Vicious Cycle

  Copyright © 2015 Krista Ashe

  Cover photograph © Amanda Rohde/Getty Images

  Author photograph by Lauren Perry

  The right of Katie Ashley to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  First published in this Ebook edition in 2015

  by HEADLINE ETERNAL

  An imprint of HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by arrangement with NAL Signet,

  a member of Penguin Group (USA) LLC.

  A Penguin Random House Company.

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library

  eISBN 978 1 4722 2913 7

  HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

  An Hachette UK Company

  Carmelite House

  50 Victoria Embankment

  London EC4Y 0DZ

  www.headlineeternal.com

  www.headline.co.uk

  www.hachette.co.uk

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  About the Author

  Praise for Katie Ashley

  By Katie Ashley

  About the Book

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Epilogue

  Excerpt from Redemption Road

  Take a wild ride with Katie’s Vicious Cycle series

  Find out more about Headline Eternal

  About the Author

  Katie Ashley is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of the Proposition series and the Runaway Train series, as well as several New Adult and Young Adult titles. She lives outside of Atlanta, Georgia, with her two very spoiled dogs. With a BA in English, a BS in Secondary English Education, and a master’s in English Education, she spent eleven years teaching middle school and high school English until she left to write full-time.

  Find her on Facebook at www.facebook.com/katieashleybooks, on Twitter @KatieAshleyLuv, or visit her website www.katieashleybooks.com for news and updates.

  Let Katie Ashley take you on a wild, powerfully romantic ride:

  ‘I was blown away. The tension. The suspense. The romance. The twists and turns … Katie Ashley’s ability to bring characters to life are incomparable … I never thought I could care about anyone like I do the Vicious Cycle series characters. They are so complex, so alive! … This book reveals a different side of Katie. Tough. Bold. Badass. Intensely beautiful and heartbreaking’ The Book Avenue

  ‘What does Katie Ashley do well? She writes beautifully sexy love stories. What she does really well is she writes wonderful men who are ready-made to fall in love with’ Literati Literature Lovers

  ‘You know how much we loves us a HOT read, and there is plenty of heat here, ladies’ Flirty and Dirty Book Blog

  ‘Full of everything I love in a romance book. A sexy, scared-of-commitment leading man … a very relatable, beautiful woman … drama to last for days, and a scorching love story that left me wishing this book would never end’ The SubClub Books

  ‘It was all fabulous. Steamy, romantic, swoon-worthy’ Smitten’s Book Blog

  ‘[Ms. Ashley’s] got me good and hooked’ Fiction Vixen

  ‘“Wow” is all I can say … If you are new to Katie Ashley, treat yourself. I promise that you will not be disappointed’ Guilty Pleasures Book Reviews

  By Katie Ashley

  Vicious Cycle Series

  Vicious Cycle

  Redemption Road

  About the Book

  Tough, hard Deacon Malloy has dedicated his life to the Hells Raiders motorcycle club. So he’s thrown when the five-year-old daughter he never knew existed appears.

  Alexandra Evans is devoted to her students – but the aura of sadness around Willow Malloy truly tugs at her heart. When Willow stops coming to school, Alexandra’s search leads to a clubhouse full of bikers … and a father hell-bent on keeping his daughter always within sight.

  The moment Deacon sees Alexandra, sparks fly, but she refuses to be just another conquest. Instead Deacon finds himself being seduced by the prospect of a brighter future – for himself, his daughter, and the woman he’s falling for against all odds.

  Want more sexy, gritty biker romance? Return to the dangerous and seductive world of the Hells Raiders motorcycle club in Redemption Road and Last Mile.

  To Olivia Caroline Ashe—my long-awaited answer to years of prayers, my little miracle, my daughter: May you be as strong, sassy, and sweet as the women I write, and may you never, ever date one of the bad boys like the ones in Mommy’s books.

  And to Charlie Hunnam because without him and Sons of Anarchy this book would have never been written. Thanks for being about the fairy tale, baby.

  To God for all the amazing blessings in my life both personally and professionally.

  To my agent extraordinaire, Jane Dystel, who worked so hard and tirelessly to make a publishing deal a reality for me and for me to be happy with the deal.

  To Kerry Donovan, my editor at NAL, who believed in Vicious Cycle from its inception. It’s been a pleasure working with you to make this series a reality.

  Thanks forever and always to Kim Bias for talking me down from the ledge, talking me through the plot points, and generally making my books and my life so much better. Love ya hard!

  To Marion Archer. I could not and would not put out a book without your feedback. Most of all, thanks for the prayers and support.

  To Paige Silva for your unfailing support as a friend and as an assistant. I couldn’t do this business without you, least of all life!

  To Kim Jones—my sister from another mister. I can’t thank you enough for your friendship, humor, and smile. Most of all, thanks for letting me take you up on the offer to see a real MC at work. The men and old ladies of HIDW are some of the nicest and most welcoming people I’ve ever met. It was a true honour getting to be with them.

