Taken By Her Two Savage Bikers (MFM Dark MC Romance) Read online

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  Taken! Her Two Savage Bikers

  Excerpt from

  Two Times the Mountain Men

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  Taken! Her Two Savage Bikers

  Copyright 2019 by Terry Towers

  All rights reserved. With the exception of brief quotes used for critical reviews and articles no part of this book may be used or reproduced without the written permission of the author Terry Towers. Saint John, New Brunswick, Canada. Terry Towers can be contacted via her website at www.elixaeverett.com

  Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded or distributed via internet or other means, electronic or print without the authors permission. Criminal copyright infringement without monetary gain is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000. (http://www.fbi.gov.ipr/). Please purchase only authorized electronic or print editions and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted material.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the authors imagination and used fictitiously.

  The material in this book is intended for ages 18+ it may contain adult subject matter including explicit sexual content, profanity, drug use and violence.

  Taken!

  Her Two Savage Bikers

  By

  Terry Towers

  Description

  Kidnap and hold the old lady of a rival MC club president? Easy.

  Keeping our hands to ourselves? Well…

  Not so easy.

  Lola’s a spitfire and fights us at every turn. With a temper as lethal as her tongue, she’s so fiery that we can’t help but want a taste – enemy or not.

  Hell, the fact that she’s forbidden fruit just makes us want her more.

  Besides, men like us aren’t made to play by the rules.

  She says she’s not the girl we think she is, but we don’t make mistakes.

  She’s only one thing now.

  Ours.

  Chapter 1

  Wrong place. Wrong time. That’s the story of my life.

  Lola

  Oh you have got to be kidding me…

  I groaned out my frustration as I slammed my palm against the steering wheel. My life seemed to be taking a serious downturn. The check-engine light coming on moments before I heard a bang from the aging car, followed by smoke coming from under the hood was just another thing to add to the shit show my life was becoming. I didn’t know much about cars, but a bang and smoke, followed by the car dying on the side of the road didn’t seem like something I wanted to happen.

  Fuck.

  I was on my way from Los Angeles to Las Vegas for a shit modeling job after having a meeting with my agent, who said to me, quote, unquote: You know I adore you and I’ve been your agent for a number of years now, which is why I feel I need to give you the brutal truth. You’re getting too old for a runway or editorial modeling career.

  Looking over the massive oak desk at the spectacled, middle-aged man across from me –who more or less controlled my career, and as an extension my life – I was left feeling dumbstruck.

  I’m only twenty-eight for fuck’s sake, Travis, how can I be too old? I’d replied.

  Don’t get me wrong; there’s lots of work still out there for you. Stock photography for instance. Perhaps some commercial work. It’s not the end of your career. Maybe take some more acting classes...

  Giving my head a shake, I couldn’t help replaying the meeting with him over and over again, like on a fucking loop. It was messing with me.

  Twenty-eight and too old?

  What in the hell would I do now? Modeling was the only career I ever wanted. It had been my dream throughout my entire life. I’d done the pageant circuit as a child and through my teens. Dance lessons, gymnastic lessons, acting classes. Like, shitballs, what fucking more could I have done? More acting classes? Jesus!

  Looking up and into the rearview mirror, I stared into my own defeated dark brown – nearly black – eyes.

  What in the hell do I do now?

  Tears sprang to my eyes. Fuck fuck fuck. I couldn’t cry. If I cried I’d have big nasty black streaks down my cheeks from my heavily applied eye make-up. Besides, I had to deal with this damned car and its refusal to go any further. Time to toughen up. Taking a deep breath in, I held it for a moment and then slowly released it.

  AAA. I’d call AAA and I’d be back on the road in no time. If I got towed back to L.A. then I could fly to Las Vegas. I wanted to use my vehicle, and had planned on spending several days in Vegas trying to unwind a little bit and maybe get some last-minute work, but I could always Uber or take a Lyft.

  Grabbing my black leather Gucci bag, I pulled it open and began to rummage through it in search of my phone. I turned up empty.

  Where in the hell?

  With each moment and each item I removed from the bag, my anxiety increased. Where in the…

  Then the location of the lost phone struck me like a Mack truck.

  Oh shit…

  My body froze as my jaw fell open. My agent’s office. I remembered it as clear as day now. I’d brought up a fashion show call for models that I’d found and wanted to participate in. I’d passed him the phone. He’d passed it back… without really looking. He’d placed it on his desk, telling me he didn’t know if that would be a good fit for my look. I’d been so agitated that I hadn’t picked the phone back up. In fact, I’d left it on his desk as I proceeded to throw an embarrassing tantrum. A diva-worthy tantrum, in fact; the stress of not working and my dream slipping through my fingers as the years went by was pushing me over the edge.

  Oh no… Nonono. The phone was on his desk and I was well over an hour’s drive from L.A in a broken-down car. Frustrated, I tossed my purse onto the passenger seat and slumped back into the leather car seat.

  Cars periodically drove by me as I sat in my car for way longer than I should have, wallowing in self-pity. But self-pity was not going to get me out of this mess. Not surprisingly, not a single person stopped to help.

