(Grim Road MC)

Motorcycle Club Romance, Suspense, Age Gap

Date Published: April 12, 2024

 

 

Cecilia: The enigmatic biker is the one bright spot in my life. I see him
three or four times a week at the cafe down the block. Talking to him about
books we’re reading or our hopes and dreams helps me escape my
reality, if only for a short time. Most of the time we don’t even sit
at the same table. He’s everything I ever wanted but know I can never
have. We simply cross paths. Him going… wherever he goes. Me…
I know I’m going straight to hell. Nothing but a miracle can save me.
The Devil owns my soul.

Bullet: There’s something about the small, dark-haired woman I see at
the corner cafe. She’s everything I’m attracted to in a woman,
but she’s so young it’s laughable. I didn’t set out to
seduce her, but the next thing I know she’s in my bed and I spend the
most incredible night with her. I wake up the next morning to a cool pillow.
No note. No way to contact her. I chalk it up to a young woman not wanting
drama in her life until I see her again a few days later. This time,
she’s in my ICU, beaten to within an inch of her life. Someone’s
going to pay. God have mercy on their soul. Because I won’t.

 

WARNING: Bullet includes scenes of graphic violence and adult situations
that may be triggers for some readers. There’s also a protective hero,
a determined heroine, and an eventual happy ending. No cheating, as
always.

EXCERPT

Bullet

“Just another glorious day in the ICU, Attie.” The fresh-faced
resident was trying way too hard to socialize. I’d noticed the pup did
the same with all the attendings. I accepted he was trying to fit in and
carve his place with people who would be his peers once he’d finished
his residency, but no one — fucking no one — called me
“Attie.”

“My name,” I said, not looking up from the laptop where I was
finishing up a physical assessment for the patient I’d just seen,
“is Atticus. Or Dr. Benedict. Call me Attie again, I’ll
personally see to it you fail this rotation.” If the kid had been a
prospect, I’d have beat the shit outta him. But I couldn’t do
that. Not in this world. Which was a Goddamned shame because if an adult
hadn’t learned how to treat people with respect by this guy’s
age, he needed an ass whoopin’.

I was beginning to think it was past time I left practice in the civilian
world and stayed at the Grim Road compound full time. Traveling back and
forth was risky anyway. The last thing I wanted was someone following me to
the compound. They wouldn’t be able to get in, but it would draw
attention to us, which I did not want. Still. Here I was. Trying not to
punch an intern.

Fuck. Me.

I didn’t give the kid time to respond. Instead, I shut the laptop,
picked it up, and headed back down the hall to the lounge. I wanted to
finish my day so I could get a bite to eat — and maybe some stimulating
conversation that didn’t involve body fluids or death. I’d had
enough of that in the Air Force, yet here I was. I’d thought I’d
fulfill some sense of purpose by continuing to work with critically ill
patients in a different setting, but death was death.

“He’s just trying to fit in, Atticus.” One of my
colleagues, Phil Davis, clapped me on the shoulder as he pulled up a chair.
“Don’t be so hard on the kid.”

“I’ve told him repeatedly not to shorten my name. I’m
tired of fuckin’ with him.”

“He’ll make a decent doctor if you help train him
right.”

“I’m not a mentor, Phil. I told you that when you hired me.
I’m supposed to be an intensivist. Not a teacher.” It was a sore
spot. The hospital had promised me I wouldn’t have to supervise
interns or residents. Yet here I was.

“You know how it is, man. There’s a shortage of healthcare
staff. That includes doctors. Why keep these kinds of hours when you can do
family medicine?” He shrugged. “The hospital owns the offices,
so they all get paid a salary just like we do. Only difference is the hours.
They get nights, weekends, and holidays off. We don’t.”

“Coulda had better pay and better benefits if I’d stayed in the
fuckin’ Air Force,” I grumbled. “Kid’s got this last
chance. He calls me Attie again, I’ll do more than fail his rotation.
I’ll kick his fuckin’ ass.”

Phil chuckled, likely thinking I was joking. I wasn’t. “Just
give me the report so you can get your cranky ass outta here. Someone needs
a beer. And possibly to get laid.”

I scowled at him, but he was right. On both counts.

Report took an hour. We walked around to each of my ten patients’
rooms, and I gave him a rundown of what was happening as well as introduced
him to each of those patients. Not every doctor in the hospital wanted to do
hand-off rounds like this, but I thought it helped all of us to see the
patients as people instead of simply numbers on a screen. As such, I
insisted on it.

We only got caught up in one room and honestly, Mrs. Singleton loved to
talk.

“I thought I was taking the right dose, Dr. Benedict. I mean, I might
have missed my shot from time to time, but I usually manage better than
this.” She smiled up at me from her bed. She was always pleasant. And
always called me Dr. Benedict. “Maybe if you explain it to me
again?” She looked like she was hoping we’d sit down and go over
her medication with her again, but didn’t want to actually say
so.

