Jaded – Beautiful Biker Read Online D.D. Prince

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Biker, Contemporary, Crime, MC Tags Authors:

Total pages in book: 212
Estimated words: 207966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1040(@200wpm)___ 832(@250wpm)___ 693(@300wpm)

Want equal rights?
Don't f____ a biker.
Want safe and predictable?
Do not fall for a biker.

Want wind in your hair, fire in your soul, and a man's fingerprints on your body, marking you as his and only his, to be protected and treasured forever?

*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************


Gianna Grace Jones

Ten Years Ago

It reeked in here. I couldn’t stop shivering. I shivered so hard with the cold it made my bones ache.

The rotten smell, the cold, and the fear were a potent cocktail that kept me on edge and ensured I would definitely not fall asleep and leave myself vulnerable in this place. I’d come here for shelter from the cold, but as soon as I stepped into it, I knew it might’ve been better to take my chances in subzero temperatures.

The streets didn’t smell like this carpet. Right now, the streets had a pretty dusting of pure, fresh snow on top of ice from the freezing rain of a couple hours ago. I don’t know what has to happen to carpet to make it smell like this and probably don’t want to know, since I was sitting on it.

This was the kind of thing that happened when you found yourself sleeping rough in a squat.

On the streets, you aren’t surrounded by speckled black mold, rotting walls and water-damaged ceilings likely filled with vermin shit and asbestos or other noxious substances. Walls and ceilings are supposed to shelter you, but these? Probably not great for the lungs. And one strong gust of wind and the whole place might crumble down on top of us.

So, why was I here?


Kailey reasoned that trying to get through the night out there might mean we freeze to death. I argued we could be in mortal danger here, too. With the streets, at least I wouldn’t be under the scrutiny of the quiet guy with bloodshot eyes and the random bouts of twitching.

In times like these – sadly, this wasn’t the first time like this – I always thought about that Little Match Girl movie I saw as a kid where the young girl with the fair hair froze to death. If only she’d started a fire instead of letting the matchsticks burn out one by one. I saw that movie as a cautionary tale; it’s haunted me ever since. Then again, my life, the positions I kept finding myself in, I’m a walking, talking cautionary tale myself. Anyone watching me right now would probably say, “Go! Run! Get out of there before yet another bad thing happens to you.”

Yeah, my guardian angel probably has to take more Xanax than my mother and she pops them like they’re Pez.

Like a too-stupid-to-live heroine in a horror movie, I often ignore when my instinct tells me to take flight. Why?

Kailey is often why.

And because of Kailey, too often it turns to fight. Or instead of fight or flight, it turns to put up and shut up.

Damn it, Kai. Kailey and her bright ideas again. Kailey’s schemes getting us kicked out. Kailey’s bright ideas putting us in the clutches of predators. Kailey sleeping peacefully with her head on my lap while I’m left to watch for the moment that’s not too early yet not too late. The moment to wake her and skedaddle.

I’m keeping us from freezing to death (barely) for as long as possible here since she’s sound asleep, but ever since we got here I knew, I just knew… we would be doing a runner before the sun rose.

Yet again, I let her railroad me. I protested and she talked me into things. And I should know better. I do know better. But it’s been like this since we were kids, since shortly after my father married her mother and I found myself with a new stepsister who was a couple years older, a whole lot worldlier, and full of ideas. Ideas that usually got us into trouble, but yet somehow with the power to talk me into things. Times like these were too common. Times when I knew we were making a mistake and wouldn’t stand my ground then wind up in a state of self-loathing, scolding myself for being such a pushover. Such a doormat. It might as well be tattooed on my forehead because I feel like I can see it in the mirror. Kailey certainly sees it.

If Kailey weren’t asleep with her head on my lap, I’d be arguing that we should go now. But she’d stay anyway, and so would I because otherwise, I wouldn’t be able to protect her. If not for her, I’d be walking the icy sidewalks until morning if necessary until I could hunker down somewhere in the daylight and figure out our shit. Then again, if not for her, I wouldn’t have found myself homeless again.

At the idea of the need to figure out our shit, yet again, my belly dipped and then twisted with more stress. Time to find another place to stay. A way to feed ourselves. Again. Because we sure didn’t have friends to lean on. No. Kailey wore out her welcome everywhere and got me painted with the same brush by extension.