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  Big Daddy

  Heartbreakers MC #4

  Alexis Abbott

  © 2019 Pathforgers Publishing.

  All Rights Reserved. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imaginations. Any resemblances to actual persons, living or dead, are entirely coincidental.

  This book is intended for sale to Adult Audiences only. All sexually active characters in this work are over 18. All sexual activity is between non-blood related, consenting adults. This is a work of fiction, and as such, does not encourage illegal or immoral activities that happen within.

  Cover Design by Wicked Good Covers. All cover art makes use of stock photography and all persons depicted are models.

  More information is available at Pathforgers Publishing.

  Content warnings: dark romance, biker romance

  Wordcount: 60,000 Words

  Contents

  Introduction

  Prologue

  1. Juliette

  2. Big Daddy

  3. Juliette

  4. Big Daddy

  5. Juliette

  6. Big Daddy

  7. Juliette

  8. Big Daddy

  9. Juliette

  10. Big Daddy

  11. Juliette

  12. Big Daddy

  13. Juliette

  14. Big Daddy

  15. Big Daddy

  16. Juliette

  17. Big Daddy

  18. Juliette

  19. Big Daddy

  20. Juliette

  Next from Alexis Abbott

  Also by Alexis Abbott

  About the Author

  Connect with Alexis

  Acknowledgments

  Romance Novels to your Email

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  Prologue

  Thundering engines roar across the dusty highway across the Great Plains, the sun blazing down on me as the two scouts I’m hunting down try to weave around me. The two kuttes in front of me aren’t mine, and that’s a problem. They belong to our rivals, and I caught them riding in our territory. I don’t have time to wait for Tank, I’m going after them now and hoping he got my message, because I’m not letting them escape.

  These runts have no place in Heartbreaker country. We’re at war with the Buzzsaws, and the gloves are off. No excuses, no prisoners.

  A bullet ricochets off the road way too close to me, and I veer to the side with a metal baseball bat held tightly in my hand before I tap the brakes and let the one behind me get close. Before he can steer away, I bring the bat backward, whipping it through the air so hard it sounds like a blade cutting it, and I hear a painful crack as it bounces off the biker’s thigh.

  He howls in pain and falls behind as I gun the acceleration. The guy riding ahead of me with his pistol out tries to pull back to fall in with me and line up a shot, but I’m way ahead of him. I swerve across him as he cuts through my lane, and I tap his muffler with my bat, letting out a grim chuckle as the dry wind whips around us. It’s dangerous, of course. My life is dangerous. But it’s also a thrill.

  The black storm clouds in the distant plains behind us crackle with lightning, but the clear skies over us so far away make the bright browns and yellows around the cracked asphalt feel surreal. But my weapon’s metal is every bit as real as the muscle backing it up, and I don’t hold back. These fucking human traffickers are scum, and I’ll root every last one of them out of Wyoming myself if that’s what it takes.

  Fine enforcer I’d be if I did anything less.

  I lean the bike to the right and take a swing at the gunman, who fires into the air, missing wildly as he tries to avoid me. He curses up a storm as I stay close to him and only have to tear away when his buddy tries to come up on me from behind.

  I use my bat like a spear to push the gunman, who nearly falls out of his seat before recovering and driving along the edge of the road while his comrade roars up to my left.

  As he does, I notice his arm out in the rear-view mirror, and I see the black switchblade. I gun the acceleration and hurdle forward before the sharp blade can narrowly miss my kidney. My gloved knuckles are tight on the handles of my ride as the tons of screaming metal and gasoline charge ahead. As I go, I don’t just swing the bat at the gunman, I fling it at him like a spear while I pass him.

  It catches him at the elbow, and I hear a painful crack before his gun falls from the hand, firing into the asphalt as it hits the ground. That one’s wounded, and I know he’s the one I’ve got to go in for hard.

  I veer to the left side of the road, riding parallel to the two, and with a hand like lightning, I take out the revolver at my side. Immediately, the unharmed man between us falls back, and I take aim at the other guy’s tires.

  With one shot, the biker yelps as his front tire bursts, and the rubber rips off the wheel in shreds as the motorcycle spins out. The biker is surprisingly good at keeping it from tumbling over and snapping him in half, but he careens off the side of the road into the dry grass near a warped, lightning-struck tree.

  While his buddy is watching that unfold, I don’t waste time--I bring my bike right on over to him and bring my elbow right into his jaw in time for him to turn to face me. His bike leans hard, and unlike his friend, it lays down as it runs into the dirt, and he manages to push himself from the bike before the two tumble separately in a cloud of dust.

  My bike comes to a halt as soon as I can brake and wheel it back around, and I’m out of the seat in an instant. The man who laid the bike down is on his back, jaw slack and eyes closed. But I can see his chest rising and falling steadily, and a kick to his side confirms that he’s out cold.

  I approach the other man, the one with the injured limbs, who is on his stomach, limbs spread at awkward angles. As I approach, his right arm flexes, and I see it grip the knife in his hand--and my boot comes down on his wrist, hard.

  “Fuck!” he cries as I hold my revolver trained on him.

  “Don’t,” I grunt.

