Fiasco (Dirty Aces MC Book 6) by Lane Hart (black male authors .TXT) 📕

The tension in my body eases up seeing my MC brother and hearing his calming voice. “Where…am…I?” I ask, wincing with each word thanks to the pain in my side and down my lower leg.

“We’re, ah, at a friend’s house. You were shot.”

“Sh…shot?” I say. “No. His bullet didn’t hit me…”

“You were shot in the side and in the leg outside the Knights of Wrath bar,” Nash assures me, giving me too much information at one time. My brain feels like it’s working even slower than usual as I repeat his words in my head a few times until they start to make sense.

Knights of Wrath is a familiar term. Those were the guys we were patching over. There was a party. We were all drinking and fucking… Oh yeah, I remember now. I was fucking one of their club girls from behind while she made out with another chick against the brick wall in the alley. Then a car pulled up, tires squealing. I turned my head to see who it was, not giving a shit if they watched us fuck when there was a sudden burning in my side and in my lower leg that dropped me to my knees.

“Fiasco, can you hear me?” Nash asks, his voice muffled more than before.

“Take it easy on him. I just gave him more pain meds, and they’re trying to pull him under so they can do their job,” a woman says before her face appears above me. She looks like a beautiful, dark-haired angel.

“I think he was having a nightmare,” Nash tells her.

“The meds can put you in a deep sleep,” the angel says. Then she smiles down at me warmly and says, “Sweet dreams.”

My eyes close as if on command, doing exactly what she said. I hope to have sweet dreams instead of my usual nightmares. I bet I will, since she’s there with me keeping the bad dreams away.

Chapter Two

Joanna Patton

There’s a big, muscular blond man in my bed, taking up more than half of the queen size mattress, naked other than a pair of boxer briefs.

He’s the first I’ve slept with since my divorce, and he is much easier on the eyes than the man I was married to. Bill was fifteen years older than me, barely two inches taller than me at five foot-seven and was missing most of the brown hair that was meant to cover the crown of his head. I used to look at the thick, curly forest of hair growing from his chest and think that it must have gotten lost and detoured on its way north.

Despite his below-average looks, I thought I was in love with him when we first met. My adoptive parents had both recently died; I had just made the decision to sell the family home and farm to pay for medical bills and the funeral. I think I just wanted someone to take care of me for a little while, and that’s what Bill did. At first.

But after about three months of living together as husband and wife, I quickly grew tired of him and his odd fetishes. It wasn’t your normal run-of-the-mill foot fetish or even a little bondage. No, Bill got excited for…my hair. While most guys prefer oral sex, Bill usually only wanted to wrap my long, straight, dark brown hair around his dick and come in it, which was so disturbing and gross. The first time he wanted to do it, I agreed, thinking that once he had done it, he would get over the unusual urge. Instead, it only made him want to do it again and again until hair sex was the only type of sex in our marriage. No orgasms for me, thank you very much. I suggested he go to therapy or that we go to therapy as a couple. He refused, so I asked for a divorce. After a certain point of realizing he preferred my hair to the rest of me, I knew I wasn’t in love with him either. He was just there when I needed someone, and I grabbed on to him.

Until now, I don’t think I ever understood Bill’s strange obsession. But wouldn’t you know, my first thought when I was left alone with the injured biker, looking like a fallen statue of Adonis, was that he looks good enough to eat and that I wanted to run my fingers through his straight, floppy blond hair. I immediately hate myself for the inappropriate thought about a stranger, like I had crossed some horrible ethics line. Never in the four years that I’ve been a registered nurse have I looked at a patient and thought about them in such a lustful way.

Fiasco.

That’s what Nash, Wirth and Malcolm, his so-called friends, call him. Although, to me, it sounds like an awful insult.

Sitting beside his large, muscular frame on the bed, I reach over to check his forehead and cheek for a temperature with my palm, wishing I had one of those instant, infrared thermometers. My touch causes him to stir, and then his big, hazy, brown eyes are open and looking right at me. I finally use that as an excuse to push his hair out of his eyes. It’s just as soft and silky as it looks.

“You’re…still…here,” he says, and then the corners of his lips try and go up into a smile before he groans in pain.

“Sorry I woke you up,” I whisper to him.

“Where’s…everyone?” he tries to sit up and then falls right back down to the mattress.

“Nash and the guys just left. Go back to sleep…” I start to call him Fiasco like they all did, but it just sounds too cruel. “Can you tell me your name?”

“Fiasco,” he answers automatically.

“No, your real one.”

“Oh. It’s…Phillip,” he says softly.

“I’ll be here, Phillip. Just sleep and give your body time to heal.”

“Okay,” he agrees, the word trailing off into a gentle snore as he drifts away, his consciousness