A Secret Vow: A Bad Boy Secret Baby Romance

This is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons--living or dead--is entirely coincidental.

A Secret Vow copyright 2016 by Zoey Parker. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission.

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A Secret Vow

Inked Angels MC

Zoey Parker

Chapter 1

Mortar

Engines. Smoke. Girls in skimpy bikinis and high heels like skyscrapers, waving checkered flags in the air. It’s the exact picture of a midnight street race, everything you could imagine, like we pulled it straight out of a movie and brought it to life in the middle of Galveston, Texas.

But this isn’t a movie. This is my business. My life.

Call me a stereotype, but it’s the only life I’ve ever known. When both your parents kick the bucket before you’re old enough to feed yourself, there aren’t too many options. If you’re like me and you enjoy this whole “living” thing, then you get street smart real quick. Once my folks were dead, that meant finding a new family. The Inked Angels MC took in my brother and me. They clothed us, raised us, made us into men. They brought me here.

I take the last drag on my cigarette and crush it under the heel of my boot. I lean over the barrier. Straight ahead, one of the bikini girls is standing between two souped-up sedans painted in the ugliest neon colors I’ve ever seen. Fuckin’ drivers. It takes a special breed.

As I watch, she raises two hands. Her hips jut out to one side. I eye her body appreciatively. The way that ass swoops around and jiggles with every motion, the smooth tan that never ends—my kind of broad. It wouldn’t be hard for me to take her home. I’m a known face around here. People see me; they acknowledge me, respect me. Girls are suckers for a man in power.

She drops her arms and the cars scream to life before shooting down the road like bats out of hell. Tire marks on the road leave the smell of burnt rubber leeching into my nostrils. As soon as the cars are gone, the girl turns towards me.

I take a good look at her face. She’s got dark hair, short, curling in around the sides of her jaw. Her teeth are pearly white. Her skin is flawless. They don’t take just anybody to be one of the bikini girls. I’ve seen some beautiful bitches get rejected. You gotta have that special something, that “it factor” that makes people want to look at you. Only the best should bother applying.

When you’re running the biggest drug operation in the southern United States, you can afford to be picky.

The second she sees me, she bats her eyes and gnaws at her lip. Right on cue, Jose comes huffing up to hand me the cash take from the first heat of races in the night. I take it from him coolly, calmly. This ain’t my first rodeo.

The envelope is overflowing with crisp hundred dollar bills. I take a big inhale. The only thing sweeter than burnt rubber is the smell of money. That, and pussy, but I’ve found in my thirty years on this planet that where one goes, the other is not far behind.

“Take it easy, Jose,” I tell him. “No need to blow a gasket. Leave that to the drivers.”

“Sorry, boss,” he wheezes. His hands are on his knees. He’s hunched over, trying to draw in breath.

“What’s the big rush, anyway?”

Jose points towards a raised patio on the other side of the road. I follow his finger. Seeing what he’s pointing at, I sigh.

“Croak told me to sprint.”

I pat Jose on the back and press a hundred into his hand. “Go rest, buddy. You’re good for the rest of the night. I’ll pick up the next cash round from the bookies myself.”

Jose thanks me and wanders off to find a seat. I flag down a passing girl and tell her to get the man a drink and a pretty lady to keep him company. She nods and takes off to do what I said.

Croak. I shake my head again.

For the president of the Inked Angels, he’s sure been acting like a damn fool these last couple months. I look over to where he’s sitting on the patio. There’s a massive white couch, shaped like a semi-circle. He’s plopped in the middle. His arms are spread wide around two half-naked girls, like he thinks he owns the damn place.

As a matter of fact, he does own it, but that’s not the point. When you’re running a pretty conspicuous and not exactly legal operation like these races, it’s not a good idea to draw more unnecessary attention, like he’s doing. As I watch, more bottle girls bring him massive containers of champagne with sparklers fizzing in the top. The sparks light up the whole area. I see Croak’s face shining in the night. He looks happier than a fat kid with his hand in the cookie jar. He’s also drunk as hell.

It’s bad enough that we’ve got retrofitted speedsters doing two hundred miles an hour down the middle of the street, pumping enough nitrous oxide accelerant into the air to kill every seagull on the whole damn boardwalk. We’ve also got two dozen guys working drug deals for us all along the race barriers. Everywhere you look, there are Inked Angels swapping out vials of coke and ecstasy for stacks of green so big they make your neck hurt just looking at them. The district attorney would have an aneurysm if he could get just one look at all the princes and princesses of the criminal underworld who are hanging out here.

This is a profitable business, and it’s been good for us. But Lord knows we pay enough in protection to keep every cop in the entire Galveston precinct more than well off. And, speak of the devil, there is the man himself.

Grady Freeman. The crooked cop. The key to the kingdom.

We pay the motherfucker forty G’s a month just to get his blessing on the dirty business that takes place out here. He loves nothing more than to come out and watch, to sit on that free couch and drink free liquor while he laughs in our faces. He knows we need him. If he decided to pull the plug, this whole thing would go down the toilet faster than you could say so much as a “fuck you.” For now, we’re at a quasi-stable understanding, but he’s a temperamental bastard. The latest word coming out of Croak’s office said that Grady’s been itching for a raise. We gotta keep him fat and happy. Our livelihoods depend on it.

