Silver Biker: The Silver Foxes of Blue Ridge Read online

  www.lbdunbar.com

  Copyright © 2020 Laura Dunbar

  L.B. Dunbar Writes, Ltd.

  https://www.lbdunbar.com/

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owner.

  Cover Design: Shannon Passmore/Shanoff Designs

  Editor: Melissa Shank

  Editor: Jenny Sims/Editing4Indies

  Table of Contents

  Other Books by L.B. Dunbar

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Epilogue

  More by L.B. Dunbar

  Keep in touch with L.B. Dunbar

  A Sip of Silver Brewer

  (L)ittle (B)lessings

  About the Author

  Other Books by L.B. Dunbar

  Silver Fox Former Rock Stars

  After Care

  Midlife Crisis

  Restored Dreams

  Second Chance

  Wine&Dine

  The Silver Foxes of Blue Ridge

  Silver Brewer

  Silver Player

  Silver Mayor

  Silver Biker

  Collision novellas

  Collide

  Caught – a short story

  Smartypants Romance (an imprint of Penny Reid)

  Love in Due Time

  Love in Deed

  Love in a Pickle (2021)

  Rom-com for the over 40

  The Sex Education of M.E.

  The Heart Collection

  Speak from the Heart

  Read with your Heart

  Look with your Heart

  Fight from the Heart

  View with your Heart

  Spin-off Standalone

  The Heart Remembers

  The Legendary Rock Star Series

  The Legend of Arturo King

  The Story of Lansing Lotte

  The Quest of Perkins Vale

  The Truth of Tristan Lyons

  The Trials of Guinevere DeGrance

  The Island Duet

  Redemption Island

  Return to the Island

  Paradise Stories

  Abel

  Cain

  Modern Descendants – writing as elda lore

  Hades

  Solis

  Heph

  Dedication

  For the real James

  Reader Warning:

  This is also a story of second chance and forgiveness.

  If you’ve been reading The Silver Foxes of Blue Ridge from the start, you’ve gathered the hints of what has happened in the past to James Harrington. As a parent, he’s suffered the worst of nightmares—the unimaginable. While I’m fortunate and grateful this has not been my experience, I know several parents who have lived through this heart-wrenching loss. Some have carried on. Some have not. Any errors in the emotional experience represented in this work are mine alone. However, I’ve made every attempt to be sensitive to a realistic situation in a fictional setting.

  Prologue

  Nineteen years ago . . .

  [Evie]

  “Yes. God, yes.” My palm slaps the side of my camper as the sexy search and rescue officer slams into me.

  I’ve never done anything as crazy as this.

  “You’re so fucking wet,” he hisses in my ear. His voice is that of someone who’s smoked a pack of cigarettes, although smoking the cancer sticks would never attract me. It’s more that his raspy sound is smoky like the cloud filtering around a crackling fire. He’s a flame, and I’m hot for him.

  My only response to his words is a heavy grunt as my pelvic bone hits the fiberglass of my small travel trailer. The camper rocks a little from the eager thrusting of this god-like man entering me over and over again from behind. My cheek presses against the cool metal as he surges into me, filling me deliciously on repeat. It’s incredible and insane.

  I’ve just met him.

  Yesterday, I was hiking in the Smoky Mountains near Blue Ridge, Georgia. With tunes in my ear and nature as my view, I was in the zone. I never heard him coming.

  The cracking of underbrush. The shout from his mouth.

  He plowed into me, and we collapsed in a heap of packs and gear.

  The cool walking stick I’d found tumbled from my hand. He landed on his back, and somehow, I was straddling him.

  “Oh, my God . . .” I nervously giggled.

  “Are you alright?” he questioned, coughing and sputtering.

  “Where did you come from?” I asked, still trying to catch my breath.

  The bluest eyes peered up at me. “I slipped and fell.” The man beneath me was gorgeous. He was rugged in an outdoor manner, and his cheeks were etched like the boulders of these mountains. His abs beneath my core were rock solid while his eyes danced like a riverbed trickling to larger water. He embodied the peaks of nature around us, and I wanted to camp on him.

  “I could ask you the same question, but I see you’ve fallen from heaven.” His sunshine smile turned up the wattage but also warned me where there was heat, there was fire. This man could scorch a girl, and I wanted to let him.

  “Does that line actually work on women?” I questioned as I slowly sat up on him. My palms remained on his chest. My thighs clenched around his waist, and I prayed the involuntary movement didn’t register with him. When those curvy lips crooked higher on one side, I realized he hadn’t missed the not-so-subtle squeeze.

  Then I noticed his hands on my hips, holding me in place.

  “Would it work on you?”

  Ah, he’s a charmer, this one, I thought.

