Page 1 of Ridin’ Dirty

Let me start by saying, thank you! If you have been with me since Ridin’ Wild, you’re a true gem. Seriously. It’s been quite a ride. Your love and support for this series has exceeded my every expectation. I’m so grateful for your readership.

If Ridin’ Dirty happens to be the first of my novels you’re picking up, welcome to the clubhouse. At this point, it’s customary for me to leave a little note. It’s bitter sweet this time, knowing it’ll be the last I write for this series, but one more for the road…

Before you dive in to Lyla and Pistol’s story, allow me to give my usual spiel and a bit of a trigger warning.

For anyone who has read my previous novels, I would like to note the MMC within these pages is not quite like my others. By definition, he is an antihero. While Ridin’ Dirty is far from a dark romance, you will find this story is neither neat nor warm and fuzzy. If you are a sensitive reader, proceed with caution.

This is the fourth and final installment in the “Wild Stallions MC” series. This couple and this Stallions chapter is new, but my FMC has been around for a while. Lyla makes a notable appearance in Ridin’ Wild. (Though, I will say, she’s first introduced in Thornhill Road.)

While I’ve written all of the “Wild Stallions MC” novels to be read in order, and I do recommend you start from the beginning, Ridin’ Free is the story where Lyla came alive for me. I do give you a glimpse of her relevant backstory in the prologue of this book—but if you’re the type of reader who wants the whole picture, do with this information what you will!

That said, if you have your heart set on reading this one first—it stands on its own fairly well.

Godspeed, and happy reading!

Missoula, MT

He was at the clubhouse, sitting with a few of his brothers at the poker table. What he had in his hand was shit, but he wasn’t bothered. Whatever money he lost that night, he’d find a way to earn more. Rather than worry over his shrinking stack of chips, he was content to be with present company.

His girl, Reaper, was curled up between his feet—her golden-brown paws folded over the top of one of his boots, and her black face resting beside them. In spite of the music and the hum of activity in the room, his German Shepherd was sound asleep.

Nomad was on his left. Even after all the years they’d known each other and the depth of their friendship, Pistol could never tell if his brother was bluffing. He had an unbeatable poker face. The well-worn, straw cowboy hat that sat low on his brow didn’t help matters.

Fury sat to his right. He was a big fucker who could hide his expressions behind his thick, dark beard. Far as any of them knew, there was only one thing that could crack his hard exterior—and it was his ol’ lady. Though, regardless of his straight face, he always seemed to give himself away. His tell was all in his sigh. He wasn’t a man with much patience.

Wrangler sat on Fury’s opposite side. The enforcer wasn’t exactly a stranger, but he and Pistol had never been in the same chapter. Wrangler and Gillette’s VP, Twister, were making the rounds, checking in to see what was what. Rumor on the street was trouble was brewing—an old problem locked behind bars looking for freedom. The out-of-town guests were there to check the strength of the Stallions’ northern allegiance.

Fact of the matter was, the Missoula chapter of the Wild Stallions Motorcycle Club was good under Bull’s leadership. He held the highest rank, but with a humility that earned him respect and loyalty which spanned across state lines. Moreover, the last thing Pistol and his Montana brothers needed was internal strife. They had enough to worry about with their rivals down the road.

It was Pistol’s turn. He glanced at his cards and contemplated whether or not he was willing to bluff. When his phone began to ring from inside his pocket, he considered it a sign.

“I’m out,” he muttered, pushing aside his hand as he reached for his phone. It was nearly eleven o’clock on a Thursday night. When he saw Maxine’s name lighting up his screen, he frowned and hesitated only long enough to acknowledge his suspicions.

Maxine Matthews never called with the promise of a good time.

This was a well-known fact.

She had the digits of every patched member with rank—a reality she abused a time or two. More than once, she called one of them after a drunk night out with friends in an effort to avoid her father. The first time, she got Spurs, who ratted her out to her old man. That was enough to knock him off her list.

The second time it was Fury. She threw up all over his boots. It had been over a year since that night, and she still went out of her way to make it up to him any way she could.

The third time she called Pistol. He knew it was only a matter of when, and he came prepared. They had a bit of a chat. While Pistol wasn’t the sage among his brothers, he’d lived enough life to see where hers was going. He was as gentle as he could be in his delivery. He knew what it was to stir up trouble. He’d been doing it since he was fourteen years old.

Another time and in another place, he would have been the trouble she got into.

His shenanigans put his mother through hell.

But he had a dick between his legs, not a pussy.

Maxine was barely twenty years old and as beautiful as a fucking sunrise. Yet, somehow, even with the parents she got, she danced through life with a naiveté that was bound to land her in the wrong place at the wrong time. When he last went after her, he was sure he didn’t say anything her old man hadn’t already, but it hit different from someone who wasn’t her daddy.

He thought his message was received.

The Stallions weren’t designated drivers on hogs.

It had been months since their chat.

As his phone continued to ring, he wondered if its effects had worn off.