Bounty
Kristen Ashley
Published by Kristen Ashley
Discover other titles by Kristen Ashley:
Rock Chick Series:
Rock Chick
Rock Chick Rescue
Rock Chick Redemption
Rock Chick Renegade
Rock Chick Revenge
Rock Chick Reckoning
Rock Chick Regret
Rock Chick Revolution
The ‘Burg Series:
For You
At Peace
Golden Trail
Games of the Heart
The Promise
Hold On
The Chaos Series:
Own the Wind
Fire Inside
Ride Steady
Walk Through Fire
The Colorado Mountain Series:
The Gamble
Sweet Dreams
Lady Luck
Breathe
Jagged
Kaleidoscope
Bounty
Dream Man Series:
Mystery Man
Wild Man
Law Man
Motorcycle Man
The Fantasyland Series:
Wildest Dreams
The Golden Dynasty
Fantastical
Broken Dove
The Magdalene Series:
The Will
Soaring
The Three Series:
Until the Sun Falls from the Sky
With Everything I Am
Wild and Free
The Unfinished Hero Series:
Knight
Creed
Raid
Deacon
Sebring
Other Titles by Kristen Ashley:
Fairytale Come Alive
Heaven and Hell
Lacybourne Manor
Lucky Stars
Mathilda, SuperWitch
Penmort Castle
Play It Safe
Sommersgate House
Three Wishes
www.kristenashley.net
*****
Digital Edition, License Notes
All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher is unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright ©2016 by Kristen Ashley
First ebook edition: April 18, 2016
First print edition: April 18, 2016
Contents
Dedication
Acknowledgements and Author’s Note
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Epilogue
Read an excerpt from For You
About the Author
Discover other titles by Kristen Ashley
Connect with Kristen Online
Dedication
This book is dedicated to the memory of Greg Bullard.
A simple kind of man.
A good friend. A great husband. A loving father.
The best kind of man.
“All I want for you, my son, is to be satisfied.”
You are missed.
And to his family who I hold deep in my heart.
His wife, my beautiful Bethy,
his awesome son, Jackson,
and his gorgeous daughter, Kate.
***
This book is also dedicated to the living spirit of Kara Bombardier.
My sister from another sister.
My gypsy.
Acknowledgements and Author’s Note
Many thanks to my girl Stephanie Redman Smith for a lot of reasons, but as pertains to this book, moons ago she sent me a link to Hozier’s “Work Song.” Upon listening, I knew that song needed to be in a book. It fit perfectly here. I hope you’ll agree.
And much heartfelt thanks to Mark Ashley. I decided I was going to descend into the art of writing lyrics and we’ll just say I didn’t succeed all that well. But my Mark, he’s got a poet’s soul and the talent to make words sing. So he took my scary song that was supposed to say everything and made it into a thing of beauty. Thank you, honey!
Finally, as ever, I’d like to encourage readers to seek out and listen to the music I note in this novel. Especially this one as Justice is a singer-songwriter and she speaks a great deal through the words she sings. As I often suggest, and will do so again here, there will be scenes in this book that you’ll enjoy to the fullest if you listen to the songs they refer to while reading. And to make things easier for you, these songs include Linda Ronstadt’s “When Will I Be Loved” and “It’s So Easy,” Jim Croce’s “Time in a Bottle,” The Goo Goo Dolls “Come to Me,” Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Simple Man,” Hozier’s “Work Song” and the Zac Brown Band’s “Free.”
Enjoy!
*****
Prologue
The Only Man Here
Justice
“I’m not sure I wanna be saved, just sayin’.”
I looked at my friend Bianca. She had that glint in her eyes as she whispered this to me and Lacey before being led to the dancefloor by a biker.
This was not surprising. After three days at a local dude ranch, she was ready for a switch-up from cowboy to biker.
And the tall, angular biker who seemed determined to dance to “867-5309/Jenny” with Bianca was worth the not-so-coded message that we were on our own for the rest of the night and she’d fend for herself to get back to the ranch. This meaning she’d be doing it on the back of a bike likely sometime tomorrow morning.
I stopped watching Bianca head to the crowded dancefloor and looked to Lacey, our other friend, who had two bikers on her hook—both standing close, fencing her in at her stool at our table, taking turns buying her drinks, this having been going on for over an hour.
She wasn’t blotto, as most people would be after they’d imbibed as much as Lace had. She could hold her liquor, my Lacey. We all could. That’s what happened to dedicated party girls whose lives included nothing but bouncing from one righteous experience to the next, sucking all we could get out of it before we moved on.
