Raw Torque_A Motorcycle Club Romance_Gravediggers MC

  This is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places, events, 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.

  Raw Torque: A Motorcycle Club Romance (Gravediggers MC) (Mean Machine Collection 2) copyright @ 2017 by Kathryn Thomas and E-Book Publishing World Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embedded in critical articles or reviews.

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  Contents

  Raw Torque: A Motorcycle Club Romance (Gravediggers MC) (Mean Machine Collection 2)

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Epilogue

  Books by Kathryn Thomas

  Raw Need: A Motorcycle Club Romance (Padre Knights MC) (Mean Machine Collection Book 1)

  Rebel’s Property: A Motorcycle Club Romance (Satan’s Martyrs MC) (Claimed by Him Book 5)

  Reaper’s Property: A Motorcycle Club Romance (Valley Reapers MC) (Claimed by Him Book 4)

  Brute’s Property: A Motorcycle Club Romance (The Blazers MC) (Claimed By Him Book 3)

  Bad Boy’s Property: A Motorcycle Club Romance (Lost Disciples MC)

  Biker’s Property: A Bad Boy Biker Baby Romance (Chrome Horsemen MC)

  Possessive: A Bad Boy Second Chance Motorcycle Club Romance (Sons of Chaos MC)

  Tangled with the Fighter: A Bad Boy MMA Fighter Romance

  Tangled with the Biker: Bad Devils MC

  Pregnant for a Price: Kings of Chaos MC

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  Raw Torque: A Motorcycle Club Romance (Gravediggers MC) (Mean Machine Collection Book 2)

  By Kathryn Thomas

  We did it his way – rough, ruthless, and raw.

  The choice was mine: get beaten, or get broken?

  But then the outlaw swooped in and decided for me.

  I didn’t ask to be rescued, but he doesn’t give a d*mn.

  I’m at his mercy now.

  AIMEE

  I thought I knew how to survive.

  But that was before they caught me and tossed me to a gang of violent thugs with two options:

  Beg for their forgiveness on my knees…

  Or pay the debt with my blood.

  I didn’t ask for a savior, and I sure as hell didn’t expect it to be Breaker.

  But he’s not fooling anyone.

  He didn’t save me out of the goodness of his heart.

  He saved me for himself.

  Saved me with those strong hands that leave me gasping for more.

  And when I hear his harsh voice whispering, “You’re mine now…”

  I have no choice but to believe him.

  BREAKER

  I break beds at night, and hearts in the morning.

  But when I saw her surrounded by those animals, something in me snapped.

  Watching over some chick isn’t the kind of thing I do.

  But Aimee was something else entirely.

  A spitfire with a body begging to be tamed.

  A smart mouth I wouldn’t mind wrapped around me.

  She thinks I’m a monster.

  But this monster’s her only chance of survival out here.

  And I won’t stop until I make her MINE.

  Chapter One

  Aimee

  Run, Aimee! Get the hell out of here! Move faster! Come on, girl, faster! They’re on your tail!

  My black Chuck Taylor sneakers pound the cement floor of the run-down office building, chasing away the insistent but silent sound of my own thoughts and pushing me forward almost faster than I can manage.

  My arms scramble through the rusted remains of metal desks and broken-in upholstered office chairs, and I eventually smack into something with a nasty thud. The noise of it ricochets off the walls and echoes out into the greater building, as the two men come up fast behind me.

  In the pitch-blackness, it’s hard to see anything. All I can do is put my hands out in front and pray that I don’t hit something that will knock me out or break a bone.

  This is the key to running away—protect my physical self first and worry about the logical and emotional self later.

  Behind me, I hear the deep, baritone shouts of one of the men, “Hey! Stop fucking running, you hear me? Stop, or we’re gonna shoot you in the goddamn head!”

  That kind of threat ought to scare me shitless, and it would if I hadn’t heard it plenty of times before. This isn’t the first time I’ve found myself speeding away from someone in almost total darkness; a leather backpack full of someone else’s stuff strapped behind me.

  Tonight, my mark is Biggs Stellar. Intel from a friend of mine explained how his boys had pulled off this massive heist—jewels, guns, ammo, the works—on a pawnshop at the north end of the Colorado/Wyoming border. According to what I gathered from the police scanner reports I tapped into, Biggs’ guys had managed to pick off some high-quality stuff. But I didn’t give a rat’s ass about the guns, the ammo, or even most of the jewelry; all I cared about was the two-carat diamond necklace with a jade stone in the center. Diamonds are a girl’s best friend, but they are also a girl’s best way to buy a car and get out of this Podunk Colorado town before getting found out by the other marks she’s managed to rob blind.

