Smoke and Steel

Book 2: Wild West MC Series

by Kristen Ashley

Genres: Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

She wasn’t a white dress type of girl…

Hellen Moynihan didn’t have dreams. She had goals. She knew who she was and what she wanted. She also knew what she didn’t. So when her long-term boyfriend didn’t make the grade, she moved on. And when her best friend’s boyfriend showed signs of being a scam artist, Hellen was on the case.

And he wasn’t a white hat type of guy…

Dustin “Hardcore” Cutler didn’t have dreams or goals. A troubled past led Core to do something irredeemable. The only thing he and the men of the Resurrection MC could do was vow to live their lives making up for an unforgiveable act.

And they did.

This duty leads Core to being a part of a covert protection detail, looking after Hellen Moynihan when trouble is coming to town.

At first, Core finds this dynamo of a woman intriguing, but he’s decided she’s off-limits.

Then Hellen and her friend wade into a multi-state swindling scheme.

Suddenly, off-limits for Core is out the window.

He’s got no choice but to get up close and personal.

 

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Release date: December 6, 2022

Publisher: Rock Chick Press

Print pages: 477

Sample

Chapter One

Cookies

Hellen

I heard my front door open.
My first thought was, Maybe the cookies were over the top.
“Babe!” he called. “Cookies! Awesome!”
Or perhaps the cookies were just cruel.
I’d put on his second-favorite blouse (it could be his third, he didn’t rank them, I just paid

attention to him, unlike the other way around) and had my makeup two steps down from fuck- me-hard .

So I wasn’t being totally in his face.

But my hair was loose, and although he didn’t have the balls to claim it like he meant it (his tepid tugs were a bit of a turn off, and I’d learned to try to keep his hands out of my hair), still, he loved it down, mostly because I gave great hair.

And my ass in the jeans I was wearing sprung men on a glance.

He loved my cookies, all of them, no matter what variety I baked, because I’d perfected each version to the point most people told me to start my own shop.

Like I was going to waste my time on that. Not a chance.
“What the...?” I heard him say.
He’d seen the box.

And here we go.
I turned to the doorway.
He wandered into my kitchen.
“Babe—” he began, wearing his remorseful face. And I was glad.
Because that pissed me off.

And it did because, if he knew to be remorseful, he knew.
He knew.
I launched in.
“You don’t have HBO Max. I have HBO Max. You asked to come—” “Hell—”

“—over with your buds so you could watch some boxing thing, and I said yes. I was going out with my girls, but I said yes. All you had to do was tidy up after they left. I didn’t ask you to vacuum and scrub the baseboards with a toothbrush. I asked you to tidy up. I came home to you passed out in my bed and beer bottles everywhere, leftover pizza congealing, a stain on my couch—”

“That’s why I’m here now. I was going to—”
I wasn’t listening, yet again, to what he was “going to” do.
“So when I left this morning, I asked you to take care of it before you left. You didn’t. I came

home to it. By then, every inch of my apartment smelled like stale beer and pizza.”
“Like I was going to say,” he stated with forced patience. “I’m here now to do it. You just did

it before I could get to it.”
I did a lot of things before he could get to them.
“It’s my house, Bryan. And when I say you can hang here, and all I ask is you throw away

some fucking bottles and put away some pizza, shove some plates in the dishwasher, toss some napkins in the trash, it’s not a lot to ask. Hell, you’re a grown man. I shouldn’t have to ask. And I wouldn’t ask if it didn’t mean something to me.”

He was giving me the “whoa” sign with his hand.
“Okay, I fucked up, but—”
“I woke up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom.”
He shut his mouth and tried not to let me see his smirk.
But I saw the smirk.
And, oh yeah.
Oh yeah.
Now I was pissed.
“Is something funny?” I asked quietly.
“No.” He sounded choked because he was trying not to laugh, which meant he was lying.

“What’s funny about me slamming my head into the cabinet door you left open over the toilet, even though I’ve asked you to close it probably thirty times, because last night wasn’t the first time I slammed my head into it? Which means, I don’t only want you to close it because cabinet doors should be closed. That’s the reason the cabinet has a fucking door, so you can close it and not see all the crap inside. But also, because, when I slam my head into it, it hurts like fuck.”

Me putting it that way, he looked remorseful again.
“Is it amusing to you to cause me pain?” I asked.
“Babe, I’m sorry. I’d had a few. I wasn’t paying attention.”
I let that go.
For now.
Instead, I pointed across the kitchen.
“Do you see that under-cupboard light that doesn’t work?”
Bryan turned his head that way and made an “oh shit” face.
“Yeah,” I agreed. “I mentioned it was out and I was going to email my apartment manager to

fix it. You reminded me, if it isn’t an emergency, it takes them a while to do something. You then said you’d do it. I said I thought that was great, if you did it, you could show me how and I wouldn’t have to ask anyone again. That was a month ago. My apartment manager might not jump all over changing a lightbulb, but it’d be done in a few days. I’ve asked you five times. You keep telling me you’re on it. I emailed them today. They’re coming Monday.”

He took a step toward me.
“Don’t come closer,” I warned.
He grinned, because he was good-looking and had a great smile, so just doing that allowed

him to get away with a lot in the past—not by me, but others—and he kept coming. “Bryan!” I snapped. “Do not come a step closer.”
He was nearly to me.
“Dammit!” I shouted. “Do I need to call my brother-in-law to deal with your ass?” He stopped, his face paling.

