Burn: Outlaw Romance (Hotter Than Hell Book 3) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Desert Crows

  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

  Bibliography

  BURN

  Holly S. Roberts

  BURN

  Holly S. Roberts

  Published by Four Carat Press

  Copyright 2016 Holly S. Roberts

  Printing History

  eBook edition 2016

  Paperback edition 2016

  Edited by Michelle Kowalski

  Cover by Fantasia Frog Designs

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be multiplied, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by whatever means. Electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without express written permission of the writer. This eBook is licensed for your use only.

  This is a work of fiction. ALL characters are derived from the author’s imagination.

  No person, brand, or corporation mentioned in this Book should be taken to have endorsed this Book nor should the events surrounding them be considered in any way factual.

  Dedication

  To Loyd and Sue

  Thank you for your dedication to booklovers in Arizona.

  You kept my dream alive and I’m honored to know you.

  Please visit this incredible bookstore and tell them Holly sent you.

  BookKrazy

  1609 E. Bell Rd. B6

  Phoenix, AZ 85022

  602-867-1018

  www.bookkrazy.com

  Dax

  SHE IS SO BEAUTIFUL. The inner glow she carries can light up a room. Her rounded tummy is swollen with our child—a boy, according to the ultrasound. We chose the name Mason Dax Montgomery. If, on the slim chance the ultrasound is wrong, her name will be Masey Savannah Montgomery.

  I took half the day off work to drive my wife, Savannah, to the seven-month obstetrician appointment. We are both excited and basking in the bright rays of pending parenthood. I never dreamed about anything as incredible as Savannah having my baby.

  We eat cereal for breakfast—Savannah has one bowl covered in bananas and I enjoy two, minus the bananas. Her pregnancy brings about cravings for the yellow fruit, and it has become one of my favorite ways to tease her.

  “I have a really big banana for you,” I tell her with the best leer I can manage. She blushes and we both laugh at the joke I’ve said over and over since three or four bananas a day became her go-to pregnancy food. She loves me even when I’m a goof and that love makes my world go round.

  I was the rough, blue-collar worker from a dysfunctional family. My mom, Dad’s daily punching bag, died of cancer when I was ten, and my father drank himself to death when I was seventeen. Savannah was the spoiled rich girl who gave up everything for me. She might blush but she loves my sexually explicit teasing. We love each other, and hearing the baby’s heartbeat and counting down the last weeks until we hold our precious bundle is all we care about.

  I rinse and put the dishes in the dishwasher while she adds makeup to a face that needs none. After cleaning the tabletop, I head back to our room in the small two bedroom house we rented. One room for us and a room for the baby is all we need. We bought a crib the week before. Savannah put in hours online making sure the crib was safe, while I put in overtime so we could buy the one she wanted. I painted the walls a soft purple because Savannah loves the color. She has lists of all the things we still need. I will continue working overtime and buy each one. It means everything to me that I can provide for her and our baby.

  I enter the bedroom and Savannah is standing in front of the bathroom mirror. I walk through the door, wrap my arms around her, rest my hands on her tummy, and then kiss behind her ear at the hairline. This kiss is usually a score. She melts back against my chest, the makeup wand thing-y lifted.

  “We don’t have time and I think you have a serious kink for fat women,” she says in her husky sex voice.

  “Only my fat woman,” I whisper back and kiss the exact spot again.

  “You’re cruel.” She smiles into the mirror.

  I rest my chin on her head. “I refuse to argue over your size anymore. Soon you’ll be the size of a house and I’ll still want you.”

  She places the wand thing-y down and turns in my arms, laughing. She kisses my chin. “You are evil. I will not be as big as a house.”

  I look down at her extended belly wondering how it can actually grow larger. Savannah was such a tiny little thing. She didn’t even show her pregnancy until a month ago. Then, she exploded. Even her cheeks got pudgy, and like I said before, she’s beautiful. I might not be the most intelligent man but I keep thoughts of pudgy cheeks and exploding bellies to myself.

  “Smart man not to say what you’re thinking,” she laughs and gives me a small push.

  “Who me?” I pull her close again and kiss the sweetest lips on the planet. Her lips. Our child. My Savannah.

  Our playful and loving mood continues into the doctor’s office. We listen to the baby’s heartbeat, and Savannah asks questions about what to expect during her last two months of pregnancy. Not that she really needs answers. She has read every book available on the subject. I know this because she reviews everything she discovers with me each night when I arrive home from work. I listen and make appropriate comments. I do my best to look interested and not exhausted from all the overtime I’m putting in. She knows this and she appreciates my attention. I always see it in her eyes—her love for me and our baby. The doctor answers all Savannah’s questions with a patient smile. You can’t help smiling back at my Savannah. Her love for life is infectious.

