A Good Girl's BIKER Baby_A Forbidden Baby Romance Read online

  Copyright © 2018 by Cherise West. All rights reserved.

  Cover by Addendum Designs

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely incidental. All individuals involved are consenting adults, with no blood relation to one another.

  Good Girl Gone Bad - Or A Wild Heart Freed?

  She thought she knew what she wanted - his gang, in prison. Him along with them. For good.

  But when she saw him in that courtroom for the first time, she knew her life was about to change forever.

  And when she saw that line on the strip light up, she knew she had to have him forever - laws and rules be damned.

  Consider signing up for Cherise's MAILING LIST for early access to bonus chapters, bonus material, sneak peaks, and a FREE BONUS STORY!

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Legal

  Synopsis

  Table of Contents

  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

  "His PERFECT Medicine" Teaser!

  "Three Sexy Minutes" Teaser!

  "The PRIDE of South Boston" Sample

  Connect With Cherise

  Chapter 1

  “Can you please repeat for the court exactly what you said to Ms. Cleary?”

  "Sure," the gross frat-boy twenty something sneered, chortling. He lifts the paper laid on the witness stand in front of him, pimply face distorted in irritating amusement. I show no such sense of humor on mine. "Let me bend over, grand-momma, and show you my fun hole."

  He can't stop laughing. The jury roll their eyes. I do, more or less, the same. Not the worst case I've dealt with - but when my personal crusade against the Roarin' Warhogs bites, claws like a restrained animal at the back of my mind, dealing with snot-nosed rich kids and their indecent exposure cases tends to grind on my nerves. That, and after a half-dozen cases arraigned, indicted, charged or convicted today, I've had enough of pug-faced snickering, disinterested juries and disgusting judges.

  "Do you have anything further to add to the day's precedings in your defense, Mr. Holcomb?" Taking no shit, I glare at him, pushing a few stray auburn locks from my brow, wispy waves of it escaping from the drooping bun tied back tight against my head, the tossle of orange-red just as exhausted as I am after today. I shift in my suit - a muted jacket and skirt of gray, the button-down beneath chafing at my collar. It feels big on me, but I imagine all of my fitted clothing will, after three weeks of cry-vomiting after my breakup with that asshole Josh. Three years together, and he leaves me for his snotty secretary at his firm. I 'cared too much about the job'. Figures.

  "Oh, uhm-- no, ma'am," his voice wobbles. "I th-- I mean, that's all."

  "Thank you, for letting us all know, that's all," I state, a sarcastic smile creasing my tired expression. "Do we have any other issues in question?" I glance back at the college kid's defense attorney, a rotund, balding man, a fringe of graying black along his scalp, in a suit with shoulders twice as big as what lay beneath. Dolph Jackson, on retainer with half of the too-rich-for-their-own-good types in all of New Jersey, from trust fund kids to mob bosses.

  "Oh, no," he plays surprised, his nose half-buried in a book. Most likely not a law book. This isn't a serious case for Jackson, just a quick buck he makes schmoozing the judge at the behest of whatever rich parents paid to protect the twit on the witness stand.

  "Oh, and uhh, I wanted to say, I'll never do it again," the twit insists, buried in his daddy's oversized suit, "and I'm really, really sorry--"

  "That's quite enough," Judge Yance, the old, wrinkled stickler on the bench, bellows. I smile; Yance has my back most times, even if he knows the district judge above us plays golf with this irritating kid's parents and is sure to get an earful on account of Yance's stern judgments. He's a good guy, even if he can be a stone-faced pain in the neck at times; that’s what a life raised in the rough parts of Jersey City will teach a man. "You're dismissed now."

  "Dismissed? Like I can..." the frat-boy points to the door at the back of the courtroom.

  "Please get off the witness stand, Mr. Martin," Yance commands, annoyed. Getting the picture, the kid slowly sidles off the side of the seat, awkwardly bowing on his way off the stand. "Yes, thank you for that performance, Mr. Martin, please sit," Yance commends his curious gesture, glancing expectantly to me.

