Sarah Zolton Arthur's Blog: Sarah's sassy, classy and a little bad-assy blog, page 2

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Devil's Advocate: Vlad

Bedlam Horde MC 1 First Chapter

1

VLAD

“Now that they’ve taken out Escalante, that opens up a whole new shipping venture for us.” That came from our president, Rage. The motherfucker’s ass should be rotting in jail right now, but he left that prick Rodrick in charge of product production. He wasn’t even there the day they got raided.

“Who’s there?” Rage shouts.

I step into the light. “You sent for me.”

Rage cuts a menacing figure and he’s one crazy bastard.

That huge scar he’s got running down the length of his face from the losing end of a knife blade does nothing to help. Neither does the shaved head showing off his grim reaper tattoo eating up every bit of skin from his brow to his neck. But I’m not afraid of him. When he steps into my space, I don’t flinch or step back. He wants a fight, he can have one.

“You spying on me now?” Rage’s response is meant to sound menacing, but again, I don’t cower. I don’t cower to any man.

“What do you want? I don’t got all day to play your bitch games.”

He raises his eyebrow. “Bitch games?” The man growls. “I think you better remember who yer talkin’ to here, brother. I’m your president.”

“Then act like it.” I fold my arms over my chest, my eyes narrowed right on his. We’ve been dancing around the real issues for too long now. I’m Horde. I like partying and fucking bitches as much as the next brother, but Rage has been tumbling this club down a nasty rabbit hole for the past few years. We’ve almost reached the point of not being able to find our way out again. More than half of our brothers are either dead or in lockup thanks to the shit Rage has pulled. As a club, he’s making us vulnerable for takeovers. Other groups pushing in, trying to take our territory. Bringing FBI raids down on our heads.

It’s only thanks to a call from Blood, one of my Brimstone Lords contacts, tipping me that they heard the raid was going down that I’d been able to get myself and some of my brothers out—the brothers who’re like me and think the club is on a disaster course of epic proportions.

The Lords weren’t just our rivals, but our straight-up enemies for the longest time. War with the Lords started years ago when both our clubs were vying for control of the drug trade in southeastern Kentucky. They’d had enough and with a whole lot of blood, sweat, and tears, brought their club legit.

The Horde and the Lords make strange bedfellows, and every damn bit of it is Rage’s fault. I would’ve never have had to get involved with Thornbriar, Kentucky if he hadn’t pulled his shit. Kidnapping Lords women? And babies? I’ll never know what that fucker was thinking. But Frankie and Brighton were two of the strongest women I’d ever met, at least until I got mixed up with the rest of the Lords women. Caitlin and Hannah blew my mind. They still do. I’ve got

mad respect for those women and that’s not something I say often.

“Heard you been entertaining Lords,” Rage accuses me. Shit. Not what I need today.

“Yeah, and who you hear that from?” I ask, not giving anything away.

“Burnt saw you with that gash—the dancer with the big tits.” He means Hannah Brown, Blood’s woman.

I shrug. “My dick wants what it wants. She’s fuckin’ hot. Tight little cunt. What better way to piss off the Lords than by shooting a load in one of their women?”

“That’s fuckin’ true,” says Grunt, the other man in the room, and Rage’s acting second in command now that Dagger’s inside for a stretch.

I’m surprised Grunt can put that many words together to form a coherent sentence. The fucker’s dad might have legitimately been a gorilla. He’s got the thick, squat body and flat face. No neck. That has to be the most disturbing part of looking at him. The man’s head looks attached to his collar- bone. I saw him one time at a funeral for a brother, an old codger who’d long since hung up his outlaw ways, and it shocked me. I thought he’d dyed his hair blonde for the occasion, but it turned out, he’d just showered. Today that dirty, greasy mop tied at the back of his neck is a good three shades darker. I don’t know how he can live like that. I’m not sure how he can still get pussy to fall on his dick. Goes to prove that biker bitches care more about the lifestyle, I guess.

That’s why, even though I don’t have many rules regarding sex, I don’t tap any ass that’s been tapped by Grunt. The brother doesn’t look clean. Gloved or not, it’s not worth the risk. I let myself think about that for a second. A biker with standards—what are the odds?

“That gunshot story was bullshit,” Rage goes on to accuse, tearing me from my thoughts. “You took off at the same time those Lords’ bitches got taken. You come back shot and they march their asses into the clubhouse to visit. I’m not fuckin’ stupid.”

