Snake
An MC Romance
Book 6 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 – Adella
Want More Steamy Action?
The Twisted Devils MC
Book one: Razor
Book two: Rusty
Book Three: Mack
Book Four: Blaze
Book Five: Crash
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
Adella
“Mom, I need a tattoo.”
The small, nine-year-old voice that delivers this statement does it with such gravity and determination that I can’t help but look up from the glasses I’m washing and gaze across the clubhouse to where Violet, Sophia, Kendra, and little Matyas are sitting at a table. Josie’s standing next to the table, hands on her hips, and her head angled so forcefully to the side that, if she tilts it any more, she’ll fall over.
“Oh, so you want a tattoo now, little Speed Demon?” Snake says.
He’s sitting at a different table, not far away, drinking beers with Mack. Both men turn to the girl with smiles on their faces.
In the months she’s been here, Josie’s become the adopted daughter of practically every man in the club. It’s sweet to see how they dote on her and indulge her desire to get as involved in the club’s life as she possibly can. Just the other day, I overheard Snake and Brewer speculating on what the smallest, lightest motorcycle out there is, and what would be an appropriate age to teach Josie to ride.
“Not want, Snake. I need it. I’ve decided,” Josie says, then she turns to Kendra. “But I promise it won’t be big, mom.”
Kendra smiles at her daughter.
“Oh, nothing big, huh? So, what kind of tattoo do you want, Josie?”
“Just a small one. And fun. I saw a unicorn in Sophia’s sketchbook the other day. Maybe I could get that. And I’d want it on my cheek.”
Mack bursts out laughing. It’s a full belly-laugh that booms through the entire room.
“A face tattoo? You don’t do anything halfway, do you, Speed Demon?”
“I like unicorns,” she says, as if that should absolutely be enough of an explanation for a face tattoo. “But I’d want it to look tough. And maybe have some blood on its horn. Then, maybe later, I could get a zombie or a vampire on my other cheek. So it’d be like they’re fighting.”
Kendra’s mouth drops open and she stares at her daughter, speechless.
“I think that sounds like a superb idea, Josie,” Sophia says, and the second the words leave her mouth she catches a fiery look from Kendra. “But you don’t want that kind of tattoo on your face.”
“But I do,” Josie says. Her head tilts a little more and I’m sure I see her wobble and almost lose her balance.
“You don’t. That’s the kind of tattoo that would scare everyone — future employers, especially, and even just people you meet on the street. That would be a bad move, because then everyone would know how tough you are and you’d lose one of your biggest advantages in a fight: surprise,” Sophia says. “Mack, you know what I’m talking about, right? Tell her.”
Josie turns to Mack, a suspicious look on her face.
Mack nods. “Toughest fight I ever had in my life was against a guy with Snoopy on his forehead.”
“I think you’re lying,” Josie says.
“He’s not, Speed Demon,” Snake says. “I was there. I nearly got the snot beat out of me by a guy with double rainbows on his cheeks.”
“Now I think you’re lying,” I call out across the bar. I smile at him as he glances over at me, surprised. “Beat up by someone with rainbows on their cheeks? Come on, Snake, I’ve been tending bar for a long time, I know when someone’s telling a tall tale.”
“You’re not helping, Adella,” Snake says. “And you’re wrong. Mardi Gras in New Orleans is no joke.”
“Especially when you’re a fifth of whiskey deep and some drunk punks decide they don’t like the look of your cut,” Mack adds. “Or maybe they thought the leather we were wearing meant we were interested
