(Riptide MC)

Motorcycle Club Romance, Age Gap, Suspense

Date Published: November 7, 2025

Lily ran from a nightmare straight to Rattler’s arms. He’s all leather,
muscle and lethal promise. Dare she hope for an HEA?

Lily — Abusing me was bad enough, but when my a**hole of a boyfriend
threatened to shoot a tiny kitten, I brained him with a pot of spaghetti sauce
and ran — straight into the arms of the tattooed VP of the Riptide MC.
He’s everything my ex isn’t, and that gives me hope. He promises
to keep Scrapper and I safe, but my ex isn’t the forgiving kind. He said
he would kill me if I left him and I know he’s going to come looking for
revenge.

Rattler — She might be younger than me in years, but there’s a world of
experience looking out of those gorgeous eyes, and it isn’t the good
kind. When she pulled a gun on me, I knew she was my kind of woman.
She’s on the run from an a**hole who used her as a punching bag. He
might have the local law enforcement in his pocket, but me and my brothers in
Riptide have military experience, and sometimes vigilante justice is
necessary.

Trigger Warning: This is an MC action thriller romance. It contains violence,
abuse, coarse language, vigilante justice, and adult situations. No cheating,
no cliffhangers, and a guaranteed happily ever after. Enjoy!

Rattler

Thor and Janet were actually going to tie the fucking knot! I suppose I should
have seen it coming, but they’d been playing friends-with-benefits for
so long I guess I thought that’s all they’d ever be. And now here
I was — sitting in a bakery waiting for a box of frilly wedding-type cupcakes
to take back to the clubhouse for the old ladies to sample. Not sure how I got
conned into playing fetch. I was happy for them and all, but you’d think
they could have sent a prospect, not the fucking VP.

The bell on the door tinkled, and I looked up as a woman came in. She looked
rough. More than rough. One eye was black, and through the open collar of her
coat I could see a circle of greenish yellow bruises on her neck. Her clothes
looked like she’d slept in them, and she had a bulging backpack slung
across one shoulder. She looked young, too young to be stuck in the kind of
relationship those bruises indicated.

She glanced in my direction and quickly looked away. Yeah, she was scared of
something. Or more likely, someone. She walked up to the counter, and I
noticed a slight limp. Probably from the same incident that gave her that
black eye.

Maybe I was wrong. Ace always chided me for jumping to conclusions. She could
have been in a car accident or tripped and fallen down a flight of stairs. The
problem was, in my experience, that only happened once in a very long while.
I’d bet my bottom dollar there were more bruises hidden under her
clothes, in varying shades of blue, yellow, and purple. Evidence of an ongoing
series of attacks.

Impotent assholes who beat up on their women were one of my triggers, and I
looked outside to see if maybe this was my lucky day. Maybe the asshole was
here with her.

She asked the woman behind the counter for a coffee, and when the lady turned
to get it, she grabbed a muffin and stuffed it in her pocket. The attendant
turned back and sat the cup of steaming coffee on the counter and rang in the
purchase. Pulling a few bills out of her bra, the newcomer paid the bill and
hurried back outside, gulping the coffee down as she went. I watched as she
turned the corner and headed down the alley beside the bakery.

Standing, I strode over to the counter. Tossing a couple of bills on the
counter, I smiled. “For my coffee, and the muffin you forgot to charge
my friend for.”

“Your friend?” Her brows raised in disbelief.

“That’s right. She must not have seen me waiting for her.
I’ll be back in a few minutes for those cupcakes.” I pivoted and
strode out the door before she could ask exactly how anyone could miss seeing
someone as big as me.

I turned the corner and saw the woman crouched down at the far end of the
alley, petting a kitten that had its head poked out of her backpack. She gave
me the side-eye as I sauntered toward her, trying to look as unthreatening as
possible.

I obviously didn’t do a very good job. She waited until I was about ten
feet from her, far enough away not to touch her but close enough to block the
view of anyone who happened to walk past the mouth of the alley. Then she
straightened up and pulled the gun out from under her shirt. She made damn
sure I saw her flick the safety off.

“Don’t come near me.” She pulled the backpack a little
closer as if to protect the tiny scrap of a kitten in it.

Did I seriously look like the kind of guy who’d hurt a kitten?

Apparently, she thought so. I held my hands up. “I just wanted to talk.
I’m not going to harm you.”

She didn’t look convinced. “Tim send you?”

I frowned, taking in her battered appearance. “Tim the guy that did that
to you?”

She didn’t answer for a moment, and the gun didn’t waver.
“Fuck off.”

