Stripped Bounty Read online

  Stripped Bounty

  Dorothy F. Shaw

  Contents

  Praise for Dorothy F. Shaw

  Blurb

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  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

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Look for these titles by Dorothy F. Shaw

  Unworthy Heart

  Chapter One

  Copyright

  Red Queen Publications

  Praise for Dorothy F. Shaw

  “Unworthy Heart reminded me of what I love about the romance genre.”—The Book Tart

  “Unworthy Heart by Dorothy F. Shaw made me think, made my heart happy, made me tear up and made me sigh in happiness. Shaw combines heat with heart almost flawlessly. I cannot wait for the follow-up books in this series.”—Romance Novel Reviews

  “[Dorothy’s] writing style is liquid, allowing the reader to easily drop into the story and intake it all.”—Ramblings of a Young PR Girl on Unworthy Heart

  “…an excellent piece of work, but then again, everything Dorothy writes is.”—Deneale’s Book Buzz on Unworthy Heart

  “If Unworthy Heart is any indication to what we can expect in The Donnellys series, then we should be in for a lot of enjoyment…You won’t want to miss out on this remarkable family.”—Beyond the Valley of the Books

  “I fell in love with the series from book one…Grab your copy and buckle up for the ride. Dorothy Shaw doesn’t do anything half way.”—Beyond the Valley of the Books on Defensive Heart

  “Holy smokes can Dorothy Shaw write a freaking awesome sex scene…”—Wicked Good Reads on Defensive Heart

  “Defensive Heart by Dorothy F. Shaw is a good read which gives credence to the statement that opposites do attract.”—Harlequin Junkie

  “Defensive Heart is a book that will make readers stop and think.”—Romance Novel News

  “As usual Dorothy gives you a real life perspective. Definitely worth the read, and truly enjoyable.”—Deneale’s Book Buzz on Defensive Heart

  “Even though there is plenty of sex in Shattered Heart, the author does not neglect the storyline at all – packing it full of romance, danger, trauma, healing, laughs, and the Donnelly family.”—Crystal’s Many Reviewers

  “Shattered Heart is an emotional tear jerker of a romance that had me reaching for the tissues on more than one occasion.”—Romance Novel News

  “And this woman can put love, sex, and passion in every word, and make you feel the wind blow across your face if she writes it to do so. Trust me. Dorothy F. Shaw is and always will be, an amazing writer.”—Deneale’s Book Buzz on Shattered Heart

  “Shane and Cyn’s journey to each other is at times incredibly frustrating, sweetly touching, laugh out loud funny and burn up the sheets sexy.”—Got Romance Reviews on Shattered Heart

  Protecting her isn’t an option. It’s a requirement.

  Badger finally got Rosie in his bed, but in order to keep her there, he has to figure out how to save her life.

  After her drug-running husband gets himself killed, Rosie Santini figures Phoenix is a fine place to get a fresh start. Deuce’s strip club isn’t too fresh, but the money’s easy. As she works the pole, the only gaze she can’t ignore belongs to the club’s head bouncer, Badger Baxter. But Rosie’s seen her fair share of tall, dark, and dangerous, and no way is she heading down that road. Not even for a hot hunk of muscle like Badger.

  When he’s not bounty hunting, Badger runs security at Deuce’s. Rosie should be just another piece of fresh meat in the club’s stable of pole jockeys, but all her sexy parts add up to a ride Badger would like to test drive. Trouble is, Badger likes his women submissive, but not broken. She’s definitely got baggage he wants no part of. But when her husband’s killer shows up looking for stolen cash, she fits naturally under his protection—and it isn’t long before she’s hooked deep into his heart.

  So deep, losing her now would make him bleed in more ways than one.

  Warning: This book contains violent situations due to physical altercations and gunfire. Be on the look out for D/s sexual play, which may cause drooling and might have you reaching for the nearest man or battery operated boyfriend.

  Dedication

  For you…

  Acknowledgments

  My shout-outs are as follows—in no particular order:

  My darling, Shane Rice, aka my brother from another mother. My favorite cover model of all time. My convention partner in partying and drinking totally innocent fun… A million thanks for the totally awesome, very, very naughty hood of the GTO sex scene. Who knew you had such a dirty imagination? Well…I suppose I did, but that doesn’t count, does it? Anyway, much love, my friend!

  To Robert Gawe, aka my adopted Dad. Thank you for your extensive law enforcement information—including the lecture about never bringing a knife to a gunfight. As if I didn’t know? Sheesh. Anyway, I love you and appreciate you more than I can ever express. Thank you for always being there.

  My dear friend, Dawn Vasaeo. Thank you for letting me babble for far too long in your ear to figure out my plotting issue. Girl, you totally saved my ass! Seriously.

  My ex-husband, Terry “Wookie” Hoffman. For discussing the plot of this book with me pretty much every two weeks, and sometimes in between, until I finally finished it. Also, for your extensive badass biker knowledge, and as usual, your never-ending support and encouragement.

