Grime (Book 2): The Hangman’s Crows MC, #2

By Evelyn Glass

This is book 2 of the Hangman's Crows MC romance series! Book 3 is available everywhere now!

He's a dirty bastard, but he owns me.

Micah was my first lover…

And he's determined to be my last.

The bad boy is a filthy biker, an adrenaline junkie, a playboy who's slept with just about every girl in town.

Wrong for me in every way.

And yet, I can't resist him.

When he pins me against the wall and presses his rough lips to mine, I melt.

When he strips me and bends me however he wants, I come apart.

But this can never work. Our worlds are too different.

And when my ultra-conservative, religious parents find out who I've been spending time with, they go ballistic.

Now, I'm about to be shipped away from the man I love.

My family thinks they can destroy our love.

But they should've known:

Once Micah claimed me, he'd never, ever let me go.

• Language: English
• Publisher: eBook Publishing World
• Release date: Dec 14, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393121114

Book preview

Grime: A Motorcycle Club Romance (Hangman’s Crows MC Book 2)

By Evelyn Glass

He’s a dirty bastard, but he owns me.

MICAH WAS MY FIRST lover...

And he’s determined to be my last.

The bad boy is a filthy biker, an adrenaline junkie, a playboy who’s slept with just about every girl in town.

Wrong for me in every way.

And yet, I can’t resist him.

When he pins me against the wall and presses his rough lips to mine, I melt.

When he strips me and bends me however he wants, I come apart.

But this can never work. Our worlds are too different.

And when my ultra-conservative, religious parents find out who I’ve been spending time with, they go ballistic.

Now, I’m about to be shipped away from the man I love.

My family thinks they can destroy our love.

But they should’ve known:

Once Micah claimed me, he’d never, ever let me go.

CHAPTER 1

Orange dust kicked up by the breeze hung in a haze over the desert landscape. A ribbon of asphalt disappeared on the mountainous horizon, a saturated blue sky above. There were forty or fifty people milling around tents in a makeshift city beside the lonely stretch of highway known as Lucy’s Long Shot. Lucy was short for Lucifer on account of how hot the area tended to get—no matter the time of year. It was the middle of summer. It was hell. And, it was fitting that the Hangman’s Crows Motorcycle Club was present for one of the biggest bike racing events of the year. There was a lot at stake.

The heat sucked the oxygen out of the air and leeched the breath out of the lungs. Sweat trickled down his grizzled face and disappeared in the collar of his black leather jacket. Micah Blade Whitfield paid the discomfort no mind. He kicked at a clod of dirt and watched the dry chunk explode in a shower of dust, landing on his black boots like talcum powder. He popped his thick knuckles and surveyed the grounds.

You got what you need? Pinwheel asked him, her French accent thick with intent. She made a show of checking his helmet and securing it.

Micah chuckled and brushed her off. Kiddin’ me, doll? I was born for this shit.

She whipped her fire red hair out of her face and smiled flirtatiously at the leader of the gang. Her blue eyes danced mischievously, and she kissed him on the cheek for luck, leaving a crimson smudge of lipstick that stood out like the vivid tattoos on her pale skin. Micah grinned wryly, as he watched her twitch off to the tent in her itty bitty jean shorts, providing a distraction to the competition.

His team was assembled. Quinn and Chop were going over the bike, making sure the mechanics were sound, while Dante kept an eye on the rowdy crowd of bikers roaming the hilly terrain that was dotted with scrub and cacti. Aside from the wild onlookers and riders, the sable desert looked lifeless.

The city had sprung up overnight—for one day only—with the shifty swiftness of roamers and gypsies, and it would disappear before the sun rose again. The summer Saturday promised to be a good time. There was excitement and anxiety in the air, as thick as the sweltering heat. Music vied with the roar of engines, talking voices, laughter, arguments, and fights. Liquor was plenty, as were all the other less than legal vices.

To those inexperienced with the population, the tattooed and pierced men and women walking around probably looked like common criminals or circus freak—with the careless exuberance of the young and the jaded eyes of the timeless. Some were there for a show. Others were there to get in on the action. The experienced, like Dante, actually knew how to spot the real threats. Buxom broads in various degrees of undress sauntered alongside burly bikers in leather. Lifelong connections were probably being made, alongside lifelong rivalries.

Watch out for Scarface McGill. I’ve heard about him. He races dirty, he muttered to Micah, pulling him aside. We’ve got fifty-thousand on the line. If you can pull this off, we’ll be rich, baby. The race was about passing time, and time was money. The Hangman’s Crows primary method of padding their bank accounts was by winning races like these. The head-to-head matches were out of the way, but now it was time for the big one.

He’s already rich. Y’all need to let a hungrier mother fucker ride this one. Chop swiped his arm across his youthful, honey-hued face and left a smudge of oil in its wake. He stood up next to the bike and wiped his hands with a black bandana. At five feet four inches tall, he was wiry and small, but he was fast, especially on a bike. He wanted to take on the main event, but Blade wouldn’t let him. The crew felt it was too dangerous. At twenty-two, Chop didn’t have as much experience. He squinted his diamond-shaped eyes and smirked. You sure you don’t want me to take your place, Blade?

Micah nodded, his focus on winning. The competition was stiff, and, besides Scarface McGill, he knew Dorin Bourne from Asphalt Angels would definitely give him a run for his money. Not to mention, at any given point, the law might come down on them, but at least they’d be prepared. There wasn’t a cherry top in the county that could keep up with their bikes. It wasn’t a race for a kid still cutting teeth. Hell, he wasn’t entirely sure he, himself, was ready for it. With the odds of shit getting dirty for the grand prize, Micah preferred to put himself at risk, rather than his men.

I’m ready, he muttered. The only thing clouding his thoughts was the situation with Zoya, and even that had to be put on the backburner. He hopped on the back of his Victory Cross Roads 8-Ball. Looking like a squat black wasp, the body of the bike was rounded, fat at the back and skinny at the front. The sleek, black paint looked wet, and the shiny black leather seat contoured to his body. It wasn’t a racer by origin, but the bike had been modified.

Being a mechanical engineer had its perks. With an engine tweaked for speed and the framework rebuilt with the lightest material available, the bike could eat up miles easily. Micah was aware his relatively new motorcycle club had a reputation—as some of the best on the road—to protect. Chop had taken a few head-to-heads, and Dante had pulled second in his own bout. Pinwheel had blazed flames in the all-women’s heat. Q was out with a busted knee. If Micah won the grand, they were golden.

He gunned the engine of his bike, and the sound out-roared his angst. He was longing for a woman he couldn’t have and worried