I had to work at not smiling. The swear words sounded cute coming out of such
a tiny thing. “No, I have no fucking idea who Tim is. I just saw you
come in and nick that muffin and wondered if maybe you needed a hand. I paid
for the muffin, by the way, so you don’t have to worry about
that.”

She snorted. “Not high on my list of worries right now.”

“Fair enough.” I gestured at the ground. “Doesn’t look
all that comfortable down there. Care to come back into the bakery and we can
talk?”

“Why would I want to talk to you?”

I shrugged. “I’m a nice guy. No offense, but it’s pretty
obvious you’re running from someone. Maybe I can help. Do you have
somewhere to go? I can offer you and your little companion there a
ride.”

Her eyes narrowed, and I could see her calculate the odds of me being a serial
killer. “I’m looking for the Riptide MC. Do you know where to find
them?”

Anne Kane lives in the beautiful Okanagan Valley with a bouncy little rescue
dog whose breed defies description, a cantankerous Himalayan cat, and too many
fish to count. She spent many years trying to fit in and act normal, but
finally gave up the effort. She started writing romance in 2008, and her fate
was sealed when she won a publishing contract with Red Sage Publishing and
just a month later Changeling Press accepted her first submission. Since then
she has published more than thirty stories in a variety of sub-genres, all
with a happily ever after.

She has two handsome sons and six adorable grandchildren and enjoys spending
time with them whenever she can. Her hobbies, when she’s not playing
with the characters in her head, include kayaking, hiking, swimming, playing
guitar, singing and of course, reading.

Author Links

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Motorcycle Club Romance, Suspense

Date Published: October 10, 2025

Publisher: Changeling Press

Dylan — I thought I could handle my uncle’s world. I thought if I kept
my head down and stayed quiet, I could survive with the help of the mysterious
man who’d slipped into my bed like a secret I didn’t want to
question. But one night everything shattered. My uncle Eli handed me off to a
trafficker like I was nothing, and the man I trusted turned out to be the
ghost Eli thought he’d left hanging in the woods — the man who would
kill to keep me safe.

Vendetta — I used to be Tank, proud to wear the Cottonmouth patch, until I
spoke out against the rot our so-called leaders let poison our MC. They hung
me for it. I crawled out of my grave and took a new name. Now I’m back
to burn the criminal empire infecting Oak Grove, and the Cottonmouths that
invited it in, to the ground.

Dylan was never supposed to be part of the plan. Hell, she’s the niece
of the man who betrayed me. But I’ll die before I let him hurt her
again. And when Eli and his men try to finish what they started, they’ll
see I’m not the same man they tried to bury.

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

Dylan

Ned’s Sundown Lounge looked rougher in the light of day than it ever did
at night.

Dylan Crizer waited across the street with her keys clenched in her hand,
taking it all in. The building looked old, dressed in faded black brick. The
same flickering neon sign that barely spelled the word “Open” was
still there. She remembered it from passing by that building as a child. The
tinted windows smeared with fingerprints and smoke stains were new. While the
building wasn’t falling apart just yet, it had clearly seen better days.
Maybe better decades.

Yeah, it was as bad as her Uncle Eli had said it was. It blew her mind that he
was now co-owner of the bar that had been there most of her life. Eli Crizer
was a big bad biker, president of the Cottonmouths and all that, but
he’d never been well-off before. How did a biker get that kind of money?
Did he dip into his retirement account? Did he even have one of those?

Not long after she returned to Oak Grove, she found out her uncle had bought
the place with a “business associate.” How did he get a business
associate? The place had always fascinated her, so when she saw the
‘help wanted’ sign in the window, she marched herself in and
applied right away. Not surprisingly, her uncle, who hadn’t made time to
reach out to her so far, called her the same day about her application.

“It’s not the place for you, Dylan,” he said right off the
bat. When she asked why, he countered with, “It’s gonna be full of
drunks, ex-cons, and worse.”

She thought the fact that she’d been a waitress for years would
guarantee her the job. She had bartender experience too, although she
wasn’t the best at making drinks consistently good in a rough
environment. Her uncle didn’t agree. “You’re a Crizer.
You’re better than serving drinks to scummy people.”

But here she was anyway. Not just because she had something to prove. She now
had something to rebuild. Her entire life basically. Maybe she wouldn’t
be starting a new job today; Eli as a co-owner could cut her off. But she had
to try.

