Motorcycle Club Romance, Suspense, Age Gap
Date Published: February 20, 2026
Spending more than half my life in prison taught me how to survive, not how to live.
Jag -- I took the fall for my club once and it cost me everything. Freedom doesn’t feel like freedom when your past is still hunting you. Kiss of Death MC is different now. Safer. Smarter. And full of things I don’t trust. Like kindness, loyalty, and Ada. She sees too much. Asks the hard questions. And somehow makes me want things I buried a long time ago. Wanting her is dangerous. Touching her could destroy us both. But when an old enemy resurfaces and targets her to get to the club, walking away isn’t an option. I’ll protect her. Even if it costs me everything… again.
Ada -- I know the difference between monsters and men who’ve survived hell. Jag Kross is the most dangerous man I’ve ever met. And the most broken. He doesn’t want saving. He doesn’t believe he deserves love. And he definitely doesn’t want me anywhere near his darkness. Too bad. When someone starts watching me, following me, threatening everything the club protects, Jag becomes my shadow. My shield. My temptation. He says he’s not a good man. I say he’s exactly the one I want. I’m not afraid of the scars he carries. I’m afraid of what happens if he leaves.
Jag
The gates of USP Terre Haute swung open with a mechanical groan that I’d heard a thousand times from the other side. This time, I was walking out.
The guard shoved a manila envelope into my hands without meeting my eyes. “Use your prison ID until you get your state issued ID. Inside the envelope you’ll find your release papers, a debit card with two hundred dollars. I was informed you didn’t need a ride?” He finally looked up at me, bored, and raised an eyebrow in question. When I didn’t answer, he shifted his weight with a huff. “Well?”
“Was there a question?”
“Do you have a fuckin’ ride or not, buddy?” He slapped a piece of paper down in front of me.
“What’s this?” I asked, nodding to the form.
He slapped a pen down on top of the paper. “Says you understand the terms of your release supervision and that failure to comply can, and likely will, result in an extended stay in the Hilton back here.” He hiked his thumb over his shoulder, indicating the prison.
Instead of answering him, I picked up the pen and signed my name at the bottom across the highlighted line. “Anything else?”
When the guy shook his head, I stormed out the door. I had no idea if Knuckles followed through with his promise to have guys waiting on me when I got out. I hadn’t called him, but he’d told me I wouldn’t have to. When I was released, there would be a couple of brothers from Kiss of Death to offer me a ride back to Nashville, if I wanted to go. I hadn’t really been sure if I’d take him up on the offer even if he did actually show, but when the prison asked me where I planned on setting up residence, I’d told them Nashville.
I stepped across the threshold, the highly recognizable line between captivity and freedom in the form of a smaller gate through a big-ass fucking prison gate. I squinted against the natural light. Closing my eyes, I inhaled deeply, then relaxed.
Nothing happened.
“Expecting the air outside the yard to smell different than it did inside the yard?” The guy had one elbow resting on the open window of a black F-150 in the slot two spaces over. Another, a truly massive man, rested against the bed of the truck next to the first guy, like they’d just been having a chat. He’d crossed his legs at the ankles and his arms over his chest, his pose casual.
“Jag?” the giant asked. “I’m Tiny. This is Rancor.” He was soft-spoken, his voice a gruff rumble.
I nodded once, acknowledging but not inviting further conversation.
“Ready to roll?” Tiny asked, gaze friendly.
I shrugged and nodded again, fingers digging into my palms, the sharp pain grounding me.
Tiny straightened. “Front or backseat, man?”
“Back.”
Tiny nodded respectfully, obviously expecting my choice since Rancor hadn’t offered to move. He climbed behind the wheel while I opened the back passenger-side door. I tossed the small bag holding my few possessions across the seat to the far side of the vehicle. Sitting behind the passenger left Rancor with a huge blind spot. While the driver could still watch me, he needed to watch the road, too. I didn’t think these guys meant me harm, but I also wasn’t going to get shanked my first hour out of prison.
The interior of the truck smelled like leather and tobacco. Clean. No blood. No piss. No sweat. No puke. Definitely nice for a change.
The rumble vibrated through the seat and into my bones, a foreign sensation after years of concrete and steel. Of all the things I’d missed in prison, I’d missed riding my bike the most. I’d been away for thirty-seven years. My bike had probably long since been sold off.
As we pulled away, I allowed myself one last glance at the prison. The limestone walls and razor wire had been my entire world. I’d learned to kill there. I’d learned to survive there. I’d forgotten how to live anywhere else.
