(Dixie Reapers MC)

Motorcycle Club Romance, Age Gap, Suspense

Date Published: June 27, 2025

Amelia: I know monsters. Hammer isn’t one, regardless of what he says. He’s a
born protector with a big heart, and he’s exactly what my family needs. Sure,
there’s a big age difference between us, but why should I care about other
people’s opinions? All that matters is that Hammer makes me happy. He’s just
what my sons need and he and the Dixie Reapers can protect me from my piece of
s**t ex. Anything else is unimportant. Now I just have to convince him that we
make a good team.

Hammer: I haven’t walked the path of righteousness by any means, but it
doesn’t mean I’m a heartless bastard. Found out I had a kid who’s now a
Prospect. Discovered I had a granddaughter, and now I’m a great-grandfather.
Adopted a kid who didn’t have anyone. None of that makes up for the shit I’ve
done in my past, or the fact I’ve been in and out of prison most of my life.
So why does the sweetest woman I’ve ever met see me as her savior and not the
monster I really am? Somehow she’s become mine, along with her teen boys. If
anyone ever said I’d be a family man, I’d have laughed in their faces. Guess
the joke’s on me.

Warning: Hammer is intended for readers 18+ due to adult situations, bad
language, and violence. There’s no cheating, no cliffhanger, and a guaranteed
HEA!

Amelia

I sat on the deserted Florida beach as dusk painted the sky in shades of
orange and pink, my boys flanking me like sentinels. The rhythmic crashing of
waves against the shore masked our hushed voices, nature’s white noise
ensuring no one would overhear plans that could get us killed.

We’d chosen this spot carefully — far enough from the tourist areas to
avoid casual onlookers, but public enough that Piston wouldn’t think to
look for us here. My old man hated beaches, hated sand, hated anything that
couldn’t be controlled. The vastness of the ocean offended him somehow,
as if the world had no right to be bigger than his ego.

The setting sun cast long shadows across the sand, stretching our silhouettes
into distorted versions of ourselves. How fitting. We’d been living as
warped reflections of a family for too long — smiling in public while wearing
concealer over bruises, making excuses for absences at school functions,
practicing cover stories until they flowed from our lips more naturally than
the truth.

“Do you think he knows we’re gone yet?” I asked, my voice
barely audible above the surf.

Neither of my sons answered immediately. They’d learned to measure their
words, to calculate risks before speaking. Another gift from their father.

The breeze coming off the water carried a chill that had nothing to do with
temperature. Until this week, I’d been biding my time and slowly
preparing. I’d learned the hard way what happened when we ran. Then
things changed and I knew I needed to get us out of there. Waiting
wasn’t a luxury we could afford. Watching Piston, the boy’s
father, slam my youngest son’s head against the kitchen counter had
severed whatever twisted loyalty I still felt toward him. I’d been with
the enforcer for the Devil’s Minions for seventeen years. At least
sixteen years too damn long.

I glanced at Chase’s profile, so much like his father’s it
sometimes made my heart stutter with fear. But where Piston’s features
were permanently hardened by cruelty and excess, my sixteen-year-old
son’s face showed a different kind of hardness — determination,
protectiveness, the kind of strength that built rather than destroyed.
He’d been taking the brunt of his father’s rage for years,
positioning himself between Piston and his younger brother whenever possible.

On my other side sat Levi, his slender shoulders hunched against the evening
air. At fifteen, he should have been worrying about homework and video games,
not researching safe houses and motorcycle club rivalries. The fading
yellow-green bruise around his eye made my stomach knot with guilt. I should
have left years ago.

“We’ve got about eighteen hours before he realizes this
isn’t a shopping trip,” Chase said finally, scanning the beach for
potential threats. Always vigilant, my oldest. “Maybe less if he checks
the bank account. Especially since he thinks we’re staying overnight
somewhere. When we don’t check into a motel, he’ll come looking
for us.”

I nodded, feeling the weight of time pressing down. Piston hadn’t wanted
me to have access to money — control was his favorite weapon — but I’d
been skimming cash from the household funds for months, hiding small bills in
a tampon box he’d never deign to touch. It wasn’t much but
combined with the emergency credit card I’d applied for in secret, it
might be enough to get us to safety.