  "Yes, your honor, the prosecution rests," I state attentively, rounding my table and sitting in the creaky, maple chair. Silence. I glance at the jury; bored to sleep. A few witnesses sit behind us, on uncomfortable benches more akin to the rigid wood of a church pew, arms crossed and eyelids drooping. A clock ticks louder than any other noise in the courtroom. Jackson whispers something to his client, scribbling along the mess of papers laid out before him. Time wasting. I know him well enough to know when he's just BSing. Which is most of the time.

  "Your honor, I'd like to motion to extend discovery; facts critical to this case have only recently made their way across my table, here," he dictates precisely, "and I want time to be able to review what course follows my client's best interests in this delicate legal matter."

  "Critical new facts? Has Ms. Cleary only recently remembered the particular size and shape of your client's, 'fun hole'?" Yance retorts deadpan, bringing hushed laughter from the gallery.

  "Please, your honor," Jackson states gravely, knowing the absurdity of the situation but keeping his face straight.

  "Yes, yes, we'll put this matter to rest for now," Yance groans, earning a consummate response from the jury.

  "Awesome! Does that mean I got off?" the twit exclaims; Jackson quickly quiets him, the jury dragging themselves out of the box as observers file out behind us.

  "Good working with you as always, Mara," Jackson offers me a handshake, gathering up his papers as the court empties.

  "Please, call me Ms. Lewis, I insist," I scoff, leaving his hand hanging.

  "Sure, Ms. Lewis," he continues, throwing his coat on over his suit jacket. "Though, if what I hear is right, Ms. Lewis should start to get real comfy in court with me. Seeing as, I'm the best defense trial lawyer in New Jersey, and I might know a thing or two about proper police conduct that might concern her regarding her case against the Roarin' Wardogs," he slithers his way to another topic, one he always enjoys prodding me about. "Seriously, Mara. Professional courtesies aside - you know in a real trial I'd make your life a nightmare," he snorts arrogantly, "regardless - you've gotta know what you're getting in to, making the Wardogs a target. Every gangbanger, wannabe outlaw on a bike from here to Daytona Beach is gonna see a big target on the back of your head."

  "I ap
preciate your concern, but no, I'm not letting any of the Wardogs off," I chime obstinately.

  "Just watch yourself, okay, Ms. Lewis?" Jackson warns. "Quentin Hill was a nasty bastard, may he rest in peace," he says, pushing through the swinging doors to the gallery and the courtroom exit, "but I hear the guy who took his place is even worse."

  They can threaten, bully, and muscle all they want. The Roarin’ Wardogs MC isn’t going to sell drugs, shake down, shoot, hell-raise or kill on my watch anymore. Determination sets into my eyes as Mr. Martin scurries down the aisle and through the courtroom door, and I hear a loud, raucous noise erupt from the other side.

  "Do we have another case to deal with, Ms. Lewis?" Judge Yance glances at his old-fashioned time piece, gleaming in gold. "It’s near five, now."

  "One more, I think," I speak coldly. "An arraignment."

  The door bursts open, and the chorus of howls and hollers roars through the courtroom. A bailiff leads a man in a jumpsuit and chains; a skinny man, tattoos coating his skeletal frame, his head bald and his eyes deep-set and hazel. Forcing their way in behind the procession, a gang of obnoxious men, tattooed and covered in patches and leather, rumble through the courtroom. Elated at the support of his ‘brothers’, the man in chains laughs, rearing an ugly grin up at Yance when brought to the stand at the center of the courtroom.

  "What is this nonsense in my courtroom?" Yance bellows with authority, the crack of his gavel deafening. The leather-clad crew of tattooed miscreants, a blur of color and cigarette smoke and attitude, all glare mean at the judge and I before the bailiffs push the lot of them back out the door, securing it shut. Still, the gangers make their presence known out in the halls; we hear rousing songs of crooked camaraderie muffled through the courtroom walls as the bailiffs present a set of files to Yance. I stand by, my glare stern. That’s Lefty Pete; low-ranking muscle for the Roarin’ Wardogs, pulled in last week after a shootout with a rival. I’d love to get him to plead out, but it’s nothing but a game to these Wardogs; young, violent, dangerous, and sure they’ll find a cushy spot in prison with their brothers. I won’t stop until I get every one of them into this room.

