Property of Wrecker: Savage Wilde, #1

By Liberty Parker

Wrecker
As our probationary period winds down, we're hit with a new set of problems. I'm sent on a mission, one that hits close to home, and come back with a woman in tow that has my head spinning. Life has always thrown me curveballs, but this is one pitch that I'm not sure I'll be able to catch. From the moment she entered the picture, my visions have me off-kilter, none of them make any sense as they come in waves, and not one of the timelines matches up. Some are showing me the past. Most are viewed in the present. A portion is based on the future. This woman has me spiraling. If I don't figure out the puzzle, all of the pieces of my life may come crumbling down around me.

Harper
The roaring of motorcycles pulling into the yard should have me quaking in fear, yet for some odd reason, the sound settles me. Finally, my anxiety abates, and I know that I'm going to be freed from the barricade my father has locked me behind. A future with freedom isn't something I thought would ever happen for me. But as soon as I hear the husky, masculine voice on the other side of the door, every thought and emotion I had toward men flies out the window. My gut tells me that whomever the man is will change my world. But can I trust my gut and heart, or should my head be the only voice I listen to?

Wrecker and Harper both have issues with trust. They've been shown repeatedly that no one can be trusted. With his brothers at his back, Wrecker is willing to try. After all, they've shown him that not all people are born bad seeds. For Harper, it's Wrecker that teaches her that lesson. But there are some sleazy guys who think Harper belongs to them. Now, they need to lean on each other, believe in themselves, and trust in their relationship. But with their past, can they do that? Or will they allow the boogeyman to overshadow what they've built and be their downfall?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Liberty Parker
• Release date: Oct 14, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223285267

Liberty Parker

I have been an avid reader for most of my life. When I was younger I use to sit and fill spiral notebooks full of stories for my grandmother. As I got older I took the jobs needed for raising my boys as a single mom until I met my now amazing husband. I have stopped working in the last three years and started promoting authors, then I blogged and reviewed for authors, which lead me down the path to writing and creating characters and stories. I love creating behind the scenes with my writing getting to use my imagination and write the story as it comes to me. My youngest is now a senior in High School leaving me with some spare time on my hands to be filled. I am loving the people I am meeting and the support system I have found. You can find me at my home Facebook page here: https://www.facebook.com/authorlibertypaker or you can like my Author page at: https://www.facebook.com/authorlibertyparker?ref=profile or join my Lady Outlaws at:https://www.facebook.com/groups/LibertysLadyOutlaws/

Book preview

THE BACKSTORY

Five years prior, nine friends roamed the countryside, enjoying the wind in their hair and the pavement beneath their feet. They’d all suffered brutality because of their unique gifts. Specialties that were considered as being blasphemous, phenomenons, manifestations of the devil—these fortes were deemed to be demonic traits—not something sacred or a luxury for those given this vital attribute. People ran scared of them, hated them, and feared them. Society’s assholes would happily stake them and set them on fire if the opportunity had presented itself.

The nine men were known by road names as is customary in their chosen lifestyle—they were a nomadic, minor-league, self-appointed biker club who tried to keep themselves under the radar and blending into the background—always managing to stay incognito. Like traditional MCs, they voted on their officers and formed an unbreakable bond. They’d die, steal, and commit murder for one another. They didn’t blindly follow the laws set forth by pompous men. They lived their lives by their own code of honor and issued their own brand of justice.

The first vote was the most obvious. They needed a commander-in-arms, a chief, a president to guide them, and make the tough decisions. Dragon was a born leader, and a man they all equally regarded—it was an easy decision.

Who better to stand at his side than his adopted brother? For our vice president, we nominated, and unanimously agreed on Butcher.

The roles continued to follow their personalities, and the path they’d naturally fallen into.

As the man who enjoyed using his brawn and fists, the choice was an easy one to make. The enforcer duty inherently fell at Wrecker’s feet—a man who’d already become Dragon and Butcher’s protector without being told to do so.

The man who took it upon himself to see to the security and punishment of the club brothers when they did something against our codes and bylaws. Our sergeant-at-arms, Python, was officially chosen to keep on, keeping on.

The polls kept coming, and the men were elected to their duties.

Road Captain - Striker

Treasurer - Prowler

I.T. - Beast

Secretary - Falcon

Tail Gunner - Animal

They survived by staying inconspicuous and blissfully unaware of the bullshit that came with living stationary in a town that was run by suit-wearing, arrogant politicians, as they remained ensconced on the outskirts of society. They went by the moniker Midnight Riders, as they were hired for jobs that their contractors wanted to keep masked. Clubs can be condescending fuckers, wanting death and destruction, but not always wanting it known that it was them personally who handled the deed.

