Ropes Read online

  2018 Jack Davenport

  Copyright © 2018 Trixie Publishing, Inc.

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States

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

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Cover Art

  Jackson Jackson

  CONTENTS

  Copyright

  Praise

  Acknowledgements

  Back Blurb

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Epilogue

  Recipe

  Sweet Pea

  Road to Passion

  Ryder

  About Jack

  All it took was one page and I was hooked on Jack Davenport’s writing! ~ Harley Stone, Contemporary Romance Author

  Oh, good gravy, this book is good. And I’m not just saying that because he does other amazing things with his fingers! ~ Piper Davenport, Contemporary Romance Author

  Harley Stone

  You rock! Thank you for all your help with everything!

  Liz Kelly

  Your insights are amazing and always spot on. Thank you!

  Piper

  I couldn’t do any of this without you. Literally, my fingers would fall off and I’d be a vegetable.

  Brandy G.

  Thank you for the million reads and your attention to detail!!! You’re amazing.

  Gail G.

  You’re a rock star! Thank you for all your help!

  18+ for language and sexual situations…

  Spencer "Ropes" Kimble is one of the Burning Saints’ most loyal soldiers but harbors a secret passion...one that could get him laughed out of his club.

  Devlin Walker has a singular focus: save enough money to open her own tattoo shop. Nothing is going to stand in her way, especially not a cocksure biker who won’t take no for an answer.

  As his club faces their biggest threat to date, Ropes is about to follow the call of his newfound muse into uncharted waters.

  With danger looming on both land and at sea, will Ropes and Devlin navigate their way to forever, or lose themselves in the deep?

  For Harper & Felicia

  It’s such a blast sailing these crazy seas with y’all.

  For “Father” Justin

  To the greatest emcee in international waters. Keep the pack poppin’!

  For my fellow Book Splashers

  I look forward to EVERY sailing with you!!! You are amazing!

  Ropes

  “OH MY GOD, baby, don’t stop,” she said as I slammed into her again and again. “I’m going to come,” she cried as I felt the sting of her fingernails clawing their way down my back.

  “Not until I say,” I commanded and pulled out entirely, causing her to writhe in delicious agony.

  “Not fair,” she said on a gasp. “Please… fuck me. Please, fuck me now.”

  “On your knees,” I commanded, and she did as she was told. I loved her in this position, as it gave me the most access to her entire body. I fisted my rigid cock and slammed back into her pussy without warning, feeling her walls contract around me as her cum soaked my dick. I smacked her ass for her disobedience, but it only made her come harder.

  “I told you there would be consequences for coming without me, and now you’re going to have to pay for breaking the rules,” I said, rising to my feet.

  She was still on her hands and knees, her glorious ass sticking up in the air. I had so many things planned for that ass, I was almost glad I hadn’t come yet.

  “Yes please. Please… make me pay,” she said, still out of breath, in a voice that somehow managed to make me even harder than I was.

  “You’d be wise not to write checks your ass can’t cover,” I warned as I walked across the room toward my steamer trunk.

  “You don’t scare me,” Cherry said with a giggle, as she sat up. Her beautiful red curls hung down, barely able to cover her perfect breasts. Fucking a woman with natural tits was more of a turn-on than I could have imagined.

  “My goal isn’t to scare you,” I said, unlocking the trunk. “It’s to teach you, and I’m afraid today’s lesson might hurt a little.”

  I pulled out a long wooden paddle from the trunk, her eyes widened, and she let out a slight gasp.

  The heavy oak door to Minus’s office swung open wildly, crashing against the wall with a thud. I slammed my laptop closed and hoped the auto-save function had done its job properly. Despite the noise around the Sanctuary, the half hour I’d spent outside Minus’s office had served as productive writing time. I’d managed to write most of a scene and the tightness in my jeans told me it was a good one.

  “Fuckin’ Portland hippie bureaucrats and their goddamned permits!” Minus bellowed from the doorway before turning his attention to me. “Hey, Ropes. Come on in. Sorry to keep you waiting,” he said, his usual boyish smile returning instantly. “I was stuck on a call,” he continued, as he stepped aside. “The city is giving us shit about missing permits at one of our build sites. Something about our organic recycling needing to be gluten free or some horse shit.”

  Our club was currently going through several major construction builds, all in the name of ‘progress and change.’

  “No problem,” I said as I slipped my laptop into my satchel, which I slung in front of me in an attempt to hide the semi-chub I was sporting.

  “Nice purse,” Minus said as I passed him in the doorway.

  “What?” I raised an eyebrow. “Clutch gives you shit about your pretty cowboy boots, so you’ve gotta bust my balls about my satchel?”

