TOMORROW
7 PM PST.
JENNIFER ANN’S
INTERVIEW
THE AUTHOR OF:
Strong Language about to be read! 18 yr.+
The electric vibration between my
legs and against my hands is beyond amazing as I gaze upon the bright
colors of spring whizzing past and inhale the delightful smells of freedom as
the warm wind whips through my loose hair. I’ve waited three very long years for this moment.
Three fucking years.
A person would be amazed at what can transpire in a matter of a
thousand days, give or take a few. In that precious amount of time that was
stolen from me, the bitch who set me up got married and gave birth to a baby
boy. The country elected a new president. My little brother graduated from high
school and became a man. My favorite band released two new albums. My asshole
boyfriend left me for some skank he met at the gym.
And my father died.
Meanwhile I was behind bars, fighting for my life. Between dueling
gangs and crazy bitches who threatened to rape anyone with any object they
could get their hands on, it’s a miracle I was able to escape unscathed with my
dignity still intact.
It’s odd to see my now sculpted arms from hundreds of hours of
push-ups jetting out to the handlebars of my baby, though the change makes me
proud. Some of the women I met were broken down by the system and turned to
drugs, becoming shells of their former selves. I refused to lose control of my
own destiny and made the best of the time I was given by keeping both my body
and mind fit.
The sleeve my friend Jimmy started working on just weeks before I
was locked away catches in the remaining sunlight, reminding me I need to make
it my priority to get it finished. Now, even more than before, the whimsical La Catrina skull
celebrating the dead means so much more with both my parents and nearly
everyone else I’ve ever loved in the grave. Money’s not a problem when you’re
the sole beneficiary of your wealthy grandparents’ estate, so at least I don’t
have to worry about how to pay Jimmy or affording a place to stay.
Another biker approaches in the other lane. A smile stretches
across my face when I subtly move my arm down to my side and flash him the sign
of respect, the feeling of camaraderie that I’ve so desperately missed. When he
returns the gesture, I holler with uncontrolled delight.
I’m
fucking back!
Tires gliding across the highway, boots precariously dangling over
asphalt, fresh wind filling my lungs; this shit is my religion. Riding started
out as something I did with my father when I was old enough to walk and he was
still healthy. He taught me everything I needed to know about a bike—from how
to change the oil and check the tire pressure to the etiquette of traveling in
packs. My ‘uncles’ were his club brothers and I spent most my life around
vulgar men who liked their alcohol strong and their women loose.
Kids hanging at the club as much as I did wasn’t the ‘norm,’ so my
father kept my hair trimmed short and threw a baseball cap on me, as if to
trick the guys into thinking there wasn’t a young lady within the mix.
For the most part, it worked, until around sixteen when my large
breasts appeared and my face began to thin out, making it undeniably obvious I
was a woman and not one of the guys. My ‘uncles’ became uneasy with my
presence, so my father encouraged me to hang out with ‘girls my age’ at school
who were into sports and boys. By my junior year of high school, I had
surrounded myself with preppy dirt bags and had completely sworn off club life.
My head was so far up my ass that I was into dresses, makeup, and football
players—girly girl on the outside and hardened biker daughter on the inside.
Talk about a walking contradiction.
After my father was diagnosed with lung cancer the
first year I was away at college, I tested for my motorcycle license and spent
a good chunk of my inheritance on a brand new black Sportster 883. Riding became a way to escape my reality with nothing more than the
wind in my face and the smell of the earth filling my lungs. Being kept from
both my father and my bike for so long was nearly the death of me.
When I pull into the club’s parking lot on the edge of town, a
crippling feeling of déjà vu strikes my core. The metal
one-story structure looks exactly as I remember it: plain and obscure, easily
mistaken for an out-of-business repair garage without any markings or signs,
even though two of the big doors on the side have been welded shut.
Shit. How can a person have so
many fond memories tied to a mere building? I don’t care if I ever
return to the last house my father and I owned because this is home. Despite having a troublesome childhood void of a
mother’s influences, my father tried like hell to do the best for his baby girl
and gave me the kind of life everyone deserves.
Parking beside a long row of black Harleys, I sit frozen to my
seat, staring at the building as if expecting it to come to life. I could’ve
asked for a furlough to attend my father’s funeral, but I was too pissed that I
wasn’t there to say goodbye when he took his last breath and it would’ve been
downright impossible to face my ‘uncles’ who were crushed for not being able to
keep me out of prison despite their best efforts.
