Shooting Dirty

By Jill Sorenson

She's his only salvation

Ace Clemmons has wanted Janelle from the moment he first saw her. Taking her captive while he carried out his last hit as a member of Dirty Eleven nearly broke him. Now that he's gone straight, he's back in her life, looking to stake his claim. He can't erase the past but he'll do anything to make it up to her.

Janelle Parker needs a new start, far away from the trailer park and the strip club. A down and dirty affair with a tattooed criminal is a step in the wrong direction, but she can't resist Ace's deliciously commanding touch, which has haunted her dreams for months. Soon they're both in too deep, falling hard and fast—until an old feud with a rival motorcycle club explodes into an all-out war. Dirty Eleven's enemies won't hesitate to hurt Janelle to get to Ace. She has to fight to survive…and for the fiercest love she's ever known.

Book two of the Dirty Eleven MC series

84,900 words

• Language: English
• Publisher: Carina Press
• Release date: Sep 21, 2015
• ISBN: 9781459290563

Jill Sorenson

Jill Sorenson writes sexy action/adventure romance for HQN. Her latest release, Aftershock, was given a starred review by Publishers Weekly. Jill lives in the San Diego area with her husband and two daughters. She draws inspiration from the diverse neighborhoods and spectacular scenery of Southern California. You can find her on Twitter much too often. Her other hobbies include reading, hiking, and going to the beach.

Book preview

Chapter One

Janelle fought the urge to squirm in front of the admissions panel.

She was used to being stared at and putting her body on display, but she didn’t feel this vulnerable on stage. When she was dancing, she was in control. The men who watched her could only see her outer shell, her protective mask. They didn’t have access to the real person inside. They didn’t know her hopes and dreams.

The people across from Janelle were evaluating her character and intellect, not her tits and ass and fake o-face. It was nerve-racking.

Your GPA meets our requirements, one of the panel members said. Her gaze was razor-sharp behind horn-rimmed glasses. You’ve also passed the necessary tests to enter a physical therapy program.

Janelle tried to appear confident and self-assured. She had passed. Just barely, after weeks of cramming.

Tell us about your spiritual beliefs, the second woman said.

Loma Santa Fe was a Christian university. Janelle assumed the three staff members on the admissions panel were deeply religious. There were two middle-aged women and a cheerful young man. Although it was second nature for Janelle to appeal to the male of the group, she avoided eye contact with him. He looked familiar.

She shifted in her chair, uncomfortable.

She didn’t remember every customer who came into the club or paid extra for a lap dance in the back room. She remembered very few of them, actually. It was easier to focus on their clothing, or their hands. The hands were important. They reached for wallets, or roved too far. They could also move fast, strike hard.

Janelle had a sixth sense about men, honed from years of catering to their base desires, and she knew this one’s type. Religious, married, Madonna complex. Mostly harmless. She hoped he hadn’t been in the club.

I believe in God, she said honestly.

Do you accept the Lord Jesus as your savior?

Janelle wasn’t sure what that meant. If Jesus had wanted to save her, he’d had plenty of opportunities—and missed every damned one. I’ve never been to church before, but I’m open to the idea of Jesus.

Her response seemed acceptable to the panelists. Maybe they thought she’d be an easy convert. The woman in the middle picked up a pen, as if ready to sign the approval. Is there anything you’d like to ask, Kyle?

Kyle offered a polite smile. He was handsome. No.

The bespectacled woman flipped to the last page of the file and paused. The only issue I see is a flag on your background check.

Janelle’s heart went cold. Background check?

According to your application, you work as a waitress at Score Pizza. But your IRS report from last year lists another employer named Vixen.

Kyle flinched at this news, his smile slipping. Oh yeah. He’d been there.

The interviewer looked over the frames of her glasses. What kind of business is that?

It’s a nightclub, Janelle said. She’d fudged the application. They’d never accept a stripper at a Christian university. Her boss owned both Score Pizza and Vixen, so he’d agreed to change her paystubs and vouch for her if someone called. She hadn’t realized the university would look at her tax forms.

