Dark Biker Romance Books | Biker's Wrath | Book #11 Rebel Barbarians Motorcycle Club Romance
Zebulon made a mistake and owes a massive debt to Wyatt Show, the club president of the Rebel Barbarians Motorcycle Club. He’s the mysterious younger Blackwood, related to both Ruger and Gideon. If you have read some of the recent books I put out in this series, you have met Zebulon once or twice, but we don’t know his backstory, his love story, or why they call him Trigger.
This story isn’t just another installment in my biker romance series but an enemies-to-lovers story with a cheating revenge plot line that will satisfy even the most recently heartbroken readers. When Janelle and Zebulon meet, their lives both seem to be headed in opposite directions. Janelle has been recently dumped by her cheating boyfriend and Zebulon is in Boston on all business.
When they meet, Zeb wants to avoid getting entangled in her problems, but he can’t help giving Janelle his number. She calls him weeks later when he’s sure that Janelle has forgotten him… but what she needs from Zeb will change both their lives forever.
While Zeb and Janelle try to avoid ending up in bed together, a new enemy against the motorcycle club appears to challenge the family we know and love.
This book has really hot sex scenes, a lot of banter, and a deeply psychological element to the connection between the female lead Janelle and her protector, Zeb — a gigantic, muscular biker alpha. He is a big, thick, and dangerously attractive man with tattoos and a military past.
This book will have you WISHING for another in the series, which is perfect because I now plan on releasing even more books after this one. Buckle up biker fans!
For me to actually make that happen and keep telling biker romance stories with black female leads in every book, I really need reader support for this book. If you would like to help and of course read a smutty dark romance in the process, you can do that by ordering early, reading in Kindle Unlimited, or supporting my Patreon community (in exchange for lots of benefits, of course.)
From the very first chapter we have TRIGGERS TRIGGERS TRIGGERS. This book is insanely dark and I need you to be in the right headspace for this story.
Welcome to the gritty underworld of dangerous all-American bikers…
(Click here to see all the preorders and books available.)
Zebulon and Janelle have a dark story with a lot of possible triggers, especially surrounding pregnancy, and dubious consent on both of their parts. The book still has all the dark themes we love with kidnapping, an action plot line, several dangerous situations, and a very gruff/grumpy man who takes time to warm up his feelings everywhere outside of the bedroom.
Click here to check out the story on Kindle
Book #11 Biker’s Wrath (Property of Trigger)
This time, it makes more sense if I share the second chapter with you. Just trust me… The book will be out on March 3rd. I hope you order a copy.
Chapter Two
Janelle Norris
The bus always runs late when I have somewhere important to be. The barbershop closes in thirty minutes, so if I want a ride back to my place from my boyfriend, I need to get there before he gets in his car and leaves. He hasn’t texted me back because he has a Friday afternoon regular he can’t say no to. I get it.
Someone else approaches the bus stop to wait and I stare at my phone hoping the man doesn’t say anything to me. Men always have something to say when they see a woman minding her business, even if I’m only doing something as simple as waiting for the bus. Nothing provocative, nothing that even hints at my interest.
The man who sits next to me is blond, tall, and doesn’t look like the type of guy you usually see riding the bus around here. Frankly, he looks like a Southerner or a country boy or something like that.
“Good day, ma’am.”
I offer up a disinterested half-smile. I’m not in the mood to start a conversation. I just want to get on the bus and see my boyfriend. There’s nothing like snuggling up with the person you love at the end of a long work day and I don’t want to entertain any other man’s motivations right now.
“Does this bus take you to Somerville?” the man asks me. I don’t know why he doesn’t use the app like a normal person. Maybe he’s from out of town. Ugh. I’m annoyed that he’s talking to me, but I do the decent thing and answer honestly just in case he genuinely wants directions and isn’t just making an excuse to talk to me.
“Yes.”
I glare at my phone now, hoping this man just stops talking to me. I have a boyfriend. And even if I didn’t have a boyfriend, this guy really isn’t my type. He’s too tall, his hair is too blond and I don’t trust any white man from the South. Period. For all I know, he could be here to do the dirty work for immigration enforcement. A chill runs down my spine, mostly because he keeps talking to me.
