Colt and Raider, the younger two of my four older brothers, are high on the totem pole in the Club. It isn’t because their last names are Hannigan either. I wasn’t allowed to know what they did for the Club, culpable deniability and all that crap. They are both hustling to mix drinks and pour beers. They give me a relieved grin as I walk toward them. I shoot Raider the middle finger, disgusted with him for not being able to keep his dick in his pants for at least another twenty-four hours so I can have a night off to sleep, as I rush into the office to get an apron and tie my wet hair back.
Neither of my brothers say a word to me as I grab a tray and start making my rounds. I pick up a handful of empty bottles from the closest table and toss them in the trash before asking if the three bikers want anything else. They barely glance at me as they ask for a bottle of Patron and a salt shaker.
It takes me thirty minutes to make my way through the bar until I get to the booth in the back. I hadn’t bothered with the patrons of that table until now because I know that once I get back there I won’t be able to leave for at least ten minutes.
As soon as I reach the six men sitting at the booth, I offer them a smile. This is where the Originals sit. The Originals along with my dad had founded the Club and all the younger members looked to them for the guidance in life, sex, and business. They only come in on Friday nights. Shoot the shit, handle business. Make sure that the pups still know that in the biker world they were the law, second only to the Club’s president.
“Hey there, girl!” They all greet me with a welcoming smile. Their old eyes light up with affection and appreciation. I look just like my mother, or so I’ve been told at least a million times. I don’t remember her because her life had been tragically cut short, but I’ve seen the pictures and there is a resemblance. If I’m half as hot as she was, I guess I’m not that bad.
I stop beside my Uncle Jack. He’s not really my uncle but that’s what I call the Originals, each and every one of them. “What kind of trouble are you old fuckers causing tonight?” I ask, bending my head to smack a kiss on Jack’s cheek. I don’t expect them to actually tell me what they’ve been doing back here all evening. Not knowing is my safety net.
A beefy arm wraps around my waist. “You and that smart-ass mouth, Raven.” He shakes his head at me but he’s grinning. “Your poor momma is rolling over in her grave at how those boys let you talk.”
I shrug. My mother supposedly never even raised her voice, let alone cursed. Everyone that describes her says the same thing. “Maggie Hannigan was a lady.” I’m nothing like my mother. I had grown up in a house with five bikers and no female influence at all, unless you counted the trail of one night stands that had come and gone through the front door. I talk and act just like I am—the spawn of a biker.
“You guys need anything?” I glance at the open bottles on the table between them: a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels, quarter of a bottle of Patron, longneck beer bottles, and a few glasses of draft.
“We’re good for now, Raven,” Uncle Chaz assures me. “But we sure wouldn’t turn down a few minutes of sunshine in this stale ass place.”
I wink at Chaz. He’s sixty-three and has a granddaughter my age that he never sees. Chaz doesn’t see any of his family much, except for the only one of his sons that had joined the club at eighteen. His wife tucked tail and ran after Chaz had nearly died from a knife fight here in the bar long before I had even been a gleam in my dad’s eye.
“I’m always happy to oblige, Uncle Chaz.”
The door opens letting in the scent of rain and summer air. I wouldn’t have normally looked up, but the heat of eyes on me has the fine hairs on my neck rising, forcing me to turn my head …
All the oxygen traps in my lungs as my eyes land on the beast of a man standing by the still-open door. Uncle Jack, his arm still around me, feels me stiffen and raises his head. I hear him mutter something that sounds like a curse before he stands. The other five Originals follow suit, heading toward the man that just entered the bar,
Leaving me standing there feeling like someone just stabbed me in the heart.
The enforcer is back.
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Lance Roughnecks Series
By USA Today Bestselling Author Chelsea Camaron
Copyright © Chelsea Camaron 2015
This book contains mature content not suitable for those under the age of 18. Involves strong language and sexual situations. All parties portrayed in sexual situations are adults over the age of 18.
All characters are fictional. Any similarities are purely coincidental.
Dedication
~For Ace~
Thank you for being along for the ‘rush’ and putting up with my kind of crazy.
To everyone who has ever felt like you aren’t enough exactly as you are
YOU ARE MORE THAN ENOUGH
Lance
Value, worth—these are things I don’t have. College degree, great job—none of that matters if you look in the mirror and can’t find anything to love.
Structure, dedication, and determination are the traits that Candace Jones has survived and thrived on. When no one cares at home, it takes her self-drive to push and work her way through college. Life is funny while you’re growing up, and adulthood isn’t any easier than childhood. Little girl dreams are often destroyed before they can even begin.
Lance ‘Rush’ Miller works hard and plays even harder. He lives life from one adrenaline rush to the next, from working as a roughneck to trick riding his street bike. He has it made and knows it.
What happens when firm resolve crashes into wild abandon? Two complete opposites are thrown together when Candace finds herself in need of a quick escape that Lance is all too willing to give her.
P ROLOGUE
~Candace~
Go to school, get good grades, stay out of the way, and stay quiet.
Simple enough.
Only nine hundred or so more days until I graduate from high school and move on to college.
I once read an article that said, ‘a person can still feel alone even surrounded by a room full of people.’ That one phrase describes my existence perfectly.
“Candace, dinner’s ready,” my mom calls out, and dread automatically fills me.
I trudge down the stairs one by one while the childhood pictures stare back at me, taunting me.
Haunting me.
The chubby baby cheeks that were once so cute now round out my face, hiding none of my shame from the world. At the bottom step, I close my eyes and inhale deeply. Exhaling, I push back the tears threatening to spill out.
My daily torture is about to begin.
As I round the corner and step into the kitchen, the aroma of garlic assaults my senses as my stomach growls loudly in hunger. Absently, I run my hands over my belly.
“Oh, Candy, don’t rub your tummy like a pet,” my mother chastises.
Silently, I move to wash my hands. There is nothing I can say to her that could make her understand.
No one sees my pain. No one knows my struggles, least of them my size six mother.
“Something smells good, Lisa,” my dad proudly greets her as he walk in and proceeds to kiss her cheek. He’s got that right. It does smell good.
I once read in an article at the doctor’s office that we first eat with our nose, then our eyes, and finally our mouth. Smell, sight, texture, and taste all come together to register in our brain whether we like a food or not.