Holly Maxwell has been waiting tables in outback pubs and dive bars for as long as she can remember. Never settling in one place, she’s a vagrant with dreams—until Roach Bane enters her world, swinging fists and smashing faces to defend her honor.
Swept off her feet by the heavily inked President of the Blood Brothers MC, she soon finds herself thrown head first into the murky waters of club life, organized crime, and rival clubs, set against the stark beauty of remote, rural Western Australia.
Be Warned: anal sex, fisting, sex toys, menage sex (MFM)
The heavily inked biker with blue eyes, a dark, full beard and shaved head, barrels across the room, a juggernaut of a man. With wide shoulders and impressive guns, he destroys everything in his path like a bull in a China shop. He knocks the slimeball’s cronies flying from their chairs before they can even stand, then headbutts the skeezy prick who’s got hold of me.
I’ve never seen this guy in my life, but he’s coming to my rescue like I’m some sort of princess. As full-figured as I am, I’m only ever looked at like a piece of meat or an easy mark. I can’t possibly have any intrinsic value when I’ve got tits big enough to smother a man, and an ass that would make Sir Mix-A-Lot weep. This patched behemoth is the only one who’s ever stood up for me, and I’ve waited a lot of tables in a lot of bars.
In an instant I’m free, and the dirtbag falls to the floor like a sack of shit—knocked out cold. His mates scramble to their feet and launch themselves at my hero, but he’s undaunted, placing himself between them and me without a second thought. Their fists don’t even hit their intended target. My biker deflects their attacks as easily as if they were tantruming toddlers swatting at him with overtired, half-hearted swings.
Redirecting their weight, he seizes them both by the backs of their heads and smashes their faces together. The sickening crack of teeth, or a nose, rings out in the unnatural quiet that’s fallen over the Redrock Inn. There’s plenty of blood, and the goons wind up on the floor with their mate. I observe the mess, breathless, heart hammering in my chest.
“Anyone else want to dance?” he asks, only to be met with complete silence.
The pub manager—my manager, Harold—gives the biker a solid nod and turns the music back up. “Sarah, Kate, can you lend a hand out front?” he asks.
The two other waitresses hurry to clean up the broken glass and upturned furniture, while our patrons slowly return to their drinks and conversations. Just another day in an Aussie pub.
“Are you hurt?”
“Huh?” I blink, staring at the chaos. Strong hands give my upper arms a gentle squeeze, and suddenly those startling blue eyes are staring into my soul.
“Are you hurt?” he repeats, moving his grip to my wrist. Turning my hand over in his, he inspects for damage. “It’s going to bruise up,” he observes before lifting his gaze. “Can I get some ice over here?” he calls across the bar.
Harold scoops a handful of ice and wraps it up in a napkin, passing it over without a word.
“What’s your name?” the blue-eyed biker asks, applying the makeshift cold-pack to my inner wrist.
“It’s Holly,” I stammer, dragging my gaze from where our hands are touching, and back up to his rugged, but handsome face. “I’m sorry this happened. You shouldn’t have had to get involved.” I lick my lips, suddenly flustered and full of nerves.
“I’m Roach,” he says with the hint of a smile.
“Like a cockroach?” I ask, scrunching up my nose.
“I’m not easy to kill, love. Could probably survive the apocalypse truth be told.”
I swallow the urge to melt on the spot. His touch is electrifying! “Does that mean more than a few have tried?”
Roach smirks, moving the cold-pack to another tender spot. “I’ve lost count,” he admits casually. “But I have a good memory for faces, and I haven’t seen yours here before.”
I feel my cheeks flush with heat, and tuck a long red ringlet behind my ear self-consciously. “I, ah—I’ve only been here a couple of weeks. I tend to move around a lot. Wherever the work is, you know?”
“Well, Holly, it’s not in my nature to stand by when ladies are being abused. I have a code. All my men do. You don’t get to wear Blood Brothers colors if you have no honor.”
“Thank you,” I answer. “I’m grateful. I’ve never had anyone stand up for me like that before. You’re like a mountain with fists. Those guys stood no chance.”
Roach’s baby blues hold my gaze. “Then you can’t have met any good men,” he answers simply. “There’s a lot of shit out there on the road, giving our kind a bad name, but not all of us are tactless, small-dick hoons.”
I nearly choke on my own saliva at the mention of dick, and mask my awkward cough with a laugh. “I have heard small-dick energy is toxic,” I joke.
“They have too much to prove, love. It fucks with their heads. A real man knows where he stands in the world and who he is. His actions speak for him.”
“Well, then, you’re definitely one of the good guys,” I say with a grin, before averting my attention to my feet. I bite my lip.
“I don’t know about that,” Roach says. “I like to live outside of labels like that, myself. I’m no saint, but I ain’t no piece of shit either.”