Edge of Ashes (Sons of Ash Motorcycle Club)

BOOK: Edge of Ashes (Sons of Ash Motorcycle Club)
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EDGE OF ASHES

Sons of Ash Motorcycle
Club

 

by
Brynn O'Connor

 

 

Copyright
© 2014 Brynn O'Connor

All
rights reserved. This document may not be reproduced in any way without the
expressed written consent of the author. The ideas, characters, and situations
presented in this story are strictly fictional and any unintentional likeness
to real people or real situations is completely coincidental.

 

Dedication

Thank
you all for reading, I'd like to dedicate this book to my boys Diego and Ethan,
and to my good friends Dan and Diane. Without them this book would never have
been written.

 

 

Other Books by Brynn O'Connor:

Edge
of Chaos (Sons of Chaos MC #1)

Broken
Strings (A Rock Star Romance Novel)

Fuel
To The Fire (A Racing Romance Novel)

 

CHAPTER ONE
Kari Meets Her Match

 

 

The moment I walk into Trauma Room 4 I
smell biker. By that I mean I smell old leather and cheap cologne mixed with
gasoline and exhaust; a wonderful heady combination sure to get any girl to
drop her panties in a flash; or not! There are far too many bikers in this town
(Cave Junction) and normally I don’t mind, until one of them intrudes on me at
work.

I’ve been a trauma nurse here at St.
Josephs for… for as long as I can remember and we didn’t used to see many
bikers here but things seem to be changing. Cave Junction is a small town of
about thirty thousand normal people and for some reason it has attracted more
than its share of motorcycle clubs. Most keep to themselves and you never hear
about them, but it’s the outlaw biker crowd that I find increasingly difficult
to stomach.

Take yesterday for example. I was sitting
at The Beanery, my favorite coffee shop and enjoying a rare day off when my
coffee cup begins to rattle on its saucer. Of course my first thought is
another earthquake. Imagine my humiliation when after I crawl out from under
the table I just hid beneath to find it’s just another bunch of pig riding
bikers rumbling through town! Yeah I say pig, but I’d never say that to any of
their faces. They call those earsplittingly loud bikes they ride (the Harley
Davidsons) Hogs. What difference does it make if I called them Pigs to one of
their faces instead? Yeah, that’s another story for another day.

So anyway, I walk into Trauma 4 only to
find the one they call Adam laid out on the table in the middle of the room. I
grab his chart that’s sitting on the counter and walk over to where he appears
to be sleeping. You have to be careful approaching these outlaw biker types;
they’re a bit high strung…skittish really. You do the wrong thing and you could
find a knife at your throat faster than you can blink.

So I position myself ten feet away when I
let the metal clipboard in my hands fall to the shiny linoleum floor with a loud
CRASH! His reaction is both predictable and comical. In the blink of an eye he
sits up, spins around to face me as his hands reach for the long wicked looking
knife that had been strapped to his side.

“Looking for something?” I ask, knowing
full well what he is looking for.

His hands stop mid motion. “Yeah… I seem to
have lost my-”

“Pacifier?” I ask, interrupting him.

He gives me an evil look. “Where is it?”

“With the security guards of course. You
think they were going to let you in here with that thing strapped to your hip?”

“Hey it was just a… a pacifier,” he says
with a twinkle in his eyes.

Holy crap, it’s an outlaw biker with a
sense of humor! Suddenly I notice him. I have grown so used to seeing these
grimy leather clad biker types all over town that my brain immediately
discounts them completely, no matter what they look like. But this guy is
different. He’s like, my perfect man. He must be several inches over six feet
tall, and from what I can tell as his biker jacket gapes open, there’s not an ounce
of fat on him. For some reason he’s taken off his tee shirt but left his
leather jacket (they call it his cut) on; and I’m glad he did. His chest is
amazing. His abs are decadent, and from the expression on his handsome face; my
drooling reaction is no stranger to him. The name on his chart had said Adam
and it fits perfectly. While he’s not the first man God created I’m pretty sure
he’s been cut from the same cloth. His perfectly symmetrical tanned face is
framed by shoulder length black hair and just messy enough to look sexy. Where
I is his helmet? With the mandatory helmet law in our state, most biker guys
run around sporting helmet hair and it ruins it for me. Just when you think
some guy is totally hot looking, he takes off his brain bucket and he’s got
this sweaty mop plastered to his head in a decidedly unsexy fashion; it’s a
total turnoff.

