A Secret Vow: A Bad Boy Secret Baby Romance Read online

  This is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons--living or dead--is entirely coincidental.

  A Secret Vow copyright 2016 by Zoey Parker. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission.

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  A Secret Vow

  Inked Angels MC

  Zoey Parker

  Chapter 1

  Mortar

  Engines. Smoke. Girls in skimpy bikinis and high heels like skyscrapers, waving checkered flags in the air. It’s the exact picture of a midnight street race, everything you could imagine, like we pulled it straight out of a movie and brought it to life in the middle of Galveston, Texas.

  But this isn’t a movie. This is my business. My life.

  Call me a stereotype, but it’s the only life I’ve ever known. When both your parents kick the bucket before you’re old enough to feed yourself, there aren’t too many options. If you’re like me and you enjoy this whole “living” thing, then you get street smart real quick. Once my folks were dead, that meant finding a new family. The Inked Angels MC took in my brother and me. They clothed us, raised us, made us into men. They brought me here.

  I take the last drag on my cigarette and crush it under the heel of my boot. I lean over the barrier. Straight ahead, one of the bikini girls is standing between two souped-up sedans painted in the ugliest neon colors I’ve ever seen. Fuckin’ drivers. It takes a special breed.

  As I watch, she raises two hands. Her hips jut out to one side. I eye her body appreciatively. The way that ass swoops around and jiggles with every motion, the smooth tan that never ends—my kind of broad. It wouldn’t be hard for me to take her home. I’m a known face around here. People see me; they acknowledge me, respect me. Girls are suckers for a man in power.

  She drops her arms and the cars scream to life before shooting down the road like bats out of hell. Tire marks on the road leave the smell of burnt rubber leeching into my nostrils. As soon as the cars are gone, the girl turns towards me.

  I take a good look at her face. She’s got dark hair, short, curling in around the sides of her jaw. Her teeth are pearly white. Her skin is flawless. They don’t take just anybody to be one of the bikini girls. I’ve seen some beautiful bitches get rejected. You gotta have that special something, that “it factor” that makes people want to look at you. Only the best should bother applying.

  When you’re running the biggest drug operation in the southern United States, you can afford to be picky.

  The second she sees me, she bats her eyes and gnaws at her lip. Right on cue, Jose comes huffing up to hand me the cash take from the first heat of races in the night. I take it from him coolly, calmly. This ain’t my first rodeo.

  The envelope is overflowing with crisp hundred dollar bills. I take a big inhale. The only thing sweeter than burnt rubber is the smell of money. That, and pussy, but I’ve found in my thirty years on this planet that where one goes, the other is not far behind.

  “Take it easy, Jose,” I tell him. “No need to blow a gasket. Leave that to the drivers.”

  “Sorry, boss,” he wheezes. His hands are on his knees. He’s hunched over, trying to draw in breath.

  “What’s the big rush, anyway?”

  Jose points towards a raised patio on the other side of the road. I follow his finger. Seeing what he’s pointing at, I sigh.

  “Croak told me to sprint.”

  I pat Jose on the back and press a hundred into his hand. “Go rest, buddy. You’re good for the rest of the night. I’ll pick up the next cash round from the bookies myself.”

  Jose thanks me and wanders off to find a seat. I flag down a passing girl and tell her to get the man a drink and a pretty lady to keep him company. She nods and takes off to do what I said.

  Croak. I shake my head again.

  For the president of the Inked Angels, he’s sure been acting like a damn fool these last couple months. I look over to where he’s sitting on the patio. There’s a massive white couch, shaped like a semi-circle. He’s plopped in the middle. His arms are spread wide around two half-naked girls, like he thinks he owns the damn place.

  As a matter of fact, he does own it, but that’s not the point. When you’re running a pretty conspicuous and not exactly legal operation like these races, it’s not a good idea to draw more unnecessary attention, like he’s doing. As I watch, more bottle girls bring him massive containers of champagne with sparklers fizzing in the top. The sparks light up the whole area. I see Croak’s face shining in the night. He looks happier than a fat kid with his hand in the cookie jar. He’s also drunk as hell.

  It’s bad enough that we’ve got retrofitted speedsters doing two hundred miles an hour down the middle of the street, pumping enough nitrous oxide accelerant into the air to kill every seagull on the whole damn boardwalk. We’ve also got two dozen guys working drug deals for us all along the race barriers. Everywhere you look, there are Inked Angels swapping out vials of coke and ecstasy for stacks of green so big they make your neck hurt just looking at them. The district attorney would have an aneurysm if he could get just one look at all the princes and princesses of the criminal underworld who are hanging out here.

  This is a profitable business, and it’s been good for us. But Lord knows we pay enough in protection to keep every cop in the entire Galveston precinct more than well off. And, speak of the devil, there is the man himself.

