Dark Biker Romance Books | Biker's Surrogate | Book #1 Rebel Barbarians MC (An Interracial Motorcycle Club Romance Series)

The new 2024 series drops on March 14th 2024. I officially announced what was coming at some point in 2023, but is it real if it isn’t on the website?!

Welcome to my next mafia-style dark interracial romance series. If you are new to motorcycle club romance or not yet converted, this series will have extremely dark enemies-to-lovers romance books that are similar to my Italian mafia and Greek mafia romance books…

Think of the outlaw motorcycle club members as our very own All-American mafia…

I don’t want to spoil too much of the story for you, just share the first chapter so you can get a taste of the action.

Warning: my stories are not for the faint-hearted and this is a potentially triggering dark romance book


Romance Novel Excerpts | Biker’s Surrogate (Book #1 Rebel Barbarians MC)

Chapter #1 

Southpaw

Addict? I’m not a damn addict. I don’t care what Hawk thinks. Just because I pushed myself a little bit and got us into this fucked up situation doesn’t make me a junkie. A green die rolls over the tops of my fingers as I straddle my bike and watch the Jew’s door. Junkies suck dick for a hit of a drug but all I’ve ever done is believe in myself. Maybe a little too hard. 

A bunch of criminal redneck bikers stealing a half million dollars of pills off a Jew is just as much of a gamble as anything else. What’s the difference between this and what I did? The whole country is a shake of the goddamn dice. I just have the balls to take my chances at winning big. Except this time, I lost. And the time before, which is why I went double or nothing.

I just got a little too drunk. Or Reaper got a lot better at pool since I last played him. That must’ve been two years ago at the annual tournament in Amarillo. Goddamn, he was lanky back then. 

My back tenses. I hate jobs like this. A stick up is easy. You find the motherfucker behind a gas station, talk like you’re in an action movie and ride away while the bastard figures out what to do with soiled trousers and no cellphone. 

I shouldn’t be here. I promised myself a couple years back that I wouldn’t end up in another situation like this one. I wouldn’t call myself an addict, but I definitely have a problem. Never saw a game I didn’t want to win. Dice. Roulette. Poker. Pool. 

Problems start when you stop winning, when the debts pile up, and when you need to bet everything but the shirt off your fucking back to get the same high. Gamblers know winning feels just as good as losing. I can’t explain my desire to self-immolate but my older brother Ethan doesn’t think I hate myself at all.

“You’re a goddamn selfish bastard, Wyatt. You don’t know how to love anyone but yourself.” 

Strong words from the older brother who put his first dog down himself. 


Pedestrians walk past the black door we’re watching, but we’re invisible to them, even if I feel like a fucking germ in this city with every goddamn antibody potentially becoming aware of my presence. The constant sound of sirens from every direction keeps me on edge and the sound of motorcycles reminds me if any of our enemies hears the Barbarians strayed so far from our territory, there could be consequences.

The last thing we want is a bunch of Blacks and Hispanics going all gangster on our asses. Could this motherfucker hurry up? After a family of five walks past me and definitely notices that I am way out of place in this nice ass neighborhood, I get paranoid. Hawk made me promise to stay away from liquor or pills to make this trip, but I can’t help but feel like I need something.

My gun burns a hole in my pocket. Could we have had bad intel? Dad claims to have a connection with some double-crossing police informant named something-Biederman who gave him this information, and I’m not in much of a position to question him since I gambled half a million dollars that I don’t have.

It’s either this,dad sells the family home to help me out, or asks Uncle Mikey or the Sinclair family for help. Not gonna fucking happen on my watch. 

My back is against the fucking wall, although I question my dad’s sanity associating with a damn Jew.

“I question your sanity gambling away half a million fucking dollars your broke ass doesn’t have,” he’d raged at me. Our fight that night was one of our worst, and we’ve had some bad ones over the years. 

I don’t fuck with a Goldstein or any “-stein” for that matter, but right now my job ain’t questioning him. I have a time limit before the Blackwoods take offense. The last thing you want is to cause an outlaw biker any offense. 

Where the hell is this goddamn Jew?

My phone buzzes and I check nervously, even if I don’t want to take my eyes off the door. I asked dad to let me do this alone, but to avoid another blowout argument, I agreed to my babysitters. He sent me with a couple Sinclairs… Hawk and his brother IsaacRyder, Condom and Ghost Sinclair join me and my brothers, Ethan and Owen to complete this errand.

