Dalton: A Savage Kings MC Novel Read online

  Dalton

  A Savage Kings MC Novel

  Lane Hart

  D.B. West

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Epilogue

  Also by Lane Hart and D.B. West

  About the Authors

  Copyright

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue were created from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual people or events is coincidental.

  The author acknowledges the copyrighted and trademarked status of various products within this work of fiction.

  © 2018 Editor's Choice Publishing

  All Rights Reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher or author.

  Editor’s Choice Publishing

  P.O. Box 10024

  Greensboro, NC 27404

  Edited by: All About the Edits

  Cover by: Marianne Nowicki of PremadeEbookCoverShop.com

  WARNING: THIS BOOK IS INTENDED FOR AGES 18+ BECAUSE IT CONTAINS ADULT LANGUAGE AND EXPLICIT SEX SCENES.

  Prologue

  Dalton Brady

  “Now that we’ve got the name of the ATF agent investigating us, what are we gonna do?” Maddox, our newest patched brother, asks when all the Savage Kings are gathered around the long meeting table.

  “We can’t kill her or hurt her,” Miles says as he lounges casually in his chair. “If she goes missing, that’ll just draw more attention to the club.”

  “And hurting women is not what we do,” War mutters while glaring in Miles’ direction. Which is damn ironic since it wasn’t that long ago when War had a woman bent over our table, whooping her ass with his belt. Not that she was complaining or anything, but still…

  “War’s right,” Torin, our level-headed president, agrees. “So, how the hell are we going to handle this? Are we just gonna sit back and wait for Agent Bradley and the feds to bust in here to arrest us all, for who the hell knows what?”

  “We need to find what she has on us,” Chase, Torin’s brother and the club’s VP, speaks up and says from Torin’s right. “If there’s any evidence, we’ll at least be able to hire attorneys to get in front of it.”

  “Reece, any chance you can work your magic on the computer to find out the details?” Torin asks.

  Reece, our former military tech genius, shakes his head. “Nope. Already tried. I can’t get past any big government firewalls unless I’m on one of their internal devices. But what I have found out is that this ATF bitch has been pulling public arrest records off the databases, specifically Chase, Abe, Miles, and Ian’s. There was also a hit on Sax’s marina and boat license files.”

  “Dammit,” Sax grumbles. “If they bust me for the shit I do for the MC out in the Atlantic, I could get slapped with a life sentence.”

  “No doubt. Keep your boat in the docks except for recreational purposes until we know more,” Torin orders, and Sax nods his agreement to hold off on his illegal smuggling and piracy shenanigans.

  “What about a laptop?” I ask Reece. “Could you hack into their system with a government-issued one?”

  “Possibly.”

  “If Agent Bradley has one that she brings home, I can lift it,” I confidently tell the guys at the table.

  “You?” Chase asks with a humph of disbelief.

  “Yeah, me,” I reply. “If she’s looking into the Kings, she’s seen the mugshots of half our guys and probably has all of the military records too. Maddox was the main contact for her CI we busted, so he’s out. Sax needs to lay low, which means that I’m the only one without a criminal history or dog tags.”

  “How is it possible that your dumbass has never been arrested?” Abe asks me while stroking his long, black beard.

  “Do I look like a fucking outlaw?” I respond with my arms spread out by my sides.

  “Fuck no, blondie,” Abe mutters. “Without any visible tats, you look like a California pretty boy who wears leather like it’s a fashion statement.”

  “Exactly!” I say, not the least bit insulted since everything he said is true. There’s nothing about me that labels me an outlaw except for the words “Savage Kings” and bearded skull king tattooed on my back. Gesturing to my oddly perfect face, the one most men are so jealous of they try to punch it to make it a little less pretty, I tell my brothers, “This is my ‘get out of jail free’ card. I can use my ridiculous good looks to grab this chick’s laptop, no problem.”

  Snorting, Torin turns to Reece and asks, “Do you think Zoolander here can really pull this off?”

  “If I were a male model, I would be more like Hansel or Meekus,” I point out with a grin.

  Rolling his eyes, Reece says, “Maybe, if he doesn’t get caught.”

  “I won’t get caught,” I assure them. Growing up as a teenager in New York City, the neighborhood gang bangers’ vig wasn’t cheap. If I didn’t want to get my ass beat on the regular, I had to come up with enough stolen goods to keep the shot callers happy and off my back. Since my single mother was barely making enough money to put food on the table, I had to swipe a helluva lot of cell phones and wallets.

  “All right,” Torin agrees. “Then Reece, if you can get an address on this agent, I want you to go with Dalton to Raleigh tonight to start doing some surveillance. See if his sticky fingers plan is feasible without getting the club in any deeper shit.”

  “Sure thing, boss,” Reece agrees before grumbling under his breath, “Lord help me.”

