Damon:A Bad Boy MC Romance Novel

By: Meg Jackson

James Whitley couldn’t believe his luck. He’d always felt like things never went his way, that he’d been dealt every bad hand in the deck. And then, on one sunny morning, as the warm Atlantic tide beat against the sand, he got a call.

The man who called James needed his help. He was broke, he said, when James asked for reasons. He needed some quick cash. Could James help him out? He didn’t care who James got on the other end of the ring, as long as the money was good. James said he’d be happy to help. In fact, he had someone in mind already. The man thanked James and hung up.

James Whitley grinned as he found the second man’s number in his phone. The second man was pleased to hear from him. The second man said definitely – he was still after the same thing he’d been after all those years ago. James Whitley said he’d be needing some extra green to set it all up. The second man asked if he wanted cash or check.

James Whitley called a third man. The third man was just as pleased to hear from James as the second man had been. James was making a lot of people very happy, and in the process he was making himself a tidy sum.

He told the third man he would take his reward in cash – a Moneygram would be fine. And did this third man want to pay a little extra to keep James on as a go-between of sorts, a pair of boots on the ground? The third man said yes, that would be good, as long as James was trustworthy. The third man made sure to explain what would happen to James if he wasn’t trustworthy. James promised he would be. The third man seemed satisfied. He hung up.

James Whitley looked down at his hands and saw himself holding a royal flush. For once, he’d been dealt the good cards, the ones everyone wanted. He gave himself a pat on the back for always having his finger dipped in so many pots. He thought of what his mother always told him; don’t keep all your eggs in one basket. He’d followed her advice, and kept his eyes and ears open. And now it was all paying off. The Atlantic tide beat, beat, beat against the white sand. The sun was shining. It would be a good day for a nice big breakfast, with lots and lots of eggs.

* * *

Chris “Roper” Callahan couldn’t believe his luck. How long had he and the sad remains of his crew been searching for this guy? For all intents and purposes, Damon Volanis had dropped off the map. They couldn’t go after him in his town. Kingdom was overrun with cops who knew what they were looking for. Ever since that mess last autumn, they had to give the little town a wide berth. So they’d tried to get him at one of his fights. But it looked like he’d retired early.

And then that little rat-shit tweaker, Jimmy Whitley (who hated to be called Jimmy), had called up, acting like the fox in the henhouse. One of Roper’s connections up and down the Atlantic coast had finally paid off. Damon would fight, down in Miami. Why? Who knew. Who cared. All Roper and his men cared about was giving the gypsy scum what he had coming. No one got away with killing a Steel Dragon. Especially not shit-for-brains, trailer-trash gypsies.

Roper hollered for his men. Their numbers were decimated by that Kingdom bullshit, but there were still ten or twelve good men lingering in Baltimore, and some new recruits; enough make a formidable threat. Now they knew where he’d be, and what he’d be doing. Now, they needed a plan.

* * *

Damon Volanis believed far too much in luck to be amazed by his own. And what kind of luck was this, anyway? Not the sort he would wish on anyone else. Luck was just the way the universe made things happen the way they were supposed to happen. Damon hung up the phone and looked at it for a moment before tossing it aside.

How many years? He was 28 now. He’d been in the rings since he was 18. And the reason he’d gone into the rings at all…that had happened when he was 8. Twenty years he’d known this would happen, that it had to happen. And it still didn’t feel like the right time. Now, when he hadn’t fought in five months.

He listened to the sound of children playing outside. Twenty years he’d waited for that call, five months since his last time in the ring, and one year since the gypsies had moved to Kingdom. His older brother was married, his younger brother probably dawdling on his way to engagement. Damon was alone with his secrets. In the drawer beside his bed, there was tape for his knuckles, anesthetics and ointments, protein powders. Out back behind his trailer: his weights, his dummy, sand for the slippery grass. He had everything he needed to fight again.

He’d made a promise to his brothers that his last time would be his last time. But there were things he owed even deeper than a promise kept, between brothers or not. He got up and pulled on a pair of sneakers. There was a gym down the road. That would be a good place to start.