  After we leave the office, she’s bubbly with excitement and also hungry. I don’t really have time to take her to lunch. The disappointment on her face changes my mind. My boss won’t fire me, but it’s obvious he doesn’t understand my need to attend her doctor appointments. He’s old school, while I’m infatuated with pending fatherhood and can’t wait to attend our baby’s birth.

  With my family history, all I care about is giving my child a father to be proud of. I want everything for him, everything I never had. Come hell or high water, he will have a home with two loving parents and a chance at being more than a blue-collar laborer.

  After we leave the restaurant, Savannah chats on about the upcoming birthing classes. For her, it’s another step closer to our child’s arrival. For me, it’s waking up an hour earlier in the morning so I can leave work an hour earlier at night and attend the classes. Seeing her so happy helps
alleviate the constant stress I’m under.

  My light is green and I’m doing about thirty miles per hour when I pass through the intersection. The car comes out of nowhere. The first thing that registers is the impact—the grinding and crunching of metal and my body straining against the seat belt as I’m thrown forward and back. Almost simultaneously, the car fills with Savannah’s scream. We are both wearing seat belts, but our old car doesn’t have airbags. Then, everything goes quiet except Savannah gasping for breath. She’s bent forward holding her belly. I unclick her seat belt and place my hand on her arm. Her panic-filled eyes stare back at me.

  “It’s okay,” I say while shutting off the engine. The car immediately starts heating up because it’s summer in Phoenix and over a hundred degrees outside. I don’t want the engine sparking a gas fire. We’re okay, just shaken up, I tell myself.

  Savannah isn’t talking. Her eyes are so large and her lips move like she’s trying to form words. It dawns on me that something is terribly wrong.

  “Is it the baby?” I ask her.

  She looks at me and continues with the same strange gasping noises. I unbuckle my seat belt and throw open the door. The back passenger door took the main impact, so I run around the front of the car and open Savannah’s door. Her head is turned away from me. I know I shouldn’t move her, but all I can think of is wrapping her in my arms. Her face is now tinged blue and her eyes vacant. My shocked brain realizes the cement is too hot to lay her down. I place her back in the seat and grab the seat adjuster to push it back as far as it will go. I frantically do chest compressions and breathe air into her lungs. I hear a wounded animal sound and finally realize it’s coming from me.

  Savannah doesn’t respond, her beautiful eyes stare at nothing. No, this can’t be happening. I look around and squint into the sun. I notice the driver’s door of the car that hit us opening. I’m desperate and refuse to believe she’s gone. We need help. Someone must save my Savannah. I run around his car and approach the other driver hoping he has a cell phone. Having a cell phone is not in our budget at the moment, and I’m kicking myself for not working more overtime to get one. Two things stand out: sirens in the distance and the man at his vehicle.

  “I didn’t mean to hit you,” he slurs.

  “Do you have…” I start to ask about his cell phone, when he belches and the strong odor of alcohol reaches me.

  Blackness fills me and rage takes over.

  I don’t remember pulling my knife or stabbing the driver thirteen times. The next thing I know, pain like I’ve never felt makes my entire body seize, and I fall to the ground. My world is a dark blur and it’s only later that I learn a cop’s Taser took me down. He should have shot me through the heart and ended the pain.

  Savannah and our son died because the other driver decided to drive drunk. The impact caused the sac holding the baby to rupture and amniotic fluid to fill Savannah’s lungs. My wife drowned. And, for no fucking reason, I’m alive.

  If you call seven years of prison living.

  Nine years later…

  Dax

  MY DAMAGED HOG RATTLES between my thighs. Add the hot pavement rising up to sizzle the lower half of my body and the sun cooking my shoulders and I fucking guarantee it’s hotter than hell.

  If I manage to survive the next few hours, I’ll need to repair my bike, which will be costly. That’s really the least of my worries right now, and I shake off those thoughts. I should feel some form of redemption for saving the little girl who I just placed in safe arms. Kiley never deserved the drugged out mother who gave her life or what Fox, the president of the Desert Crows MC, had planned for her. The uncaring fog that’s been with me for almost ten years cleared when I looked into Kiley’s eyes. I didn’t think my plan to remove Kiley from the house would succeed, and I expected to die. Sadly, Kiley would have died too, but death was better than the alternative. I made it out alive with the help of unlikely friends and now Kiley has a chance. The truth—it will take much more than one small child to save me after the shit I’ve done since leaving prison. Torture and murder are only half the story. If hell exists, there’s an inferno waiting for me.

  I swerve around a pothole on the blacktop. In less than fifteen minutes, all hell will break loose. I survived seven years in prison, but my chances of surviving what’s next are about nil. The men riding behind me know what we’re heading into and, like me, they’re ready to die.

  We’re ex-cons and we’ve drawn our line between the wrong we’re willing to live with and the wrong we can’t abide by. Fox making plans to sell Kiley to a child molester was the line we drew in the hot desert sand. The Desert Crows MC is made up of ex-cons like us. I have no idea who will have my back and who won’t. One thing I do know—I’m not going back to prison or standing by and allowing Fox to continue his shit.