Lace gave me a wink that indicated her approval of Bianca’s dance partner then turned back to her bikers.
I looked into the crowded bar, did a scan, saw one or two guys had eyes on me, but my glance slid through them.
Nothing had changed since the last scan.
This meaning nothing there.
Nothing at the dude ranch either, except I dug the horses. We’d ridden the trails. Learned how to lasso. Sat by a campfire. Had our massages and facials at the spa. Did the river rafting trip.
The cowboys were fine as they were intended to be considering how many single women were there for vacations and bachelorette getaways.
But, as I sat in
that biker bar, watching the drinking, talking, dancing, biker-style flirting, general good-time-being-had-by-all, it came to me I was over it.
Not the dude ranch.
Not the biker scene.
I was just over it.
All of it.
And I was over it because I’d been on this course since I was born, in one way or another.
Sure, I’d never been to a dude ranch but I’d been to plenty of cowboy bars, and biker bars, and clubs in New York, LA, Chicago. Festivals in Nashville and Austin. On the back of some dude’s bike riding through Death Valley. In a private jet, flying to Boston just to have fresh lobster for dinner. Wandering around St. Ives on a ghost tour at midnight. Up in a treehouse in Oregon to meditate with a guru. Sitting at the side of a runway during fashion shows in Paris. On a yacht in the Mediterranean, on a speedboat in Tahoe, on a houseboat on Lake Powell, snorkeling emerald waters in northern Venezuela, partying on a beach in Thailand. Backstage at so many concerts, there was no way to count.
It was impossible in this life to run out of things to do.
But sitting in that bar in the middle of nowhere in Wyoming, twenty-seven-years-old, it was hitting me that the buzz of life wasn’t vibrating as forcefully as it used to. In fact, it was beginning to seem a chore to pack up, head out, settle in (this being dropping my suitcases in whatever hotel room, cabin, boat, ship, treehouse, wherever we were staying) and rushing out to face the next adventure.
Truth be told, in the life I’d been born to, it was a testament to the love of my mother and father that it had taken this long. That I hadn’t started to feel jaded at around five. What people wanted from me, what they could use me for, how they could latch on, sink their teeth in, suck me dry.
This was why there was only Lace and Bianca for me. The others we’d scraped off.
We knew.
We were all hatched from different eggs but from the same species of chick. We got the life. It had been ingrained in us.
Legacies.
In the parental department, Bianca didn’t have it as good as Lacey and me did.
But no matter what, who came, who went, around the globe and back again (and again, and again) we had each other.
And sitting in that bar, I was coming to understand in all I’d done and seen (and don’t get me wrong, it all meant something to me, it just seemed to be meaning less and less), I only had two parents who hated each other tragically slightly more than they loved each other, but they loved me, and a brother who could be an ass more often than not…
And Lace and Bianca.
And sitting in that bar, I was coming to understand I wanted more.
I just had no idea what it was because if I wanted it, I could have anything.
Not to mention, the feeling was uncomfortable.
This was because I had it all.
Not like, if someone was outside looking in, they wouldn’t get what it was like to live my life and that it could be a downer.
It wasn’t a downer.
I actually had it all. And if I didn’t have it, I had the means to get it.
Having the feelings I was having, sitting at that bar, it made me feel ungrateful.
Because in coming to understand I wanted more, I was coming to understand that I actually wanted less.
I also, right then, needed to get out of there. Not cut Lacey and Bianca’s fun short by heading back to the ranch (which meant one or the other would come back with me). Not leaving them drinking and carousing without a wingman who could keep her eye on things.
Just a breath of fresh air, out of that heat, the crush, the loud music.
Just…out.
“Lace!” I shouted across the table and, being Lacey, even with two bikers on her hook, she turned to me immediately.
“Yo!” she shouted back.
“Need a breath of fresh air,” I yelled. “You good?”
She nodded. “Good, but want me to come with?”
Again, so Lace. She had two hot guys right there ready to make her every wish their command and she would ditch them to take a breather with me.
I shook my head. “No, babe. I’ll be okay.” I glanced up at the guys then back to her. “And I’ll be watching.”
Lacey gave me a big professionally-whitened-teeth smile. Even though I’d seen it frequently and the lighting wasn’t great in that bar, it still startled me like it always did. What with her smooth, milk chocolate skin (a perfect mix of goodness given to her by her Brazilian mom and African American dad), high cheekbones, shining black hair and almond-shaped tawny eyes.
She was the full package, petite, a lot of curves, a lot of hair, good genes from top to toe.
