’d untangled himself from a disastrous deal with the Mexicans when they firebombed his house a few years back. And now he was about to cut free from Donahue’s agreement just as soon as the ink dried on Chains’ marriage license and the Irish got their criminal asses across the ocean to set a new, more lucrative deal in stone.

Axel was sick to death of trading with boys pretending to be entrepreneurs. But, at least, he knew the Irish had their code of honor, much like himself.

He wasn’t looking for a quiet life, that was for the average Joe. He enjoyed gaining money by any means necessary. Besides, he’d be bored in a day if his job comprised of clocking in and out.

His outfit might not be as big as some MCs around the country, and he was okay with that. He liked his finger on the pulse. But, the bigger they expanded by adding new chapters, he would lose some of that control.

The prospects went to do their job dropping off the thieving scum. Chains climbed on his bike. Axel got into his RAM and told Chains he’d see him later. He wanted to pick up food before he headed back to the club. Being away for a few days in Colorado to celebrate his birthday with his girl and her family meant he was behind on shit.

Axel Tucker hated desk work more than anything; he’d rather have his eyelids stapled to a table most days than sit behind a desk and deal with the bland side of owning numerous enterprises. Only a carton of noodles would appease him and his hungry belly. While waiting for his order, something outside the Chinese restaurant caught his attention.

At first, he thought he was seeing things.

Had to be, because no dummy in this town would ever attempt to break into his truck.

They’d have to have a screw loose to even think about fucking with anything Axel owned. He was well known. Not only because of his MC status, but he was also a landlord to many of the Laketon’s townsfolk, both domestically and privately.

It was said people feared him, but he’d always taken care of the town and plowed enough money to subsidize when the economy tanked.

He’d stopped hard drugs; he never shook down businesses for a cut of their profits, and the club was sometimes hired as muscle to resolve trouble for those who couldn’t give their own beat downs.

As he stared out the restaurant window at the bundle of clothing attempting to break into his truck, his feet rooted to the floor. Stunned for a second.

They were checking all the RAM doors. It was the colder months, and Utah got hit hard with the icy fronts during the fall, but the person was dressed like they were going on a six-month expedition to Iceland. The hooded overcoat looked four sizes too big, and the wool skull cap was pulled down on their forehead. Most likely, it was a teen trying their luck.

“Un-fucking-believable,” he murmured as he watched them take a tool out of their coat and fiddle with the door until it popped open. He didn’t think they’d continue to break in. It was obvious his RAM was the new model and, therefore, worth a fucking ton. Any thief, even not knowing whose truck it belonged to, would be stupid to go for something new. But there Axel stood as he watched the baggage of clothing climb onto the tall step and haul themselves into his truck.

Axel turned to the counter and rapped his ringed fingers to gain the server’s attention. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

“Sure thing, Axel. Carl is wrapping it up to go now.”

He strode out of the restaurant, standing by the opened truck door while the body sprawled over the passenger seat, rooting through the glove compartment. He watched them palm something and wiggle backward.

That was when they encountered the bulk of Axel.

“Finished robbing me, have you?” he growled.

Anger and disbelief bubbled inside of him.

The body froze like a deer caught in a hunter’s trap.

When he got his hands on them, he realized they weighed next to nothing, just a bag of bones in oversized clothes.

“Get your goddamn hands off me before I kill you.” the person threatened, and Axel realized the voice was feminine as he thought, a teenager.

“I’d like to see you try, you thieving shit. Get the hell out right now.” He helped by dragging the body down the steep height, catching them before they landed in a heap.

They went wild in Axel’s hands, trying to fight themselves free. He caught elbows in his ribs and jaw before stopping the flailing by crowding the body against the truck. He blocked the legs with his knees and shackled both arms with a hand, and with his free one, he yanked down the face scarf.

She looked too young to be on the streets.

Axel saw peeks of colorful red hair. Her skin was too pale, and when he grasped her chin to hold her head still, she was icy cold as she bared even white teeth at him like an animal.

“Don’t touch me,” she hissed. “I didn’t take anything.”

“Is that so?” He asked. Some anger disappeared because what kind of fucking parent let their kid roam the streets like this bag of bones? “Open your hand. Let me see what you’re holding.”

Guilt entered her green eyes, and Axel freed her arms but kept her barricaded so she couldn’t run off. He saw how they darted left and right, gauging if she could push him out of the way and make her escape.

He weighed two-thirty pounds of lean muscle and also towered over her by at least a foot. She was small and too thin. If she could push him down, that meant Axel was already dead.

Axel waited until she unlocked her fingers and opened the palm, showing a tightly scrunched five dollars.

Now he was surprised.

He took it from her, smoothed it, and held it between two fingers.

“This is it?”

“Yes.” she snapped, “you have it back now, so can I go?”