  “What works on me is a hot bath, a no-sex massage, and copious amounts of wine.” It’d been a while since any of the above happened, and beggars would not be choosers. It wasn’t really the truth. I would dip in a stream, skip the massage, and take one sip of him and be drunk.

  “No-sex massage? Well, I’m out then.” He chuckled lightly and even that was smoky and rough. “Would you mind, maybe, getting off on me?” he asked.

  “You want me to get off on you?” Aghast at his boldness, his laughter turned louder. Richer. Deeper.

  “Ah, you’re a firecracker,” he teased. �
��And as much as I welcome the offer of you to getting off on me, I asked if you’d mind getting off of me. I’m having trouble breathing with this pack pressing into my back.”

  “Shit. I’m so sorry.” I scrambled free of his firm body and scampered away from him like a hermit crab.

  “No worries,” he stated, slowly lifting himself to a seated position. If I thought sitting over him was a treat, witnessing him in a casual lean on one arm with his knee propped up continued the rush of my libido. I wanted to park on his lap.

  Instead, I shook my head to rid the sexual thoughts.

  “I’m Evie,” I offered, extending a hand, and he stared at my fingers.

  “I’m on duty, so if you’re sure you’re okay, I should probably get going.” He stood slowly, held out his hand, which I passed on taking since he wouldn’t shake mine, and pressed myself upward to stand.

  “Well, thanks for that.” I pointed at the ground. “That was fun. We should do it again.” I would hate myself for these lines after he walked away, when I’d second-guess every awkward minute between us. I’d never been so forward.

  “I slipped.” He pointed toward a ridge rising to my right, and I saw the fresh line of loosened soil in the slight incline where his hiking boot ground a path. “Be careful around here. You take care, Evie.” He winked at me, a chuckle mixing with the sentiment. Then he walked away just as I figured he would.

  “Peach,” he grunts in my ear, his mouth at the shell as his thickness pummels into me. The depth of his voice brings me back to the present. We should have gone inside my sleeper, but we didn’t make it that far.

  “Ranger?” I squeak as his body shifts, and he taps my insides in a way I’ve never been tapped.

  “You’re like a Georgia peach, juicing all over me.” His teeth nip at my ear. I am slipping and sliding over him, and I’d be embarrassed if the strain in his voice didn’t tell me he was thoroughly enjoying it.

  At least I hope he’s enjoying it.

  How could he not be enjoying this?

  This was incredible.

  “Where you going, Peach? Stay with me,” he stresses at my ear as his hand slips forward and his thick fingertip touches my clit. Rubbing this sensitive spot in circles like he’s flint against a rock, I’m going to spark any second.

  “I’m going to come,” I warn him as if he doesn’t already know, as if that hadn’t been the end goal when he spun me for the exterior of my camper, nibbled at my neck, and asked me if he could fuck me.

  He’s direct.

  I said yes.

  I wasn’t easy, though my actions appear I might be easier than I thought. My entire reaction to this rugged mountain man surprises me.

  He slows his thrusts and increases the stroking on my pleasure point.

  “Give it to me,” he groans as he concentrates on me, and I smile to myself.

  “I’m giving it to you, pal,” I mutter. “Just don’t ask for my heart.” It’s a heavy thought for the moment—for the rash decision to fuck a man against a camper in the middle of the woods when I only met him a day ago.

  Only twenty-four hours, Evelyn Sue. What were you thinking?

  At twenty-six years old, I was thinking that I’d never been so instantly attracted to someone…or so reckless.

  “No hearts, honey. Just this.”

  I close my eyes. No hearts. Just feel him inside me. The friction. The tension. I focus on the tickle in my belly and the tingles on my skin.

  “Ranger Rick,” I warn with another slap of my hand on the fiberglass shell. “I’m…” The words escape me as I flatten against the metal before me. My body stills as the orgasmic rush washes over me. I’m dripping as I clench him inside me, afraid he’ll slip free, afraid I’ll lose the connection before I’m ready. I don’t want this moment to end. My hand reaches behind me, and I grip his hip, holding him to me.

  “Ready, Peach,” he warns before pulling back, teasing me with escape and then surging forward. A fierce pulse goes off inside me. Thump. Thump. Thump. The sensation matches my heartbeat. I moan, tipping my head for his shoulder. His fingers glide back to my center and circle the nub once again.

  “I can’t,” I hiss, my legs already shaking from the effort of standing and taking him into me.

  “You will,” he demands, working at me when I thought we were finished. But the jet stream in his response to my orgasm and the frantic friction against me once more rips a second geyser from me before I can catch up to what’s happening with my body.

  “Rick!” I scream falling into the abyss, drowning in this man’s touch. I collapse, wedged between the cool camper and the heat of his body.

  Then I hear his laugh.

  As my breathing struggles to regain normalcy, his chuckling ripples up my back pressed against his chest.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Never thought I’d be okay with a woman hollering out another man’s name when I’m buried inside her.”