A man emerges from the back door of the club, strutting in my
direction without looking up. I’ve seen my share of badass bikers over the
years, but there’s something about the hot hunk that’s so very different from
the rest. The dude’s face is chiseled and square like the kind of manly-man I
fantasized about hooking up with while on the inside. Wavy brown hair hangs
down to his angular jaw covered in light stubble, somehow putting his
incredibly kissable lips on display.
He has the usual veteran biker’s collection of various patriotic
and Harley tattoos running up his muscular arms and disappearing beneath the
short sleeved button-down bearing the club’s logo. From the sizable bulges
beneath his shirt, I imagine he’s impossibly cut and capable of great strength.
When I picture myself running my hands across the solid muscles, I can’t help
but shudder.
Shit. I
may have just moaned out loud.
Lord help me, he’s the perfect mix of beautiful model and surly bad
boy that makes me want to spank his ass and ravish the rest of him.
Swaggering like he owns the place and has nowhere else to be, his
black boots crunch against the loose gravel as he hums a tune beneath his
breath. Clad in blue jeans, leather jacket hooked on a finger over his
shoulder, it looks as if he’s headed to the fucking runway.
As he flips a stray lock of hair behind his ear, beautiful sky blue
eyes land on me.
Oceanside
Marine summary:
Fresh out of
the Marine Corps, Braden Kendall has settled into a comfortable routine in
SoCal with his 3-legged dog and a handful of good friends. Despite being
undeniably handsome and perceived as a lady’s man, he’s lonely and tired of
meaningless hookups.
After becoming
pregnant in her teens, Katie Walker dedicated her life to raising her two sons,
putting any romantic notions aside until they flew the nest. Now that she’s on
her own and free to date, she struggles with putting her needs first.
Though Katie
and Braden aren’t related by blood, their families are intertwined by marriage,
making a relationship seem forbidden. Katie always found the cocky Marine
attractive, but their considerable age difference made him off limits. Little
does she know, Braden has been crushing on her for years and can’t get enough
of her quirky personality. When they meet up in Vegas for a family celebration,
Braden tries to convince her that their age different and families don’t
matter. Will Katie be able to push aside her insecurities and survive the
scrutiny of those closest to her in order to have a future with Braden, or will
their relationship be over before it has a chance to begin?
Forgiveness
in the MC doesn’t come easy…
They
say you can never go home again, but I was out to prove them wrong. After a three-year
absence from the only home I have ever known, the Inferno Glory MC was not
welcoming me back with open arms.
Until
Colt Sawyer sweeps me off my bike, makes me feel like a woman again, and shows
me pleasures I have never dreamed of.
Colt
thinks he can save me, but I am not the MC darling everyone remembers me as,
and no amount of scorching hot sex or whispering sweet nothings in my ear will
change my hardened exterior.
Or
at least that is what I thought.
He’s
offering me passion, forgiveness and protection. And once secrets start being
revealed, the protection he provides me may be the only reason I survive the
Inferno Glory MC.
Warning:
This story involves steamy sex with multiple partners and tattooed alpha
bikers. If you’re looking for a hot and dirty ride, this is your book.
Strong Language about to be read! 18 yr.+
The electric vibration between my
legs and against my hands is beyond amazing as I gaze upon the bright
colors of spring whizzing past and inhale the delightful smells of freedom as
the warm wind whips through my loose hair. I’ve waited three very long years for this moment.
Three fucking years.
A person would be amazed at what can transpire in a matter of a
thousand days, give or take a few. In that precious amount of time that was
stolen from me, the bitch who set me up got married and gave birth to a baby
boy. The country elected a new president. My little brother graduated from high
school and became a man. My favorite band released two new albums. My asshole
boyfriend left me for some skank he met at the gym.
And my father died.
Meanwhile I was behind bars, fighting for my life. Between dueling
gangs and crazy bitches who threatened to rape anyone with any object they
could get their hands on, it’s a miracle I was able to escape unscathed with my
dignity still intact.
It’s odd to see my now sculpted arms from hundreds of hours of
push-ups jetting out to the handlebars of my baby, though the change makes me
proud. Some of the women I met were broken down by the system and turned to
drugs, becoming shells of their former selves. I refused to lose control of my
own destiny and made the best of the time I was given by keeping both my body
and mind fit.
