Today is some romantic science fiction- a futuristic, dystopian story based around different
motorcycle gangs! The cover is hot- pun intended! I’ve paired this story with Cycles Gladiator Pinot Noir.
Hunter Macario wants one thing—a place to belong. When given an opportunity to solidify his position in the motorcycle club, Devil’s Thunder, he takes it. Dragon’s Clan member, Safaia King, believes she’s found the man from her people’s legend and her dreams. She has one goal, even if he’s in a rival club—to make Hunter hers and keep him safe so he can fulfill their destiny.
After Hunter makes a huge mistake, he’s sent to where Safaia lives—an alternate universe called The Den. In this new world, sex, battles, and secrets abound. Hunter must survive The Den to right some wrongs or else he could lose everything he’s ever gained, including his home and Safaia’s love.
The flames’ mesmerizing dance, the macabre song created by the crackles and pops, and the smell of death kept Hunter frozen to his spot. He wanted to help, knew he should pick up a bucketful of water or a hose and join the fray, but his immobile legs wouldn’t budge no matter the commands his brain sent them.
There must be something in the smoke making me high. Either I really can’t move, or I’m losing my fucking marbles.
He tried again to step forward, but still couldn’t.
Ah, shit. I’m dreaming. Must be it. At least I hope that’s it.
As if in answer to his thoughts, the world around him seemed to slow, become more surreal than it already was. The noises minimized into silence, yet people still rushed around him as if he were invisible, their mouths moving without voices emanating from them.
Straight ahead, Hunter caught glimpses of a woman appearing and disappearing amongst the club members running back and forth in front of her. The ebony-haired beauty didn’t move. She stood there with a smile curling her lips.
A hot, lusty bolt of desire surged straight to his cock. Yet beneath the instantaneous sensation lay something deeper. Dreaming or not, Hunter couldn’t quite put his finger on what he felt, but words like “connection” and “destiny” wisped across his mind.
Their gazes locked. The lady winked and disappeared.
The compound, except for the fire, was as it should be—club house, church, garage, barracks, factory, and some ancillary buildings—but the sky wasn’t gray. The constant hum from all the robotics and other machinery functioning in the city wasn’t present. He’d grown so accustomed to the white noise, the sudden silence almost hurt.
Hunter shook his head, ran his palm over his face. Nothing seemed right anymore. The sky. The sounds. Even the air he breathed was different—lighter … less polluted.
No one came up to him to check on him. Nobody questioned why he wasn’t helping.
They all acted like he didn’t exist.
Maybe I really don’t exist here. Maybe I’m still back in one of those foster homes and my life in Vegas has only been a fanciful dream.
Nah. I’ve gotta be dreaming. I gotta…
“Wake up, Hunter.”
A weight bore down on Hunter’s shoulder, gripping his muscles like a pneumatic clamp.
Even in a hazy state of mind, his instincts took over. Years of martial arts training had him shrugging out of the hold and spinning into a neutral stance, ready to defend and attack if need be. No matter what home he’d ended up in, he had always requested lessons. The type of discipline never mattered. The fact that he was learning a skill and had something of his own no one could take away from him had been all that’d counted.
“Hey, boy.” Screw, an aging man, whose favorite way of dressing his scrawny body happened to be denim overalls, a bandana around his head holding back his stringy gray hair, and nothing else, held up his hands. “You know I’m a lover not a fighter.” He chuckled. “Too old and creaky to scuffle anyhow.”
Hunter blinked. Gone was the blue sky and fire. The mechanized hum had returned as had the obsidian night. He stared at the head mechanic and lowered his arms. Last thing he’d ever want to do was harm the man he viewed as a father figure. “Screw. What? What’s going on?”
“You tell me. You’re the one out here in your birthday suit.”
“Birthday suit?” He glanced down at himself. Sure enough, he stood naked in the middle of the compound. “What the hell?”
Casey Moss delves into the darker aspects of life in her writing, sometimes basing the stories on reality, sometimes on myth. No matter the path, her stories will take you on a journey from the light-hearted paranormal to dark things unspeakable. What waits around the corner? Come explore…