I’m a drifter.
A man born to ride through this world alone.
There used to be a time when I thought I was the rescuing type. I enlisted in the Marines and made it my duty—I was going to save lives.
I was going to be a true American hero.
But God had another plan.
Or maybe Satan did.
For everything I touch finds mortality.
I’m no hero.
I’m a veteran biker, a former nomad who survived war only to live in hell.
Now I ride with the Satan’s Knights of Brooklyn and I’m drifting into a different kind of chaos.
The kind that revolves around a pretty girl with intoxicating green eyes.
A girl who has the power to turn me inside out.
A girl who doesn’t need anyone to rescue her because she’s her own savior.
Until she’s not.
But a man plagued by war and the devil inside him can never be her hero.
Strong. Independent. Fierce.
They are the three things I strived to be.
But sometimes being successful can be lonely.
Sometimes a girl just wants to be a girl and have someone take care of her.
Maybe even love her.
Sometimes the strong become vulnerable.
Or worse, the victor becomes the victim.
Sometimes we lose control or in my case it’s stripped from you.
Defeated. Broken. Haunted.
They are the three things I have become.
In my darkest hour I admit defeat.
In my darkest hour I need one person.
I need him.
***NOTE:Contains explicit sexual situations, violence, sensitive subjects, offensive language, and mature topics. Recommended for age 18 years and up. ***
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Janine Infante Bosco lives in New York City, she has always loved reading and writing. When she was thirteen, she began to write her own stories and her passion for writing took off as the years went on. At eighteen, she even wrote a full screenplay with dreams of one day becoming a member of the Screen Actors Guild.
Janine writes emotionally charged novels with an emphasis on family bonds, strong willed female characters, and alpha male men who will do anything for the women they love. She loves to interact with fans and fellow avid romance readers like herself.
She is proud of her success as an author and the friendships she's made in the book community but her greatest accomplishment to date would be her two sons Joseph and Paul.
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“One, I can’t get you out of my head,” he admits, raising another finger between us. “Two, I suck at this shit,” he sighs, cocking his head to the side as he assesses my reaction before continuing. “Three, I want more of you,” he rasps. “A whole lot more.”
I swallow back the words I want to say and get lost in the way he stares at me.
“Four, I know you went to the Crazy Taco tonight hoping I’d be there because…pretty girl, you want more too, don’t you?”
He gives into the smirk as he closes the space separating us and holds up all five fingers again.
“Five, your panties are soaked,” he whispers, blowing his breath against my lips. He reaches out, winding his finger around the denim belt loop of my jeans and tugs me against his hard frame. “Your turn, pretty girl,” he says huskily. “Five facts.”
Pressing both my palms against his chest, I push back and narrow my eyes at him.
“You want five facts, Stryker, fine. Here’s five hard facts. One, I’m not wearing panties,” I whisper through clenched teeth as I poke my finger into his chest. His cocky smirk disappears as his mouth parts and his eyes grow darker in color.
“Two, I’m over it. Three, you most definitely suck at this,” I add, rolling my eyes for extra emphasis as I dig my finger deeper into his chest. “Four, I did not go there because of you. I went there because I’m a sucker for a margarita. And finally—”
Before I can process what’s happening, my words die as Stryker throws his body over mine and we tumble onto the concrete.
“Get down on the double,” he shouts, laying his body over mine. Hitting the concrete face first and struggling to comprehend what was happening, I push myself up and glance over my shoulder to see Stryker reach for the gun tucked into the waistband of his jeans.
Pop, pop, pop!
“I’ve got you,” he rasps, cocking his gun and aiming it down the block.
“Stryker, no!” Pulling back I grip his shirt. “Stryker!”
Pop, pop, pop!
My pleas fall on deaf ears and I watch in horror as he pulls back the safety and aims the barrel of the gun toward the kids innocently shooting off caps on the corner of my block.
Pop, pop, pop!
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