Could’ve fooled me. “Boy, you got it all figured out,” I counter. “I’m Horde, brother. Always been Horde.”

“Then prove it.” When the evil sneer spreads across his lips, I know I’m not going to like what he’s about to say. Then he fucking says it. “I want the doctor gash. She belongs to the president. You bring her here. I want you takin’ her first. In here. In front of all the brothers. Then you get to hold her down while the rest of us get our turns. I want her bloody and broken when you toss her whoring ass back on Lords’ property.”

My jaw tightens as I hope that if there’s a god and he gives a shit about a sinner like me or gives enough of a shit about a good woman like Caitlin, He’ll keep the foul look off my face at the disgust I feel from Rage’s suggestion.

I tip my chin up at my president and wordlessly turn to leave his office.

Of the brothers left, I take stock of the ones I know would be down with defiling a woman and the ones I know never would. There’s a handful of men I just couldn’t be sure of.

Goddamn Rage.

The shit I got swirling in my head, I don’t even know what to do with it all. The door slams hard enough against the outside wall to strain the hinges and leaves a dent of cracking cement from the knob when I stomp through the threshold to get to my bike.

Got the prospect on the gate, the brothers and I teasingly call him the virgin, mostly because he hates it, but also because it’s really damn funny to see pussy reactions when we call him that. We know we mean it because he’s a prospect. The women don’t know. I wave at him as I pass through the gate.

When I’m far enough away from the compound not to be overheard by any of the brothers, I pull over to the gravel shoulder of the road and put the call out to Duke, the Lords’ president.

“What?” The man barks into the line. If the situation weren’t so serious, I’d laugh.

“Got trouble, man,” I answer.

That gets his attention. “Fuck,” he grumbles. “What now?”

“Rage put a hit on your old lady.”

“The fuck?” he screams loud enough that I have to pull the phone away from my ear.

“He’s out of his fucking mind. Wants revenge against the Lords. Wants Caitlin brought low. You know what I mean.”

“Shit... Thanks for the heads-up.”

“Put two guards on her. Rage ordered me to be the one to bring her low—to prove my loyalty. I need a plausible reason to pass until I can figure out what to do about him.”

“He’ll know someone talked if she suddenly gets two guards on her,” he says, and yeah, I’ve thought of that.

“Let it slip that you caught word of some outside men sniffing around. It wouldn’t hurt if the other women get protection, too.”

“On it. Good idea, man. We’ll make sure no one knows any different.”

“Not letting those women get harmed. They’ve been through enough shit to last a lifetime.”

“Listen,” he says, cutting in. “Takin’ the fam to Cumberland Gap. On my way there now. Meet me in Middleboro—an hour if you can cut it. We can talk more while Doc lets the kids stretch their legs.”

“Middleboro. One hour,” I agree and hang up. It’s a good place to meet without being seen. That’s not the kind of gap my brothers are partial to visiting.

I sigh, shoving my phone in my pocket. There’s a lot to think about now. Christ, I never imagined way back when I prospected with the Horde that I’d end up at this kind of crossroad. But fuck—innocent women? I’ve done shit in my life that most men would lose sleep over, yet I’ve slept like a goddamn baby. But I do have a line.

Maybe I’m turning into a pussy, but I had a mom, still got a sister somewhere, even if I haven’t seen her in years. I’d kill any motherfucker who laid his hands on her.

When I get to the crossroad, I make the turn that’ll lead me in the direction of the Cumberland Gap.

There’s nothing better than being on my bike—well, except fucking a pretty, tight pussy. The closest most of us bastards will ever get to heaven on this godforsaken rock. I take it anywhere I can get it, but only if she consents. For now, riding will have to do.

Hours on the road. Green mountains surround me. Hot, thick wind whips at my face and arms—part of me wants to say, “Fuck it” and just keep heading south until I hit the Florida Keys. Let the Lords worry about their women and be done with it.

What sucks is that those Lords’ women have actually come to mean something to me, having more than earned my respect. And dammit if those Lords’ men wouldn’t lay down their lives for their brothers and their women. It’s up in the air how many of my brothers would be willing to die to save my ass. Or hell, whose life I’d be willing to save by giving my own. The list forms in my mind and it’s not near as long as it should be, given we all wear the same patch. I roll up on Middleboro and send a text to Duke asking where to meet up. We agree on the spot where Kentucky, Tennessee, and Virginia come together.

