Vicious (MC Club Biker Urban Alpha Male Erotic Romance)

BOOK: Vicious (MC Club Biker Urban Alpha Male Erotic Romance)


The Jokers MC. I licked my lips. They sounded dangerous. They sounded wild. They sounded like exactly what I had been fantasizing about all along.


Sarah Grant feels suffocated. A normal girl living in the suburbs, her entire life feels planned out for her—and all she wants to do is break free. Break free from the manicured lawns and prep schools of her childhood, and the perverted stares and gropes of her guidance counselor…


Her way out comes in the form of a brutal biker gang, led by Blade… A violently passionate rider with a mysterious past and voraciously sensual desires. He’s determined to make Sarah his… And turn her into the property of the Jokers MC.


Which path will Sarah choose? The security of a boring life… or the passionate and erotic life of the open road?


Don’t miss this sexy new thriller from Billie Kasper!





“A 4.0 GPA and perfect ACT and SAT scores… Well, Ms. Grant, it looks like you’ll have a bright future ahead of you.”


I tried to make myself smile.


“Thank you, Mr. Wilson,” I choked out, shifting uncomfortably in my plaid skirt. The uniform at St. Benedict’s School for Girls was quite becoming but didn’t leave much to the imagination. I could never help but feel uncomfortable when I was in Mr. Wilson’s presence. The other girls seemed to like him but he always struck me as lecherous somehow—a total creep, the way he looked us over, as if we were pieces of meat or prize horses up for auction.


On the other hand, the uniform lent itself to flirting with boys… Oh, yes, it did. And most of the girls at the school were boy crazy. That’s what four years without the opposite sex with do to you.


“Have you considered where you’ll apply to college?”


“Well…” I started, looking at the floor. I had buttoned my shirt up all the way to the top of the collar but I still felt Mr. Wilson’s eyes boring a hole through my clothes, hunting for my soft young flesh, looking at me where he wasn’t supposed to be. “Well… My dad went to Yale, and my mom went to Stanford, so they want me to look there.”


“All good choices. I would look at Berkeley as well, plus all the other Ivies. University of Chicago is a popular choice now for students of your caliber and talent, as is Georgetown, Duke, Notre Dame…”


Mr. Wilson stood and circled around his desk, coming to stand right behind me. He placed his hands on my shoulders.


“Of course, as you know, you’ll still need a recommendation from me, as your school’s head guidance counselor…”


His strong, firm hands began to work the tension and discomfort away from my shoulders.


“You’re eighteen, aren’t you?”


My blood ran cold. His hands were sliding further and further down my shoulders, towards my chest.


“I… I am…” I murmured.


“Good. That means… Certain opportunities will be open to you. Opportunities that wouldn’t have been open otherwise.”


“Opportunities… Like volunteer positions?” I asked softly. “Or… an internship?”


“Sure, if that’s what you’d like. I could definitely hook you up with something like that…” he whispered, his hands sliding further and further away from my shoulders, along my collar bone. He pressed the bulge in his pants against me from behind, forcing it into my neck.


Suddenly, outside, there was an incredible, angry roaring. We both looked up. It was the sound of four or five, maybe more, engines screaming, accompanied by the ripping of hot rubber. I took advantage of the momentary distraction to dart over to the window, peeking out.


“Oh, Mr. Wilson, look—it’s a biker gang!” I said, pointing to the line of motorcycles hurtling down the road running along the school grounds. Our town is a tiny speck in the middle of no where and having a biker gang charge on through would provide gossip and distraction for weeks.


I squinted, trying to make out the details of their outfits. They were dressed in black leather from head to toe. Many of them wore old, military-looking helmets, like the kinds the Nazis are always wearing in old war movies. They glanced at us as they rode by and one of them, out in front, grinned at me.


He wore goggles over his tanned, soot-covered face, but his teeth were bright white—like the glowing fangs of some vicious forest beast. They practically glistened in the shining sunlight. I found myself blushing as he raised his left hand and flipped the school off. Yet, I could have sworn that he caught my eye at the same time and shot me a wink. It was over in a second, though, and if I had had to prove that it really happened, I would have been at a loss.


“Hooligans,” Mr. Wilson muttered, grabbing me by the shoulder. “Filthy hooligans. Come away from the window, Sarah. We don’t want them to get the wrong idea about you.”


What kind of wrong idea, Mr. Wilson? I wanted to ask him. That maybe I wasn’t like the other kids at this school? That maybe I’d just as soon flip off the school as that biker leader would? I wished I could be on one of those motorcycles, charging down the open rode like the bikers, the wind flowing through my hair… But instead, I’m stuck here at this lame school, with lame, lecherous teachers…


“No, Mr. Wilson,” I said absently. “No, we wouldn’t want them to get the wrong idea.”




The rest of the day progressed normally, or as normal as possible after a big group of bikers tear through a sleepy little town. Windgale is boring as all get out: a rural California hamlet with some big houses, St. Benedict’s, and then vineyards and farms all around. The money pouring into the valley in the last twenty or thirty years had made everyone pretty well off but it was the boring kind of wealth that doesn’t lend itself to culture or anything of interest.