It didn’t make sense. “You break into my forty grand truck to steal five dollars? Empty your pockets.”

She bristled, and if looks could kill, Axel would be a corpse in biker boots. He wasn’t playing around with this thief; he had a belly to fill and a night of paperwork.

“Either empty your fucking pockets, or I do it for you.”

“You dare touch me, and I’ll scream so fucking loud your ears will bleed while they drag your ass off to a cop car.”

Axel chuckled. The balls on this one, she kept surprising him.

“I would only have to hold you upside down and let everything fall out. Now show me your goddamn pockets.”

“That’s all I took, you giant idiot man.”

With the passenger door still wide open, he pinned the thief to the side of the truck and leaned in to yank the glove compartment open with the other hand. He always kept a roll of money, probably around six hundred, give or take.

Color him surprised it was still there.

“All you took was five bucks?”


“For what?”

“To get a sandwich.”

Fuck’s sake. Something gnarly twisted in his gut at the challenging way she held her chin high, like she was embarrassed by the admission.

“Why didn’t you take the entire roll?”

“I wanted food, not to buy a yacht on the gold coast.”

Funny little shit.

Without thinking, he grabbed her to throw her into the passenger seat.

Panic covered the waif’s face even as the gloved hand tried to shove by him. It was a wasted effort because Axel pushed harder and kept the woman in the seat.

“This is kidnapping!”

“Hardly. Stay the fuck there, don’t dare try to move.”

“You’re not taking me to the cops. I’ll say you kidnapped me.”

The cops. Now that was hilarious.

Axel wouldn’t voluntarily go to the law. Ever since he became the President of the Diablo Disciples MC and walked his own lawful path, the badge holders had made it their mission to pin any crimes on the club they could.

It had worked in the past. Not so much in recent years, and not now he had a crooked cop in his pocket to keep him abreast of the shit the law was doing.

“You try to move, and you’ll see what happens, and it won’t be the cops.” He warned. Axel watched those green eyes flair with temper, but she had some control over her tongue because she clamped her mouth shut and pulled the scarf back around her face, masking most of her features again.

Axel let off a shrill whistle and gained the attention of the restaurant hostess. He motioned with two fingers, and she came to the door carrying a white takeout bag. He fished in his pocket to pay, but the woman smiled. “It’s on the house, Axel.”

“Tell Carl thanks.” A few months back, he’d made a problem right for the chef when he encountered a wannabe gangster trying to shake him down for protection. That guy didn’t like the talk Axel had with him, so Ruin, his club enforcer, got to play for a while until the guy was no longer a problem. He handed the hostess a tip for bringing the food out. She gave him sex eyes, but he had a bigger issue to deal with than thinking about his dick. He slung the food into the back seat and slipped behind the wheel.

“Where are you taking me?” she asked finally, after he’d been driving for a minute.

“Home with me,” he told her through his clenched teeth, surprising himself. Because the intelligent thing would be to leave her on the sidewalk, let the waif have the five bucks, and leave the problem behind. “You stole from me. So now you owe me, do yourself a favor and shut up.”

He was going to blame the lack of thought on his fucking hunger.
Copyright© V. Theia 2023.

Diablo Disciples MC

Reno – Exclusive First Chapter

Only three biker sleeps to go.


The soft lips on his.

The hand around his stiff cock.

It was earth-shattering.

His limbs were syrup inside.

The woman intoxicated Reno harder than top-shelf liquor did. She was a goddamn siren, luring his ready-for-action body into her web of desire until every breath felt as though it was pure steam chuffing out of his lips.

What started as a one-night-stand was now into the third night without an end in sight, and Reno was more than okay with that.

It was sex so good he even missed a meal last night, and pigs would fly before Reno forgot about food.

It was a toss-up who seduced who first.

Reno thought he’d been the one to approach her in the strip club, but now he didn’t know if she’d lured him across the room and brought him to heel because her seduction was blatant and sending him crazy.

“Get on with it,” he rasped, his eyebrows lowering over his eyes as he watched how she molded his cock in her smaller hand. Her nails were painted black at the curved tips and looked exquisite against the ruddy purple of his angry crown as it peeked through her palm, leaking his excitement as she tortured him.

Two orgasms today hadn’t been enough for either of them.

They were on day three of continuous fucking between bites to eat, showers, and a little sleep. Reno couldn’t even say what day it was; he was too wrapped up in the heavenly woman doing a number on his equilibrium. He knew his last breath was burning as he churned air through his lungs, pleasure swimming in his gray eyes.

“You need to have patience.” She chuckled, pushing him through her palm like his cock was a toy she loved playing with.

It was driving him insane, but he loved it.

“I need to come.”

Another chuckle.

Another hot squeeze hard enough to roll his eyes into the back of his skull.

