Crash: A Dirty Angels MC/Blood Fury MC Crossover
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It was a time to gather with the allies to witness the wedding of a president and his ol' lady in front of the three powerful clubs that rule western Pennsylvania.
The Bloody Fury MC.
The Dark Knights MC.
And of course, Crash's own club, the Dirty Angels MC.
Three tight-knit brotherhoods celebrating a weekend blow-out full of women, partying and more.
For Crash, it may end up being so much more.
She's the property of another club.
Property he doesn't have permission to touch.
Property he can't resist touching.
But taking what he wants means risking a crack in the alliance, one he doesn't want to be responsible for.
Creating an issue he doesn't need to cause for his MC. For his president.
But Crash has never been one to blindly follow the rules.
Especially when it comes to someone so tempting.
In the end, she ends up being a risk he can't stop from taking.
To hell with the consequences.
Note: While this book can be read as a standalone, it's a crossover between the Dirty Angels MC series and the Blood Fury MC series. It's best read after the complete DAMC series and before Blood & Bones: Ozzy (Blood Fury MC, book 9). As always, this book has no cheating, no cliffhanger and has an HEA.
Release date: July 31, 2021
Publisher: Double-J Romance, Inc.
* BingeBooks earns revenue from qualifying purchases as an Amazon Associate as well as from other retail partners.
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Crash: A Dirty Angels MC/Blood Fury MC Crossover
Jeanne St. James
With boots wide, legs spread and hands on his hips, Crash stood at the edge of the Blood Fury MC’s courtyard and scanned the field beyond.
A sea of tents, campers, borrowed travel trailers and rented vans filled the field as far as his eye could see.
Sleds. Lines of them. The mid-June sun reflecting off all the chrome made them sparkle like diamonds. All badass bikes and not one of them a piece of shit. Mostly Harleys and a few Indians. All made in the good ol’ U.S. of A. Not a crotch rocket to be found on the property.
As it should be.
Some of those sleds had even been designed and customized at his own body shop in Shadow Valley by Jag Jamison. And now Badger and Olly, who Jag took under his wing as apprentices. Overwhelmed with all the custom jobs he was getting, Jag decided to pass on his skills to the two newest—and youngest—patched members and stick more to the designing part.
Along with his artwork—regularly selling for a pretty fucking penny—the brother wasn’t hurting for scratch.
Crash didn’t have the patience for all the detail work needed to build a custom sled, so he stuck to the basics in the garage. Doing repairs and rebuilding the engines. It paid the bills, put some scratch in his pocket and fattened the club’s coffers.
Business was good.
Life was great.
And this blow-out weekend was going to kick motherfucking ass.
With the stops along the way, it took over five hours for the Angels to ride from Shadow Valley all the way north to Manning Grove. Luckily, it was a beautiful day to start off a hell of a weekend full of celebrating.
It was the first time all three clubs in the western Pennsylvania alliance were getting together in one spot.
His MC, the Dirty Angels, along with the Dark Knights, were invited to the Blood Fury MC’s home base to celebrate their president’s marriage to his ol’ lady.
Right now Crash was ready to party and partake in some sex, drugs and good ol’ rock-n-roll.
He grinned until he brushed his palm over his short hair, then cursed himself for shaving it all off in a drunken bet a couple of months ago. He’d shaved off his beard at the same time—unfortunately, also a part of the bet—and sported a bare face and a bald head for quite a while now.
Because of that loss—both the bet and his hair—his brothers had ridden his ass hard and without a drop of fucking lube.
It was finally growing back, but he had decided to ditch the beard for a while. In fact, some of the women in the DAMC sisterhood threatened to kick his ass if he grew it back once they saw his chin dimple that had been buried under the bushy beard. That was what they called it, a fucking chin dimple.
Whatever. He really didn’t give a fuck about any fucking chin dimple. The dip only made it harder to shave. This weekend he wasn’t shaving once. The sisterhood could suck it if they didn’t like it since he didn’t answer to any of them.
Hell, he didn’t answer to any woman at all. He’d avoided it for over forty years and had no plan on changing that fact any time soon.