We were on such a mission one day, chasing a phantom—a man who no one knew with certainty if he were dead or alive, when we came across a man who changed the course of our history—in a rundown, hick bar, of all places.

Wrecker

Jameson was telling a damn good story. A history lesson about his involvement with the RBMC. I was enthralled, hanging on to every word as he told us about his father, Bulldog, who created a motorcycle club that originated when they dipped their feet in Washington State. They then relocated themselves to New Orleans, the Mardi Gras party town in the US of A.

While he shared his account of hard knocks, I got lost in a darkened void inside my head, reliving his previous life as if they were my own experiences, and instead, it was me who went through his hell.

As I continued listening with an apt ear, my jaw hit the floor when Jameson told us how he was kicked out, and exiled by another member, Rancid. How that happened when he was shit deep in the fold of the MC is a mystery. I toasted him when he told us the story of how he came in like an avenging angel and sated his bloodlust. From there, we shared a bottle of whiskey and got loaded with him. Hell, who am I kidding? We were sloshed, shit-faced drunk, ending the night in some motel that reminded me of a mindfuck thriller I’d read once. The storyline was based on a man who slayed his overnight guest. They checked in, but never signed out.

With my blade in hand, I investigated every nook and cranny, extensively. With my mind playing tricks on me, I was sure we were fixing to be slaughtered like lambs by some crazy motherfucker suffering from mommy issues. My body was stranded in that dingy room, but my headspace was caught in another place and time.

Jameson’s past hit awfully close to my own life narrative—minus the motorcycle club aspect of it. I lived my own hellish torment at the hands of Satan’s chosen disciples.

My parents were religious fanatics, freaks who embraced a fundamentalist infrastructure to wed and procreate children. The cult textbook I vetted from the library was helpful as a checklist when researching the terminology of the culture. The booklet gave me insight into their denomination and spiritual lifestyle. I was never more thankful that I was given the boot when I started having psychic visions, or hell bound revelations, as some call it. My father tried to vanquish the devil living within me by beating me black and blue while my mother hired a tribunal of sadistic, hypocritical assholes who purged the evil within me through exorcisms. Subsequently, they evoked my mystic summons from its ethereal root, nurturing its energy while boosting its resilience to withstand the divine confrontation. None of their efforts paid off in the long run. My insight improved, and my predictions evolved. Scenarios transpired exactly as I foresaw them. When our prophet died, just as I reported the day before he would, it was rumored that I was Lucifer’s personal reaper, tasked with the contract of murdering God’s apostles. When the accusation came, I found it hilarious and laughed in every member of the congregation’s face. That was probably the worst beatdown I suffered all because of what I foretold came to pass.

One day led to the next. Jameson started reaching out to us regularly. We all hit it off with him, and our relationship started off with us doing assignments for him, some dangerous, some not. Over the next couple of years, it grew into a reputable friendship. We had a decent working relationship with him. Still, we were unprepared when he approached us about starting our own branch of Royal Bastards.

We asked for a few days to go over his offer. We needed to all be unanimously onboard with the venture, and he obliged—but it came with a non-negotiable timeline. We took him at his word and spoke about it over the next two days. Considering Butcher now had Nitro to consider, it was an easy decision for us to make. Life on the road was no way for a kid to grow up.

And here we are, a year later, coming off of our probationary term, and officially patched in as a chapter of the Royal Bastards Motorcycle Club. The Cedar Creek, Texas chapter, to be exact. We are responsible for the Northern Hemisphere of the Lone Star State. Now that our dicks aren’t swinging in the wind with uncertainty, we’ll never wonder if we’ll be accepted, inherit our own chapter to rule—as we see fit—and we’re not watching our every move to prove ourselves as honorable or loyal men, the real fun can begin.

Wrecker

Wrecker, got a job for you once you wrap things up, Dragon informs me as he watches Mouth’s show, her head rapidly bobbing up and down on my shaft as she slurps on my dick.

Almost done here, Pres. Knowing this shit needs to move along, I double the speed, pump, and rotation of my hips as I shove my stiff cock further down her throat. Her gag reflex would usually have me easing back a tad, but the need to blow my load so I can follow Dragon into his lair to receive my orders is messing with my mojo.

Gotta move this along, I caution Monica, also known as Mouth to the brothers, before yanking on her long, auburn-streaked, dyed hair—controlling her rhythm. She hums around my dick, sending vibrations up to my balls as her answer to my warning. She reaches her arm up, then proceeds to firmly roll and tug on my balls as she draws me in deeper. A guttural groan escapes me as I toss my head back, close my eyes, and release my load into her heated mouth with a forceful eruption. Reaching down, I pat her on the top of her head as she licks my cock clean and tucks me back into my jeans—zipping them, followed by her buttoning them up for me. She gives me a sly glance brimmed with utter satisfaction, reminding me of a puppy needing to be congratulated for a job well done. Good girl. I praise her for doing what she does best. Then I step back and leave her on her knees in the communal room, easy access for another brother to use her services, before shifting on my heel and heading down the hallway toward Dragon’s office. It may make me an asshole, but that’s what she signed up for when she joined.