Tiny met my eyes briefly in the rearview mirror. “Long ride to Nashville.” He handed me something I recognized as some kind of smart phone. I’d never held one, but I’d seen them on TV, watched as people used them in commercials or movies, when I’d been allowed to watch. Also, a few of the guards didn’t bother with the policy on no phones out of the locker rooms.
“Scroll through.” He used his finger to drag the screen upward, revealing more. Yeah, I’d seen that before from some of the guards. “It’s my social media feed. I set it to show articles you might be interested in about Nashville. I like to call it my ‘Long-Term Incarcerated’s Guide to the New World.’” I took the phone from him. “It gives you some information about our club, the shelter we help fund and protect, as well as terms you might not be familiar with. A bunch of the guys got together, at our old ladies’ insistence, and made a list of things hardest for them to adjust to when reentering society.” He shrugged. “Some of the guys found it helpful. Including me.”
I grunted. Though, I had to admit, this surprised me. I’d been worried about looking like an idiot when someone handed me something like the famed “Three Seashells” and I looked just as dumb as Stallone’s character.
I still didn’t know if I could concentrate while basically helpless in a moving vehicle with two men I didn’t know who had served time just like me. And had likely learned the same lessons I’d learned. Yeah. Concentrate fully on something right now? Not fucking likely. I kept my expression neutral and pretended to take in the material for a moment until I was sure neither of them watched me too closely. Then I turned my head to look out the window instead.
My reflection stared back at me from the glass -- hollow eyes, angular face, hair cropped close to my scalp. Prison-pale skin already burning under the unfiltered sunlight. I barely recognized myself. The man in the reflection wasn’t the one who’d gone inside. He was something else now. Something hardened and remote. Something dangerous.
An hour into the trip, the interstate rolled beneath us, mile markers ticking by like a countdown to something I wasn’t sure I was ready for. Tiny kept both hands on the wheel except when he leaned one arm on the window. Rancor sat with one arm propped on the window ledge, fingers drumming occasionally to whatever was playing low on the radio.
The silence stretched between us, but it didn’t feel uncomfortable. I thought, maybe these guys understood I needed time to adjust to friendly company. Though I couldn’t trust them yet, my respect for them grew with the care they showed for my sanity.
After another half hour of silence, other than the low music on the radio, Tiny turned his head slightly to speak to me. “Knuckles runs a tight ship. We’ve got legitimate business fronts now. Auto shop’s doing well. Custom work bringing in good money. Also help with a shelter for especially traumatized and terrorized women and children.” He shrugged. “Most of the time, we just have a couple guys stand outside the gate. Their… problems tend to give us a wide berth.” Tiny chuckled darkly.
“Legal?” I said, the word feeling strange on my tongue.
Tiny shrugged. “Mostly. Still got side hustles, but we’re careful. Knuckles makes sure of it. Shelter’s all on the up-and-up.” He spoke like the shelter was his pride and joy. I used to talk about my bike with that kind of reverence, so I knew this place meant something to the man.
There was another beat of silence before Rancor glanced at me in the rearview mirror. “We know what you did for Kiss of Death that put you behind bars.” He waited until I met and held his gaze. “That ain’t this club anymore. We have each other’s back, and no one takes the fall for anything.”
“Ain’t goin’ back.” I snarled the words before I could stop myself. “Gave my fuckin’ soul for this club once. Not sure I can do it again. If that’s a deal breaker, you can drop me off here.”
“Never said you had to, brother. Knuckles knows his people. You don’t have to prove anything. In his eyes, you’ve already proven everything he needed to see, and he’ll make sure you never go back.”
Rancor reached forward and turned up the volume slightly as “Sympathy for the Devil” came on. My fingers twitched involuntarily against my thigh. I’d had a cellmate who would sing this under his breath for hours, driving the guy in the next cell into a rage. Ended with a shank to the kidney during yard time. Though I liked the song, my cellie’s singing, not so much. And he was a dick. Fun times.
We crossed the state line into Kentucky, the landscape gradually shifting. The F-150 ate up the miles, comfortable in a way that made me uncomfortable. Too soft.
Tiny pulled into a truck stop off the interstate. “Need to fill up,” Tiny announced. “You want to stretch your legs?”
I shook my head. The thought of navigating the open space, the strangers, was all too much to attempt right now.
“Be right back,” Rancor said, unfolding himself from the passenger seat. “Taking a piss.”
I watched them through the windows as they moved around the station. Tiny pumped gas while Rancor disappeared inside, reappearing minutes later with a plastic bag.
A family pulled up at the neighboring pump, a man and woman, with two kids arguing in the back seat. The woman laughed at something the man said, her head tipping back to expose her throat. The children tumbled out, shoving at each other, voices high and piercing. One of them looked my way, curious eyes meeting mine before the mother called him back to her side.