  “Call it what you want, but that’s a fuckin’ purse,” he replied as we made our way inside and he closed the door. There weren’t many brothers hanging around the Sanctuary today, but Minus was a private guy.

  “I use it to carry my laptop,” I said.

  “Yeah, well, some people use laptop cases or backpacks, so forgive me if I’m slow to accept that thing as anything other than a fashion accessory.”

  “Am I stealin’ your thunder, Hop Along?”

  “Is that all you got? More lame-ass cowboy jokes?” Minus protested. “You assholes still haven’t gotten this shit out your system yet? I’ve been back from Savannah long enough don’tcha think?”

  “Not long enough to get over hearing you talk like a good ol’ boy,” I replied.

  “Shit, you can drive east for a couple hours and run into as many rednecks as I ever did in Georgia,” Minus said.

  “But none with boots as puuurdy as yours,�
� I said.

  “Don’t worry, buddy, I think your status as best-dressed member of the club is still safe for the time being,” Minus replied.

  “Forget your boots. I’m still trying to wrap my mind around you on a horse,” I said.

  He smiled wide. “Shit, man, once you get movin’ on a horse, a bike starts to feel kinda tame.”

  Minus had only been the Burning Saints president for a short time, but our friendship had cemented itself years ago. He and his best friend, Clutch, threw in with the club as prospects a couple of years before my brother, Sweet Pea, and me. Soon, the four of us, along with another prospect named Grover, had become a solid crew and were eventually all patched-in together.

  Now, almost a decade later, Minus was the club’s president, Clutch was the Sergeant at Arms, and Grover was laying in an unmarked grave somewhere in Mexico. Funny how things work out. As for me and Pea, we were still loyal soldiers. Street level guys. Not officers, but high ranking and well-respected, which was just fine by me. I had a life outside the club and had zero desire to climb the ranks. My little brother, on the other hand, had bigger plans for himself within the club, but I tried my best to stay out of his business and let him cut his own trail.

  “You finishing a presentation out there or something?” Minus asked, as we took our seats, him behind Cutter’s old desk, and me on the well-worn leather sofa that, as far as I could tell, had been here since dinosaurs roamed the Pacific Northwest.

  “What? No… well, sort of, I guess. Not really,” I said nervously, glancing down at the well-worn leather bag.

  “Relax, man. What the fuck are you so jumpy about?” Minus asked, picking up on my nervous energy.

  “This is just really fuckin’ weird,” I admitted, looking around the office.

  “What? Me being the president, or the club going straight?”

  “Both,” I said with a laugh. “Plus, being here in Cutter’s old office.”

  “Tell me about it,” he said, raising an eyebrow.

  The sudden and tragic loss of the Burning Saints’ founder and president, Cutter, had dealt a major blow to the entire club. His firm but fair approach had made him a popular leader and a respected man. More importantly, his legendary reputation as a ruthless business man made him feared on the street. That was paramount to the club’s survival, as our stock in trade was protection. We kept gangs and other criminal organizations off the backs of business owners wherever we had a local chapter. We collected a fair monthly fee for our services and would often invest in businesses as well if Cutter saw potential. Over time, the club had developed long-lasting relationships with business owners all over Portland that would serve us well over the years.

  Around the time of Cutter’s death, the club was given two major pieces of news. First, that Minus, despite his relatively young age and lack of ranking, would become the club’s next president, and secondly, that the Burning Saints, a notorious gang of outlaw bikers, would only be operating legal, legitimate businesses from this point forward. This included putting a halt on all current street level operations immediately.

  These controversial, and financially monumental, decisions made by Cutter himself had caused division within the club, but Minus was determined to see Cutter’s final wishes granted. I was here today because of a mandate that he’d given all members, find new and legal ways for the club to earn money and present the ideas to him as soon as possible. Minus wanted us using our minds instead of our fists, and he expected full compliance.

  “I really appreciate you being one of the first members to step forward with your ideas. You’re a smart guy and I have no doubt that you’ll have some good ones,” he said, smiling warmly. Minus was as tough as nails and built like a brick shithouse, but he had a way of making people feel at ease and relaxed. Over the years, some people would mistake his calm and casual demeanor for weakness, but they’d never make that same mistake twice. I believed he was going to make a great president, but that opinion wasn’t shared by everyone, including my brother and our road captain, Wolf.

  “Look, man,” I said sheepishly. “Honestly, I only have one idea and I’m not sure how you’re going to react to it.”

  “As long as it’s not another goddamned strip club, you should be fine,” he said with a groan. “The last three guys all promised something fresh, but in the end, it was poles, bad hot wings, and glitter covered titties.”

  “I can guarantee my plan is not to open a strip club,” I replied.