Do they serve alcohol? the woman asked.

Yes.

We have a strict policy against students with jobs in alcohol service, she said, frowning in disapproval. But as long as six months have passed since the termination of your employment and the start of the semester...

Janelle felt a spark of hope. They didn’t know what she did at the club, and she wasn’t going to offer the information. Maybe they’d never find out. While she waited, breathless, Kyle scribbled out a quick note and passed it down the table.

Oh dear, the woman in the middle said, reading it.

Damn.

Shame and anger washed over her, suffusing her cheeks with heat. She clutched her purse in a tight grip, ready to flee.

Kyle had a gold ring on his left hand. His right was resting on an expensive leather Bible. The fact that this married Christian was familiar with a club that featured topless dancers didn’t seem to register with the other panelists. The only one at fault here was Janelle.

Jezebel.

Her work name seemed especially fitting at the moment.

We’ll let you know, the sharp-eyed woman said in a cold tone.

Janelle read her answer loud and clear. It was no, never, not in a million years. Slut. Thank you for your time, she said, rising on unsteady legs. By the way, Kyle, you’re a shitty tipper.

There was a collective gasp from the table as Janelle strode to the door. She didn’t glance back to see how her parting shot went over. She burst into the hallway and rushed toward the stairs, her chest burning with resentment.

When she stepped into the sun again, she took a deep breath to regain her composure. It was stupid of her to lash out at Kyle. She didn’t remember what kind of tipper he was. He might show up at the club again, wearing an arrogant smirk—because he knew she’d wanted a better life for herself. He’d seen her pursue a goal, and fail.

She’d worked so hard to get to this point. It had taken her four years to fulfill her general education requirement, and another eighteen months to complete the prep work for the physical therapy program. She’d spent over a thousand dollars on her exams. She’d applied for student loans to cover the college tuition fees.

Now what?

Loma Santa Fe offered the only PT program in the area. She lived in a trailer park on the outskirts of Salton City. She worked at a low-end gentlemen’s club in nearby Coachella. She was a single mom with a twelve-year-old son. Her options were limited.

She walked across the parking lot, feeling numb. She could try Riverside University or San Diego State. Both were about three hours from Salton City, the only home her son had ever known. They’d have to move, but she couldn’t afford the rent in a more expensive town, especially if she had to quit her job at Vixen.

Tears stung her eyes as she unlocked her car and climbed inside, tossing her purse on the passenger seat. Why had she opted for minimum wage plus tips instead of working as an independent contractor? If she’d been smarter, and less hungry for a steady paycheck, she could’ve kept all of her earnings off the books.

After a moment of wallowing in self-pity, she wiped away the tears, put on her big girl pants and drove home. She’d figure something out. She always did.

She was a survivor.

Cranking up the country music station, she shook out a cigarette from the almost-empty pack. Smoke filled her lungs and nicotine rushed to her head. She’d been meaning to quit stripping and smoking. Both were bad for her, but she couldn’t think about that now. She didn’t want to think about anything. Not her dead-end job, or that terrible interview, or her son’s criminal father, who’d been killed less than six months ago.

Shivering at the memory, she stubbed out her cigarette and drove on. By the time she got to Salton City, it was late afternoon. She parked in front of the trailer and got out, her spike heels sinking in the gravel. The door was locked; Jamie wasn’t home. She sighed, digging into her purse for the keys. He’d been sullen and rebellious ever since the funeral, spending every spare moment with friends. She didn’t know what to do besides give him space.

Her son was smart as a whip, by some genetic miracle. He was also tall and athletic. Physical, like Shane had been. His teachers all said he had excellent potential. She wanted to send him to college so bad she could taste it.

She went into her room and stood in front of her vanity. The sedately dressed woman in the mirror mocked her.

Fraud.