If he hadn’t witnessed it, Reno would swear it couldn’t have happened the way it did. But the second a shrilled ping went off on a nearby phone, Kylie, his brown-skinned goddess lover, turned from seductress into a serious person who hadn’t enthralled him for days.

One ping and she let go of his body, rushed off his lap, and strode naked to the discarded phone tangled up in her clothes.

Whatever she saw on the screen put a grin on her face, and then she frowned, turning toward him. While she reached down for the yoga leggings, she told him, “you have to go.”

“Come again?”

“You have to leave.”


She turned an arched brow at him, and Reno’s stomach clenched.

She was a knock-out.

He’d thought so the second he saw her in The Den. Not even wondering why a woman as gorgeous and classy as she would be in a strip club. He’d made a beeline for her before any other asshole could, and after a few shared words and a lot of sizzling chemistry later, they’d left together. And been together ever since, fucking each other’s brains out.

Reno was far from sated.

“Because I said so, Reno. Please put your clothes on.”

Confused at the one-eighty flip, Reno rose to his feet. Finding the dark denim jeans, he pulled them up his legs, and his t-shirt followed, watching the woman with a curved smile as she typed out a slow message on the phone screen.

Who was she writing to?

A lover?


They hadn’t gotten into personal details, too intent on clawing each other to sexual pieces.

He tasted her in the back of his throat, felt her pleasure still drying on his stomach, and she smiled at her phone like Reno didn’t exist.

What a kick to his aching balls.

“Who was it?”

“No one.” She pointed to his long-worn harness boots lying on her living room floor, a reminder he was being tossed out the door. He grabbed the motorcycle footwear, leaning down to shove a foot in at a time.

“You got a husband, Kylie? A long-term man?”

Her head came up, her eyes meeting his. Her voice was passive when she answered, “would it matter?” What Reno knew was that the woman he’d had crying under him for hours on end was gone.

Holy fuck, she’d given him whiplash, and before his cock was all the way soft again.

“Nah, it wouldn’t matter, babe. Who you cheat on is your business.” There was a gnawing disappointment in his gut he didn’t understand, because this had never happened.

He got knocked back by women.

As much as he might like to think he was God’s gift, not every woman he had a fancy for wanted to climb between his sheets. But that never bothered Reno. There was always plenty of pussy to go around at the MC. Sweet bottoms were a dime a dozen these days, especially. Almost as though they were bussed in for a few nights of biker thrills.

Getting kicked out at a moment’s notice after spending decent hours pushing orgasms through a woman’s body. Yeah, that was new.

He sensed he would never see her again and wondered why it made him feel sick.

Yeah, that was new, too.

Only seconds ago, her eyes were glazed with lust, firing bullets of needy desire at him. And now they were sharp, clear, like she’d flipped a switch, and her sexual libido was put away.

Women would always confuse Reno; he probably wasn’t book-smart enough to figure them out entirely. But as he approached Kylie with slow steps, he watched her watching him, and flickers of that same desire ignited again.

Whatever sexual labels there were nowadays, Reno had always been attracted to all people but gravitated toward the softness of females. Part in because of Ruin, who wasn’t bi-sexual, so their double act already had a preference from the get-go.

The woman in front of him was all softness only minutes ago, and now she looked like she wanted to slam the door in his face.

He caught her around the neck and a moan filtered out. The same pleasured moan he’d listened to for hours because every whisper of noise from her lips captured his attention.

Leaning down, compensating for the difference between his six-foot-six stature and her smaller one, Reno pressed their lips together, tempted to drive his tongue inside and get her back in the zone. He was far from finished with her and wanted to prove that. But after only a lick of the kiss, she pushed him back.

“I had fun, babe.”

“Yeah, me too.”

She blinked at him as if expecting him to elaborate, but Reno knew when to hit the bricks, even if everything in his body said to stay and find out why she changed her mind. Turning on his heels, he grabbed the leather jacket slung over the arm of the couch, and headed for the exit, sending a wink at her as he pulled the door closed.

The sun was cresting as he walked down the quiet sidewalk. His latest hookup lived in a small suburban street, and when he glanced back at her house, he wondered if she was watching him go.

Probably not.

She couldn’t kick him out fast enough.

Air slipped through Reno’s lips in a half-laugh. He’d never live this shit down. Of course, that was if he told anyone about his phenomenal weekend.

Yawning, he climbed onto his Dyna, bringing the engine to life with a purr. The thrum underneath Reno always felt like home. He hadn’t been like other teenage boys in that. Once he could drive, he didn’t go for a scrappy beat-up car. Instead, he wanted a motorcycle immediately and worked his butt off doing any job he could to save enough money for the cheapest second-hand cycle.

There was nothing second-hand about the bike beneath him as it took corners like a dream, heading toward the Diablo Disciples’ secure compound on the west side of Laketon. It was brand-new only a year ago for his twenty-eighth birthday. And now, as it purred into the L-shaped compound where he spent most of his days and nights, Reno switched off the engine, pocketed the keys, and climbed down, leaving the bike in its usual parking space next to his twin brother’s Road King.