  Ten minutes later, I have the two scouts tied together to the tree on their asses. The conscious one stares up at me sullenly, wincing in pain from his injuries as he watches me empty a can of kerosene on the two kuttes I yanked off them and tossed in a pile between us.

  “You boys are a long way from home,” I remark, squirting the last of the kerosene out and taking my time to toss it back in my bike’s storage. “Think you’d get away riding with those colors around here? What the fuck were you doing?”

  The scout just stares up at me with a scowl. He’s young, probably just a prospect, but maybe not so young that he’s innocent. I won’t kill him unless he makes me, but he doesn’t need to know that. After a few moments of silence, my stony gaze leaves him to drift down to the matches I take out of my pocket.

  I strike one and toss it onto the kuttes, where the flame quickly blossoms over the kerosene and dry grass I gathered under it. The fire starts burning steadily, not really catching on the kuttes so much as burning the patches and slowly warping and cracking the leather and filling the air with the smell of burning hair. I stare him down over the flames while I cross my arms.

  “See these?” I grunt, pointing down to the burning Buzzsaw kuttes. “These are you. If you’re smart, you’ll let this part of your lives burn out here and tell me what I want to know. And if you don’t want to do that,” I add, picking up my metal bat off the ground and giving it a casual twirl before planting it in the ground between my feet. “Then I’ll show you how we handle Buzzsaws that get lost.”

  I could have sworn the scout pissed himself as his face paled.

  “Orders came from Diesel through Chai
nlink--his vice,” the scout blurts, almost tripping over his words to start singing for me.

  “I know who Chainlink is,” I growl. “What are your orders?”

  “Diesel wants to figure out your numbers on this side of the plains,” he says through gritted teeth as he squirms, clearly pained by one of his several baseball bat injuries. “We know you’re not making headway out west, so I assumed he wants to make a push down here.”

  “How many more scouts like you are there out here?” I ask, the pillar of my bat still unmoving.

  “Just us,” he swears, eyes wide and terrified. “Chainlink told us so. He doesn’t want many men on the road, I guess he’s trying to keep it quiet.”

  That all checks out, in my books.

  The Heartbreakers MC got a formal declaration of war from Diesel’s Buzzsaws, the MC he reformed around a human trafficking ring that’s been forcing women into prostitution all over the state. Hell, the Heartbreakers were formed by our prez rescuing the first girl the Buzzsaws tried to get their hands on, and we’ve clashed with them at every turn ever since.

  But the last skirmish we had outside an old mine was a bridge too far, and both sides are gearing up for war.

  “Well aren’t you helpful,” I growl with an ominous smile as I pace around the fire, letting the metal bat drag noisily over the rocky ground. “Tell me more. We had reports of gunshots in Pine Haven, was that you too?”

  “Not us, personally!” he stammered in a hurry. “Yeah, that was one of our prospects. They had him just fire off rounds, they want to piss the town off.”

  Fuck, I knew it. They’re trying to turn the town and the mayor against us. We’ve had trouble with the mayor ever since Bones got into a fight with some fuckhead would-be date rapist who turned out to be a senator’s son.

  “Thought you might have had something to do with that,” I growl, narrowing my eyes. “No blood, huh? Had a prospect’s house on the border of your territory get shot up. His brother was there. He took a bullet. Those were civilians.”

  I kneel down next to the man and glare at him in the eye. “You don’t even deny it.”

  “I didn’t have anything to do with it,” he swears, and I roll my eyes. “I-I don’t know the names of who was involved in that!”

  Before I can reply, I hear the sound of an engine roaring up behind me. I stand up slowly, bat still in hand and my other hand on my revolver. But it’s a friendly face I see through the blurred light on the asphalt ahead.

  Tank, the turncoat who joined us when he got wise to the sex trafficking operation, rumbles toward me on his bike and brings it to a slow stop with a broad grin on his face at my handiwork, surveying the scene.

  “Well fuck me,” he says as he hops off his bike and dusts his hands off, standing out of earshot of the prisoners on the side of the road but chuckling over at them. “Looks like you got a handle on things, alright.”

  “Wasn’t joking,” I said matter-of-factly. “See anyone else on the road? These two spies say they’re the only ones in this neck of the woods, but they might have lied.”

  “Nothin’,” Tank says. “Well, nothing but one scary motherfucker hanging out on the side of the road with a baseball bat.”

  “Ass,” I grunt with a shadow of a smile.

  “Hey, if you’re gonna keep showing me up like this, I gotta get my shots in somewhere,” he says as he cracks his knuckles when he can tell the scout is looking at us. “What are we gonna do with these two?”

  “Leave ‘em,” I grunt. “Won’t be nightfall before a trucker drives by and either helps ‘em out or reports it. They won’t be able to show their faces back with the Buzzsaws, though. Not after a humiliating ass-kicking like that. They’re only prospects, they’re probably looking to weed out fuckers like them.”

  “You’re right on that,” Tank says grimly, crossing his arms. “Diesel’d probably just as soon shoot ‘em on suspicion that they talked.” He turned to me again with a brighter smile. “Get anything juicy from ‘em?”

