Page 1 of Biker Bride (Hell on Heelz MC)

Chapter 1

The clubhouse was lit, bikers from everywhere stuffing the Roost for the yearly charity auction. I inhaled the sweet smell of leather and bad decisions. Fucking delicious. We Heelz did nothing halfway, and tonight was no exception.

In the back, I glanced in the mirror, adjusting my leather bustier, making sure it hugged my curves just right. I couldn't help but fight the reflection staring back at me. Dark brown hair that fell in loose waves around my shoulders, thick lashes framing my amber eyes, and lips that were full and red—thanks to my favorite shade of lipstick. I was the picture of wild beauty, a former beauty queen turned biker chick.

Screaming out, I punched the mirror, making a crack run down my reflection. Bringing my knuckles to my lips, I sucked on the wound, the coppery taste familiar. Only a scratch.

They call me Psycho for a reason. I earned that name, and I fucking wear it like a crown. Messing my hair until it was wild. I studied a face that could have graced magazine covers if life hadn't taken a hard left turn. My eyes, big and round, held a madness that scared most people shitless anymore. My pouted lips curved into a knowing smile. I embodied a dangerous beauty.

Getting a tattoo was the first thing I did once I got out. The one I loved the most was the portrait of myself, from myglory days, that ran down my arm, surrounded by roses and stars. A reminder of the part of me that died. The part that gave a shit.

At seventeen, I had the world at my feet. I was the star of a popular soap opera, the girl every teenage boy fantasized about. But all that glitz and glamor was a fucking illusion. The pressures, the fake smiles, the endless backstabbing—it was too much. I snapped, and they locked me up in a hospital. I spent years there, making pretty paper stars to keep from going completely insane. Developing new addictions. Now, at twenty-three, those stars were a distant memory, replaced by the steel and chrome of my Harley and the sisterhood of the Hell on Heelz MC.

Yeah, I was once crowned a beauty queen and then embraced the biker lifestyle, and I loved every damn second of it. I had a gig on a fern farm in Seville, Florida. It was weirdly peaceful. The plants didn’t judge, expected nothing from me. They just grew, thrived under my care, just like I had.

My sister Tank had found me at my lowest, rescued me from a handsy asshole at a local club who fancied becoming my pimp. She saw something in me, something worth saving. She brought me into the fold, into the Hell on Hellz MC and I embraced the biker life with open arms. I gave up my addiction to drugs for a new kind of high. Being a biker, I could be as reckless, as dangerous as I wanted. No one gave a goddamn if I swore, if I showered, if I sat like a lady. If I broke things or cut a bitch. That was exactly what I’d needed. Now, I was the Tail Gunner for the club, and I wore that title like a boss.

I got up close to the mirror, checking out the lady looking at me. “You’re a fucking badass bitch,” I whispered to my reflection. “They have no idea what’s coming.”

A wild smile spread across my face as I thought about the chaos of the night ahead. Our charity auction for Breast Cancer was tonight, and I was ready to shake things up. Tonight was going to be legendary, and I was eager to set the world on fire. I smeared on a final coat of deep red lipstick, the color of blood and danger.

"Hey Psycho, you look ready to stab some guy," Pixie said, sauntering into the room. Don't be fooled by her tiny body. She could be a big bitch, and that’s why I loved her.

Smirking, I stood up to tower over her. "Bet. Right in the kidney."

Pixie took the sucker out of her mouth. "Wanna make a real bet? Whoever raises the most money in the auction tonight gets the Tail Gunner position."

A wild sound escaped me, that echoed off the walls. Pix wanted my job, but she wasn’t crazy enough for it. Being the Tail Gunner in the Hell on Heelz MC was a thrill ride, pure adrenaline. It wasn't just about riding at the back. It was my job to watch our asses, spot threats, and make sure no one got left behind.

But I wasn’t one to back down from a challenge. “You still auctioning off a ride on your Harley?” I asked her.

With a snort, she ran her hand through her pink and purple hair. “No way if you're gonna offer a date with you. It needs to be a fair fight.”

I hadn’t thought of auctioning a damn thing. I just wanted to work the crowd, pick some deep pockets. Hell, to be honest, I really wanted to stab someone, cause some trouble. A fight. But if Pixie was donating a date, I’d donate three.

“Fuck fair,” I said, leaving her behind.

With a knowing glance, we hurried to the main room, the loud chatter and blaring rock music causing my ears to ring. Out in the bar, it was a fucking sausage fest. Bikers and their old ladies drinking and hollering. The reason for all this rare testosterone at the Roost? I spotted Rage, our president, deep in conversation with Brat, who was practically glowing with her new role as the club’s liaison with the Seville Slayers. Yeah, she was playing slime the sausage with their President, Riptide.

"Hey, Prez," Pixie called out. Fucking little snitch. "Psycho and I got a bet going. Loser gives up her spot as Tail Gunner." She put her tiny hand up, making an L on her forehead.

I flipped her the bird.

Rage cocked an eyebrow, somehow giving everyone a death stare all at once. One of her superpowers. "You sure about this, Psycho? That's a big fucking wager."

"I ain't losing. Not to a pipsqueak in a prepubescent boy’s body. At least I don’t think that’s what the men here like, but ya never know with the Slayers." Whipping my neck to the side, I spit at the mention of our rival’s name.

Puckering her lips, Rage stared at the foam on the ground, but she never opened her mouth to complain. Old habits die hard. I knew her mouth was real juicy, and she was thinking of adding to the spit pile. But boy, did Brat open her big mouth to bitch about it.

“We agreed to stop spitting,” Brat said through her teeth. “There’s a truce.”

Ignoring my insult, Pixie cut in, “You good with this, Prez?" She prodded Rage.

Rage crossed her arms, ignoring Brat. "As long as it brings in more money for the cause, I’m all for it. Just keep it civil, alright? Got riders here and who knows who else."

"Define civil," I said with a laugh.

Brat answered me, her voice curt. “Just don’t start a fight tonight.”

---