Scorned Devils MC, Book 1
Contemporary LGBTQ MC Romance
Date Published: 9/6/2024
Publisher: Changeling Press LLC
Dread: Nicholas “Dread” Derickson is all about his MC, Scorned
Devils — until he spies a young man who sets his rebel blood on fire. Sexy
bastard might be his undoing if Dread can’t get the president to turn a
blind eye to his entanglement, which is cutting into club business just as a
splinter group from another club moves into the area. One rider of the
wayward gang rubs Dread the wrong way — particularly when he discovers the
biker had a prior relationship with the man Dread wants to make his.
Marvin: Marvin Branch hadn’t planned on attending an outlaw biker club
party with a woman he’d met at his new job, but now he can’t stop eyeing the
handsome older guy who’s definitely a member. Marv’s last liaison ended
because the biker he hooked up with refused to be open about their
relationship. Vowing not to go down that road again, Marv can’t help being
enthralled by Nicholas. Soon Marvin struggles with his new lover’s actions,
and his fear of what will happen when he walks away gets the better of him.
The man is not only possessive, he’s hell-bent on keeping Marv until he’s
had his fill.
Excerpt
Dread
“Nicholas, about the two prospects.”
Dread hated these damn open-air parties. The park was jammed with bodies.
Giving back to the community was necessary now and again. They deserved
something, because unless things really got out of hand, the two small local
police forces turned a blind eye to most of the Scorned Devils motorcycle
club’s bullshit.
More importantly, he hated being called Nicholas. Nicholas Derickson had
ceased to exist a long time ago. His death had occurred the first time Dread
killed a man. The culprit had missed being on the Scorned Devils MC’s
radar, but he should have been. That body had never been found. Never will
be, either.
There had been two others. Members who’d become disruptive and had to
be dealt with outside the law. Dread felt no guilt, as they understood the
rules when they prospected. There had been one more. Club president Barton
“Battle” Graves hadn’t been sure of the last death. Even
after finding the man’s cut in the clubhouse chest only he and Dread
had access to, Battle left it alone at first, ignoring the incident for a
time because Dread was Scorned Devils inside out, and Bat knew beyond a
doubt he intended to protect his club and anyone they vowed allegiance until
Dread took his last breath.
Hell, the man had screwed around with Bat’s older and only sister,
Glory Graves. Treated her like shit. She’d been abused, then abandoned
after the bastard fathered the pres’ niece, Belinda. He’d
occasionally turn up when he was down on his luck, to demand money, or a
room for a few days. If it was easier for Bat to believe the man walked away
for good, so be it.
Bat had asked about the disappearance once. Dread never responded. And that
skull never got painted on Dread’s bikes. However, if he delayed
answering Battle now, the jackass would never shut up.
“Nicholas, you hear me?”
“Don’t fucking call me that.” Dread had not taken his
gaze off the stranger who’d arrived accompanied by Bat’s niece,
Belinda. Jesus, he’s hot! The thought surprised Dread. The man was
lean, clean shaven and, fuck, downright pretty — and those types never
excited him. Something about the way the man carried himself, how he
returned Dread’s scrutiny without blinking, excited him, though.
Bastard exuded confidence.
Nodding in their direction, Dread asked, “Who’s that with
Belinda?” Dread had no interest in diving back into the same pond he
swam in for the last six months. His sex life had drifted into no
man’s land, but the youngster he eyed was a bright spot on the
horizon. I will fuck him until he can’t walk.
“How the hell would I know? Ask Belinda. No matter how much I bitch,
she cozies up to some man. Shit, she calls you uncle more often than
me.” Attempting to imitate his niece, Bat mocked, “Why
can’t you call me Bell, like Uncle Dread?”
“What’s the big deal?”
“My sister’s crap’s the big deal. She’s biting my
ass. Doesn’t like her daughter anywhere near me. Hell, I don’t
either.”
“Barton, grab your balls and tell your sister to fuck off.”
Dread’s attention remained on the newcomer.
“Kiss my ass. Anyway, he likely works with Belinda at one of your
establishments.” Kicking the dirt, Bat added, “All the strangers
here, you’re concerned by my niece’s latest
conquest?”
Holding eye contact, Dread smiled at the fucker. He knew the sexy young man
slinking behind Belinda wasn’t a lady’s man. “He’s
not her type.” There would be no complaint from Dread about her
dragging this one along, yet Dread made note to talk with his managers, keep
better tabs on who they hired. “You asked me to give her a job,
Battle. It was Cutters or Hell’s Lair.”
“She’s not to be in any part of the Lair, Dread. Bar,
clubhouse, nothing. I mean it.”
