Dark Biker Romance Books | Biker's Property | Book #5 Rebel Barbarians Motorcycle Club Romance
By the time I finished writing Book #2 Biker’s Servant, I knew I would give Hunter’s twin brother Ryder his own story. He shares a lot of Hunter’s traits and I love twins, so exploring Ryder’s psychology as the “fuck up” twin was a huge priority for me. Ryder was a fascinating man to put to the page because he went to prison to protect the brotherhood… but that doesn’t make him an innocent man.
His past with the Aryan Brotherhood comes up in Book #2 and in this book, Ryder has a big task for the club on his hands that gets completely screwed up when he meets a mysterious woman crouched in the desert and covered in blood. Joslin has far more secrets than any of my other female leads and as a woman of faith… it is very possible she will be underestimated.
But in this story, Joslin’s twisted past makes her a perfect match for Ryder. They are both good people who did effed up things…
But when they first meet, their dynamic is completely twisted by Ryder’s distrust of all people (typical in ex-cons). Joslin is a “small but deadly” female lead who uses her wits to get her way more often than not. If you enjoy a woman not afraid to speak her mind and get her business done on her own… Joslin will win you over.
If you enjoy the dark psychology of twins, ex-convicts, prisoners and of course, hot smut… you are 100% in the right place. From the very first chapter we have TRIGGERS TRIGGERS TRIGGERS. This book is insanely dark and I need you to be in the right headspace for this story.
Welcome to the gritty underworld of problematic all-American bikers…
This story will be “let’s go even darker” and is (so far) the longest book in my series. (Click here to see all the preorders and books available.)
These two individuals will find love, passion and a place to hide their secrets in each other.
Get ready for even more action as the series continues. Joslin is a mixed race Filipina/black mixed race lead by reader request and I want to thank ALL my readers for continuing to give me ideas, inspiration and support. Ready for the chapter?
The official release date is October 4th and every pre-order absolutely helps me out as an indie author.
Click here to check out the story on Kindle.
Chapter #1
JOSLIN
When I turned eighteen, my mom randomly said, “Pastor Woolstenhume wants you to get married.”
I laughed because… I was eighteen. I graduated from high school and tried to ignore the fact that all the girls under twenty were quietly married off to other members of the church. The first two were married to boys roughly their own age – only six years older. I got a little weirded out when a mother proudly married off her seventeen-year-old daughter to our Pastor’s forty-year-old son.
But the only thoughts swirling around in my head were those sermons, and True Crime. Ever since my father passed away, the church was all we had. They did more than the government for him and he was a veteran. Every time I questioned something happening in our church, our Pastor or one of my friends had a good answer for it.
I thought I could ignore the weird change in Pastor Woolstenhume’s message. How it became more aggressive. More about the end of the world. More about women’s place in the home. I thought maybe I could go to college. That’s where I made my first mistake. I came home with that SAT book and the next morning, my mother hid it behind the stove and replaced it with Pastor Woolstenhume’s new edition of the Bible.
I knew that writing a new version of the Bible was wrong, so I didn’t pay close enough attention to his deepening psychosis wrapped up in those new radical teachings.
Her obvious ass hiding spot didn’t fool me, so I ignored another red flag and started studying.
My ass never made it to college.
Before I even turned nineteen, something happened.
Something terrible.
Seven days before my nineteenth birthday, I married my husband.
Not the damn Pastor. Although, it does sound like that type of story, doesn’t it?
The man I married was someone much worse. Seth Overman. Pastor Woolstenhume encouraged it and with my back against the wall, I had no choice. How I got married is a long, long story. And of course, I married a stranger, so you know how it’s going to go. But trust me when I tell you, that’s the least crazy part of my story.
I didn’t even notice when this Seth character – the man who would be my future husband – joined our church, but it was sometime around when Pastor Woolstenhume broke away from the main church and created his own preachings. Seth wasn’t particularly interesting. What’s the big deal about a white man in Arizona? They’re a dime a dozen out here.
