Read Online Books/Novels:
Undeniable (Undeniable #1)
Author/Writer of Book/Novel:
Eva Fox, Deuce
Warning: This is not a “typical love story”. This is an all-consuming, soul-crushing, tear-your-heart-into-pieces story. It’s intense, gritty and raw, dark and disturbing, and it doesn’t happen overnight. This is an epic love story that knows no boundaries and has no time limits. It grows and develops—with hurt, sacrifice, and heartache—over the span of a lifetime.
Eva Fox is the princess of the Silver Demons Motorcycle Club. Growing up with bikers in the club lifestyle is all that she knows. When she’s a young girl, Eva meets the reason for her existence. Deuce West is the sexy, biker bad-ass of the Hell’s Horsemen Motorcycle Club. Like Eva, he was born and raised in the club—but that’s where the similarities end. Their first meeting is innocent, but as Eva matures into a woman, their chance reunions evolve into a fit of lust and love. Fate continues to bring them together time and time again, but their twisted journey is filled with pain, betrayal, and bloodshed that could tear them apart. Eva sees in Deuce what he cannot see in himself—a man worthy of love—and Eva spends her lifetime proving to him that her undeniable love is the one thing he can’t live without.
This is Eva and Deuce’s story.
It wasn’t easy.
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PROLOGUE:Mark Twain said, “The two most important days in your life is the day you were born and the day you find out why”
I don’t remember the day I was born but I remember the day I found out why.
His name was Deuce.
He was my “why”.
And this is our story.
It is not a pretty one.
Some parts of it are downright ugly.
But it’s ours.
And because I believe everything happens for a reason, I wouldn’t change a thing.
CHAPTER ONE:I was five years old when I met Deuce, he was twenty-three, and it was visiting day at Riker’s Island. My father, Damon Fox or “Preacher”, the President of the infamous “Silver Demon’s” motorcycle club -mother chapter- in East Village, New York City, was doing a five-year stint for aggravated assault and battery with a deadly weapon. It was not the first time my father had been in prison and it wouldn’t be the last. The Silver Demon’s MC was a notorious group of criminals who lived by the code of the road and gave modern society and all it entailed a great big fuck you.
My father was a powerful and dangerous man who ruled over all Silver Demon’s worldwide and was highly respected but mostly feared by other MC’s. He had government connections and ties to the mafias but what made him his most dangerous and most feared was his many connections to average everyday people. People who didn’t run in his circle, people who were off the grid. People who could get things done quietly.
His way with words and his killer smile made him friends everywhere he went and considering he’d been riding since he’d still been in my grandmother’s womb, when I say everywhere, I mean everywhere.
My father’s shortcomings, the constant crime and the club lifestyle weren’t strange to me, it was all I knew.
I was holding my Uncle “One eyed” Joe’s hand as we walked through Riker’s family visiting room. Since my father was my only parent, my Uncle Joe and Aunt Sylvia had been given temporary custody of me. My mother, Deborah “Darling” Reynolds, had split a few weeks after I was born. Many men would have crumbled under the responsibility of a newborn baby, especially a biker, a biker who couldn’t handle more than a few weeks without needing the open road.
But not Preacher.
Aside from going to prison every once in awhile, my father was a good dad and I’d never wanted for a thing.
Dressed in an orange jumpsuit, his long brown hair pulled back in a ponytail at his nape, Preacher spotted us immediately and jumped up. He was hindered slightly by the handcuffs around his wrists and ankles, looped together by a chain, and the prison guard standing behind him who shoved him back down.
“Eva,” He said softly, smiling down at me as I climbed into an uncomfortable plastic chair. My sneaker-clad feet didn’t reach the floor and my chin barely cleared the table. Uncle Joe slid into the chair beside me and put his arm around me, pulling my chair close to his.
“Daddy,” I whispered, trying so hard not to cry. “I want to hug you. Uncle Joe says I can’t. Why can’t I?”
My father blinked. Then he blinked again. I didn’t know at the time but my big strong, rough and tough father was trying not to cry.
Uncle Joe squeezed my shoulder. “Baby girl,” He said gruffly, “Tell daddy ’bout the spellin’ bee.”
Excitement battled my tears and won. “I won the spelling bee, daddy! My teacher, Mrs. Frederick’s, she says even through I’m only in kindergarten I can spell as good as a third grader!”
My father grinned.
Seeing this grin and not wanting to lose it, I kept going.
“Do you know how old third graders are, daddy?”
“How old baby?” My father asked, laughing.
“They are eight,” I whispered excitedly. “Or sometimes nine!”
“Proud of you baby girl,” My father said, his eyes shining.
I beamed. When you are young, your parents are your entire world. My father was my world. If he was happy, I was happy.
Uncle Joe squeezed my shoulder again. “Eva honey, why don’t you go get somethin’ from the snack machines so daddy and I can have a word.”
This was typical. At the club everyone was always “having a word”, words I wasn’t allowed to hear. Most times, I didn’t really care since all the boys loved me and gave me lots of hugs and let me ride on their shoulders and bought me presents all the time. To a five-year-old biker brat, an MC full of surrogate big brothers and daddies is the equivalent to a normal child being able to celebrate Christmas every day.
I took my Uncle Joe’s money and skipped off to the snack machines. Two people were in line ahead of me so I did what I always did when I was bored, I started singing. Unlike most children my age who were listening to New Kids on The Block or Debbie Gibson, I was listening to the music played around the club. A particular favorite of mine was Summertime by Janis Joplin. So there I was shaking my butt and singing Summertime way, way out of tune waiting in line for stale potato chips in the Ricker’s Island family visiting room when I heard,
“You like Hendricks’s too, kid?”
I swiveled around and met with a pair of denim-clad legs, the knees worn clean through. I looked up and my eyes widened in delight. He was tall and tan, his arms and legs were thickly muscled and his waist was trim. His forehead was wide, his jaw, strong and square. His head was shaved, only a fuzz of blonde hair showing and his forearms were heavily tattooed with different depictions of elaborate dragons. I’d never seen a more beautiful man. Overall, he looked tailor made from The Man Cookbook.
There are three different types of men in this world. There are weak men; men who run and hide when life slaps them in the ass. Then there are men; men who have a backbone yet occasionally, when life slaps them in the ass, will rely on others. And then there are real men; men who don’t cry or complain, who don’t just have a backbone, they are the backbone. Men who make their own decisions and live with the consequences, who accept responsibility for their actions or words. Men who, when life slaps them in the ass, slap back and move on. Men who live hard and die even harder.