Noticing his door is slightly cracked, I ease it open and step through. Dragon raises his head from the paperwork he was studying and shoots me a side smirk. That was quick, he quips, his lips lifting in the corners before he bends over chuckling, banging his fist on the surface of his desk as he uses my rash ending with Mouth as comic relief.

Laugh it up, motherfucker, I boom. My teeth and jaw clench as I blast him with a side-eyed, spiteful glower. But I’m not angry. I’m working hard to keep my own laugh hidden. It’s been over a week since I had used one of the girls. My balls were boiling with the need for relief. It’s not shocking that it took less than a few pumps of my hips for me to spew my load.

You ever gonna get your dick wet inside one of the girl’s pussies, or are you going to stick with nothing more than a few blow jobs for the rest of your godforsaken life? Butcher inquires from the back corner where he’s sitting in his favorite chair, cleaning the dirt from beneath the bed of his nails with his ever-present Bowie knife. He never leaves home without it. It was a gift from someone special in his past—a person he never talks about.

Why? So I can become a single daddy like you. Not in this lifetime, I return, inserting a frown on top of my smartass remark. Once upon a time, three years back, before we banded together and became part of the Royal Bastards, Butcher knocked up one of the club girls, who was just a tagalong running from problems at home during that time, when he was drunk as a skunk. His inhibitions were at an all-time low, and his brain cells weren’t firing on all cylinders. Numbnuts forgot to wrap his junk up nice and tight. A mistake that forced him to make the ultimate choice between fatherhood or paying for an abortion. Money wasn’t a thorn of contention for him, even though one happens to be cheaper than the other, but he made the same decision any of us would’ve made if our feet had been inside his boots. We don’t kill our kids regardless of how they came about. End of motherfucking story.

Rack knew the rules we lived by then as well as now. We never kept it a secret. All the girls are aware of the repercussions if they play Russian roulette with one of our lives. She was sober. She should’ve been the responsible adult and made sure he was gloved, but in her pea-sized mind, she thought she’d land her a biker, a bad boy, living the free life on the open road. We were nomadic then, doing odd jobs here and there, hired for what’s considered unsavory work. Nonetheless, Butcher was considered an officer in our small roaming club. He held the same level of authority that he holds today. She thought she’d be securing herself the respectable position while also being handed the respect on a silver platter due to an old lady—gaining the high-ranking status while she was at it so she could be the top woman on the totem pole.

Instead, she found herself signing over custody of their son, and terminating her parental rights to Nitro. Her circumstances changed, and she became a roving version of what’s considered by fixed clubs to be a house mouse—only we gave it an entirely different meaning. She’s now the property of the same brother who took possession of her the day she birthed Butcher’s boy.

Nowadays, instead of living a good life within the confines of our walls, she’s tucked in an apartment complex where Animal rents a place and will visit her when the mood strikes, or he needs clean clothes, a home cooked meal, and is tired of the pussy from the club girls—her past decisions forfeit her rights to profit from the protection behind the club’s property line, as well as the safety usually given to those who live inside the boundaries of our claimed territory. Our tail gunner, Animal, is her ring master. His sacrifice to live off grid to keep her with a place to lay her head is more than I’d be willing to do for her traitorous bitch ass. He provides her with the privacy of a room to herself, food, and clothes. In return for his generosity, she keeps his house clean, his belly full, and his dick content. Animal had one helluva case of mumps as a kid and as a result he’s shooting blanks. Pregnancy isn’t a cause for concern in his case. In the end, it all worked out so-so for both parties involved. She got to keep her life intact, and Butcher got to keep his boy.

Speaking of, where is Nitro, anyway? Normally, you can find him underneath his dad’s feet. For some damn reason, which baffles me, the boy seems to think Butcher’s the shit, and is never far from his sight.

Stayed with my sister and her brat squad last night. She was taking them to the aquarium or some shit like that. She says they need an educational outing, he answers stoically with an upward nudge of his shoulders. I personally think the woman has a death wish. Why else would one woman risk losing her sanity by taking four kids out in public single-handedly?

Give the woman a break, Butcher. She lost her old man recently and needs a distraction. Dragon berates his closest friend, the same friend who’s acting as if Dragon is hard of hearing and needs to read his lips to communicate.

Dragon, Butcher, and Butcher’s sister, Joceline,