Most of the women he’d even remotely considered had been younger. Child-bearing age. Jonesing to start a family.
Crash was fine with the way things were now.
Ride free, die free.
Free of a ball and chain. Free of kids. The only responsibility for him being his garage, his MC and his brotherhood.
And drinking to the point where he could lose a damn bet and it wouldn’t matter to anyone but himself.
But, yeah, he missed his damn hair. Before losing the bet, it hadn’t been cut since he was a teen and would get dragged to the barber by his mom when it got shaggy.
He turned around to face the courtyard and glanced to the right, where the Fury’s pavilion was. It was double the size of the DAMC’s but then, the Fury’s farm had a lot more space than the property where his club’s church and The Iron Horse Roadhouse were situated.
The DAMC’s building, and the lot it sat on, might be smaller, but because of that, their church was much easier to defend. He glanced around. Enemies could sneak up from all sides on this farm. Too much open space existed.
His gaze skimmed the huge barn-like structure to his left. At least Trip had taken Zak’s advice and omitted windows from the first floor of their church and bunkhouse. Smart thinking.
A hard lesson learned when the Warriors shot up The Iron Horse during a Christmas party, trying to kill them all.
At this point the Fury had no rivals, but he had heard mutterings about some local redneck militia wannabes. Trip assured both Z and Romeo, the Dark Knights’ prez, that those crazy hillbillies wouldn’t be a threat this weekend.
Crash had no idea why this weekend would be different than any other, but it wasn’t his problem either way. It was up to the BFMC to protect the visiting clubs by making sure the event was safe, but, of course, the other two MCs would jump in if all hell broke loose.
Crash wouldn’t mind doing a little ass-kicking this weekend. Life had become a bit boring at home after the rival Shadow Warriors were obliterated and with most of his club brothers now living with their families in a gated community away from church.
Hell, Dawg had already become a grandparent. It would soon be time for them to break out their old fart motorized scooters instead of their sleds. Maybe Jag could customize those, too.
Crash snorted and glanced back at the pavilion when he heard some excited chatter.
Kids of all ages were beginning to gather in that vicinity to be entertained and babysat by a few of the house mouses both they and the Knights had dragged north with them. Not surprising how many kids there were since bikers tended to like to procreate. Or at least practice procreating.
Especially the Dirty Angels.
Once it got late, those kids would be taken elsewhere so any adults-only activities wouldn’t be witnessed.
But not all of the kids were young anymore.
The oldest being Zeke, Zak’s son, now a very stubborn fourteen, followed by Ash, Hawk’s son, and Violet, the oldest of Diesel’s three daughters.
Crash wasn’t counting Lily in the mix anymore since she declared, loudly and often, she was now an adult at nineteen. Dawg and Emma disagreed about the “adult” part. Hell, even their youngest, Emmalee, affectionately known as Lee-lee, was eleven already.
And, of fucking course, now hated being called Lee-lee.
When the fuck did his generation of Angels get so goddamn old? He’d been a member of the DAMC for almost twenty-six years. Twenty-six fucking years! And he’d die a member, too. Even though he wasn’t born into the club like some others in the brotherhood, it was still in his blood.
Family, that was what they all were. They all had each other’s backs, protected the women and raised the children.
The saying “it takes a village” was about right. And the neighborhood Zak built behind electric gates and high walls—at the time, out of necessity—had certainly become a village between the DAMC families and Diesel’s Shadows living in the compound, too.
It looked like Trip, the Blood Fury prez, was doing something similar here on the farm he inherited by building an MC compound where everyone lived close. A true family and village of their own.
It was damn smart. No doubt.
A large, dark figure lumbered Crash’s way, wearing a black leather cut that told everyone who he was and who he belonged to, but Crash didn’t need to read any of his patches to know who he was.
Crash stepped into Magnum’s path and, after chin-lifts, they clasped hands and bumped shoulders.
“Brother,” Crash greeted.
“Brother,” the Dark Knights’ sergeant at arms greeted back.
