Undeniable by Madeline Sheehan
Genre: Contemporary, Erotic Romance
Length: 334 pages
Warning: This is not a typical, sappy, 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.
Nothing worth doing ever is.
And love is worth everything.
I was five years old when I met Deuce. He was twenty-three, and it was visiting day at Rikers Island. My father, Damon Fox or “Preacher”—the President of the infamous Silver Demons 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 Demons 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 Demons worldwide and was highly respected but mostly feared by other MCs. He had government connections and ties to the mafias, but what made him the 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 was 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 Rikers 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 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 a while, my father was a good dad, and I’d never wanted for a thing.
Dressed in an orange jumpsuit and 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, 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. Fredericks, 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, gave me lots of hugs, 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 Rikers Island family visiting room, when I heard, “You like Hendrix, too, kid?”
I swiveled around and met with a pair of denim-clad legs with 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, and his jaw was 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.
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 and 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.
Men like my father and my uncles. Men I loved with all my heart.
Men like Deuce.
“I like Hendrix,” I said. “But Janis rules. I listen to ‘Rose’ almost every single day!”
He grinned down at me and dimples popped out all over the place.
“I like you, kid,” he said, still grinning. “You got good taste in tunes, and you’ve got a pair of Chucks on instead of those stupid fuckin’ high tops everyone’s wearin’.”
He liked me. This was hands down the best day ever.
“I hate high tops,” I said, wrinkling up my nose.
He winked. “Me, too.”
I was so throwing out all my high tops when I got home.
When it was my turn in line, I stood on my tiptoes and popped change into the machine. I took my time studying the selections, deciding on a small bag of salted peanuts. Moving out of the way, I watched as the man bought two bags of potato chips, three candy bars, and a big chocolate chip cookie.
“Wow,” I said. “You’re really hungry.”
He laughed. “Not for me.” He pointed across the room. “My old man.”
I spared a quick glance at my father and Uncle Joe. Their heads were bowed over the table still “having a word.”
“Can I meet him?” I asked.
His eyebrows popped. “Uh, he’s kinda cranky.”
I laughed. All the men I knew were kinda cranky.
I slipped my hand in his and looked up, ready to go meet his father. His hand was warm and comfortable, like my bed was after I’d slept in it all night.
He stared down at our joined hands, his expression confused.
“Ready,” I told him, tugging on his hand. Shrugging, he led me to a nearby table where an older man with a long, gray beard and a shaved head sat, cuffed the same way my father was. He released my hand to take his seat, and I climbed into the seat next to him.
“Hi,” I said cheerfully.
“You got somethin’ to tell me?” The old man asked his son.
“She likes Janis,” he replied.
The old man studied me, “You like Janis, kid?”
I nodded. “And Steppenwolf and Three Dog Night and The Rolling Stones and Billie Holiday—”
“Billie Holiday?” He interrupted, sounding surprised.
I popped some peanuts in my mouth and nodded. “She rules.”
The old man grinned, and his entire face changed. I knew immediately; a long time ago, this cranky old man had been as beautiful as his son.
“I like Billie Holiday,” he said gruffly.
“I like you,” I said spontaneously because I always said stuff spontaneously. “Do you want some peanuts?”
“Sure, kid,” he said, smiling. “I’d love some.”
I poured the rest of my peanuts into his hand, and he popped them all into his mouth at the same time.
I jumped at the sound of my Uncle Joe’s voice. He was walking briskly across the room toward me. Once he reached the table, not only did Uncle Joe looked pissed off, but so did my two new friends.
“You got a death wish?” Uncle Joe whispered to the old man. “Horsemen are in good with the Demons. Let’s fuckin’ keep it that way.”
“Ah,” the old man said, looking back at me. “You must be Preacher’s little girl. He’s talked ‘bout you. Proud as fuck, he is.”
I nodded proudly. “I am Preacher’s little girl. And I’m gonna be just like him when I grow up.
I’m gonna have a Fatboy, but I want mine to be sparkly, and I want a pink helmet with skulls on it. And instead of being the club President, I’m gonna be the club Queen ‘cause I’m gonna marry the biggest, scariest biker in the whole world, and he’s gonna let me do whatever I want because he’s gonna love me like crazy.”
My Uncle Joe burst out laughing, and the old man shook his head, smiling. The beautiful man turned to face me and leaned forward.
“I’m gonna hold you to that,” he whispered.
I didn’t respond. I couldn’t. I was captivated by the intensity I saw in his bright blue-and-white-flecked eyes. They reminded me of a frosted over lake. He had beautiful icy blue eyes that sucked me in to a warm safe place that I wanted to stay inside of forever.
He stuck out his hand, breaking the spell. “Name’s Deuce, sweetheart. My old man here is Reaper. It was nice talkin’ with ya.”
I put my hand in his, and his big fingers closed around mine. “Eva,” I whispered. “That’s my name, and it was so, so great to meet you, too.”
He smiled. And his eyes smiled, too. And I got lost again in his pretty eyes.
Then Uncle Joe picked me up and threw me over his shoulder. “Isn’t that fuckin’ expensive as hell private school teachin’ you ‘bout talkin’ to strangers?” he said. “Gonna have a talk with those prissy fuckers. Gonna have a talk with my fist.”
“Bye,” I yelled, waving frantically, as I was marched away.
Reaper gave me a two-handed handcuffed wave and a big smile.
Deuce got to his feet grinning and gave me a two-finger salute. “Bye, darlin’.”
It was official. I was head over heels in love.
Author Bio & Links:
Madeline Sheehan, a Social Distortion enthusiast and devoted fan of body art, has been writing books since she was seven years old. She is the author of The Holy Trinity ebook trilogy and Best Selling Novel, Undeniable. Homegrown in Buffalo, New York, Madeline resides there with her husband and son.
“I’m half out of my mind in love with life. The good, the bad, the laughter and tears, it’s all worth it just to see another day.”
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