Outlaw: Screaming Eagles MC, #1

By Kara Parker

Outlaw is book 1 of the Screaming Eagles MC trilogy. Books 2 and 3, Taken by the Outlaw and Bound to the Outlaw are available everywhere now!

I hate him

Even in handcuffs, he’s still thinking with the head between his legs. I can tell from the way he’s staring at me—like a shark that’s caught the scent of blood. 

Like he already owns me.

One look at his rock-hard body and I can feel my resolve unraveling. One cocky grin and everything else is wiped from my mind.

Everything but his rough hands.

His fiery kiss.

And a voice from deep inside of me, screaming for more.

All I have to do is un-cuff him, and he’ll do the rest.

I don’t just bed women, I corrupt them

Scorching hot sex isn’t enough for me. I don’t just want their bodies, I want their souls. The more incorruptible she seems, the hotter the challenge.

And Officer Grace Santiago seemed the most incorruptible of them all.

She thinks she’s the one in control here.

But I’m going to show her that it’s not about what she wants.

It’s about what I want. 

To own her.
To tame her. 
To make her beg and plead.

She just needs to undo my handcuffs.

I’ll take care of the rest.

• Language: English
• Publisher: eBook Publishing World
• Release date: Dec 13, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386293330

Book preview

OUTLAW: Screaming Eagles MC (Book 1)

By Kara Parker

I HATE HIM.

Even in handcuffs, he’s still thinking with the head between his legs. I can tell from the way he’s staring at me—like a shark that’s caught the scent of blood.

Like he already owns me.

One look at his rock-hard body and I can feel my resolve unraveling. One cocky grin and everything else is wiped from my mind.

Everything but his rough hands.

His fiery kiss.

And a voice from deep inside of me, screaming for more.

All I have to do is un-cuff him, and he’ll do the rest.

I don’t just bed women, I corrupt them.

Scorching hot sex isn’t enough for me. I don’t just want their bodies, I want their souls. The more incorruptible she seems, the hotter the challenge.

And Officer Grace Santiago seemed the most incorruptible of them all.

She thinks she’s the one in control here.

But I’m going to show her that it’s not about what she wants.

It’s about what I want.

To own her.

To tame her.

To make her beg and plead.

She just needs to undo my handcuffs.

I’ll take care of the rest.

Chapter One

There was a bear trap hidden under the leaves. That’s a lie. There were many bear traps hidden under the leaves. They waited, buried underneath piles of fallen debris, well hidden from any prying eyes. Some of the leaves were green and shiny and still had a little bit of life in them, others were brown and dry and they crinkled and crunched when stepped on. The leaves, and the bear traps hidden in them, surrounded a grey, unassuming building set far back in the woods.

There was only one dirt road that leads to this building. It wasn’t on any maps, no one owned it, and no one paid taxes on it. Technically it did not exist. It was a single-story, cement, rectangular building. It did not have any utilities connecting it to a power grid; there was no electricity, gas, or plumbing. There was only one large generator sitting in the leaves outside of the building and it was used to power a few weak light bulbs when the men had to work late into the night.

No GPS could bring you to this building; only someone who had been there before could show you where it was. But Falcon had been there many, many times. He had been one of the first people to see the large empty landscape and realized they could put a building there and no one would notice. One hundred and fifty miles outside of LA the grey, cement building sat unbothered on the northeast corner of a large hunting preserve.

The bear traps weren’t for the bears, though Falcon always thought it would be cool if they got one. No, the bear traps were for rivals and the rare inquisitive hunter who forgot curiosity killed the cat. Fortunately, hunters had yet to be a problem. The sounds of motorcycles, the noise of the generator, and the smell of other alpha males kept any game away. Since the animals didn’t go there, the hunters didn’t either.

As he drove his bike down the dirt road that led to the Screaming Eagles processing building, Falcon saw a hunter high up in a tree stand. The hunter had built his tree stand atop one of the tallest and oldest trees in the reserve and it gave him a good view, potentially too good. Falcon had stopped his bike on the road in order to watch the hunter, a pair of binoculars in his hands. He was facing west, away from the processing center, and he hadn’t turned around at the sound of Falcon’s bike.

Fingering the Glock he kept in his holster, Falcon watched the man for a few minutes. But the hunter remained high up in his tree and Falcon decided killing him would be more trouble than it was worth. He got back on his bike and left the lone hunter behind as he rode the last mile the low, grey, cement building. He stayed on the dirt road, being careful to avoid the traps, as his spotless, black and chrome Harley Davidson took him quietly to work.

He sped past the places he knew the bear traps to be hidden and smiled to himself. If that hunter did get curious he would quickly come to regret it. The low, cement building had no front or back, no distinguishing marks of any kind. There was one large receiving bay door on the north-facing side and Falcon pulled his bike around to it to key in his code on a sophisticated lock. After a few seconds the large receiving bay door rolled open and Falcon Marks had ten seconds to push his bike through the doorway before the doors would automatically close crushing anything that was in the way.

The warehouse had exactly the kind of stale chemical smell you would expect a drug-processing center run by bikers to have. The chemical smell was mixed with the smell of stale cigarettes, weed, coffee, and oil. There were a few pin-ups taped to the cement walls, but other than that the place was barren. There were rows and rows of table with small scales and hundreds of little baggies and boxes stacked up along the walls with bare light bulbs swinging gently over them.

Falcon pushed his bike into the processing center and quickly put it with the others. It would look to obvious and suspicious to leave a dozen gleaming motorcycles outside of the building that technically didn’t exist and so they were always brought in where they could be hidden from view. As Falcon turned away from his bike Billy the Killer, a tall and well-muscled man and a leader in the Screaming Eagles club, greeted him. He was the boss, and Falcon a foot soldier.

Going smoothly? Falcon asked.

Smooth as a Megan Fox’s ass, Billy answered holstering his gun. You run the route?

All one hundred and fifty miles of it. It’s wide open and there are no detours and the cops are in all the usual places, Falcon answered. It was his job to do the dry run the day of the transportation. He needed to travel the route himself with his eyes open looking for anything suspicious or out of the ordinary: roadwork, detours, random police searches. He had done the trip in seventy-five minutes and was feeling, at that moment, rather confident.

To Falcon’s left, a plain white U-Haul truck had been backed into the processing center and it was currently being filled with drugs by the members of the Screaming Eagles. Hundreds of kilos of meth rocks and pseudoephedrine had been packaged inside of crates of travel mugs.

A cup of joe keeps you from looking like Moe! The cups declared with a picture of Moe Howard making his grumpiest expression. The drugs were stashed in the mugs with the lid attached securely. The first three rows of boxes would be nothing but the travel mugs; the last eighteen rows would hold the real goods.

Falcon had arrived just in time. As he watched, the last few boxes were piled into the truck and then they were ready to go. The driver was a young kid named Eric. He was new to the gang and got the job as driver because of how clean cut he looked. With no beard and no visible tattoos the cops had no reason to harass him, and he was often able to get out of jams on charm alone.

You ready, hoss? Falcon asked as he walked up to Eric and clapped him on the back. Falcon liked Eric; the kid was young and didn’t look like a traditional biker, which had made it hard for him to feel included in the club. But Falcon had taken him under his wing