(For club business,I call Ethan, Bear, and Owen, Scrap.)

Once we have the money, I’ll have some peace of mind.


But I won’t be free. Just free for now. 


If only it was just money I’d lost. Once we’re done here, I’ll have that part sorted out… but the Blackwoods want more than that. The smug look on Doc’s face when Reaper won told us everything we needed to know about their intentions. Utter humiliation. Dad thinks Doc wants his son wearing the President’s patch.

I say let him have it if he wants. Only a fool would want to lead this band of outlaw hooligans who only care about drugs, liquor, fucking and our goddamn bikes.


Bear: Both in position. Give the word. 

Southpaw: No movement.


I don’t deserve their help. The sun beats down on the back of my neck so hard I must be red already. The die rolls back over my fingers. There’s too much traffic here. It’s too hot. Chicago is too noisy and it’s not the familiar roar of a bike between my legs. 

The city is unsteady. Unpredictable. Loud in all the wrong ways and filled with too many people. Black people. Mexicans. Puerto Ricans. Jews. Cities packed with leeches that suck every last dollar out of our country and fill these filthy fucking cities with more crime than the cops know what to do with. The cops aren’t any better than the scum they preside over. Just having bikes and wearing a cut out here attracts instant attention from pigs. 

Once they see my patches and my tattoos, I’m guaranteed a night in jail on some trumped up charge. A fly lands on the back of my neck. I swat it away as a strong craving for beer sets in. How late is it? I wish I could have a drink. God, I miss drinking. The last time I got properly drunk was the Rebel Barbarians Motorcycle Club quarterly meeting out at the clubhouse in Amarillo a couple weeks ago. I could use some Hollingsworth bourbon. But dad’s right that I need to keep a clear head.

Dad’s right about a lot. This should be simple. Once I have the money, I can worry about the bigger problem, so I just gotta get through this simple job – getting four duffel bags of shrink-wrapped pills from downtown Chicago all the way back out to Pontiac, the head of the old Route 66 highway that crosses the Southwestern United States. With the recent bike tune-up, we can move this shit quickly – as long as we get the duffels out of the Jew’s apartment without incident.


Finally. Movement from the Jew. The black door opens and a short, balding man with tortoiseshell glasses and a long black trench coat exits. He doesn’t look like a big time drug dealer. I guess the M.D. types in this line of work like to look the part. Their clientele ain’t like ours. They’re junkies with Porsches and second houses. 


I reach for my phone and shoot off a text to the group as I watch him walk up the street, oblivious to my position. He doesn’t know he’s being hunted – which is good. At least we aren’t riding into a trap. I wonder what baldie did to piss off Goldstein and make him betray one of his own… 


Southpaw: Jew on the move.

Hawk: 5 minutes, then enter. Condom. Ghost. move to look out points.

Bear: Coast clear. Coming with Scrap in 5 minutes.


He doesn’t look like the type of guy to get involved in our dirty business. I watch the Jew as he stops at a crosswalk. His clothes are clean, expensive, and he’s clean-cut and clean-shaven. I guess you never know what people get up to just by looking at them. You definitely wouldn’t peg him for a drug dealer. I guess it’s just like dad says. Jews are sneaky. 

I wait for the Jew to cross the street before I move, confident I can get everything done in my allotted five minutes. I straddle my bike where I have it parked illegally behind a Dodge Caravan, watching the oblivious man until he disappears around the block.

Once he’s out of sight, I hop off the bike and hurry across the street to the apartment as fast as I can go without running and drawing too much attention to myself. His wife and kids are inside – along with four duffel bags of shrink-wrapped 20 mg fentanyl pills worth about $500,000. We’re gonna have to do something pretty fucked up, but unlike the Jew, the wife isn’t likely to be carrying a piece on her. According to our source – if you believe him.

The door to their pre-war brownstone is old enough that I don’t need to engage in high tech locksmithing to break the lock open. I’ve been doing this shit since I was a kid anyway, robbing kids' houses and flipping their shit back to them in high school. Messed up, but I made a lot of money back then.

