First Blood

By Faedra Rose

Holly Maxwell has been waiting tables in outback pubs and dive bars for as long as she can remember. Never settling in one place, she’s a vagrant with dreams—until Roach Bane enters her world, swinging fists and smashing faces to defend her honor.

Swept off her feet by the heavily inked President of the Blood Brothers MC, she soon finds herself thrown head first into the murky waters of club life, organized crime, and rival clubs, set against the stark beauty of remote, rural Western Australia.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Evernight
• Release date: Jun 9, 2023
• ISBN: 9780369508317

Book preview

Published by EVERNIGHT PUBLISHING ® at Smashwords

www.evernightpublishing.com

Copyright© 2023 Faedra Rose

ISBN: 978-0-3695-0831-7

Cover Artist: Jay Aheer

Editor: Lisa Petrocelli

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

DEDICATION

This series is dedicated to all the bogans of Australia!

We have a culture of our own.

We smoke. We drink. We fuck.

And we like to go fast!

FIRST BLOOD

Blood Brothers MC, 1

Faedra Rose

Copyright © 2023

Chapter One

Roach

Fields of endless gold whip by me, the wheat dry and ready for cropping in the sweltering heat of a typical Australian summer. The open road stretches as far as the eye can see, the bitumen hot enough to melt skin—or fry an egg. The sun cooks me through my riding leathers, but it’s par for the course. You don’t ride with bare skin no matter how hot it is, unless you want to spend weeks in hospital with a serious case of road rash.

A small shudder ripples through me. I’ve seen the damage firsthand. Exposed bone, shredded muscle, and grit embedded so deep into the skin that the surgeons were picking it out with surgical pliers for days. Fuck that for a joke. I’d rather roast for a few hours and cool off with an ice-cold beer later, then be some bloody med student’s pincushion.

The thought of a cold one spurs me on, and I rev my Harley. I fucking love that purr. When you really give the hog some curry, and leave the world behind—leaving nothing but the echo of your passage. A Harley isn’t for everyone, but it’s a favorite among the one-percenters. All the cashed-up full-patch members have one. It’s a status symbol. It means power, freedom, and rebellion. These iron horses mean business. And they set us apart from the bogans who are all mouth and no coin.

Enormous grain bins and silos start popping up on the rugged, outback landscape as I close in on my destination. It’s been a couple of months since my last stop-in at the old pub in Redrock. It’s open turf. A watering hole on the road where all riders can pull in without fear of stepping on anyone’s toes. You keep civil, pay your tab, and move along. Causing trouble on open turf is never wise, and something I try to avoid whenever possible.

The pigs are always looking for an excuse to bust a club. They assume we’re running drugs and guns, and laundering cash. And we are, but you don’t want to be the dick that brings the boys in blue to the clubhouse’s doorstep. Full patch or not, the President is going to get the shits on and rightfully so. A raid costs us all, and takes months—even years—to recover from, setting back business, and that’s no good for anyone.

The green State Road sign whizzes by me: ten kilometers to Redrock. Just as well. I need to piss. Slowing down as I cross the old tracks, I pull into town. The roadhouse on the opposite side of the road is busy as fuck. Poor bastard on the till must be run off his feet, and I have no doubt that old Wendy in the kitchen is swearing under her breath in the lead-up to the lunchtime rush. It’s a lot to manage on your own, and it’s hard to find good help out here.

Parking outside the pub, I leave my helmet on my bike and head into the vintage establishment with its original historic plaster façade. A wave of coolness washes over me as I step through the door. Thank fuck for AC. The place is close to capacity, with everyone looking to escape the heat of the road. Out here in the Wheatbelt, there can be one-hundred kilometers between towns, or more. You get a cold one whenever you can, and fuel up. You don’t want to be stranded on a red dirt road with no water and sketchy-as-fuck mobile reception.

I order a pint of the local pale ale and take a seat in the corner where I have a good vantage point of the whole room. Even as a kid, my old man taught me: Never put your back to a door. You want eyes on the room and all exits. My old man ate dirt years back. Fucking heart attack. But the ticker can only last so long on a lifestyle like ours. And now, I’m the President of the Blood Brothers MC. At forty, I’m no young cunt, but I’m no old fart either. I’m in my prime and stronger than I’ve ever been. If only my old man had loved weights as much as I do, and maybe eaten a few less meat pies on the road … he might still be heading up the club today. But without a good Old Lady to take care of you, the only way in this business is down.

A commotion arcs up at a nearby table, catching my attention. I take a slug of my ale and square my shoulders. Some greasy creep has a hold of the waitress’s wrist, and that’s not the sort of shit I can let fly—open turf or not.

How about after your shift you come sit that juicy ass down on my fat cock so I can watch them tits bounce? says the piece of shit. I can’t see his patches, but his mate’s cuts are clear as day. They’re Road Kill crew. Fucking scum. They have no honor. As far as clubs go, everyone fucking hates them.

The waitress tries to twist her wrist away without dropping her tray of drinks. I have no doubt she’s used to a ton of shit passing through, but when her crystal-green gaze locks on mine, there’s panic there, and I’m lost. Fucking done for, mate. Between those delicious curves, her ass-length red curls, and those parted pouty lips … there’s no hope in hell I’m walking away. Trouble or no.

Oi, cunt, I say, rising from my seat. Let the lady go.

The scumbag smirks, and it takes a decent amount of willpower not to just up and smash the cunt for his attitude, let alone the way he’s treating the pretty waitress. Or what, mate? The prick squeezes the green-eyed goddess’s wrist harder, and she winces, a small yelp escaping her as her