“I just moved here, it’s been hell getting around,” he mutters.
My glare intensifies. “Sorry to hear that.”
He gets the hint that time and looks down at his feet, red around the tops of his ears.
The bus arrives. Thank God. I get up quickly and I can feel the man’s eyes watching me as I board. He doesn’t move. Weird. Why did he just ask me if the bus went to Somerville if he was just going to hang out there on his phone? I shouldn’t, but I look over my shoulder one last time as I board. I don’t know why he stands out to me. It’s not because of his looks, although he’s not bad looking.
Just not my type. And I have a boyfriend. But there’s something strange behind his eyes that makes me wonder about him. You see strangers like that often in cities and then you never see them again. It makes you wonder if you’re like that for someone you’ll never meet again – a strangely memorable oddity that sticks out to them.
My boyfriend texts me as I take my seat close to the front.
Rakeem: wmnbdfhhuuu
Janelle: I’ll be there soon.
He must have texted me with his butt again. Luckily, it’s not a long ride to the barbershop and from there, Rakeem will drive me out to Randolph, just outside Boston, where I live in an elderly couple’s in-law apartment. I can’t move out unless I want to be homeless because rent in Boston has gotten ridiculous these days. I definitely can’t afford to live there on what I make…
Not yet at least.
The bus pulls up a block away from the barbershop and I’m giddy on my way over. I finally get to tell Rakeem the news I got today about my pay raise, and I know he’s going to be so happy for me. He really is the perfect boyfriend – the black king I’ve been waiting for my whole life. When I was in my early thirties, I thought I would never find real love and then I went to a Halloween party with my homegirl, met Rakeem dressed as a minion from Despicable Me, and it was game over after that.
We were inseparable.
I open the door to the barbershop and Rakeem’s coworkers stop cutting hair and just stare at me, like it’s weird that I would stop by on a Friday afternoon. (It isn’t.)
“Where’s Rakeem?” I ask Elijah, the guy who owns the shop and got Rakeem into the whole cutting hair business.
Elijah doesn’t answer. He’s still staring at me like I’m a zoo animal while Dominic, the other guy working there, offers up some type of answer.
“What’re you doing here, Janelle? Rakeem is out for a while.”
“I thought he had a regular on Friday.”
Elijah snickers and goes back to cutting hair. I guess he’s leaving all the explaining to Dominic. Something is wrong, I know that, but I don’t know what it is.
“Listen, I’ll call him, okay?”
“No… No, don’t bother…”
Dominic reaches for his phone while I look down at mine, scrolling through my latest texts with Rakeem for signs of anything weird. There are none. There’s just the last butt-text he sent me and then the little bells hanging over the barbershop door jingle and I turn around to see Rakeem.
And someone else.
He drops her hand quickly. But it’s too late and too confusing. The woman standing next to Rakeem looks up at him in confusion. I stare at him, dumbfounded. I know what I’m seeing, but I don’t want to believe it. That’s the problem.
“Rakeem,” My voice slows down. “Who is that?”
“Um, I’m his girlfriend,” the girl says, looking at me. “Who the hell are you?”
What does she mean, his girlfriend? I know what she means, obviously. But I’m so stunned that I stammer out the dumbest thing ever. “I’m his girlfriend.”
Rakeem bends his elbows and holds his hands behind his head. His girlfriend comes towards me and I don’t even piece together that she’s going to swing on me until it’s too late. I do my best to catch her fist as it crashes into me, but she shoves me backwards and I go flying onto one of the empty leather chairs in the shop.
Oh hell no. I throw myself back up onto my feet and grab her clothes. She’s around my size, but I do not want to be fighting with anybody right now. And my desire to get this over with might mean I have to disable this crazy ass. She screams as I hold the lapels of her magenta leather jacket and use her body weight to move forward, shoving her into the brick wall close to the entrance.
The woman shrieks and scratches at my eyes with long manicured nails that could easily scratch my eyes out. I pull her forward and slam her back into the wall again.