It’s a gorgeous spot. A small valley situated between mountains filled with trees bursting with green leaves. Because of that, it’s cooler here thanks to all the shade the trees provide. I spy Caitlin’s bright red curls before the rest of them. Their girl is chasing around a little guy, unstable on the bumpy ground, falling and giggling. It’s only then that I see Duke, Lords’ cut and all, watching the scene. Damn, if that man doesn’t look to be enjoying it all. Big, burly mother- fucker, usually full of piss and vinegar when not with his family. I don’t know how he landed a woman as sexy as Caitlin. He must’ve been a saint in a past life or something.

He turns his head when the rumble of my engine gets close. I cut it, walking over to the happy little family.

“Watch your brother,” Caitlin orders her girl as she walks over to greet me, stretching out her arms right before reaching me, and then that crazy woman hugs me. Her piercing green eyes smile right along with those heart-shaped lips. She’s tall for a woman with curves in all the right places. Duke is one lucky bastard. It’s brief, her hug, only long enough for her to say, “Hey, Vlad,” before dropping her hands.

“Caity,” I say back as my hello.

“Why don’tcha go play with the kids fer a bit?” Duke says to his wife.

She rolls her eyes at the huge man. “Thought that would actually work, did you?”

Duke snickers and instead of answering, turns to me. “Keep yer life simple. Don’t let a pussy get her hooks in ya.”

I thought Caity would get pissed from that bit of ribbing, but she outright laughs. “I hardly got my hooks in you, considering you told me I was your woman on what turned out to be our first date.”

Whipped. The man is fucking whipped.

“Right. As fun as this is, I’m here because you need to k

now some things.”

“What’re ya thinkin’ yer gonna do, then?” he asks me and, in all seriousness, I don’t have a fuckin’ clue.

I shrug. “Rage is killing the club. The power’s going to his head and he needs to be stopped.”

“You could always prospect with the Lords.” He laughs, presumably at the face I make, which goes along with my sentiment.

“Oh, fuck no. You couldn’t get me to prospect again for anything. Eating Lords’ shit—you got to be crazy, and anyway, I’m a Horde. I got brothers I can’t just abandon.”

“So you wanna take the club legit?” Duke folds his massive, tatted arms over his chest and waits for my answer as if he’s interested in what I’ve got to say.

I laugh. “Well, we’re not turning into a club of pussy- whipped choirboys like the Lords”—Duke laughs, too—“but we need to do something. I don’t hurt women or kids. I got plenty of brothers who don’t hurt women or kids, which means whatever I do, it has to come fast.”

“Well, you been a friend to the Lords. Whatever you decide, we got yer back. All ‘a us.”

I tip my chin up. “Thanks, man. I might have to take you up on that offer.”

Devil to Pay: Cutter

First Chapter

Ch. 1

Aja

“You fucking cunt!” He screams in my face, droplets of spittle hit my nose and cheeks. It’s disgusting–he’s disgusting. And for some insane reason, I continue to stand here rather stunned because he’d run into me. It was my beer he’d caused to spill down the front of the both of us, and he has the nerve to call me a cunt?

I guess I don’t apologize fast enough for his liking, not that I was planning to, because the next thing I know, my face stings and burns something fierce from an intense pain radiating throughout the whole left side of my face where he struck me.

That fucking, disgusting bastard hit me. I might hang around the club but I’ve never let him touch me. Stringy hair. Beard so unkempt he probably has animals living in it. Short, squatty, hairy. Beer and donut belly. I swear he’s one more dozen glazed away from cardiac arrest.

I. Loose. My. Shit.

Grabbing the closest thing to me, it doesn’t even register that I’ve grabbed up a heavy glass bottle of Jack until I see the label when I’m cracking him upside the head.

His stings. Mine bleeds. I split his skull open like a ripe melon. There are screams from the women and shouts from the men.

He slumps down onto the floor–slumped in a grotesque heap when I realize Junk, one of the brothers, has pulled his gun, aiming at me. Junk opens fire inside the clubhouse. Women shriek, dropping down while I bend low, running for my life. He keeps popping off shots like a madman.

Instead of running for the road in front of the compound that leads into town, I turn an immediate right and dip behind a couple of metal drums to the far side of the garage where the brothers work on their bikes. After giving myself a couple of seconds to catch my breath, I crawl on my hands and knees to the door off the side, cracking the door as quietly as possible, and slip inside, closing it behind me.

My heart races a mile a minute and I swear they’ll be able to hunt me down because it’s beating so loudly.