  “It’s going to be an ugly war,” I say bluntly. “Got ‘em to admit the Buzzsaws don’t seem to mind civilian casualties. They were behind Greg’s brother getting hit.”

  “Son of a bitch,” Tank grumbles, pulling his bandana off his head and running his hand through his hair. “Sure we don’t want to drag ‘em further off the road and let the coyotes get to them?”

  “Tempting,” I grunt. “We can tell Breaker we can’t ignore the mayor anymore, either. If there’s going to be a war, we can’t have the town turned against us. The supply line is everything in a war, and if our own people don’t support us, it’s already over.”

  “Then we need them out of our hair,” Tank agrees.

  “And we need to smooth things over somehow,” I add, frowning. “The shit with that senator’s brat Brandon keeps hanging over us. Asshole is still in town. It’s making us look bad.”

  “Maybe we should up our dress code, start riding in tuxes,” Tank says with a wink, and I chuckle. “Anyway, I got news for you, too.”

  “Huh?” I grunt as we make our way toward the bikes slowly, not listening to the increasingly nervous scout shouting at us from the tree as he realizes we’re leaving him.

  “Before you told me you were running off to chase down an unfair fight,” Tank says, putting his hands on his belt, “I got a message to give you from someone who’d say you know what it means. Your ears only.”

  I stop dead in my tracks. There could be only one thing he meant, hedging around something so carefully like that. I turn to him slowly and hear him say the last words I’d ever want to hear, right now of all times, on the brink of a bloody war.

  “Juliette is coming home.”

  Juliette

  I tilt my head back as my hands slide down my pelvis, curving over my hips and inward before dancing away. My eyes flutter open slowly, lashes trembling. I draw a deep breath, my eyes locked on the ceiling tiles fitted so precisely in ivory squares. This house has that going for it, at least. Symmetry. Normalcy. Consistency. Things never change here, never deviate from the expected. I suppose for some people that could be a nice thing. There were certainly times in my life when a little stability would’ve been helpful. But nowadays, it just feels like boredom to me. Which is why I have to find little moments like this, to sneak away and inject some much-needed excitement into the day. This time, I’m using the ruse of a bath for sore muscles. I grabbed a bag of Epsom salt from my mother’s medicine cabinet and limped off down the hallway to the guest bathroom (in this case, I am the guest), telling my mom I must have pulled a muscle while scrubbing the dishes this morning. But the moment I slid down under the steaming, floral-scented bathwater, I felt a different part of my body was crying out for attention. And I deserve a little escape, don’t I?

  My hands smooth along the insides of my thighs under the surface of the pink-tinged water. I bite my lip, holding back a moan as my fingers circle inward. I let myself get so tantalizingly close and then back away again. I like to test myself, see where my limits lie. I’ve always been a little competitive, even if sometimes it’s me I’m competing with. But right now, the last thing I should be doing is withholding from myself. I have spent enough time on other people for the time being. This alone time is sacred and elusive and I should treat it that way.

  I sink lower into the bath with a deep sigh. Goosebumps prickle up on my skin. The contrast between the hot water on my abdomen and the cool air stiffening my nipples into sensitive peaks makes me feel deliciously stimulated. The worries slip away out of my mind, trickling through my memory like water through a thin sieve. The tension in my muscles starts to loosen out and dissipate, my hardworking body soothed by the warm, healing water. I part my thighs a little farther and let my fingers trail down to center on my clit. With almost agonizing slowness, I circle and back away, circle and back away. It’s like dancing to the edge of a cliff only to prance back to safety. Only, I want to reach the edge. I want to topple over and free fall through the ec
static pleasure of letting my desire take control. Maybe that’s why they call it the little death. Either way, I want it. I need it. And this time, I’m going to let myself have it.

  I let my mind wander as I softly caress and massage my sensitive flower, my petals blooming and tingling with every gentle touch. Wild images begin to flicker onto the projection screen of my mind. Bright flashes of vivid color and movement. Large hands roving down my body, groping my breasts and rolling my taut nipples between his fingers. The smell of smoky, well-worn black leather. The acrid burn of gasoline in my nose. The rumble of an engine shaking the earth under my feet as I watch him, the shapeshifting man of my fantasies, mounting his black motorcycle.

  My eyes open and I stare up at the ceiling tiles for a moment, annoyed at myself. Why does my dream guy have to morph into a motorcycle guy? It seems to happen every single time these days, and I can’t explain why. In fact, I have lots of reasons to not fantasize about that kind of man. I’ve had more than my fair share of trouble thanks to bikers in my life, in general. But at the same time, I can’t deny how much the aesthetic appeals to me. The shiny metal, the soft leather, the musky scent, the feeling of wind whipping through my hair… I can imagine it all so colorfully. I can almost hear the tires scratching across the pavement. My eyelids shut again as I give in to the fantasy. I might as well. I’m tired of holding back-- I need this release more than anything. One of my hands trails up to caress my breasts, and I imagine what it would feel like if it were a big, manly, calloused hand instead of my soft dainty one. My other hand busies itself between my thighs, rubbing and circling as my hips rock and sway in the rhythm. It feels so damn good, every muscle in my body releasing tension as I moan and whimper in the bath.