I turned away, something hollow opening up in my chest. I’d forgotten what families looked like. Forgotten I used to want one of my own.
Tiny and Rancor returned to the truck, Tiny sliding behind the wheel while Rancor passed a plastic bag over the seat to me.
“Got you some water, sandwich, chips,” he said. “Wasn’t sure what you’d want.”
I took the bag, not meeting his eyes. The scent of barbecue sauce wafted from the bag as I opened it. “Thanks.” The word came out rusty, unused.
I opened the water first, taking a quick pull before unwrapping the sandwich and taking a bite, nearly closing my eyes in bliss as rich barbecued pork exploded across my tongue. “Christ,” I muttered.
Rancor chuckled softly. “Yeah, man. I think I had basically the same reaction to my first good meal on the outside.”
“Ain’t sure that qualifies as a good meal,” Tiny muttered.
“A ham sandwich would be better than what we got in that place.” Rancor waved off Tiny’s words. I agreed with him.
“Still fuckin’ good.” I took another bite, fumbling with the napkin when I realized I probably looked like some kind of primitive who didn’t know how to eat in civilized company. One more thing to add to the list of things to get used to again.
Another hour and we entered the outskirts of Nashville. Tiny made a call and the sound came through the car radio.
“We got a room ready for him.” I’d recognize Knuckles’ voice anywhere. The man had literally saved my sanity the short time we’d been cellies. “He’s gonna want some time to himself to transition, but I don’t want him isolated.”
“You just assume he came with us,” Rancor said, shooting Tiny an amused grin. “Maybe he said fuck off.”
Knuckles barked out a laugh. “Oh, I’m sure he told you to fuck off. Just maybe not out loud. But yeah. I’m sure he came. I know my people, Rancor.”
“I came.” Not sure why I thought I had to speak up, but Knuckles only grunted.
“Of course you did. This is your home. Rat Man did you dirty.”
“Almost there, Prez,” Tiny said. “Ten minutes.”
“Good. I’ll meet you at the main warehouse.” There was a pause. “Hannah made sure you’d have everything you need,” he continued. “She talked to every fucking guy in the place, so she and the other women could give you as comfortable a place as they could. I know you’re not a man who’d want a fuss made or anything but expect the old ladies to make sure you have plenty of home-cooked food in your fridge for when you’re hungry.”
“I -- what?”
“You heard me.”
“Yeah, and I guess I’m not sure which surprises me.”
Knuckles grunted again. “The fact that you have your own fridge, or the fact the girls bothered to stock it?”
“Both, I guess.”
“See you soon.” The call disconnected.
“Expect them to drop by often because our women can be mother hens.” Rancor continued the conversation as we turned onto a narrow, paved but crumbling road that cut between abandoned warehouses. “They won’t let you suffer in silence, no matter how often you tell them to leave. They don’t get their feelings hurt with big, surly bikers, but oddly, they usually know when to back off before they get irritating. It’s the weirdest fucking thing.”
That got a laugh from Tiny. “My two hellions haven’t figured out when to back off. Don’t expect they will either.”
“Oh, your girls know where the line is. They simply refuse to let a little thing like an imaginary line in the sand stop them.” Rancor’s grin said he enjoyed the show on more than one occasion.
I thought I might see irritation in Tiny’s expression, but instead I saw fondness and pride. Tiny loved whoever he was talking about. Likely loved the fact they didn’t stop when they should. The revelation settled something else inside me and my respect for the men grew a little more.
“Why?” I asked softly. “I feel like I’m bein’ set up or some shit. You guys don’t know me and the few who do know I ain’t a kind man.”
“Club takes care of its own,” Rancor said quietly. “Whether our own want it or not.”
Something twisted in my chest -- not pain exactly, but its close cousin. Why would anyone prepare for me? I was nobody to these people. The club had changed since I’d been a member. I doubted anyone knew me from anywhere but Terre Haute. Maybe not even then. The idea that someone had thought about what I might need, had taken time to prepare for my arrival didn’t compute with the world as I understood it.
“Don’t need special treatment,” I managed, voice rough.
Tiny chuckled, a deep, low rumble. “Ain’t special, brother. It’s baseline. You’ll see.”
The Kiss of Death compound emerged from the industrial wasteland like a fortress. Which was exactly what it was. Camo netting stretched between warehouses arranged in a defensive square, breaking up sight lines and confusing surveillance. I counted four visible cameras covering the entrance alone, probably a dozen more I couldn’t see. Smart setup. Defensible. And it was designed to keep people out. Not to hold them inside.
