Crash
An MC Romance
Book 5 in the Twisted Devils MC
By
Zahra Girard
Copyright © 2020 by Zahra Girard
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Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Epilogue – Violet
Epilogue – Crash
Want More Steamy Action?
The Twisted Devils MC
Book one: Razor
Book two: Rusty
Book Three: Mack
Book Four: Blaze
The Rebel Riders MC:
Book one: Thrash
Book two: Riot
Book three: Duke
Book four: Rooster
Book five: Creole
Book six: Bull
The Wayward Kings MC Series:
Book one: Bear
Book Two: Ozzy
Book Three: Hazard
Book Four: Preacher
Other books by Zahra Girard:
His Captive
Liar
Chapter One
Violet
“Another round.”
I look up from the bar I’ve been idly polishing for the last ten minutes and snatch up a bottle of bottom shelf whiskey — the second one these four guys have gotten into in the last hour — and pour fill another set of glasses. My customer watches, eager, a little too eager, and then reaches out to grab them.
I push his hand away. Not hard, I know better than to provoke a man like him, but firm enough that he gets the point.
“Before you can have these, I need you to catch up on your tab.”
“You don’t think I’m good for it?” He raises one heavy eyebrow. In the gloomy light of my bar, the hard lines of his face cast shadows that set off his sharp features. Stubble, a scowl menacing enough that it could bring a manic fit to a screeching halt, and a jawline so sharp I could use it to cut limes. He’d be handsome, if he weren’t the exact opposite of my type.
“I don’t doubt you’re good for it. But I know everyone in carbon Ridge, and I don’t know you. Which means you’re from out of town. And I don’t let out-of-town bikers come into my bar and run up a giant tab without asking for a little collateral.”
That scowl sinks to depths that would make the Marianas Trench jealous.
“You fucking serious? I’ve had a long fucking ride to this pissant town, had to deal with the highway being fucking closed — which is the only reason we’re in this fucking shithole bar — and you want to get into a pissing contest with me over four drinks?”
If that glower of his were to level off or, heaven forbid, he was to even smile, I might be tempted to smile back at him. And if he weren’t wearing a cut that’s bulging with an obvious gun beneath it, and if his tightly corded, muscular arms weren’t draped with tattoos, then even with his growly attitude I’d still be tempted to flirt with him. But I’m not. Because he’s acting like an angry jerk and his holier-than-thou attitude reminds me too much of a man I’d rather forget.
“Look, if you and your friends want to drink yourselves into oblivion by swimming in a literal ocean of liquor, that’s fine. Hell, I’ll sell you the snorkels and a set of flippers. But you will have to settle some of your tab before you can have these drinks.”
His eyes narrow. His mouth opens, but he hesitates.
To show him I’m serious, I snatch up one of the glasses of bottom shelf whiskey and finish it in a single gulp. When he still hesitates — though his eyes have widened a bit in surprise — I take up a second and finish that one, too.
Then his hand reaches into his cut. Right toward his gun.
In alarm, though doing my best to seem calm, I reach under my counter and wrap my hands around the Louisville Slugger I keep there. It won’t do much to stop a gun, but I will leave him with a head injury to remember me by.
I heave a sigh of relief when he pulls out a thick clip of bills and peels off a handful of twenties, which he throws onto the bar.
“I like your attitude,” he says in a smokey, still-kind-of-pissed growl.
“Thanks. It’s the one thing that’s free in here,” I say, and I snatch up the cash and then fill the two empty cups. And, before he can say anything — because I have the distinct feeling he might want to hit on me and, no matter how good he looks, I can not allow
