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Burning Luck

by Layla Dorine

Burning Luck - Layla Dorine
Editions:Kindle - First Edition: $ 2.99
ISBN: 1548683973
Pages: 339

Lucky Strike McAllister isn't very lucky. In fact, he isn't much of anything most days, to hear his MC tell it. Since the death of his father from cancer and the suicide of his pops, he's done nothing but find ways to get into trouble. He's talented with an airbrush gun and an amazing artist when he sets his mind to it, but more often than not, the things Lucky sets his mind to are pretty self-destructive.

When Thorn and his partner Cain, members of the neighboring chapter of the Rollin' Jokers, are forced to fish Lucky out of the ocean on a chilly fall night, both men decide he needs a keeper and who better than them to keep Lucky from destroying himself. Too bad Lucky can't see that they're trying to help. Bitter and lashing out, he does everything he can to sabotage the home and relationship they're offering.

With secrets mounting and trouble knocking on their doorstep, Lucky struggles to find a way to put aside his anger long enough to get to know the two men who have taken such an intense interest in him. As tensions mount, will he look to take the easy path and he run from them, his club and everything he's ever known, burning bridges and the last of his luck in the process or will he stay and learn that there are better ways to burn?
Tagline: With secrets mounting and trouble knocking on his doorstep, will Lucky run, burning bridges and the last of his luck in the process, or will he stay and learn that there are better ways to burn?

Publisher: Encompass Ink
Cover Artists:
Pairings: M-M-M
Heat Level: 5
Romantic Content: 4
Ending: Click here to reveal
Character Identities: Gay
Protagonist 1 Age: 18-25
Protagonist 2 Age: 26-35
Protagonist 3 Age: 36-45
Tropes: Alpha Character, Criminals & Outlaws, Death of Parent, Menage
Word Count: 96000
Setting: Outer Banks North Carolina
Languages Available: English

The sign on the door read, Joker’s Wild, scrawled over the face of a demonic looking jester spilling a handful of red and white dice into a black background, beneath the image were the words Rolling Jokers Motorcycle Club. Other than that, the building was pretty non-descript. Brick sides with a black paint over bubble windows covered by bars, it sat near the back end of an alley few ventured to unless they had a reason, or an invitation. Inside, industrial metal pulsed out a hard rocking beat, thumping as steadily as a pulse. The grinding symphony was punctuated by the jangle of chains and the crack of a whip. A low moan followed, but then moans were common here, as was the clack of heels on stone flooring and the rustle of leather.


Kneeling on the floor in a corner, a blond haired young man gazed up with boredom in his stunning blue eyes at the men who were gathered around him. The trio were pushing fifty, all going soft around the middle, and all staring down at him with nearly the same lascivious look in their eyes. One of them, Frank something or another, reached out to rub the very fake floppy ears he was wearing on his head and plastered on his best fake grin and gave a little wiggle. Of course that just made the stupid fake tail he was also wearing wag back and forth, prompting on of the other men to run a hand along his spine.

He had oversized fake paws covering his hands and feet, big, clumsy brown and white things that looks like they belonged on some early morning children’s show set. Still, he was lucky they hadn’t requested the full body costume, he hated that damned thing and it was hot as hell. It had been just his misfortune to arrive at the club when he did, if he’d been just a few minutes later, Stavros might have directed them towards Luther instead of him.

Someone rubbed his hair and he wished he could bite them, but that would go against the rules of this little ‘game.’ Funny, he’d come here hoping for distraction, someone would could take him away from the thoughts in his head and give him nothing but pleasure for a little while. Three someones…okay so it had been very greedy of him to just at the chance as soon as he’d seen Luther stepping through the door, but really, if he’d known that this was what they were gonna want, he’d have been more than happy to let Luther play the puppy while he went and found someone a bit more interesting to spend his evening with.

“Does puppy want a treat?”

He snapped his gaze back to the trio of men, one of them had his cock out and was bouncing it in his hand, not like there was much to bounce, the thing was maybe five inches if he was lucky and that was him being generous at the moment. He’d rather not have any part of the rather unimpressive looking morsel but again, that wasn’t part of the game so he yipped and barked as eagerly as he could manage, making the ears flop again and hoping they were hiding the fact that he was rolling his eyes.

“Such a good puppy,” the man crooned. He wasn’t sure who was more fake, the guy or himself at this point but he wagged his tail again, accepted the pats to the head and the hand caressing his back, and opened his mouth to accept his ‘treat,’ knowing he was in for a long night and not in a good way.


“So that’s it then?” Mark Dobrowski asked as he rose to look at the two men seated across the table from him. His old friends, Thornton ‘Thorn’ Philips and Cain O’Shawnessy, stood as well. Their eyes roved the room restlessly, all of them looking forward to getting out of this diner and back across town to their own territory. As president of the Rolling Jokers motorcycle club Mark had come here this afternoon to cut the final ties between the club and the smuggling operation they’d gotten themselves entangled in. For three long years both the club charter there in Beaufort and the one in the Outer Banks had been transporting illegally salvaged items up and down the coast. While at times, it had been rather lucrative, Mark was looking at things from more than just a money standpoint these days. He was forty-eight years old, for crissake and had no desire to end up behind bars again. He’d had enough of that shit in his younger days and with all the gray hair his kids had given him over the years, he wasn’t sure he’d surive a stint in prison.