It’s unbelievable that they don’t storm the garage to take me out in the most painful ways a man can end a woman. I shudder. As a little girl, I never dreamed of a life where I got drunk and fucked bikers for a warm bed and a bite of food to lessen the pangs of hunger that plagued me night after night since the day that my stupid, good-for-nothing–shit. I just realized that if I survive tonight, I’ve put myself back on the streets struggling to survive.

I can’t put myself back out there. Sex for money. Different men. Degrading me. Humiliating me because they think they’re so much better than me and the little bit of money they slap in my hand afterward gives them that right. Why? Why is the man who pays for sex any better than the woman who sells it?

At least with the Death Bringers, I felt safer than going off with some no-name “John” to suck him off and possibly lose my life for no other reason than the man is a psychopath. My realization probably wouldn’t make sense to most people, but it makes sense to me, and really, that’s all that matters right now under the circumstances.

I don’t know that I would’ve moved away from the streets so soon if it hadn’t been for that damn Bible Belt Killer. I guess I have him to thank for scaring me enough to “offer” myself to a biker gang in order to keep me safe. How ironic is that? Ironic or moronic? The jury is still out on that one. But as the jury deliberates, I, at least, have a full belly.

What a tradeoff.

The sounds of Harleys rumbling to life and roaring out of the lot fill the night. Once the final engine drifts away, I stand up to begin frantically searching the key hooks for a key belonging to one of the still intact bikes.

There’s a small pile by my feet by the time I find the right one. The problem is, I’ve never ridden a motorcycle on my own. I’ve ridden bicycles and that’s going to have to be enough. It takes me the time between finding the right key to pushing the bike silently as possible off the compound before starting the engine to make my peace with the universe and pray for balance.

We’ve got gators down here. Swamps and gators to both sides of the road.

Jesus, I laugh to myself. I fucking hate Florida. How I ended up here–no I know exactly how I ended up here. I followed a dick.

Stupid Aja always choosing wrong. If the wrong guy shows himself, I’m down. If the wrong opportunity presents itself, I’m there.

I’m not stupid because I got with those men or followed those opportunities. They pay out faster and when you’re living day to day not knowing where you are going to get your next meal let alone a safe, warm bed to settle in for the night, you pray for the faster to squelch those hunger pangs and keep you from freezing to death during the night.

No–what makes me stupid is that I get so bogged down in whatever the men or opportunities demand of me to keep me alive, that I never plan or save to try and get myself out of these bad situations. Everyone has an ulterior motive. That’s the one lesson I’ve learned well in my twenty-two years.

Women my age are graduating from college. Finding jobs. Starting their lives while I’m over here majoring in what “John” will be gentle and possibly tip well. Who’s the best mark to pickpocket? And most recently, which bikers won’t backhand me for accidentally skimming his dick with my teeth while I’m giving a blowjob.

I’m probably a quarter-mile away from the compound moving in the direction away from where I heard the bikes heading toward town when I decide to chance mounting the one I stole. It’s bigger than I thought it would be when I’m sitting on it, straddling it. Balancing will be a bitch given my need to lean to one side simply to set my foot on the ground. And yes–to survive in my world, you need to be able to tell which direction a car is traveling or people are walking.

My whole body vibrates from the rumbling of the engine. All my concentration needs to be on steadying the mammoth beast underneath me while I press the accelerator. The front tire wobbles severely making me feel pretty sure that I’m about to lay it down when I manage to find my balance. From that point, it’s like riding a bike–a bicycle. If I don’t wiggle or shift, I’m able to stay upright.

And no, I refuse to go too fast despite my fight or flight instinct telling me to fly away from here as fast as possible. At least not until I feel confident enough with my riding abilities to not kill myself in the process.

The light of the headlamp reflects off all the eyes peering at me from off the shoulder of the road. Those eyes could belong to anything.

I have to keep my eyes in front of me while keeping track of the eyes on me, at the same time trying to keep this monstrosity on the road. And if that’s not bad enough, bike engines rumble in the distance behind me.

Shit.

Bikes travel through this area. Thousands of them a year. It could be a coincidence, some friends heading down to one of the beach cities. Chances are better that those belong to the men hunting for me.

Focus, Aja. You’re going to kill yourself.

I let out a long breath and focus because it’s going to be a long night.

Despite being on the road for hours, the adrenaline high is keeping me upright, keeping me going.

I don’t think I’ve ever been so thankful to have the light bounce off that giant peach on the ‘Welcome to Georgia’ sign in my life.