He didn’t seem interested in me either. We only met once. He asked about my race, which was weird. I had to tell him my mom was Filipina and my dad was black.
“At least you’re not an Indian.”
I thought that was weird, but racism isn’t unusual out here. Still, it was another red flag. Something else I ignored that led to my downfall…
Seth expects the same breakfast at the same time every day. When I first moved into his house, he promised I could use the mornings to study. That lasted a week. Our first fight over breakfast ended with him hitting me in the head with a cast iron pan. I threw out my SAT book and started watching recipes on YouTube.
If I don’t do what this man says, he’ll kill me.
I was nineteen. The best way to survive seemed to be listening to him.
I’m older now – twenty-seven – not the same girl who stumbled into marriage because of pressure from her church and the terrible thing that happened…
Surviving is no longer my only priority in life.
I’ve made his breakfast so many times I could do it with my eyes closed. This morning, I have to keep my eyes wide open so I can slip the crushed herbs I spent the past few weeks foraging into his omelet. He drinks his coffee black and oversalts his food. Some of these herbs might stink, but I doubt that man has taste buds or a soul left.
Whatever. I have some backup herbs in case the omelet thing doesn’t work. I mix the crushed brown powder into his coffee and try not to look a damn mess when I hear Seth rustling around upstairs. I wish I could tell you that I lived every day shaking in fear. But that’s not the truth when you’re in a situation like mine. You just find a way to be calm in situations where a normal person really wouldn’t be calm.
I can tell when he comes downstairs that he’s pissed off and worse – already drunk. I assumed he was working on business stuff upstairs.
“Coffee. Hurry,” he snaps at me, both with his voice and literally snapping his fingers. I’m more eager than ever to come off as submissive and proud to serve him. I have so many scars from the things he’s done to me. Stupid bastard. I can’t wait until he’s dead.
He pulls his chair out, mutters something about me being a stupid bitch and takes an angry bite out of his toast. The man acts like a child. And he feels like some kind of hero because he has a “Filipina wife”. He conveniently ignores the fact that I’m black and forces me to cover up my hair or wear it in a way that hides the texture. I hate this man so much.
When I turn around, Seth runs his fingers through his blond hair and my heart skips a beat from the guilt that would fill anyone’s chest if they were about to take a life. He doesn’t notice me watching him. The good thing about him is that he spends so much time obsessed with himself that he doesn’t notice all the ways I’ve changed.
All the ways I prepared myself to leave.
Now… I have to end his life. It’s time. I know in my bones that it’s the right time. I’ve been through too much.
When a woman becomes deeply obsessed with True Crime, nobody suspects that she’s doing it because she’s going to kill her husband.
To be fair, that’s not how my interest in True Crime started, but that’s how it ended up – poring over podcast episodes and YouTube videos until I came up with the perfect plan to end Seth’s life.
I was late to the party. Most women came to True Crime through the “classic” cases that have long held the public’s obsession. I missed JonBenet Ramsay and Natalie Holloway when their cases were plastered across CNN and local news channels. I didn’t even tap in with O.J. Simpson, which has the element of racial conflict. My dad supported O.J. Simpson until the day he died.
I didn’t even get intrigued by the Scott Peterson case, even if the allegations made against him were some of the most horrific we’ve seen in modern times and so hard to believe because of his public image. I would become obsessed with that case later.
My first true obsession was with the Gypsy Rose Blanchard case. Everyone knows about it now, but back when I started listening to True Crime, only a select few “weirdos” were completely obsessed with the case about the girl who killed her own mother. I didn’t just listen to the podcasts and watch YouTube videos about her back in 2015 when the court case happened.
I learned about Munchausen by proxy and all these new words that unlocked one research topic after another in my high school library. Her case was the first one that caused me to understand why people cared. Before that, I thought True Crime was for freaks who wanted to sleep with Charles Manson.