  My awesome friend, Bill. For your willingness to share some majorly important things in order to give me details and facts about those kinds of things… (Don’t worry, he’ll know what I’m talking about.)

  My beautiful cousin, Lisa Ruiz, for her medical scene information.

  Anthony Garcia, for his Phoenix PD information.

  Luis at 3-D Bail Bonds in Connecticut: Thanks for all the helpful info on your procedures.

  My sprinting partner and pretty much favorite person on the planet, author Sidda Lee Rain. Jeez, where do I start? Where do I end? There’s just so much. Okay, here goes: Plotting. Writing sprints. Never-ending encouragement. Late-night FaceTime talks that went on way too long while I babbled about where the hell this book was going. Then me saying a trillion times that I JUST COULDN’T DO IT! And then when I finally did it, and it was all said and done, you read the book and told me what needed to be fixed. I seriously love you, woman.

  My Megan Hart…just, thank you. For all the things. All of them. And then more of them. I love you, bebe. You are my confidant, my friend and my mentor and just…all the things.

  To my wonderful beta readers: Marchelle Lagueux, Sherri Zak, Samantha Pereira. As always, your feedback is invaluable! More love for Sherri Zak for being my typo finding queen,
and to Sunnie Andrews for her pass of line edits. MWUAH! David Faulkner for proof reading the final version.

  Last but not least, shout out to Pandorasparlour.com! Work it, Meredith!

  Prologue

  The sound of the phone ringing split the silence of the dark bedroom, startling Rosie awake. She rolled beneath the covers and slapped at the nightstand in search of the cordless receiver on its base, missing it a couple of times.

  “Fuck…really?” Finally getting ahold of the now torture device and flopping back onto the mattress, Rosie hit “Talk” on the handset and raised it to her ear. “Someone better be dead!”

  “Rosie!”

  She bolted upright in bed at the urgency in her husband’s tone. “Joey? What’s wrong?”

  “Nuthin’.” He coughed. “All good. Listen careful, baby girl.” His voice was low and out of breath. “You listenin’?”

  Christ, he was always doing that to her—scaring the crap out of her for no damn reason. And he accused her of towing the drama line. Whatever. Rosie swallowed down the panic-induced lump that had risen in her throat and looked at the digital clock on her nightstand. It was after three in the morning. Joey should’ve been home by then. What the hell had he gotten himself into now? “For the love of… Just get to the point. I’m listening!”

  “I took something and hid it. If I don’t come home you need to get it and then, no matter what, you get the fuck out of town.”

  “What do you mean if you don’t come home?” Rosie pushed her hair over her shoulder. “Are you getting arrested again?”

  “No. Why do you always assume that? Fuck’s sake.” He grunted and then coughed again.

  Why did she…was he serious? Rosie rolled her eyes. “Do you really want me to answer that question?”

  “Whatever. Just listen. Go to the ladies’ room at the train station. Under the sink, behind the pipes, you’ll find a locker key taped to the wall. Grab it, and go to the self-storage lockers.”

  “Train station? Which fucking train station? What the hell did you take?” With a shove of the covers, she threw her legs over the side of the bed.

  “I took our future, baby.”

  Good God, she could practically hear the smile behind his words. Rosie looked up at the ceiling, knowing this was going to lead nowhere good. The only place that damn ego of his ever led him was back to jail. Unless… Oh, fuck no. Cold dread slipped down Rosie’s spine and she shivered. “You rolled the dealer, didn’t you? Jesus-fucking-Christ! Are you trying to get us both killed?”

  Joey let out a harsh sigh. “Keep your drama ass in check, Rosie! For real. I got this. That small-town fuck has no clue what he’s doing. His crew is no better. Trust me, it’s gonna be fine. Just take a damn breath for once and do what I say, got it?”

  “Do not yell at me, Joey!” She got to her feet and paced in the small space between their bed and dresser. “You go do something insane and you expect me to be calm?”

  “Yeah, that’s exactly what I expect.”

  Rosie ran her fingers through her hair. She wanted no part of the world of drug trafficking he’d gotten himself into. And she’d made that very clear. Not that he ever respected what she wanted or needed. Too busy screwing up to bother. Regardless, Rosie had managed to stay far away from the people he’d been associating with.

  What he’d gotten himself into was a one-way ticket to jail or the morgue. Joey had already been to prison one too many times. Jesus, he hadn’t even been out more than six months from the last stint. At the rate he was going, it wouldn’t be long before he was back behind bars. Or dead.

  God, Joey had done a lot of stupid things, made a fuckton more stupid choices, but Rosie never thought he’d do something this stupid.

  She should’ve known, though.

  Always so goddamn greedy and always wanting more. Joey Santini thought he was a big-time hustler—big enough to pull something this insane off. But he wasn’t. He was small-time. Small-town—small fucking potatoes. Especially in the drug world. He was nothing but a runner. A peon. And he’d just put both their lives at risk. She blew out a harsh breath. “Which station, dammit! Where are you?”

  “Bridgeport.”