Instead of building museums, we built bigger houses or bought nicer cars to drive down to San Francisco for the weekend. Instead of bringing in nice shops or even building a mall, we bought everything online. The adults talked about how quiet it was, how much they liked having everyone so serene and rural, but for anyone under thirty, it was torture.


My best friend Cassie and I found ourselves walking home that afternoon, book bags slung over our shoulders. A group of boys from the public high school the next town over drove by, eying our long, pale legs beneath our plaid skirts.


“God, I feel like a piece of meat whenever I get dressed for school…” Cassie muttered. “I wish we could wear pants.”


“Wear leggings,” I said with a shrug.


“Even then… I don’t know. Don’t you just fee like you’re… Like you’re on display? For everyone? Even for… Mr. Wilson?”


I stopped dead in my tracks.


“He’s such a creeper,” Cassie continued, not even noticing my discomfort.


“Yeah, I think he totally came onto me today when I was talking about colleges with him,” I finally managed to choke out before continuing on.


“I wouldn’t be surprised. It’s too bad he’s got an in with every college admissions office in the country. He thinks he can do whatever the hell he wants…”


“I don’t know,” I said. “He got pretty freaked out when those bikers rode by today.”


“Ew, those grease balls? They’re even worse than Mr. Wilson.”


“Hey, what did they ever do to you?”


Now it was Cassie’s turn to stop dead in her tracks, eyeing me suspiciously.


“Why are you defending those creeps? They’re… They’re thugs, aren’t they? Just criminals and drug dealers…”


I stuttered and just scowled. I had no idea if they were or not. The fact was, I had just spent most of the afternoon fantasizing about being on the back of a motorcycle, a piece of vibrating steel between my young legs and the hard, muscular body of a biker in my arms, feeling his muscles tense and maneuver as we roar down the highway…


We got to my house after a few more blocks of strained silence. In the living room, my mother was watching the afternoon news. There was a snack for us on the kitchen table: apples with peanut butter and raisins. The same as every day since first grade.


“Oh, I’m glad you girls got home safely. They’re saying on the news that there’s a biker gang roaming the streets. Can you imagine? Here, in Windgale?”


“We saw them ride by the school today,” Cassie informed her. “It was pretty scary. They were making faces and eyes and all that at the girls… Flipping off the teachers.”


“I didn’t think they were so bad,” I mumbled. Neither Cassie nor my mother heard me.


“I hope the police do something about them, and fast.”


“What laws are they breaking?” I demanded, a bit louder this time. “They’re just passing through, aren’t they? Have they robbed anyone yet?”


“Not yet,” my mother grumbled. “But why wait until they do?”


I could tell this wasn’t going anywhere and so, I tactfully retreated, seeking a glass of milk from the fridge. Cassie and I ate our snack, watched the tail end of Jeopardy, as we had every weekday for the last six years, and then began our homework—again, just as we had done every single weekday for the last six years.


Three hours later, Cassie’s older brother came by and picked her up. I waved her off and smiled timidly at her brother, Stu. He was home on leave from the Marines and had a chest like an old cartoon superhero. He didn’t even meet my eyes as he glared at Cassie, as if for not walking fast enough.


I couldn’t help but feel a little disheartened by that. So, I was good enough for Mr. Wilson’s creepy advances but not for Stu? Back in my room after dinner, I took stock of the situation: I had my wavy red hair pulled into a braid.


My school uniform didn’t exactly show off my generous chest but it did reveal my long, pale, freckled legs. I was definitely a bit curvier than Cassie but not in a bad way, or so I thought. Or maybe I was just desperate? Regardless, I couldn’t see any reasons why Stu shouldn’t be taken in by my bountiful bosom, the freckles splattered across my nose and cheeks, or my full butt—not to mention my sapphire-blue eyes.


Of course, things would be better in college, I was sure—there’d be smart boys, boys who liked a girl who was a bit curvier, who was witty and intelligent and wanted to be treated like an equal and not just a pretty little doll…


But maybe I didn’t want that. Oh, sure, I wanted to be treated like an equal and all that feminist stuff, but did I really want the kind of boy who would do that? Or did I want the kind of boy who’d ride a motorcycle, reeking of tobacco and whiskey, who’d fight for me at the drop of a hat instead of just “agreeing to disagree,” all afraid to rip his skinny jeans? I wanted both, really—a bad boy who respected me. Couldn’t I just have my cake and eat it too?


With these thoughts in my head, I stripped down and got ready for bed. As I brushed my teeth, I heard the roaring of motorcycles in the distance.


They were probably charging down the rural back roads now, I thought wistfully. What could possibly have brought them to our sleepy town—and why were they still here? Maybe they’d stay for a while. It was a nice thought but I was sure they wouldn’t, sure they’d be gone before morning like so much dust in the wind.


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