This is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons--living or dead--is entirely coincidental.
OWNED: A Dark Bad Boy Baby Romance (Blood Warriors MC) copyright 2017 by Naomi West. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission.
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Contents
OWNED: A Dark Bad Boy Baby Romance (Blood Warriors MC)
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
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
BROKEN: A Dark Bad Boy Baby Romance (Satan’s Wings MC)
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
Chapter Twenty-Five
STOLEN: The Vanguard MC
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
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Books by Naomi West
Broken: A Dark Bad Boy Baby Romance (Satan’s Wings MC)
STOLEN: The Vanguard MC
SOLD: Jagged Souls MC
RELEASE: A Bad Boy Hitman Romance
Hawk’s Baby: Kings of Chaos MC
Outlaw’s Baby: Devil’s Edge MC
Hitman’s Promise: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance
DARK SEDUCTION: Millennium Mayhem MC
RIP ME: A Dark Romance
DARE ME: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance
Mailing List
OWNED: A Dark Bad Boy Baby Romance (Blood Warriors MC)
By Naomi West
I BOUGHT HER SO SHE COULD GIVE ME A CHILD.
I need a son to fulfill my father’s last wishes.
The pretty bartender is perfect for the job: hot, lonely, and desperate.
Now, I own all of her – from her lips to her womb.
And she’s going to have my baby.
It sure as hell wasn’t how I saw my life going.
I’m a biker, after all, not some loser dad with a white picket fence and 2.3 annoying children.
I drink, I fight, I screw.
I definitely don’t babysit.
But even for a rebel like myself, some things simply must be done.
My father begged me on his deathbed to give him a grandchild.
Plus, he made it a requirement of my inheritance.
Fine. As you wish, Pops.
One baby, coming up.
But the women in my life are hardly fit for conversation, much less reproducing.
I need someone a little different.
That’s where Star came in.
She’s as tough as they come, but more importantly, she’s desperate for some money.
I can give her that.
In exchange, I want all of her.
I want to see that sexy little grin.
To touch that tight little body.
And to give her a night that she will never forget – at least, not for nine months afterwards.
I’ll do whatever I want with this vixen.
After all, I own her now.
Chapter One
Star
There it was, right in front of Star Bentley: The Twisted Raven. The worst biker bar in the tri-county area.
She peered at it through the windshield of her little hatchback, a wreck of car which had just barely been able to limp to the parking lot under its own power. The neon sign had just flicked “OPEN,” and the bar was still deserted. Knowing this place, though, it would start filling up soon. She took a deep breath and wondered if she really was desperate enough to do this, to start cocktail waitressing at such a scuzzy, bottom-feeder dive.
The Twisted Raven was notorious throughout the tri-county area. Barroom brawls, burly bikers rolling and fighting in the gravel parking lot, and underage kids buying alcohol. There were probably even worse things going on there, too, if the rumors were to be believed. It was a marvel the place was still open. Star figured it would have been out of business years ago, if it had been inside city limits. The town council would have seen to it. But, since it was out here on the highway, surrounded only by fa
rmland and asphalt, it was a county problem.
She grabbed her resume folder and purse from the passenger seat and got out of the car. Gravel and dirt crunched under her stylish, but professional, flats as she made her way through the empty lot to the front door.
In her mind, she ran through all the poor decisions made by others that had brought her, a beautiful, upstanding woman who should be married to some businessman and on the rotary committee, to a place like this.
Her father getting arrested for fraud. He was three states over now, doing ten-to-twenty.
Her mother getting hooked on drugs, opiates, and running out-of-state to be with Star's new stepfather.
The house? Gone. The cars? Gone. Star's future? Gone, gone, gone. Gone.
She should have been holding her breath like this before she stepped into a meeting of the League of Women Voters. Definitely not the Old Crow.
This was it. The bottom of the barrel. But what had her dad always said? “Do what you have to do, not what you want to do. Be happiest when they're the same thing, but still be happy when they're not.”
Of course, what good was advice from some guy who ended up in prison?
She paused at the entryway, took a deep breath, and pulled open the big, steel door.
The stench of stale beer and staler smoke assaulted her nose. The lights were low, and there was only one window to allow in the sun. Behind the bar stood a big biker of a man with a Grizzly Aarons beard, his face grim under the red, blue, and green neon lights of the beer signs. He cleaned and polished a beer glass.
Star paused just inside the door and took a deep breath, something she immediately regretted as the foul smell hit her. She clutched her resume and its folder to her chest as she fought back an unexpected gag.
The bartender wasn't any more appealing than the smell, with his heavy features, long curly hair, and unkempt beard. His eyes shifted to Star, looked her up and down. He didn't show any sign of whether or not he approved.
She felt the pit of her stomach drop. She shouldn't have come here. She shouldn't have come to this shitty bar, on this shitty highway, with its scary, shitty bartender. She almost turned around and headed right back out to her car. But, then she reminded herself of what waited out there for her. Bills, destitution, and no help from anyone. Back there was nothing except her friend Patricia's shoulder to cry on.
“You okay, hun?” the bartender grated as she started to step forward into the dark, smelly bar.
“Me?” she squeaked after his gravelly voice brought her back to the moment.
He gave her a perplexed look, as if to say, “Yeah, you, stupid. Who else is there?”
This was it. One. Last. Chance.
She took another breath. This time, she didn't gag, which was a small wonder on its own. She put one foot in front of the other and crossed over to the bar, her resume clutched so tightly in her hand that she had begun to bend it. She held it out in front of her like a crucifix warding off vampires.