I open the glossy front door easily and the house smells like pancakes and bacon, like they live in a freaking movie set apart from the rest of Chicago, which distinctly smells like hot dogs and piss. When I enter the narrow, constricted hallway, I hear a woman’s voice calling from upstairs.

“Barry? Barry is that you?” 

I stick the green die in my pocket where it rattles around with the matching one to the pair of dice. Good luck. I could use some good luck right now. 

My phone buzzes in my pocket again. High heels click across hardwood nervously. The bitch knows I’m not Barry. I wish I could say I was nervous in situations like this, but the truth is, I’m calm as fuck. I put a bullet in the chamber and raise the pistol to the top of the stairs, accurately predicting to the second when Mrs. Goldstein will emerge.

She screams as loudly as her lungs will allow once she sees me and the last gasp of oxygen almost squeaks out of her as her knees knock together and she faints. Her kids come running and although they scream their little heads off, I gotta give the little brats credit for holding it together a lot better than their mom.

“SHUT THE FUCK UP!” I yell at the little Goldsteins. They scream and the older one covers her brother’s eyes. She’s a pretty little girl with curly brown hair in a tangled mess and wide gray eyes round with fear.

“Don’t shoot us!” she says. “Well, if you have to shoot us, shoot me and let Oliver go.”
Oliver starts bawling his fucking head off, which kinda pisses me off since I have no intention of killing the kids. I expected them to be a little more obedient. Or younger. This isn’t what dad promised. I shut off the part of my brain that gets fucking livid at my father for his inhuman tendencies and focus on my job. I’m here for pills – not to be the good guy.

Fuck, I’ve never been the good guy and if there was even a shred of hope for me, I wouldn’t be in this situation in the first fucking place. I bet everything. I bet everything I had and lost like a fucking idiot and the worst part is, I’d do it again. 

“Stop crying and shut the fuck up,” I repeat. “I’m not gonna kill you unless you keep crying like a couple of babies.”

She tightens her grasp over her brother’s eyes. The protective, selfless action tugs at my heartstrings just for a second before I harden myself to the possibility that I might have to get rid of those children. Not kill them but make them… disappear. 

“I’m only ten,” the girl says sassily. “I’m not a baby.” 

The more I talk to her, the higher the chances of my guilt kicking in. 

“Where’s the bathroom?” I respond brusquely. If I show any weakness, the rest of the Barbarians will know and I’ll never hear the end of it from dad. 

The little girl gestures to the bathroom with her chin. I just need them out of the way.


I shove the kids in the bathroom and prop a chair up against the door so they don’t try anything and get shot in the process. They’re quietly sobbing by the time I lock them up, but at least they’re safe. What the hell is taking Hawk and my brothers so long?

Loud footsteps downstairs interrupt my train of thought followed by an even louder Oklahoma accent. It’s a funny accent that mixes Midwestern and Southern sounds in a way that shouldn’t be possible, but it tells me that my accomplices have finally got here.

“I’m upstairs!” I call down to them.

Ethan is the loud walker, so I hear his stupid ass crashing up the stairs first. He hasn’t kept his disapproval about this entire situation to himself. If dad didn’t order my older brother to join me, he might have sold me out to Reaper by now. He’s that pissed off. Luckily, I still have Owen on my side. He yelps loudly and then swears to himself in a much more masculine sounding voice.

“Don’t tell me he killed the Jew bitch,” my younger brother says loudly enough for the kids to hear. Great. I close the distance between us and try to speak with a lower tone of voice.
“She’s not dead,” I growl from the hallway. “Just passed out.”

We come face to face in the hallway. Hawk and Ethan look worse off from the heat than I am.

“Should we do something with her?” Ethan asks. “Looks painful.”

He shoots me a glare like I was supposed to do something with the woman when she passed out in front of me. I ignore him. I’ve done my fair share of shit for the club and for my older brother, despite his selective memory. 

Hawk and Ethan pick which sides of the Jew’s wife to grab her from and they grunt as they lift her together, careful not to smash her head against those perfectly decorated walls.
Hawk carries her to the master bedroom, which suits me just fine since this is where the duffel bags are. I begin the search immediately while they situate her on the bed.

“Where are the kids?” Ethan asks. Owen doesn’t seem to give a fuck. While my older brother Ethan, paces angrily, Owen stays focused on the search for the pills. As the youngest, Owen always feels like he has something to prove and he’s right.

