Wolf e a dark mc romance, p.1
Wolf.e: A Dark MC Romance, page 1
Editor: Caroline Palmier—Love & Edits
Consulting Dev. Edits: Jordan Valeri
Proofreading, Book Design: Cathryn Carter—Format by CC
Cover Design: @whiskeygingergoods
ISBN: 978-1-7380294-9-5
Copyright © 2024 by Paisley Hope
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters, and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
This book is a standalone MC romance that houses darker elements. It is intended for people 18+
Please read the trigger warnings below before you continue your journey:
Violence expected with the life of an outlaw motorcycle club including but NOT limited to:
Torture, Gun violence, Murder, Discussions of sexual assault of a sixteen-year-old (nothing descriptive nothing on page-talk of past occurrence). Flashback of domestic abuse and death of a family member, mild alcohol and drug use.
Sexual Triggers are NOT fully listed to conceal plot points and pivotal moments but are of a darker nature. They include but are NOT limited to:
Blood, breath and knife play, anal sex, sex in a religious setting, sex that feels ritualistic, consensual non consent. Degradation, borderline captor/captive setting.
Discussions of life as a marine, traumatic moments.
To all my good girls who know falling in love with the king of an outlaw motorcycle club doesn’t mean your mission in life is to change him. Instead, it is to embrace the wicked inside you and become his bad ass queen.
CONTENTS
Glossary of Club Lingo
Wolfe & Brinley’s Playlist
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
MC: Motorcycle Club
Club business: Illegal /non-illegal activity that benefits the club
Cut: Leather vest or jacket bearing the club insignia
Sweetbutt: A girl who hangs around the club, often offered for sex or help, hoping to become a member’s ol’ lady
Ol’ Lady: Wife or serious girlfriend of a club member
Patch over: When one MC takes over another
Sprite: Good girl, fairy, princess
Squid: A poser rider the club looks down on, someone who lacks biker common sense
Code: The rules club members live by
Chapel: The room in which the club conducts their daily/weekly meetings
Service: The meeting to discuss club business
President: The highest level of power. The boss. The conductor of business
VP: Vice President
Enforcer: Upholds club laws, protects patch holders, defends club’s reputation, assists in conflict resolution.
Sgt at Arms: Sergeant at Arms, protector of the president, his number one
Prospect: A club apprentice. Usually wears the prospect patch for one year to prove his loyalty through service, trust and a series of really shitty tasks no one else wants to do
Rally: A gathering of bikers, normally for fun but club business is generally conducted as well
1. God’s Gonna Cut You Down by Johnny Cash
2. Hummingbird by Carly Pearce
3. Enter Sandman by Metallica
4. Hotel California by The Eagles
5. Killing In The Name of by Rage Against The Machine
6. Seven Nation Army by The White Stripes
7. Sweet Child O’ Mine by Guns N Roses
8. Hard Row by The Black Keys
9. Are You Satisfied by Reignwolf
10. Ghetto Cowboy by Yelawolf
11. Desperado by Upchurch
12. Vincent Black Lightning 1952 by Logan Halstead
13. Power Over Me (Acoustic) by Dermot Kennedy
14. Simple Man by Lynyrd Skynyrd
THE ART OF A PRESIDENT’S WAR
In two generations, you will be completely forgotten.
The illusion that you won’t be keeps you going.
The illusion that somehow you are different.
Illusions serve no one.
The illusions we have about ourselves make us feel good about what we do every day.
Grow up, get married, work, have babies, raise them, die.
For what? For most people, to simply return to the earth and be forgotten.
In turn, none of it matters.
As I stand over the battered body of the middle aged man who raped one of my men’s little sisters, I don’t feel sorrow over his impending doom. I don’t feel remorse.
Instead, I feel all the things they say that you shouldn’t when taking a life.
Joy.
Satisfaction.
Gratification.
His bloodied, broken body gives me peace.
The illusion that killing him should torment me isn’t real.
I’ve seen enough to know there’s only here and now, there’s no after. And whether I’m good or not has no bearing on my fate.
“I don’t want to die… please, I didn’t know she was sixteen,” he whines. The drool and blood dripping from his mouth lands in a pool in front of him, where most of his teeth now sit on the tarp below.
“I’m sorry, it wasn’t my call… I didn’t have a choice.”
“Nah… don’t make excuses. You always have a choice. It’s fucking weak to go out like that man,” Mason, my treasurer and the older brother of the girl this sick fuck drugged, raped, and recorded to keep photographic evidence of his fucked up conquests spits out as he smacks the guy they call Gator in the back of the head. Should’ve known with a nickname like Gator the guy would be a sleazeball.