  “Well, then, lay it on me,” he said, extending his arms wide open.

  I swallowed and took a deep breath.

  “I’ve been writing and self-publishing erotic romance novels for the past three years. I’m starting to make pretty good money at it and think I could expand my business in a way that could generate some revenue for the club. In order to increase my visibility and profitability within the marketplace, I’m going to need to start going to book signings and author events.”

  Minus’s smile dropped completely, and his outstretched arms hit the table with a sickening thud. “You’ve gotta be shitting me.”

  * * *

  Devlin

  Sally Anne’s was packed, even for a Saturday night. From what I’d gathered since punching in, we seemed to have an influx of new faces. The place was only scarcely populated with the usual assortment of bikers and boozers, and instead was primarily occupied by portly, middle-aged guys in super hero t-shirts and cargo shorts.

  “Be careful out there, sweetie. There’s some sort of asshole convention in town or something,” Sally Anne called out from the bar, where a few of the younger members of the Burning Saints MC were sitting. The club were part owners in Sally Anne’s place, making its members regular fixtures around here. They were good to have around for security purposes, although it didn’t look like tonight’s crowd posed much of a threat.

  I finished tying my apron and made my way into the sea of humanity that was this evening’s dinner crowd. I’d only been working as a waitress at Sally Anne’s for two months, which was exactly how long I’d been a waitress anywhere. In all honesty, this was the last thing I wanted to be doing, but I needed the money and high paying jobs in Portland were scarce for anyone who didn’t want to work in an office, which I most certainly did not.

  My real dream was to be a full-time tattoo artist, with a place of my own. I had recently started working as a freelance artist at a couple of local shops, so I could keep my chops up while building my clientele, but the work wasn’t regular enough. I needed my own place, thus the nightly grind at what was essentially a biker bar. When I wasn’t spilling beer here, or hustling for tattoo appointments, I was sketching or painting. Trying my best to push my boundaries as an artist.

  “Hi there, welcome to Sally Anne’s, my name is Devlin. What can I get you?” I asked the trio of doughy men seated before me. The words flowed from my mouth in an all-too familiar rhythm and cadence that made me uneasy. I could not allow myself to get comfortable in this job.

  “Water’s just fine,” one of the men replied, without making eye contact.

  “Okay, water to drink for you, sir. How about you guys? What can I get you from the bar?” I asked the other two men in a cheery tone.

  “Water only for all of us,” the first man said.

  “Just wa… water?” I asked, unable to hide my shock.

  The place is packed, and these jackasses are taking up an entire table to sit and drink fucking water?

  “We’re just here for the Magic Lady,” the second schlub piped up, distractedly looking to the opposite corner of the room near the restrooms and Portland’s last functioning pay phone.

  “The who?” I asked, totally unaware of who they were talking about. If Sally Anne had booked a magic act, this was the first I was hearing of it, but it would explain the plague of nerds that had descended upon the place.

  “The Magic Lady! I still can’t believe that you guys have one!” he replied in a tone that almost registered as excite
d.

  “And that you actually let people play her,” the third guy chimed in.

  “I’m sorry. My shift just started, and I think I may have missed something. Who is the Magic Lady?”

  The ‘Three Nerdmigos’ looked up at me like I’d just taken a dump on their table.

  “The Zidware Pinball USA Magic Lady. The one you have over there,” nerd number one, said pointing furiously.

  I shrugged, not knowing at all what he was talking about. Sally Anne’s had a few old video games in a corner near the pool tables, but I’d never paid any attention to them. From what I could recall, there was only one regular that ever paid any attention to the game area at all.

  “The Magic Lady? Designed by John Popadiuk?” he asked, his voice rising in pitch with each question.

  “Sorry guys. I have no idea what you’re talking about, but if you aren’t drinking, then I’ve gotta go take some orders from other tables, okay?” I said, toning my niceties down a few notches. These clowns didn’t look like the tipping type anyway.

  “You’ll find most of the group will be drinking club soda or water tonight,” he said, still transfixed on the flurry of activity in the corner.

  “Group?” I asked, my irritation level starting to rise.

  “The P.S.S.P.E.,” he said plainly.

  “The what?”

  “The Portland Society of Sober Pinball Enthusiasts,” he replied, finally making eye contact, which I immediately wished he hadn’t.

  “That’s not a thing,” I blurted out.

  The alpha nerd rose to his feet. “It most certainly is. We are a sanctioned member of the Nation Pinball Association of America and our chapter president always carries the certificate with him, as is required by the society’s bylaws.

  “Are you the club’s president?” I asked.

  “I am not, as I was unsuccessful in securing the winning number of votes during this past election,” he said, quickly returning to his seat.