Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 79338 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 397(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79338 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 397(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
For a broke journalism student, living just across the street from a ruthless motorcycle club like the Screaming Eagles was perfect. Dirt cheap rent and watching ridiculously sexy men out my window all day?
Yes, please.
It stayed perfect right up until the day their enemies blew up the bar below my apartment. I lost everything that night, but those mouthwatering bikers risked their lives to save mine.
Now the only thing that really matters is the USB drive I hid under the floorboards that might be the key to proving my brother’s innocence. When I go back to look for it and run straight into my hot biker heroes, I can’t resist a one-time, no-strings-attached night of wild lust.
But I can’t get distracted by hard… muscles. Not when I’ve finally found the key to break my investigation wide open. It’s getting dangerous, and powerful people don’t like the questions I’m asking. No one’s going to care if one foolish young woman goes missing—no one but three fierce men who will do anything to keep me safe.
Reaper is six feet of coiled, dark energy, ready to burst into action and show me exactly how good getting wrapped up in his darkness can be.
Mack’s deep blue eyes pull me under and plunge me into stormy pleasure like I’ve never felt before.
And Scrapper’s talented hands are there to catch me, hold me, and then send me soaring until I can’t remember my own name.
One hot night with these bikers will never be enough, and when things get rough, they are the only ones keeping me from becoming another tragic story in this corrupt city. When I cross the wrong people, no one cares that one stubborn young woman has gone missing—no one but the three fierce men who will do anything to keep me safe.
SINGLE MOM FOR THE BIKERS is a motorcycle club reverse harem romance with a happy ever after ending. It's book 9 in the Screaming Eagles MC Series of standalone romances with characters who continue to make appearances.
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1
MILA
Can you get arrested for breaking into your own apartment?
What if it’s not technically yours anymore?
I really don’t want to find out, so I slip into the alley next to my old building and check the back door, hoping that it’s still left unlocked during the day. Yes! There’s some movement and low voices in the Eagles’ Roost—the bar owned and operated by the Screaming Eagles, but from what I saw outside, it’s still closed for repairs after the fire, so it’s probably just workers. I tiptoe up the stairs, feeling a little badass, like a private eye or something.
Sneaking into my old place feels like the kind of thing that isn’t illegal until you tell someone about it. If I get caught, I can honestly say that nobody said I couldn’t go back, right? As long as my key still fits in the lock, this is fine. Totally fine. Being nosy is practically a job requirement if I’m going to make it as a journalist. I can’t let a little anxiety about getting yelled at stop me.
The key fits.
I freeze for a second with my hand on the door handle, fighting a wave of nausea. The smell of smoke still lingers in the hall, and my leg throbs. The scars are still fresh, and so are my memories.
Move, Mila!
I force myself inside, and ignore the trashed living room to make a beeline for my old bedroom. I press on the cheap hollow baseboard, prying it away from the wall in the corner. There, right where I left it is a little envelope with a flash drive. I tug it out of its hidey-hole and squeeze it as hard as I dare in my fist. A wave of relief floods me even though there’s no guarantee the storage hasn’t been ruined. I'm never letting this out of my sight again if I can help it. I slide it into my pocket, patting the outside just to feel the bump and reassure myself that it didn’t slip into an alternate dimension or something.
With a relieved sigh, I stand up and look around my old place, really taking in the devastation for the first time. It’s like looking at the set of a post-apocalyptic TV show. I wasn’t here when we were allowed back in, but it’s obvious that only the most important things were shoved into boxes and bags while everything else was left to gather dust. There’s a mug on the table, and cereal on the counter, like we just decided to walk out one day and not come back, but towards the outside wall where the bomb hit, it’s a different story. The structure of the building was damaged, leaving the windows blown out and bits of the wall and ceiling crumbled. A lot of it is black and charred from the fire that traveled up the front of the building.
My roommate Meghan sent me a few pictures, but this is the first time I’ve seen it in person. She and my Mom packed my things for me while I was in the hospital. The bookshelf with all my textbooks and random knick knacks I accumulated over three years of college lies collapsed and burnt in the corner of my room. There’s even a partially melted plastic cup from the mango bubble tea I was drinking when the first explosion hit.
A shiver forces its way down my spine. The danger is long past, but my heart starts thundering anyway. I could’ve died in that fire. If the bikers hadn't busted in our door and carried me out, I’d be lucky to only have nightmares and an ugly scar up my left calf. My ankle twinges like my leg’s still trapped under the debris from the gaping hole in the ceiling. Sometimes when I least expect it, I feel the phantom crush, pain, and heat coming closer. My parents made me talk to a therapist a few times over the summer. She said it will fade with time, but I’m still waiting.
I turn away from the rubble and poke around my closet. Everything looks okay, but it smells like I went camping and let everything dry above the fire, times a hundred. I wrinkle my nose. Nothing to salvage here. New clothes are expensive, but so is dry cleaning—if that would even help. Things that I used a few months ago don’t feel that important anymore. There’s nothing in here worth more than what it would cost to save it.
And where would I put it anyway? I’m crashing on Meghan’s couch and her new roommates are annoyed enough that I’m there. They’d kick me out in a second if I dragged soot across the floor and made their place smell like a toxic bonfire.
There's a loud creak, followed by heavy footsteps out in the hall and deep voices talking. “I told you I fucking heard something. The door’s unlocked.” The voice is gruff and raspy.