But the creature in front of me now, he’s a
different animal altogether. I hazard a glance into his smoky grey eyes and I can
feel myself getting sucked in and all of a sudden I’m walking down the isle
dressed in a long flowing white wedding dress as the AC/DC classic Shook Me All
Night Long plays in the background, (Yeah I’m a big fan). And then I’m standing
at the alter next to Adam, but he’s still dressed in his smelly old leathers
and he’s slipping a ring on my finger. I look down for the briefest of an
instant and I’m not surprised at all; it’s a cigar band.

Then the preacher says, “You may kiss the
bride.”

“What are you doing? Are you puckering?”

Suddenly I’m back in Trauma 4 and biker guy
is staring at me, giving me the strangest look.

“What?” I ask.

“You… you were puckering just then.” He
says smugly.

“Was not.”

“Oh but you were. Your eyes were closed and
you leaned in and you puckered those fantastic lips of yours.”

“They’re fantastic? I mean, no I did
not
pucker. It’s just that sometimes my lips…” I trail off. I got nuthin’.

He just won’t let it go. “Sometimes your
lips what...pucker?”

“Yeah it’s like spontaneous…spontaneous
combustion only they pucker.” I finish lamely. Then I stop myself. This is my
domain. In here I’m the boss and no one makes me feel dumb. I am the
god…goddess of all I survey; in here at least. “So why are you hear?” I ask,
trying to steer the conversation back to something more professional. Anything
to get away from the subject of my puckering lips.

“It’s about time you asked.” He replies,
this time with a serious look on his face. “I came in here ‘cause I got shot.”

“What?” Immediately I’m all professional
again.

I step up to the table and start removing
his jacket with the speed of practiced hands. He seems a bit bewildered at
first, like he never expected me to start acting like a nurse. Guess that’s
what I get for trying to kiss him.

He puts a strong hand on my arm. “Relax
doc, It was just a .22.”

“It’s still a gunshot,” I protest. “It can
still kill you. You may be bleeding internally and you don’t even know it.”

“I doubt it,” he says.

“Well I don’t, now let’s get your things
off.”

“If I was bleeding internally,” he replies.
“I would have died hours ago.”

“You’ve been here for hours?” I ask
stunned. Gunshot victims take priority here. He should have been ushered right
back. Especially as slow as tonight has been.

“It’s okay doc, I just told them I had a
headache.”

“Now why would you want to tell them that?
I ask. I guess this guy’s as dumb as the rest of them; too bad really.

“If I woulda told them I got shot they
would have asked all these questions and they’d have to report it-”

“Just like I have to,” I reply interrupting
him.

“You gotta be kidding doc.”

“No I’m not kidding, and I’m not your doc.
I’m a trauma nurse and my name is Kari Michaels.”

“Okay then nurse Kari, you gotta be kidding
then.”

“So where were you shot?” I ask, tugging on
his jacket again. Please be his ass, please be his ass…

“Holy crap your doin’ it again.” He says as
he slides off the trauma table with ease.

“Doing what?” I ask innocently.

“Pucker… never mind.”

He stops talking and proceeds to unbuckle
his belt. My heart quickens as he unsnaps his jeans. Could this day get any
better? I clench my teeth together. You know, to make sure I don’t start
licking my lips when he slips his pants down over his narrow hips. I catch my
breath as I see the swelling of his crotch. He stops mid-motion.

“I feel like I’m making a porno here,” he
complains.

“Why’s that?” I ask. I have no idea what
he’s talking about now.

“Seriously doc? Man you gotta get that look
off your face or turn around or something.”

