Devil's Dance: Rebel Kings MC Read online

  Praise for Garrett Leigh

  “Emotional and brilliant…”

  All About Romance

  “Tastefully erotic … more smart than smutty…”

  Publishers Weekly

  “Powerful and compelling…”

  Foreword Reviews

  Devil’s Dance

  Rebel Kings MC

  Garrett Leigh

  Copyright © 2021 by Garrett Leigh

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover Art: Garrett Leigh @ Black Jazz Design

  Editing: Posy Roberts @ Boho Press

  Proofing: Con Riley. Annabelle Jacobs. Mik Kuznetov

  Contents

  Foreword

  Playlist

  The Rebel Kings MC

  1. Cam

  2. Cam

  3. Teddy

  4. Cam

  5. Teddy

  6. Cam

  7. Teddy

  8. Cam

  9. Alexei

  10. Cam

  11. Cam

  12. Alexei

  13. Cam

  14. Alexei

  15. Cam

  16. Alexei

  17. Cam

  18. Alexei

  19. Cam

  20. Alexei

  21. Alexei

  22. Cam

  23. Cam

  24. Alexei

  25. Cam

  26. Alexei

  27. Cam

  28. Alexei

  29. Cam

  30. Alexei

  31. Cam

  Saint’s Song - Preview

  About the Author

  Also by Garrett Leigh

  Foreword

  This is a dark romance, featuring characters caught up in the world of motorcycle clubs (MCs) and all that comes with it. These characters are not always nice and they do things that are not nice. It is a romance, so the sweet moments we crave do come, but bear these words in mind before you dive in.

  This is also the first book in a duet that will eventually be polyA/MMM. By the end of the duet, the main characters will have more than one love interest.

  Unending thanks to Mik, my Russian sensitivity reader. So sorry you had to read this in the same room as your mum. And to Pipey, who I’m still trying to persuade to let me fall off the back of his Harley sometime. Thank you for explaining the democratic nature of MCs to me.

  Trigger warnings: sex work, violence, death, recreational drug use.

  Playlist

  Carnage - WYR GEMI

  Take a Number - Stone Sour

  The Witness Trees: Acoustic - Stone Sour

  You Can’t Fix This - Stevie Nicks, Dave Ghrol

  L’Etat C’est Moi - The Blinders

  Taipei Person/Allah Tea - Stone Sour

  Bother - Stone Sour

  Control - Puddle of Mud

  For Everything - The Murder Capital

  Pain and Pleasure - Judas Priest

  All My Tears - Ane Brun

  The Last Hangman - Hotel Lux

  LISTEN ON SPOTIFY

  The Rebel Kings MC

  President: Cam O’Brian (32)

  Vice President: Nash McGovern (31)

  Sergeant-at-Arms: Saint Malone (29)

  Enforcer: Mateo Romano (26)

  Treasurer: Vacant

  Secretary: John “Cracker” Delaney (58)

  Chaplain: “Father” Embry Carter (25)

  Road Captain: Rubi Matherson (32)

  Club associates

  Orla O’Brian

  River O’Brian

  Skylar Buchanan

  Sol Bosanko

  “. . . I think about it all the time. That night on the beach up north, when we were just two lads on a run—me with my dad, you with that nomad crew. Damn, Saint, when I saw you letting the sand run through your fingers, the wind in your fucking hair, it was the first time in my life I’d ever felt free.”

  1

  Cam

  Bristol

  There were many reasons why I rode my Harley fifty miles out of town for a drink, and the back view of this dude in posh clothes was one of them. At least, it was tonight. Toffs in tailored trousers and pressed shirts had never done it for me before, but I wasn’t a bloke who ignored that rush of blood south.

  Never had been. But whatever. My deviant habits weren’t important as I watched Shirt Dude take his fancy bottled beer to a table and sit down. Nothing was. Not even the clusterfuck of a day that had sent me roaring off on my hog in the first place.

  Liar. You were born for this, and you’ll never be fucking free of it.

  Stress squeezed my chest. I tipped beer down my throat, then leaned back in my seat, curving an inked hand around my glass. The menacing dagger tats on my fingers were smudged with oil stains, but I didn’t care. I didn’t become king of the road by being nice.

  I could be nice to this dude, though. Real fucking nice.

  “You’re a man-whore, Cam.”

  Thanks, sis. Like I gave a shit.

  I didn’t, but my preoccupation with Shirt Dude was welcome all the same. Watching as he unfolded a copy of the Financial Times onto the table, frowning at whatever he saw on the pink pages, I got my first good look at his face. And, man, what a face. It was as pretty as his backside—high cheekbones, a neat hipster beard, and the kind of eyes that made a man go weak at the knees.

  Weak.

  Fuck.

  My knees didn’t waver for almost anyone, but my heart skipped a beat as I stared at him, and it wasn’t often the mere sight of someone hit me anywhere other than my dick. In fact, I could only recall one time when it had ever happened before, and I’d clamped a lid on that shit so hard that it sometimes felt like it had happened to someone else—that I was watching my own pain throb and burn from another fucking planet.