It was the high of sex, which meant Reno wasn’t fully spatially aware as he strolled into the clubhouse after punching the passcode in the newly changed security pad that unlocked the doors.

Tired, hungry, still horny as a pig in mating season, and more confused than ever why Kylie would kick him to the curb when she’d been on the same high with him, if not higher, from the way she’d clawed his skin up, making hot, delicious demands of his body.

He yawned hard, his jaw cracking as he decided to have food before boiling his worn body in a shower. Reno had to teach a lesson to the idiot prospects this morning, and to deal with that kind of stupidity, he required a full belly and hot coffee.

He’d earned his place at the Diablo’s church table as the Sergeant at Arms, and Reno took his duties seriously. Most of the time.

Today of all days, he wanted to sleep it away, except duty called, but first food.

Because his head was gathering wool, he didn’t see the bunched fist coming toward him until pain radiated out of his jaw. Then, a body as big as his grabbed him by the throat and took Reno down to the floor; a knee in his chest evaporated all the air he had as he looked up into similar gray eyes.

Ruin’s soulless eyes.

The pain from his punch made Reno see double as his brother got in his face.

“Where the fuck have you been? I thought you were dead. But you’re about to be.”
Copyright© V. Theia 2022.

Diablo Disciples MC

Chains – Exclusive First Chapter

Only three biker sleeps to go.

“Who’s the dead whore?”

“Not your next girlfriend unless you like ‘em cold and stiff.”

Chains heard a chuckle from the gathered crowd of his brethren, staring at the poor sack of meat that was once a known hooker in the area.

She’s now as dead as dead got.

Her slim, almost skeletal, drug-ruined body was twisted into an awkward, broken shape on the cold concrete. Her once dark hair was matted in blood from whatever caved her skull in; being hit repeatedly had half her head poured out onto the ground.

Fuck. He had a robust steel-like stomach that didn’t get grossed out by much, but this shit was for a True Crime show.

Poor bitch wasted what little of a tragic life she had.

And now she’d landed on their doorstep like a gift no one wanted.

Dropping to his haunches, the coppery tang of blood in his nose, Chains gloved hand gripped the woman’s chin and turned her head to the good side that wasn’t bashed in.

“Anyone recognizes her?”

“Nah, VP, never seen her face before.”

“Reno means he don’t recognize her snatch, boss.” Chortled one of the new probies who’d been with the club a couple of months. Chains rose to his feet and turned a dark stare on the young kid. “Have some fucking respect, shithead. It could be your sister lying on the ground.”

The kid turned red and lowered his head, “sorry, boss.”

“She’s not one of your girls?” Asked Reno, who’d followed behind when he got the call about a body in the alleyway behind his club.

“I hire strippers, not hookers.”

“No disrespect to the corpse, but how can you tell the difference?”

“She has track marks, rotten teeth, smells like she hasn’t bathed in weeks. I don’t let my girls do drugs. The meth look isn’t fucking attractive to paying customers, ya dig? Goddammit, this is the last thing we need now. Reno, call in the cleaner, tell them it’s an asap job. That asshole is gonna charge double. Mouse, go with him.” The probie lumbered after Reno, leaving Chains and a silent Ruin in the alleyway with the foul stench of the dumpster and a dead body. It was a fresh dump because Chains had parked in this alleyway a few hours back to call in for the monthly takings, and he’d have seen a dead hooker littering his alley.

“You fucked any hookers and pissed off her pimp this month?” he asked of his enforcer, standing casually with his foot against the brick wall while he scrolled on his phone. Ruin’s dark head rose, looking bored, and he grunted before looking back at his phone again. “Yeah, yeah, you silent dick, you don’t do hookers. You might as well head back to the club, brother. Nothing to do here until she’s moved.”

Ruin pushed himself off the wall and, without a word, strode down the shadowy side street and around the corner where his bike was parked. Chains had no time to think about the enforcer’s weird demeanor, not when he had a dead whore on his hands.

That made three kills dumped around Laketon, Utah, in the past few weeks.

Serial killer?

Or some perverted weirdo who took his sex games too seriously?

Chains wasn’t a cold-hearted biker.

He could feel sorry for the dead hooker outside of his business but still not give a fuck about her at the same time. But didn’t want this shit on his doorstep. Thanks to the club’s substantial payment to the cleaner, the problem would disappear with no DNA left behind if the cops came sniffing around.

The cleaner arrived shortly, and Chains waited inside nursing a glass of neat scotch, sitting at the bar while they did their thing.

The cleaner always gave him the willies.

She was a weird woman who made death disappear. With a banging body and a face made for fashion, Chains was betting the woman was dead inside if she trudged through blood, puke, and piss regularly and didn’t blink at the disturbing scenes.