My hands fly to my face. Was I licking my
lips just then? I take a deep breath and remind myself he’s an outlaw biker.
There is nothing redeemable about this man and he probably belongs in jail or
something. It works. I can feel my heart slowing down and my breathing returns
to normal. He’s a biker and I’m a nurse and between the sheet never the twain
shall meet. Oh it’s hopeless…he’s hot, and he’s taking off his pants, what can
I say? I force myself to be all professional like and I stick my nose back in
his chart. According to this, Adam... Whiner? Did I just read that right? Adam
Whiner…

“So Mr. Whiner-”

He interrupts me with alacrity. “It’s
pronounced winner.”

“Really…’cause it’s spelled-”

“I am,” he interrupts again, “well aware of
the spelling of my last name miss.”

“So it’s spelled like your some sort of a
whiner, but it’s pronounced like you’re some kind of winner or something and I
wonder, which characteristic did you most exemplify in school, a whiner or a
winner?”

“You figure it out!” He says.

I finally look back up from the chart I had
my nose buried in. “Mr. Whin-” My mouth seizes up and all speech fails me.

Standing not five feet in front of me is
the most perfect ass I have ever had the pleasure of drooling over. It’s
perfect. Well…except for the smear of blood on his right cheek and upper leg.
There’s a tiny entrance wound just below his…his ass. About three inches away
is the exit wound. Looks like the bullet struck him just below his right cheek
and exited after passing through about three inches of flesh. By the looks the
bullet could not have gone much more than a quarter inch beneath the flesh. The
only thing I can do here is to just flush out the wound to make sure it won’t
get infected and give him some antibiotics. It couldn’t be more simple than
that. I just need to get a bottle of sterile saline, a syringe, and some gauze
and I really shouldn’t be feeling him up!

“Doc, what are you doing? I didn’t get shot
in the ass.”

I freeze. My left hand is resting on his
smooth as a baby’s bottom…bottom, and my other one has begun to explore his
other cheek.

“I-I’m checking for c-collateral damage,” I
stammer.

“You sure you’re a nurse?” He asks, looking
over his shoulder.

“Yes…a very thorough one, now please just
hold still so I can finish my exam.”

“Should I just turn around then?” He asks
with a snicker.

“Yes please,” I whisper under my breath.

“What’s that Doc?”

“Nothing. I need you to get back up on that
table and lay face down so I can clean the wound.”

For an answer he just turns around and
there it is without warning, right in front of my nose; his pecker. I catch my
breath and sit back on my heels, nearly spilling myself on the floor. He did
that on purpose. He knew I was examining his wound and he just turns around.
What an ego he has? As he hoists himself back up on the trauma table I can’t
get the image of his cock out of my brain. It’s perfect. So smooth, so long, so
indescribably luscious…and it wasn’t even hard. I close my eyes and stand up.
Thankfully he has done as asked and is lying on his stomach. As long as I don’t
have to look at his dick I might even have a chance at being professional here.

“You know doc-”

“It’s nurse. I’m a nurse and my name is
Kari.”

“Yes you said that. So Kari what time do
you get off?” He asks.

Hah, I very nearly already got off! I stop
mid-thought. I do hope I didn’t just say
that
out loud.

“Look Mr. Whiner (emphasis on the long I
sound), I don’t date.” I reply.

“You don’t date? What do you mean you don’t
date? Everybody dates... unless they’re married and then half of them date
anyways.”

“I mean, I don’t date patients or bikers
and you’re both. That’s a double no no.”

“I see. We’ll pretty soon I won’t be your
patient and…well I’ll still be a biker but what’s so wrong about that?”

I point to his jacket and the triple piece
patch on the back. “I know a little about motorcycle clubs,” I begin. “I also
know the meaning of a three piece patch. Only outlaw bikers sport a three piece
patch. I also know what that diamond 1%’er patch means as well so no, I don’t
date bikers; especially outlaw bikers who flaunt their status by wearing a
diamond patch.”

BOOK: Edge of Ashes (Sons of Ash Motorcycle Club)
9.11Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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