(Grim Road MC)
Motorcycle Club Romance, Suspense, Age Gap
Date Published: September 19, 2025
River -- My life got derailed by a sneaky old woman in an assisted living home. The cloak-and-dagger story she frames is both unnerving and exciting. I thought Mrs. Walsh was living in her past, some heartbreaking episode of dementia… until I found the package she sent me looking for in a library in Vancouver. Next thing I know, I’m on a wild ride with two ridiculously handsome brothers -- Mrs. Walsh’s grandsons. I’ve spent my life feeling like the background character, but now I’m the star of the show. I’m a little scared, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t intrigued.
Crush -- The moment I see River, I know my life is about to change. She’s got that “sweet and innocent” thing that makes me wonder how I’m going to resist her. Or if I even want to. I know I’m a pawn in one of my grandmother’s games, and I’m OK with playing along. But what am I supposed to do when I want a woman my brother also wants? Something about River makes the risk worth taking, even knowing this arrangement could blow up in my face.
Byte -- River’s beautiful, courageous, slightly crazy… and the woman I want for my own. However she’s got just as tight a hold on my brother Crush as she does on me, and no one comes between me and my brother. Our grandmother’s a master strategist, but I don’t think her plans include the three of us getting stuck in a tiny cabin on the side of a mountain… or does it?
River
The public library in Vancouver, Washington looked like a cross between an urban mall and the Roman Coliseum. With more overdue notices and fewer gladiators. I had no idea why I was here. It’s not like I actually expected to find anything. I just couldn’t seem to resist the thought of an adventure.
At exactly four in the afternoon, I stepped through the revolving glass doors and tried to look inconspicuous. Not an easy feat, considering the purpose was to retrieve a mystery envelope for a possibly ex-CIA spymaster or some shit from behind an old, out-of-date encyclopedia, like the world’s nerdiest drop point. And maybe I was lost in my own fanciful musings. I had to smile. I was kind of having fun. It was like an adventure!
It wasn’t raining, for once, but the air still had the clinging, wet asphalt smell that was oddly comforting. I thought I should be nervous or something, but it was too much fun to think about to be nervous. I’d been assigned a quest by a cryptic, possibly delusional fairy godmother with a Parkinson’s tremor and a talent for psychological warfare. The thought made me stifle a giggle.
I drifted through the main floor, past the help desk and the “Local Authors” display, straight to the elevator. Behind me, a kid in a Spiderman backpack trailed his mom toward the children’s section, skipping along and looking excited. I definitely felt the same way.
The elevator doors closed on a guy in a T-shirt with a faded band logo and I rode in silence to the third floor. According to Mrs. Walsh, the reference section was tucked back behind geography, a quiet warren of study carrels and shelves no one under sixty ever browsed. I’d scoped it online the night before. I’m not dumb.
Mrs. Walsh had been explicit. “The 1986 World Atlas, behind the second row, center shelf. Not the 1992 edition. Only the ‘86.” If she’d specified a Dewey Decimal code, I might have laughed, but her face had been stone cold when she said it. Like there’d be real consequences for screwing this up, and not just “forgetting to refill the saltshakers in the dining room” level consequences.
When I found the book, I couldn’t suppress a little thrill zinging through me. I remembered the library in the group home I’d spent the most time in during my childhood had mystery series that I loved to read. Nancy Drew and Trixie Belden were my absolute favorites. I could see both amateur sleuths in my exact place.
The cover was two shades of dark maroon, sun faded at the edges, and heavier than I’d expected. I was careful as I pulled out the book, but my hands were actually trembling. There was no one else in the aisle, unless you counted the porcelain bust of some stern-faced man from a couple hundred years ago glaring from the endcap.
Just behind where the book had been, affixed to the back of the shelf with two strips of black tape, was a little metal box. Like an Altoid tin but with no writing on it, and bigger. My pulse thumped and I had to take a deep breath to keep from giggling in excitement. What the hell was going on? I probably should be alarmed instead of thrilled. There were so many questions I had a feeling I was going to have a hard time finding answers for, but I knew there was no way I wasn’t going to let this whole adventure play out on its own.
