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Dirty Salvation (Renegade Souls MC Romance Saga #1)
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Can you really fix a broken soul?
Gang wars. Brother loyalty. Endless love. Dirty wicked things with ice cream.
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“I carried a watermelon…” – Zara Freeze.
Three years ago.
Oh, for fucks sake, what level of hell was this? Bodies writhed in one mass debauching undulation, men and women in varying stages of undress, everyone drunkenly enjoying themselves. All but one. Zara was clearly in the wrong place, like she’d taken an incorrect turn on Pleasant Avenue straight down to Death row no passing go or collecting $200.
I thought this was meant to be a party not an orgy.
Looking at the people dry humping and puffing on long cigarettes, she was ninety-nine-point six percent sure this was where good girls came to die. Not that she categorized herself in that way, but on the scale of them and her, yep, she tipped the scale to good just because having sex in public would never occur to her as the thing to do. Ever.
Sex was private, something to do behind closed doors, not with a damn audience watching on and if she was to ever actually have sex one of these days, she sure wouldn’t be doing it while sweaty men jeered nearby.
It wasn’t as though Zara was unsophisticated, but knowing what dinner fork to use at a fifteen-course banquet was not going to come in useful right now, nor was the very limited experience in anything physical going to help process what she was seeing without extensive embarrassment coating her face. It was just all there in eyeline wherever she looked.
Zara gulped past the lump in her throat, doing a little hand wringing in that Jesus on a cracker can’t believe what she was seeing way, her pulse thumping loudly in her ears over the music and the loud base of voices.
Out of her comfort zone.
Hardly wearing a brush of nude lip-gloss, and even that was ballsy for her, her sun gold hair swung loosely in perfect waves around bare shoulders, her style was not something that fit in with this party scene, everyone else was in denim and leather, bras and panties. She knew absolutely she was in the wrong place with these overtly tawdry and overtly sexual bikers enjoying their carnal party.
For god sake, she was wearing a strapless yellow summer dress that hugged her breasts and fell to her ankles whereas everyone else was in mini’s, tube tops and dirty leather. Glaring bullseye right there for the interloper.
She was all country club in Hell.
The noise from within the Renegade Souls MC clubhouse was deafening. Loud thumping rock music came from several speakers hung high on the walls, making every surface surrounding seem as if it vibrated with its evocative pulse. She felt the base of it in her chest. Thump-thump-thump. Fingers clutching the red plastic cup was anything but relaxed.
Out of her element. Uncomfortable.
What was she meant to do now? It wasn’t as though she could even approach anyone for a conversation, she could small chat for fun, but this place had her inner cowardly lion cowering behind silence.
The Soul’s motorcycle clubhouse presented more of a feel of a storage warehouse than that of a home someone would live in, though taking a longer look around, trying desperately to avoid her eyes hitting any nakedness again, it did have the makings of just that at first glance, though she couldn’t imagine a decent human being ever wanting to step inside.
What was she doing here?
It boasted modern interior fixing and fittings, extremely high ceilings, wide windows but the furniture was less than desirable. Through the crowd, she saw several corridors leading to god knows where, she didn’t dare venture from the spot her feet were glued to, scared to bring attention she was actually present, god forbid someone might notice her, she’d found a place over in the corner between a pair of speakers taller than she was.
So, what if she was deaf by the time she got out of it, it would be worth it not to have anyone’s attention.
Hidden out of sight.
Observing with wide pale Blue eyes, she could see no possible outcome to this party other than rape and or murder and call her stupid but she wasn’t keen on either. She was going to punch Morgana for leaving her. Back soon, my ass. She’d been gone over an hour already.
Zara was a painfully young twenty-three, she accepted grudgingly, probably naiver than she cares to admit, her shyness forever an obstacle in her way, if she saw the good in life and people, whose fault was that? She’d barely had any experiences worthy of a diary entry. She was more Eeyore than Tigger. And that right there was as exciting as Zara got, describing her life in terms of cartoon characters.
Jeez. She was pathetic.
To be in one of the roughest parts of town within the sprawling compound among the legendary Renegade Souls MC … well, she was a little sick with nerves and began to search out the nearest exit. She’d wanted to spread her wings, to have some fun, but this was too much flight for a first outing. Morgana had laughed, told her to relax, to grab a drink or four and to mingle. How did you mingle with these kinds of people? They’d laugh their asses off at her. There was no mingling here, just— Zara’s cheeks flushed, letting her gaze take the sights in.