Georgia has several coastal, tourist towns. The first one I come to, that’s my next target. It sickens me to contemplate resurrecting my old life, but tourists carry cash and cards and I need cash and cards because I have nothing save a couple of bucks shoved in my pocket.

Like a boon from the universe, I spot my first mark. An old man, and at their ages, probably his wife, walking into a diner. Clicking my blinker, I slow, turning into the parking lot.

And so it begins.

Murder and Magic by Moonlight

First Chapter

Chapter One:

I stood in front of the open garage door with my hands on my hips surveying the massive piles of stuff leftover from a love story gone wrong. Some women got happily ever after, I got the castoffs from the life of a man who once existed, who once loved me and I loved him, but now? The answer my friend was dust blowing in the wind.

His parents didn’t want it, the stuff, and I understood. No parent should outlive their child. His did. I didn’t want the boxes either but when his mother gave me those sad eyes and began to cry, how could I say no? I was the loving, grieving fiancé after all. One hundred percent true. I ate (when I eventually got my appetite back), slept (when the insomnia finally left me), and drank (alcohol didn’t help one bit) my grief, day in and day out, over his loss.

That happened two years ago.

Two.

Long.

Years.

Jeffery had that effect on people. To say his death came unexpectedly would be akin to saying the sky was blue or trees had leaves. A big ol’ steaming pile of duh. What the police were never able to tell us? Why did it happen? Jeffery was a healthy, devastatingly handsome twenty-six-year-old financial whiz who made a ton of money for his clients.

He made them tons of money. This meant when the police came to talk with me, to ask if he had any enemies, the answer was a resounding no. Who wouldn’t like a man who made them rich beyond belief? Then why was he gunned down when he ran into the convenience store to buy me a pint of Chunky Monkey because I was having a migraine and wanted to let Ben & Jerry chase my blues away? It wasn’t a robbery gone bad. The police were sure of that point. Only one person got the big pow-pow and that was Jeffery. He drove a fancy car, had a fat wallet and a Rolex on his wrist when the shooter brought him down. The only thing the shooter took was my fiancé’s life.

So here we were. I wiped the tears from my face with the back of my hand. Thinking about the brutal way he left us always choked me up. No one deserved to die that way.

Standing outside the garage staring at those boxes wasn’t going to get them sorted any faster. Sighing, I pushed up my metaphoric sleeves ready to wade into the mire of memories. The first box contained his clothing—suits, jeans, and button-down shirts for both business and casual wear. Those stayed in the box that I planned to donate. There had to be someone out in the big, wide world who could use a good suit when heading into a job interview. His clothing might change a person’s life for the better. So why did it feel like deciding to donate his organs instead of his Armani?

I lost myself in the chore, saving the few mementos special to me and putting a box together of items making up the sum of Jeffery’s early life. Report cards, school pictures, yearbooks, and the like. Things that hurt too much for them to look at now but his family would be happy to have down the road.

Despite working in the shade of the garage, sweat dripped from my brow, and highly attractive pit stains drenched my T-shirt. Of course, being a medium dusty blue, the stains showed contrastingly darker. August in Michigan played out more like a rainforest than most people imagined. No matter, the job needed to get done. I’d grown tired of scraping ice off my windows two winters ago, but being heavily laden with grief, I didn’t have it in me to do anything about it. Fast forward to today, I felt ready to tackle the emotionally daunting task.

“Hello Simone,” Mrs. Hildebrandt called from her spot on the sidewalk in front of my lawn where she watched me sorting out boxes. “Finally getting rid of that stuff?”

“Yes, Mrs. Hildebrandt.” Clearly.

“Why don’t you get your sweet fella to help you clean? A gentleman should always help his sweetheart.”

Mrs. Hildebrandt currently suffered from early-stage dementia. It wasn’t her fault, yet it still hurt to be hit with that same Jeffery reminder every time she saw me. The neighborhood loved Jeffery and he would’ve been out here helping without me ever having to ask. Because of that everyone in the neighborhood knew of Jeffery’s passing. They even enacted an emergency phone tree. Those first weeks I had neighbors helping with everything from cleaning, laundry, mowing the yard, to helping with the grocery shopping. Not that I needed to shop. The rest of my kind neighbors had filled my fridge and freezer to capacity with any form of noodle dish one could imagine, and even a few that shocked me they had. Like Mrs. Danbury’s Chicken-Pineapple-Surprise. The surprise being whatever that mystery meat started life as, it sure wasn’t chicken, and secondly, that the woman actually thought those flavors worked together.