  Cris Hadarly: my dearest friend and greatest book supporter. Thanks for being along for the ride these past two years. I love you lots.

  Jen Gerchick, Jen Oreto, and Shannon Furhman: Thanks for your unfailing support of me and my books. Thanks for your early eyes on Vicious Cycle and the constant cheerleading.

  To Raine Miller for always encouraging me in this business to stretch and take risks. Thanks for your friendship.

  To my street team, Ashley’s Angels, thanks for the love and support!

  To the ladies of the Hot Ones—Karen Lawson, Amy Lineweater, Marion Archer, and Merci Arellano—thanks for your friendship and book support. It means
the world to me.

  To my naughty sistas of the Smutty Mafia: Thanks for keeping me sane and making me laugh!

  To Kristi Hefner, Gwen McPherson, Brittany Haught, Kim Benefield, Jamie Brock, and Erica Deese for being the bestest friends a gal could ever ask for. I thank God for having you all in my life for so long.

  Bouncing her legs on the worn leather couch, Willow happily followed along with Dora as she took off exploring. No matter where the cartoon went, it was always better than the run-down apartment building where Willow lived. At the sound of splintering glass shards crashing across the kitchen floor, Willow abandoned Dora’s world, tucked her ratty teddy bear under her arm, and hightailed it out of the living room. Although she was only five, she knew all too well what was to come after the angry voices and the throwing things began. She had learned to read the signs, and sadly, she was never wrong. There weren’t many places of refuge in the tiny apartment where she and her mommy lived. But there was one place she could always count on to ride out the violent storms.

  To other kids her age, the dark recesses under the bed were a frightening place. But for Willow, the known horror that often surrounded her was far less scary than the unknown. Lifting up the faded blue and white patchwork quilt, she crawled across the dingy carpet and underneath the ratty mattress that smelled like smoke and pee. Dust bunnies clung to her clothes, clouding her lungs and making it difficult to breathe.

  Once she settled in, she pinched her eyes shut and imagined herself miles and miles away. Whenever she was scared, she went to be with her Angel Mommy. In Angel Mommy’s world, everything was happy, beautiful, and pure. Rainbows stretched across the sky over castles filled with unicorns. But the best part of all was Angel Mommy herself. Angel Mommy never drank too much out of the bottles with dark liquid that made her real mommy angry and then sad. Angel Mommy never had boyfriends who yelled at Willow or smacked her in the face or on the bottom. For Angel Mommy, Willow was her whole world—the only focus of her love and attention. They would play for hours and hours, running along the grassy meadow or playing hide-and-seek in one of the castles on the hillside.

  She’d first begun to dream of Angel Mommy two years before at Christmastime. After her real mommy had drunk from the bad bottles and Mommy’s boyfriend had stuck himself with the scary needle, they’d started yelling at each other. Cowering on the couch, Willow had tried to hide behind the pillows. As Mommy and her boyfriend’s voices rose louder and louder, they began to push and shove each other. When Mommy tripped over one of Willow’s shoes, she lost her balance and fell into the small Christmas tree in the corner. Ornaments had broken and scattered along the floor.

  After Mommy had screamed at Willow and thrown the offending shoe, hitting her in the face, Willow had tried to pick up the mess to make Mommy less mad. An angel in a long white robe was the only thing that hadn’t broken. It had soft, dark hair that she could stroke like one of her dolls, and it also had soothing brown eyes that gave Willow the reassurance she so desperately needed. Willow hadn’t let Mommy see that she kept the angel. And that very day, Willow named her Angel Mommy and always kept the ornament close to her side.

  Under the bed, she let her hand creep down to her shorts pocket where Angel Mommy waited to give her comfort. Willow stroked the doll’s hair as the yelling in the living room grew louder. Just as she was about to plug her ears with her fingers, there was the bang of the front door blowing open and hitting the wall, like when Mommy’s boyfriend came home angry. More voices now. More yelling. More broken glass. It sounded like the living room was being torn apart.

  Mommy was begging someone with a voice that Willow wasn’t used to. It rang with fear, and it was usually Willow who was afraid, not Mommy. Thump, thump, thump. Willow’s body began to shake so hard at the sound her teeth clattered. She tried to figure out what was making the noise. Was it pounding boots? Mommy didn’t like when Willow’s shoes made loud noises. Her now-clammy hands went to swipe at her runny nose. Holding her breath, she prayed to Angel Mommy that the man in the boots wouldn’t find her. But even as she was saying the words over and over in her head, the scary person came inside her bedroom. She could tell right away from the size of his feet that it was a man. He headed to the closet. Clothes and toys began to litter the floor as he went through her possessions as if he were looking for something in particular.

  Then he went over to her chest of drawers. One by one, he pulled the drawers out and tossed them to the floor. When one landed a little too close to her, she jumped and hit her head against the mattress, which made her let out a squeak. The small noise caused the man to freeze.