  Naturally, I did my homework before going all in. I figured out Biggs’ security, staked out the old office building in advance, and drew an escape map last night.

  But none of that will matter much if I get caught.

  My fatal flaw, I have to admit, was underestimating the cameras. Motorcycle clubs were sticklers for security, but really, they were more about bodies in the doorway than eyes in the sky. Biggs’ club seemed to have solved that little loophole by reactivating the building’s lenses when they came back loaded from their shop job.

  I find my way to a doorway—at least, I think it’s a doorway. If memory serves, I should be on the receptionist side of the second floor. Obviously, Biggs wasn’t using it as such. He and the Grave Diggers, this idiotic motorcycle club of his, had taken over the building a few months ago without being caught or by padding the pockets of security and beat cops in the neighborhood.

  The first floor and parking garage are where they handle the majority of their drug ops. Getting to that level was easy—all I had to do was pose as a druggie looking for a job moving goods around Denver. It wasn’t too hard to figure out their type—big boobs, short skirt, smeared makeup. Hell, I wouldn’t blame them; I looked totally innocent, plus stoned off my gourd.

  No one had seemed to notice as I slipped off towards the second floor where I had learned there was a massive safe from when the office build
ing was in use twenty years ago. If Biggs was going to hide the goods anywhere, it was there.

  And I had been right.

  Just as I’d walked into a corridor, in a patch of flickering industrial fluorescent light, I’d seen the men unloading. The guns went upstairs to the arsenal, petty cash to their accountants, and the rest went into the safe.

  For a girl like me with two years of experience in pickpocketing, it had been nothing to follow the guards, empty the black bag where I thought they’d most likely keep the necklace, and slip back out unnoticed.

  Everything had been going smoothly until I’d heard the first man call out to me. A second voice followed, calling on his walkie. I couldn’t really tell one voice from the other, but I can clearly hear both men screaming to Biggs, “We got ourselves a thief, Biggs!”

  Static, then another voice, “Some chick! She’s making off with some jewels from the sting!”

  They’d updated their leader with my position, which meant it wouldn’t be too long before they bounded in through this door and surrounded me from both sides.

  Now, I need an escape that they won’t expect, and so the stairs are an obvious choice. No robber takes an elevator, right?

  So, I blow by the stairwell and instead press the white button frantically, my hands beginning to shake. The goons chasing me are probably only ten seconds behind me as I hear them crash through the office space the same way I had less than a minute ago.

  The doors open without a ding and a rumble, and I slip inside the elevator.

  I select the top floor knowing that’s the den. The guys on break always sleep on the highest floor. With my back pressed against the mirrored wall, I close my eyes and dream of somewhere far from here. I dream of the island where I was born, and for a moment, despite my terror, I can feel the warm, golden sand squish between my toes and the humid air lap against my face.

  And then the doors reopen.

  Suddenly, I am staring at a row of rooms–old office meeting spaces, with bunks and makeshift beds. Dirty mattresses are piled up next to one another while a few men sit, dangling their legs over the side. The smell of smoke and liquor is overwhelming, and the air seems to be in this permanent haze of chemicals. I want to kick myself for thinking that this was the best option out of here.

  I haven’t just found the Gravedigger’s den; I’ve found their lair.

  “Yeah, yeah. I’m coming, Biggs. What does the girl look like? What floor was she last on?”

  I spin out of the way, bounding into one of the empty rooms as a man dressed in black passes by me. He clutches a walkie as he massages his forehead and eyes. Despite the urgency, he’s not moving fast enough to notice my shadow sticking out of the door.

  He’s followed by a few more men. They talk about the “girl intruder” who managed to outrun someone named Spot or Spud.

  I carve a wicked grin as someone mutters, “Shit, that girl has some balls to break in and steal our shit right from under us…”

  But my self-satisfaction doesn’t last long enough. Something inside of me—that gut feeling that I can never ignore—yells to get down and hide.

  Danger was coming, and I could feel it with every ripple of my skin.

  I survey the room quickly, noticing the metal bed frame and the hanging burgundy sheet. It is just high enough for a skinny thing like me to fit under like a kid on the run from their parents.

  Without thinking, I drop to my knees and slither under it. I pull the rest of the sheet down around the bottom, just enough so that it covers me from the side of the open door.

  My instinct doesn’t fail me at all. It’s just after I am done and settled in that I hear the husky voice of a man command a set of bare, high-heeled legs, “Lay down, girl. I don’t have much time tonight.”

