Running Wild Read online

  Riptide Publishing

  PO Box 6652

  Hillsborough, NJ 08844

  http://www.riptidepublishing.com

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

  Running Wild (Havoc, #1)

  Copyright © 2014 by SE Jakes

  Cover Art by L.C. Chase, http://lcchase.com/design.htm

  Editor: Sarah Frantz

  Layout: L.C. Chase, http://lcchase.com/design.htm

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher, and where permitted by law. Reviewers may quote brief passages in a review. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Riptide Publishing at the mailing address above, at Riptidepublishing.com, or at [email protected].

  ISBN: 978-1-62649-153-3

  First edition

  June, 2014

  Also available in paperback:

  ISBN: 978-1-62649-154-0

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  Embrace the danger.

  Sean Rush is an adrenaline junkie. That’s why he was in the Army, why he steals and races classic muscle cars . . . and why he can’t stay away from bad boy Ryker, a Havoc Motorcycle Club lieutenant. Fortunately, Ryker can’t seem to stay away from Sean—he’s spent the last eight months breaking into Sean’s apartment and stealing into his bed, leaving Sean physically satisfied but increasingly restless.

  Sean has always avoided relationships. He likes to come and go without being controlled. And Ryker is possibly the most controlling man he’s ever known. Still, he finds that he wants more from Ryker than their silent nighttime encounters.

  Then one of Sean’s thefts goes bad, and Ryker’s protective instincts kick into overdrive. He takes Sean to the Havoc compound, determined to keep him safe. But Sean’s past threatens the safety of Havoc—and everything Ryker holds dear. Worse, Ryker’s hiding secrets of his own. Soon it’s obvious that the adrenaline rush can’t keep them together anymore. But maybe love can.

  This one’s for LS, because he fostered my love of music, especially the Grateful Dead, whose touch is all over this book.

  Cry ‘Havoc!’ and let slip the dogs of war.

  —Shakespeare, Julius Caesar

  About Running Wild

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Dear Reader

  Acknowledgments

  Also by SE Jakes

  About the Author

  Enjoy this Book?

  very single time he broke into my house, I had to convince myself it wasn’t a dream.

  I never knew when he’d show, couldn’t plan for the times he’d yank the sheet off me before the mattress shifted under his weight. His hands were big and rough on my bare back, and when he flipped me over and skimmed between my legs, that heated rough on my cock was heaven.

  So was the big, hot body on mine.

  I didn’t know if I should be stopping it. But why would I? Hot sex, no commitment. Hell, no talking. Most of the time just a soundtrack of classic rock, punctuated mostly by the Grateful Dead, which made the whole thing so goddamned hot. It was the perfect nonrelationship for a guy like me, since my lifestyle was completely nonconducive to relationships.

  But this guy wasn’t just any guy. No one in my twenty-four years had ever had the balls to pull this kind of break-and-enter shit with me. I was impressed. Fascinated.

  He was a shadow. I was used to moving through places unnoticed, but even though he had it down to an art form, he definitely wanted to be noticed when he came into my bed. And he was strong. Stronger than I was, which was no easy feat.

  He was tattooed. Always bore a couple of bite marks after we finished. I couldn’t help myself—I liked the idea of leaving my mark, but then, I was always hoarse the mornings after he visited, so I guess we were even.

  He liked to study me in that brief space of time postsex before I crashed. I could see the appreciation in his dark eyes, and it made me squirm. He’d notice that I was somewhere between embarrassed and enjoyment, and he’d chuckle, low and husky, and that made my cock hard. Again.

  I wanted to ask him why the hell he kept breaking in, but I didn’t. It was obvious to me—he wanted to fuck. And I was acquiescing when I normally wouldn’t have. I liked control, all types, all the time. But during these visits, it didn’t matter.

  He made me dizzy. Pliant. Incoherent.

  I could tell he liked me that way. Expected it.

  He’d take his sweet time—always did—but I always got what I needed when I needed it. He didn’t hold anything back, would stop me from thinking, worrying. Took all the shit from my shoulders for those hours.

  The whole thing was a free fall every single time. I pleaded for it, gave it up with no shame because sex shouldn’t have shame. And I wasn’t ashamed of this at all . . . but I didn’t know if I was supposed to be his secret . . . or if he was mine.

  Why the hell did I think about it this hard, this much?

  I was getting seriously laid on a regular basis. More orgasms than anyone had a right to. Fucked blind and dumb.

  Fucked to sleep.

  And then he’d leave. I never knew how long he stayed, pretended I didn’t give a shit. But I’d wake up in the morning and tell myself he’d stayed for a while after I went to sleep, even though I had no idea if he had or not. Because I pretty much passed out by the end of it, the good kind of exhausted where I was so comfortable I probably had a stupid smile on my face when I did so.

