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  Biker with Benefits

  Mickey Miller

  Miller Media

  Copyright © 2018 by Mickey Miller

  ARC VERSION - Not for distribution

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  For the Misfits

  Contents

  Introduction

  1. Jax

  2. Harmony

  3. Harmony

  4. Jax

  5. Harmony

  6. Jax

  7. Harmony

  8. Harmony

  9. Jax

  10. Harmony

  11. Harmony

  12. Jax

  13. Harmony

  14. Jax

  15. Harmony

  16. Jax

  17. Harmony

  18. Harmony

  19. Harmony

  20. Jax

  21. Jax

  22. Harmony

  23. Harmony

  24. Jax

  25. Harmony

  26. Jax

  27. Harmony

  28. Jax

  29. Harmony

  30. Harmony

  31. Harmony

  32. Harmony

  Epilogue

  Second Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Mickey Miller

  Introduction

  This is the fifth book in the Blackwell After Dark: Kinkiest Small Town in America Series. Biker with Benefits is a standalone, and has no spoilers for the other books. However, if you would like to look at the other connected books, here they are in order:

  1

  Jax

  If my Harley had wings, I’d be launching off into the sky at a speed well above one hundred miles per hour.

  An image of me flying off my bike flashes in my mind, and it only pushes me to drive faster.

  Honestly, I don’t give a shit anymore.

  I wish I had something to care about—my sister passes through my thoughts. I love her. I’d give my life for her, but ever since my time away, she’s changed and we’ve grown apart. It isn’t the same.

  Especially since she moved away.

  Nothing is the same anymore.

  I give the bike more gas, feeling the adrenaline course through me as I blow through another intersection, eating up the rows of cornfields on either side.

  Where am I driving?

  Does it matter?

  I just want to get far, far away.

  But that means leaving the only life I ever knew behind.

  A bug flies into my face, forcing me to slow down. Somehow, it gets under my sunglasses and into my eye, causing me to try to blink it away. I can’t reach up, though, and my heart skips a beat when I think I might lose control of my bike.

  The possibility of losing control isn’t what scares me, though.

  What throws me off is the nihilistic thought that it might be all over.

  Screw it.

  Why not just lose control and end it? Not like I’m doing much for anyone these days, anyway.

  What are you, going to change the world cooking up pizza at Pizza House? Might as well take a spill.

  I fall into a negative spiral and all the reasons I don’t matter flash before my mind. I blink several times, my heart hammering in my chest as I drive through the middle of nowhere.

  Pumping the brakes, I slow down until I come to a halt in the gravel by the side of the road.

  I rake a hand through my hair and take off my sunglasses. I let out an audible sigh to no one in the world except the blackbirds flying above me.

  My eye waters from the gnat that flew into it, so I close my eyes and listen to the world around me.

  Corn leaves rustling in the wind. A truck way off in the distance. And then the sound of silence.

  I run my finger over my eyelid and feel the scar just over my left eyebrow, reminding me of the hard time I’d done and how the world would never see me the same anymore.

  I’ll always be Jax Reid, the convicted fuckup.

  In the area around Blackwell, everyone knows everyone. It’s so damn small that I’ll never escape my reputation.

  I pick up a different sound among the leaves and the wind.

  A chill runs through me. The noise is slight, but . . . is that a woman’s high-pitched voice?

  I open my eyes to see if it’s real or if I’m dreaming.

  And the sound is there, though faint.

  Almost in a trance, I drive in the direction of the voice. Or maybe the voice is just in my head. Am I going insane?

  I mean, more insane than I already am.

  As I ride slowly down the two-lane country road, the sound gets progressively louder until I arrive at LaRisa’s Bar and Grill. I’m surprised I can hear the noise from so far away. Must be the way the wind is blowing tonight.

  It’s one of those hole-in-the-wall, family-run places that you can’t even tell whether it’s a bar or a house. I haven’t been here in ages.

  I don’t even know why the voice draws me in so much, but it does.

  So I park my bike in front.

  As the summer sun falls across the horizon of the Great Plains, I heave in a deep breath.

  I press my tongue against my cheek and try to smile.

  But what is the fucking point anymore?

  Working two jobs, trying to keep everything together.

  But that angelic voice drives me forward.

  I have to know its source.

  I get off my bike and press the door open. Everyone in the place turns to look at me.

  Everyone being all seven people, bartender included.

  I nod to the bartender—is that Mrs. LaRisa herself? I take a seat, feeling everyone’s eyes on me.

  My heart rate surges as I see the girl on stage.

  Well, woman.

  She’s gorgeous in addition to apparently having the voice of an angel.

  “Hey, y’all, this is a little cover I’ve been practicing,” she drawls with a timid smile. “I hope y’all enjoy it.”