  "Okay, then," Yance reads through the stack of papers, "Peter Lanza, you are today formally charged by the people of the state of New Jersey with three counts of assault with a deadly weapon, two counts attempted murder, stemming from incident taking place April 17th, three in the morning, involving a shooutout..." Yance looks through the paper. I stare a hole through that smirk on Pete’s face.

  WARDOGS ROLL! WARDOGS FIGHT!

  DOGS AIN’T SCARED ‘A TAKIN’ LIFE!

  The shouts of crass songs in the hallway grow louder, and Yance sighs.

  "Bailiff, can we please quiet that ignorant mob outside of my courtroom?" He demands. One of the bailiffs, Bart - tall and broad and built like a brick wall - nods, pleased at the idea of intimidating the biker gang into quieting down. He storms out the door, and after another muffled torrent and a tense silence, he peeks his head back in. Yance gives him a nod, and he shuts the doors back up, the silent courtroom bruiser keeping watch over the mob no doubt ready to cut him to shreds in defiance.

  "Mr. Lanza, charges against you carry a potentially grave sentence, especially given your prior record," Yance recites mechanically. My heels clack; I shift positions, moving to the gallery to watch. I want to hear every charge against the Wardogs; I want to take every last one of them down. "Mr. Lanza, are you aware of your right to access legal counsel?"

  "Yeah," he scoffs.

  "That’ll be ‘yes, your honor’," Yance reprimands.

  "Yeah, your honor," Pete repeats mockingly.

  "Mr. Lanza, in response to the charges against you, how do you plea?" Yance asks lackadaisically.

  "Not guilty. Wardogs MC for life," he grunts.

  "Is that a part of your plea? I’m not certain our court recognizes that particular plea," Yance groans.

  "Not guilty, your honor," he corrects himself. He looks over his shoulder as Yance continues, his eyes meeting me. I return the look coldly, but something shoots through me; something so dangerous, icy about his stare. He knows who I am. The whole of the Wardogs must, by now. He knows. I shiver. Outside, I straighten my jacket and remain stiff and uncompromising. Inside, my heart beats in silent terror.

  "Eyes forward, please, Mr. Lanza," Yance commands. Lefty Pete refuses, for a moment. A sick, evil grin spreads on his lips as he watches me shift uncomfortably. "Mr. Lanza, eyes forward," Yance repeats, sterner. Finally, after showing me that sick, sick grin for another moment, Pete turns back to the judge.

  I don’t hear the rest of Yance’s spiel; setting bail, asking questions. All I hear is his muffled, stately drone. That glare, though. It sticks with me.

  He can intimidate me all he wants. He and his rough, rowdy gang can do all they want - jeer, charge us, howl and fight. Tattoos and muscles and smoke and anger, they can sneer and scowl but they’ll never get me to stop, as much as my heart jitters at the sight of them.

  My name is Mara Lewis, and the Roarin’ Wardogs are going to prison, thanks to me. I swear it.

  Chapter 2

  “The howling starts up again the moment I push through the courtroom doors, complete with boots banging against the courthouse floor, echoing through tight halls packed with lawyers, plaintiffs, defendants and court staff. The day quickly approaches a close and in spite of their hooting and roaring and the looks each of them give me, I brave the crowd fearlessly, head held as high as I can, even if it's been a long, tiring week.

  My feet hurt, and I nearly sweat under my suit coat; I want to let my hair down, sigh an exhausted sigh, and just sit down somewhere, but I have to keep that rigid and unintimidated look while I push my way through the sea of roughneck Roarin' Wardogs gathered to terrify me.