But even if her folks poured good into her since birth from the genes and then some, I still felt the abundance of beauty she had inside was all Lacey.
“I’ll be watching too,” she yelled back.
There it was, as ever. Proof of that beauty.
I gave her a short wave and slid off my stool.
Then, trying not to catch anyone’s eyes, I made my way through the crowded bar toward the hallway that led to the restrooms, kitchen and double doors that remained open to the outside for air flow. They also remained open because there was a big patio out there (with another bar) for the smokers and folks who wanted to have a conversation without shouting.
I turned that way and saw in the hallway were three tables. One was cluttered with plastic cups and bottles, clearly a set down point for people to drop their drinks so they could hit the dancefloor. The middle one had three girls and four bikers, by the looks of it from my experienced eye they were in the throes of getting-to-know-you in order to later get-to-know-you.
The last table, a little removed and shoved into a corner, was vacant.
I moved that way, head coming up to scan the area in case someone had the same intent and I had to hurry to cut them off at the pass.
And that was when I saw him.
There was a tall chain link fence outside, closing the customers in to the patio area.
He was straight on from the hallway, turned sideways, standing at that fence. He had a bottle of beer in his hand and a buddy who was shorter than him (in fact, smaller than him in every way, which it would seem at first glance anyone would be).
And he had his head thrown back because he was laughing.
Seeing that, suddenly, he was the only man there.
The only man at the bar.
The only man in the universe.
The only man breathing.
The only man for me.
He was huge. Not tall. Not big. Not broad.
All of that.
Huge.
Long blond hair pulled back in a ponytail at his nape. Cut, strong jaw liberally stubbled with red-brown whiskers. Heavy brow over (from what I could tell in profile) deep-set eyes. The muscles in his thick neck standing out, the cords of his throat so defined, they could be traced on paper.
He had on faded jeans, motorcycle boots and a white T-shirt. None of it was tight, except for in good ways at good parts in regards to his jeans. But it had to be an impossibility for that big of a guy to find a T-shirt that didn’t pull at his wide chest or cling to his broad shoulders or mold around his amazing biceps.
I knew with an instinct I didn’t understand that what had me in his thrall wasn’t about his body, even as good of a body as he obviously had and as much of it as there was. This giving the immediate feel that this guy could be a teddy bear if he was into cuddling, making you feel small and safe and warm and protected just by wrapping his arms around you. At the same time he could also be a lion, annihilating anything that might threaten to harm you.
It also wasn’t the obvious fact that he didn’t give a shit about what he wore, how he looked, he wasn’t out to impress, and more than just the way normal bikers rocked this look. He was him, with long hair clubbed back without much care, not bothering to shave, throwing on utilitarian clothes as a chore, maybe simply because it was illegal to w
alk around naked, mostly because he didn’t give a shit.
It also wasn’t the manner in which he held his body, his fingers casually wrapped around his beer like he forgot he was holding it. Comfortable with his large frame, one with himself, unconsciously stating he did not give that first damn if anyone looked or what they thought with what they saw.
I didn’t know how I knew it but I knew that he was not there to get laid. If that happened, it happened, but that wasn’t why he was there. He was also not there to see and be seen, a part of this bar, a regular, a player. He wasn’t about the music. Definitely not the dancing.
He was just there because he was a biker, these were his people and there was beer and a good laugh to be had. Hanging with his bud. Throwing one back. Trading jokes or manly barbs or whatever dudes did when they were out shooting the shit because it was better than being alone in your living room with one hand tucked in your waistband, a beer in the other, feet up, staring at mind-numbing TV.
No, it wasn’t any of that.
It was the way his face looked when he laughed.
I couldn’t put my finger on it even as his laughter died down and he was just smiling at his friend, which was not as good, but it definitely didn’t suck.
He wasn’t even gorgeous, not in a handsome way. He was too rough, but it wasn’t that either. His features were not classic or rugged or striking.
Yet he was not the guy next door.
He also was far from average.
It was just that you’d look twice, absolutely.
Maybe because of his size.
Mostly because, with one look, I knew he was that nut a girl itched to crack. Just watching him laugh, he made you be the girl who wanted to make him laugh like that. Who wanted to pull out the teddy bear cuddler within from the rough exterior that was without. Who wanted to live her life knowing no one would harm her because he’d sweat and bleed to make that so. Who wanted to strip that, “take me as I am, I don’t give a shit, my life is mine and I’m gonna live it,” clean away—not in everything, only in the sense you wanted him as he was, but he did give a shit about what you thought, and more importantly, his life was yours.