Doozer (Burning Saints MC Book 5) Read online

  Copyright © 2020 Jack Davenport

  2020 Trixie Publishing, Inc.

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States

  Doozer 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

  Jack Davenport

  Photographer

  Golden Czermak

  Cover Model

  Andrew England

  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

  Epilogue

  Recipe

  Book List

  About Jack

  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

  Since the second I saw this book cover I knew I will have this book. Oh my word. One word, HOT. This story was hotter than hell. All the sex drama and action in one place. Just awesome. Thank you for a great read ~ Amanda V.

  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!

  Mary H.

  A million thanks! You’re an angel.

  Carrie Marie and Robin M.

  Thank you for the last-minute pitch hits!

  18+ for language and sexual situations…

  Marco “Doozer” Mancini has spent his entire life riding with an angel on one shoulder and a demon on the other, torn between his family's expectations and a loyalty to the club he swore to serve.

  Underestimate Stephanie “Trouble” Palmer and it might be the last thing you ever do. She's as tough as the streets that made her but an unexpected connection with a fellow biker may just bring out her softer side.

  Can the spark that ignited their passion burn bright enough to ward away the enemies closing in from all sides?

  For Ziggy

  The best club historian the Burning Saints has ever had!

  CHAPTER ONE

  Doozer

  About two years ago…

  I ARRIVED AT the historic Douglas Hotel an hour late and pulled my bike up to the valet parking kiosk per the instructions on my invitation. I killed the engine, removed my helmet, and was immediately greeted by a skinny man wearing a red vest, holding a clipboard.

  “Good afternoon, sir,” he said, in an uptight tone. “This area is reserved for valet parking for guests of the Locke, Mancini, and Pratt holiday party.”

  “Yeah, I’m here for that,” I said, pulling the invitation from my kutte pocket and handing it to him.”

  “You’re a guest of this party?” he asked, pointing to the invitation, his voice dripping with disdain.

  “That’s right,” I replied, dryly.

  I can’t say I was surprised at his reaction, considering I was equally shocked when the invitation arrived at the Sanctuary.

  The valet looked at my name patch, then to the paper on his clipboard. He ran his bony finger down the page. “I’m sorry, sir but I don’t seem to have a Doozer on the guest list.”

  “Believe me, buddy, I’m on it,” I said, running out of patience. “Look. I’ve got my invitation, so just tell me where to park my bike and I’ll find the party myself.”

  “Sir, this event is a black-tie affair,” he said, looking me up and down.

  “My tux is at the cleaners, what can I say? Listen, man, I’m supposed to be here tonight, and I’m already late, so—”

  “Could you be on the list under another name? Perhaps your proper name.”

  My back muscles tightened.

  “Check under Mancini,” I replied.

  “Mancini?”

  “Yeah. Marco Mancini. As in Locke, Mancini, and Pratt. The guy in the middle is my old man,” I said, pointing to the letterhead at the top of the paper. “Like I said. I’m on the list.”

  “Of course,” he said, clearing his throat. “You can park over there.” He pointed to the adjacent lot.

  “Tell you what. Instead of that, how about I park my bike right over there,” I said, motioning to a space on the sidewalk, near the kiosk.

  “Well, I…I—”

  “That way, you can keep an eye on her for me.” I pulled out my money roll, peeled off two twenties and stuffed them into the valet’s hand before he could get another word out. I then pulled into my private space and made my way inside.

  The Douglas Hotel was as old as Portland itself and almost as beautiful. As I walked through the lobby, I was met with the usual amount of “stank face” from the hotel’s guests and a barrage of “May I help you?” from the staff. Of course, ‘May I help you?’ is code for “What the fuck is a degenerate biker like you doing in a respectable establishment such as this?” but I didn’t give a shit. I was used to the dirty looks and the inevitable “purse clutching” as I walked by that came along with being a tatted-up biker.

  I made my way to the grand ballroom and found the festivities well underway. Even though it was barely past six o’clock, the dance floor was already a mass of suits, ties, and cocktail dresses. Not surprising as, in my experience, lawyers did two things to excess. Work and party. That is, except for my father, who was incapable of relaxing. The only reason he took Sundays off was because God commanded it. Even then, he’d always find some reason to sneak off to his home office after church. I was shocked when my sister told me Pop was retiring. I’d never once pictured Berto Mancini leaving his practice and couldn’t imagine him with free time on his hands.

  Tonight was not only Locke, Mancini, and Pratt’s annual holiday bash, it was also my father’s retirement party, which meant he’d probably be on edge from all the attention he’d be getting. For all his faults, my father was a humble man, who had no need for “peacocking” as he called it. He referred to my tattoos as “feathers.”