Picture a dish where ambrosia met chicken alfredo and you’d be just about there. Though she’d thrown in a couple of undetermined spices for good measure which burned my tongue.

I gave some to Pooches, my kitty, and he got sick—like take him to the vet, sick. Let’s just say that particular gift left me with enough bloating and nightmares to last me a lifetime, and call it good.

I shuddered at the memory. Then I called out to Mrs. Hildebrandt, “He can’t do it” and I turned back to tackle the task at hand.

Nothing prepared a person for that news. We weren’t married and we didn’t live together yet. The police had no idea to contact me. I called his cell and when someone answered, that someone wasn’t my Jeffery. He identified himself as Officer Monroe. Asked who I was. Why was I calling? The love of my life had been murdered and did I have his parents’ address.

I’d dropped to my knees and wailed. The rest always ended up fuzzy. I had no recollection of when I stopped crying or who found me, if anyone, or how I got up off the floor. None.

Moving on, I stood, wiped my hands down the front of my dusty jeans, and surveyed the scene. At the end of an arduously emotional and somewhat physical day, I’d ended up with four boxes to donate.

“Right,” I muttered to myself, bending to pick up the first box to load into the back of my Jeep. I had it painted bright lilac. Purple was my jam. It was hard to be sad surrounded by purple so I made it my mission to do so as much as humanly possible. Three more trips and I finally had a space to park in the winter. Once I sorted the ‘keep’ boxes down to two, I hauled the rest out to the front to be picked up in the morning by waste disposal. Mrs. Hildebrandt remained standing on the sidewalk in front of my lawn watching me work until I got scared she’d end up with heat exhaustion or something.

“It’s hot out here, Mrs. Hildebrandt. You should go home and get a drink,” I said which caused her to startle. She blinked several times murmuring something illegible then walked home. I waited to withdraw completely from my driveway until I saw her enter her house, then I shifted into reverse pulling out.

Sitting at the second stoplight on my way to the big chain secondhand store, that was when this niggling feeling hit my left ear out of nowhere. It felt like a tickle that I couldn’t get rid of, not with wiping at my ear with my shoulder or even scratching at it with my nails. It just kept on, and since it happened to be my left ear, I turned my head to the left when I went at my ear with my shoulder again. It didn’t work—again—but I spotted a small secondhand store I must’ve passed by a million times and never realized it was there.

As the light turned green, I clicked on my blinker, merging into the middle turn lane. A small store sat between a vacant storefront and a sub shop. After a couple of tries, I backed into a spot in front of the store, stopping to grab the first box before heading inside. The problem being, that I had a hard time getting the door open while carrying the large box. Three failed attempts later I sat the box down to open the door and wedged my body between the door and frame to hold the heavy glass open until I was able to pick up the box again.

“We’re not cooling off the outside—shut the door,” This, shouted at me from the area around the checkout.

I looked up, still hefting the box up with my knee and shifting it to my hip. “Excuse me?” I asked.

“The door,” the voice came from an irate man. When I looked up—bam! This unbelievable sense of Déjà vu hit from out of the blue. “You’re standing in it, neither inside nor outside. I don’t care which you choose, but make your choice and close it already.”

Nineteen-seventies porn music played in my head as I watched his mouth move, a mouth putting me under a hypnotic spell until I realized the words coming from that hypnotic moving mouth weren’t very flattering. “…are you sick or just dumb?”

I blinked the brain fog away.

What?

My ears felt filled with fluid. I shook my head until the muffled sound cleared and I blinked several times again.

“I asked if you’re sick or are you just dumb,” he said curtly. “Come in or get out. I don’t care which, just stinking do it.” Uh, was that a tone? Did I detect a tone?

That hardly seemed necessary. I stepped in letting the glass door slowly ease shut. “Well, you could’ve helped me and that would’ve gotten the job done faster.” And oh yeah, did he ever get my mean eyes. The ‘if looks could kill’ eyes that I saved for the worst offenders.

“I could’ve,” he answered. “But it’s not in my job description.” The jerk, I mean okay, he happened to have been a handsome jerk, but a jerk nonetheless. And he had the audacity to smirk. As if.

Why was it that the best-looking people were always the biggest jerks?