  The Desert Crows’ clubhouse is a mile off Highway 87 in Peach City, Arizona, an hour northeast of Phoenix. Around a thousand people call Peach City home, and the area is sparse with a temperature about five degrees lower than Phoenix, which means it’s still damn hot.

  The dusty dirt road leading up to the club is shit on a Harley and makes cleaning the filters regularly a must. We thump along over the ruts until the twelve inch wood posts supporting an iron script sign with the club’s name comes into view. I stop and idle as the other four bikes pull up beside me.

  “Last chance to turn around,” I tell Skull, Johns, Coke, and Vampire. My supporters. The men who are as fed up as I am.

  Skull brushes his fingers over his bald head before revving his engine. “We’re with you, Dagger,” he says when the noise fades. Dagger is my club name. “I think Loki and Bear will side with you too. Try not to shoot them,” he adds.

  “Got it,” I say and hope I can avoid doing just that. I look at them. Ex-cons trying to find a place just like I am. Sadly, the place we all found is run by a piece of shit who is blood-thirsty, mean, and insane. Fox needs to die.

  My wrist throbs. The damn thing is broken because the enforcer for Arizona’s largest crime syndicate had me forced off the road. It’s also the reason my bike is damaged. I wasn’t happy about any of that, but a little girl is safe because those same people helped me. If I survive, I won’t forget what I owe them. I unstrap the Velcro from the wrist support they gave me in the emergency room and toss it into the dirt.

  No weakness.

  I rev my engine and lead the way. We pass beneath the iron sign and keep going. The clubhouse sits about a hundred feet back from the fenced entrance. The building is a clapboard mess covered here and there with extra sheets of plywood. The roof is rusted tin and echoes like a motherfucker when it rains, which thankfully isn’t often. The place should have been condemned years ago. Rusted out vehicles and bikes are scattered around the yard and mixed with household garbage. No dignity whatsoever, just piles of crap. I’ll admit most of our members drive rat bikes made of a lot of shit from the yard. I’m tired of it. We all know Fox stashes a good portion of money without sharing with the brothers. That and the pigsty out here will change if I survive.

  It’s strange that saving Kiley gave me back part of the man I was before Savannah died. The other part died with her and our son. I’m not sure about the new me. I just know I want change for this club or I want to send it to hell.

  Fox has connections with the county or he intimidates them, so planning and zoning leave us alone. I’m not privy to those connections. The locals aren’t fond of the club, but they give us exactly what we want—privacy to run our illegal operations. The way I figure it, Fox also gets tips on pending raids. It’s uncanny how he always knows. It’s part of the way he controls us. We’re in the dark, and most of the men, including me, thought of Fox as a savior until a short time ago. No one in the club wants to return to prison and no matter that we break just about every law there is, Fox keeps prison at bay.

  I clear my mind of everything but the coming confrontation. I park and lift my leg over the seat. I leave my gun holstered
at the back of my waist. I’m known for using a blade and I prefer it. I’m not beyond shooting Fox if it comes down to him or me. There are rules for what’s about to go down. That doesn’t mean Fox will follow them.

  With the four guys at my back, I open the front door of the clubhouse. It makes an obnoxious squeak as it swings wide and slams against the wall. I look across the warm, shadowed interior and see Fox sitting on a bar stool. He turns slowly when Rufus, our only prospect, who is tending the bar, freezes. Fox stands slowly. He’s not stupid and knows something is going down. Skull was on guard duty today watching Kiley and so was Metal. Metal isn’t with us because I cut his throat to save the child. His blood is still splattered across the front of my leather cut that displays the Desert Crow colors on the back. I’ll wash it off if I survive.

  Fox spits to the side and hikes his jeans up an inch. His gun rests at his hip. It’s an easier draw for him than mine is for me. Fox stands five ten and he’s thick without carrying excess fat. He keeps himself in shape. He’s wearing a black T-shirt I’ve seen many times. The front reads, “Mouths don’t get pregnant.” His oily scalp, deeply inset eyes, and flat nose give him the look of an inbred shit for brains. I don’t let it fool me because Fox didn’t get where he is by being stupid. He’s a crazy mother and has no fear of death and no problem walking up to someone holding a gun on him until the barrel is pushed against his forehead. I saw him do it once. He stabbed the guy without caring that the man’s finger rested on the gun’s trigger. Like I said, he’s crazy.

  I keep my hands at my side. The charter rules say I can challenge. Those rules go back thirty-five years to when Fox was a toddler and I wasn’t even a thought to the parents who raised me. This doesn’t mean Fox won’t kill me before I challenge.

  “Well, well, fucker. You finally grew a set, because there’s no way you would take Skull away from his duty if this was a Sunday school lesson.” Fox looks me up and down before his steely blue eyes hit the guys behind me. I have no idea if they’re meeting his gaze in challenge or planning to stab me in the back. I’m risking everything on the former.