For me, growing up did not imply independence. My whole life has been paved before me like a well-traveled road. My twenty-first birthday signaled the end of my father’s rule, and the beginning of my husband’s—where I am expected to churn out infinite children with a smile.
Read alsoMany Hands
Why does everyone keep telling Lily that many hands make the basket? Didn't she make the basket with her very own hands? It is the most beautiful basket of her 10-year-old life and no one will give her the credit she deserves. In the end, she learns a valuable lesson about pride and the spirit of community. Into the story is woven the process of…
As I stare at the oversized Temple doors, weighed down by more than yards of heavy, white lace, I do what I have never done before.
I make a decision for myself.
I decide to run.
Being in a motorcycle club is in my DNA, as is the military requirement to join. I served, I fought, and I survived the crucible of grueling training and intense combat. I returned to my club with newfound respect for right, wrong, and the shades of gray that connect them.
By day, I work at Ronin Auto, pulling things apart, fixing the problem, and putting them back together.
Grace and her nonfunctioning, little sedan prove to be a hiccup in a well-oiled machine.
Because by night, I smuggle soft felons into Mexico.
With things heating up at the border, and a missing MC family member, the last thing I need is an innocent to worry about.
But something about Grace makes me want to take apart all of her pieces to figure out how someone so beautiful has never even been kissed.
Against my better judgment, I strike a bargain with the little, blue-eyed beauty, and it changes everything I thought I knew. About women. About the club. About the man I’ve become.