Dylan spent five years with a man who couldn’t commit and didn’t
want her to grow. Five years pretending she was happy in a dead-end
relationship in Richmond. When she left him and the city, she made up her mind
that she’d come back to Oak Grove and figure it out from the ground up.
She’d start over. Hell, she was only twenty-five. She had time.

She was starting over right here at Ned’s Sundown Lounge.

Pushing through the front door, Dylan blinked as her eyes adjusted to the low
light inside the bar. The entire place smelled of old leather, cheap whiskey,
and stale beer. It appeared to be well stocked and mostly clean despite all
the scuff marks and the sticky spots along the floor. The tables were roomy
and spaced out well around its central dance floor. A narrow hallway led off
in the direction of the restrooms and the back offices. Ned’s Sundown
Lounge had its own unique charm. If you squinted.

“Good afternoon,” came a voice from behind the bar. A tall, older
woman with a sharp jaw and leopard-print eyeglasses worked at polishing
glasses, watching Dylan with a smile. “You must be Eli’s
niece.”

“Dylan,” she said, stepping up to the bar. “Here for my
first day.”

At least she hoped she was. If Eli told them she couldn’t work there,
what would she do? She really needed the job and had already told him that.

“I’m Peggy,” the woman said in the way of introduction as
she gave her a once-over and nodded like she approved of what she saw.
“You got the job. Just stay aware and don’t take shit from anyone.
Even the regulars. You’ll be fine.”

Dylan didn’t hesitate. “Wasn’t planning on it.”

“Come on.” Peggy put the last glass she polished on the bar and
motioned for Dylan to follow her.

Down that narrow hallway and to the left was a line of really old lockers
outside the business offices. All of them had huge padlocks, protecting the
personal items the employees wanted to tuck away. Just one, at the far end,
had a small key stuck in the bottom of its padlock. Peggy pointed to that one.

“There’s only one key,” Peggy warned. “If you lose it,
you’re responsible for getting a new lock, okay?”

Dylan nodded, tucking her purse into the locker and securing it with the
padlock before sliding its tiny silver key into the front pocket of her jeans.

Peggy jerked a thumb in the opposite direction. “The kitchen is that
way. There’s not a lot of menu options to memorize. Burgers, fries,
nachos. I think they have chili a couple of times a week. None of it is that
great.”

Good to know. Pulling the hair tie from her wrist, she pulled her hair up into
a ponytail as she followed the woman back through the bar, taking in every
corner as she went. Dylan was many things but naive wasn’t one of them.

Her Uncle Eli had influence here and he led a shady biker club. And now he was
a co-owner of this place. People didn’t just “run bars”
these days. Bars were often covers for other things. More shady shit.
She’d left a couple of bars after learning they were running drugs out
of them. The second one had a full police raid one night and it took hours for
it to be cleared up so everyone could go home. She never returned because
drugs were dangerous and brought dangerous people. No job was worth putting
herself in the line of fire.

But until she had proof that something wasn’t right here at her
uncle’s bar, she was going to do the damn job. Unfortunately, she needed
the money to get back on her feet.

Smile. Hustle. Listen. It had been her mantra since her first job in a bar.

Peggy looked to be somewhere in her forties. She had a no-nonsense attitude
that had to come in handy in a place as rough as this. “House rules.
Keep the regulars’ drinks full and staff are not allowed to talk
politics. Or religion. People don’t want to think about religion when
they’re drinking and partying, you know? The jukebox plays when it
fucking wants to, so no beating it or kicking it. If Ned’s here and he
sees you do it, he’ll lose his mind.”

“Who’s Ned?” Dylan asked.

“The other co-owner,” Peggy replied. “Try not to piss him
off, even if you are Eli’s family.”

“Understood,” Dylan said.

“Now, if a fight breaks out and there’s usually one each fucking
week,” Peggy explained, “don’t be a hero. Just try and get
clear and wave down one of the bouncers. We usually have at least two of them
scheduled each night. It’s not a bad idea to check the schedule.
It’s on the whiteboard with the lockers. See who’s on duty each
night so you know who you’re looking for.” She jerked her chin in
the direction of the far end of the bar.

Dylan followed her gaze to the two huge guys leaning against the back wall
near the hallway, perfectly still and silent. One of them was built like a
refrigerator with tattoos creeping up both sides of his neck. The other looked
mean even though he wasn’t actively trying to at that moment. He was
leaner with an angular face and a body you could only get from hours each week
in the gym. The gym rats were hit-or-miss as bouncers. Dylan would be willing
to bet money that the fridge was the one to flag down in a fight.