“Maybe we should get you an insulin pump,” Phil said, not
looking up from his tablet as he pretended to review her chart. I knew he
was just giving himself an excuse not to engage. Mrs. Singleton had been
offered the same thing every single time she was admitted. She always
refused. Something Phil knew all too well.

“Oh, I couldn’t. It might give me too much. What would I do
then?”

“It won’t give you too much, Nanny.” Phil’s
irritation showed on his face and in his voice, but he never looked up from
his fucking tablet. “It’s programmed to give the exact amount we
order. You need to agree to this so you don’t have to be admitted so
much. You’re going to ruin your kidneys and your eyesight, among other
things.”

“I’m ninety-two, Dr. Davis. If my kidneys and my eyesight were
going to go, they’d have done so already. Besides, I know I’m
not long for this world.” She sounded like she was going to cry. It
made me want to beat the shit outta my colleague.

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,”
I said, sitting beside the bed and taking Mrs. Singleton’s hand. One
thing I tried to always do was be respectful to my patients. Just because
she was old didn’t mean she was stupid. “We’ve discussed
this before. If you want to keep taking shots instead of using an insulin
pump, you can. But, he’s right that you’re hurting your body.
I’d like to have long conversations with you for years to come.”
I gave her a gentle smile.

She patted my hand with her free one. “You’re a good man, Dr.
Benedict.” Then she sighed, looking resigned. “If you think
it’s best, I’ll agree to your pump. Do you promise it will be
OK?”

“I do, ma’am. I’ll even come check on you after
you’re released until you get used to it.”

Her eyes grew wide. “You’d do that? For me?”

I smiled. “You’re one of my favorite patients, Mrs. Singleton.
Of course, I will.”

Mrs. Singleton was a diabetic who went into ketoacidosis once every couple
of months because she didn’t take her insulin correctly and refused to
modify her diet. At ninety-two years young, I figured if she wanted to eat
cupcakes and moon pies, that was her prerogative. My job wasn’t to
judge but to help her when she got sick. I’d often wondered if she
didn’t do this to herself on purpose to get some attention because her
daughter and grandson refused to put her in a nursing home but were never
around to take care of her. She’d been a social butterfly in her
younger years, by all accounts, and needed personal interaction. But, she
abided by her family’s wishes and stayed at home even if her daughter
and grandson were never there to help her.

After we left and started down the hall, Phil chuckled, as if he
hadn’t insulted and treated the elderly woman horribly. “I
swear, that woman gets chattier every time we have her.” He shook his
head. “I don’t have time to spend thirty minutes in her room
chatting about the weather or the good old days. Not to mention arguing with
her about her treatment.” Yeah. It was past time I either opened my
own practice or simply moved back to the clubhouse and disappeared from
polite society.

I gave Phil a hard look. “You know, if you had half as much sympathy
for Mrs. Singleton as you do that disrespectful punk of an intern, you might
be a decent doctor.”

I left Phil alone with Intern Iggy and the rest of the zoo and headed out.
I needed the sun on my face and the wind in my hair. Fuck this shit.
I’d keep my promise to Mrs. Singleton no matter what, but my days here
were numbered.

Coming back in to the doctor’s lounge, I went to the locker room and
changed out of my scrubs and lab coat. I left very little at the hospital
other than a couple changes of clothes for emergencies, so packing my stuff
wouldn’t be an issue. Tomorrow I’d bring my truck and clean out
my shit. Tonight, however, I was on my bike. I wasn’t prepared.

I strode out of the hospital, my boots thudding on the pavement as I made
my way toward my sleek black Harley V-Rod. The bike that would carry me away
from the sterile walls and white coats. I needed the freedom of the road and
the comfort of my club. Grim Road MC had been good to me. After my last
mission it had become my only real haven. Initially, working at the hospital
had fulfilled my need to help people, but it had become more cumbersome than
helpful now.

Flashes of the carnage I’d lived through shot through my brain and I
gritted my teeth through the pain, needing to keep myself under control. It
was those memories that haunted me at night and kept me coming back to the
hospital to work. I hadn’t been able to help the people from that day
so long ago, but I could help people in the here and now.

I started up my bike, put it in gear, and took off. I needed food and rest.
Tomorrow everything would be better. I’d get Mrs. Singleton to stick
to her promise to try the insulin pump. God knew Phil would just fuck things
up. Besides, I wanted to help her get home so I’d know where to come
to check on her and make sure she was using her pump correctly. I also
needed to put the fear of God into her daughter and grandson. I was pretty
sure they were trying to keep her out of a nursing home so they could keep
her Social Security check and that simply wasn’t going to
happen.

With a sigh, I pulled into the parking area of a little outside café
I often frequented after work. Helped me to wind down and catch my breath.
Occasionally I’d run into someone who knew me, but the hospital was in
Palm Beach so it wasn’t often. It was also the place where I’d
met the most interesting woman I’d ever encountered.

