Chaos: Contemporary Biker Romance Read online

  Contents

  Copyright Page

  Chapter List

  1 - Same Shit, Different Lay

  2 - Boston Gets His Gun

  3 - Saving Logan

  4 - The Sacrifice

  5 - The Conversation

  Enjoy Sexy Shifters?

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  Craving a Saucy Demon Billionaire?

  Lust for Sexy Vampires?

  More from SF Publishing

  CONVERTED BY THE DARK PRINCE: PARANORMAL VAMPIRE CONTEMPORARY ROMANCE

  Mina Harker

  Copyright 2015 Mina Harker

  All rights reserved.

  Mina Harker

  Converted by the Dark Prince:

  (Paranormal Vampire Contemporary Romance)

  First Edition

  Book design by Mina Harker

  Cover Image Copyright 2015, used under a Creative Commons Attribution License: https://www.flickr.com/photos/wunluv/4491802711/

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  CHAPTER LIST

  THE FUNERAL

  THE INTRUDERS

  THE EXUMATION

  THE DISCOVERY

  THE DECISION

  TIME TO PLAY

  BONUS STORIES

  MORE FROM MINA

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  1 - SAME SHIT, DIFFERENT LAY

  "Ant'ya gonna take off ya clothes?" she asked him, looking up at the man in the twilight of the room. A dirty window stood on the right wall next to Boston Eager, facing the downtown harbor, and a neon light's bubble gum pink and green light bled into the room, casting an eerie hue over the opposite walls of the hotel room. Barbie shifted her eyes away when Boston didn't answer. "You ain't gonna hurt me are ya?"

  Boston didn't even know her name. Kleiser just handed her off, tossing her like a rag doll onto Boston's shoulder. The girl laughed and giggled as Boston carried her like a caveman up the stairs, stomping his steel-toe boots on each step with a heavy thud. He guessed she liked being dominated, and if so, she was in for a real treat. She would not find someone any less dominant than him. Boston wondered whether the girl comprehended whose hands Kleiser had placed her in, as he tossed her Barbie-like figure on the bed, bouncing her up and down. He was Boston Eager, the vilest and most hated gangster on the east coast, wanted by every cop north of the Mason-Dixon line. But he knew, just like everyone knew, the cops would never touch him. He was too dangerous, too nasty in his ways of getting revenge on anyone who slighted him.

  "Take off your clothes," he said, standing like a stone pillar on the edge of the bed, his massive, tattooed arms crossed over his chiseled chest. Barbie Doll laughed for a second, half-drunk, her mascara running down her face, bleary-eyed from the concoctions at the bar where she met Kleiser. She folded up her thin legs to unsnap her stiletto.

  Boston held back a smile.

  "OK good, cuz I ain't got time for that shit," Barbie said.

  "What shit?"

  "Gettin' hurt," she said, undressing.

  She ran her eyes up and down Boston's body, even though he still had his clothes on. His large frame went up and up, like a human skyscraper, and his face featured wide cheekbones that looked both primitive and beautiful. These were strange qualities for a man of such violence and brutality. Boston comprehended she didn't know who he was. She was probably too drunk, and the room lit their faces in half-shadow. His body turned her on, though, and he tossed his shirt on the chair next her. He was a big boy, his burning cobalt eyes emitting their own hue from the corner of the room. His chest muscles lacked a little definition, but they hung like giant steaks off his upper torso. All parts of his body, his bones and meat, his ass and thighs, his skull and shoulders, fused together on his body like a stone statue. Boston was a tank, full of momentum and hate and the desire to breed.

  By the time Barbie was naked on the bed, she tried unbuckling his pants, but he slapped her hand away. He always took control over his daily lays, and this girl was no different. He picked her up by the feet and curled her feet over his shoulders. Barbie grunted, knowing he would soon run himself inside her, a wet hot blade of flesh, straight through her most vulnerable areas. She couldn't wait for him to use her.

  He unbuckled his pants, not even bothering to step out of his jeans, and pumped himself away, gliding and shifting through Barbie like she was the primary vessel for his enjoyment, giving nothing in return. He squeezed his ass and heaved on her, as Barbie moaned and ran her tiny hands along the contours of his arms. He curled his hands into fists, propping himself up on the bed like a furious gorilla, continuing to pump himself harder and deeper inside the strange woman.