  I headed to the bar next to the DJ booth in hopes of getting a drink before seeing my old man. The DJ was blasting the typical dance crap specifically designed to help drunk white people find the beat no matter how wasted they got. I hated it but at least it wasn’t fucking Christmas music. Not that it mattered much to me as I wasn’t planning on staying any longer than I had to. I was here to congratulate my father on his retirement, avoid my mother’s annual a
ttempts to get me to go to Christmas Eve mass, and get the hell out of here as soon as possible.

  I ordered a Jack and Coke from the bartender and scanned the ballroom for my father while I waited.

  “Look what the reindeer dragged in,” a voice shouted over the din of the dance music and I turned to see my sister, Carmen, dressed to the nines.

  “Hey, sis. You look beautiful,” I said, giving her a hug.

  “Thank you. I feel like a total dickhead in this dress,” she replied.

  “I know a lot of dickheads, and you don’t look like any of them. Trust me,” I said. “You look great. Very…grown up.”

  “You mean, old.”

  “I didn’t say that, and you don’t.”

  “Well, one of us has to dress like an adult,” Carmen said with a smirk.

  “You’re starting to sound like Pop. Where is he?” I asked.

  “Sitting over there with Mama, Gia, and Gaga,” she said, motioning to the other side of the dance floor.

  “Gaga’s here too?” I asked, surprised by my very elderly grandmother’s presence.

  “Of course. It’s Pop’s big night,” Carmen replied.

  “She’s a hundred years old. This music must be driving her fucking crazy.”

  “She’s ninety-two and without her hearing aids in, she can’t hear anything.”

  “Lucky bitch,” I said.

  “Marco!” Carmen shouted, punching my arm. “Don’t call our grandmother a bitch.”

  “I just meant she doesn’t have to listen to this shitty dance music all night,” I said.

  “I’d be more worried about listening to the shit our Pop is gonna give you about how you’re dressed.”

  “Did he see me come in?”

  “Why do you think I’m here?” She smiled.

  “What? He can’t come talk to me himself. He has to send you, now,” I said. “Figures.”

  “It’s not like that,” Carmen said. “I said I’d come get you and bring you back to the family table.”

  “You sure there’s room for me?” I asked.

  “Come on, Marco. Don’t be like that,” she said.

  “Be like what, Carm? He fucking hates me.”

  “Pop doesn’t hate you.”

  “Oh, yeah? Let me ask you something. Were you with him when I walked in?”

  My sister nodded.

  “When Pop saw me, did he say anything?”

  “I don’t know, maybe. It’s loud in here,” she replied, unconvincingly.

  “So, he didn’t make some smart-ass remark the second he laid eyes on me?”

  “I don’t know,” Carmen said, unable to hide her nervous smile.

  “You know, for a lawyer, you’re a shitty liar,” I said.

  “Only because it’s you, Marco. I’ve never been able to lie to you. Even when we were kids.”

  “What about Gia?” I asked.

  “Lie to Gia? Only a million and a half times. But that’s usually because I was avoiding an ass beating for using her make up or borrowing her clothes without asking,” she said.

  “Yeah, I guess you and I never really had that problem. Did we?”

  “Jack and Coke,” the bartender said, sliding my drink across the bar.

  “Merry Christmas,” I said, placing a twenty into his tip jar.

  “Business must be good,” Carmen said.

  “We currently have a two-and-a-half year waiting list,” I replied.

  “You’re kidding? That’s fantastic. Congratulations,” she said, giving me another hug.

  “The custom bike business is a lot more work than I thought it would be, but I love it.”

  “I’m proud of you, baby brother.”

  “Thanks, sis.”

  “Now, let’s get you to the table before Pop sends out a search party to find us.”

  I grabbed my drink and reluctantly followed my sister to our table.

  I’m the youngest of the three siblings. My sister Gia is six years older than me and Carmen is four years older. Growing up I got along with both of my sisters, but Carmen and I have always been the closest. My sisters would have almost daily epic, knockdown, drag out fights about anything and everything and I would play peacemaker between them. Gia, being the oldest, would usually end up getting her way, which would often leave Carm and I paired up together by default. But no matter what, I always had her back and she always had mine.

  To my mother and my sisters, I was definitely “the baby” of the family. My father, on the other hand, had labeled me the “black sheep” by my early teens. Unlike my sisters, I’d never done well in school and had a hard time with anyone in authority telling me what to do. I was fifteen when I first started getting tattoos and riding motorcycles. By seventeen, I’d been kicked out of school, and then out of my home. The night my father put me out on the street, he called me a degenerate, a thug, and a loser. He called my tattoos the “marks of the devil” and told me I would never amount to anything more than a jailhouse snitch. I’d only spoken with him a half-dozen times in the years since and never about anything important. It had been almost a year since our last conversation, which ended poorly, to say the least.