  “I refuse to lose this MC because some woman with a power trip and a badge put a target on us,” Torin declares. “All in favor of the club committing a federal theft to try and save the Savage Kings?”

  A chorus of “Yea!” is heard around the table, myself included.

  My pop helped start the original charter of the Savage Kings MC. Hell, he’s the one who carved the intricate bearded skull king logo into the very table we’re sitting at. Rubin Brady was the VP to Deacon Fury and the two of them made the Kings a tight-knit family, one that spans up and down the East Coast and sprouts up a new charter every few years.

  The MC is all I have left of the man my father used to be, so there’s no way I’m gonna let the feds take it from me.

  * * *

  “Man, are you sure this is the right address?” I ask Reece from the passenger seat of his truck before crunching into another Funyun.

  “Yes! And Jesus, brother! Out of all the snack chips in the world, why did you have to go and pick the loudest and stinkiest ones?”

  “That’s just how I roll,” I tell him with a grin before chomping into another crispy onion ring, deliberately trying to make as much noise as possible to annoy him.

  “This is why I prefer to hunker down alone in my hole in the basement and never leave,” Reece grumbles to himself. Then he exclaims, “Finally!”

  I follow his line of sight out the windshield. A tall, blonde woman just stepped out of the townhouse on the suburban street we’ve been staring at for the past eight hours. She im
mediately turns her incredible, round backside to us while she locks the door.

  “Dammmmn, She-Ra is fine as fuck,” I mutter because as the Commodores would say, Miss ATF agent is a brick…house.

  “She who?” Reece asks, putting the binoculars up to his eyes before I steal them right out of his hands so that I can get a closer look at her thick ass. Not even the stiff black pantsuit can hide all of her voluptuous hourglass curves.

  “Are you kidding me right now?” I ask Reece while watching the real-life version of the cartoon superhero walk towards her black Ford Interceptor SUV. “She-Ra was a big, beautiful warrior princess and He-Man’s secret twin sister.”

  “Whatever,” Reece grumbles. “Shit, I think there’s a laptop in that leather briefcase on her shoulder,” Reece says before snatching back the binoculars from me.

  “How do you know?” I ask him.

  “If you hadn’t been checking out her ass, maybe you would have noticed that her posture is off. She’s leaning a little to the right like the bag on her shoulder is heavy. And look at how she holds it delicately when she puts it in the backseat. That, my brother, is our jackpot.”

  “If you say so, Rambo,” I reply before Reece cranks the engine and we pull away, following the agent’s SUV downtown through rush hour traffic. He’s good, making sure to put a few other cars in between us without losing her.

  “Looks like she’s going to work,” Reece says after he slips our ride into a spot at the curb, half a block down from the federal building.

  “Sherlock doesn’t have shit on you,” I tease him while watching her get out of her SUV through the binoculars before she disappears with her briefcase into the intimidating eight-story structure—a place where many criminals enter and very few seldom walk out without handcuffs and a long ass prison sentence.

  “So, now we just need to figure out a way for me to get close enough to her to snatch the bag,” I say.

  “And how are you planning to do that, blondie?” Reece asks.

  Putting down the binoculars to pull out my cell phone with internet I only use for personal shit and not MC business, I start typing away while telling my brother, “Give me a little time. I have an idea, one that never, ever fails.”

  “Tinder?” Reece exclaims when he leans over and sees the screen. “Fuck, man. You are out of your damn mind.”

  “I didn’t see a man at her place last night or a ring on her finger, did you?” I point out while setting up my fake profile sprinkled with a few truths about me to make it sound legit.

  “How would you know if there was a man? You slept the whole time.”

  Rather than argue that I was awake and paying attention more than he knows, I say, “Everyone needs love, right? Even warrior princess ATF agents with an ass that won’t quit.”

  “Jesus Christ! You can’t screw her, man!” Reece huffs.

  “Why not?” I ask seriously, still typing on my phone.

  “How about this,” he says. “There’s no way in hell that a federal agent would hook up with the likes of you. Her job makes her automatically suspicious of everyone right off the bat. She’ll have you all figured out in an instant.”

  “Wanna bet?” I ask as I add the final touches to my profile. “A hundred bucks says I’ll not only grab her laptop, but that I’ll also be able to con her right out of her panties.”

  “Photos or it didn’t happen,” Reece tells me, offering me his calloused right hand to shake on it.

  “Deal.”

  “There is no way in hell that you’re gonna get anywhere with Tinder. And we need that damn laptop soon, like yesterday,” he says.

  “How would you know anything about the dating app?” I pause in my typing to look over at him. When the usually hard military man looks away, embarrassed, I say, “No way! You’re on Tinder?”

  “Maybe.” He humphs. “But it’s worthless. I’ve been on it for over a year and only had three matches.”

  “Seriously?” I ask, and he nods. “Well that’s probably because you never leave the clubhouse basement unless ordered to do so. Let me see your profile.”

