Fox: The Road Rebels MC, #4

By Savannah Rylan

They say don't sleep with your target.
But we won't be doing much sleeping.

I have a job to do, for my Club.
To get information on the indictment of our rivals, the Devil's Saints.
I'm going to find out how to put away those @ssholes for good
The Club didn't give me the nickname Fox for my good looks.
The mission changes when I meet Harlow Carmichael. 
Getting involved with her is a bad idea, but I can't get my mind off her lips, or those curves.
I don't care if she's the daughter of the man working for the enemy.
When her life is threatened, I have to decide who to save. 
Her or my Club.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pink Empire Publishing
• Release date: May 28, 2019
• ISBN: 9781386321569

Book preview

TWO

HARLOW

Are you sure the cameras in the stairwells of this apartment complex work?

Daddy, stop being so paranoid. Yes, they work. The sprinkler system is hooked up, and the security system you wanted to be installed for the apartment is going to be installed tomorrow, I said.

Tomorrow? I can put you up in a hotel until they get it installed.

Dad. Seriously. Stop worrying so damn much.

I just want you safe. You're my only child, and my princess to boot. People are going to want to hurt you because of who I am.

What? You're a defense lawyer, Dad. Not an underground criminal. You defend people others have already assumed are guilty. That's admirable. Not terrible, I said.

But there are people who get upset with those I defend, he said. You could easily become a target if someone wanted to lash out.

Hence the protection. The sprinklers in case someone sets a fire, the cameras in case someone takes me, the security system in case someone tries to break in. Everything is covered, Dad. You're just overprotective.

Are you sure you're ready to move into your own place? You know we can move you right into the guest house out back. I'll lift your curfew; I'll pave a driveway right up to the place. You can come and go as you please. I'll even charge you rent to make it feel more genuine.

You're insane, I said with a giggle. Could you set that box in the kitchen? That's all the stuff Mom gave me.

Thank fuck. I'm glad she's finally cleaning out our damn kitchen.

Daddy! Such language, I said with a grin. Do you know when the furniture's being delivered?

They should be here in an hour, my father said. That was the delivery time told to your mother.

Which means it's probably wrong.

Don't get me started. Your mother's memory is getting worse by the minute.

You think someone should suggest for her to get it checked out? I asked.

Harlow, you don't have to worry about stuff like that. For now, it's still just a teasing point with your mom. If she gets worse, I'll take her somewhere. That's my job as her husband. You don't worry about that kind of thing.

But she's my mom. I want to make sure she's okay, I said.

And she will be. Because she's your mom. She's the strongest person I know. She's dealt with my career over the years; she dealt with raising you through puberty… which was not fun. You were an asshole.

Hey! I tried my best in high school. Sorry if I got bored, I said.

Just because you were bored didn't mean you had to sneak off at two in the morning with… what was that guy's name?

Brandon?

Yeah. Him. I thought your mother was going to have a heart attack when she saw him climbing out of your window that night.

You know he's gay, right? I asked.

That's what you told us then, and I don't believe you.

Well, he is. About to marry his fiancé, actually. I got the wedding invitation on my phone a few days ago.

A wedding invite on your phone? How romantic, my father said. Ready to go get more boxes?

Of course I am, I said.

After graduating with a Master's in Science with a concentration in Marriage and Family Therapy, I was moving into my first real apartment. I joined a local practice right in the heart of Henderson, and my apartment complex was only five minutes away from work. I was excited at the prospect of being able to work alongside people who had been doing this for years. I was ready to learn from them and start helping couples become better versions of themselves with one another.

My father was skeptical of my career choice at first. But when I told him my dream was to open my own family practice I could pass on to my children like his great-grandfather did with him, I saw him beam with pride. My father didn't want me becoming a lawyer. He was adamant about that. I wanted to follow in his footsteps as he had with his father, and like my grandfather had with his. At first, I resented him for it. I thought it was because I was a woman. That my father's firm that had been passed down through generations was something, only the men of the family could touch.

But I came to find out that wasn't it at all.

He wanted me to be free to make my own decisions with my life. My father loved what he did, but it was something he grew to love. At first, he didn't want to be a lawyer. He wanted to be a teacher. An educator. Someone who coached people and taught rooms full of students concepts and theorems and practical life lessons. But my grandfather had been insistent upon him getting a legal degree, so my father eventually caved.

He made it clear to me that he wanted better for me, and eventually I came to understand that he was right. I didn't want to be a lawyer. But I did want to own my own business one day and I did want to help people.