  I squint as she plays, bobbing my head to the beat. It’s a rendition of an old pop song. I’m not usually into music from the 1960s, but the way she slows it down and brings soul to it blows my mind. She’s a tiny woman, yeah, but every person in that bar feels the same amazement I do. I’m sure of it.

  I lose myself in my thoughts and the music as her voice soothes the room. She plays a few more cover songs—“The Only Exception” and a Maroon 5 hit—and then a few I don’t recognize. I wonder if they are original.

  After one Johnnie Walker Black neat, I switch to ice water. I want to be clearheaded. I’m driving. And with the way my mood was going haywire before I stepped inside, I need to stay in control of my thoughts. The bartender gives me the side-eye for not running up a tab, but I don’t care. Besides, that mousy little brunette’s voice has my senses humming. I might as well be drunk.

  She launches into a slowed-down, acoustic version of Tom Petty’s “Runnin’ Down a Dream,” dedicating it to the man who wrote the song. Chills run through me.

  Something seems off. She is so good. Too good?

  Not that we don’t have decent local talent, but this girl is way too good to be playing Thursday-night gigs at LaRisa’s for seven people. I narrow my eyes at her, curiosity nibbling away at me.

  What is her deal? I don’t recognize her, and although I’ve been gone for a couple of years, I still have a sixth sense of most everyone in the Blackwell County area. How had I missed a girl like her?

  Unfolding a n
apkin, I draw a map of the United States. Practically smack-dab in the middle of my makeshift outline, I mark an “X” for where I am, then stare at it while she sings.

  For some reason, when she hits the chorus, my skin tingles with possibility. My pulse speeds up as I glance along the coasts of my makeshift map.

  I’m free man. I want—need—to start over. Where could I go? The East Coast?

  Maybe. Florida is too hot for my bones, though. And anywhere Massachusetts and north—that’d be too cold. I draw a circle around where I imagine the Carolinas are.

  Mulling over the midwestern portion of my map, I think about getting the hell out of Blackwell and where I could end up. Michigan? Nah, too cold in the winter.

  Maybe somewhere like Nashville? Excitement rushes through me. That’s where Andrew is. I bet he could put me up, no problem.

  I switch my focus to the West Coast—and feel a pang in my gut.

  Yeah, the West Coast. But where, exactly?

  The singer finishes her song and thanks everyone in a tone so shy it contradicts the bold voice she’d sung with.

  “Thanks, everyone. I’m Harmony. Have a good night,” she says simply.

  Harmony. What a name for someone with such a gifted voice. I guess God knew what he was doing when he named her.

  People’s voices blend into an indecipherable hum, and I turn back to my map.

  The bartender puts a tab down in front of me. I lay some cash on the bar and get ready to leave.

  But I hesitate, not wanting to go for some reason.

  What I really want is for Harmony to sing more, but I’m pretty sure it’s near closing time.

  I glance around, seeing that she’s cleared her guitar, amp, and mic stand away from the stage. She’s gone. And there is just one other guy left in the bar, staring into his glass of whisky. He probably wanted her to keep singing too.

  I stand, staring at the empty stage. Maybe Harmony was just a figment of my imagination.

  Maybe I’d dreamed this whole thing. I wouldn’t put it past me. It’s been a year since I got out of jail, but things still seem surreal. Everything in the outside world still seems a little like a dream—and she definitely was too good to be true.

  Talent like that on the outskirts of Blackwell? Come on, now.

  Swiping my napkin map from the bar, I fold it and put it in my pocket.

  Outside, the stars and the fresh air greet me. There are no cars left in the dirt parking lot, just my bike.

  Then I see the singer.

  Harmony is curled into a ball on top of her amp, her hands on top of her head and her face pressed into her lap. Clutching her phone in her hand above her head, she looks as if she might chuck the thing into the cornfields behind us.

  My boots sound on the dusty earth as I come around to approach her from the front.

  “You okay?” I ask, facing her.

  She lifts her head up out of her lap and looks me in the eye, frowning.

  I have my answer.

  “I’m fine,” she mutters, and I’m damn sure she is lying.

  I nod back, glancing off into the distance. “You played damn good, I gotta say. Thanks for that.”

  She blinks a few times. “Oh, really?”

  I smirk. “Really.”

  “Well, thanks.”

  I bring my eyes back to her. She’s looking up at me, her expression softer now.

  Neither of us say anything as we soak each other in.

  “You waiting for a ride?” I ask.

  She lets out a loud exhale. “My stepmom ‘forgot’ to pick me up,” she says, using air quotes. “And my phone is dead. Honestly, I have no idea what I’m going to do.”

  Her voice is full of desperation and melancholy.

  I nod slowly, tipping my chin in the direction of my motorcycle. Her gaze follows my line of sight.

  “Have you ever ridden on the back of one of those?”

  Her eyes go wide as she looks at the bike, and then at me. She opens her mouth, as if to say something, but then closes it right back up.