The Gypsy Rose Blanchard case was different. It was twisted, fucked up, and in some weird way, it felt like her criminal act was righteous defiance against abuse. I became obsessed with the trial and the weird guy who definitely manipulated her so he could act out twisted murder fantasies of his own. Terrifying.
His controlling behavior reminded me of a lot of the men at my church, strangely enough, and the entire case gripped me. I thought murder was too far, obviously, but there was something oddly compelling about this girl who did what any human might have done in her situation. People are animals at the end of the day and if you put an animal that’s meant to be free in a cage, it will do just about anything to get free.
I never thought she was a hero or someone anybody should worship but… I understood why she felt like there was only one way out of her situation. It’s messed up that people ever have to feel like that – like they have to take another life.
I know it sounds dramatic but… her mom sounded like mine. Sure, my mom wasn’t that bad, but the similarities were clear. Anyone who has been through that type of thing understands — the twisted pull you have between loving them and hating them.
Listening to coverage of that trial was the first time in my life that I considered child abuse might be something I was familiar with. I devoured everything I could, listening to podcasts and YouTube videos at school, learning more about True Crime and quietly acknowledging how much I related to all the victims and their stories, even if they were dark and disturbed. But my life was boring — just school and church. My mother didn’t let me go anywhere else.
My church friends loved the True Crime rebellion as much as I did. What wasn’t there to love? In our community, more visible rebellion like piercings, tattoos, or even dyed hair, would come with punishment that was too swift. Too embarrassing. Listening to True Crime was tantalizing, easy to get away with, dark and satanic without exposing us to any real danger.
The best part was accessing this taboo content didn’t involve interacting with boys or doing anything that could shame your entire family.
Now that those days are years behind me, I find it funny now that they expect women like us to go straight from that into marriage – from never having touched or looked at a boy, never having considered our own desires, straight to marriage. It couldn’t be more clear in our fundamentalist world that women don’t matter.
And I guess in True Crime, we matter. Even if we were dead. Even if we were victims. Almost every story I listened to centered on a woman. A woman who I felt some strong kinship with… even if she was dead.
So that’s how it started – a seventeen-year-old mixed race girl out in the desert listening to True Crime when she wasn’t listening to Pastor Woolstenhume’s sermons. It took me a long time to plan but finally, after years of notes, of soaking it all in, I’m finally ready to do it — kill my husband.
I might not get away with it, but at the end of the day, that man will be dead. And he won’t guess that the 4’11” woman that he beat and disrespected will have been the one to trick his ass straight to his death. I give him the most submissive look I can muster up, playing to his ego, preparing myself to watch something that I imagine will be both relieving and horrifying.
I hate looking at this man.
Maybe there was one point I thought I could get used to him. But I can’t. There comes a point when a woman goes through too much hurt to ever forgive and forget.
My husband takes a deep drink of the coffee.
Seth lets a drop of coffee drip into his blond beard and gives me a smug, condescending look, the corners of his dry lips twitching with delight from whatever biting comment he plans on spitting in my direction.
“It only took you a decade to learn how to make a good cup of coffee.”
I’m too smart to fall for his attempt to start an argument with me. “Thank you. It’s this new blend called Jamaican Me Crazy.”
He laughs and gives me a look like he’s sizing me up. He does that often. He wants me to know that my fate, the entire outcome of my day, sits in his hands. If he wants me to have a good day, that’s what I have. If he wants me to spend my day in urgent care lying my ass off about lacerations and bruises, that’s the type of day I’m going to have.
And nobody gives a shit when all the doctors, nurses, and EMTs are a part of your church.
“Aren’t you going to eat anything?” he asks. “People will talk if I have a wife who looks like a starving Ethiopian.”
I want to tell him that there are children starving in Belgium too, but I bite my tongue. I really prefer not to get into useless arguments with this man unless I have a damn good reason.
“I already ate. But if you want me to join you, I will.”
For just a few more minutes, I have to act like the perfect wife. Once I pull that off, Seth Overman will be dead. And once I’m finally free, I will never be a man’s prisoner again.
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