  My stomach tightened as soon as I spotted the table. My father was standing at the far end of the table, away from the rest of the family. In front of him was a line of well-wishers and glad-handers which snaked all the way back to the dance floor. Pop had been practicing law in Portland for forty years and within that time had made many powerful friends and allies. He’d also made his share of enemies. Certainly, this line of glad-handers was made up of both.

  “So, what do I do, consigliere? Wait in line for the Don with the others?” I asked Carmen in a mock mobster voice.

  “Shut up and sit down, Fredo,” she replied.

  “Fredo? No, no, no. You’ve got it all wrong. Michael was the youngest of the Corleone family children,” I corrected her. “I’m Michael.”

  “Whatever you say. Now go find a seat and practice saying the hail Mary while I gas up the dinghy.”

  “Damn. You’re cold,” I replied. “I guess you’ll make a great lawyer after all.”

  Growing up, my sisters and I were obsessed with gangster movies and Godfather II was at the top of the heap. We could hold entire conversations between ourselves using only movie quotes. Much like the Corleone Family both of my siblings followed in my father’s footsteps, earning law degrees from Stanford, and were now working for him at the firm. This of course was the path he’d carved out for me as well, but I’d rather saw my left arm off with a sharpened library card than practice law with my father. Unlike Michael Corleone I didn’t join the army to escape my father’s plans for me. Instead, I pledged my allegiance to the Burning Saints Motorcycle Club. Making my bones as an enforcer on the streets of Portland.

  “Marco,” my mother exclaimed, rising to her feet as Carmen and I approached the table.

  I made my way to her and greeted my mother with a hug and a kiss. Mama was a wonderful woman, who’d devoted her entire life to the church and her family.

  “You’re late,” she said.

  “I’m sure he cares,” I said sarcastically, motioning to my father who had yet to acknowledge my presence. His attention never once wavering from the impeccably dressed couple standing in front of him. They looked to be around his age and reminded me of Mr. and Mrs. Howell, the old rich couple from Gilligan’s Island.

  “I care,” my mother said, reaching up to pinch my cheek.

  “Sorry, Mama,” I said. “How are you?”

  “Your father is driving me crazy. He wants to buy an RV and drive across the country. Can you believe that?”

  “An RV? As in recreational vehicle?” I asked, stunned.

  “He has some crazy fantasy about fishing in the streams of Montana one day and eating pizza in New York the next. I think he’s losing his mind.”

  “He’s probably nervous about retirement,” I said, trying to comfort my mother. In truth, I doubted Pop had ever been ne
rvous about anything. Regardless of what he was doing, my father had one setting. Full speed ahead. Damn the torpedoes. If he did manage to convince my mother to take this road trip, it would likely be their last. Pop would probably end up driving the RV straight into the Grand Canyon because he was busy arguing with the GPS navigator.

  “It’s all he talks about. He’s on the internet at all hours, looking up various models and talking to dealers. He’s got RV fever.”

  “I’m sure it’ll pass,” I said. “Besides, are we one-hundred percent sure he’s actually retiring?”

  Mama smiled and shrugged. “Who knows? I still hear him on the phone, at all hours, talking business. He’s probably looking for an RV with an office in it.”

  “If he finds one with a putting green in it, you’re done for,” I teased.

  Mama looked at me with a panicked expression, and then crossed herself before kissing her imaginary rosary. “Don’t speak that evil, Marco,” she said.

  I laughed out loud, catching the attention of my father, who turned and gave me what could only be described in the loosest legal terms as “a smile,” before immediately returning to his guests.

  “Is Pop drunk?” I asked, in shock by what I’d seen.

  “Marco,” my mother chided. “Please don’t give your father a hard time tonight. It’s his retirement party.”

  “He’s the one who stirs the pot, Mama. Not me.”

  “Don’t act like I don’t know my own son. You keep a giant spoon in your back pocket with your father’s name on it.”

  I laughed again, but my mother just looked at me sternly.

  “I promise, I’ll be good,” I said, crossing my heart.

  “Does that mean I’ll see you at St. Luke’s for Christmas Eve Mass?”

  My hand went to the back of my neck. “I don’t know, Mama. Maybe, we’ll see.”

  “We’ll see? What kind of answer is that? When’s the last time you attended mass? Or went to confession?”

  “Confession? Come on, Mama. Gimmie a break.”