Besides, he’d never been a greedy man and the club has more than what it needed now and for many many years to come. It was time to go back to being a legitimate group of guys who like to work on their bikes, ride them up the coast, and play in their dungeon at night. All that illegal transporting had equated to too many sleepless night and too many days on edge waiting for someone to fuck up and get caught. Mark just considered it lucky that none of them ever did. Keeping the younger members of the club out of it had likely contributed to that small bit of success. All of them had voted early in the deal that only the most senior members would be involved, though all would reap the benefits.

Now, as Mark reached across the table to shake hands with Carlos Ferrera one final time, it was with a sense of relief. He’d never fully trusted the man or his crew, and was more than glad to be done with them.

“Yeah, that’s it. I think it’s pretty fuckin’ stupid man, for you and your crew to be pulling out when the moneys rollin’ in, really fuckin’ suspicious too, I better not find out you and your boys are movin’ stuff on your own or things won’t be so nice between us, ya feel me?”

Mark looked him dead in his scowling black eyes and held his gaze. “Me and my boys have every intention of leaving the illegal shit to you. We’ve had enough of it. I trust the other issue has been squashed now as well?”

Carlos cut his gaze over to Cain and seemed to be assessing him for a moment, what with the way his eyes drifted from the top of his head to his feet and back again.

“Suits me fine,” Carlos said. “but if he gets into anymore trouble with King and his crew he’s on his own, ya feel me and all of yous are on your own with the Skulls.”

Mark inclined his head in agreement and glanced at the two men beside him. “Work for you, two?”

Thorn nodded, his gaze heavy and anger filled as he glared across the table.

“Wouldn’t have been no trouble in the first place if King had kept his nose out of our business.” Cain growled, his hands closing into fists. Only the hand that Thorn placed on the back of his neck and how hard he squeezed kept him from saying something they all might regret.

“All right, I think we’re done here,” Mark said lazily, kicked his chair back up under the table. When he turned to go, Thorn and Cain followed him. Neither said a word as they climbed onto the backs of the three gleaming machines that awaited them, but when they parked outside of Joker’s wild, Mark lit up a cigarette and motioned them both around to the side of the building.

“What the FUCK was that!” he exploded at Cain, cigarette bobbing inches from Cain’s face. “After all the bullshit that Thorn and I got into because you couldn’t manage to keep yourself away from those damned shipwrecks in the first place, you nearly blow it by starting some last minute shit when we were a cunt hair away from being done with it all!”

“I fucked up,” Cain said, spreading his hands apart to show he was offering no excuses. “As soon as that slimy fuck started in about King I wanted to punch him in his smug fuckin’ face.”

Mark exhaled and took a step back, pacing a little. “Maybe it’s a good thing you guys are joining the Outer Banks charter. Living out in Kill Devil Hills should keep you guys out of trouble, him especially.”

“I’m sorry, Mark. For all of it. I know how much shit the club had to deal with because I screwed up. I’m glad its over and I swear, from here on out everything I do will be on the up and up.”

“It better be,” Mark told him sternly. “The club’s not bailing you out again either.”

“I know,” Cain said softly, looking at his feet.

Mark relaxed his stance and took a drag, glancing from one to the other. “That surf shop idea you guys had is a good one. I’ll put up the other half of the starter money you need, no need to pay it back until you’re ready. Until then, I’ll be a silent partner, just don’t let the temptation of being on the water all of the time lead you back into wreck diving or so help me…”

“I get it, I know, you’ll tie me to a corner and whip my ass until it bleeds,” Cain said softly.

“And not in a way you’ll like it,” Mark reminded him, prompting a low chuckle from Thorn.

“Now I, on the other hand, just might take a whip to your ass tonight,” Thorn growled in Cain’s ear.

Cain shivered and closed his eyes, let his head tip back just enough to expose his throat. Thorn’s chuckle made goosebumps rise on his arms.

“Come on, let’s go inside before some damned cop drives by and thinks we’re dealing in the alley,” Mark suggested as he finished his cigarette and tossed it to the side. They followed him back around to the door and Mark shoved it open and inhaled deeply, loving the scent of leather and lube that filled the air. The music had a slow, shuffling beat at the moment but Mark knew the song and knew the tempo would kick up in just a few seconds, bodies would start grinding against one another and before the end of the night grunts and moans would fill the air, drowning out the music. It was one of the many reasons he loved this place.


About the Author

LAYLA DORINE lives among the sprawling prairies of Midwestern America, in a house with more cats than people. She loves hiking, fishing, swimming, martial arts, camping out, photography, cooking, and dabbling with several artistic mediums. In addition, she loves to travel and visit museums, historic, and haunted places.
Layla got hooked on writing as a child, starting with poetry and then branching out, and she hasn’t stopped writing since. Hard times, troubled times, the lives of her characters are never easy, but then what life is? The story is in the struggle, the journey, the triumphs and the falls. She writes about artists, musicians, loners, drifters, dreamers, hippies, bikers, truckers, hunters and all the other folks that she’s met and fallen in love with over the years. Sometimes she writes urban romance and sometimes its aliens crash landing near a roadside bar. When she isn’t writing, or wandering somewhere outdoors, she can often be found curled up with a good book and a kitty on her lap.