“Where’s your ol’ lady?” It had been a minute since he’d seen Dawg’s daughter, Cait. Ever since she hooked up with Magnum and popped out Asia, their daughter, he hardly ever saw her around DAMC’s church anymore.
“With her sisters and Asia,” Magnum answered.
Cait probably spent more time now at the DAMC compound with Dawg’s family than bothering to stop over at church to hang out. Magnum was super protective of his wife, and Dawg was still very protective of his oldest daughter.
Cait and Magnum did not live in the DAMC compound and didn’t plan on moving there, either, since he, and now Cait, wore Knights colors. Though, Dawg and Emma would prefer they lived close.
Crash didn’t live over in the gated community of homes, either. He still lived above church with the rest of the single members and some of the prospects. Most of them a fuck of a lot younger than him. A totally different type of generation than when he was that age.
He really needed to move the fuck out. At now forty-four, he was getting too old to live in a tiny room with an even smaller shitter. Living there rent-free for all these years let him save up enough scratch that he could put a down payment on a really nice place and not go into hock to do so.
But if he did that, Zak would push him to build a house in the compound and Crash wasn’t sure he was ready for that or to drop that kind of dough. A single guy didn’t need a big house. He only needed something small and simple, just a place to rest his damn head or for privacy when he needed it.
Yeah, all he required was a huge bed, huge shower and a huge flat-screen TV with surround sound for action movies and video games. A kitchen would be good, too, even though he’d be lost in it, but at least it would have a fridge to hold beer.
There were many bonuses to still living above church. One, the commercial kitchen between the clubhouse and The Iron Horse, with line cooks and Mama Bear to keep him fed. Two, a help-yourself stocked bar on both the public and private sides of the building. Three, sweet butts at his fingertips whenever he was in the mood to get down and dirty. Four, sweet butts and prospects available to clean that tiny room and even smaller shitter.
Yeah, fuck moving out. He had it damn good where he was.
“Where are you stayin’?” Crash asked the man who had to be three inches taller and a good fifty pounds heavier than him.
“Some kind of emergency housin’ setup on the other side of that tree line. Daddy Dawg and Emma decided to camp so they could have some ‘alone time.’ Lee-lee and Lily’s stayin’ with us.”
“Surprised Lily wanted to come.”
Magnum arched one dark brow. “She didn’t. But Daddy Dawg said… Hold on, let me quote what my daddy-in-law said to her, ‘Your ass ain’t stayin’ in this house alone when all of us are goin’ north. Fuck that. We’ll come home to the house in fuckin’ shambles.’”
Crash barked out a laugh. “Yeah, that sounds about right. She just turned nineteen, of course she’s gonna go wild when the ‘rents are gone for a few days. We might be old but we remember bein’ that age.”
“Speak for yourself. I was bustin’ ass at that time ‘cause I already had two kids. Both of who made me a grandfather a while ago. Daddy Dawg also told Lily he’s got enough grand-fuckin’-kids already and that he ain’t old enough yet to be a grandfather for a second time.” Magnum grinned. “My answer to that was ‘you’re fuckin’ welcome.’”
Crash laughed again. “Sure that put him in a good mood.”
“Can’t pass up a chance to remind him I knocked up his baby girl and plan on doin’ it again soon.”
“That probably spurred him to drag Lily along for the weekend.”
“He would lose his goddamn mind if Lil got knocked up as young as she is.”
“She ain’t young,” Crash reminded him.
“Right. She reminds us how old she fuckin’ is several times a day. Thank fuck Cait ain’t annoyin’ like her younger sister.”
“What the fuck happened to that sweet, innocent little girl?” Crash asked.
Magnum chuckled. “All of us. We’re all a bad influence.”
“Don’t think Em’s too worried about it.”
“Fuck no. ‘Cause even though we’re bad influences, we’ll kick someone’s motherfuckin’ ass if they fuck with her girls.”
“Just like you with Cait?”
“Didn’t fuck with her. Made her my ol’ lady and then put a ring on her finger before plantin’ my baby in her belly.”
“That you did,” Crash murmured. “Where you headed now?”