  Grady Freeman. The crooked cop. The key to the kingdom.

  We pay the motherfucker forty G’s a month just to get his blessing on the dirty business that takes place out here. He loves nothing more than to come out and watch, to sit on that free couch and drink free liquor while he laughs in our faces. He knows we need him. If he decided to pull the plug, this whole thing would go down the toilet faster than you could say so much as a “fuck you.” For now, we’re at a quasi-stable understanding, but he’s a temperamental bastard. The latest word coming out of Croak’s office said that Grady’s been itching for a raise. We gotta keep him fat and happy. Our livelihoods depend on it.

  Personally speaking, I can’t stand the bastard. Despite my being Croak’s right-hand man and the number two guy in the club, I go out of my way to avoid dealing with Grady whenever possible. We’ve had enough unpleasant conversations in the past that I’m sure he feels the same way. It’s a mutual “stay the fuck away from me.”

  Tonight, though, he’s catching my attention. He is sitting on the far end of the same couch as Croak. Next to him is the kind of girl you don’t forget. I drink her in.

  Forget “it factor,” this girl is just it. She’s got cocoa butter skin, dark and unblemished. Her hair is ironed straight. It falls over her bare shoulders like a curtain made of silky, unbroken ebony. Even when she’s sitting down, I can see that her body is the kind of fragile, curvy petite that drives me wild. I want to toss her all around, kiss every inch of those perfect legs. Maybe even see what happens when I run my tongue all the way up to where they meet.

  Why do women like that end up with pigs like Grady? Life’s full of fucking mysteries. Females are at the top of the list.

  Something’s troubling her, though. I watch a wrinkle shoot across her brow. She’s frowning. I can only see Grady’s back, but one of his thick fingers keeps stabbing the ai
r in front of her face. He’s yelling at her. Throwing a little hissy fit, if the tendons jumping out on the back of his neck are anything to go by.

  She opens her mouth to say something back, but all the sudden a massive palm comes flinging up from by his side to smack her across the face. My stomach clenches like a fist. I may do a lot of dirty shit, but the one line you never cross is hitting a woman. I’ve killed men for less.

  A line of blood trickles down the girl’s plump lips. It’s a shame I can’t do anything to the bastard. If it was up to me, I’d put a bullet between those beady eyes so quick it’d make the race cars look like goddamn continental drift. But Grady’s untouchable, and he knows it. That’s why he gets away with beating his women. This isn’t the first time I’ve seen him lay hands on his date.

  Grady gets up and storms away. For the first time, I’ve got a clear view of the girl. Fuck, she is something else. Beautiful. One of a kind. Girls like this don’t come around often.

  I don’t think. I do the only thing I know how to do—take action.

  It takes just an easy flick of the heels to leap over the barrier and cross to the other side of the street. I jump that one, too, and vault the stairs three at a time until I’m on top of the patio. I approach the girl from behind. She’s busy dabbing at her busted lip with her manicured fingers, trying to stop the bleeding. I snag a cocktail napkin from the waiter passing by me and swoop into the seat next to her.

  “Here,” I say, offering her the napkin. “Looks like you’ve got a little something on your lip.” I don’t want to embarrass her. If I trust my gut—and I always trust my gut—something tells me that she’s been through this ordeal before.

  “Thanks,” she murmurs. She takes the napkin from my hand and presses it to her mouth.

  “Mortar,” I say.

  “What?”

  “I’m Mortar.”

  She starts to smile, but winces. I want to wince with her, to take the pain away. I’m not great at that, though. I’m much better at doling out pain than making it disappear.

  “Kendra,” she finally manages to say.

  “Kendra. Of course.”

  “Of course?”

  “Beautiful name for a beautiful girl.”

  She laughs. I like that laugh. It makes me wonder what she sounds like when she comes.

  “That’s the cheesiest thing I’ve ever heard. Does that line work for you often?”

  “You tell me.” I keep my gray eyes straight on hers. I don’t blink or waver.

  “It’s a start,” she says after a pause. I feel her weighing me, trying to decide who I am and what I want. “I don’t think you should try to keep going, though.”

  “And why’s that?”

  “If Grady comes back…” she trails off, looking around hesitantly. Grady is nowhere in sight, but the sheer fear written across her face is clear as day. She wants no part of his wrath. There’s only so much one person can take in a single night.

  “You can’t live your life according to ifs and maybes,” I tell her. “Leave that to me. For example, if I kiss you right now, maybe you’ll come home with me.” I let a smile steal across my face.

  She laughs again. Damn, that’s a beautiful sound. Most men would kill to hear something like that every day. Kendra shakes her head sadly. “I don’t think so.”

  “To which: the kiss or the coming home?”

  “Either one.”

  I pretend to pout. “There go my hopes and dreams.”

  “Sorry to disappoint. I’m sure there are plenty of women around here who would jump at the offer, though.”