“He’ll come after us,” I said, stating what we all knew.
Piston, aka John Minsley, didn’t lose possessions, and that’s all
we were to him — things to own, to use, to break when the mood struck him.

Levi’s fingers curled around mine, his palm clammy despite the cool
evening air. “We planned for that, Mom. The Devil’s Boneyard MC
–”

“Keep your voice down,” Chase hissed, though there was no one
within a hundred yards of us.

The mention of another motorcycle club sent ice through my veins. Trading one
MC for another seemed like jumping from the fire into a different kind of
hell. But Levi had done his research, had shown me the forum posts from women
who’d escaped abusive situations with their help.

“I know you’re scared,” I told them both, squeezing
Levi’s hand. “I am too. But we can’t stay. Not
anymore.”

The evidence of that decision was written on my youngest son’s face, in
the shadows under his eyes that spoke of sleepless nights and the bruising
from his father’s temper. It was etched in the scars on Chase’s
back from that time Piston had caught him trying to call for help. It was
branded into my own skin, hidden beneath long sleeves even in Florida’s
heat.

Behind us, beyond the dunes and the sparse vegetation, our packed car waited
— everything we could safely take without raising suspicion crammed into the
trunk. Old clothes, important documents hidden in tampon boxes and
hollowed-out books, the few mementos I couldn’t bear to leave behind.

The sky deepened to purple as we sat there, three refugees planning a
desperate escape from a man who would rather see us dead than free. But in
that moment, with the endless ocean before us and my boys beside me, I felt
something I hadn’t experienced in years — hope, fragile as sea foam but
just as persistent.

Chase stood abruptly, his tall frame casting a long shadow across the sand as
he paced a few steps away, never taking his eyes off our surroundings. At
sixteen, he already carried himself like a man who’d seen too much, his
shoulders set with a tension that no teenager should know. The ocean breeze
ruffled his brown hair — the same shade as mine — but his green eyes,
Piston’s eyes, scanned the beach with a vigilance that broke my heart.

“Someone’s coming,” he muttered, nodding toward a couple
walking their dog at the far end of the beach. “We should move.”

I watched as he shifted his stance, angling his body to place himself between
us and the distant strangers. The motion was so automatic, so ingrained, that
I doubted he even realized he was doing it. Years of protecting his brother,
of trying to shield me when he could — it had become instinct. And it made me
feel like a shit mother.

“They’re just walking their dog, Chase,” I said softly.
“They’re not his men.”

His jaw tightened, the muscle jumping beneath his tanned skin. “You
don’t know that. Piston has eyes everywhere.”

“We’ve been careful.”

“Not careful enough.” He glanced at his brother, his expression
softening marginally before hardening again. “Levi’s research is
good, but Piston will call in every favor, track every account, hunt down
every friend we’ve ever had.” He knelt in front of me, his voice
dropping to a whisper. “Mom, if we do this, there’s no halfway. We
either disappear completely or we don’t bother running at all.”

The fierce intensity in his eyes reminded me so much of his father that for a
moment, fear flickered through me — not of Chase, never of him, but of the
genetic legacy he carried. Would my gentle boy who used to catch and release
spiders from our bathroom eventually morph into the monster who’d sired
him? Or was that intensity, channeled through love instead of hate, the very
thing that might save us?

About the Author

Harley Wylde is an accomplished author known for her captivating MC Romances.
With an unwavering commitment to sensual storytelling, Wylde immerses her
readers in an exciting world of fierce men and irresistible women. Her works
exude passion, danger, and gritty realism, while still managing to end on a
satisfying note each time.

When not crafting her tales, Wylde spends her time brainstorming new
plotlines, indulging in a hot cup of Starbucks, or delving into a good book.
She has a particular affinity for supernatural horror literature and movies.
Visit Wylde’s website to learn more about her works and upcoming events, and
don’t forget to sign up for her newsletter to receive exclusive discounts and
other exciting perks.

Author on Facebook, Instagram, & TikTok: @harleywylde

Publisher on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, and TikTok: @changelingpress

Save 15% off any order at ChangelingPress.com with code RABT15