“Meetin’ in their church. All the prezes, VPs, and sergeants at arms.”
“Fuckin’ badass church, ain’t it?”
“Better than ours. Thinkin’ we need to find a new place other than the shithole we have now.”
Crash grinned since he’d seen the Knights’ shitty building their MC called home. “Sully officiatin’?”
Sully had married Diesel and Jewel a while back. And some of his other brothers when they finally decided to make their ol’ ladies their wives, too. Being allies with another club who had their own ordained minister had its perks.
“Sounds good, brother. Go do your thing.”
Magnum paused. “Where’d you end up? One of those fuckin’ tents?”
Crash snorted and shook his head. “Fuck no. Hate campin’ and too fuckin’ old to sleep on rough ground. Rig and me are sharin’ a room at the Fury’s motel in town, think it’s called The Grove Inn. He checked us in, haven’t been over there yet.”
“Club here’s got a nice mix of businesses.”
“Tell me about it. They’re certainly buildin’ a fuckin’ empire.”
“Nothin’ wrong with that,” Magnum answered. “All right. Gotta go, brother. Catch up with you and the others later.”
Crash found himself standing alone again.
He watched Magnum walk through the wide-open double-doors on the side of The Barn. As they’d all arrived today, they were told the bar inside was fully-stocked and to help themselves if someone wasn’t manning it.
But what he needed first was fucking food. Then whiskey or a beer. Or a couple of shots of whiskey, then a beer or two. After that, maybe a woman, if he could find one who caught his interest.
With what he was seeing so far, he’d have no trouble finding one. All the ol’ ladies were told to wear their “Property of” cuts to identify them as off-limits, even if they normally didn’t wear them. This weekend it wasn’t an option.
Even as young as Diesel’s girls were, they each wore a “Property of Diesel” cut in denim instead of leather. Of course, not for the reason the older women did, but because he liked to make it known who his girls belonged to.
Who his girls would always belong to.
Crash pitied any man trying to take his daughters away. And not even in a kidnap type of way, but simply by trying to date them.
Vi was getting closer to the age where she’d want to start talking to boys outside of the DAMC family. God help them all. Her father was nicknamed “Beast” by her mother for a damn good reason.
Someone had mentioned a spread had been set up inside to keep it out of the June heat. Crash strode across the courtyard in that direction, giving chin-lifts to bikers he didn’t know, hand-clasps and shoulder bumps to the ones he did.
He wandered through the same double barn doors Magnum had, and was once again amazed by the Fury’s church. It reminded him of a resort, but biker-style.
The pool tables were hopping, the music inside was rocking, a couple games of darts were in full swing, and a loud and rowdy poker game was happening in one corner. He spotted Slade and Moose sitting in on that game since they both were good at playing cards and could usually clean up and walk away with fat pockets.
Moose had brought along a stripper he’d been banging from Heaven’s Angels. She sat in the big man’s lap with her arms hooked around his neck and her huge tits smashed into his chest. Crash had no idea what her name was, but she had become Moose’s most recent regular. For this month, anyway. Next month it could be another stripper. And the month after that…?
Unlike when Dawg managed Heaven’s Angels Gentlemen’s Club, Moose didn’t mind hooking up with his help. And he did so often. Because of that, also unlike Dawg, he had to deal with a shitload of cat fights among the talent.
What Crash wasn’t seeing right now was a bunch of skin. Of the female variety. That would change quickly once the sun went down and the kids were shuttled off elsewhere.
He swung his gaze around the large building with the center stone fireplace and the massive wood bar along the wall opposite of where he just walked in. Yeah, the sweet butts from all three clubs were still dressed, amazingly enough, though they were working some of the guys pretty damn hard, so they might not stay clothed for long.
They’d just have to take it somewhere where little eyes and ears weren’t around. Easy enough since there was a bunkhouse attached to the rear of The Barn and a field full of tents, RVs and campers to go hide in to take part in carnal pleasures.
