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    Havoc: A Bad Boy Motorcycle Club Romance: Los Desperados MC, #1
    Havoc: A Bad Boy Motorcycle Club Romance: Los Desperados MC, #1
    Havoc: A Bad Boy Motorcycle Club Romance: Los Desperados MC, #1
    Ebook101 pages1 hour

    Havoc: A Bad Boy Motorcycle Club Romance: Los Desperados MC, #1

    By Kara Parker

    4.5/5

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    About this ebook

    Havoc is book 1 of the Los Desperados MC trilogy. Books 2 and 3, Chaos and Mayhem are available everywhere now!

    I can’t trust her, but that doesn’t mean I’m keeping my hands off her.


    I don’t take no for an answer, and I get things done—whatever it takes. 
    So when our latest heist lands us the best runner from our rival club, it’s up to me to pry the words out of her mouth.

    Easier said than done.

    She’s a maniac on the road and a bigger freak between the sheets. 
    With lips begging to be kissed and curves screaming to be tamed.

    She thinks she can beat me, she thinks she can lie.
    But she better get in line, because if she doesn’t…

    … I’ve got orders to put a bullet between her eyes.

     

    LanguageEnglish
    PublishereBook Publishing World
    Release dateJan 15, 2018
    ISBN9781386509714
    Havoc: A Bad Boy Motorcycle Club Romance: Los Desperados MC, #1

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    Book preview

    Havoc - Kara Parker

    HAVOC: Los Desperados MC (Book 1)

    By Kara Parker

    C:\Users\Brett\AppData\Local\Microsoft\Windows\INetCache\Content.Word\13.jpg

    I CAN’T TRUST HER, BUT THAT DOESN’T MEAN I’M KEEPING MY HANDS OFF HER.

    I DON’T TAKE NO FOR an answer, and I get things done—whatever it takes.

    So when our latest heist lands us the best runner from our rival club, it’s up to me to pry the words out of her mouth.

    Easier said than done.

    She’s a maniac on the road and a bigger freak between the sheets.

    With lips begging to be kissed and curves screaming to be tamed.

    She thinks she can beat me, she thinks she can lie.

    But she better get in line, because if she doesn’t...

    ... I’ve got orders to put a bullet between her eyes.

    Chapter One

    The old ladies at the club always ask me if I’m afraid to be out driving on my own and I’m never quite sure how to answer them. It’s funny, most of them aren’t old at all, some are even younger than me, but age doesn't make you an old lady. Old ladies aren’t real members; they don’t do any real work in the club. The old ladies don’t get on bikes and ride out looking for trouble, they don’t sneak past the border, they don’t drive big-rigs filled with millions of dollars’ worth of stolen handbags and jewelry down the LA freeway. The old ladies are the girlfriends and the wives and the sidepieces. Their boyfriends and husbands go out every day and work for the club. They get passed and traded around and they just light another cigarette, snort another line, and live another miserable day, not even bothering to hope for better. Most of them are sad and lonely and arrive at The Bandits’ clubhouse only because they have nowhere else to go. Hell, that’s how I first got in.

    But that’s not me. I gave the old lady business up years ago. It’s true; I was an old lady to my crappy ex-boyfriend. He was the one who brought me in to the biker game, and he’s the one who told The Bandits they could trust me. It was a hot Thursday night and I was all of nineteen when he brought me into the gang’s clubhouse. We stood before a dozen bikers armed to the teeth and he threw his arm around my shoulder and told everyone I was Daniela, and I was his.

    I was offered all the booze I could drink and all the drugs I could snort, like that alone was supposed to be enough for me. But I hated it. I hated being told to hush and remember my place. I hated being ignored when I knew my ideas were far better than any of the other guys’. I hated seeing pimply-faced teenaged boys, who were full members, lord themselves over me and try to boss me around.

    So one day I decided enough was enough, no way, no how was I spending my life an old lady. So I got a bike and proved my worth, over and over again. I quit the good-for-nothing, lying, cheating, son-of-a-bitch boyfriend and never even really missed him. I’m driver now. I’m a lead driver and a full member of The Bandits and I’ll smash in the skull of anyone who questions me on it.

    But right now, it was two o’clock in the morning and I was by myself driving a semi with millions of dollars’ worth of illegal merchandise in the box and I felt fine, not scared at all. Behind me I was hauling designer watches covered with glittering diamonds, couture purses, sky-high heels by Italian designers, silk ties, gold chains and the list goes on and on. I had watched the boys from the docks load them into the truck, crate after crate of expensive baubles, money piled on top of money. And then the roller door came crashing down locking the goods up and I gave the boys their cut.

    You all alone out here? one asked, sticking his envelope into his back pocket and then lighting up a cigarette. He looked like he was in his late forties and was balding and overweight. On the warm night, sweat had spread out from his armpits back and chest making a rather gross pattern on his red shirt. It had taken an hour to load the truck, and he had supervised the younger boy who had done all of the actual work. He had spent his time muttering at the boy to go faster and be quieter while he stood with his hands on his hips and tried to look intimidating.

    I’m with The Bandits. I’m never alone, I answered him. My voice had been sweet as pie, but I knew the look I gave him made him nervous. I opened my coat to reveal the two Glocks I kept loaded in their holsters. He had wiped the sweat from his forehead and laughed awkwardly and I didn’t even have to show him the knife I kept strapped to my thigh. It was a shame really; it’s a good knife.

    I drove from the docks down the late night LA streets. I passed gangbangers trading paper bags for large wads of cash on the corners. Their buyers were white men in suits who glanced furtively up and down the street as they did their business looking guiltier with every passing second. A few blocks away some blonde starlet in a tight white dress with red stilettos and dark sunglasses had come stumbling out of a club. The paparazzi had been smoking cigarettes and leaning against their cars waiting for her and when she emerged they had jumped to action, filling the night with shouts and flashbulbs.

    It was only a few blocks from the drunken starlet to the entrance to the freeway. If I were going to encounter any trouble, it was there on the streets themselves. But nothing had happened; the ride had been smooth and quiet. The old semi had shuddered a little bit on the incline to the freeway, but then she quieted down and settled beneath me and I could finally breathe and relax. I reached down and rolled open the window, letting the warm air flow over me, another job done well. I gave two pulls on the horn as I settled into my speed on the freeway. It was old habit and superstition, a sort of good luck ritual and it hadn’t failed me yet.

    All I had to do now was take the truck to the warehouse. My job was to drive like everyone was watching me. I stayed right at the speed limit, I kept a safe distance from the other cars on the road, I used my turn signals, and I came to a complete stop at stop signs. It sounds easy; just follow the rules, drive normally. But it’s easier said than done. There were a lot of stolen goods in this truck, millions of dollars’ worth. If I got caught it’s no slap on the wrist and community service. The value on everything in this truck was enough to get the feds involved. I was looking at minimum ten years in a maximum-security federal prison if I got caught. That much money and potential guilt weighs heavy on your shoulders. Bad drivers want to deliver the goods and get them out of their own hands

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