Born Killer: Bad Devils MC, #1

By Vivian Gray

Born Killer is book 1 of the Bad Devils MC trilogy. Books 2 and 3, Bred Killer and Made Killer are available everywhere now!

What if a killer took you to bed?

I've had enough of bikers.
My scumbag father left us when I was just a baby.
But Race is dead-set on making me his…
And giving me a baby of my own.

RACE

I grew up in broken homes.
The child of drug addicts, I've seen the worst horrors life has to offer.
But I survived it all.
The abuse. The neglect. The pain. The suffering.

My scars and tattoos are a testament to what I've done to stay alive.
People know at first glance I've had trouble in my past.
And the Bad Devils MC patch on my kutte lets them I'll probably have more in my future.

But women can never resist a dangerous bad boy.
They flock to my side and beg me to own them for the night.

Except for Delilah.

She takes one look at me and tries to escape.
She can tell that this is not an act or a façade.
I'm a born killer.
And she knows that the best thing to do is run from me.

But I won't let that happen.
She's too precious, too pure, too beautiful for any other man but me.

We're both broken in our own unique ways.
But I'm determined to make her shatter for me.

And only for me.

DELILAH

I knew he was danger from the second I saw him.
But I just couldn't stay far enough away.
Race is relentless and savage.
He won't stop until I'm in his bed, moaning his name, pleading for more and more and more.

And even that won't be enough.

Because Race wants a family to replace the one he never had.
And in me, he's found his woman.
All that's left is for us to make a baby.

Whether I want it or not.

• Language: English
• Publisher: eBook Publishing World
• Release date: Feb 25, 2019
• ISBN: 9781386311928

Book preview

Born Killer: A Motorcycle Club Romance (Bad Devils MC Book 1)

By Vivian Gray

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What if a killer took you to bed?

I’VE HAD ENOUGH OF bikers.

My scumbag father left us when I was just a baby.

But Race is dead-set on making me his...

And giving me a baby of my own.

RACE

I grew up in broken homes.

The child of drug addicts, I’ve seen the worst horrors life has to offer.

But I survived it all.

The abuse. The neglect. The pain. The suffering.

My scars and tattoos are a testament to what I’ve done to stay alive.

People know at first glance I’ve had trouble in my past.

And the Bad Devils MC patch on my kutte lets them I’ll probably have more in my future.

But women can never resist a dangerous bad boy.

They flock to my side and beg me to own them for the night.

Except for Delilah.

She takes one look at me and tries to escape.

She can tell that this is not an act or a façade.

I’m a born killer.

And she knows that the best thing to do is run from me.

But I won’t let that happen.

She’s too precious, too pure, too beautiful for any other man but me.

We’re both broken in our own unique ways.

But I’m determined to make her shatter for me.

And only for me.

DELILAH

I knew he was danger from the second I saw him.

But I just couldn’t stay far enough away.

Race is relentless and savage.

He won’t stop until I’m in his bed, moaning his name, pleading for more and more and more.

And even that won’t be enough.

Because Race wants a family to replace the one he never had.

And in me, he’s found his woman.

All that’s left is for us to make a baby.

Whether I want it or not.

Chapter One

Delilah

A nother one, Del? Don’t get me in trouble for over-serving you.

Kel winks his crusty old eye at me as he shoots the small cocktail glass my way down the long wooden bar. Somehow, it doesn’t manage to spill a drop of the golden-brown liquid along the way. Thirty years of working at the Pipeline Bar must make you an expert on drink swilling.

Are you seriously complaining about me spending my money? I reply, a hint of sauce in my voice. It’s been a long fucking day dealing with my mother’s shit and work dragging me down, and I certainly didn’t need to hear it from an old bastard like Kel. Serve me my drink and leave me the hell alone to sulk.

My mom’s been a heinous fucking bitch for my whole life – and longer, according to most people. I’ve heard more than a couple people say her bitchiness started the day she was born, and I don’t have any doubts about that whatsoever. She’s hotheaded and stubborn as hell, and she’s not afraid to tell you when you don’t meet her strict expectations. Today, her beef was that my new work skirt was too short even though hers was at least an inch shorter than mine.

You’ll be a club slut if you go out looking like that! she cried out after me, but I was already tuning her out by that point. There’s only so much you can tolerate of a person like my mom.

It’s not all her fault, really. She’s had a hard life in her forty-five years. She grew up in a trailer park, raised by a monster that was my grandfather. He did things to her that I can’t really imagine myself. And when he managed to break her jaw over not buying the right kind of beer, she took it as a clue that it was time to get the fuck out of there fast.

But it didn’t get better from there. She met up with this guy, Preacher, who was a rider with the local motorcycle club. From what I’ve managed to get from the bits and pieces she occasionally tells me, he didn’t treat her much better than her daddy did. He was in and out of her life, constantly keeping her on edge, until he knocked her up.

When he found out she was pregnant, he gave her some money to get it – me – taken care of. Despite being a meek little priss around men, she managed to find some courage and stand up to him. She crossed over the town and settled in new territory where he couldn’t get to her or me when I was born.

When I look across the Pipeline bartop, I see a younger her in the mirror’s reflection – red hair, hazel eyes, pink lips painted an almost purple red. We could be twins or at least sisters. The resemblance is even more uncanny due to the white buttoned up waitressing top I’m wearing.

I told myself I wouldn’t be like her. I wouldn’t be some waitress in a prissy bar on the Hollywood side of town. I wouldn’t be living off of the tips hot-handed C-list celebrities paid me for letting them pat my ass as I walked by. I wouldn’t be scrubbing dishes for extra pay at the end of the night and then doing it all over again for the lunch rush.

I take another swig of my drink. It’s nothing great. I can’t afford the top shelf drinks or else I’d be upgrading. Tonight’s tips were dismal enough. The warm weather in Los Angeles has meant that most people would rather avoid a velvet, dark bar for some outdoor terrace.

The thought crosses my mind as I hold tight to my drink and move from inside the wood panel drunkard tank I call my home bar and out to the open air patio to watch the bikers roll in from their shifts. The night’s dusty – dry air hits me as soon as I step outside the air conditioning, but it feels good to sweat a bit and hear the crinkling sound of melting ice against the rim of my glass.

Delilah! a friendly voice shouts to me.

I turn my head to see my girl, Ariel, lounging in a rusty rocking chair. She tags a drag off her cigarette before standing to usher me over. She pushes her boyfriend Seb out of the chair next to hers