  I look around. She’s right, of course. That brunette in the black bikini keeps throwing side glances in my direction. She looks like a dog begging for scraps. They’re all like that, as I scan the crowd, every single girl. They’re all desperate, or drugged-out and robotic, or just plain broken. They don’t have the spark that Kendra has. She’s the only one with any kind of life flickering behind her eyes.

  She’s the only one with a body like that, too. I focus my gaze on her. Thin ankles are wrapped up in the straps of towering red stilettos. Her calves are smooth and dark, widening ever so slightly into thighs that in turn swell to become an ass and hips that look like someone sculpted her out of mocha marble. The crimson dress she’s wearing hugs every curve without letting go. I can’t blame it—I wouldn’t let go either. The garment is so tight around her ribs that I wonder how she can breathe. Peeking out of the top of the strapless affair are breasts that I just know are full and perky. I want to see them bouncing while she rides me.

  “Of course,” she continues, interrupting me, “most of them probably prefer that you look at their eyes instead of giving them the full body inspection.” She scowls, but I can tell she’s at least half-joking.

  I grin. “Typical male pig, that’s all I’m good for.”

  “I’m sure you’ll go on to be a wonderful father to a whole litter of other typical male pigs, too.”

  I want to laugh, but her joke hits home. Funny that she should bring up family. I think about my brother and my blood runs cold.

  In my head, I count the days. Has it really been so soon? Ten days ago, he was living, breathing, walking, joking. Now, he’s worm food with a bullet hole through the middle of his skull.

  All of which has got me thinking lately about family. About legacy. There’s no one left to talk about Colin except for me. What happens if I go? Who carries on my legacy? Who remembers me? It’s not something I like brooding on, but I just can’t seem to stop. The questions stay in my head whether I choose to acknowledge them or not.

  “Might be time for that in the near future,” I tell Kendra.

  “Don’t you need to find the woman before you have the kids?”

  “There’s always the chance I’ve found her already.” I give her my biggest smile yet. She laughs, and I think to myself, Goddamn. I could live in that laugh. Then I give her body another glance and think, And that’s not so bad either.

  I see the napkin she’s holding is stained through. I pluck another one from the table and press it to her lip. She hesitates, reaching up to move my hand away, but I stop her. “Let me.” She relents. Her fingers rest on my wrist. The touch is butterfly light, barely there. I want more of it.

  Then I see something out of the corner of my eye.

  One thing about this line of work: you learn to act first and ask questions later. I wrap my hand around Kendra’s wrist and pull her with me as I spring backwards. My back hits a wall and Kendra flies into my embrace. A split second after we’ve collapsed against the building behind us, a massive chunk of metal slams into the couch where we had just been sitting. I hear the crackle of cooling aluminum. The edges are razor sharp.

  On the track, a car slows to a halt. It’s beat to hell, missing a sizable portion of its front fender from a collision with the concrete girder that lines the quarter-mile course. Coincidentally, that fender is the one that is impaling the couch that Kendra and I recently vacated. People hop the fence to tend to the driver. He looks shaken as he crawls from the wrecked car, rips off his helmet, and vomits.

  Poor bastard. But he knew what he was getting into when he got behind the wheel. It’s like the racers say: buy the ticket, take the ride.

  He’ll be fine, though. I look to Kendra. Her face is an open book. I see fear and adrenaline, and there, just behind her eyes, the hint of arousal. I’ve got one arm around her lower back, tucking her into me. I can feel warm skin through the fabric. Her smell is intoxicating. There’s a cinnamon tint to her lotion, but I like what’s underneath it—the sweat, the true scent of her body. That’s the real aphrodisiac.

  Her breasts are pressed against my chest. True to form, they are ripe. I glance down at the hollow between them and imagine running my tongue up her torso, licking the drops of perspiration on my way up her neck, past her throat, en route to whispering in her ear all the things I want to do to her.

  My dick is longing to be freed from my jea
ns. I can feel it straining against the zipper. I’m pretty sure she can feel it, too, pressing against her inner thigh. Part of me wonders if I should be embarrassed. It’s probably bad manners to shove your hard prick against a girl you just met. But the other, larger part of me thinks, Fuck it. Let this girl know you’re a man.

  Like I said, I trust my gut.

  Putting my dick aside for a moment, it feels incredible to hold this girl in my arms. She’s like a glass vase. I want to run my hands down every curve, but I’m almost scared to push too hard, just in case she shatters in my grip. The fibers of her muscles are so thin and lithe. They’re still right now, though. She’s just looking in my eyes. Not saying a word. I wonder what she’s seeing in there.

  “Smooth move, cowboy,” she says. Her face is inches from mine. I can feel her breath coming in shallow spurts as she tries to calm her racing heart. That, too, is fluttering against my chest.