  This was his daily ritual before his nightly romp: first, get up at four in the morning, run twelve miles around the University of Pennsylvania track, his hooded figure no small warning to ward off anyone who might be interested in striking up a conversation. His next stop was The Sunflower, the bar his father passed down to him to ensure financial security. He made a habit of running his fingers under the bar line for any drugs or bugs planted by undercover cops. He counted the cash from last night and checked the restrooms for drunks. After making sure his waiters placed things where they should be, he went back to his office. There, in the corner of the tiny room sat an ammunition cabinet full of his weapons. Smith & Wessons, Remingtons, Parabellas, Lugers. He had everything. And he had more in the hangar size shed behind his bar the Sunflower. You could never have too much ammunition, Boston knew. You never knew when you would need to defend yourself, or defend someone else. You see, Boston was a killer, in every sense of the word. The people he killed deserved to die, usually because he had insulted Boston or his family. No one insulted his family. There was no saving the world where a man could not walk down the street without someone insulting the people he loved. And that was what his killing was all about--Boston and his family deserved respect, and if th
e world refused to grant it, he would take it by force. That's why he joined the Roxy Boys gang when he was twelve, right around the same he lost his family and started smoking. The boys took him under their wing, protecting him and giving him all the training he needed.

  The last part of his day, if he wasn't out taking revenge on anyone who dared threaten his family, meant he find an empty lay before falling asleep. And when he finally came inside Miss Barbie on the bed tonight, he sat there watching her eyes roll back in her head. He studied her, curious about the naked creature laying under him. She was the same as all of her race, according to Boston, the fair sex who enjoyed being a toy, an object for his sexual pleasure. He stood up, wiping himself off with his shirt, his chin tilted down on his chest. The woman by his knees, relaxing in bliss, dropped her head off the bed's edge, looking at his naked body upside down.

  "Ain't nothing betta than bein' used…" she said, reaching out to touch his kneecaps. "…by the one and only Boston Eager." But Boston just shook his head at the mess on the bed, that sorry excuse for a person, that sack of meat. Boston walked into the cold floor file of the bathroom and slammed the door behind him.

  Women, he thought.

  2 - BOSTON GETS HIS GUN

  When Kleiser told Boston what the boy did, Boston's veins swelled like a flooding river, and he damn near lost control of his anger. Boston jumped out of the shower, racing around the room to get on his clothes, without stopping to check his bed for Barbie, who left the door to his apartment open so just anyone passing by could come in. He grabbed his keys, threw on a shirt, and barreled down the stairs. He swung open the door to his building, cracking the glass when it slammed into the brick corner. Kleiser waited near the entrance.

  "Where is he?" Boston asked.

  "I'll show you."

  Boston followed Kleiser down the cold concrete sidewalk along the city's brownstones, toward an alley in between buildings. They turned the corner, and Kleiser's brother was standing over someone at the end of the alley, looking down at him. A young man's voice shouted from the ground, and when Boston got close enough, he could see the boy pointed a small pistol at them. Kleiser and his brother Andre laughed at the ridiculous kid. "Be careful who you point that thing at, kid. You could put someone's eye out," Kleiser said. Kleiser and his brother shifted around to give Boston a view of the kid. It was Logan Farris. His face melted under the heat of his fear, but he was trying his best to keep things together.

  "Back the fuck up, man," the boy said, pointing the pistol at them with trembling hands.

  "If I didn't know any better," Andre said, "I'd think it was a bb gun."

  "Ha, this is true. You probably don't even know how to shoot that thing, boy," Kleiser said. "If it wasn't for your little mistake, you know, I would feel sorry for you. But you took a sucker punch at my brother, and for that, you're gonna pay."

  "He fucked my girlfriend!" Logan said, shifting his eyes back and forth to signs of understanding from the two men standing over him.

  "I will do it again, you little punk. Nobody messes with the Roxy Brothers," Andre said. "Now put down the gun, or you're going to make this much worse."

  "You will kill me. I have no reason to put it down," Logan said. Then he pointed the pistol straight at Andre, resolute.

  Andre looked to his brother, shaking his head. "This guy must really have a death wish."

  "I'm just trying to protect myself," Logan said. "Go ahead. Kill me. I know that's what will happen." He raised up the gun at the two men, ready to fire, but Andre knocked the pistol out of his hand. Just like that, Logan's chances of surviving fell to nothing. Andre raised the pistol to Logan's temple, then pulled the trigger. But the gun jammed, leaving Logan kneeling away from the man, curled up against the rusted green dumpster, his eyes scrunched as he waited for the explosive blow to his brain from the bullet lodged in the gun. Andre pulled the trigger again, and the gun jammed once more. And again, a soft click-click-click with no explosion, no death, no blood or brains sprayed on the green metal.

  "Fuck," Andre said. "Guess we'll have to do it the hard way." He pulled out a blackjack and laid into Logan's face, beating his from top to bottom. Logan screamed and tried to crawl away, but Kleiser pulled him back just as Logan's fingers reached the divot filled with water in the center of the concrete alley floor. They continued beating him, before Boston touched Andre on the shoulder, signaling him to stop.