  A black t-shirt falls to the floor followed by the heavy, metal belt buckle and a pair of beat-up jeans.

  “Oh come on, Breaker. You don’t even have time for me to play…” The faceless woman drops to her knees before him, resting on his pile of clothes. Her long hands with black painted nails caress his tattooed calves before heading straight up.

  I hear him spurt and sputter like a car not wanting to start before she falls back and away from him, just barely catching herself with her hands.

  “Did I stutter, Monica?” the man growls. “I don’t have time for anything but a quick, hard fuck. The club pays you to do exactly what I want, and nothing more, so get up onto that fucking bed and spread those long legs of yours.”

  Jesus.

  I clutch the strings of my tank top to my chest before biting into the fabric. This guy is downright barbaric.

  Still, the girl stands up carefully on those red stiletto heels, and a black, strapless dress cascades down her splotchy legs followed by a thin lace thong and a bralette. She walks backward towards the bed until her legs are so close to my face that I can make out the small tattoo on her ankle—a blue skull against two black shovels.

  Just as the man said, she’s part of the club, a branded employee.

  Her legs lift up and are soon replaced by the man’s. His tattoos are of fire, gears, and road marks.

  I stick my head out, just enough to get a peek at his back. Long black lines trace up his impressive body. A wave of black hair falls in front of his shadowed face before he plows into the girl with a cock that should be a weapon in itself.

  I scurry back quickly to the protection of the rocking bed. While I’m no prude, the last thing I want to see are two strangers going at it like drugged up little rabbits. The horrible squeaking of the platform bed mashing up against the walls is a distraction, but I need to focus now. I can’t spend these precious moments thinking about the strangers above me screaming out like mad.

  I have to find a way out of this mess.

  I put my hands into the pockets of my jean skirt. The necklace is still there. All hasn’t been lost yet. I remind myself of the price I could fetch for it—10k, at least— and I am centered again. There’s nothing that motivates me more than the smell, taste, and feel of money. I live for it. And it was the one thing that might get me out of here.

  I look to the side, away from the still-open door. There’s a comforter lying on the floor that I could crawl to without being spotted. The man above me isn’t entirely on the bed and shouldn’t be able to peer over that side. If I could crawl under it, as flat as a pancake, I could make it to the far end of the bed and then dash out as fast as I came in. Besides, it’s not like he’d chase me naked through the hallways. And if I had any chance of making it out of here, it is when this guy is distracted by a pair of fake tits and an orange spray tan.

  My dad always said that hesitating only brings danger. That’s been engraved in my mind since I was a little girl back in Hawaii. So I bite my bottom lip and go for it without another thought.

  I slither under the musky smelling blanket, covering my entire body in the thin cotton material until I’m completely left in the dark. I use my hands to move forward, or at least I think it’s forward until I feel the wall to the side of me. I inch again and again until I know I am at my finish line.

  It’s now or never…

  Suddenly something firm puts pressure on my ankle. It wraps itself around my skin and bone and then yanks hard.

  I am swiftly aware that I can’t hear the man grunting or the girl crying out the word “Breaker” anymore. The lights are on as well, and as I’m pulled out from under the blanket, I look up and not only see the naked man with the still erect big cock with his hands across his chest, but also a room full of men staring me down like wild wolves.

  Crap.

  “Well, well, well… I think we found our girl.”

  A boot crushes into my back so that I fall chest first to the ground. The man holding my foot kneels beside me. He brushes away a tuft of my brown hair as he whispers into my ear, “Did you really think you could steal from me, girly?”

  A long hand runs its length down my body until it finds the front pocket of my
skirt. He pulls the necklace free and holds it up to his men.

  “What a dumb bitch,” someone mutters while the rest of the men nod their heads and laugh in agreement.

  I can’t say that I blame them. I’ve never been caught before, at least, not like this—not in a situation that would probably end up with my head separated from my body.

  “Do you know what we do with girls like you who steal from us?” the man taunts as he presses his bearded face into my cheek. I can taste the chewed tobacco on his lips and see the puckered scars dotting his cheeks. “We string them up so we can do whatever the fuck we want with them!”

  The guys all shout again in celebration. It’s as if I was the prized trophy of some huge football match. He lets go of me momentarily so that another, larger man can take me away through the mob of men sneering at me and clicking their tongues.

  I don’t bother struggling. I just keep my head down and my mouth shut. I have a tendency of talking shit and digging holes with my words, but I couldn’t risk that tonight. Instead, I try to observe everything around me.