  Did he tire me out purposely?

  Furthermore, how did he get into my place? It was locked down tight. In my more lucid moments, I thought about adding another dead bolt, more locks and a different security system, all at once, just to see if he could still get through.

  But w
hat if he couldn’t?

  It was what stopped me every single time.

  ertha’s tonight!”

  Noah’s voice blasted through the house, and I stirred in bed, struggling to yank myself out of a dead sleep.

  In the Army, I’d learned a lot from the Special Forces guys, including how to shove myself into REM sleep. They’d warned me I’d be giving up on sleeping normally again, and they’d been right. I’d been out for three months now and still slept lightly, usually waking in an instant and always alert.

  Except this morning, like random others over the past eight months, my head ached and my body felt like lead. I untangled myself from the sheets and lay on my side, cheek pressed against the cool mattress, my naked body splayed across the messy bed.

  The clothes I’d worn last night were scattered with the pillows on the floor, the shade opened just enough so I could see I’d slept through my entire day off.

  And I was alone. Except for the rose, which was the only thing left on the night table. There were also more of them in the living room from last week, shoved into a glass since I didn’t have any vases, and I couldn’t just leave them without water.

  Red roses. I fucking blushed every time I looked at them, and every time more were delivered. They never came with a card, but I knew who they were from.

  I heard Noah fucking around in the kitchen, then he yelled again, “Rush, did you hear me? Berthas’s tonight. Come on, it’s late.”

  “Yeah, way too fucking late,” I muttered, reached to the floor to grab a pair of sweats and yanked them on, simultaneously annoyed that I’d ever given him a key, and willing him to deliver me coffee by the sheer power of thought.

  He walked into the bedroom without knocking. Noah was an inch shorter than my six-foot frame and broader too, his hair longer than it’d been in forever—mine wasn’t buzz cut, but it was longer and messy, just the way I liked it, while his dark hair was tied at the nape of his neck. Mine went between dark and light brown, depending on the amount of sun I got, and my eyes were the color of good, strong whiskey. His were hazel and were now attempting to scrutinize me.

  He’d been my best friend since juvie, but the only thing that kept me from kicking him out this morning was the coffee he handed me before turning to survey the room. “What the fuck, Rush?”

  I could ask the same of him, had been planning on it for a while, and now it was going to be a matter of self-defense and deflection, two of my best skills.

  But first, coffee. Because I already knew what Noah had been up to the past few months—and I suspected it’d been going on a hell of a lot longer. But when he’d started, I’d still been caught up in my own shit, wondering what the hell I’d do with my life once I got out of the Army. Plus there was all that sex keeping me pliant and distracted. “Fuck Bertha’s. We can just go back to Cy’s.”

  “Yeah, after that fight you started last night? I don’t think so.” Noah shook his head. “And you didn’t even drink.”

  I hadn’t, ever since I’d decided that the first late-night tryst was the byproduct of an overactive, alcohol-fueled imagination. Had to be.

  Didn’t explain the roses, but it’d made me feel a whole lot better. Actually, better wasn’t the right word for it. Disappointed when he hadn’t come back the next night, even though he’d left no indication that he’d ever come back. But he’d randomly snuck in a couple nights later.

  And many nights after that.

  If he was going to sneak in and fuck me, he could at least have the decency to be predictable.

  I took several sips of coffee. “Yeah, you and Linc had no problem joining in.” Linc’d been in Basic with all of us, assigned to the platoon Billy and I were in (Noah wasn’t, but ended up in the Sandbox with us anyway), and he’d left the Army the same time as me and Noah.

  Noah grabbed a chair, sat next to the bed, put his feet up, countering, “You threw the pool table into the front window.”

  Yeah, okay, there was that. “I told Cy I’d give him the money,” I muttered, then took another giant gulp of coffee. I’d had to fight, because everything twisted up inside of me had no place else to go except barreling into someone’s face.

  With my hand still wrapped around the mug, I rubbed my bruised knuckles, the ones Ryker had kissed last night, while Noah continued to bitch. “And then you left me there with Linc—you’re lucky we didn’t have to call you to post bail. And now I find out you left so you could get laid. And you got her flowers? Nice touch.”

  Of course he’d naturally assume I’d gone home with one of the girls we’d been shamelessly flirting with last night. Noah was straight, but he’d known I was bi forever, and I’d never been so much partial to either sex as much as partial to sex in general. Lots of it, with lots of partners, and rarely the same one twice, because who the fuck needed that kind of complication?

  I hadn’t, until eight months ago, when I’d become satisfied enough. And obviously, it had become complicated, at least in my mind.

