Rez Dogs and Scooter Trash

By Deirdre O'Dare

Mike Dufrane fled a traumatic youth, hard years haunted by an abusive biker father, poverty and degradation, by escaping into the military. There he found only more savage violence. Then a chance encounter with an animal rescue group showed him another way. On an Indian reservation in the southwest, he finds a place to make a difference. Rez Dogs Rescue Shelter will be his route to build a positive life. Then a handsome Native American rides up on a Harley and throws Mike’s plans for a loop.

Adam was not there when his kid brother needed guidance and a firm hand. Back from two tours with Special Forces, he starts a youth center on the Rez to try to atone for his error but he cannot give up his Harley or his image as one bad ass biker. When an outsider starts a shelter for abused and neglected dogs, Adam initially finds it ludicrous but then recognizes a purpose similar to his own. However, the stranger seems to fear or hate bikers and is reluctant to begin a friendship. When crime and danger threaten both their projects, they have to join forces to prevail and suppressed attraction bursts into flame.

• Language: English
• Publisher: JMS Books LLC
• Release date: Sep 13, 2018
• ISBN: 9781634867092

Deirdre O'Dare

Deirdre writes gay romance channeling a prior life’s gay male twin she calls Danny. Fascinated by love’s diverse shades and guises, she explores and experiences a range of attachments. She still believes in happily ever after, that Love is the One True Thing and genuine Love is never wrong. For more information, visit deirdredares.blogspot.com.

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Rez Dogs and Scooter Trash

By Deirdre O'Dare

Published by JMS Books LLC at Smashwords

Visit jms-books.com for more information.

Copyright 2018 Deirdre O’Dare

ISBN 9781634867092

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Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com

Image(s) used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.

All rights reserved.

WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will be prosecuted.

No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission from the publisher, with the exception of excerpts used for the purposes of review.

This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It may contain sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which might be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Published in the United States of America.

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This one is for Marti and her Rez Dogs who gave me part of the idea. It's also for a fallen soldier in Iraq whose mother went to great lengths to get a pup he'd been playing with the night before he was killed. Too many good men and women and too many good dogs have come to sad ends. I wanted a happy ending for some, at least in my mind and heart, and that's why I told this tale.

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Rez Dogs and Scooter Trash

By Deirdre O'Dare

Chapter 1

NM State Highway 164

Mid-afternoon, late winter

Sometimes a man just had to ride—fast and far. The bad part was you couldn’t outrun those damned demons, no matter how fast or far you went. Memories, mistakes, and missed chances always rode right along. In the end, all you could do was say fuck it and keep on keeping on.

Adam Bolt, Navajo and Kiowa, veteran and rebel, knew he’d missed his era. He should have lived about 1850 when his steed would have been a ragged but tough mustang stallion, one he’d walked down in the wild and tamed himself. He’d be a solitary warrior, someone they told kids stories about at night…cautionary tales to the boys and warnings to the girls. Wild stallions were hard to find in 2012, though, so he rode his Harley instead. With the custom paint job he’d done on the scooter, it never disappeared in the crowd, and by now most folks on the Rez knew who just blew past them.

The biting wind whipped his hair, tearing it free from the braid hanging down his back. It had been one hell of a fight, but somehow he managed not to cut his hair, even when he joined the National Guard and went to the Middle East. Claiming religious freedom finally won the day. In the end, though, it was a pyrrhic victory. He’d served out his six-year enlistment and made a fast exit, but the rebel and troublemaker label would likely follow him until doomsday.

Even behind his mirrored sunglasses, the same wind stung tears from his eyes. There’d be a storm by nightfall. Maybe this one would bring some much-needed moisture. They didn’t call the reservation area high desert for nothing. Although it could get plenty cold, mostly it stayed very dry.

In the back of his mind, a voice much like his mother’s chided him, ordering him to slow down and put his helmet back on before he crashed and cracked his skull.

Do I look like I give a flying fuck? If they have to come and scrape me off the road in an hour or two, who’s left to care?

From what he’d heard, a roach or a snort of dream dust could make him feel all better. Even a bottle of cheap wine might help, but he refused to surrender his soul to drink and drugs. In the end, those demons would be even worse. For now, he’d wrestle with the ones he’d earned and owned, letting alone the kind that sneaked in on the shadows of a brief respite.

Near sundown, he turned off the highway onto a narrow, dusty double track. It led him a couple of miles to the little house crouched under the sheltering bulwark of an eroded, rusty-hued cliff. The place wasn’t much, but it was home, a safe den to return to, lonely but totally his.

He wheeled the bike under a brush-roofed shelter, kicked down the stand and then threw an old tarp over it. On his way across to the door of his house, he passed the faded, rusty Chevy pickup. It had once been his grandfather’s. On the dented bumper a newer sticker boasted, My other car’s a Harley. What’s yours? He slapped the left rear fender, much as he would the haunch of a horse he’d turned loose.

After a second’s pause, he continued to the never-locked front, back and only door into the