Dread observed Bell’s friend laughing at something a member’s
old lady had said. He is not Hell’s Lair material, either. Dread owned
both Cutters, a nice restaurant featuring live music on weekends, and
Hell’s Lair, a straight up hole-in-the-wall biker’s bar. He
received nice compensation monthly from the Scorned Devils MC treasury for
renting them the large, wide-open storage area behind the bar. It doubled as
the clubhouse.
The spot had had another name before Dread changed it to Hell’s Lair.
Paid pennies on the dollar when he violently wrestled ownership from a man
who didn’t deserve it. Jackass mistreated his employees and fired
anyone he discovered was gay. For a moment Dread wondered where that bastard
had ended up after being beaten to within an inch of his life and chased out
the city. One thing Dread was sure of, the son of a bitch would never open
his mouth about what had occurred.
Subsequently, the bar made enough for Dread to snatch Cutters up when it
came on the market. Only a handful of his crew were aware who owned Cutters,
and none ever set foot inside. Too fancy for their liking. Even he
couldn’t buy respectability, but Dread liked having one thing in his
life that felt decent.
“Too much talk in the Lair’s bar area. That shit must be
addressed and I don’t trust Belinda to follow my rule about visiting
the club.”
“I’ll handle the loose lips. Anyway, our guys know not to
permit your niece inside. If she sneaks in, you or I will get a call. If
they ever touch a hair on her head, they’ll see me sooner than
later.” Angling toward Battle, Dread slapped the pres’ shoulder.
“That’s what you have me for.”
“And sometimes you worry me.”
“Shut the fuck up.” Dread was the only one who dared speak to
the club president like that. “What were you saying about
prospects?”
“A vote on patching is necessary. They’ve both proved
themselves.” Bat’s sigh filled the air. “We got to watch
those five hellions out of Philadelphia. Shit, been too long since I had a
sit-down with the pres of Bayside Specters. Sons of bitches didn’t
even have the courage or respect to announce themselves. Still, I’d
like to avoid trouble. Devils have grown. We established ourselves in the
county and Coatesville is home. It’s a small city and trouble of any
sort marring our MC’s reputation will not be tolerated.”
Growth was important. Thirty-four members strong, Scorned Devils had become
a club to be reckoned with in Pennsylvania but Bat was right.
“We’ll take it up at the next meeting. This isn’t the time
or place.”
Over the last couple months, several instances had developed that Dread
wished the president had allowed him to handle. He understood Bat’s
caution, yet appearing weak wasn’t suitable. Dread had turned down
running the Devils, or becoming vice president as Battle had hoped, as they
moved up through club ranks. Dread liked his position of sergeant at arms.
Trusting anyone else to ensure club rules would be followed and appropriate
punishment doled out when necessary didn’t suit Dread, either.
“Don’t know how you can tell, but you’re probably right
about that young man. Anyway, I know I’m not getting anything useful
out of you until you make yourself known to him.” Turning serious, Bat
added, “Be careful.”
“Careful?” Bat knew who Dread was and he also understood some
things would never change. “That shit flew out the window twenty years
ago when I screwed the fourth prospect who patched for the Devils. I can
handle members who scoff at what I am.” A few hard cases, kept under
Dread’s scrutiny, disdained gay activity, but not one of the Devils
would dare say a word about his or any other member’s sexual
inclination. “Terror’s not here to protect the fuckers, and they
like having their teeth.”
The Scorned Devils vice president was near the end of a three-year sentence
for assault. Nineteen years younger than Dread, Terror was fucking nuts, and
Dread didn’t relish the time he would return. Made him wish,
sometimes, he had accepted vice president under Battle. Luckily, Bat had
succeeded in keeping them from tearing each other apart. At least for now.
But the day would come.
“You know what the fuck I mean. He’s not one of us. He’s
too clean cut for the likes of us, and he reeks of decency. Hell, the kid
isn’t even your usual hairy type.” Bat’s eyes shuttered.
“Not as if… Look, Dread, club culture doesn’t favor
settling down.”
“What? Fuck that, man, I’m not looking for anything permanent.
Scorned Devils requires my attention, I’m here, Battle. That shit will
never change.” Jerking away, Dread made his way through the crowd to
lay claim to his next conquest.
About the Author
Growl and roar — it’s okay to let the beast out. — J. Hali Steele
J. Hali Steele wishes she could grow fur, wings, or fangs, so she can stay
warm, fly, or just plain bite the crap out of… Well, she can’t
do those things but she wishes she could!
J. Hali’s a multi-published Amazon bestselling author of Romance in
Paranormal, Fantasy, and Contemporary worlds which include ReligErotica and
LGBTQ stories where humans, vampyres, shapeshifters and angels collide —
and they collide a lot! When J. Hali’s not writing or reading, she can
be found snuggled in front of the TV with a cat in her lap, and a cup of
coffee.
Author on Instagram/Facebook: @jhalisteele
Publisher on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, and TikTok:
@changelingpress