“I was wondering if you - well, if your bar that is - is hiring?” she rambled, her nerves clamoring for control of her vocal chords. She gave a weak smile. “I brought my resume.”
The man came over and took hold of the resume folder, prying it from her still-gripping hand. He opened it up, his eyes flickering from the sheet to her face, and back again.
“Listen, Miss -” he said, genuine regret in his voice, as his eyes darted back to the cover sheet, “Bentley. You seem real qualified and all, and a real great gal, but . . .”
“. . . but?”
He closed the folder and handed it back to her. “Well, we're all fulled up here. I ain't got another shift to spare.”
She hung her head and groaned. That was it. Next stop: Juicy Lucy’s. She didn't want to do it. But, if she couldn't make money with her clothes on, she'd just have to make it with them off. She checked the time behind the bar. She still had a couple more hours before the strip-club opened.
“Sorry again,” the bartender said, trying to make his voice sound as consoling as a two-hundred-fifty pound biker could. “You wanna drink or something?”
She didn't normally drink, but she'd be damned if a little liquid courage didn't sound perfect just then. She pulled out one of the rickety bar stools and climbed onto it. “God yes. Jager and a beer, please. Any beer.”
“Coming right up,” he said as he drew a beer for her and poured two shots of Jager. He set one down in front of her, alongside her beer, and put the other in front of himself.
She reached into her purse to grab her wallet, and what little money she had in it.
“Nah,” he said with a wave, “it's on the house.”
She gave him a lop-sided smile. “Thanks, I guess.”
“Life's shit, kid,” giving her a little cheers with his shot glass, “then, it gets worse.” He downed it in one go, flipped it in his hand, and slammed it down on the bar. “So, where you looking after this?”
“Juicy Lucy’s,” she said, something that produced a wince from the gnarled bartender. “I'm behind on rent, my electricity's about to get shut off . . . it's either this or . . .” She left the sentence unfinished, letting it hang in the stale, fetid air with pregnant implication.
# # #
Tanner
“Goddamn that old piece-of-shit,” Tanner Rainier roared as he slapped the stack of legal documents on his mom's kitchen table. His father had done it again. Even beyond the grave, he'd backed Tanner into a corner and completely fucked him every which way from Sunday.
“Now, Tanner,” placated Tova Rainier, Tanner's mom, “don't say that about the dead. And particularly not Pops.”
“Don't say it about Pops?” he asked, still pissed. “He knew you'd need that inheritance when he died. He knew it, Mom!” He picked up the stapled stack of papers and gave them a shake. “Did you read through this shit? All that money the old man had, everything he inherited from Gramps, everything you could use. He's got it locked up till I do what he wants.”
And he'd be damned if he was going to do what that old, dead asshole had wanted. His Pops may have been the head of the Blood Warriors, Tanner's motorcycle club, and may have been his father. But what he was asking Tanner for, in order to get the money out of his trust . . . that was just too damned much.
She shrugged. “Well, I think he did it for what he thought was a good reason. He wanted to have a legacy, since your brother ran off.”
Tanner winced at the mention of his brother, Brendon. Once the shining golden boy of the family, he'd disappeared with some whore named Willow. He'd left the family. Left the MC, left his real family.
“Sorry,” his mom said. “I know you don't like me mentioning him, but he's still my son.”
He ignored her mention of Brendon. Fuck him. “Know what I think? I think the old man wanted one last twist of the fucking knife.” He threw the papers back on the table, tugged a hand down his goateed face. “I mean, look at this shithole he left you with, Mom. It needs more than it's already fucking got. Even with the guys from the MC helping, this place is going to cost a fortune in supplies. New hot water heater, new plumbing, new roof, new foundation. If it had been just me getting screwed on the inheritance, he knew I wouldn't do it. He had to screw his own wife over, too.”
Tova coughed wetly, a disgusting and upsetting phlegmy cough. She held up a hand when Tanner went to touch her shoulder reassuringly. “I'm fine, I'm fine. Doctor says there's nothing we can really do about it.”
Tanner made a face and shook his head, as he picked up the papers again. “See what I mean?” Tanner said. “If it were just me, Mom, I wouldn't give a shit. I've got the Crow, at least. You? You don't have anything.”
“Well, why don't you just do
it, then?”
Old man Rainier had, unknown to them, put all his money and ownership in various businesses around town, in a legal trust. His part of the Old Crow, his part of a couple convenience stores around town. Even the royalties coming in off the mineral rights on a piece of land just outside the city limits. He'd left it all to Tanner which, on its surface, was a good thing.
Right?
Wrong. If Tanner, or his mom for that matter, wanted to get to the fortune, there had to be one stipulated condition fulfilled: Tanner had to have a baby.
Hell, he didn't even have, or want, a girlfriend. A kid? That was out of the damned question.
He shook his head. “You know how I feel about settling down, Mom.”
“Well, honey, I just want you to be happy,” she said as she reached across the table and touched his hand. “And, if doing what you want will make you happy, then I'm fine. Don't worry about me.”
He placed the paperwork on the table, this time more gently than before. “I'll figure something out, Mom.” He took her hand in his and squeezed, marveling at how frail the bones of her hands felt. Just like a bird. “I promise,” he whispered.
Tova smiled and patted his hand. “I know, honey. You've always been a good son.”
“Tell that to Pops.” He held up the paper, grimacing.
She snorted a laugh. “I would, but séances cost money. Those shysters don't work for free.”