“They don’t talk much, but they move fast, let me tell you. If
some shit goes down, make eye contact, give a nod, and then get out of the
way. Got it?”

“Got it,” Dylan said, scanning the room as Peggy handed her an
apron and a notepad. “Is there a panic button or something? I’ve
worked in other places that had them.”

Peggy snorted. “This ain’t Applebee’s, sweetheart. You see
something coming, you move. Fast.”

It wasn’t the serious lack of formal safety protocols that raised
Dylan’s eyebrows. It was the way Peggy said it, like fights
weren’t just a possibility, they were expected. Like there was a rhythm
to them and they were allowed. She nodded and kept listening, but something
about that rubbed her wrong.

“Most of our business is on the weekends, of course, but the VIPs come
in all during the week,” Peggy went on, already moving back to the bar
to stock napkins in old-fashioned metal boxes. “You’ll know them
when you see them. They don’t tip, but don’t piss them off. Eli
likes to keep them happy.”

Dylan paused, notebook in hand. “VIPs?”

“Locals. Out-of-towners. Some are from his MC. Doesn’t
matter,” Peggy said, without looking up. “You serve what they
order and stay out of their conversations. That’s not me being rude.
That’s me keeping you employed.”

The words hit her like a warning. Something about all of it, the emphasis, the
look in Peggy’s eyes, the way she didn’t offer names made
Dylan’s stomach tighten as she kept listening, wondering what else she
was going to hear. Nodding, she filed it all away and forced a smile.

“Thanks for showing me the ropes,” Dylan said. “I appreciate
it.”

Peggy finally looked at her, a long, assessing stare. Then she shrugged.
“You’ve got the eyes for this place. You watch everything.
That’s good. Just make sure you don’t watch too closely,
yeah?”

Dylan didn’t answer. But she was definitely paying attention.

“One last thing.” Peggy spoke quietly. “You’re one of
the owner’s family members which probably means you’d have to
really fuck up to get fired. But just keep in mind, you’re still
expendable.”

“I’ll do my best to remember that.”

The evening crowd was light, just as Peggy explained it would be. It was
Thursday night, and Ned’s Sundown Lounge always did look better at
night. The dim lighting and the fact that the sun had already set, covered the
bar’s many imperfections better than paint ever could. The jukebox was
working tonight, playing songs that were moody and lazy, and they filled the
space without drawing attention.

The regulars were easy to spot, planted on barstools like fixtures, beers in
front of them. Some of them talked to each other in low voices, some were
there on their own. Dylan had just finished clearing one of her tables when
the cool night air blew a newcomer through the front doors.

Dylan glanced up and paused.

The newest patron was tall and built. She didn’t think she’d seen
him before. That didn’t necessarily mean anything. She was just back in
town after having been gone several years.

The man who just walked in didn’t look like a local. Six-four, easy,
with broad shoulders under a worn jean jacket and a dark hoodie that had
definitely seen better days. His long dark hair was pulled back low at the
neck, and a beat-up baseball cap shadowed most of his face. Not that it helped
much. He was fine and pretty hard to miss.

Dark eyes scanned the room once, slow and deliberate. He didn’t come
across as cocky, just aware. Like he was used to being in places where trouble
could find him in a hurry. When his gaze finally landed on her, it lingered
for half a second longer than it needed to. Not creepy or flirty. Maybe
interested.

Dylan straightened and stepped behind the bar, already reaching for a clean
glass. But the new guy didn’t sit at the bar like most of them. No, he
picked out a booth near the back, one that gave him the best line of sight on
both the bar’s exits.

Shit, they really must have fights often here.

Dylan clocked that and noticed how relaxed his movements were. Like someone
trained not to draw attention but fully capable of handling it if he had to.

She walked over with a notepad in hand, smiling when his gaze met hers.
“You look like a bourbon guy,” she said by way of greeting.

“It depends on who’s pouring,” he said, voice deep and
gravel smooth.

About the Author

Jamie Targaet is the author of the Hounds of Hell MC. She’s anxious to
introduce you to this club of gorgeous, dominant men and the lucky women who
surrender to them. The ride is going to get wild at times, not going to lie.
But there’s thrilling action, scorching hot sex scenes, and all the feels.

Jamie writes erotic romance for Changeling Press, a little fanfiction on the
side, and she’s an aspiring horror writer in another life. She enjoys time
with her family (including the fur babies). She likes good horror movies and
shows, emo metal and classic rock, and time spent in other worlds writing and
reading. She loves hearing from readers and is looking forward to hearing from
you.

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Author’s Website

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