When I enrolled at the University of Las Vegas, I was still a bit lost. Unsure of what I wanted to do since all I'd ever known were boring English classes and my father's lawyer jargon when talking about work. But when I took a remedial Psychology class, I was hooked. I devoured every class I could and eventually declared my degree in Clinical Psychology, then went on to specialize in Marriage and Family Therapy for my graduate studies. I became so passionate about it that I realized the University would allow me to enroll in graduate school while finishing my undergraduate degree I jumped at the chance. Because of that, I was able to complete my masters in a year instead two. I commuted to and from school for both of my degrees at my father's insistence, but now it was time for me to branch out.

And I could tell my father was struggling with it.

Furniture's here, my father said. You keep getting the boxes. I'll get the guys to help me.

You know I can unload furniture, right? I asked.

I don't want you getting hurt. Oh, that reminds me. You have our numbers on speed dial, right? Keep your phone on you at all times in case you need us. If you get hurt or something in your apartment.

You know if I get hurt, the first thing I'm dialing in 911, right? I asked.

Then us, my father said.

I shook my head as I grabbed another box.

My father was overprotective for sure. He defended a lot of people others would call criminals. But my father believed that the justice system was as complicated as it was for a reason. There were certain things a trial needed in order to convict someone that stood outside of a jury. Those three things were eyewitnesses, DNA evidence, and video footage. My father believed that the reason our prison system was so overcrowded was because too many people were being put away because of circumstantial evidence. He felt that biases were creeping into the courtroom, and it was because of the idea that everyone was guilty until proven innocent.

Even though our justice system was founded on the idea that everyone was innocent until proven otherwise.

I looked up to my father for that. For wanting to help those society didn't want to help. It was where I got my passion for wanting to help others. I saw him do it day in and day out for people society tried to cast out and degrade. I admired him for his fervor for defending these people. For going into a courtroom and being spat on just to demand that they have the same rights to a fair and honest trial like anyone else.

My father had always been my hero, even if he was a little overprotective.

Okay, sweetheart. The furniture's unloaded. You want me to stay and help you put it together?

Dad, there's nothing to put together. It all came assembled because you were determined to keep me from buying 'the cheap stuff.'

Well, the cheap stuff crumbles away too easy. You could sit on something and hurt yourself if it gave out from underneath you.

How big do you think I am? I asked.

That's another one of those questions, right? The one where there's no right answer? You and your mother are good at those.

I giggled and threw my arms around my father's neck.

Thanks, Daddy, I said. For everything.

You're welcome, princess. Anything for my baby girl.

Mr. Carmichael.

Yes? my father asked.

One of the men helping my father haul furniture was standing at the entrance to my apartment.

You need anything else? Or you ready for us to take off? the man asked.

Hold on. Can I tip you guys? Can you take tips? my father asked.

No, sir. Against company policy. But if you could fill out the survey we'll send to your email, we'd really appreciate it, Mr. Carmichael.

Please, call me 'Daniel.' And consider it done. I'll do it once I get home, my father said.

Thank you, sir. You two have a nice evening.

You, too, my father said.

Well, all I have to do is unpack now, I said.

You need any help with that? I could stay a little longer.

Dad, if you stayed any longer you would live here. I'm only twenty minutes from the house. You can stop by whenever you want as long as you give me a heads up. No randomly dropping in on me, I said.

Right. Okay. Well, princess, if you ever need anything-

I know, I know. Your number's on speed dial, I said. Get out of here already. I want to eat my first dinner in my own apartment in peace.

Love you, kiddo.

Love you too, Dad.

He kissed me on the top of my head before he left my apartment. The door closed behind him, and I stood around, surrounded by boxes I had to unpack. My three-bedroom apartment was phenomenal. Just the right size and had just enough room for me to have a blowout bash with my friends. I walked into the kitchen and began unpacking, then broke down the cardboard boxes and stashed them in the laundry room.

As I made my way around my new apartment, my body was growing tired. The day had been long, and sweat was dripping down my back. I moved to the bathroom and unpacked all my things, setting up the shower curtain so I could clean myself off. I smiled as the warm water hit my skin, melting away the sweat and grime from hauling boxes all damn day.

But when I emerged into the clouded bathroom I now rented of my own volition; I made my first decision on what to do for dinner.

I was going to go out, get a drink, and unwind from this long day.

I dried my body off as I made my way into my room. I wrapped my hair up in a towel as I dug through my suitcases, pulling out the first outfit I could find. I pulled on my underwear and hopped into my jeans, gritting my teeth as I worked them up my wet legs. I slipped on my bra, praising whoever invented the front clasp before I grabbed my blouse and pulled it over my head.