Ethan on the other hand, is a constant hard ass about everyone else and ignorant about his own flaws. I glare at Ethan. Does it look like we have time to discuss this shit? He doesn’t see any fucking kids. Why does he care?
Owen picks up two watches from the dresser and shoves them both into his pocket. Rolexes? Pateks? I’ll ask later. I don’t bother hassling him for his kleptomania, and I still have Ethan glaring at me for answers I don’t have the goddamn time to give him.

“Locked up,” I grunt impatiently. “They’re out of trouble.”

Hawk searches just as fervently as Owen, throwing open dresser drawers and tossing panties, thongs, sex toys, and more boring pairs of underwear onto the bed. I can’t remember the last time a duffel bag fit in a dresser, but I assume he’s looking for any loot that could make this errand worth his time.
Ethan seems hell bent on finding a mistake I’ve made. Finding out the kids are safe doesn’t stop him from fault finding. He’s like a goddamn woman. Ethan flings open a closet door and throws coats, dresses and wool sweaters on the ground as he searches for the duffels.

“Did they see you?” he asks.

The question pisses me off. 

“Of course they saw me. What are they gonna do about it? Nothing.”

Owen takes a couple thongs out of the lady’s underwear drawer and shoves them in his pocket.

“Can you do something useful you fucking pervert?” I snap at Owen to stop myself from saying something worse to Ethan as I cross the bedroom to search for the duffel bags in the master bedroom’s third closet. How many closets do two people need? Hawk gets on his knees to look under the bed.

“Nothing here,” Hawk calls out with a grunt. “Just a gun locker…”

Owen ignores my chastisement as Hawk drags out the gun locker. 

“Fingerprinted,” Hawk says. Great. Hawk presses his fingerprint to the keypad – stupidly. My heart does an excited little flip when I open the closet door. They’re right out in the open. Four duffels, just like dad’s Jew informant suggested. The weight on my chest shifts just slightly.

“I found the shit.”
Owen and Hawk lose interest in the gun locker. We have less than fifteen minutes to get the fuck out of here.

“Holy shit. Are the pills in there?” Owen asks. Where else could they be? Still, it doesn’t hurt to double check. Scrap’s idiotic comments have saved our asses multiple times in the past. Bear and I haul the duffel bags onto the bed.

We check for the pills, peeling open the zippers and shedding enough of the bubble wrap to make out the sandwiched pill casings. I stand back and watch Bear and Scrap double check each back, my fingers reaching into my pocket just beyond my awareness for the pair of dice that I flip between each finger over and over, using the ritual to calm my mind from the sheer euphoria brought on by this motherlode of drugs.

“This shit is gonna move fast,” Hawk says. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.” 

We each grab one bag. I leave the kids barricaded in the bathroom as we walk past with the loot. Ethan glances over his shoulder at me one last time.

“Are you sure we shouldn’t shoot the bitch?” 

“No point,” I tell him. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.” 

We’re not in any mood to argue. The last member of our crew, the lookout, gives us the go ahead once he sees us leaving the house. Now… we run. I quickly fix the duffel to the back of my bike. I don’t worry about my brothers. We’ve done shit like this dozens of times. We grew up in the life, desperately wanting to be like our fathers who seemed so fucking free compared to other dads.

Our fathers lived for freedom. The open road. The original American dream of conquering the wild west, obeying nobody’s rules, and living without the laws of a king. Other dads seemed boring. Bankers. Doctors. Teachers. None of them were bikers. None of them wore cuts. Or patches. Had tattoos. Our dads were cool and when we grew up, we planned to be just like them… 

My bike roars to life, becoming one with my body as I zip off into traffic, weaving around cars and trucks with confidence that anyone else might think borders on stupidity. I won’t know if my brothers made it out of the city okay until I get to Pontiac, but that’s just fine with me. I leave Chicago from the West before looping around and finding the Old Route 66 highway that connects the Rebel Barbarians chapters across the Midwestern and Southwestern United States.

Dad has been so fucking disappointed in me lately. This will help take his mind off things. I guess I shouldn’t blame him. The old man is getting old. Doesn’t help that Hollingsworth and Blackwood both have grandkids.

He wants an heir… 
But how the hell can I give him an heir when I gambled my unborn first-born child… and lost?


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