  2

  Harmony

  The man’s steely gaze sears into me, and my pulse races.

  My dad’s words from childhood ring in my ears. One of the first pieces of advice he ever gave me: never go for a ride with a stranger.

  He’s a long-range trucker, and he says there’re a lot of good people out there. Most will just give you a ride.

  But it’s that tiny percentage of people you’ve got to watch out for.

  My dad never said anything about the sexiest stranger I’ve ever laid eyes on, though.

  This man’s got dark eyes, a big, prominent chin, rippling muscles, and a sleeve of tattoos.

  So it’s no surprise that the stranger’s simple question—and the implication—sends a shiver down my spine.

  He can give me a ride. Which I desperately need.

  I glance down at my phone, damning myself for not charging it to 100 percent before I left the house. I should have known better than to come to LaRisa’s without a full charge.

  I silently curse my stepmom. It wasn’t her fault, as she’d said, that she had “accidentally” drunk a full bottle of wine and wasn’t able to come all the way out here to get me.

  She just wanted to have one glass, but lost count.

  Typical Lisa.

  If I’d been smarter, I would have planned for one of my friends from Blackwell to come and get me. Rose or someone. Now, though, it’s past midnight and I’m in the middle of nowhere considering this strange man’s offer.

  After watching me contemplate, he gets on the bike and turns the engine on, letting it purr before he looks at me again.

  “Get on the bike,” he growls.

  “Excuse me?!” I shoot back.

  The man smirks and shakes his head, looking away from me. The way the starlight hits his profile, I can tell he’s handsome. I’m a little concerned that I didn’t recognize him, though, since I know just about everyone from the Blackwell area. Maybe he’s from the outskirts.

  My heart pounds as I wish I had a quick, witty comeback. I’m so articulate when singing. Why am I always so darn tongue-tied whenever I’m not on the stage? It makes no sense whatsoever.

  The stranger emits a slight grunt as he brings his dark gaze back to mine. His white T-shirt shows off muscular biceps, and his sweat glistens in the starlight.

  “Look, Harmony. I’m telling you to get on the bike. Because the way you’re staring at it, I know you’re thinking about it. And there’re only three reasons you won’t take a ride home with me on this bike. You need to think about it, you need to talk to your daddy, or you think I’m not gonna get you home safe.”

  I clear my throat and scoff, a little shaken by how on the money he is. “Oh, so you’re a mind reader now?”

  I think that might put him off, but he just chuckles and keeps talking.

  “First thing. Thinking about it? You’ve been thinking about it since you’ve been sitting out here. I saw you staring at the bike when I came out of the bar. Second, your daddy knows everywhere you go, right? He knows you’re here right now. Hell, you might even have had to get permission. If you had to get permission to head all the way out here, you damn well better have permission to get a ride back. Last thing. Safe ride? I’ll take care of that. Precious cargo like you? You just let me handle that. I can tell you’re precious. Your name’s Harmony, right? Or is that just a stage name?”

  I stand up. Putting my amp inside the bar so I can pick it up later, I sling my guitar over my shoulder and get on the back of his motorcycle.

  “Harmony’s my real name,” I say.

  Throwing caution to the wind, I wrap my hands around his waist as we speed off into the hot wind of the steamy night.

  As we take off, my stomach flips with the full realization of what I’ve chosen.

  I’d gotten on the motorcycle of a random stranger.

  I’m putting my life in his hands.

  The thought makes liquid
heat spill through my body as I press my chest up against the sexy stranger.

  Because he is way sexier than the average stranger.

  Suspiciously sexy, in fact.

  He goes faster, and I grip him tighter. My mind races anywhere and everywhere.

  Why are his muscles so hard? It’s as though I have my hands wrapped around a steel tube. I can’t help but let my fingers drift, feeling abs as flat as a washboard.

  I rest my head on his shoulder as we speed down the country road, eating up the cornfields on either side of us.

  Wait, what if he’s a serial killer and I’m the dumbest, most naive girl in the history of the world, getting on a bike with some ruggedly handsome, strange, tattooed man? What if he’s with Hell’s Angels or something?

  But would a serial killer compliment my music like he did? He seemed so genuine when he’d said the words.

  My stomach knots and I try to take in a deep breath, but I can feel my muscles tightening as we turn down a dirt road I don’t recognize.

  My throat tightens as I realize I have no clue where I am.

  “Sir?” I say, trying not to let my voice shake. “Where are we going? I don’t recognize this road.”

  He lets out what sounds like an evil laugh and turns back to me so I can see him smirking.

  “Shortcut,” he says with a wink.

  I try my best not to shake as we drive down the slightly bumpy road. My chest aches to be back in town.

  The reality that there is absolutely no one around—maybe for miles—sets in. My stomach flips, but at the same time, I feel excitement rushing under my skin.