Yeah, once the alcohol and beer began to flow and smoke—both of the tobacco and pot variety—created a huge cloud overhead, things would change real quick. He was pretty sure even the older kids would have an early curfew this weekend, this way the adults could spend the next few days reliving their lives before they had those kids.
Another reason he didn’t want any, they fucked-up your life. Nothing stayed the same after that. He’d seen the proof. It was almost enough for him to make an appointment to go get snipped. This way there would be no risk of becoming someone’s “baby daddy.”
He spotted the spread on two long tables along the front wall of The Barn and headed in that direction. Once again, forced to stop every few seconds to greet someone he recognized from the Knights or his own club. He didn’t know any of the Fury except for Trip, so maybe once he filled his gut, he’d go shoot some pool and shoot the shit, too.
That sounded like a fucking great plan.
He was only a few feet from his destination when he heard it.
Female laughter that rose above the din.
He heard plenty of that before, but the husky sound of this woman’s laugh had him turning his head. He paused his forward movement and his gaze skimmed the crowd around the long, custom-made bar.
He couldn’t see her. Only hear her laughter again. She had to be behind the wall of bodies in denim and leather blocking his view.
Then he saw her. The one who belonged to that laugh.
At first, he could only see a flash of blonde hair as she moved behind the length of the bar. Then he got a glimpse of her face wearing a huge smile as she bumped shoulders with another woman working the bar with her. Both of them were pouring drafts and mixing drinks for whoever needed them.
She disappeared behind a mix of club members, then he caught another glimpse of her at the end of the bar closest to where he stood.
Too bad she was wearing a leather cut. She’d been claimed and belonged to someone already. That meant she was off-limits.
He shouldn’t be disappointed because there should be plenty of other available women this weekend. Even so, he was. At his age, it took a lot to catch his attention. He didn’t dip his dick in just any pussy anymore like he used to when he was younger.
Back then, it was only about getting laid and draining his nuts. Now, it was more about the experience. It was more about quality than quantity at this point.
He shook his head and turned his attention back to the food laid out before him and grabbed a disposable plate from the end of the table.
“Let me do that for you, baby. I’d be glad to serve you.”
Crash turned toward the female voice and saw a girl, not a woman. She couldn’t be much older than Lily. Maybe by a couple of years, if that. Possibly old enough to drink. He wasn’t great at judging ages.
Being twenty-one, or close to it, might make her a woman legally, but Crash wasn’t into twenty-somethings. The generation gap was too fucking big for him.
He was old school. He liked women who didn’t whine. He liked women who weren’t looking to put their claws in an unclaimed brother.
He liked women who knew what the fuck they were doing when naked and didn’t need guidance on how to suck dick or do ass-play. Or whatever he was in the mood for. Whatever it was, for fuck’s sake, it definitely wasn’t training some young thing in the sack.
Again, he was now more about quality versus quantity.
While this girl was cute and had really nice tits, that was where his interest ended.
She reached up and pushed the tip of her finger into his chin dimple. “That’s so sexy!”
Christ, starting this weekend, he was definitely growing his beard back.
The brunette snagged the plastic plate from his fingers and began to pile it high with a variety of shit. He stood back and let her do her thing and, as she mindlessly chattered away, he decided he would pass on anything else she offered him besides a plate of food.
After moving down the table and building a mountain on his plate, she came back to him. She kept a hold of it when she said, “There you go. I bet a man like you has to eat a lot.”
“No more than anyone else,” he answered, grabbing the full plate from her and finding a fork to go along with it. Before he could move away, she tucked a hand in his open cut and planted it on his gut.
“You have some hard muscles under there.” The girl smiled up at him and winked. “If you’re still hungry after you eat all that, I have a tent set up and I’m not sharing it with anyone… unless it’s with you.”
“Old enough to be your dad,” he grumbled.
“I can call you Daddy, if you’d like.” She winked again and, like the first time, it was kind of awkward and not sexy at all. She needed to practice that in a mirror.
But, holy fuck, her suggestion made him rethink blowing her off. If she had another ten years on her, he might have followed her out to that damn tent and had her call him Daddy and some other things, too.
He glanced down at his plate of food and back up to her. “You belong to someone?”
