Damon: A Motorcycle Club Romance (Lonely Rider MC Book 4)

  DAMON

  LONELY RIDER MC 4

  Melissa Devenport

  ♥

  Table of Contents:

  Chapter 01

  Chapter 02

  Chapter 03

  Chapter 04

  Chapter 05

  Chapter 06

  Chapter 07

  Chapter 08

  Chapter 09

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Epilogue

  ALL ABOUT MELISSA

  Written by Melissa Devenport

  Published by Perfect Harmony Publications

  © 2019 Perfect Harmony Publications

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission in writing from the publisher.

  Chapter 1

  DAMON

  All that stood between Damon Campbell and finally getting those intertwined scythes and snakes patched onto his leather jacket was one single woman.

  One life.

  Murder.

  The Serpents and Scythes MC might have had a ridiculous name, but then again, there were a shit ton of MC’s across the country and coming up with an original name was difficult. People didn’t laugh at the name. People didn’t laugh at the MC period. Unless they wanted to be on the wrong side of the turf. When the club’s nightly agenda consisted of biker bitches, booze, blow, and usually a good fight or even a body being dumped somewhere where it wouldn’t see the light of day anytime soon, the name didn’t matter. Stupid name or not, people didn’t fuck around with their MC. Ever. Period.

  Damon had done some pretty shady shit in his lifetime, but murder? Murder, not murder.

  He’d fucked people up. Stolen shit. Done a few stints on the inside. He’d punched his way out of a fight and used a broken beer bottle to save his hide. By the time he was eight, he could hot-wire almost any vehicle. By the time he was fifteen, his curriculum vitae included: two knife fights, one drunken brawl he didn’t start, the ability to jack anything on four wheels and sometimes on two- since he had a thing for bikes, dealing drugs of all kinds- pills, powders, you name it, skipping school more times than he’d actually gone, no fewer than twenty-eight foster homes- one that he’d set fire to, and seducing one crotchety know it all principal’s daughter into blissfully losing her virginity in the backseat of a stolen truck.

  Damon had seen the inside of two different clubs, both run like pieces of shit. They imploded from the inside out, but they were a family of sorts while that lasted. He still touched base with a few of his old brothers here and there on rides and in what little free time he’d had between one club and the next. He might have been a Class A Asshole in most people’s books, but that didn’t mean he set fire to his bridges. Anything else, maybe. Past brothers, hell, their clubs might have been disbanded or gunned down or folded, but they were still blood.

  Damon pressed down on the accelerator of his stolen black family sedan. The thing was mid two thousands and it was nice. Full leather, fake wood grain in the dash, even a set of fuzzy dice hanging from the rear view mirror. As a bonus, he’d found an abandoned bottle of cologne in the backseat, some real woodsy stuff that was high fucking end, and a handgun in the glove-box. Loaded.

  The car responded eagerly, hungry for more. Damon loved his bike above all else, but German engineering came a close second every single time.

  Kirstin Sinclair. One blonde haired, green eyed daughter of Big Ted and his old lady, Betsey Anne. She was his entertainment for the evening. He had his instructions in the form of non-consensual sex, a little bit of torture and the big M. Hence the family sedan with the large trunk. He couldn’t exactly stuff a full-grown woman’s body into the saddlebags of his bike.

  Unluckily enough for Big Ted, the guy pissed their Prez off by deciding he was going to ship out. He tried to leave town with his old lady, which was a big no-no. When their Prez, Bone, caught up with them, they didn’t last more than a few minutes. Their truck was riddled full of bullet holes. God knew what happened to their bodies.

  The guys who went on the ride rode back into the club and suddenly, he was called in front of Bone himself. After two years he was finally going to patch in and be an official club member, but there was something he needed to do to prove himself.

  Kill Big Ted’s daughter.

  Every single guy who patched into the club knew it was for life. You didn’t get out unless you were dead. Though generally, family wasn’t part of the deal, Bone had been in a real bad mood over the past few months, compliments of some asshats from a rival club trying to encroach on their territory. The ol’ Prez muttered something about Big Ted leaking information to those rivals, and as such, his family deserved to be punished for his sins.

  Big Ted had royally screwed not just himself and his old lady, but he’d also fucked over his daughter.

  And she was a beautiful daughter.

  Damon had seen Kirstin around the club a few times, here and there, always with her dad. Big Ted kept her in the car, but once, he’d exchanged a few words. She was pretty. Had huge green eyes, thick eyelashes, a waterfall of blonde hair. She was stacked. Nice tits. An even better ass. She was tall, but she still had those lethal curves. She liked to dress in pink. She always had something pink on.

  No wonder Big Ted kept her away from the club house and the bunch of them. She was his pride and joy, his only daughter.

  Damon liked his life. He fucking valued it. He liked breathing more than he liked just about anything else, which was why he kept shaking his head over what he was about to do.

  He wasn’t going to kill Kirstin. Far from it. He had a plan and it didn’t involve laying a finger on her in any way, shape or form. Not rape. Sure as hell not murder. He’d drug her if he had to, but that couldn’t be helped.