The club was fortunate she worked for them, but Chains had never tried to fuck the cleaner; he reckoned it would be like climbing into bed with the grim reaper.

Once the text came through that the problem was gone, he wired the money over, and not a minute later, he laughed as he stepped down off the stool, seeing her recent text saying thanks, with a skull emoji.

“Sicko.” He muttered, amused.

Blowing hot air into his clasped-inked hands, Chains warded off the chilly night air as he lumbered out of his strip club, into the street, and around to where his Harley was parked. No wonder he felt tired, It was closing in on 3 a.m., lunatics didn’t have any manners when they were doing their murdering these days. The bastards could have waited until Chains caught some decent shut-eye.

The club was closer than his house. He’d usually head home, but his tired body wanted to get horizontal before falling over after being in Vegas for a long weekend. Had he known the mess he was coming back to, he might have extended his trip instead of riding all day.

About thirty years ago, the clubhouse was a brewery, until the former Prez scraped together the money to buy the dilapidated building for a song. It took Axel and Chains to make it into the club he saw as he rode through the gates, after two prospects opened them for him. They weren’t always so gate happy. Every vehicle once upon a time could come and go as they pleased, but the Mexican cartel firebombed the Prez’s house in the recent past. Luckily no one was hurt, but they’d put extra security measures in place ever since Axel’s grandkids came along.

The clubhouse stood on its own land, with no other buildings around them, and was about a block in size. Red bricks had long since been painted black, three floors high, the second floor mainly used for bedrooms, and the top floor was storage and extra flop space if they had out-of-towners to host.

Climbing down off his Harley Davidson Sport, Chains’ jaw cracked with a yawn, so fucking tired, he could sleep his ass down on the asphalt. So when he strode into the club doors after thumbing in his code, he was in no mood for the smart mouth of one of the night owls drinking at the bar.

“Look what the cat dragged home. No showgirl on your arm, VP?”

The loudmouth was still soaking wet behind the ears, young but had an old lady at home and two kids. But there was a sweet bottom sitting on his lap. Chains glared at Forger and kept on walking.

“You keep mouthing off, and I’m gonna fuck your mom and give her a kid she actually loves.”

The idiot prospect laughed at Chains’ joke, like he thought he wouldn’t go through with it.

Few knew that Chains always told the truth.

A threat or a promise, they called it his superpower.

Jon ‘Chains’ Shaye wasn’t born in the biker lifestyle; he didn’t have a dad who loved a hog and brought him in as a legacy; he’d had a whole other everyday life before he’d found his deliverance. He came to the MC in his late twenties, and now standing at six-foot-five and age thirty-nine, people would swear he’d always bled the ride or die way of living.

But as he closed the door to his room, glancing at the queen-size bed as he shucked off his pieces of denim and club cut, Chains wasn’t thinking about threats or promises.

He was going to sleep like a dead man.

Not even bothering to pull back the covers, he fell bare-assed onto the bed, buried his face in the pillow, and was out for the count before the first fat sheep jumped over the hedge.

From Manhattan

Manhattan Protector – Exclusive First Chapter

Only three cranky bodyguard sleeps to go!

One Click: mybook.to/ManhattanProtector
Goodreads:  https://bit.ly/ManhattanProtectorGR
Check out the standalone series HERE

Some problems needed patience.

Other challenges required a spanking.

It wasn’t even 8 a.m. yet, and I knew which option I was veering toward.

Rounding the corner, my legs ache from exertion, letting me know I’ve probably run more than the usual nine miles, but there’s a little way left to go, so I don’t stop.

Instead, I mull over the dilemma, knowing there’s no solution I can willingly face, or I would have done it at any point during the last two years when the same issues arose. It was as though I enjoyed the tightened noose I’d put around my neck.

Having prided myself on successful assignments for more than a decade of growing my security business, a sought-after firm in New York. The most long-term client we’ve had, is an infuriating nuisance. Though I’ve tried to hand the job off to others many times, it always backfires in my face because she prefers me.

Huffing in the cool morning air as I pound the ground beneath me, the cold sweat clings to the back of my shirt.

Sometimes running helps.

Other times, like today, it’s something to do to keep me steady and in control.

I live a solitary life. Some would accuse I live for my work, and they might be right. Drinking only when I want to, I don’t date, getting what I want from women when the urge takes me. Socializing is kept to a minimum. My family isn’t huge, so there aren’t many gatherings to attend, though I see my nana every week to make sure she’s okay and has everything she needs. Luckily, it’s easy to pay for services to ensure she is taken care of.

I like my life the way it is.

It’s taken me years to get to a place of comfort, unbothered by others.

So what if I’m a workaholic? How can that be a bad thing?

It’s not a disconnect. It’s self-preservation. Or so I thought.