She smiled and shook her head. “Just you, if you want me.”
“You ain’t with anyone?”
“Nope. Just here to party this weekend. A good friend of mine hangs out with the Fury on a regular basis.”
“Like a sweet butt?”
She nodded, with her bottom lip tucked between her straight, white teeth. She needed to practice that look, too.
“But you ain’t?”
“No, right now they have too many of them and not enough brothers to share. If I become a sweet butt, I limit myself on who I can hang out with.”
Hang out with.
“Means right now you can fuck prospects but if you were a sweet butt you couldn’t,” he explained, knowing the deal.
“Exactly! I’m assuming it’s the same in your MC.”
“Then you know the rules.”
“I also got a rule,” Crash said.
“Don’t do young girls.”
“I’m not that young.” She pouted.
Yeah, that pout settled it. “Too young for me. Appreciate the offer, but right now I’m gonna go stuff my face. Then later I’m gonna find someone a little older to sit on it.”
She removed her hand from his gut and slid it down to his junk, which was still soft and uninterested. “Well, if you can’t find the right one, I’ll be around all weekend.” She did her awkward wink again and then, thank fuck, turned and set her sights on someone else.
He sighed and took himself and his plate over to the bar. And, more importantly, closer to the woman with the husky laugh so he could get a better look. He settled on a stool at the far end and dug into a mound of homemade potato salad. As he chewed his mouthful, he leaned forward a bit, glanced down the length of the bar and spotted her.
She was pouring a draft for someone hanging over the bar, a man who wasn’t bothering to hide he was staring down at her tits. Her generous cleavage was stuffed into a snug white camisole with a bit of lace along the V-neck. The revealing top was tucked into her jeans and a wide black leather belt that matched her cut encircled her waist.
She was smiling at the man eyeballing her, not giving one shit he was checking out her tits.
Could he be her ol’ man? If not, he couldn’t imagine her ol’ man would appreciate the obvious interest by someone else. Crash knew he wouldn’t. Not if she was his. Nobody would be getting close enough to check out her goods. His goods. What belonged to him.
Yeah, too bad someone already claimed her. Maybe whoever her ol’ man was wouldn’t mind sharing.
He muffled a snort. If her ol’ man was anything like any of the Angels, they weren’t sharing shit. Once his brothers claimed their ol’ lady, she was good and claimed. Nobody was touching or sharing their women. Except with their kids.
As he lifted another spicy as fuck Buffalo wing to his mouth, she appeared in front of him like magic, waving a paper napkin in his face.
“I noticed that you need this.”
He grabbed it from her fingers and swallowed the mouthful, trying not to hiss from the burn. “Yeah? Do I? Think I might need a beer to cool my mouth the fuck down after these wings.” He wiped off the sauce from his messy fingers and his burning mouth. He was going to need more than one damn napkin.
“I made those wings.”
He cocked one eyebrow. “You did?”
A slow smile crossed her face and she nodded. “Can’t handle a little heat?”
“Baby, I can handle a shitload of heat. How ‘bout you?”
“The hotter the better,” she said with a wink that was certainly nothing like that other girl’s. It came more naturally with her. And was a fuck of a lot sexier.
“’Til the next mornin’,” he murmured.
“Oh, are we still talking about chicken wings?”
His gaze dropped to her name patch on the front of her cut. “Lizzy,” he murmured.
“That’s me,” she stated cheerfully. “I’ll grab you a beer. Don’t go anywhere.”
He wasn’t planning on it.
She was no twenty-one-year-old. More like early thirties. It wasn’t her face that showed her age, but he could see it in her light-brown eyes. She had some experience behind her. She wasn’t young, dumb and needing an education. She was at the point in her life where she could be the teacher.
He liked that.
He liked that a lot.
What he didn’t like was what he saw when she turned to head down the bar to grab his beer. The cut she wore looked just like the ones the ol’ ladies wore, only her top rocker stated: “Property of,” and the bottom didn’t have a name, instead it said: “Blood Fury MC.”
He frowned. What the actual fuck?
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