  I recognize most of them from police documents; dossiers. Even a few faces that've popped up in court, watching me aggressively questioning their brothers, putting them away for long stints in the state penitentiary. Sleazy Jay, a chubby guy with a beard, never seen without his helmet, emblazoned with flames. Wingman, a rough young brawler with scars on his face, hair cropped tight, muscles bulging under the patched leather jacket. Scare, nearly seven feet tall, with long wild hair to the middle of his back, always dressed in a tight-fitting leather vest atop an almost dressy silk shirt. Butcher, broad and strong with a wifebeater showing off wild ink drawn along his arms. There's a dozen more, hunched behind the big names and the big hitters; Rough-House, Donnie Z, Roadrat; names like that. Names earned and patched after years running with the state's baddest outlaw MC.

  Names I want to throw away for a long time.

  "Quiet down!" Bart, my guardian angel, the barrel-chested bailiff, rumbles loudly at the assembled crowd. When Lefty Pete emerges behind me, on his way back to the jailhouse, the Wardogs cheer. I keep my eyes focused forward, though the threatening stares stay locked on the back of my head all the way out to the glass swinging door, onto the steps out to Vario Street.

  A cool spring evening meets me and I breathe deep, finally letting go of my fear. I don't dare look over my shoulder; I won't give them the satisfaction.

  I sure do need a drink, though.

  Striding in these uncomfortable heels I cross the parking lot and make my way into Muriel's. Small and full of yuppie comfort, with glass tables and showy lights and quiet piano music tinkling in the background; they price their drinks too high and too many people like Dolph Jackson frequent it at lunch, but if I can hide at the end of the bar and look tired and grumpy enough I can head off all the lawyers and accountants who come in after work to flirt with the waitresses and send me drinks, hoping to get me into bed to relieve some 'stress' for the night. Squirming onto a stool at the shadowy end of the bar, the TV flashes stray colors across the glass surface, my hands folded patiently on top.

  "Something for you, miss?" the bartender, an older gentleman in a white jacket, acknowledges me. I exhale deep, pluck the ties and pins from my bun
, the accessories crashing into my palm in a small pile as a cascade of auburn falls across my shoulders. I get a look at myself in the mirror behind the wall of glass bottles and liquor jars; I look like I've had a hell of a day, bags under blue eyes and my jacket ruffled along my shoulders. Relaxing them, I let the heavy navy jacket roll off my body, throwing it onto the stool next to me.

  "Muriel's Tea, please?" I request quietly, almost ashamed that I'm throwing down twenty dollars for the strongest drink I can recall from their menu.

  "Sure," the bartender nods, going to work on the heady concoction, some mess of rum, vodka, peach schnapps and... a whole lot of something else, enough liquor to punch away sore memories of a rough day in court. That look on Lefty Pete's face sticks with me; watching my tired reflection in the mirror, that smirk he gave me in court haunts me; I see his face over my shoulder, and that's when I know I've spent too much time looking over all the rap sheets, photos and evidence on the Wardogs that the cops bring me each week.

  Pushing the sight away, I glance down the bar instead - empty, mostly. I'm early. At the end I see a man in a gray-white pinstripe, his hair dark and tightly styled, a pair of thick-framed black glasses on his nose. A hundred sits under an empty glass while he clicks through something on his iPhone; studying his face, I get the feeling it's so vaguely familiar. He looks my way, and my eyes stray, trying to avoid contact, though I maintain a curious, examining gaze from the corner of my eyes.

  Now he's moving closer. Ugh, now I know who it is.

  "Is that who I think it is?" He asks, all the charm of a snotty salesman in his voice.

  "Hi, Lukas," I respond, groaning. "Great seeing you here." I hope he detects my sarcasm and gets the hint. I know he won't.

  "Heyyyy," he hums rhythmically, "Mara, right? Josh's girl?"

  "We're split up, actually," I say flatly, knowing it wouldn't be ten seconds into a conversation with this irritating ass that he'd have to bring up Josh.

  "Yeaahhh I heard," Lukas winces, sussing air through his teeth in faux-pain. "Must be great to be single again, though, right?"