She removed the pins from her hair, shaking it loose. Then she unzipped her pencil skirt and unbuttoned her ruffled blouse. It was her best outfit, so she hung it back up in the closet and kicked off her toe-pinching heels. They were stylish, but inexpensive. The sticker still affixed to the bottom said $14.99. She saved her money for stage shoes, which cost a bundle. After she got dressed, she stepped into her well-worn cowboy boots. They fit like a second skin, with a medium heel that felt more comfortable than flats.

Breathing easier now, she glanced in the mirror again. Lace camisole, worn denim shorts, flyaway hair. This was the real her. She strode into the kitchen and opened the top cabinet, searching for her tequila bottle.

Bad decisions. That was her, too. Down to the bone.

The tequila bottle wasn’t stashed behind the healthy cereal where she’d left it. Had she polished it off with Tiffany the other night? She was pretty sure the bottle had been half-empty. She’d only taken a couple of shots.

Damn.

She drummed her fingertips against the countertop, contemplating the empty trailer. Jamie didn’t have soccer practice today. He should be right here, doing his homework or playing video games. Now she had to go look for him. He was probably in the rec center on the other side of the trailer park. It had an ancient pool table and some old-fashioned arcade games. Jamie liked to hang out there with his friends. He didn’t want to stay home and watch movies with her anymore.

Janelle understood that a boy his age needed independence. He was on the cusp of puberty, all gangly arms and legs. He acted surly with Janelle and got flustered around Tiffany, her best friend. Whenever Tiffany came over he avoided eye contact, mumbled answers and blushed a lot.

Janelle couldn’t really blame him. Tiffany had the same effect on grown men.

She collected a basket of dirty clothes on her way out the door. The rec room was right next to the laundry facilities. As she scooped up some stinky socks by the couch, she heard the telltale rev of motorcycle engines. They sounded close. She strode forward and peered through the screen, curious. There were two men in front of her trailer.

Motorcycle club members.

Her stomach dipped at the sight of their black leather vests. Years ago, she’d danced at a private party for a group of outlaws from one of the local clubs. They’d paid her with a slap across the face instead of cash.

She backed away from the screen door, her pulse racing. Seconds later, one of the men appeared on her step.

He was her age, about thirty, with a shaved head. Dark eyes, half-lidded for effect. He had a tattoo of a colorful, clown-like figure across the side of his neck. She didn’t recognize him, but the lightning bolt patch on his vest struck an ugly, familiar chord.

Howdy, ma’am, he said, peering inside. I’m looking for Ace.

A chill traveled up her spine. She knew exactly who he was talking about. The man who’d killed Shane had worn a black T-shirt that said Ace Demolition across the shoulders. He’d taken her hostage for several hours before the shooting.

And he’d haunted her dreams ever since.

It was pretty fucked up, even for her, to be attracted to a cold-blooded criminal who’d dragged her into his truck and held her against her will. But he hadn’t hurt her. He’d done something else to her. He’d looked inside, at the places she kept hidden.

I don’t know anyone by that name, she said.

He squinted in disbelief. I think you do.

She just stared at him, hoping he’d go away. Even if he didn’t have the gang vest and neck tattoo she would have been afraid of him. He reminded her of a snake, coiled to strike. She forced herself not to shrink back. Sudden movement could set him off.

The guy I’m talking about is a big, black-haired motherfucker with tattooed knuckles. It says S-L-A-B on one side, C-I-T-Y on the other. He raised his own fists in an intimidating, unnecessary demonstration. There were silver skull rings on his fingers. You seen him?

Janelle shook her head, mute. She could picture those tattooed knuckles as clear as day. Ace’s hands had been large, like the rest of him. Slab City was an off-the-grid community on the east side of the Salton Sea. It was full of outlaws and outcasts. Maybe he lived there. Although she hadn’t seen him since the shooting, she’d sensed him. Someone had replaced a broken window in her car, and she’d found an unmarked envelope full of money in her mailbox just before Christmas.