And then this client happened and shot all the shit I knew out of the water.

Having spent my early twenties, as most men do, obsessed with using their dick and getting wasted, chasing pussy and not giving a damn about the future, I’d started my business out small and grew it myself. It centered me, gave me a purpose, and now I’m thirty-seven, it’s hard to recognize that person from a decade ago.

Bodyguarding is a full-time endeavor.

I’d entered Columbus Circle to Central Park more than an hour ago, taking the looped areas most joggers take. But at stupid o’clock, when I prefer to run, it wasn’t so busy that I was tripping over slow bodies.

I’m not fond of mouth breathers being too near when I need quiet to think.

Getting a call at 6 a.m. to let me know she insisted on leaving the apartment. Again. Lying in bed this morning with only enough sleep to stop my brain from malfunctioning, I could feel my blood pressure rising through the fucking roof. Picturing her in those tight pink yoga pants she prances around in each morning. I could only imagine the barista’s eyes bugging out of his young head when he saw her waltzing into the coffee shop, a smile on her face, happy to see everyone and talking like they were old friends.

I put out that fire with one call, but had to come for a run before I knew the next flames would appear.

They always do.

For two years, I’ve been putting out fires left and right.

Not infernos.

Not even raging bonfires.

But flickering flames, every single day.

Every other job I take is a cakewalk.

Senators, celebrities, dignitaries. Nothing goes wrong. I hire only the best ex-military people who know how to handle themselves and protect those we’re paid to keep alive.

Nothing goes wrong.

Not once.

And we’ve all been in dicey situations where our skills came to the forefront. I’ve dealt with enough crazies over the years, and nothing interfered with my professionalism.

She intimidates my people because she’s too nice, too giving, and caring, with no spatial awareness of what personal boundaries she might be crossing.

She wants to know their life story. What makes them tick, laugh, and cry?

She tries to help them, feed them, give advice to better their lives.

I’ve never known anyone to give that much of a shit about another person and not expect a thing in return.

It’s always something, even when I’ve made it known they’re there to do a job, not become her best friend.

If there was a modern-day Pollyanna, then she was it.

And then I feel a vibration at the top of my arm, and a sigh coats out of me as I come to a slow stop, my lungs burning as I rub a hand through my damp hair and yank the phone from the holster sitting on my bicep.

“Yes?” I bark. Expecting what Tony on the other end is going to say.

“Boss, you’re needed.”

Of course, I am.

The groan gusts out of me like a downpour.

I should stop to take a shower first, but I don’t.

It’s as though my feet know where we’re going and take me there against my will. So by the time I was let into the exclusive building in the financial district by the security guards I vetted personally, and took the elevator up to the 10th floor. I’m cold with sweat clinging to the damp, hooded running jacket.

Tony opens the door after checking it is me, and I stride inside, arching a brow at him, silently accusing his pussy-ass of fearing a little girl.

Tony is ex SAS, for fuck’s sake. He’s been to war zones; he guarded the last president and traveled on the tour bus with a one-hit-wonder pop star who caused holy hell with drugs and hookers, but Tony panics around one British woman who likes to chat.

“I should fire you,” I rumble as he scrapes a hand over his dark hair, half-smiling.

Not midday and yet already it has been a long fucking day.

Though, most of them are when your entire job is keeping another person alive.

“Nah, you like me around too much, boss,” he jokes. “You know she prefers you. I’ll be outside,” he adds and makes his escape. It was noted he carried a container of food with him. Pussy.

Advancing into the sprawling three-bed apartment, my gaze clocks on the people already here. Her place is rarely empty of bodies. It gets claustrophobic as fuck, but she likes the company.

Today it’s her assistant, a manager, and a publicist. They call out hellos, but I only jut my chin in greeting. Without coffee, I can’t be responsible for the unfiltered sarcasm to come out of my mouth.

And then there she is.

Strutting out of the bedroom.

Grey yoga shorts, a flowing shirt billowing around her stomach.

And a ready smile when she sees me.

At that moment, I feel every one of my thirty-seven years.

Like an old man looking at a rare diamond.

A twenty-five-year-old British bombshell.

Katarina Young. The it-girl in the modeling world. On every billboard and catwalk. Wanted by men, coveted by thousands.

The bane of my fucking life.

Okay, she’s not.

She’s a good client, hardly whines at all, no matter what I tell her to do for her safety.

But it doesn’t stop my back teeth from clenching together the closer she gets.

This irritation isn’t new.

It bore life the week I started guarding her.

Katarina’s smile brightens, and it changes the atmosphere in the room. It constantly changes the mood, especially within my veins.

My teeth clench harder.

My day of solitude has gone to hell. I at least expected to see her in some form of trouble if I had to come in on my one day off this month.

Instead, she keeps smiling, and I scowl.

“Why am I here?”