  His knuckles tightened on the wheel, whitening as he gripped it and took a hard right. The tires squealed on the pavement and a car honked at him. He flew the bird up to the window, though the driver was probably long past seeing. Normally he’d love to tango. Nothing like a bit of good old road rage to get the blood flowing. Not that it wasn’t flowing. His heart was kicking and alive in his chest, adrenaline flooding his bloodstream.

  He had to get Kirstin before anyone else decided he was too much of a pussy to get the job done. He’d try to make her see reason, but if that failed, he wasn’t above drugging her, tying her up, and stashing her in the trunk. He’d figure out where the hell he was going to take her when they were far enough away from Bone, but close enough that he could make it back with a believable story about where he’d dumped her body.

  God help him if anyone found out he’d lied.

  This is crazy. I’m fucking crazy. He glanced at his face in the rear-view mirror. His skin was sallow and pale and his eyes were wider than normal. He inhaled sharply and watched as his nostrils flared. Yes, he liked breathing. Somehow, in life, he’d been good at staying alive, though he’d had piss poor help along the way as a kid. Somehow he’d survived.

  Though he’d had a shitty ride along the way, he wouldn’t mind staying on the right side of the ground for a few more years yet.

  Chapter 2

  KIRSTIN

  Bone had her number and that meant her time was up.

  Growing up the daughter of a biker, Kirstin Sinclair wasn’t stupid. Her father might have shielded her from the worst of club life, but she’d heard enough from her mother over the years, seen enough, including nights when her father came home covered in blood, to know what would happen to them if they ever tried to get out.

  Big Ted, as she’d called her father since she was five years old, always told her that Bone meant business. He wasn’t a guy you fucked with. Her father’s words, not hers. Kirstin didn’t understand how Big Ted thought he could get out. Or why. Or why he’d left her behind.

  The night before at six minutes past seven, she’d received a frantic call from her mother. Betsey Anne had just enough time to warn her that they’d tried, and failed to ship out, before the line went dead. Her mother’s scream had been cut short by the sound of gunfire.

  That was it. Her entire life, her caring heart, her love of gardening and flowers, her gentle, talented, artist hands, stilled forever.

  No, not stilled. Taken.

  Her parents were dead. Their lives taken by Bone and the MC, by men her father once called his brothers.

  Kirstin knew they’d be coming for her.

  She should have set out blindly after the call, but she knew that the bastards from the MC probably checked the call log. They would have known her mother tried to warn her. She couldn’t just take off into the night, running scared. She had to have a plan or she’d die the same way her parents did.

  It took her far longer than it should, over twenty-four hours, to get her shit together. She withdrew all her cash from her bank account. Six thousand dollars was enough to take her somewhere safe and then she’d recalibrate. She ditched her car and bought a shitty beater and hidden it a mile away from her house. She got
her things together, her passport and her valuables, a few clothes, jewelry, her gun and her knives.

  She was the daughter of a man who was VP of a dangerous MC. She didn’t do shit halfway. And yes, she knew how to use those weapons.

  Adrenaline spiked through Kirstin’s veins and her stomach cramped as she zipped up her duffel bag. She kept the house pitch black and she’d dumped her cell the night before, just in case. She had a burner phone and she was packed. Dressed in black, she tied up her blond hair into a tight knot at the back of her head. She pulled her black toque over her hair. It might have been the middle of summer and even in Detroit, it was hot, but hell, no one was going to see her anyway.

  She shouldered her duffel and tucked her gun into the back of her black jeans. She had a black tank top underneath a black hoodie.

  And of course, she had a distraction planned.

  Kirstin crept silently to the front window. She cracked a finger through the blinds and peered out. She wasn’t going to leave that way, but she couldn’t resist one last look at the neighborhood she’d called home for six years. She wasn’t sentimental about the house. She’d do what she had to do to keep herself alive. She’d have time to grieve for her parents and allow emotion and fear to creep in, but not now. Not while she was still in danger.

  Anger rose up hot and sharp inside of her when a car she didn’t recognize crept to a stop thirty feet down the street. She watched the German made sedan park between a min-van she knew belonged to the McGregors and a brand-new hatch back that Addi Malone got for her sixteenth birthday the month before.

  Kirstin froze. I’m probably just being paranoid. She backed away from the window and flattened herself up against the wall. Her heart hammered violently, but she forced herself to take a few steadying breaths. She watched discreetly from the side of the window.

  Fuck.

  Though he was dressed in street clothes, jeans and a black t-shirt, the dragon tattoos snaking down his massive arms, arms that were thicker than her damn thighs, were obvious. Damon Campbell.

  He was there for her.

  Kirstin knew why he’d been sent. He’d been a prospect for two years. For two years he’d put up with all the shit the club had to throw at him. For two years he’d been the low man on the pole. Those guys used and abused him, like they did any prospect. Bone sent him to prove himself.

  Dispose of her, patch in. It was as simple as that.