The sleeve my friend Jimmy started working on just weeks before I
was locked away catches in the remaining sunlight, reminding me I need to make
it my priority to get it finished. Now, even more than before, the whimsical La Catrina skull
celebrating the dead means so much more with both my parents and nearly
everyone else I’ve ever loved in the grave. Money’s not a problem when you’re
the sole beneficiary of your wealthy grandparents’ estate, so at least I don’t
have to worry about how to pay Jimmy or affording a place to stay.
Another biker approaches in the other lane. A smile stretches
across my face when I subtly move my arm down to my side and flash him the sign
of respect, the feeling of camaraderie that I’ve so desperately missed. When he
returns the gesture, I holler with uncontrolled delight.
I’m
fucking back!
Tires gliding across the highway, boots precariously dangling over
asphalt, fresh wind filling my lungs; this shit is my religion. Riding started
out as something I did with my father when I was old enough to walk and he was
still healthy. He taught me everything I needed to know about a bike—from how
to change the oil and check the tire pressure to the etiquette of traveling in
packs. My ‘uncles’ were his club brothers and I spent most my life around
vulgar men who liked their alcohol strong and their women loose.
Kids hanging at the club as much as I did wasn’t the ‘norm,’ so my
father kept my hair trimmed short and threw a baseball cap on me, as if to
trick the guys into thinking there wasn’t a young lady within the mix.
For the most part, it worked, until around sixteen when my large
breasts appeared and my face began to thin out, making it undeniably obvious I
was a woman and not one of the guys. My ‘uncles’ became uneasy with my
presence, so my father encouraged me to hang out with ‘girls my age’ at school
who were into sports and boys. By my junior year of high school, I had
surrounded myself with preppy dirt bags and had completely sworn off club life.
My head was so far up my ass that I was into dresses, makeup, and football
players—girly girl on the outside and hardened biker daughter on the inside.
Talk about a walking contradiction.
After my father was diagnosed with lung cancer the
first year I was away at college, I tested for my motorcycle license and spent
a good chunk of my inheritance on a brand new black Sportster 883. Riding became a way to escape my reality with nothing more than the
wind in my face and the smell of the earth filling my lungs. Being kept from
both my father and my bike for so long was nearly the death of me.
When I pull into the club’s parking lot on the edge of town, a
crippling feeling of déjà vu strikes my core. The metal
one-story structure looks exactly as I remember it: plain and obscure, easily
mistaken for an out-of-business repair garage without any markings or signs,
even though two of the big doors on the side have been welded shut.
Shit. How can a person have so
many fond memories tied to a mere building? I don’t care if I ever
return to the last house my father and I owned because this is home. Despite having a troublesome childhood void of a
mother’s influences, my father tried like hell to do the best for his baby girl
and gave me the kind of life everyone deserves.
Parking beside a long row of black Harleys, I sit frozen to my
seat, staring at the building as if expecting it to come to life. I could’ve
asked for a furlough to attend my father’s funeral, but I was too pissed that I
wasn’t there to say goodbye when he took his last breath and it would’ve been
downright impossible to face my ‘uncles’ who were crushed for not being able to
keep me out of prison despite their best efforts.
A man emerges from the back door of the club, strutting in my
direction without looking up. I’ve seen my share of badass bikers over the
years, but there’s something about the hot hunk that’s so very different from
the rest. The dude’s face is chiseled and square like the kind of manly-man I
fantasized about hooking up with while on the inside. Wavy brown hair hangs
down to his angular jaw covered in light stubble, somehow putting his
incredibly kissable lips on display.
He has the usual veteran biker’s collection of various patriotic
and Harley tattoos running up his muscular arms and disappearing beneath the
short sleeved button-down bearing the club’s logo. From the sizable bulges
beneath his shirt, I imagine he’s impossibly cut and capable of great strength.
When I picture myself running my hands across the solid muscles, I can’t help
but shudder.
Shit. I
may have just moaned out loud.
Lord help me, he’s the perfect mix of beautiful model and surly bad
boy that makes me want to spank his ass and ravish the rest of him.
Swaggering like he owns the place and has nowhere else to be, his
black boots crunch against the loose gravel as he hums a tune beneath his
breath. Clad in blue jeans, leather jacket hooked on a finger over his
shoulder, it looks as if he’s headed to the fucking runway.
As he flips a stray lock of hair behind his ear, beautiful sky blue
eyes land on me.
Jennifer Ann
Author of Contemporary Romance
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