I slid the box free, tucked it in my back pocket, and hurried down the aisle, around the corner, and into the bathroom. Once safely inside a stall with the door locked, I slid the tin from my pocket and popped it open. I lifted off the top and tucked the lid into the base and braced myself for… what? A flash drive? A bloodstained thumb? Uranium? You know, just for kicks.
Nope. Inside the little box was a small phone. Not an old-ass flip phone like I expected, but a sleek, dark rectangle with no brand, already powered up. There was one unread message notification on the screen. In the box, there was a folded sheet of plain white paper and a sealed envelope. The paper was blank except for a single line written in bold Sharpie.
Remember the words. Do not write them down.
Yeah. I remembered.
I opened the envelope and stared at what looked like a find-a-word puzzle, only with no words listed to circle. Also, not all the symbols on the page were numbers or letters. Some were mathematical symbols or hieroglyphs. Yeah. That was hopeless. A small stack of one-hundred-dollar bills tucked inside another folded piece of paper looked at me like an accusation, like I was doing something naughty. I’d be lying to myself if I didn’t get a little thrill with the thought. The second paper had a number written on it. No dashes or spaces and it was too many digits for a phone number. Right. So much for written instructions. I stuffed the paper back in the envelope and tucked it inside my bra. Why? Because I’d always wanted to do that! It was like I was really smuggling something out of the library like a real spy. I giggled. So not telling Maggie about that.
I left the bathroom and, just in case, I put the metal box behind a row of obsolete encyclopedias a few shelves over, figuring that if I was being tailed by hostile librarians they’d have to earn their stripes.
She hadn’t really given me any instructions past finding the box and its contents but I was starting to get a bit of an eerie feeling. Not like I was in danger, exactly, but like maybe I should take Mrs. Walsh at face value until proven definitively otherwise. So, instead of sticking around, I went back to my apartment before I opened the message on that phone.
Call the contact listed in this phone. Use the video option.
I tried to remember if I’d actually committed to doing this, or if I was just being swept along by Mrs. Walsh’s gravitational pull. The only people who had ever really wanted something from me either needed a bath or a ride to physical therapy, not a covert op involving classified code words and burner phones.
But the truth was, I had nothing better to do. Literally nothing. My next shift wasn’t for three days. I didn’t own a car, so I either Ubered or bused everywhere. No long-term friends, no family, no one to say “don’t do it.” And what if it was real? What if Mrs. Walsh had once been the spook she said she was? Was this some kind of generational torch-passing, or did she just want a patsy for plausible deniability? I mean, given the whole no family, no friends situation I certainly fit the profile in either case.
I stared at the phone. The contact hovered, daring me to press “call.” Before I could think better of it, I did.
The phone rang once, then again. I thought it would go to voicemail, but on the third ring the screen flickered to life with the video call I’d just initiated.
For half a second, I almost dropped the phone. The screen showed two men in a small, windowless room. The older of the two had a full face that was deeply tanned and rough with more than a few days’ growth of dark beard. He wore a black long-sleeved shirt rolled to the elbows, his arms crossed on the tabletop like he was expecting a confession. The other man was maybe five or ten years younger than the larger man, with short, dark hair and glacial blue eyes. Neither looked amused and both looked more than a little confused.
“Who is this?” The big one asked. “Where did you get this phone?”
About the Author
Marteeka Karland is an international bestselling author who leads a double life as an erotic romance author by evening and a semi-domesticated housewife by day. Known for her down and dirty MC romances, Marteeka takes pleasure in spinning tales of tenacious, protective heroes and spirited, vulnerable heroines. She staunchly advocates that every character deserves a blissful ending, even, sometimes, the villains in her narratives. Her writings are speckled with intense, raw elements resulting in page-turning delight entwined with seductive escapades leading up to gratifying conclusions that elicit a sigh from her readers.
Away from the pen, Marteeka finds joy in baking and supporting her husband with their gardening activities. The late summer season is set aside for preserving the delightful harvest that springs from their combined efforts (which is mostly his efforts, but you can count it). To stay updated with Marteeka's latest adventures and forthcoming books, make sure to visit her website. Don't forget to register for her newsletter which will pepper you with a potpourri of Teeka's beloved recipes, book suggestions, autograph events, and a plethora of interesting tidbits.
Author Links
Author on Instagram & TikTok: @marteekakarland
Publisher on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, and TikTok: @changelingpress
