Secrets don’t stay hidden forever.
Hatchet has a thing for the enigmatic Mr. Smith, Horatio Trap’s spokesman. He’d love to get his hands on the pretty man and show him how good it feels to take orders for once rather than hand them out. He’s had his eye on Smith for years and he’s running out of patience.
The Wyverns’ involvement in the drug trade is limited to stealing money from the cartels—they don’t want junk peddled on their turf. When Trap orders them to destroy a crack cocaine factory in Phoenix, they are happy to oblige. But Smith throws a spanner in the works by posing as a potential buyer, putting himself in mortal danger.
Hatchet and The Wyverns come up with a plan to fake Smith’s death, muscle in on the deal and convince the cartel to do business with them instead. But when Hatchet’s cover is blown he’s left to save a bunch of illegals, destroy the drugs and wipe the factory from the face of the planet. It’s all in a night’s work for The Wyverns—but there are still secrets to uncover and the mysterious Horatio Trap and his mind games can’t stay hidden forever.
About the Author
Lucinda lives in a small village in the English countryside, surrounded by rolling hills, cows and sheep. She started writing to fill time between jobs and is now firmly and unashamedly addicted.
She loves the English weather, especially the rain, and adores a thunderstorm. She loves good food, warm company and a crackling fire. She's fascinated by the psychology of relationships, especially between men, and her stories contain some subtle (and some not so subtle) leanings towards BDSM.
Read an Excerpt
Copyright © LM Somerton 2017. All Rights Reserved, Totally Entwined Group Limited, T/A Pride Publishing.
“We need a new fucking couch,” Hatchet grumbled. “My spine is turning into a pretzel.” He threw off the thin blanket covering him then swung his legs around so he could sit up. The scent of fresh coffee tickled his nostrils.
“So sleep in a bed like the rest of us,” Orlando said, far too bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for first thing in the morning. He stood next to the couch wafting a mug back and forth. His lime green top hurt Hatchet’s eyes.
“Gimme that coffee, brat.” Hatchet made a swipe for the mug but Orlando stepped away out of reach.
“Nope. This is for Smith. He deserves it more than you do.”
“He’s the reason I need a chiropractor on call.” Hatchet rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “Fuck, I need a shower.” He’d slept in an old T-shirt and sweats.
Orlando’s delicate button nose wrinkled. “I could hose you down outside if you like?”
Hatchet levered himself erect. At his full height, he towered over Orlando. “The only scenario I’d enjoy involving you, me and a hose would have the nozzle invading a certain part of your anatomy.”
Orlando’s eyes widened. His lower lip quivered. He thrust the mug of coffee in Hatchet’s direction.
“You think I’m falling for that hurt puppy routine?” Hatchet grabbed the mug before Orlando could change his mind. He took a long swallow. “This was for me all along, wasn’t it?”
Orlando grinned. “I gave Smith his ages ago. You were still snoring. Like a water buffalo.” He scampered toward the kitchen before Hatchet could react. He’d need at least one more mug before he felt up to chasing after Rogue’s obnoxious sub. The coffee was good though.
“The brat giving you trouble?” Rogue, leader of The Wyverns motorcycle club, strolled over.
“Always.” Hatchet raised his mug in a mock-toast. “Makes good coffee, though, so providing you keep warming his ass on a regular basis, I can handle him.”
Rogue ran a hand through his dirty blond hair. “Well, you could be in for a few rough days. I’m thinking about heading out to California. A road trip, then a few days on the beach. I want to see if I can still stand on a surfboard without wiping out.”
Hatchet’s eyes narrowed. “Wait. You’re leaving him here?”
Rogue shrugged. “I told him we were both going, but he said he had to stay here and take care of Smith since you were doing… What were his words? Oh, yeah. A piss poor job of it.”
“He said what?” Rogue had better find himself a new plaything. By the time Hatchet finished burying the brat, they’d never find hide nor hair.
“I’m kidding. Yeah, we’re leaving later today. You okay to handle things here while I’m gone?”
“You know it. As long as you’re taking the brat with you. And, yeah, I almost had a heart attack when you suggested you weren’t.”
Rogue chuckled. “I’m going to let him know now. Smith’s leaving today, right?”
“So he says.” Hatchet shrugged. “Shelton thinks he should rest up a few more days but that man is stubborn as a mule.”
“At least you get your bed back.”
“There is that.” Hatchet stretched, easing the kinks from his muscles. He’d rather Smith remained in his bed, preferably naked, possibly tied down, but he wasn’t going to admit that to Rogue. From his grin, Rogue knew what he was thinking, anyway.