Her name was Cecilia, but she went by CeCe. I thought she was an escort,
but the jury was still out. She was here nearly every evening. I found I
simply liked talking to her. She was intelligent, with a quirky personality.
She could carry on a conversation about almost anything with some degree of
knowledge. But it was her eyes that intrigued me. She had the look of
someone who’d seen far more than a person of her years should have. I
doubt she was much out of her teens, but she seemed to take in everything
around her. Several times I’d tested her. Dropping observations about
things around us or small details about someone walking down the sidewalk.
She always knew the answers. Like me, she always chose a table that let her
have the best view of the area with her back against the building.

Walking to my usual table, I glanced around, looking for CeCe. Because of
the long conversation with Mrs. Singleton, I was a little late so I could
have missed her. I hoped not because I could really use her refreshing
personality. The girl really was a rare treasure. I thought about prying
into her life, finding out exactly what she did and who she worked for,
seeing if my suspicions were correct, but we had a comfortable relationship.
Basically, we spoke when we were at this café, and that was it. I
didn’t see her anywhere else. We didn’t talk about anything
personal. Sometimes we never even looked at each other. Just… talked.
About everything and nothing. Nonsense. Whatever was on our minds. I was
about to leave when I saw her.

CeCe was dressed in a tight, short red skirt with a white billowy top that
cinched around her middle above her waist. A black bustier pushed her
breasts up and together, giving her mouth-watering cleavage. Her hair was a
straight, gleaming mass dark as a raven’s wing reaching below her
waist. This was her usual attire and I’d learned a couple of months
ago to live with the hard-on I got seeing her in these outfits.

She sat along the brick wall of the building beside the café, as
usual, one table between us. We didn’t acknowledge each other or
speak. She simply caught the attention of Teddy. He owned the place and was
always there, even if he had someone else working.

“The usual, Teddy.”

“Chocolate pie and a coffee coming up, darlin’.”

“Thanks.” Everything inside me settled. I hid my smile and said
nothing. Instead, I picked up a book I’d been reading the last several
days while I drank a cup of coffee and ate a sandwich. This evening it was
chicken salad.

“You still reading about the guy who kills that old lady and then
spends the whole book freaking out about it? Raskolnikov,
right?”

I grinned. “Crime and Punishment. Yeah, kid.” I didn’t
look up from my book, but I never did. It was a game we played, where we
pretended indifference. It was one we were both comfortable with. “I
always found him to be an interesting character — tormented by his own
guilt. Unable to escape the consequences of his actions.”

She snorted. “It’s always something, I guess. Life torments us
all in one way or another.”

I thought about that. “Can’t say you’re wrong
there.”

“‘Course, I’m not wrong.” She sounded bitter. Not
for the first time, I wondered if I was right and she was an escort. She was
always very well put together. Even the revealing clothing she wore was done
with taste. Her hair was always perfect, her makeup just so. Her body was
well toned, fine muscle playing beneath her skin when she moved. I’d
never seen such perfectly formed arms on a woman before. They were muscled
but sleek. Feminine.

With one last bite of pie, she slapped a couple bills down on the table and
stood. She started to leave, then stopped and turned her head to face me.
“You think Raskolnikov would’ve done any better if he’d
had someone? You know, someone who had his back?”

“Who knows?” I shrugged. A darkness crept into her gaze even
though her face was carefully blank. This, I didn’t like. “But I
do believe there are times when the ends do justify the means. Maybe not in
Raskolnikov’s case, but…”

“Yeah.” She looked away, putting her shoulders back.
“Sure.”

“See you tomorrow?” I’d never pushed her before. Never
asked when I’d see her or if she’d be back. But my instinct was
screaming at me that something was wrong.

She shrugged. “Don’t know. Maybe.”

“Take it easy, CeCe.” I forced myself to let it go even though
I wanted to push even harder, to make her tell me what was going on and how
I could help. Because if ever there was a woman who needed help, it was
CeCe.

About the Author

Marteeka Karland is an international bestselling author who leads a double
life as an erotic romance author by evening and a semi-domesticated
housewife by day. Known for her down and dirty MC romances, Marteeka takes
pleasure in spinning tales of tenacious, protective heroes and spirited,
vulnerable heroines. She staunchly advocates that every character deserves a
blissful ending, even, sometimes, the villains in her narratives. Her
writings are speckled with intense, raw elements resulting in page-turning
delight entwined with seductive escapades leading up to gratifying
conclusions that elicit a sigh from her readers.

Away from the pen, Marteeka finds joy in baking and supporting her husband
with their gardening activities. The late summer season is set aside for
preserving the delightful harvest that springs from their combined efforts
(which is mostly his efforts, but you can count it). To stay updated with
Marteeka’s latest adventures and forthcoming books, make sure to visit her
website. Don’t forget to register for her newsletter which will pepper you
with a potpourri of Teeka’s beloved recipes, book suggestions, autograph
events, and a plethora of interesting tidbits.

 

Contact Links

Author on Instagram & TikTok: @marteekakarland

Author on Facebook

Publisher on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, and TikTok:
@changelingpress

Pre-Order Today