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Keep reading for the full text of Smash!
Biker’s Claim: A Bad Boy MC Romance
Prologue: Janine
War was tearing the whole city apart.
That was my life back then.
I wasn’t owned, not exactly. But I owed the man who took me in as a kid and raised me as his own everything. I couldn’t betray him, even when every fiber in my body wanted to.
My father wanted me to stay far, far away from him.
He said Clutch wasn’t the type of man for me.
I completely disagreed.
And in the night when I could hear Clutch’s bike tearing up the sky, roaring down the road toward me, I knew exactly what I wanted.
He was tall, ripped, and dangerous. The tattoos that snaked up his body only hinted at the strength inside him.
An enforcer, a man with a dark past. He wasn’t right for me, but he made everything feel so good.
My father was right, at least partially. Clutch was cocky, an asshole, and loved to tease me. His skin brushed up against my neck as he whispered in my ear.
Ditch the fucking panties, girl, he whispered. I want to feel your soaking skin begging for more.
Anybody could have seen us, and my father was not the type of man to be crossed, not at all.
But Clutch wasn’t the type to walk away from what he wanted.
Torn apart, ripped to shreds. Stuck between the club I owed my life to and the man I wanted to give my body to.
I could see Clutch’s delicious grin in the dark.
What are you waiting for? Spread those legs. Give me what I want.
Chills ran down my spine, and that was exactly what I did.
1
Janine
I owed my life to Larkin Yates.
Not in one of those metaphorical ways, either. Some people said they owed their life to someone when that person just did something nice for them.
No, not in this case. Larkin Yates saved my life in a very real way. Without him, I’d be dead, sure as anything in this world.
I was just a little girl when I first met him. Larkin was one of my daddy’s friends, one of the tough men who smiled tender at me while they rode their loud bikes around the city. Larkin and my daddy, they went way back. They knew each other as kids and were as close as could be.
Which was why it took Larkin so long to put a bullet in Daddy’s head.
I still remembered that night and always would. I was ten years old. Ever since I could remember, Daddy was a violent man, a drinker. He had a temper and was famous for it. Daddy got in fights all over town, but nobody thought twice about that. If you were a biker, you were practically expected to drink too much and to get in a fight or two.
But Daddy took it all too far; he always did. He started hitting my mom when I was around six or seven. I could still vaguely remember the sounds they’d make, the yelling and the screaming, and eventually the crying as Daddy went too far and beat mom down to a pulp.
It went on like that for a few years, getting worse and worse. At the height of it all, before Larkin saved me, I’d wake up wondering how long I had before Daddy got drunk enough to smack me around.
Usually, that was before noon.
I’d never forget the night Larkin came and changed everything. Daddy was getting drunk as usual, but he had some work to do in the backyard, something to do with the shed. I couldn’t remember exactly what, but it kept him busy. Kept his hands off Mom and me.
But it also pissed him off. He was working himself into a rage back there, unable to fix whatever needed patching, drinking more and more whisky, getting louder, harder, scarier.
Until around four in the afternoon, when he came inside. Mom said one thing, probably asked if he was hungry or something like that, and he started beating on her.
He didn’t stop beating on her. She screamed and tried to get away, but Daddy wouldn’t stop. I’d seen him mad, seen him hit and smack, but never like this.
Daddy was out of his mind.
I hid in my bedroom, and eventually Mom stopped making noise.
That was when he came for me with this look in his eyes and blood on his hands. He slipped the belt from his jeans and just looked at me, blood dropping onto the carpet. I couldn’t breathe.
I had no clue when Larkin decided to come over. But Larkin, he must have heard me screaming as Daddy beat me with his belt over and over, leaving deep welts along my back, bloody scars I carried to this day.
I didn’t know what he thought when he found Mom’s body beaten to death in the kitchen. I didn’t know how fast he got upstairs.
But I remembered the door getting kicked open.