Crude (Book 1): Wicked Wolves MC, #1

By Evelyn Glass

This is book 1 of the Wicked Wolves MC romance series! Books 2 and 3 are available everywhere now!

He's crude, lewd, and in the mood.

I thought I put my demons behind me.

But I couldn't have been more wrong.

Because my past has finally caught up to me…

And his name is Topher Banley.

He's a player and a killer.

And worst of all… a biker.

But he knows things I can't let out.

Things like…

The name I thought I'd left behind.

A folder full of buried secrets.

So suddenly, I find myself facing the demands of a bad boy who wants to break me…

And I have no choice but to obey.

• Language: English
• Publisher: eBook Publishing World
• Release date: Dec 14, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393729976

Book preview

Crude: A Motorcycle Club Romance (Wicked Wolves MC Book 1)

By Evelyn Glass

He’s crude, lewd, and in the mood.

I THOUGHT I PUT MY demons behind me.

But I couldn’t have been more wrong.

Because my past has finally caught up to me...

And his name is Topher Banley.

He’s a player and a killer.

And worst of all... a biker.

But he knows things I can’t let out.

Things like...

The name I thought I’d left behind.

A folder full of buried secrets.

So suddenly, I find myself facing the demands of a bad boy who wants to break me...

And I have no choice but to obey.

CHAPTER ONE

Apair of filthy burgundy overalls and a black denim kutte lay draped over the door of her locker. Stitched on the back of the kutte was a 3-patch, meant to imitate the banners and logo of a bona fide Motorcycle Club. Everyone knew this wasn’t a real MC, that it was a motorcycle manufacturing company, a real up-and-comer, and that all employees wore the vest as per company policy. But while most of the biker customers rolled their eyes at them at first, they also found them kinda cute.

The top patch read VAMP BIKES, the bottom SALAMANDER, CA. The corporate logo depicted a vampire bat wearing a burgundy helmet. In the past few years it had become one of the most popular biker symbols on the west coast, and its owner had no intention of leaving it at that.

Kat Dellison had spent most of her morning in the garage, helping to fix a Big Twin engine into a custom Bar Hopper for some rich poser from Phoenix. The bike would be ready in a couple of days, and she was having a blast assembling it.

Next to the locker, a newly pressed and dry-cleaned pant suit, wrapped in cellophane, hung from the wall hanger. There was a fresh blouse in there, too. Wearing only her bra and panties, Kat wiped a clear streak down the center of the misty locker mirror and stepped back, amused. She pinned her silver name badge to the strap of her bra. It said KAT DELLISON, PRESIDENT & CEO.

Her old club ink, located on her right hip, left ribs and at the base of her spine, still gave her a shiver of pride despite everything that had happened. Almost no one knew she had those MC tattoos. After all, a CEO required a squeaky clean image. And it amused her to see the former Kat and the new Kat hanging side by side—overalls and pant suit—while she laughed at herself in the streaky mirror.

Whoever said the Black Kat brings bad luck?

If today was any illustration, luck would be on her side for some time to come. She was about to spend the afternoon securing Vamp Bikes’s first major acquisition, a local high-end manufacturer known as Rawley Motors, who specialized in soft tails, bobs, and touring bikes, the more practical, comfort-oriented rides rather than the sleek racers or naked bikes sought by the organ donors these days.

Rawley was respected, had a solid reputation for building reliable, durable bikes, and that was exactly what Kat wanted for her brand expansion. Safety, comfort and style. She no longer had any time for bikers who pinned it at well over a century, or performed DILLIGAF burnouts in front of a crowd of onlookers. No, she’d lived her life on the edge, as a one percenter, and she’d seen that edge grow sharp enough to cut her former club in two. It was through Vamp Bikes that she’d found a different spirit of biking—a purer one—one that didn’t get people killed.

She got dressed in her smart CEO attire and pinned the silver name badge where it belonged: on the breast of her jacket. Pride of a different sort swelled inside her now, as she left her private bathroom. The ink and colors and the 3-patch of her old club had felt primal, almost tribal, but this new organization, though perhaps a pale imitation of her old sisterhood, was really making a name for itself. Kicking ass in another way entirely, but kicking it nonetheless.

And Kat Dellison had always been about kicking ass.

ON HER WAY TO THE CONFERENCE room, she peered down into the forecourt and smiled to herself. The steady stream of customers just kept on coming. Her front-line sales staff were busy fielding questions left and right, weaving their way around the show bikes like tour guides at an expo where everything must go. It had been a tough job in the beginning, when Vamp was still trying to break into the market, to set a trend, to convince people to try something new, but her guys and gals had worked their collective heinies off selling the brand.

Lynn Garrett, her VP and Public Relations guru, not to mention life-long best friend, deserved a lot of the credit. She’d insisted on that expensive series of ads in Easy Rider and other popular biker magazines. She’d helped Kat design the logo. And she’d, perhaps, delivered the masterstroke: convincing the struggling restaurant across the street to turn itself into a bar to attract bikers, and then getting word out among the Riding Clubs that Salamander was the new stopover hot spot for California runs. Vamp bikes were now shifting like bats out of hell, and there was always a captive audience across the street to witness it. Slider’s bar bristled with RC groups, independents, prospects, nomads, and even bona fide MCs who came to see what all the fuss was about, maybe place an order for a set of custom bikes built to their own eccentric specifications.

Did you get the malt whiskey? she asked Lance, her resourceful young PA who nearly bowled her over on his way to the mail room.

Sure did. The exact brand Mr. Rawley drinks, all the way from Kentucky.

Good work. Are the portfolios on my desk?

Uh-huh. And last quarter’s sales figures, just in from Sue Schilling. Oh, and the cigars. Old Man Rawley will want to marry you by the time you’re done.

"That’s Mister Rawley, she reminded him. Informal banter was all well and good—she actually encouraged it at Vamp—but not today, when so much was at stake. Soon as he’s signed the papers, he can be Old Man Rawley again, but, until then, it’s Mister—or you’ll be missing. Got it?"

Got it, boss. Lance saluted with a sheaf of papers. Before she could leave he stopped her again. I almost forgot; there’s some guy waiting outside your office. Says he doesn’t have an appointment but he’ll wait ‘til you’re free. I told him you’re real busy today. He said it won’t take long.

What’s it about?

He wouldn’t say.

A client?

He shrugged, adopted that pathetic, really unattractive wounded expression he always used