(Devil’s Boneyard MC)
Motorcycle Club Romance, Age Gap, Suspense
Date Published: May 23, 2025
Are you ready to dive into a world where love and vengeance intertwine?
Rio -- I thought I had my future mapped out with the Army until two men shattered that dream, leaving me medically discharged and lost. I journeyed west, then returned east after a call from my superior, urging me to testify against those who hurt me. When I stepped into a biker clubhouse along the way, I never expected to find a place I could truly call home. Rebel makes me want to trust again. He’s charming, bold, protective, and understanding. I started my journey as a way to escape my past. I ended up finding a family -- and possibly love.
Rebel -- The moment Rio walked into the clubhouse, she had my attention. Proud, confident, and armed, she’s a storm ready to be unleashed. When her past comes looking for her, I know I’ll do whatever it takes to keep her safe. Those men have made a fatal mistake. They thought they were hunters. What they don’t know is that I’m the predator, and they aren’t walking out of my town alive.
Love isn’t just a feeling. It’s a battle worth fighting for.
Warning: Rebel is intended for readers 18+ due to adult situations, bad language, and violence. The story contains content some readers may find difficult to read. There’s a guaranteed HEA, no cheating, and no cliffhanger!
EXCERPT
I leaned against the wall near the bar, nursing my whiskey and watching the usual Friday night chaos unfold. The Devil’s Boneyard clubhouse pulsed with life around me -- half-naked women draping themselves over patched members, Prospects hustling drinks, the bass from the speakers vibrating through the floorboards. Then she walked in, pushing the door open with more force than necessary, like she needed everyone to know she wasn’t sneaking in. The metal hinges had protested with a squeal that somehow cut through the roar of Guns N’ Roses blasting from the speakers. For a split second, a few heads turned -- then most went back to their business. Not mine. I kept watching.
Strawberry-blonde hair, fierce blue eyes, and a don’t-fuck-with-me stride that parted the crowd like Moses and the Red Sea. Something electric snapped in the air, and I knew my quiet night had just gotten a hell of a lot more interesting.
She stood there in worn jeans, combat boots, and a leather jacket that had seen better days. Not trying to show skin like the club girls but somehow commanding more attention. Her eyes scanned the room with military precision, taking stock of every exit, every threat. I recognized that look. Had worn it myself once.
The clubhouse wasn’t much to look at. Worn hardwood floors bearing cigarette burns and knife marks that told stories of parties past. The walls were covered in a collection of road signs, license plates, and probably a bit too much Harley-Davidson memorabilia. The lighting was shit -- dim yellow bulbs -- but it hid the stains well enough.
She wrinkled her nose, probably at the cocktail of smells -- stale beer, motor oil, leather, sweat, and the unmistakable scent of sex. Her shoulders tensed as two hang-arounds brushed past her, but she stood her ground. Didn’t flinch. Interesting.
Charming sat at his usual table in the corner, silver-threaded hair catching the light as he nodded at something Havoc was saying. Even from across the room, you could feel his presence. His years as president had that effect. Men unconsciously straightened when he looked their way, women’s voices dropped to deferential tones. Not out of fear -- though plenty feared him -- but out of the kind of respect that can’t be demanded, only earned.
I watched her clock him immediately. Smart girl. In a room full of predators, she’d identified the alpha in seconds. Her eyes narrowed slightly, assessing, calculating. But she didn’t approach. Instead, she made her way to the bar, keeping her back to the wall, ordering something I couldn’t hear over the music.
“Who’s the new blood?” Chaos appeared beside me, beer in hand, voice unnecessarily loud as usual.
“Don’t know yet,” I said, not taking my eyes off her. “But I’m about to find out.”
“She looks like she’d cut your dick off for saying hello wrong.” He grinned, obviously considering this a challenge rather than a warning.
“Then I better say it right.” I drained my whiskey and set the glass down with a decisive clink.
Across the room, one of the club girls -- a blonde with tits that defied gravity and the IQ of a doorknob -- was trying to chat her up. Probably recruiting for the stable, or assessing if she would be a rival. The strawberry blonde’s expression had gone from cautious to thunderous. Time to intervene before something ugly happened.
I crossed the floor in long strides, noticing how several of the brothers were now watching with idle interest. New female faces always drew attention, especially ones that didn’t fit the typical groupie mold.
“Tiffany,” I said to the blonde, not bothering with pleasantries, “I think Java’s looking for you.”
She pouted, those silicone lips forming a perfect bow. “I’m just being friendly, Rebel.”
“Be friendly elsewhere.” My tone left no room for argument.
She huffed but retreated, her six-inch heels clicking against the hardwood. I turned to the newcomer, close enough now to see the freckles scattered across her face and the tension in her jaw.
“The recruitment pitch gets old fast,” I said, not bothering with introductions yet. “You looking for someone specific, or just lost?”
Her eyes -- startlingly blue up close -- locked onto mine. “Do I look like the type that gets lost?”
Southern accent. Georgia, maybe. And an attitude I could feel from three feet away.
I smirked. “No, you look like the type that walks into a biker clubhouse alone on purpose. Which means you’re either crazy or have a death wish.”
“Or I can handle myself.” Her hand shifted slightly, drawing my attention to the slight bulge under her jacket. Carrying. Interesting.
“I don’t doubt it.” I gestured to the bartender for two more drinks. “But even the best fighters might think twice about a thirty-to-one ratio.”
The corner of her mouth twitched -- not quite a smile, but close. “Thirty? I counted fourteen, and half of them are too drunk to stand straight.”
I laughed, genuinely surprised. “You military?”
Something darkened in her expression. “Was.”
The bartender slid two whiskeys toward us. I pushed one her way. “I’m Rebel.”
She eyed the drink suspiciously. “Original.”
“Says the girl who hasn’t given her name at all.”
She picked up the glass, sniffed it, then took a small sip. Testing. “Rio.”
“Like the city?”
“Like the river. It flows where it wants to.”
I raised my glass in acknowledgment and took a swallow, feeling the burn hit my throat. “So what brings you to our humble establishment, Rio who flows where she wants to?”
Her eyes flicked around the room again, lingering on a group of Prospects playing pool. “Just passing through. Heard this was where the action is in this shithole town.”
“And what kind of action are you looking for?” I kept my tone neutral, but we both knew what the question implied in a place like this.
She met my gaze head-on, challenge sparking. “Not the kind you’re thinking.”
“You’d be surprised what I’m thinking.”
A commotion near the door drew our attention. Two Prospects escorting a belligerent drunk outside, his protests lost in the music. Rio’s hand had drifted back toward her concealed weapon, her body tensing for trouble.
“Relax,” I said, stepping slightly closer. “Just the usual Friday night housekeeping.”
“I don’t relax in places I don’t know with people I don’t trust,” she said, but her hand dropped back to her side.
I studied her for a moment -- the way she held herself, alert but not skittish. Dangerous but controlled. “Smart policy.”
Across the room, Charming’s gaze connected with mine, one silver eyebrow raised in silent question. I gave a subtle nod. Nothing to worry about. Yet.
“Your President’s watching,” Rio said without turning around. The observation impressed me -- she’d maintained awareness of the room without being obvious about it.
“He notices everything,” I confirmed. “Especially strangers with hidden weapons.”
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.
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