  Willow’s heart began to beat wildly, and she felt like she couldn’t breathe. As she tried burrowing further underneath the bed, the mattress covering her was ripped away. With a scream, she stared up at a man who was a vision out of her worst nightmares—long, stringy black hair, an angry red scar that ran down his face and onto his neck, and a patch over one of his eyes. Willow pinched her eyes shut with fear. Please, please, help me, Angel Mommy!

  But then Big Booted Man snatched her up and hoisted her over his shoulder. She could barely breathe, least of all cry out or scream. It was as if her voice had been snatched away the moment her precious hiding place had been invaded. Her body trembled with fear as he marched out of her bedroom and into the living room. He tossed her about like a mistreated baby doll. When they finally came to a stop, he jerked her around to where she was facing away from his chest. His arm was wrapped tightly around her waist, binding her to him.

  Her voice momentarily returned at the horrific sight before her. “Mommy!” she cried. Mommy and her boyfriend, Jamey, were tied with rope to two chairs from the kitchen table. Jamey stared at her with the same aggravation he always had. But Mommy wasn’t talking or looking at her. Blood trickled out of her nose and mouth; her head hung limp. When she didn’t respond, Willow kicked at Big Booted Man to try to get away. “Mommy!” she shrieked.

  She was rewarded with a smack to the head and face. “Shut the hell up, brat!”

  Although she shouldn’t have, she cried out at the pain. Her face stung as if someone were poking her repeatedly with something tiny and sharp. It sent tears to blur her eyes.

  She jumped at the sound of a gravelly, harsh voice behind her. “Crank, watch yourself. She doesn’t get hurt until I say so—got it?”

  “Yes, sir,” Crank replied.

  Willow turned her aching head to see a mean man staring at her. The look he gave her made her tremble all over. His black eyes focused on her with such hatred, even though she had never met him before. “Aren’t you a pretty little thing,” he said.

  Since she didn’t dare speak, she only stared at Mean Man. He then turned his gaze from her to one of the men who were standing behind her mommy.

  “Wake the bitch up,” Mean Man commanded.

  The man grabbed Mommy’s hair and yanked her head up. She cried out, her eyes blinking furiously. When she met Willow’s gaze, she sucked in a harsh breath. “Leave her out of this. She has nothing to do with my business,” she said in a pained whisper.

  “Ah, but you see, she is part of you two, so she’s my business. Since you decided play rat with the Feds and fuck with my business, I’m going to fuck with yours.” Without taking his eyes off of her mommy, he took a step closer to Willow. “I think it’s time we showed your daughter what happens when you double-cross someone.” Mean Man waved a gleaming silver knife in front of Willow’s face. When the blade pressed against her neck, fear overwhelmed her, sending warm liquid dribbling down her legs.

  Big Booted Man, who held Willow, pulled her back from the blade to give her a shake so hard her teeth clattered. “The little cunt just pissed all over me!” he exclaimed.

  Mean Man narrowed his eyes. “Don’t be such a pussy, Crank. Now, hold her fucking still—you hear me?” Crank grumbled but kept his arms tight around Willow. Mean Man glanced at Mommy and Jamey before he once again pressed the blade to Willow’s neck. “Now,
let’s try this again, eh? If you don’t fucking tell us where the shipment is, I’m going to start cutting pieces out of your kid!”

  Jamey rolled his eyes and gave a contemptuous snort—the kind he usually gave Willow when she tried to talk to him about dolls or her favorite television shows. “Go ahead and slit the brat’s throat. I don’t give a shit.”

  The Mean Man’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “You just playin’ me, man? ’Cause I will seriously hurt the little shit.”

  “You heard me straight. I don’t give a shit if you spill her blood all over the floor, because it won’t be mine flowing out of her.”

  “If she ain’t yours, whose kid is she?”

  “She’s Malloy’s bastard.”

  Mean Man hissed at the mention of the name. “Which Malloy?”

  “Jamey, don’t,” Mommy protested, looking scared. All her young life, Willow had wondered who her daddy was. Whenever she asked, Mommy would call her daddy bad names. She’d never even seen a picture of him. Now it seemed Mommy had been hiding who her daddy was because she was scared. Willow couldn’t help wondering if her daddy was as bad as these men.

  “Shut your trap, bitch,” Mean Man snarled. He then jerked his chin up at Jamey. “Tell me which Malloy the brat belongs to.”

  “She’s Deacon’s.”

  A name. Willow had finally heard her daddy’s name. For some reason hearing it made her feel like she knew him somehow. Her happiness was fleeting. Hearing her daddy’s name seemed to make Mean Man very happy, and Willow imagined that couldn’t be good. A smile curved on his lips. “Well, now. This certainly changes things, doesn’t it?”

  His knife lowered from Willow’s throat. When he inched closer to her, Willow cringed back against Big Booted Man. “This seems to be your lucky day, little girl. Letting you go now is going to serve my purpose far more in the long run.” Mean Man cocked his brows and stared at her. His rough hands came to cup her chin, tilting her head to look at her from several angles. “I can’t believe I didn’t notice it before. You’re the fucking spitting image of that cocksucker.”