  "Enough, for now, I have a better idea." They stopped and retreated behind Boston's back, as he looked down at the battered boy. He looked him over, at the frayed clothes, the broken nose, and fractured cheekbone, and the shattered, twisted fingers Logan held up in pain. "You said our man Andre here insulted you because he fucked your girl?" Logan seemed far away, in terrible pain, but he managed to nod his head to agree, knowing what would happen should he ignore Boston. "And who's to say she's your girl?" Logan could barely muster a response. Boston looked up at Andre, who's expression admitted guilt. "That's not cool. Not cool at all." Logan spit the blood forming in his mouth out. "I should not have let this happen. I should have asked him about the true story. This is disgusting," Boston said, looking over at his boys. There was a curious lack of moral outrage in Boston's eyes, as he stared down at the innocent boy he allowed his friends to batter and bruise to an inch with Logan's life. "But nobody insults my boys. Nobody. Do you understand?"

  "Yes..." Logan said, afraid to look Boston in the eye.

  "We could all stop now and go our separate ways, but I want to teach you a lesson, for what you did. Andre is guilty, but so are you. By tomorrow, you will meet me here with a new girl for Andre, so you two fools can stop fighting over the same one. If you don't meet me here at noon, I'll find you, and trust me, you won't survive what I have in store for you." And with that, Boston stood up, then motioned Andre and Kleiser to leave. Boston stayed there, standing over Logan for several moments, and Logan wondered if the guy might have felt bad for him and for what let his boys do. Maybe he was trying to make sure Logan could, at least, stand up to go home. Or maybe he wanted to leave his calling card in the form of another broken bone--a splintered rib maybe, or a broken toe. In the distance, Logan heard two motorcycles start up and speed away, down Ferguson street. Boston turned to get on his own bike but stopped. He walked back over to Logan and kicked the dumpster as hard as he could, leaving a massive dent from his steel-toe boot. "Tomorrow, kid," Boston said, "that will be your head."

  3 - SAVING LOGAN

  Dr. Millie Farris looked at the employee of the month photo her boss nailed on the wall at Children's Hospital. Her picture--the awkward smile and confusing camera position--reminded her of the ones the local supermarket used for missing persons. She stepped back, her hands on her wide hips, observing the sixteen rows of photos that tessellated the hallway. Millie spent the last ten years of her life putting her brother and herself through college, then worked nights at the nearby gas station to pay for her medical school. Doctor of the month was an honor, but she wondered if there was another way to advertise her dorky prize than the lame pictures on the wall. The years of schooling and backbreaking word afforded her at least a modicum of respect. That was not so much to ask.

  "Doctor?"

  Millie turned around as her head nurse raced through the other end of the hallway, her Hispanic hips bouncing behind her. She passed Millie on the way and said, "Room 211." Millie trotted down the hallway, using her tiny but swift feet to speed next to her nurse, then turned ahead of her and pushed open the heavy metal door with all her weight. Four other nurses crowded around the bed, as a boy screamed through their shouting voices. A pool of blood dripped ballooned over the sheets, leaving a damp red blotch on the sheets. Millie shouted at her nurses over the commotion.

  "Move aside! I'm coming through. What do we have here?"

  "Some kid, caught in a fight. He won't tell us who did it."

  "Why?" Millie asked.

  "Too afraid. He's bleeding bad. Somebody beat the fuck out of him, bro
ke his cheekbone and several fingers. Probably isn't finished with him." The nurse looked at Millie over her face mask, then looked down at the boy on the bed. The look said everything to Millie, and her heart sank. She rammed the other nurses aside with her shoulder to see who it was lying on the gurney. Looking down at the mess before her, Millie's brother Logan sat before her, pooled in blood and pain. He mustered a smile.

  "Hi, Sis."

  "Logan! What happened here," she said, her voice shaking, as she grabbed his hand. "Don't tell me you did it again."

  "Think about it," he said, thrusting his head back against the pillow, his eyes squinted in pain. "Sis," he said through gritted teeth, "…help me." Millie looked at her brother's face, the lacerations on his brow, the crooked fingers on his other hand, and she jumped into action. She ripped open his shirt to wrap the wounds around his ribs while the other nurses set up his I.V. "I know you don't want to hear it at a time like this, but you were right. I'm not as tough as I thought," he said.

  "That's not such a bad thing," she said, working like an automated maid from the future, balloting around the other people in the room who all tried to repair him before it was too late. "You're my little brother. I'm used to getting you out of trouble." Millie tried to make light of the situation so that Logan would relax, but in the back of her mind, she knew things would get worse. Since his high school graduation, around the same time Millie fought her way through medical school, Logan tossed himself from one sticky situation to another. First it was the abusive ex-boyfriend of a girl Logan met six months after he turned 19. Since that first beating, Logan tried to make himself tough in the eyes of guys on the street, rather than use his head and get a job, an idea Millie tried to instill in his young brain with very little success. Logan was determined to prove himself "as a man," whatever that meant, even if it got him killed. Meanwhile, his elder sister worried night and day about him, as she felt the responsibility of his survival until true adulthood rested on her shoulders. There was no one else to parent Logan, and if she did shield him from terrible decisions, lethal consequences awaited him. This time, there was no telling who Logan insulted to prove he was not afraid. Her brother was a good kid, just misguided as young people so often are.