“Hit me again and I’ll beat the shit out of you,” I scream. I hear the men in the background making some type of noise but none of those assholes step up to separate us. The woman moves her mouth like she’s going to spit on me and my ass was not going to let this day get any worse than it already was. I smack her across the face so the spit flies out of her mouth going over her shoulder instead and then I use my weight to slam her against the wall again, dodging those crazy ass nails as I get her dizzy enough that she can’t fight – so I throw her aside on one of the barber chairs.
Rakeem says my name. “Janelle.”
Does he really think I’m going to stand here and have a conversation about this? I give that cheating ass liar one look and tell him straight up, “Don’t you bother coming to get your shit because I’m throwing it on the fucking lawn. And don’t you ever in your life try to talk to me again, Rakeem.”
He just says my name again like a damn parrot. I don’t look over my shoulder as I walk out of the shop. I’m shaking and I don’t want to get caught up and arrested for assault on the day that was supposed to be the best day of my life.
Fuck. What the fuck am I supposed to do?
I don’t have any money, but I can get some by tomorrow to pay the overdraft fees, so I just get a rideshare about a block away and speed walk away from the barbershop. If Rakeem came after me, I would have run. But he never comes. A black rideshare driven by an Ethiopian woman playing a Christian radio station picks me up and she hums gospel music all the way to Randolph.
When I get to my apartment, I don’t want to open the door. I might have left Rakeem at the barbershop, but he’s everywhere inside. Tears form at the corners of my eyes as the weight in my chest gets too much for me to bear. I’m thirty-four. No kids. And the man I spent my twenties with just walked into the barbershop holding hands with another woman like it was nothing.
Like we were nothing. He was a part of all the formative memories of my twenties and I don’t even know who that man is. If I want to cry, I have to go inside. So I do that. And I can’t bear to be anywhere but the shower, so I strip my clothing off and cry there, convinced that I’ll never find love again because if this is the best love has to offer me, I don’t want it.
I don’t want any of this.
He didn’t even stop that woman from trying to beat my ass.
I hate him.
I thought he was the love of my life.
But then again…
I cry harder when I finish the shower and my face looks all puffy and my eyes are so red that I look like I spent an hour in a smoky room. My hair is wet enough that I can twist it into two flat cornrows along the side of my head and have enough length in my natural hair that the braids hit the middle of my chest.
But I look and feel a mess. And once I’m out of the shower, I’m scared Rakeem will come over and try to do… anything. I don’t want closure. I don’t want to see him again and unpack all the times he lied to me. This whole apartment feels like a cage that I need to break out of. I call the only person that I know in Boston willing to come out as far as Randolph after work.
My friend Rana just moved out here for the summer to do her law school internship at a firm in the city. She’s originally from Buffalo, New York, like I am, but she got lucky with her first job out of college and ended up working for the biggest black law firm in Buffalo for years before she got into Northwestern.
Rana shows up at my apartment wearing a work outfit that skirts the edge of work appropriate attire and something you might see in an “office siren” TikTok video. She doesn’t even give me a chance to say anything and thank goodness because I’m on the verge of tears. She wraps her arms around me and lets me cry on her shoulder.
“I know,” she says. “He sucks. He doesn’t deserve you.”
It’s cliched, but I appreciate the sentiment. I barely believe this is happening enough to let it register completely. And I want to believe that he doesn’t deserve me, but right now, I'm still too numb to do anything other than nod and avoid prolonged eye contact.
“Thanks. Do you want to come in?” My voice trembles with hurt that I am desperate to bury. We might know that our friends are there for us, but wearing your emotions on your sleeve isn’t exactly rewarded in today’s world.
“Sure. But just so you know, we’re going out tonight,” Rana says.
My stomach lurches. I haven’t gone out without my boyfriend since before my relationship. I wouldn’t even know what to order at a bar. Cranberry juice and vodka? Rakeem ordered my drinks for me every time we went out. I bite my lip, trying to stop the cynicism from jumping out, which it does without me.
“Why? So I can jump in front of the T and end my pain?”
Rana laughs. “No. So you can shake your ass and remember who the fuck you are.”
Rana’s that friend who will open up your fridge and help herself, but she will also be there at 2 a.m. if you need to bury a body. I know that because of a misunderstanding regarding the Buffalo Bills during the playoffs last season. It takes the burden off me that she makes herself at home, jumping off the couch to rifle through my cupboards for some pregame material.