Personally speaking, I can’t stand the bastard. Despite my being Croak’s right-hand man and the number two guy in the club, I go out of my way to avoid dealing with Grady whenever possible. We’ve had enough unpleasant conversations in the past that I’m sure he feels the same way. It’s a mutual “stay the fuck away from me.”

Tonight, though, he’s catching my attention. He is sitting on the far end of the same couch as Croak. Next to him is the kind of girl you don’t forget. I drink her in.

Forget “it factor,” this girl is just
it.
She’s got cocoa butter skin, dark and unblemished. Her hair is ironed straight. It falls over her bare shoulders like a curtain made of silky, unbroken ebony. Even when she’s sitting down, I can see that her body is the kind of fragile, curvy petite that drives me wild. I want to toss her all around, kiss every inch of those perfect legs. Maybe even see what happens when I run my tongue all the way up to where they meet.

Why do women like that end up with pigs like Grady? Life’s full of fucking mysteries. Females are at the top of the list.

Something’s troubling her, though. I watch a wrinkle shoot across her brow. She’s frowning. I can only see Grady’s back, but one of his thick fingers keeps stabbing the air in front of her face. He’s yelling at her. Throwing a little hissy fit, if the tendons jumping out on the back of his neck are anything to go by.

She opens her mouth to say something back, but all the sudden a massive palm comes flinging up from by his side to smack her across the face. My stomach clenches like a fist. I may do a lot of dirty shit, but the one line you never cross is hitting a woman. I’ve killed men for less.

A line of blood trickles down the girl’s plump lips. It’s a shame I can’t do anything to the bastard. If it was up to me, I’d put a bullet between those beady eyes so quick it’d make the race cars look like goddamn continental drift. But Grady’s untouchable, and he knows it. That’s why he gets away with beating his women. This isn’t the first time I’ve seen him lay hands on his date.

Grady gets up and storms away. For the first time, I’ve got a clear view of the girl. Fuck, she is something else. Beautiful. One of a kind. Girls like this don’t come around often.

I don’t think. I do the only thing I know how to do—take action.

It takes just an easy flick of the heels to leap over the barrier and cross to the other side of the street. I jump that one, too, and vault the stairs three at a time until I’m on top of the patio. I approach the girl from behind. She’s busy dabbing at her busted lip with her manicured fingers, trying to stop the bleeding. I snag a cocktail napkin from the waiter passing by me and swoop into the seat next to her.

“Here,” I say, offering her the napkin. “Looks like you’ve got a little something on your lip.” I don’t want to embarrass her. If I trust my gut—and I always trust my gut—something tells me that she’s been through this ordeal before.

“Thanks,” she murmurs. She takes the napkin from my hand and presses it to her mouth.

“Mortar,” I say.

“What?”

“I’m Mortar.”

She starts to smile, but winces. I want to wince with her, to take the pain away. I’m not great at that, though. I’m much better at doling out pain than making it disappear.

“Kendra,” she finally manages to say.

“Kendra. Of course.”

“Of course?”

“Beautiful name for a beautiful girl.”

She laughs. I like that laugh. It makes me wonder what she sounds like when she comes.

“That’s the cheesiest thing I’ve ever heard. Does that line work for you often?”

“You tell me.” I keep my gray eyes straight on hers. I don’t blink or waver.

“It’s a start,” she says after a pause. I feel her weighing me, trying to decide who I am and what I want. “I don’t think you should try to keep going, though.”

“And why’s that?”

“If Grady comes back…” she trails off, looking around hesitantly. Grady is nowhere in sight, but the sheer fear written across her face is clear as day. She wants no part of his wrath. There’s only so much one person can take in a single night.

“You can’t live your life according to ifs and maybes,” I tell her. “Leave that to me. For example,
if
I kiss you right now,
maybe
you’ll come home with me.” I let a smile steal across my face.

She laughs again. Damn, that’s a beautiful sound. Most men would kill to hear something like that every day. Kendra shakes her head sadly. “I don’t think so.”

“To which: the kiss or the coming home?”

“Either one.”

I pretend to pout. “There go my hopes and dreams.”

“Sorry to disappoint. I’m sure there are plenty of women around here who would jump at the offer, though.”

I look around. She’s right, of course. That brunette in the black bikini keeps throwing side glances in my direction. She looks like a dog begging for scraps. They’re all like that, as I scan the crowd, every single girl. They’re all desperate, or drugged-out and robotic, or just plain broken. They don’t have the spark that Kendra has. She’s the only one with any kind of life flickering behind her eyes.

She’s the only one with a body like that, too. I focus my gaze on her. Thin ankles are wrapped up in the straps of towering red stilettos. Her calves are smooth and dark, widening ever so slightly into thighs that in turn swell to become an ass and hips that look like someone sculpted her out of mocha marble. The crimson dress she’s wearing hugs every curve without letting go. I can’t blame it—I wouldn’t let go either. The garment is so tight around her ribs that I wonder how she can breathe. Peeking out of the top of the strapless affair are breasts that I just know are full and perky. I want to see them bouncing while she rides me.

“Of course,” she continues, interrupting me, “most of them probably prefer that you look at their eyes instead of giving them the full body inspection.” She scowls, but I can tell she’s at least half-joking.

I grin. “Typical male pig, that’s all I’m good for.”