  He retrieves his phone from his pocket and then, after a few finger taps, offers it to me. Dammit, I try, but I can’t help the bark of laughter that escapes my lips when I see his picture.

  “Dude, you’re bald in that photo! Chicks never swipe right for skinheads.”

  “What are you talking about?” Reece asks, turning the phone to look at it again. “I have hair. It’s just all shaved off.”

  “Shaved so close that I can see skin! You look bald, bro,” I explain.

  “It’s my Army photo.”

  “You need to take a more recent one, and preferably shirtless. The profile pic is the most important part of getting matches.”

  “Whatever,” he huffs. “You don’t even know if the agent is on the stupid app. And the odds of you matching with her in a city this big are probably like one in a million or—” Reece pauses mid-sentence when my phone makes a happy little chime. “What the hell was that?”

  Grinning like the idiot I am, I turn the screen of my phone around so that he can see the confirmation—my face right beside a photo of the ATF agent. “It’s a match, motherfucker!”

  “You have got to be kidding me,” he grumbles like a jealous chump, right before a rapid succession of more chimes start going off. Apparently, all the single ladies of Raleigh want to date me. Honestly, I could probably put down that I collect rattlesnakes on my profile and I would still get dozens of matches from my profile pic. My stupid perfect face is a curse.

  When I was fifteen, I shot up to my father’s massive height and build, but also inherited my Broadway star of a mother’s too-pretty-to-be-entirely-masculine good looks. Ever since then, women have been trying to get me out of my clothes while men have been taking swings at me. Fifteen was also the summer my part-time pop started teaching me to fight. He knew I would need to be able to defend myself, and I have, aside from the one time I tried to run from a man with a gun and took a bullet to my back. The bastard almost killed me and came damn close to leaving me paralyzed.

  So, yeah, I know for a fact that I’m not bulletproof like Superman. No, if I were a comic superhero, fighting and sex would be my only superpowers. Captain Panty Dropper to the rescue.

  Hell, throwing punches and getting a woman into bed are the only two things that I excel at.

  And for once, I can actually use those particular skills to help the club.

  No one, not even an ATF agent, will ever suspect that a pretty, charismatic bastard like myself is actually an unrepentant thief who was born to be an outlaw.

  Chapter One

  Peyton Bradley

  “Let’s hear it. What’s today?” Quincey asks, and I know she’s not referring to what day of the week it is. She’s a fellow government employee and my best friend since moving to the city a few months ago. We’ve just stepped inside our favorite downtown watering hole near the federal building for a few drinks.

  Blowing out a breath, because the answer is so pathetic, I drop my black leather briefcase at my feet and climb up on the bar stool beside her to order a round of vodka martinis. “Day three-hundred and ninety-seven,” I answer. “It’s been three hundred and ninety-seven days since I was with a man.”

  “No! That’s completely unacceptable!” she exclaims with a shake of her curly brown hair. “Do you really think tonight’s Tinder match is going to be the one to shatter that record?” she asks as the bartender slides us our usual drinks.

  “No way,” I mutter, as I scan the men around the bar in search of my date and then look back to the door. “I have no doubt that I’m about to be epically Catfished. Again. No one is this hot in real life,” I say. Pulling out my cell phone from my bag, I show Quincey the Greek god’s face on the screen right when she takes a sip from her glass.

  She chokes for several seconds, then swallows a few more sips of her drink before she’s finally able to respond. “Wow. Definitely a Catfish,”
she says. “We’ll never meet anyone half that hot in our dreams.”

  “Agreed,” I reply with a sigh of disappointment as I pick up my own glass to take a sip. “The guy in the photo has to be a model or an actor that was screen grabbed from the internet, not the man who is supposedly just some local ambulance chaser attorney and loves Funyuns.” I withhold from her the part of his profile that actually had me laughing at nine o’clock in the morning before I even had my first cup of coffee— the song lyrics proclaiming his love of big butts. The mention of the old-school song and mutual favorite snack treat are the only reasons I felt confident enough to swipe right on someone so obviously out of my league. If it is really him. Which I’m certain it won’t be.

  “Funyuns? Ew. I bet the real dude is actually old and balding, with a big ole beer belly,” Quincey predicts.

  “No doubt,” I agree, since this isn’t our first rodeo meeting men on the dating app. “That’s why I wanted you to be here, so you can witness this epic train wreck in person.”

  “Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Quincey agrees. “It sucks that all the men on Tinder are duds. Do you even remember what sex feels like? Or is it just a distant memory for you, like it is for me?”

  “I sort of remember,” I reply, as I cock my head to the side to try and recall the details of the last intimate encounter with my lying, cheating, son of a bitch spouse. “It’s when you lie on your back and count the seconds, not minutes, that it takes for the relentless jackhammer to stop pounding you into the mattress, right?”