  Kirstin didn’t quiver or shake. She didn’t break down into a weepy, wilted mass of simpering female tears. Not when she was in her own house. She steeled her spine as she reached down and drew a wicked looking blade from the sheath strapped to the outside of her pants. She’d have the element of surprise. Best of all, Bone clearly underestimated her. To him, she was probably some blonde bimbo of no consequence. He sent one man to take her out.

  And Damon was… nice. Nicer than most of the beasts and bastards at the MC. She’d been able to talk to him a few times and the guy was actually capable of stringing together a coherent sentence. He wasn’t an ape like most of the fuckers there. He was actually quite mellow.

  If there was one guy sent to kill her, she was glad it was him. Anyone else, she doubted she could kill. Damon, on the other hand, walked right up to the front door and knocked.

  What an idiot. Right. Like I’d fall for that. He stuffed his hands in his jeans pockets and assumed a casual stance. Like he’d come by to sell her fucking cookies or something for a good cause, not put a bullet in her brain and skull fuck her and dump her body in the nearest woods for the animals to eat.

  Rage sizzled through her blood. Her body grew hot and as she crept to the front door, her desire for vengeance nearly overtook her good sense. She couldn’t allow herself to be distracted. Damon probably hadn’t killed her parents. That would have been a right reserved for Bone.

  She squeezed her eyes shut and refused to think about what had been done to them. If they’d suffered. Where their bodies were. She couldn’t fall down that pit. Not when her life counted on her keeping a level head.

  The knock sounded again, like the bastard assumed that she’d just let him walk right in.

  That was the last thing he’d ever assume, because she was going to be the victor. She’d take care of Damon, then she’d be gone. She’d slip into the night. She’d escape Bone and his thugs and one day, she’d find a way to make them pay for what they’d done to her parents.

  First things first.

  Kirstin stood to the side of the door. She breathed in and out, steady, solid. Her hand gripped the handle of the knife her father bought her for her sweet sixteen. While other girls got pretty dresses and jewelry or even a car, he’d given her the best present of all. A knife and a gun and he’d taught her how to use both.

  Boys didn’t need to fear her daddy. She always made them fear her first.

  At twenty-four, she hadn’t exactly been out on as many dates as the next girl.

  Kirstin flattened herself against the wall. Her right hand gripped the knife. Her left slowly, painfully slowly, took hold of the lock. She slid the gold deadbolt back. The scream of the lock clicking open was audible throughout the house. And on the other side of the door.

  It turned out Damon Campbell wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed, because he took it as an open invitation to open that door and take a step into the house like he owned the place. That would be the last thing he’d ever fucking do.

  Kirstin moved as swift and smooth as a shadow. She soundlessly raised her hand and plunged her knife in a wide arc through the air.

  Right into Damon’s shoulder.

  Fuck!

  She felt the skin and bone give way beneath the knife. She drove hard, with all her weight behind it, but he was fast and strong, and he must have suspected something, because that knife should have landed in the center of his face, not in his shoulder.

  He made a muffled sound, nothing more than the rush of air leaving his lungs. He didn’t cry out. She might as well have thrown a goddamn toy at him.

  The door slammed shut behind him. He whirled, as swift and soundless as she was. Swifter. She tried to step back, to go for the gun tucked into the waistband of her pants, but she wasn’t fast enough. Damon’s hand shot out and gripped her by her hair. Her scalp screamed in protest, pain, and fear as strands were ripped free from the bun at the nape of her neck. His hold was like iron, but it was nothing compared to the savage arm that swung out and clamped around her shoulders.

  She kicked and fought, thrashed wildly. She elbowed him and tried to bite.

  She’d had one chance and she missed. In the game she was playing for her life, she was the loser.

  But she was Kirstin Sinclair, and she wasn’t going down without a fight.

  Chapter 3

  DAMON

  “Would you stop fucking fighting me!” Damon hissed in Kirstin’s ear. The fucking witch was like a banshee in his arms. She fought and thrashed. Clawed and elbowed and bit.

  And she’d stabbed him.

  Every single movement she made sent rivers of pain flooding out from the goddamn knife sticking out of his shoulder. He wasn’t a betting man, but if he was, he wouldn’t have put money on springing out like a dark shadowed demon and plunging a knife into him the second he walked through the door.

  There must seriously be something wrong with him, because all that thrashing, Kirstin’s tight, shapely ass grinding right into his pelvis, her little gasps of fear, anger, and outrage in his ear, her wild feral bearing, it was all turning him the fuck on. Stabbing and all. His cock was so fucking hard, it was probably bruised by his fucking zipper.

  “Stop it!” Damon planted his hands on Kirstin’s shoulders and shook her so hard he actually heard her teeth knock together. “I didn’t come to kill you!” He gave that a second to sink in. Her huge green eyes went wide. Even in the dark he could see how dilated her pupils were, eating up the irises in fear and adrenaline. “Well- okay, I did come to kill you, but it’s not what you think. I’m not going to do it. I came to get you out of here.”

  Kirstin’s lush peach hued lips parted. He thought she was actually going to say something complimentary, maybe a thank you, maybe an ‘I’m sorry I stabbed you,’ but no. Her brow furrowed into a tight frown and her lips thinned out into a snarl.