Her eyes round but don’t lose any of the twinkle. She sips from a tumbler of whatever smoothie it is today. Katarina is big on smoothies instead of actual chewable food. Some dumb advice from one of her shit-for-brains team who hired a nutritionist that told her it would be the end of the world if she dared to gain a pound.

“Don’t ask me. One minute I was talking to Tony, and then he’s crying on the phone to you.” She shrugs.


Fucking wonderful.

That meant she’d over shared or pushed her little nose into Tony’s business and badgered my elite bodyguard to death.

Turning on my heel, I head for the door.

My shadow is behind me as she slurps on the end part of the smoothie.

“Don’t go anywhere,” I warn. “Tony is outside. Don’t bother him; he’s here to work, not get life advice from a little girl.”

“Hardly little, but I won’t talk to Tony, seeing as he’s so sensitive and needs daddy to hold his hand.” I hear the amusement in her voice. When I shoot a glance over my shoulder, she’s looking at my ass. Her gaze travels up slowly until our eyes meet.

“You’re terribly sweaty, Iceman.”

My nickname on her lips goes through me like an atom bomb detonating, and my jaw cracks from how tight I’m grinding it.

“I’ll be back. Don’t move your ass from this apartment, Katarina.”

She laughs at the silent or else tacked on at the end.

Not the first time I’ve had to threaten the modeling world princess.

She rarely listens.
Copyright© V. Theia 2022.

Renegade Souls MC

Darling Psycho – Exclusive first chapter

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“I hear you’re leaving us.”

A voice Lawless recognized as Dillion Dreyers -aka correctional officer and a few times booty call- said behind him.

Being in the exercise yard was the most normal Lawless had felt in almost three years.

Whatever normal felt like.

Anyone knew his wiring didn’t fire in the proper sequence, so normalcy was apples and oranges for him. He’d stopped agonizing over the answers a long time ago. Instead, he’d learned to live with how his analytical brain worked. Lawless felt like a computer that never booted down.

An extraordinarily high IQ and his diagnosed low latent inhibitions meant his surrounding environment constantly stimulated his brain.

Couldn’t shut the fucking thing off.

Being inside a prison with hundreds of boring lunatics meant Lawless had to get used to the low-level din of their noise. It constantly ticked through his white meat, over-stimulating him like a firework that never fizzled out.

Outside under the sky, especially when he was alone, like now, because he’d paid a guard to let him have extra exercise time in the yard, there was only blessed silence.

Two hands in the gray issued sweatpants pockets; Lawless cast a withering glance over his shoulder as Dreyers sidled up to him in his manly uniform, taser included.

“Have you come to say goodbye, Dillion?”

About a year ago, Dreyers transferred to the psych building. Shorter hours, better pay. But he dropped by Lawless’ wing to talk like old friends from time to time. Bags of meat were so pedestrian because Lawless had all but blackmailed the man into giving him access to many parts of the prison not available to low-life prisoners. Yet, it seemed he’d forgotten all about that and made Lawless into a friend.

“Something like that. At least now the other C.O.’s will get a chance at winning some money.”

Lawless smirked, looking out at the acres of nothingness that surrounded the prison. To the untrained eye, it appeared huge, and it was. But the size of the prison never mattered. It was all about the bars and the locked doors, which narrowed his world down considerably.

For six long days since his phone call to Archie to get him the fuck out of there, he’d been counting the seconds to when he wouldn’t hear another electronic door slamming shut.

The C.O.’s had been fair with Lawless, so he’d been fair with them. He’d even sat at their gambling tables, robbed them all blind. Fairly.

Lawless never had to cheat.

Until he did.

Now the end had come, his skin was too tight, he felt scratches on the inside of his brain.

Unable to sleep.

He was wired as fuck.



But now, his roadmap had been derailed, and he’d been forced to think outside of the box.

To re-plan everything from the start.

In any other circumstances, he would have been thrilled to play cat-and-mouse games. But all Lawless felt in the last six days was irritation coating the back of his throat.

Irritation at how he’d been blackmailed into a corner like a pathetic animal fighting for its life. It had been a long time since Lawless felt inadequate.

If he were the emotional type, like Snake was, he might have reacted a whole other way to Benz’s blackmail. “Come back to me. Fully, in every sense, be at my side, rule with me, allow me to love you. I’m fucking empty without you there, Penn. And I will leave her alone. She won’t exist to me.”

There was no hesitation when he’d answered: “done.”

That was six days ago.

Six days in which Lawless had felt split down to the bones and sinew, with his guts pouring out onto the floor.

He had very little power for a man who lived by his control.

Benz had thought he’d won, and while he visited Lawless yesterday, he allowed his former lover and mentor to keep thinking so. The man was attractive, cunning and they’d played well together a handful of years ago.

Did it mean Lawless had to be lenient with him because they had a history? Or whatever fondness ordinary people felt? Hell no.