The man on her doorstep relaxed his fists. Tell him to meet me at the clubhouse as soon as possible. I’ll keep stopping by until he does.

She didn’t agree to do his bidding. He sauntered toward his friend with a loose-hipped gait. After they both got on their bikes and drove away, she breathed a sigh of relief. Then she rushed outside to find Jamie. The rec center was at the opposite end of the trailer park, next to a deserted playground.

It was empty.

She examined the surrounding area, her throat dry. It was an arid January day, pleasantly warm at seventy-five degrees. The air crackled with static. A tumbleweed rolled past the abandoned swing set and got caught up under one of the picnic tables. She walked around the corner of the building, toward the vending machines.

And there was her son, drinking a soda in the shade.

With his father’s killer.

Chapter Two

Ace sat in his truck at the edge of the trailer park, smoking.

Janelle had warned him to stay away. She’d also promised to claw his eyes out, if he remembered correctly.

And yet, here he was.

He’d worked ten backbreaking hours on a demolition project. He was worn out, dirty, and not even horny. But instead of seeking the comfort of his own trailer in Coachella, he’d parked down the road from hers and settled in for some quality lurking. Her bedroom window had thin curtains he could almost see through. He planned to stay until sunset, chain-smoking and hoping for a glimpse of her.

While he waited, his attention was diverted by a group of boys. They were standing near a deserted playground on the other side of the trailer park. Four rowdy-looking teenagers had formed a wall to block another boy’s path. There was some shoving back and forth. It appeared to be a routine afterschool scuffle. None of his business.

Ace kept watching because he recognized the smaller boy. It was Janelle’s son, Jamie. Ace had learned his name a few months ago while hunting down the boy’s father. One of the teens, a redhead in a jacket with the sleeves torn off, stepped forward and sucker-punched Jamie. The boy dropped to the dirt. The other kids crowded around him and started kicking.

Shit.

Ace got out of his truck and strode toward the group, tossing his cigarette aside. They had their backs to the road, so they didn’t see him coming.

The redheaded boy gave Jamie another kick. "Your mother’s a whore, Lamie."

Jamie made a sound of fury and tackled the bully around the ankles, bringing him to the ground. Then there were two boys rolling around in a cloud of dust while the three remaining cheered them on. One-on-one wasn’t quite as unfair as the kicking scenario, but Ace had already walked all the way over here, and the fight was still uneven. Jamie’s opponent had several years on him, and at least forty pounds.

Break it up, Ace growled, shoving the bystanders aside. He grabbed the bully by the back of his jacket and yanked him upright. His three friends gaped at Ace like he was some kind of mythical beast.

Jamie moaned, holding a hand over his bloody nose.

The teenagers reeked of clove cigarettes and hard alcohol. They looked familiar, like MC wannabes, but Ace couldn’t place them. There was an old Dodge Dart nearby with grimy windows and a bumper sticker advertising Slab City’s pirate radio station. These were Slab kids—like him. You boys aren’t from around here.

The bully struggled to break free from Ace’s grip. So what?

Ace released him with a disgusted shove. So only pussies fight four against one. Get the fuck out of here before I even the score.

The teenagers took off running. They piled into the junky car and drove away, spitting gravel across the parking lot.

Ace extended his hand to the boy on the ground. Jamie stared up at him warily, his nose crusted with a mixture of dust and blood. He had his father’s face, with Janelle’s stubborn chin and a shaggy mop of brown hair.

Instead of accepting Ace’s help, he rolled over and puked in the dirt. The liquid that came up smelled like tequila and oranges.

Ugh. Gross.

Ace cringed, withdrawing his hand. Then he folded his arms across his chest and glanced around the deserted picnic area. He didn’t know what to do with a drunk, sick kid. Leaving him in a puddle of his own vomit might be the best option.

Janelle would freak out if she saw them together, and Ace wanted nothing to do with him. The kid was a walking reminder of his dead father, and Ace didn’t need another guilt trip. He also didn’t like kids, with the exception of his own.