  There had been a truck stop I had passed not so far from here. Maybe a half-hour walk. Maybe…

  “Yup, this is my life now,” I grumbled to myself, pulling the car keys from the ignition and snatching up my purse from the passenger seat. Several items from inside the purse had spilled out onto the seat to join the ones I’d tossed in my frantic search. I grabbed these and threw them back into the purse with more anger than was really warranted. It wasn’t the handbag’s fault that my car shit the bed. There was a hesitation in me as I tried to decide if I really wanted to make the walk, but when it came right down to it, it wasn’t as though I had a choice. It was either walk or hope some good Samaritan would stop and help. Though considering the luck I’d been having lately, it wouldn’t be a concerned citizen at all, but some perv looking to kidnap me and keep me shackled in his basement.

  Opening the door, I slid from the vehicle and slammed the door shut behind me, taking my frustration out on my poor old car. Feeling a prang of guilt, I gave the roof a pat. “Sorry old girl.”

  My car was a black 1976 Chevy Impala. I inherited it from my adoptive parents when they passed when I was in my late teens – sixteen to be exact. I’d just gotten my driver’s license. I remember my father being so proud, and telling me upon receiving my license that one day the Impala would be mine. I never would have imaged that the day in question would come within a month of me obtaining my driver’s license, courtesy of some asshole who robbed the convenience store that my parents happened to be in at the time of the holdup. My father, being an off-duty cop, sprang into action. Shots were fired and – to cut a long story short, because the long version is no less painful –my mother and my father were fatally shot, and died by the time they reached the hospital. They never did catch the bastard that destroyed my family. My father managed to shoot him once in the leg, but he somehow managed to escape.

  Locking the car, I began my hike to the truck stop, thankful that I was wearing comfortable clothes: jean shorts and runners with a black form-fitting tank top. The day was beautiful, well at least what was left of it anyhow; warm with just a slight breeze. The sky was streaked with orange and red colors as the sun disappeared. By the time I arrived at the truck stop it would be nightfall.

  I could use a good stiff drink. Maybe I’d get lucky and they’d serve alcohol at the truck stop diner. That would be ideal. The thought of the delicious burn of alcohol that would help calm my frazzled nerves urged my long, tanned legs to move just a little quicker.

  I’d never met my biological parents and my adoptive parents had no idea of who they were, but considering my dark brown hair and skin tone that seemed to be permanently tanned, it was easy to assume that I was either part or fully Latina. My quick temper just worked into the stereotype. Regardless, I never really cared all that much about my heritage. Maybe one of these days I’d do one of those DNA tests just to see if I was correct.

  Maybe…

  I had parents who were amazing and seemed to love me more than most biological parents of people I knew. My mother used to tell me that many kids were just thrown into parents with no real plan or thought. She insisted that I, on the other hand… I was
special since I was chosen. When I had rough days, days very much like today, I tried to remember her words.

  I was special.

  I was chosen.

  Ten minutes into my walk, a relatively new, red, half-ton truck slowed as it approached me from the opposite direction. This wasn’t the best area to be stranded. There weren’t enough cars to deter people – men in particular – from stopping to harass a lone female. I prayed this wasn’t his intention as he pulled over to my side of the road and stopped just before me, blocking my path.

  There was a hesitation in my step as I decided to go around him via the passenger side of the vehicle. The window on the passenger side was down as I approached.

  “Hey baby! Where you heading? Need a lift?” The southern accent struck me before I even got a glimpse of him.

  I didn’t want to look at him, but either way, depending on the type of person he was, ignoring him would either be a great idea or a very, very bad one. Ultimately, I chose to confront the potential danger head on.

  Stopping at the open window, I looked in and at the driver, who seemed to be in his mid-thirties, perhaps. Not a bad looking guy – I suppose – though that John Deere ballcap he was wearing, and tight, white t-shirt screamed redneck. There was no one else in the vehicle, although the crew cab had a couple of suitcases on the seat.

  “I’m good. Thanks.” I gave him a smile that was just wide enough to be friendly, but not so welcoming as to invite him to further the conversation with me. If he had any common sense, he’d catch the hint and move along. With a nod of the head, I turned and began to walk along the side of the truck.

  The good Samaritan put the truck in reverse and lined the window up so he could talk to me again. “I don’t mind. It’s not the safest area to be wandering. Especially for a woman like yourself.”

  This time I didn’t look at him. “I’m fine. Thanks. I’m just going down the road.”

  “Then hop on in, I can take ya.”

  Oh my God this guy was like a fucking dog with a bone! “No thanks.” My senses began to tingle and I could feel the adrenaline begin to fill my veins as the flight-or-fight instinct began to kick in. One thing about spending two years in group homes was that I had learned how to fight right ricky-tick. In those types of places, it was either kill or be killed, figuratively speaking of course. The guy in the truck looked quite fit, but I had the element of surprise on my side if he decided to try something.

  Lola Hastings wouldn’t be taken against her will without a fight.