Then, I started digging around for my hairdryer.

I wasn't sure where I was going to go, but I wanted to try something new. My father had wined and dined me all my life at the finest restaurants Las Vegas, and Henderson had to offer. But I always wanted to experience the idea of beer and wings. There was something about that combination that was tantalizing, even though I'd never drank beer in my life. It was always cocktails with my friends or wine with my parents.

Beer was something they never touched, so it was something I never experienced.

I leaned into the bathroom mirror, now clear of the fog my shower produced earlier and started swiping on some makeup. I had very little makeup that complimented my hazel eyes, but the little I did have gave me a nice look. A little black eyeliner and some shimmering neutral eyeshadow. A bit of highlighter on my cheekbones and blush on my contours. I had a bold red lipstick that highlighted the auburn in my hair as I swiped it on, outlining my lips and sparkling my eyes.

I was ready for my first night out in Henderson. And the taste on my tongue for the night was beer and chicken wings.

THREE

FOX

As I sat at the bar with my beer in my hand, the smell of the kitchen trapped itself underneath my nose. Usually I didn't eat the food they made here. I heard it was good, but I never wanted to ruin my appetite with shit like food when they had the best beer on tap in town. But as I kept thinking about Calais and this shit with the KG9's, I grew more frustrated at my circumstance. The beer wasn't working to settle my mind so I could figure my shit out, and now my stomach was growling with hunger.

This night was getting worse and worse by the second.

Hey, bartender. Can I get some wings? I asked.

What kind and how many? he asked.

Ten of them. Hot. With lots of ranch, I said.

Give us twenty minutes. Want another beer?

Just keep those coming. Open up a tab or some shit.

You got it, boss.

Don't call me that, I said.

The bartender slid me another beer as he put in my order for food. I hunched over the bar, my shoulders spreading against my leather jacket. I never went out in public in my leather cut for the club anymore. Not with the clients, I was wrangling and the connections I was making. The last thing they needed to know was that I was part of a biker gang around town. That was another thing assholes like Calais could hold over my head just to keep me under their thumb.

I wasn't sure how I lost control of that situation, but I was determined to get it back.

Either way, I was pissed at myself for getting into the god damned mess. I knew branching out from the club was going to be risky, but I didn't think it would lead to shit like this. The KG9's thought I was one of them, and that shit wasn't the case. Calais thought he could order me around like his newbie cronies in his fucking street gang. But those assholes weren't anything. I didn't even know they existed until a client of mine ditched their shit for mine. It was how I met up with Calais in the first place.

He tracked me down to beat my ass for stealing his clientele, and I cut a deal with him that worked in both of our favors.

Nothing in that agreement established a long-term relationship. But something must have in Calais' eyes. Or at least his boss's. Now, I was expected to deliver on shit I never promised him. I didn't promise him a long-term relationship. I didn't promise him an influx of the drugs I was selling. I was a peddler. Just like they were. I wasn't a supplier.

And they were treating me like one.

Maybe that was my fucking fault. Maybe this whole 'renting their services out' thing made me look like a supplier. But I made it very fucking clear that the drugs I was running were limited. There was a chance I could go to Snake and Mac and take what they had left of their stash, but with the way the KG9's were selling this shit out, that would only buy me another month. If I was lucky.

The only way out of this I saw was to find a supplier of the drugs The Road Rebels were running. Mac had originally set up the relationship, and since then he had been very secretive about it. I couldn't use the club's own connection, but I could try to track down another connection for the same drugs. The KG9's could be very lucrative for me, which would help me keep up my father's bills and shit. I couldn't afford to take a month-by-month dive in my income just so the club could get some fucking bars up and running. That shit would take months. Maybe even years.

I didn't have that kind of time to wait for money. My father needed that shit money.

He needed it now.

Throwing back the rest of my beer, the bartender handed me another one. My wings were set in front of me, setting my mouth ablaze with saliva. I was hungrier than I had imagined as I dove into the wings, relishing how good they tasted. Fuck. These were the best wings I'd ever shoved in my face. I tore through them, slathering them in ranch dressing as my mind continued to swirl.

If I were going to continue to sell drugs on my own, that would be a way to keep the club out of it. I could keep these two lives separate, I could switch from drug-running to helping out with the opening of our new bar, and that would help me keep my head low. Opening a legal bar would give me more brain power to focus on running my own drugs, establishing connections, and getting back on my feet financially.

Plus, getting my own drugs to sell meant