Beauty & Balls: Jawa's Angels MC, #1

By Jennifer Ann

After escaping a bad marriage, Kyla Amado discovers a different kind of freedom when purchasing her first motorcycle. Only her ex, a powerful man with deep connections and the worst kind of temper, isn’t ready to let her go.

As a former Marine-turned-vice-president of the Inferno Glory MC, Ranger Lewis has seen it all. With a dark past that caused him immeasurable amounts of pain, he’s fiercely protective of everyone he cares about—including the gorgeous brunette he saves from her abusive ex.

When Kyla accepts Ranger’s offer to keep her safe, it inadvertently starts a war between the mafia and Inferno Glory MC. But Ranger has never been the type to back down from anything and he’s ready to do whatever it takes to keep Kayla safe, even if it means putting his own life on the line.

*This is part of a serial and is not a full-length novel.*

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jennifer Ann
• Release date: Sep 6, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386909828

Jennifer Ann

Jennifer Ann is the pen name used by Jen Naumann when writing steamy romance novels with complex love stories. Like her characters, she's in love with the city of New York and can often be found either there or at concerts, rocking with the best of them. On the rare occasions she realizes she's no longer a spring chicken, you can catch her driving a tractor alongside her husband in southern Minnesota while trying to keep up with the madness of their four active children.

Book preview

1

KYLA

Inhaling the warm California air as it blows across my face and mangles the ends of my hair beneath my helmet, I’m finally able to experience the kind of inner peace I thought I had lost for good. Riding my new motorcycle is the only thing in my life that makes sense anymore. Going through the divorce of a marriage that never should’ve happened in the first place, leaving a job I loved, moving to a crappy little apartment in a town where I only know one person—it’s as if my life has been completely turned upside down and I’m grasping for any kind of normalcy .

If it weren’t for Adele, the elderly widow next door to my old house who kept a watchful eye on my crumbling marriage, I never would’ve dreamed in a million years that I’d be the type to take a motorcycle safety class and test for my license. Often times when Joey was out on business, Adele would invite me over for tea and show me pictures of her riding motorcycles in her younger days, telling me stories of an adventurous youth on the open road. The smile on her face as she spoke and the matching smile in the pictures gave me the first spark of real hope I’d had since things went south with Joey. Seeing those pictures also encouraged me to buy a bike, and damn if this new ride doesn’t spell freedom. I’m pretty sure Adele knew exactly what she was doing by offering an alternative to my depressing life…a

way

out

.

Going for my license was the only thing that kept me from losing my damn mind. Of course Joey hated that I was doing something that didn’t involve him and thought it was ludicrous that I would think I was strong enough to drive a motorcycle or that he’d ‘let me’ spend my own money on it, but that only fueled my desire to make it happen. No matter what Joey said or did to stop me, I wasn’t going to let him or his family control my life anymore. They couldn’t take the joy of riding away from me. It may have been the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back, but it’s also the one thing I have that is mine. And considering how quickly my life is spiraling out of control, it’s good to feel in charge of something.

The hum of my Dyna across the smooth pavement stirs a sense of pride deep down that I hadn’t felt before. The motorcycle instructor suggested the low rider as it’s lightweight and comfortable for long rides. When I found one nearby on Craigslist within my price range, I was nearly weeping with joy. The day I served divorce papers on Joey and essentially went into hiding is the same day my old college friend Dea drove me down to San Diego to pick up my new beauty.

A sizable group of male motorcyclists pass in a blur, making it seem as if I’m standing still. Each of them subtly holds their hands out down low, flashing a finger as they pass. They’re all wearing leather vests with the same lettering and logo of an eagle on

the

back

.

Oh my God. Did they just flash me a

gang

sign

?

Despite the things I learned in safety class, there’s still a lot I don’t know about the motorcycle community. Those could’ve been Hell’s Angels for all I know. What if I offended them by not wearing what they consider standard biker attire? Our instructor strongly suggested that we wear heavy boots and leather riding gear, but the cost of my Dyna and helmet already set me back a good couple of years in loan payments. The rest will have to wait. I’m not an idiot and know the shorts, tank top and fashion boots I chose wouldn’t protect me from great bodily harm. But I’m celebrating my new freedom and don’t have far to drive anyway.

Feeling uneasy with the gang encounter, I veer onto the next exit off the freeway and take the longer route to Mikey’s. Dea won’t get too bent out of shape if I’m a little late for our girls’ night. God knows she needs the night out as much as I do after she caught her latest boyfriend cheating on her with

another

man

.

It’s Friday night and the small bar is hopping as usual. Luckily they cater to bikers and have designated spots in front or I'd be parking in the unlit lot across the street. I may look innocent, but feel completely badass as I park my bike beside a row of Harleys. A few couples walking into the bar pass me curious glances as I dismount and set my helmet on a handlebar. I can’t help but smirk to myself as I strut toward the bar like I own the place. I can’t help but feel that the motorcycle is just a symbol for my new found freedom—a complete life change.

Inside I’m met with deafening country music, the lively sound of conversations of a mixed crowd, and the aroma of popcorn mixed with beer. I instantly perk to life as I make my way through the sea of people, glad to be surrounded by good vibes and happiness for a change. I’ve met Dea here several times since leaving Joey and it’s the closest feeling I’ve had to being home now that Joey sold our house in L.A. and my family lives on the other side of the country.

Mikey, the owner who is busy at work behind the bar, sees me and shouts my name through the wall of customers, making me feel even more at home. I lift a hand and smile in return. Now that I’m almost single again, I don’t feel as paranoid about men blatantly flirting. Mikey’s not only adorable with a hooked nose that gives him a boyish charm, a million-dollar smile, and sparkling blue-green eyes that would make any girl swoon, but he’s one of the sweetest guys out there with a heart of gold. He’s the type that wouldn’t hesitate to give his friends the shirt off his back if they were in need. Maybe one day I’ll build up the courage to ask him out on

a

date

.

You better take this freedom thing one step at a time, my conscience taunts.

I catch sight of Dea on the far side of the bar, dressed in a similar style to mine, only she stands out ten times more with hair so blond it’s white and a giant rack that makes men forget their own names. A real life Barbie. When pairing her good looks with an outgoing personality, I’m easily reminded of how we became fast friends in college and why she never has a problem finding guys who are into her. I’ll never be able to thank her enough for helping me find a place to live and a

new

job

.

Practically skipping as I weave through the crowded bar, excited to let my hair down after an grueling week of work, I shudder when I collide with a solid wall of muscle. The familiar scent of Irish soap and cedar wood cologne burn my nose, spiking fear through my heart. When I steady myself on the man, touching a well-built arm holding a mug of beer, I already know it’s him without even seeing

his

face

.

Well, well, Joey taunts in the condescending tone that never fails to make me shiver. Imagine running into you here. Yeah, right.

Stalker

much

?

Looking up, I find glossy, dark eyes burning with rage and swallow back a whimper. There’s no denying my ex is something to look at the way his dark hair falls across his forehead, his hard muscles bulge beneath his button down shirt, and his broad features evoke images of a pro-athlete. After all, he was one of the stars of the U’s football team until an injury forced him out and made him the angry asshole he slowly became right before my eyes. But no matter how hard I try, I’m unable to recall the days when I looked at him and saw an attractive man rather than the monster he became.

I’ve told myself many times that any woman would’ve been drawn to his smooth charm and beautiful smile. Yet