  But it didn’t happen. He called after me one last time, but once I was past the tail end of the truck he gave up and sped off, leaving me choking on the dust kicked up by his rear tires in his wake.

  “Asshole,” I grumbled. Walking several more feet, I looked over my shoulder and sighed a breath of relief and chuckled to myself. Good; I was just being paranoid for nothing. You could never be to safe though.

  By the time I was stepping into the truck stop restaurant, which was more of a rundown bar than restaurant, the night had really taken over and cooled the summer air, giving me a slight chill. Despite my age, I swear I craved heat like a ninety-year-old woman!

  Pulling the hair tie from my hair, I made my way to the bar and flashed the bartender a smile. “Hey there,” Leaning my elbows on the countertop I gave him a good flash of my cleavage. “Listen, I’m in a predicament and was hoping you’d be able to help me.”

  He gave me an odd look as if he knew me. Maybe he’d seen an ad I was in? The idea made me smile wider, you know, in case he was a fan. “What can I do to help?” He walked over to stand before me as he grabbed a glass from under the bar.

  “My car broke down not too far from here; problem is that I was an idiot and left my phone at home. Don’t suppose you could call Triple-A for me?” I chewed at my lower lip, looking up at him through my thick, false lashes.

  The bartender gave me another odd look and then gave his head a shake, as if trying to dismiss whatever he was thinking.

  “This isn’t the best area for a young woman like yourself.” He put the glass down in front of me and then reached behind him and pulled a cell phone from his back pocket, passing it over to me.

  My brow furrowed as I stared at him. He was perhaps my age. Tall and nicely built, wearing a ball cap on backward, but he was cute enough he could pull it off without looking like a douche trying to look younger than he was. “Why’s that?”

  He chuckled. “You not knowing why just proves my point. It just isn’t. Would you like something to drink?”

  During normal circumstances I wasn’t much of a drinker – alcohol slowed the metabolism and was unnecessary calories. Tonight was an exception. I certainly was craving one during the walk here. After the day I was having I sure as hell deserved it. “Thank you, just a plain old vodka and orange juice please.”

  “Wild one, aren’t ya?” He gave me a wink and began to pour, keeping his emerald green eyes focused on me.

  Blushing despite myself, I pulled my wallet from my purse, located my AAA member card and dialed the customer service number on the back. “I’m not much of a drinker, but it’s been a rough day, so I think I deserve it.”

  “No need to explain to me – unless you want to.”

  I didn’t have a chance to reply as the operator came on the line. Seeing I was occupied, the bartender went off to take care of his other patrons. I took a sip of the drink as I gave the operator my information. Less than ten minutes later I was off the phone with the promise that the tow truck would be to me in an hour, two at the maximum. That gave me a small amount of time before I had to make the walk back to the vehicle. I’d asked if they could pick me up at the diner but apparently, they didn’t do that, against policy or some shit.

  “How much?” I asked stuffing the card back into my wallet and passing the phone back to him when he returned to me.

  “Considering you’ve had a rough day, let’s say it’s on the house.”

  He had a nice, friendly smile. Not one of those smiles I was used to getting from men who wanted me for a one-night good time, but there was a sincerity that made me feel reassured. This was a minor setback, I told myself. Everyone had minor setbacks.

  “Thank you.” Drinking the vodka cocktail down in several gulps, I passed the glass back to the bartender. “I appreciate your kindness.”

  “Anytime. I’ll look forward to your next visit.”

  Laughing, I slipped the purse back onto my shoulder. “Not likely, but thanks anyhow.” This time it was my turn to wink at him before spinning on my heel and strutting across the bar toward the exit, making sure my ass gave a nice wiggle with each step for his benefit. The least I could do really. Opening the door, I flipped my hair over my shoulder and looked back toward the bar. He was watching me. Our gazes locked, and just like that the dark-haired bartender was out of my life like so many other brief encounters before him.

  The sun had completely disappeared, the night taking over. The temperate had dipped a noticeable amount in just the short time I was in the bar. A chill shot up my spine as I began the walk. Crossing my arms over my chest, I rubbed my shoulders with the opposite hands, trying to get some warmth generated. Cars periodically whizzed by me, but no one stopped. It was just as well; it wasn’t like I would have gotten in with a stranger anyhow.

  Headlights appeared behind me, illuminating the road ahead of me. But the car didn’t rush past like the others did.

  Shit. I hoped it wasn’t another hillbilly with a hard-on.

  “Need a lift?” I heard a deep masculine voice asking.

  “Nah, I’m good.” I shot back over my shoulder, not looking back at the vehicle, but quickening my pace. A pricking shimmied down the back of my neck and spine, making the fine hairs stand at attention, but I ignored it, passing the feeling off as simple paranoia.

  The vehicle came to a stop and I heard doors opening. This time I did look back. The vehicle was a large crew-cab, black Dodge Ram with tinted windows. The men who had hopped out were both tall, broad, dominating types – both were dark haired and their eyes fixed on me as if I were prey. There was no friendliness in their expressions.