Right Amount of Wrong: Reapers MC: Pema Chapter, #1

By Bijou Hunter

HEAT ღ HUMOR ღ HEA

 

Club enforcer and former cage fighter, Gunnar "Ogre" O'Keefe just met the woman of his dreams. Unfortunately, Vidalia was drunk off her ass at the time and can't remember him or his sexy kisses. To make matters worse, she's sworn off men, even handsome ones with sad eyes like Ogre. He can win her heart if only she'll give them a chance. Getting creative to woo her, he sets up a scenario where he can play her hero.

 

Even if his plan works, will Vidalia still swoon for the scarred biker once she learns the truth?

 

"Right Amount of Wrong" contains graphic sexual content, violent situations, and harsh language. The book is only appropriate for adult readers age 18+.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bijou Hunter
• Release date: May 24, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386716662

Bijou Hunter

Romance Author of Contemporary, Suspense, and New Adult ~ Find me at www.bijouhunterbooks.com ~ Join my mailing list: www.bijouhunterbooks.com/mailing-list

Book preview

RIGHT AMOUNT OF WRONG

BIJOU HUNTER

Copyright © 2017 Bijou Hunter

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No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

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Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmosphere purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

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Cover

Photo Source: DepositPhotos

Cover Copyright © 2017 Bijou Hunter

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Dedication

My boys for inspiring me every day

Sally for giving me guidance; Mike for watching over me

Debbie and Sarah for their honest feedback

Judy’s Proofreading

TABLE OF CONTENTS

NOTE TO READERS

THE CHAPTER WHERE THE STORY BEGINS

GUNNAR O’KEEFE, AKA THE OGRE

VIDALIA CORNISH, AKA THE REDHEAD

THE CHAPTER WHERE THE OGRE SCHEMES

THE OGRE

THE REDHEAD

THE OGRE

THE CHAPTER WHERE THE OGRE LIES

THE REDHEAD

THE OGRE

THE REDHEAD

THE OGRE

THE CHAPTER WHERE DREAMS ARE SHARED

THE REDHEAD

THE OGRE

THE REDHEAD

THE CHAPTER WHERE BAHAMA MAMA MAKES A PLAY

THE OGRE

THE CHAPTER WHERE HUNGOVER NEVER LOOKED SO SEXY

THE REDHEAD

THE OGRE

THE REDHEAD

THE CHAPTER WHERE THE CARPET MATCHES THE DRAPES

THE OGRE

THE REDHEAD

THE CHAPTER WHERE LIES GET KICKED IN THE BALLS

THE REDHEAD

THE OGRE

THE CHAPTER WHERE A SOLO LIFE SUCKS

THE REDHEAD

THE OGRE

THE CHAPTER WHERE CHOICES ARE MADE

THE REDHEAD

THE OGRE

THE REDHEAD

THE CHAPTER WHERE THE STORY ENDS

THE REDHEAD

THE OGRE

THE REDHEAD

THE OGRE

A FINAL WORD FROM THE REDHEAD

A FINAL WORD FROM THE OGRE

GENTLE ON MY MIND SNEAK PEEK

BIJOU READING ORDER

ABOUT BIJOU

NOTE TO READERS

Right Amount of Wrong is a standalone romance written in 2017. This book also acts as a prequel to the Reapers MC: Pema Chapter.

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The Road to Pema

There was once a great man who founded a motorcycle club, the Reapers, and built up a town, Ellsberg, for his young bride (Sunday Morning).

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One of the members of the club was an enforcer named Judd O’Keefe (Damaged and the Knight).

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Judd’s children, Gunnar and Heidi, eventually outgrew Ellsberg. The two struck out for Pema, where they run a new chapter for the Reapers Motorcycle Club.

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This is Gunnar’s story.

THE CHAPTER WHERE THE STORY BEGINS

GUNNAR O’KEEFE, AKA THE OGRE

Vidalia doesn’t remember me!

Like a kick straight to the balls, her blank stare steals my ability to speak. This woman’s eyes are the palest blue. I swear I could stare at them for-fucking-ever, but she only cares about what I want to order from Walmart’s deli.

What’s good? I stammer like a complete idiot.

Her hands absent-mindedly reach for the hairnet over her red locks, which are pulled back into a braided bun. When I first saw her days ago, Vidalia’s waist-long hair hung loose. She’d been a vision of angelic beauty then, and she’s one now, even while struggling to answer my question.

Umm... I don’t know. It’s all good, Vidalia mumbles, looking over the pasta and potato dishes.

Tell me this, I say, leaning against the counter and hoping I don’t look like a monster ready to smash her organized deli. Say you were gonna get something for your mom, what would you pick?

Vidalia’s gaze flashes to me and then the food before back at me again. If she remembers me, she’s hiding it well. More than anything, she looks nervous about the giant man hanging around her section.

If it were me, she nearly whispers, I’d choose the broccoli cheddar pasta salad. It’s my favorite.

Glancing down at the container she gestures at, I admire her delicate fingers hidden behind plastic gloves. Vidalia wears no nail polish or jewelry. Everything about her beauty is simple, easy, perfect.

I like how she doesn’t pick the most expensive or cheapest item. Instead, Vidalia suggests her actual favorite dish, making it the one I want.

I run my hand over my dark crew cut and tell her, Give me two pounds.

Smiling easily, she fills the containers. I watch her and wish I could make casual chit chat. I’m not that guy, though. What can I ask her that won’t sound like a cheesy come-on from a strange man?

Once she hands me the containers full of pasta, I’m stuck in the same place I was minutes earlier. I know her, but she doesn’t remember me. I don’t know how to talk to her that won’t make me seem like a freak wanting to perv her up.