Skye was his reason for living. His only reason, most days.

Other people’s children were no concern of his. They were weak and defenseless, and he couldn’t stand the sight of them in trouble. So he didn’t look.

Jamie dry-heaved a few more times and went quiet. Ace was about to make his excuses and walk away when he heard the faint growl of motorcycle engines. It sounded like a couple of custom-made choppers, the kind White Lightning favored.

The noise faded and he returned his attention to Jamie. You okay?

Yeah.

Want me to call your mom?

No. Jamie got up without Ace’s help. Then he stumbled toward the nearest building, clearly inebriated. There was a vending machine next to a bench in the shade. He sat down and almost fell over the side.

Ace frowned at the kid’s lack of coordination. He was really fucked up. That wasn’t Ace’s problem or his responsibility. He’d already done enough. Even so, Ace stepped into the shade and bought him a cold soda from the machine.

Hold that against your nose, he said, handing it to him.

Jamie complied with a mumbled thanks.

Ace felt awkward about getting involved. The situation reminded him of his own troubled childhood. He’d been nine or ten when he’d had his first drink. By age thirteen, he’d been getting hammered on the regular. Now, almost twenty years later, he was sober. He couldn’t say he was enjoying lucidity, but he hadn’t enjoyed oblivion either. What was the fight about?

My mom.

They insulted her?

They said she was a stripper.

Ace didn’t react to this news. He was surprised Janelle had been able to keep it a secret for so long.

I told them she worked at a sports bar in Coachella, so we drove by and it was closed. Out of business. He shifted the soda can to the other side of his face. Patrick said she dances nude on stage and gives b-blowjobs in the back room.

Vixen was a topless bar, not nude, and there was no touching allowed. Certainly no blowjobs. Ace had discovered all of these details firsthand, much to his disappointment. Patrick is the one who punched you?

Yeah.

What’s his last name?

Kincaid.

Ah. That was why he looked familiar. Ace knew his mother.

He’s a fucking liar, Jamie said, his eyes narrowed. My mom’s not a whore. She never even brings guys over. The only person who comes by is Tiffany.

Tiffany. Ace knew her, too. Not quite as well as he knew Patrick’s mother, but he’d seen her dance before. She was the most popular girl in the club, and rumor had it that she liked women as well as men. Sometimes Ace wondered if Tiffany and Janelle were more than friends. It was a bittersweet speculation. He wanted Janelle for himself.

He’d wanted her from the first moment he saw her. He’d bought a lap dance from her the night before he’d taken her captive. She wasn’t the youngest dancer at Vixen, but she was the best by far. Her body moved like a well-oiled machine, her steps smooth and graceful. She could do amazing things with a pole between her thighs. On stage, she was a sex kitten, faux-sultry, but also remote and unattainable. You can’t touch this. Behind the mask, she wasn’t the least bit playful. She was tough as nails.

He’d been mesmerized with her from the start. Shooting her ex hadn’t killed his fascination. Neither had capturing her and holding her against her will. He’d never tied up a woman before, and he still felt conflicted about it. He hadn’t expected to feel anything.

It was supposed to have been his last job, a simple pickup and delivery. But everything had gotten fucked up and the crew leader had gone missing. Ace had been ordered to find him by any means necessary. He’d taken Janelle as collateral.

She’d been a handful, to say the least.

He couldn’t stop thinking about her. Fantasizing about her gorgeous body...her tightly bound wrists. He kept driving by her work and guarding her trailer from a distance. Guarding her from who, or what, he didn’t know. The greatest threat to her was him. She had no other criminal connections. She was a loose end from a job gone wrong, and that made him nervous. He sensed trouble, as if someone else was tailing her. Someone who wanted to hurt her, not just fuck her.

Ace pushed his dark thoughts aside and focused on Jamie. You go to school with those kids?

Jamie nodded.