Mason nods to Kai, my enforcer. Kai doesn’t say a word, he’s a brick wall, showing zero hesitation. He moves forward and assumes his position behind Gator, bracing his forehead with one hand and holding his mouth open with the other.
Mason thinks for a minute, looking into Gator’s mouth at what’s left. The pickings are slim, but he chooses a back molar. He clamps down on it with his pliers and wrenches it free from Gator’s mouth then drops the broken pieces to the ground amidst those peaceful garbled screams that sing to my soul.
My turn.
I fire up the butane torch again, time to take a little more ink off Gator’s neck and left arm where he bears the Disciples of Sin insignia.
Their club has been our club’s natural enemy for years, ever since my grandfather, Ira Wolfe, started our legacy, The Hounds of Hell in the sixties.
I grin as I see the horror on Gator’s face while I stalk toward him, the blood—dark and syrupy— leaking from his mouth now heavier than the drool.
I run my first two fingers through the flame as I eye Gator up—or what’s left of him. I don’t even know how he keeps coming back to consciousness at this point.
All we want is a name, and he’s holding out a lot longer than I thought he would.
“Time to take some more ink unless you’re ready to talk,” I tell him. In truth, we stop when the stench of burning flesh gets too strong in this small cabin.
“This is your last chance to do the right thing,” I say, preying on the human instinct that salvation is real.
He hovers on the edge of consciousness as my flame meets his skin. That’s when he jolts awake, his bloodshot eyes wide as he screams. It’s a pathetic scream really, barely more than a whisper.
“Stop… please. It was Foxx. He said he wanted me to hit you guys where it hurts. I was just doing my job, man.” he whimpers.
“Fucking finally,” Kai says lighting a cigare
It’s what we assumed but we needed the confirmation before we plot to kill their club president.
I assess Gator. Men tend to tell the truth in the last seconds of their lives so I’m sure he’s being honest.
“And our clinics?” I ask. “Who ordered the theft of our product?”
“Foxx,” he answers with the same soon-to-be dead president’s name, looking up at me through one barely open eye, the other swollen shut.
“Please, Wolfe. I wanna die.” His voice is a whine. “Please… kill me,” Gator begs.
I stop my flames and set down the torch. Moving towards him again, I grab a handful of his hair in my gloved hand, lifting his pathetic face up to view the last soul he’ll ever see.
“It’s fucking pathetic that you beg me for death now,” I bite out.
“I’ve heard enough,” Mason says from the other side of the room.
I promised him. It was his sister, so it’s his call.
Gator lets out a sigh, his fate settling with him.
“Please,” he whispers.
I draw my gun and take aim at his forehead. Just as I’m about to shoot, Kai says my name and nods toward the other side of the room in my periphery.
I follow his gaze to the cabin door, and I’m met with horror. The rawest form of fear lines every plane of her perfect face through the screen. Her long onyx hair blows in the ocean breeze around her moonlit shoulders.
I may be a killer but I’m not a savage. I would never want her to see this if I had a choice, but now she’s made her own bed.
I have no idea how or why she’s here but there’s no turning back. My eyes hold hers as the innocence drains from those beautiful blue eyes, the same color as her dress. She’s on her knees outside the cabin door.
Every single hope she had about me, about my club, shatters around her and falls to the earth.
I never lied about who I am. The hopes she had were her own.
I don’t pretend.
I am the villain she sees now, but that’s not all I am.
She will learn to understand. She has no choice but to.
I find her eyes again, mouthing to her the only escape I can give, then press my gun to the spot between my prisoner’s eyes and pull the fucking trigger.
“Bankrupt?” I ask, sinking into the chair behind me. I generally try not to stay long enough in my boss’s office to sit, but at this moment I have no choice.
The roll of thunder, the steady seep of rain against the glass this morning, and my sandal clad foot stepping right in a puddle as I crossed Briarwood Avenue on my way into the office should’ve been my first indications that today was going to suck.
“Yep. Chapter 11 came out of nowhere,” my boss, Paul, grunts as he leans back in his chair, taking a break from packing up his office. It’s the scene I walked into when he called me in here to break this news.