  “Bertha’s. Tonight. Eleven. The band’s awesome—tribute to Guns N’ Roses,” Noah continued obliviously, like repeating it enough times would automatically make me say yes, which, although annoying as all fuck, was a good thing.

  Because at least he’d veered off my sex life.

  “Don’t you think it’s better we stay away from shit like that?”

  Noah finished his coffee and rolled his eyes at me. “We’re going to drink and dance. Besides, we don’t have to answer to anyone.”

  Bertha’s had been off-limits to us when we were in the military because of its rumored associations to Havoc, a motorcycle club with alleged criminal ties. We weren’t so much not allowed in there as strongly advised by our CO to avoid it if we wanted to live. With our dicks intact.

  Now that we were out, there were no restrictions, except for those we set for ourselves. Noah and I hadn’t talked about it, but for me, those were few and far between—like the options I had to make a living that didn’t include stealing. But I still avoided Havoc like the plague.

  I’d lived in this area long enough to know that the rumors about Havoc being a one-percenter club were actual truths. But a new president had come in a while back and cleaned it up—they were supposedly legitimate now, although who the fuck knew what that exactly meant. Didn’t mean they weren’t dangerous as fuck. Which I was completely drawn to.

  I was also smart enough to know when to court it and when to stay away.

  Speaking of which, I got out of bed to get away from Noah for a few minutes, took a piss, washed up, and headed to the kitchen. Hopefully, I could talk Noah into cooking something to go along with the coffee.

  Noah followed me, picking up our conversation right where we’d left off. “What’s the problem with Bertha’s? You had fun last time we were there.”

  Yeah, that was exactly the problem. We’d gone that one time when we were both still in the Army, the illegal nature of the visit making it way more fun than it’d normally be. And that’s the exact night when those late-night visits and the goddamned roses started. “It’s dangerous to hang around that place.”

  “Seriously? Dangerous? You’re worried about danger now? After you picked a fight with three guys after you screwed them over at pool?” Noah shook his head, his brow furrowed, because danger was what always amped me up. Noah knew that, and was typically the one to help me feed the need for it while keeping me somewhat safe. We were a good team like that.

  I took out bacon and eggs from the fridge—the only food in there—and put them in front of Noah, a not-so-subtle hint. “What are you implying?”

  “Don’t be dense.”

  But I would, because then I wouldn’t have to admit what happened that very first night. And last night. And all the nights in between that.

  “Rush?”

  I looked up at Noah, who was staring at me funny. “What?”

  He pointed to the delivery guy he’d let in—and I’d been so deep in my own thoughts I hadn’t even noticed
—and I froze. Not that I didn’t expect it, but fuck, in front of Noah? Really?

  And, like he knew, the delivery guy grinned when he said, “Flowers for Sean Rush,” because obviously he thought it was great that I’d gotten them. Again.

  Noah grabbed the big box—bigger than normal—and pushed me out of the way to put it on the table. I tipped the delivery guy by lifting Noah’s wallet from his back pocket and taking a couple of bucks, then pointed him to the door. It was only fair since Noah was already opening the box, demanding, “Who the fuck’s sending you long-stemmed roses? The chick from last night?”

  Thankfully, there was still no card. Hell, I still didn’t need one.

  Ryker was sending them. They came every morning after he made me come. Anyone might think he was courting me, but I knew better. The fucker had to be making fun of me. Didn’t stop me from letting him into my bed though. “Long story. And fine, Bertha’s tonight.”

  “You’re just saying that to get rid of me.” Noah smirked as he turned one of the roses in his fingers—this time there were eight roses instead of the usual single one. He touched a thorn and hissed when it pricked him. “Someone’s into you.”

  “Yeah, right,” I muttered, walked to the counter, and started cracking the eggs, badly, because I knew he’d intervene.

  He did, putting the rose down in the box with the others. “What do you mean, ‘Yeah, right’? In the real world, red roses mean serious business.”

  I wasn’t living in the real world. I was sucked into a dream world where a man too big to move as silently as he did broke into my house, and I did nothing to stop him. I was actively encouraging it with my silence.

  I was doing the same thing with Noah now, because I knew the fucker was stealing cars. Again.

  If I had to pinpoint it, I’d say it started right after Ryker fucked me for the fourth time, which meant about five months ago. Because that’s how I measured things now—in Ryker time. As in, the time before Ryker fucked me, followed by the time Ryker fucked me for the first time, the second time, and so on. I also knew what was different about each time. Because for the most part, (except for the pieces that were missing from our first night pre-first-fucking), I was clearheaded about what happened and when—and they were all excellent fodder for those times when Ryker wasn’t around, and I was forced to jerk off and pretend it was as good as Ryker doing it for me.