  On cue, my chest ached again. Meh. Maybe I’d necked too much coffee at church. Regardless, I didn’t want to think about that right now—about him and everything I couldn’t have—or the messy feelings that came with it. I wanted to think about Shirt Dude and his pretty face and what I’d do to him if we were in the right kind of establishment for me to approach him.

  Trouble was, we weren’t, and I really had only fled my hometown for a solitary drink and a deep breath. If I’d come out to hook up, I’d have ventured further into the city. This place—I glanced around the dark pub—was the best port in a storm I knew for a quiet, contemplative pint. An anonymous pint, and that was all I’d come for.

  Still, I kept ogling Shirt Dude. I mean, I was only human. And subtle as a brick, apparently, because I got caught.

  Shirt Dude raised his gaze from his newspaper. I expected him to look away. Most people did when they saw the leather and tats and figured out they were the real deal, not a fashion choice.

  This bloke wasn’t most people. He held my stare and smirked a little.

  I smirked right back and the answering glint in his eyes went straight to my cock. Down boy. As if. Damn thing never listened to me.

  Because it’s not a sentient being, you fucking tool.

  Who cared? Not me. The thrum in my blood was too good. And I was a reckless arsehole these days. I’d sacrificed too much to resist the simple things in life. If I wanted to fuck someone, I did.

  Or at least tried.

  I held my pint glass up and inclined my head at the seat beside me.

  Shirt Dude rolled his eyes.

  I shrugged. You win some, you lose some.

  Or maybe, just maybe, you won the small sh
it that didn’t mean anything, while the things that made you burn inside got left in the dust.

  Shirt Dude moved like a ghost and slid into the spare seat at the bar. “Are you going to share why you’ve been staring at me for the last ten minutes?”

  A cocky reply had already formed in my head, but it stuck in my throat as his smooth, low voice hit me. Refined and cultured. Like a newsreader, the kind that were on the radio when terrible things happened in the world.

  There was nothing terrible about him, though. Lord, no. Up close, he was even prettier than I’d first thought. Ethereally so. His eyes were slate grey, his perfectly cut hair a cool ash brown, and those cheekbones? Yeah, they could cut fucking glass.

  He smelled good too, like charcoal and the kind of expensive cologne no fucker I knew would ever waste their money on. Wood. Spice. Musk. Whatever the fuck it was, I liked it. A lot. Enough that it took me a full five seconds to remember he’d asked me a question. “I was staring at you,” I said eventually.

  Cool amusement glittered in his eyes. “I think we’ve established that.”

  “Oh, you think, do you?”

  “Yes.” Shirt Dude folded his newspaper on the bar. For whatever reason, he’d brought it with him. “Would you like a drink?”

  I held up my Guinness. “Got one, thanks.”

  Shirt Dude hummed, his gaze turning speculative. “I have one too, so the question remains: why did you want my attention? I see only two options.”

  “That right?”

  “I usually am, so tell me . . . ?” He raised a brow in question.

  “Cam,” I supplied.

  He continued, “Tell me, Cam, what’s your poison? Business or pleasure? And I should probably tell you that I’ve had my fill of business today, so choose wisely.”

  Colour me surprised. Either my dick was twisting whatever he was really saying into what I wanted to hear, or Shirt Dude was up for some fun.

  Despite my earlier conversation with my cock, I didn’t give it that much credit. I necked my pint and set the glass on the bar while fixing Shirt with another smirk. “I choose pleasure.”

  He returned my leer tenfold, and it held a wickedness that sent a shiver down my spine. Those grey eyes were something else, fucking mesmerising, and as he leaned in closer, his scent got me too, reeling me in like I was the one who’d been hooked. “Good choice. My home is across the street. But first, a warning. If you’re planning on mugging me for my Rolex, I have some advice for you.”

  “Oh yeah?” I licked my lips. Truth be told, though sizing people up was kind of a habit, I hadn’t clocked his fancy watch. I’d been too busy drinking in the way his expensive threads curved around his knock-out body. “What’s that then?”

  Shirt Dude’s smirk turned predatory. “Don’t.”

  2

  Cam

  We left the pub. My hog was parked outside, but if this dude’s place was as close as he said it was, I didn’t need it.

  We wove through the humming city crowds without talking, and I was okay with that. I wasn’t trailing him for small talk. Nah. I wanted to see what was beneath those dapper clothes, and I wondered if he was as curious about me as I was about him. I mean, damn. We couldn’t have been more different. Did he pick up dudes like me all the time?

  Doubted it. There weren’t many bikers out there living the life in the open. The old timers at the club tolerated my wild ways because I kept their bank accounts fat—for now—and I had a council around me that would light them on fire if I gave the nod. A council of brothers. A goddamn fellowship. Mostly, anyway, but I didn’t want to think about politics right now. Couldn’t, or I’d lie down and smash my face into the concrete pavement. Anything for some fucking peace.