This guy had to be one of the worst because he seriously caused a big-time tingle in my parts. All the parts, not just my girl parts. I was talking rapid heartbeat, hard to catch a breath, face flushing with embarrassment from being a lowly peon in his presence kind of sexy. His hair appeared so brown that some might’ve mistaken it for black, and he wore it short but artfully shaggy in that ‘I know I’m hot’ way that ridiculously hot people lived by. And if that weren’t enough, he had the audacity to have these black eyes that shimmered and reflected the light in the store like pieces of shiny coal.

Don’t get me started on those shoulders—I mean, who gave him the right to have shoulders that broad and muscled while working behind the cash register? Those shoulders belonged on romance book covers. Or now that I was on a roll, how about being that tall? Jeffery was six feet. This guy looked at least a head taller. Who gave him the right to look like that while working in a store where anyone—me, I was anyone—could see him? Everything about him ticked me off on principle.

If that was the way he wanted to play this, fine. He didn’t know who he was dealing with. I walked that box over to the checkout dropping it on the floor. “Well,” I started in, hand to my hip, leaning into his space with my eyebrow raised—better believe I broke out the eyebrow raise for this one—and cocked my head, giving it to him straight. “If it’s not in your job description to help a girl out when you see her struggling with the door then you’re just going to have to deal with escaping air.”

He opened his mouth to spew something highly entertaining, I was sure, but I cut him right off.

“Oh no… you had your say. It’s my turn now.” His mouth snapped shut while he bared his teeth at me like a dog. “Bad puppy,” I admonished him. “Heel.” Ever heard that saying ‘he had murder in his eyes?’ Whoever made that saying up had clearly been talking about this guy, but I couldn’t have given two cares. And for my parting words, I looked him right in the eye and said, “And I have three more boxes in my truck just like this one.”

Then in the grandest exit I could muster, I spun around on my heels and walked out. If I was being honest, I didn’t expect it to work, but he followed me outside. Because he followed me to my Jeep pushing in front of me to heft up one of the boxes, I magnanimously ignored his grumbling.

We each carried a box and when we reached the door, he shifted his box into one arm as if holding a tissue box and opened it, holding it for me to pass through first. The last box he fetched on his own.

As he bent his knees to set it down, I pet his head, stroking his hair, contemplating whether or not I had enough time to scratch behind his ear before getting the heck out of there. “Good boy,” I said and then ran for my life while laughing my fool head off.

I distinctly heard the sound of a thump against the glass making me pretty sure he threw something against the door. Before hopping back in my Jeep, I popped inside the sub shop next door for a veggie sub on parmesan bread, a giant chocolate and raspberry chip cookie, and a diet ice tea to go. Smile still planted firmly on my face.

On the way home my phone rang. Typically, not a big deal, but today the screen said: Janet. Janet? No. I wasn’t in the headspace to deal with Janet. It’d been months since I last heard from her. Being Jeffery’s mom, and with Jeffery being gone, she’d found it hard to be around me. I must admit, I’d dropped the ball on keeping in touch with my almost-mother-in-law as well.

In my contemplation of what she could possibly have to call me about, I almost missed answering the call. And wouldn’t that have been a shame? Yes—sigh—it would’ve. I was being mean. “Hello?” I answered.

“Simone, dear… how are you?” She’d sounded sad since Jeffrey’s passing, but today she’d emitted it through the line, filling my car up with her sorrow.

“What’s wrong? Is it Charles? Daphne?” Charles, her husband, and Daphne, her daughter—Jeffery’s father and sister—were the only other reasons I could think of to cause her this level of misery.

“No…” she whispered. “They’re fine. It’s… Simone dear, the police phoned. They’re finally releasing Jeffery’s personal effects.” She sniffled loudly. “They told us to collect it by this afternoon.” This she followed by a second, even louder sniffle. “I can’t do it, Simone. I can’t. Please…”

Of all days to ask me to pick up his personal effects, but how did I tell her no? She was almost my mother-in-law and this was Jeffery we were talking about. I owed him this much, to see to his parents now that he couldn’t.

And just like that, I merged over three lanes of traffic, horns honking as I cut a few people off in my attempt to make it to the righthand turn lane, taking a hard right at the next light, then flipping around to turn back onto the street I just came from only heading the opposite direction I’d been traveling.

Seven stoplights and two more turns later I pulled into a metered spot in front of the police station. Right before I opened my door, I remembered I’d been cleaning in a garage all day and sighed. I must’ve looked ridiculous walking into that secondhand shop, one big hot mess.

My eyes shot to my jeans. Dirty. Hurriedly I flipped down the visor mirror, holding back a scream given the horror of my appearance. The soft lavender I’d dyed my hair two months ago to help me move forward now held a sheen of silver from all the dust.

