Total pages in book: 37
Estimated words: 33713 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 169(@200wpm)___ 135(@250wpm)___ 112(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 33713 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 169(@200wpm)___ 135(@250wpm)___ 112(@300wpm)
What happens in Vegas...
At Elysium, visitors can find whatever guilty pleasure they seek, as long as they don’t cross the line. Because this casino is run by the Steel Sinners Motorcycle Club, a morally-gray found family of alpha men who are soft only for the women who love them.
This insta-love MC series will take you on a ride you’ll never forget, but don’t worry. The HEA is always guaranteed. Follow Pope as he guides his crew of rough and dirty men through a Vegas nightlife filled with danger, surprises, and love. These OTT protective men will stop at nothing to claim what’s theirs, even if it means calling in favors from Pope’s cousins in the Steel Rebels and Steel Order MCs, and maybe even from Pope’s estranged twin brother who leads their Reno rivals, the Steel Aces.
This is a multi-author series set in Las Vegas and the shared Steel Sinners MC world. Each book can be read as a standalone
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
CHAPTER ONE
DIESEL
The air in The Boneyard Garage is thick as gravy, a swirling mix of grease hanging heavy in the humidity, the scorched scent of coffee from this morning, and the sharp, bitter bite of steel filings drifting around like invisible grit. Every breath I drag in, it hits me right in the chest. The fumes, the clang of metal on metal. This place is real in a way the Strip out there never is, all shimmering heat and showmanship, everything riding on luck and flash. Here, reality is measured in torque and horsepower. No smoke and mirrors.
It’s a typical Thursday in the garage. The sun’s barely come up, and I’m elbow-deep in the guts of a vintage Mustang, chrome and polish warping my face into a funhouse version of reality as I lean in closer. My hair's tied up and already escaping, strands sticking out in every direction, and my knuckles are black with grease that isn’t coming off any time soon. It’ll take three showers and half a gallon of industrial soap to even make a dent in it. But that’s the job. There’s nothing fast or fancy about it, not in here. Just sweat, stripped bolts, and that slow, patient hunt for what makes this car more than a pretty shell.
It is quiet, mostly. The sound of Benny’s classic rock station hums in the background, competing with the rhythmic clack-clack-clack of Jax trying to find where he parked his torque wrench for the fourth time this hour. I don't look up when Jax curses under his breath. This is my sanctuary. Here, every problem has a mechanical solution. You turn the bolt, the pressure changes, the engine sings. People are significantly more complicated.
My phone starts vibrating on the workbench, dancing a frantic little jig next to a pile of gaskets. I don't look at it. I'm in the zone, that sweet spot where the rest of the world just falls away into the background noise of the shop.
It buzzes again. And again. The sound is an intrusion, a jagged edge cutting through the smooth rhythm of my work. I wipe my hands on a rag that has seen better decades and squint at the screen through the smudge of a fingerprint. It’s Alana. My little sister doesn’t call three times in a row unless someone is dying or she’s found a vintage leather jacket she absolutely needs me to bankroll.
"Hey, kid," I say, pressing the phone to my ear with a clean-ish shoulder while I try to keep a stubborn bolt in place. "If this is about that bike you want, the answer is still no. You’re too fast for your own good as it is."
"Diesel." Her voice is shrill and sharp. It isn't the playful tone of a sister looking for a favor or the sassy retort I usually expect. It’s the sound of someone who is holding back a scream, or perhaps already letting one out in slow motion.
I drop the wrench. It hits the concrete floor with a heavy, final thud that echoes through the rafters. Jax stops his pacing, and even Benny looks up from the ‘Vette. They know that tone. It’s the sound that turns a mechanic back into a Sinner.
"What happened?" I ask, my voice dropping into the low, dangerous register that usually makes people start backing toward the nearest exit. I’m already moving toward the sink, ignoring the grease as I grab a handful of industrial grit soap. "Are you hurt? Where are you?"
"I’m fine. I’m at the apartment, but it’s Serenity," Alana says, her breath hitching in a way that makes my chest tighten. "It’s bad, Diesel. There’s a guy from her accounting class. He’s been following her, and today he emailed a picture of her sleeping. Through the window. He was outside our place last night."
The soap bubbles in my hands turn a murky, dark gray, but all I can see is Serenity’s face. Not the way I usually try to picture her—smiling, safe, tucked away in the 'off-limits' corner of my brain—but vulnerable. Terrified. I think of her eyes, that specific shade of blue that always reminded me of the sky right before a desert storm, and I feel a cold, hard knot of rage settle behind my ribs.
"Did you call the police?" I ask, though I already know the answer. Campus security is a joke, and the LAPD doesn't move for a stalker until there’s a body to outline in chalk. My little sister knows how the world works; she grew up in the shadow of the chrome skull.
"They said they can't do anything because he hasn't threatened her yet," Alana spits the words out like they're poison. "He’s lurking, Diesel. She’s terrified to leave the room. She’s sitting on the floor right now, and she won’t even look at her phone because he keeps calling from blocked numbers. I don't know what to do."