What do people even wear to go out anymore? I think I have a bandage dress in the storage bin beneath my winter jackets and skinny jeans.
“I see an unopened bottle of white wine in there. I think it’s a sign,” Rana says in a sing-songy voice.
“To drink before I kill myself?”
“You are not going to kill yourself over some guy.” Her inner lawyer kicks in and I sit up a little straighter, even if I’m not convinced I’ll survive the night.
He’s not some guy. Rakeem was my everything. He even tattooed my name on his ring finger. But she’s right. This isn’t worth my intrusive, suicidal thoughts. For all I know, he had that ring finger inside somebody else. I have the first wave of nausea that alcohol might actually cure. If I can wipe out the memories of all the closeness I had with a lying asshole, maybe I’ll feel better. Maybe my stomach won’t feel like… somebody died.
It’s more about the shame I feel than anything. I trusted him. I trusted him and… Oh God. That big knot in my stomach gets tight again and spreads to my chest. I won’t be able to breathe if I don’t do something. Rana makes the wine bottle do a sexy dance in the air, hovering over the empty glass she procured from my kitchen cupboard. I succumb to the siren song.
“You’re right. I need wine,” I admit, as if Rana were going to wait on me to open it up. She already has two glasses on the counter and her glass poured all the way to the top. Once she pours my glass, I drink some of it to loosen up the tightness in my chest. The first burn makes me feel something other than total dismay.
“We store trauma in our hips.”
Who knows what STDs my hips are storing from that stupid asshole.
“Where did you read that?” I ask Rana, taking another bitter sip.
“It’s true,” she says. “Trust me. I’m looking for places that will have a dive bar vibe. Yelp will save us a night of boredom.”
“A dive bar?”
“In case you want to ugly cry and dance on tables. Duh,” Rana says. “We can’t go anywhere that you might run into Rakeem.”
Rakeem apparently doesn’t have to leave the house to find another girlfriend. I doubt I would run into him anywhere. Tears prickle at the corners of my eyes and I practically chug the rest of my glass.
“Why are you so ready for this?” I ask, smacking my lips together from the tingling burn of alcohol and fighting back more tears because my voice is getting hoarse and I have cried in public enough for my tastes.
“Believe it or not, I’ve been in this situation before.”
“Cheated on?”
“No. But my best friend back in Buffalo is one of the most successful people I’ve ever met and her husband had an affair with his secretary.”
“Yikes.” And cliched. I guess that’s one thing cheaters have in common. They’re not original at all.
Rana nods. “She bounced back better than ever. We are not going to let him win.”
“How? By screwing an even bigger asshole?”
“No,” Rana says. “By remembering who the fuck you are.”
I look at her pathetically, because I can feel the question forming on my lips and even if it’s coming from a place of shock and sadness so I don’t want to judge myself for thinking it.
“Who? A dumbass who didn’t realize her boyfriend had another girlfriend.”
Rana gets her serious lawyer face on again. “No. You’re a person who matters with or without a boyfriend.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes,” Rana says. “Trust me. My mom never learned that lesson and it sucked my entire life watching her chase the affections of a man who only wanted to use her.”
“Your dad?”
Rana sighs and nods. Clearly, she doesn’t want to bring up her childhood trauma and I don’t want to dig deeper into the fact that I feel totally lost about who I am, and this stupid break up just exposed something that I’m not at all ready to face. I’ve been standing still with Rakeem, haven’t I?
“We’re going out and we’re going to forget about him,” Rana says, clearing up her voice from its own choking. “Just… promise me you won’t get pregnant.”
“What?”
“It’s a long story. Just promise.”
“Rakeem and I just broke up, Rana. I won’t be having a baby any time soon.”
Thankfully, we live in Massachusetts where my rights in that regard are guaranteed.
“Okay. Sorry. Just being paranoid. I’ll call us a rideshare. All drinks are on me tonight, okay?” Rana says.
“Deal.”
So off I go – to shake my ass on a dive bar table and forget that the man I’ve been telling everyone is the love of my life is a lustful loser who let his second girlfriend try to beat my ass in the barbershop.
***
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