  Holy shit. That was nearly forty minutes away. The gravity of the situation hit her in the gut like a hard punch. She had no idea what to do. A tear dripped down Rosie’s cheek and she brushed it away. “Are you coming home?”

  “I hope so.”

  Chapter One

  Three months later…

  “No Colors or Weapons Allowed.”

  Rosie Santini read the sign mounted on the brick exterior wall of the establishment. Shaking her head, she opened the solid wood front door and stepped out of the Phoenix hundred-and-four degree heat and into the dimly lit, air-conditioned strip club.

  Back in the day “colors” meant a biker’s patches—as in motorcycle club patches. Commonly found on the back of a leather or denim vest. Considering there was a pack of Harleys parked on the sidewalk out front, Rosie figured in Arizona that’s exactly what the sign referred to. Plus, as she’d learned pretty quickly after arriving in town, barring having a criminal record, people could carry a gun in AZ right out in the open for all to see.

  She took a moment as her eyes adjusted, no longer sure if this was such a good idea, and looked around. Type O Negative’s “Christian Woman” blared from the speakers as Rosie walked forward on the old green and white—or gray, rather—linoleum-tiled floor. A small birdcage-style stage sat empty off to her left. To her right, the mahogany bar, with its large mirrored backsplash and various bottles of booze, stretched along the wall. In the center of the large space sat a collection of small round tables, a tealight candle atop each one, with two pleather chairs arced around them. Doing a quick count, around twenty or so customers occupied the bar. Not uncommon for the middle of the day in a strip club.

  Ahead of the tables was the main stage in the shape of an upside-down T. Mirrors lined the back wall with red curtains draped theatre style at their edges. White rope lights ran along the edges of the narrow stage leading down to the wide part, which held a pole on each end. There was also a spinning wheel mounted on the ceiling near center stage; she hadn’t seen one of those in years. And, finally, another pole near the mirrors along the back wall.

  Two girls had the big stage, clad only in their G-strings and stripper heels. One circling a pole, the other on her hands and knees as a patron stood behind her, dollar bill at the ready. Rosie shook her head. Dancers these days barely danced—hardly did anything to put on an actual show or striptease. That was the whole point, wasn’t it? At least back in her heyday it was.

  She drew in a deep breath and blew it out. Deuce’s Cabaret wasn’t seedy…necessarily. But it wasn’t plush, either. More that it needed a face-lift. Desperately. Not her first or even eighth choice for employment. But it’d do. At least the music was good.

  Rosie circled in place, scanning the corners of the club, looking for cameras. And there wasn’t a single one to be found. Anywhere. Hopefully they had good bouncers. She’d spotted at least two of those throughout the space.

  Hiking her big pocketbook a little higher on her shoulder, Rosie blew out a breath and stepped to the bartender. “Hi there.”

  The big man, clad in a black T-shirt, turned from the cash register and faced her. Rosie lost her breath when she caught sight of his face but managed to get a grip on herself as he walked toward her. He dipped his chin, cocking his head to the side, as he wiped the bar top directly in front of her with a white bar rag. “You lost?”

  Rosie swallowed past the layer of glue that’d suddenly appeared on her tongue. Jesus, he was breathtaking…speech-taking, too. Perfect nose, full lips, the bottom one a tad fuller. Incredible bone structure. Freaking guy could be a model. He was huge, too—muscular and at least six one, maybe taller. She blinked a few rapid blinks and glanced away from his piercing light-brown gaze.

  In an attempt to gain some control of her thoughts, Rosie pl
opped her pocketbook down on the closest barstool and, after a breath, looked back to him. “No. Not lost. Are you by chance hiring?”

  He crossed his muscled arms, his biceps bulging, testing the limits of his T-shirt sleeves. “Bar or stage?”

  “Bar.” She managed a smile.

  “Nope.” His stare didn’t waver and Rosie took in the small lines around his eyes, but also his strong jaw, partly hidden by a goatee and way-more-than-five o’clock shadow. Yeah, definitely a good-looking man.

  “What about waitress?”

  “Nope.” He dropped his arms and turned his back.

  Wow! Had he really just dismissed her like that? What the hell. Rosie faced the stage, and the dancers again. The Pretty Reckless’s “Make Me Wanna Die” played now. She hadn’t been onstage in about two years, and it was the last place she wanted to be again. But she was broke. Getting across the country from Connecticut to Arizona had cost Rosie more than she’d thought. She hadn’t anticipated the freaking car dying. Twice. She hadn’t anticipated her husband dying, either. Jerk. Rosie would never forgive him for putting her in this position.

  Biting the edge of her barely existent thumbnail, she turned back around and faced the bartender. Desperate times called for desperate measures. “Okay fine. Stage?”

  With his back still to her, he glanced up from the bottle he was wiping down and caught her gaze through the reflection in the mirror. “You sure about that?”

  Was she sure? Rosie’d already been to six other bars that day, and three the day before. No, she wasn’t fucking sure, but she needed a goddamn job. “Absolutely.”