  Could I find inner-tranquillity in tracking a fuck-hot dude back to his place for nothing but sex and zero stress? Zero heartache and pain?

  Yeah. Sometimes I could. I needed this shit in my life, and I loved it more than I loved my Harley.

  As promised, Shirt Dude led me to an upmarket building a few hundred yards away and across the street from the pub. I took note of the address and tapped it into my phone, creating a location pin.

  I opened my contacts and my thumb hovered, indecision warring with the need to return my attention to the pretty bloke in front of me. There were any number of brothers who had my back, but . . . I took the easy option and sent the pin to my vice president. Nash didn’t give two fucks where I was or what I was doing. He didn’t look at me with smothered hurt in his gaze or his jaw set so hard it might break. He accepted the message with a thumbs-up and went back to his own life. An easy exchange, and Christ, I needed something to be easy, given the week we’d just had. The only reason I wasn’t scoping Shirt Dude as an assassin or a fed was the fact that he’d ignored me until he’d caught me ogling his damn fine self.

  Besides, despite his warning about trying any shady shit, I had a stone on him in weight, and I’d been born with my hands curled into fists. I could handle this sweet fucker in my sleep.

  He let us inside and we took the lift to the top floor, to the penthouse.

  I whistled. “You’re a rich motherfucker.”

  “If you say so.”

  “Are you going to tell me your name?”

  “Is it important to you?”

  Was it? Probably not. I didn’t usually get around to asking, but calling him Shirt Dude in my head was starting to annoy me. “Go on then. Tell me.”

  “That’s not answering the question.” The lift doors opened. Shirt Dude stepped out and to a door that had no number on it. “But I’m feeling generous, so I’ll tell you anyway.”

  He unlocked the penthouse door, then turned to me with an outstretched hand. “Teddy Jones, nice to meet you.”

  Teddy. Of all the names he could’ve given me, perhaps I was expecting that one the least. Because it’s bullshit.

  I liked it, though, for now. It rolled around my brain like warm honey and I took his hand with a grin on my face. “Nice to meet you too.”

  Teddy pushed his front door open, revealing a cool, dark space that would’ve made me feel scruffy in my old jeans and battered leather jacket if I gave a shit.

  I didn’t. I stepped into his home like I rocked up in places like this all the time and let the door swing shut behind me.

  “You can hang your jacket there.” Teddy pointed to a row of copper hooks behind the door. “And take off your boots.”

  He turned on his heel and strode away into the penthouse without looking back.

  Take off your boots. I wasn’t used to taking orders, but man, that made my dick hard. For the first time in my life, I did as I was told, duly hung my jacket on the hook and toed off my battered motorcycle boots. My socked feet hit the polished tile floor and another shiver rushed up my spine. I was out of place here and I didn’t care.

  Bring it on.

  I followed my instincts out of the swanky hallway and to a room that was almost a living room, though it was nothing like any house I’d ever been in. No photos, empty beer cans, or dogs snoozing on the couch. Just a couch and a drinks cabinet where Teddy stood, pouring something into a crystal glass.

  He glanced at me. “You can pour your own. Open a fresh bottle if you’re worried.”

  “Worried about what? You drugging me and having your wicked way?”

  “It’s a valid concern. You’re a big man, but no one is invincible.”

  “I don’t need to be if you’re not a massive cunt, mate.”

  Teddy smiled. And wow. If I’d been into him before, I was a horny puddle at his feet the moment those lips stretched wide and split his pretty face in half. Well, kind of. It was a small smile. Reluctant. Bewitching. Those grey eyes had been magical from the moment I’d fallen into them, but sparkling with mirth, they were fucking enchanting.

  Hypnotising.

  Damn, I needed a drink before my brain overflowed with adjectives I didn’t usually have call for in my life. Only with—

  Nope.
/>
  Don’t think about him.

  My fucking mantra.

  If you did something enough, did it ever stop hurting?

  I ventured closer to Teddy and peered into the open cabinet. I wasn’t worried about him slipping me roofies—he didn’t seem the type—but I reached for an unopened bottle of whisky anyway. He was drinking vodka. Fuck that. I wanted to bang his brains out, not have flashbacks of my fourteen-year-old self blowing chunks behind my dad’s garage.

  The whisky was good, smooth and smoky. It slid down my throat like buttered fire and added to the smouldering burn I’d carried since I’d first laid eyes on this dude.

  I emptied my glass and set it back where I’d found it. “How do you want to do this? Because I’m guessing you’re not one for small talk.”

  “Not especially.” Teddy sipped his vodka, eyeing me with a narrowed gaze. “And I have some things in mind, but I’d be interested to hear your thoughts first.”

  “My thoughts? What is this? A fucking board meeting?”

  Teddy’s lips twitched, but he kept his sinful smile to himself this time. “Do you spend a lot of time in board meetings, Cam?”

  More than he could imagine, but my clipped reply was swallowed up by my body’s response to him saying my name. More heat flushed through me and my jeans grew uncomfortably tight. “I want to fuck you. But I’m down for other stuff if you don’t want to go that far.”