Tiny slowed at a reinforced gate. A guard in a booth nodded recognition, and the gate slid open. We rolled through to a big warehouse well away from the entrance to the compound.
Knuckles stood waiting at the inner entrance, arms crossed over his chest. He was built solid, heavily muscled but leaner and shorter than Tiny.
Tiny parked the truck in front of the warehouse, cutting the engine. I stepped out of the cage, feet planted firmly on the gravel. The air smelled of motor oil, leather, and something delicious cooking.
“Good to see you breathing free air,” Knuckles said, extending his hand.
I took his hand, the handshake brief but firm. His eyes held mine, assessing but not demanding. He didn’t try to establish dominance through the handshake, didn’t pump my arm or crush my fingers. Just a simple acknowledgment between equals which surprised me. Even if I were technically still part of Kiss of Death, Knuckles, as the president, outranked me significantly.
“Appreciate the welcome,” I said, the words coming easier than I expected.
Knuckles nodded, seeming to understand all I wasn’t saying. “Let’s get you settled.”
He led the way through the compound, Tiny and Rancor falling in behind us. A few club members moved about their business. They looked up as we passed, nodding respectfully but didn’t approach.
“Bottom floors of the outer buildings are club business,” Knuckles explained, voice low enough that only I could hear. “Upper floors are apartments for patched members. Inner buildings are all living quarters.
“Hannah, my woman, assigned you a unit in the east building, second floor,” Knuckles continued. “Quieter side of the compound.”
Knuckles stopped at a door at the corner of the back side of the building. He handed me a keycard. “Room’s yours as long as you want to stay. Old ladies will make sure you’re stocked. Don’t ask them to do your laundry. They will shank you.”
That got a bark of laughter out of me when I hadn’t expected to feel like smiling so soon. “I appreciate the place to crash.”
“No thanks necessary.”
The apartment was simple but far larger than any space I’d occupied in nearly four decades. A main room with a couch and coffee table. Small kitchen area with actual appliances. A window overlooking the compound below.
“Basics are all here,” Knuckles said, remaining by the door. Giving me room. “The girls brought linens and shit, so you’ve got bedding and towels. There’s probably a box of toiletries in the bathroom.” He motioned to a set of doors next to each other on one end of the room. “Bedroom and bathroom.” He pointed in the other direction. “Spare room for whatever the fuck you want to do with it.”
I moved farther into the space, checking the place out. Clean surfaces. No dust. The faint scent of something lemon. Someone had prepared this place recently, anticipating my arrival. The thought was unsettling in its kindness.
“Bathroom’s got everything you need,” Knuckles continued. “Hot water takes about thirty seconds to kick in. Pressure’s good and the shower is large. There’s also a bathtub. Anything else you need, just say the word.” He paused, watching me carefully. “When the old ladies come by to bring you more food, let them in, please.”
My head snapped up, surprised by his insight. I’d been calculating how long I could go without opening that door, how to minimize contact until I’d found my bearings.
Knuckles gave me a knowing look. “They mean well. And trust me, you don’t want to be on their bad side.”
A faint smile tugged at my lips again before I could suppress it. “Noted.”
“I’ll leave you to get settled,” Knuckles said, stepping back into the hallway. “Club meeting tomorrow at noon if you want to join. No pressure. Just know you’re welcome. When or if you’re ready to take an active role in the club, we would all welcome you to find your place with us.” He gave me another grin. “Welcome home, brother.”
He closed the door behind him with a soft click, and I was alone. Truly alone for the first time in years outside of AdSeg -- what most people call solitary confinement, or Administrative Segregation. Whatever you call it, AdSeg was the only time I didn’t have a cellmate breathing in the bunk below. No guards passing by at regular intervals. No constant background noise of men living in forced proximity.
Just silence.
I stood motionless in the center of the room. The space felt impossibly large after my cell, the silence deafening after years of constant noise.
I moved to the window, drawn by the natural light. Below, club members moved about their business. Two men working on a Harley. A woman carrying what looked like groceries toward another building. Normal life continuing in its rhythm.
My reflection stared back at me from the glass, superimposed over the scene below. A man caught between worlds, belonging to neither. The prison had released my body but kept pieces of my soul. The club had offered shelter but couldn’t give me back what I’d lost to them before. I thought I should move on, put this chapter of my life behind me, but the thought made my insides twist. Knuckles was right. Though the compound had moved location, the spirit of the club I’d first joined was within this fenced-off land. I could feel the energy all around me and it felt like home.
I placed my palm against the cool glass, watching my breath fog a small circle. Outside, the sun was setting, casting long shadows across the compound. The stranger in the glass looked back at me, equally lost in a world he no longer understood.
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.
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