The lavender was part of the ‘new me’ project. The things to do for myself to help me out of the funk I’d been living under since Jeffery’s passing.

What normally fell soft and full of body now hung limp and stringy around my shoulders. The best I could do was finger comb it, which brought back a little life. Well, it’d just have to do. Cobweb chic might not have been my best look, but who did I need to impress?

I really despised this particular favor. My stomach pitched as I grasped the handle and I swallowed back the fear as I opened the door. On a large breath, I climbed out.

Lord help me.

First Signing of 2022 and Reaper is LIVE!

Dreaming Dirty in Michigan went off without a hitch! I want to say thank you to all of you who came out to see me. It was a thrill to meet all of you! I can't wait to do it again next year!!!

Reaper is LIVE! The reactions from readers have been the best. I'm so grateful for the reception and rest assured, I'm busy working on Devil to Pay, Cutter's story. A preorder link will go up as soon as I have one.

Here are just a few:

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ I've read several books written by Sarah Zolton Arthur; she is becoming one of my favorite authors. I can’t wait to read more of her books.

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ 5 Star!!!

Loved it. This was actually the first book that I've read by this author and I can't wait to go back and read the previous books in this series. Loved Dusty and Reaper all the way!!! Awesome book!!

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ Ready for Bedlam?

LOVED LOVED LOVED this book! I have been so excited to read the next book of The Bedlam Horde MC, and this one did NOT disappoint! The story was fast-paced and a great one....lots of sexy time and a brilliant plot!!

Something Wickedly Good This Way Comes

Have you met Reaper? With just over a month until release, if you haven't, you will soon! If you plan on attending Dreaming Dirty in Michigan, you'll get to read Devil Incarnate before anyone else. I'll have paperbacks there BEFORE it releases! How cool is that? You can get it on kindle for the preorder price here: https://geni.us/DevilIncarnateReaper

It goes up to the regular price release day, April 12, 2022.

We have a lot of good things on the horizon that I'm excited to share with you when the times get closer. Right now I can tell you that I'm going to be attending Dreaming Dirty in Michigan in Ann Arbor, MI on April 9th and Once Upon a Book in Frankenmuth, MI on July 23rd. I'm so geeked to get to see you all in person again. We can all admit it's been a long time coming. I'll get more information on both of these signings for you soon.

Have a great day and stay sassy!

-Sarah

Heat Up Your Holiday the MC Way!

The holidays are so hectic. You're busy doing for everyone else. Well, it's time to pamper yourself!

To celebrate the release of DEVIL'S WORK: DARK on December 14, 2021, enter for your chance to win this prize package worth $120.

What's included?

A Paperback Copy of Devil's Work: Dark (This Bedlam Horde MC badass will heat up your night!)

A Faux Fur Blanket

A Bedlam Horde MC Microsuede Pillow for cuddling

A Bedlam Horde MC Wine Tumbler

Godiva Chocolates

A Malicious Woman "Make Them Panties Wet" Pear & Ivy Scented candle all for setting the mood...

You bring the desire, I'll send the inspiration. It's time to bring a little Ho! Ho! Ho! back into your life.

Enter now!

Kindle Vella is LIVE!!!

I know you all know me most for my MCs and I've got a lot more coming your way in the next year, but I do like to take a walk on the wild side of life sometimes and write a story other than MC--shock, horror--and so far, I have two stories. One is PNR with shifters: Flight: The Roc Warriors. The other is a brand spanking new story that no one has ever seen. Blood Rebel.

BLOOD REBEL:

Katrina Matthews refuses to go down without a fight. The Earth has been overrun by an invasive species using humans as hosts, destroying the thing that makes them most human, their humanity. A mandatory blood test shows Katrina is one of the few people on the planet with blood able to kill off the invaders. The aliens want her dead to eliminate the threat against them. The humans want her blood to make a serum to kill off the aliens and they're willing to spill it all.

https://www.amazon.com/kindle-vella/p...

Signed Paperbacks, baby!

Not just Bossman, all books in paperbacks are eligible. They're even customizable! And let me just say, these new covers in print are beauties. I'm totally in love. Oh--and the winners were notified for the $25 dollar Amazon cards. The new name for the Brimstone Lords MC kids' series is: Brimstone Lords MC Next Generation. Simple and to the point. So much good stuff coming in the next year. Several new series starters. I'm in badass biker overload up in here.