I cross one leg over the other, pulling my skirt down so he doesn’t try to sneak a glance up it. I’ve had men look at me appreciatively since I was fourteen years old. It’s why my mother cut my hair into a bob when I started middle school. She said its naturally black color and long length brought the wandering eyes of the wrong kind of man. I hated that haircut and always asked myself why I had to change to stop a man from looking at me. I’ve rarely cut it since, to her dismay. Even when I told her I wanted it long because I liked it that way, she didn’t agree. My friend Layla said it wasn’t my hair, but my body that made men look and I can’t do much about that. My boss is always looking at something he enjoys about me. I catch him almost every day.
Three years I’ve put up with late nights, not really having a social life, early mornings, inappropriate looks and comments from this man, and a job that most of the time bores me to tears. All because the possibility of becoming design director at the end of the year when my supervisor was to retire was dangled like a carrot over my head. I’ve been waiting for that to feel settled, to show my boyfriend, Evan, and his family that this is a serious career, one I can go somewhere with.
“I don’t know what to tell you, doll. The news came from corporate late last night. People just aren’t buying home décor magazines anymore, not with everything available online and apps to design your space.”
My eyes snap back to my greasy superior. His combover is extra mussy today and his polyester shirt—covered in cat hair—is more wrinkled than usual. I’ve always been taught not to judge someone on appearance, but his is accurate. He works like he dresses—messy and unorganized.
“Brinley,” I say, reminding Paul that doll is not my name.
Keep quiet and be polite, would be what my mother would say. She’d tell me not to burn any bridges, but that doesn’t really matter now. What difference does it make if I let him know how disgusting I think he is? I’m officially unemployed, effective today at noon.
“Right, sorry I forgot how touchy you are,” he raises his hands in truce.
I’m not touchy, you prick. I just don’t enjoy you looking at me like I’m dessert every damn day.
“You’ll get a severance, six weeks’ pay in full, from corporate, and the four weeks’ vacation you haven’t taken.” He pushes his glasses up on his nose. “Look, I’ve always been fond of you, Brinley.”
I don’t miss the way he emphasizes my name just to prove he thinks I’m touchy. My eyes meet his and I feel like I might vomit. A sixth sense tells me he thinks of me in very inappropriate ways.
“I’d be happy to write you a good reference. We could go for drinks and talk about what you’d like me to put in the letter?” He continues opening his remaining mail like the way he’s speaking to me isn’t highly unprofessional.
My position of assistant design director paid me peanuts. So, what I’m hearing is, if I play my cards right, and let this man openly stare at my breasts and split a dinner bill at some shitty diner, I’ll get the reference I already deserve?
I smile sweetly and fold my hands in my lap, resisting the urge to stab him with his letter opener, and be courteous, the way I’ve always been taught.
“Oh, Paul, I’m not going out for anything with you, but I’ll take the reference anyway because you owe me that after putting up with you leering at me for three years. I know Brenda wouldn’t want to hear how often I catch you doing that.” I mention his wife as I stand and hope he doesn’t notice I’m shaking like a leaf.
“Thank you for the opportunity, can't say it’s been enjoyable,” I hold in my need to tell him what a disgusting pig he is. I cock my head and smile bigger, my mother Wendy Beaumont’s type of smile that says he’s less than. “I’ll expect that reference letter before I leave, or my first stop tomorrow morning will be HR.”
My former boss doesn’t speak, only leans forward, like he’s trying to decide if I’m bluffing. The buttons on his shirt strain under the pressure of his beer gut.
“Good luck to you, Brinley. I’ll have the letter to you by noon,” he says meekly.
Wow, acting like my mother really works.
I nod and turn, feeling proud of myself for standing up to Paul as I round the corner to my tiny office down the hall. Normally, I wouldn’t even correct my Starbucks order if it were wrong, I’d just smile and say thank you before dumping it in the trash. A side effect from years of being told that it’s proper to be seen and not heard.
My phone buzzes in my pocket as I shut the door behind me.
EV
Stopping for a haircut after work, I’ll meet you at home by six. Can’t wait to share tonight with you, make sure you’re ready babe, I have reservations.
Evan has had this night with me planned for a week and he’s being so secretive about it. It leads me to believe he might finally be proposing. After two years together, I feel like it’s the next step and I’ve been hinting at it for six months. I’ve tried not to push him but ever since my mother died, I have been feeling a little disjointed, like I just don’t really belong anywhere or to anyone. Having a husband like Evan, maybe starting a family, exactly what my mother always wanted, will help me feel like maybe I’m on the right path, one she and my father would’ve been proud of.
Thing is, I know he’s been struggling to get through his final year of law school and all he wants to do is get it done and please his own parents.
I sigh, wanting to be honest and tell him I just lost my job, but instead I make the instant decision to wait. After the day I’m having, I seriously need something good to come from today.