Thanks, I say, tapping the containers on the counter as if the gesture might jog loose an idea in my fat head.

You’re welcome. Have a nice day.

Staring into her pale eyes, I mentally will her to remember the night at the bar. Vidalia smiles faintly, but she doesn’t view me any differently than the other customers.

No way does Vidalia remember how our lips got chapped together. Worse still, this redheaded angel has no memory of telling me that I was the most beautiful man in the world.

VIDALIA CORNISH, AKA THE REDHEAD

I don’t believe in romantic love and fully believe fools confuse it with need. People always say I came up with my No Love idea after seeing what love did to my mama. While those people are correct, Harley Cornish’s horrible taste in men isn’t my only reason.

My big brother, Reg, married a girl capable of keeping him busy enough to create distance between Mom and him. In my heart, I know his wife, Champagne, only loves him because he never cheats on her like her daddy always cheated on her mama. Plus, my brother is a hard worker, and she likes staying at home. Reg and Champagne need one another. There isn’t an ounce of romantic sentiment in their situation despite them saying the right words.

In her defense, Mom was always square with me. When I was around ten and sporting a sore ass from her boyfriend’s hand, I asked why she dated losers. Mom looked me straight in the eyes and stated very clearly, I can’t be alone. I need a man.

Nothing sentimental about her need. She didn’t love any of the jerks in her life—except my long-gone dad—but living without a man wasn’t possible.

I never plan to settle. Not even for a man willing to pay my bills like Champagne did with Reg. And I refuse to be like Mom by putting up with an asshole just to have a warm body in bed each night. Not that I’m a big shot with a well-paying job. Working at the Walmart deli isn’t glamorous, but I enjoy it more than being a cashier. Occasionally, I get to wait on attractive men like the one who orders my favorite pasta salad.

Bigger than anyone else in the store, he intimidates me with his size. Yet I can’t help wondering about the way he stares at me. There’s nothing threatening about his deep-set, brown eyes. Dark like chocolate, they hold such melancholy.

I know what his leather Reapers vest with the patches means, though. His rough face fits the image of a biker. A man with his height, broad shoulders, and massive hands probably doesn’t lose many battles, but he’s lost enough to leave him looking banged up.

After he takes his pasta salad and leaves, a light bulb goes off in my head. Men rarely pay me much mind. It’s probably my freckles. Whatever the reason, I never draw their eye. This guy, though, acted as if he was dying to say something, and I think I know why.

A few nights back, I went drinking with Champagne and my friend, Fern. Unable to hold my liquor well, I can’t remember much of what happened after my third jello shot. Fern, though, made abundantly clear how I’d made a huge ass out of myself by dancing and singing loudly. She also claimed I flirted with men as if I was the world’s biggest slut.

No doubt the handsome guy with the vest witnessed my stupidity. What I confused for sadness in his eyes was pity for the stupid freckled girl shaking her flat ass for everyone to see.

Even with him gone, I’m embarrassed for the rest of the day. Only once I climb into the top bunk in the bed I share with my niece and nephew, do I finally shake off the shame.

After all, who cares what a random guy thinks? Men don’t interest me. I’m not my mom, Champagne, or even Fern. I don’t need a man. I refuse to fantasize about them, not even the beat-up beauty from today.

THE CHAPTER WHERE THE OGRE SCHEMES

THE OGRE

Long White Cadillac by Dwight Yoakam plays overhead when I stroll into the Belly Up Bar. Mindy sings along with it while flashing me a fake smile. Like many of the waitresses—and club sluts—she doesn’t think much of me. I’m a second-generation Reaper, yet the one member least likely to let her ride his dick. That makes me a loser in Mindy’s mind. Her opinion would matter more if I were interested in having her riding my dick.

My younger sister runs the local chapter’s business side. I hear Heidi barking on the phone at someone who did her wrong. Whether dealing with a personal slight or someone late with their payment, Heidi is always a ball-busting bitch. She’s also the reason the local Reapers don’t dissolve into drunken stupidity like the club we forcibly replaced years ago.

I smell blood in the water, I tell Heidi and kiss the top of her head. Then I lean down and give one to my drooling six-month-old nephew hanging from a baby carrier. Your mama is gonna make someone cry.

Axe chews on his fingers, no more interested in me than Mindy. My sister, though, pats my cheek.

If people want to be late on payments, they best expect to have their asses beaten. If they don’t like that, they can borrow money from the fucking bank.

Knowing she’s got the world by the balls, and I’m just in the way, I leave my sister to yell into the phone. She rightfully scares the piss out of people. Even squawking in her shrew voice, Heidi lovingly caresses her boy’s head.

Multitasking is her gift. Heidi loves to tell the story about when she was nine months pregnant. She gave her husband a hand-job while on the phone sweet-talking a guy who threatened to run to the cops. She got her man ready to drive his lazy ass over to the rat’s house to deal with the problem. When Jox returned home, Heidi announced she was in labor. However, they needed to run a few errands before heading to the hospital.

I’m not Heidi. She demands attention. I skulk around in the shadows. We both carry a big stick, but she can speak softly or scream like a banshee. I mumble as if I’ve got a mouth full of marbles. What we share is a love for our family and the club. Plus, we both scare the crap out of people.

Sitting in a back booth, I take the beer Mindy#2 brings me and ask for a fork.

To eat with, I clarify when she only frowns.

Do you plan to order?

No.

In another world, Mindy#2 would flip me off. Not for the fork thing, but because I’ve blown her off so much that she claims I’m gay. In fact, the last time she made this accusation was on the same night Vidalia and her friends came into the bar. I hadn’t seemed too gay with the sexy redhead pinned against the wall in the back hall.

Give me a fork, I say again, and Mindy#2 finally walks away.

Soon, I