The local high school was a combination of grades seven through twelve. Ace remembered it well. Some of the older boys picked on the younger ones. I’d steer clear of them if I were you. Patrick’s probably jealous.

Of what?

You. You’ve got a good-looking mom. Maybe kids insult his mother.

They do.

Well, there you go. He can’t fight his own friends. It’s easier to gang up on you.

So I’m supposed to jus’ ignore him?

If you react, he’ll keep doing it.

Jamie took the soda can away from his nose. The bleeding had stopped. His T-shirt was torn and stained. Why do you care?

Ace was caught off-guard by the question. Did he care? It wasn’t like him to care. His heart—what was left of it—belonged to Skye. He didn’t have anyone else. She was the only person who mattered to him.

How do you know my mom? Jamie asked.

Ace just shrugged, as if they were casual acquaintances.

Are you trying to get with her?

No. She wouldn’t have me.

Jamie seemed pleased to hear this. He cracked open the soda and took a sip, his eyelids drooping with fatigue.

Ace smiled wryly. That was alcohol for you. Puking one minute, passing out the next. You need to go home and sleep it off.

I can’t. My mom’ll kill me.

Ace grunted in response, unsympathetic. The motorcycles he’d heard before fired up again and roared into the distance. He leaned his shoulder against the vending machines, relaxing a little. He hadn’t ridden a bike in ages. He missed his Dirty Eleven brothers and those wild, rowdy days. Too bad they’d come at such a high price.

He couldn’t move forward, but he’d never go back.

Who are you? Jamie asked.

I’m Aaron, he said, though no one ever used his given name anymore. He didn’t want Jamie telling his mother about Ace. Then again, he doubted the kid would remember this conversation. They shook hands.

Ace was about to say goodbye when Janelle strode around the corner, a laundry basket propped on one hip.

She looked frantic. And sexy. She always looked sexy. She was wearing a lacy white tank top with cut-off jean shorts and cowboy boots. Her brown hair was in between curly and straight. Flyaway tendrils framed her pretty face, and rumpled waves brushed her bare shoulders. Her lips were parted in surprise.

Janelle wasn’t happy to see him, of course. Her eyes flashed pure fire. He imagined the whistling showdown sound effect from an old Clint Eastwood movie.

If you ever come near my son, I’ll shoot you.

The warning she’d issued six months ago echoed in Ace’s ears. He believed she’d do it. Before he’d killed her ex, Ace had left her tied up in a shed, where she couldn’t get hurt or do any more damage. But she hadn’t stayed there. She’d broken free, grabbed Ace’s gun and pointed it at his head.

Damn. That had been hot.

He wondered what she’d done with his gun. He’d loved that gun. The Colt 1911 pistol had been a vintage, army-issue .45 caliber single-action semi-automatic in jet black with a long hammer and a checkered walnut grip. It looked fierce, fired true and felt as natural as his dick in his hand.

Janelle had wrecked his truck that day, too. He’d lost his gun and his cage. He was lucky he’d walked away unharmed, though. Hell, he was lucky he hadn’t been arrested. He’d managed to stay one step ahead of the cops and deliver the money to Wild Bill. Investigators hadn’t even questioned him. Janelle must not have given them a full description, and neither had her brother-in-law, probably because they feared retribution. He’d counted on that, but he didn’t feel good about it. He didn’t feel good about any of it. He wasn’t a monster who enjoyed terrorizing innocent women. Even a lowlife like him had some standards.

Or so he’d thought.

His dick apparently hadn’t given a damn about right, wrong or willing. It had urged him to take advantage of her bound state. She’d offered him oral sex—out of fear and desperation. He’d declined for a number of reasons, but lack of desire wasn’t one of them. He’d had to work hard to appear disinterested.

He didn’t think his reaction

Reviews for Shooting Dirty

[Bobbie Huffman Pugh · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Excellent!!! Made me gasp laugh cry feel overwhelmed. Ready for the next one.