Jay was blackmailing him into being his boy toy/right-hand man.

He could have a King Kong cock and like being choked out during orgasm, and it would still piss Lawless off.

He couldn’t think about Jay yet.

And that’s when he heard the man at his side inhaling the cancer stick. Lawless turned on his feet and started heading toward the door. Dreyers got in step with him.

Two hours and counting.

He needed the stink of the place off his skin. It felt as though it was embedded in areas he couldn’t scrub.

“Looking forward to getting out?”

What? Did the guy think Lawless would miss the place? That he’d choose to stay longer for the shits and giggles?

Not in a million years would he want to be in prison.

It had been his version of Hell being locked up all day long like a dog in a cage.

“You sure as shit made this place different.”

“I can’t stay just to brighten your day, Dillion,” he quipped and made the other man laugh.

“What will you do now?”

“Go back to my life.”

Maybe do a little murdering. Who knows? He’d been without his tools for a long time; he needed some fun.

Lawless looked at the world through eyes that had seen too much. It was predator energy that motivated him.

He liked simple things.

Expensive things.

And things that an average joe would pray on his knees to his Lord and Savior over.

The man at Lawless’ side had a lean body underneath the gaudy uniform, and he was easily manipulated.

If he wanted to, he could probably demand Dillion Dreyers take him to a secluded closet for a farewell fumble.

But Lawless wasn’t interested in him, and once they were back inside, he offered a hand, and Dreyers shook it. “Your wife still trying to talk you into getting a cat?”

Dreyers groaned. “She’ll win; she always wins.”

“Get her two, they don’t like to be alone.”

“I’d tell you to keep out of trouble, Penn, but I doubt you will.”

Lawless smirked and walked through the electronic door into a holding area where he would collect the civilian clothes he’d been wearing three years ago and pick up the only two things he was taking from this place.

His silver wristwatch and a box of unread letters.

Lawless had been inhaling the same Wyoming air for too long, but that first breath as a free man as he was escorted out of the final gate hit differently in his lungs, and his stride didn’t stop as he advanced toward a waiting Hawk and Snake.

“We are not hugging,” he warned a grinning Snake. “Control your emotions.”

Too fucking late. His friend and brother grabbed him like a bear attack and squeezed Lawless’ torso before thumping him on the back.

Once freed, he caught the blank icy stare from the VP. “Don’t expect the same from me.” Hawk arched his blond eyebrow as if it was ridiculous even to suggest he’d get with the PDA. Instead, the pair met their fists in the middle and bumped them. “Good to have you back.”

“Ready to get out of here?” Snake asked. “We got your Harley in a trailer if you wanna ride.”

He did. More than ever. “I need something to eat first, get the taste of this place out of my mouth.”

It would take more than food, but all in good time. Lawless had his standards, and he could settle for a juicy burger first.

They found a diner in town. Hawk stayed in the truck like the antisocial demon he was. He’d missed that fucker and all his silent quips.

“Are you ever gonna draw breath?” Lawless asked when he moved the now empty plate away. His stomach felt better after greasy food. “You haven’t shut up for a second.”

“I’m happy to see you,” smirked Snake, tossing a balled-up napkin on his empty plate.

“I can tell by your wagging tail.”

“You know we weren’t expecting you yet.”

“That’s why it’s called a surprise.”

Making a late-night call to the club last night, he’d informed them Archie had finalized his release and then asked Rider to call an emergency meeting with the core brothers but to keep his release hush-hush for now.

As far as Benz knew, Lawless was still behind bars and would be there in the next two weeks when he visited him.

It was petty.

But nowhere did Lawless ever state he wasn’t a petty motherfucker.

Benz wanted him. Badly.

Maybe he’d make the man chase him like a dirty dog.

“So,” Snake posed, a deep tint to his eyes. “What’s the plan, Law? If we’re killing Jay Benz, I need a heads up. My Winter doesn’t like our date nights interrupted, you get me?”

Lawless believed him.

Snake was entangled with his librarian like his namesake would be around prey. Even behind bars, Lawless heard about their relationship across the table when his friend visited.

Lawless didn’t deal with emotions.

They were pesky ant bites, and he hadn’t been tested, but he was almost positive he was allergic.

He was book smart and emotionally stunted.

Oh, he could pretend as well as the next psychopath.

But even then, he would swear on his Mustang that Snake would rather chew off his head than murder anyone. The last time didn’t work out so well for him.

So, in the event of a bloodbath, he would let his friend have the peace he so needed in his life and not tag him in.

“Your date nights are safe,” he answered in his even tone as he rose, and Snake followed suit, tossing bills on the table. They headed outside, where Hawk started the engine.

Lawless cast a smirk over his shoulder.

“Why would I kill Jay when I’m his boyfriend?”
Copyright© V. Theia 2021.