  “What?”

  “It’s James.”

  “What’s James?” I’m having trouble keeping up with this conversation. It’s also killing the post-orgasmic euphoria.

  “My name. It’s not Rick.”

  As he’d been calling me Peach, even though I told him my name was Evie, I’d taken to calling him Ranger Rick, and completely spaced on the fact I didn’t even know his name.

  Oh my God, you are such a hussy, Evelyn Sue Fitzpatrick.

  “James,” I whisper.

  “My name on your lips is the only name from now on,” he says against my neck. He’s still inside me, still pressing me to the fiberglass of my rig.

  “Does that line work on all the women?” I tease, reality slowly creeping in. I’ve just had sex with a virtual stranger in the middle of the dark woods, miles from town. This has local news headline, ax-murder scenario, written all over it.

  “Only works on one woman, Evie. Only one.”

  1

  A Reintroduction

  [James]

  “Why the scowl, honey?”

  My vision glazes over at the question, and I’m numb to the woman on my lap. I’ve had a few too many tonight. Fall is always a difficult time of year for me. September specifically is the worst. This day the most awful of all. I’m in my home away from home—Ridged Edge—a biker bar just outside my hometown of Blue Ridge, Georgia, because I don’t trust myself to be anyplace else. It’s a place where—despite everyone knowing my name—I can forget who I am.

  James Harrington.

  That’s my name, my birthright, and my curse. I didn’t always hate being a Harrington. At one time, I took it as a privilege. I used it to my advantage. But a name doesn’t stop you from losing everything.

  The biker babe on my thigh cups my chin and forces me to look at her. I’m not about to tell her my woes. Few people know the truth, and that’s the way I like it.

  Trixie? Trudy? Tabby? I can’t remember her name, but I squeeze her hip. She’s wearing the shortest of short skirts in black leather and a white top cut so low her red bra hangs out. Her thick ass presses into my thigh. She’s unfamiliar in so many ways. She isn’t the woman I thought would be sitting on my legs at my age. By forty-eight, I believed my life would be many things, but none of them hold true. What a fucker I was back in my twenties. My thoughts want to wander to the past, but I reel them back in. There’s no point in rehashing history. The past is the past, as the cliché goes.

  “Thinking about how’d I get so lucky,” I sarcastically slur of her being on my lap. She’s a brunette with brown eyes, and it’s all wrong. Maybe I can get lost in her, but I know I won’t. I don’t want to spend the night with her. Still, I don’t push her off me yet. I’m not happy being with other women, but I am a man, and I have needs. I try to give what I take. The tongue works wonders. Fingers too. But there’s a part of me that doesn’t belong to anyone else but one woman.

  And she’s gone, fucker.

  It’s all my fault.

  “We should get out of here,�
� the babe whispers in my ear. Her voice is off. Smoky and rough, she sounds as tough as she probably is. It’s a hard life being a bitch to a bunch of bikers. Rebels Edge—we aren’t the worst out there. The club is no longer one-percenters. That history happened before me joining up with the group. The original club whittled down to more of a group of rogue bikers and lost souls who found one another. We ride. We drink. We fornicate.

  Such is my life now. The life I didn’t think I’d ever be living.

  “Not yet, honey,” I tell her as she outlines the shell of my ear with her tongue. Hosed down by the saliva, she laps at me like the kisses my pooch Silver gives me. A lick from my Siberian Husky might actually feel better.

  “Ranger.” The call of my biker name forces me to look up. “I think this one’s for you.”

  Justice is the president of our non-official club, and he’s also become a true friend. His silver-topped head tips toward the front of the bar, and I squint. The brightness of blond hair from yards away beckons like a beacon across a lake, but I can’t make out the rest of her. She hesitantly stands before the front door, as though she isn’t certain she should be here. Perhaps she’s wondering how she got here.

  Join the club, sister.

  Then again, don’t. Whoever she is, from this distance, I can tell she doesn’t have a stitch of biker babe in her. Something just doesn’t feel right about her and tells me I’m correct in my assessment.

  “Nope. Not my type,” I say to my friend, turning my gaze back to him and then offering a kiss to the jaw of the woman on my lap. Justice snorts and shakes his head slowly side to side. His arms cross over his solid body. He’s been acting all kinds of weird over the past few months. I’d tease him it’s old age, but I know the real source of his content. He’s getting his dick dipped on the regular to one woman, in particular, and it’s mellowing him. He’s in love.

  I shiver with the thought. I’d been there once—only once—then I lost it all.

  Maybe the chick by the door is lost. It happens on occasion. Someone’s driving toward Blue Ridge, up here in the Smoky Mountains of Georgia, and gets turned around because of a lack of GPS. She hasn’t quite made it to town and doesn’t realize she’s only fifteen minutes outside of it.