And I could not believe, while in the midst of this very conversation, I had to threaten him with Jagger in order for him to listen to me.

“That,” I said softly. “That right there. That’s why all your shit is in a box in the living room. Because you don’t listen to me, and you don’t respect me. You respect Jagger, because he’s in an MC and he’d fuck you up, but you won’t respect me, even though you’ve told me you love me.”

“Hellen, babe,” he cajoled. “None of this is a big deal. I’ll go out now. Grab a bulb, show you how to fix it.”

“No, I’ve waited on you to do that, and you didn’t, so I took care of it myself.” “I’m good to do it now.”
“I needed you to do it a month ago.”
“It can be fixed in an hour.”

“That’s a month and an hour longer than I’m willing to wait for you to take care of it.”
He started to lose patience. “Jesus, Hellen, none of this shit matters.”
I crossed my arms on my chest.
“You see, this is the problem,” I informed him. “None of this shit matters to you. When you

use my washer and dryer, I ask you to get it done and leave them empty. Half the time you come over here to do your laundry, you leave your clothes in my machines for days, and by the time I wanna do my own, I have to deal with yours first, so I can do mine. Have I told you about this more than once?”

“Okay, I see this is a thing for you, so I’ll be on it from now on.”

“Why do I have to box all your stuff and be done with you before you agree to be on it, Bryan? Why can’t words come out of my mouth, you take a second to listen, process, and if you have some issue, discuss, and if not, just be a decent partner?”

“Because it’s just...fucking...laundry,” he bit out.

“First, they’re my machines, and I let you use them. And second, do you ever have to wait for me to clear my clothes out when you want to use them?” I didn’t pause for him to answer. “No, because I get it done and clear them out even though they’re my machines. Still, it’s in my mind that you also use them. I’m doing you a favor, so maybe you could return that by not hanging up my machines.”

He looked to his trainers, mumbling, “My God, this is fucked-up petty.” Okay.
Um...
No.

“Right. Just leave my key, grab your box and go.”

He lifted his head, and his eyes were narrow. “Hang on a second. We’re not over just because you’re throwing a fit about your washing machine.”

“Yes, Bryan.” I uncrossed my arms and put my hands to my hips. “Yes, we are. Because it’s become clear to me that you aren’t getting this in a way you never will. I’ve put up with it for too long as it is.”

“Put up with what?” He jerked his thumb at his chest. “Me?” “Your disrespect for me.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he blew out.
I stared at him.

Then I looked to the side, took a beat, and turned back to him.
“Hitting my head last night hurt a lot, Bryan.”
His handsome face went soft. “Baby, I’m so sorry. It won’t happen again.”
“That’s what you said the last time I hit my head.”
“Okay, but I mean it this time. Seriously.”
“I heard you laugh last night when I cried out. It woke you up, you called to ask if I was okay.

I said I hit my head, and I heard you laugh.”
His lips tipped. “When you’re not being pissy, you gotta admit it is kinda funny. You’re using

the toilet, you get up and—”
I cut him off.
“It’s not funny, Bryan.”
His head jerked, possibly at my tone, which was firm but wounded.
I wanted to scream because it took me this long and cost me this many words and this much

frustration, and I had to expose my hurt to finally get him to pay attention.
“And please listen to me when I explain all the reasons why it’s not,” I went on. “First, if I’d

done something, even inadvertently, that made you feel pain, it would make me feel pain. I would not want pain for you. I especially would not want to be the cause of that pain. I’m not a frat buddy you’re pulling a prank on. I’m your girlfriend, the woman you’re supposed to love. How my pain could ever, ever translate to amusement to you, I have no idea. That’s the first part.”

“You’re right, that was shitty,” he muttered.

“It was, but as I’ve mentioned, it’s happened before, even though I asked, not mean, not bitchy. Nicely. Courteously. Please keep that cabinet door shut, especially considering its position. You disregarded my request. More than once. What does that say about how you truly feel about me?”

“Baby, it’s just me being a guy.”

“No it isn’t. Not every man on this planet does whatever the fuck they want, thinking they’re...what? I don’t know. So hot a woman will put up with it?”

Which, truth be told, he was incredibly hot. But not that hot (in my estimation).
No one was that hot.
I carried on.

“Hoping they’ll hook up with their mother who’ll take care of their ass until they die? It isn’t the cabinet. It’s that and the light and the laundry and having to clean up after you and your friends. It’s asking you to separate the cutlery when you put it in the dishwasher, that is, when you put anything in the dishwasher, because it’s easier to put away, but you never bother. And requesting you recycle, and I find recyclables in my garbage.”

His face was flushing.

“Okay, seriously, I know this is gonna make me sound like a dick, but I’m honestly not trying to be a dick when I say, if it means so much to you, and it doesn’t to me, then you can do it yourself and not give me hassle, because it’s not important to me.”

“No, Bryan. See, this is the thing,” I retorted. “I am not going to spend any more time, much less consider a long-term relationship, or I should say a longer-term one, and commit to a man who cannot perform minor considerations simply because he values the person he’s spending time with. I’m asking you to close a cabinet. I’m asking you to put a bottle in a different bin that is right beside the garbage bin. I’m asking you to shove a fork in a certain slot. I’m asking you not to make insignificant promises, that are still promises, that you’re not going to keep, and I have to deal with the consequences. That’s all I’m asking. And you’ve demonstrated repeatedly you can’t do these things. So we are done.”

He lifted his hands in front of him in an “I give up,” gesture.

“All right, baby, I get it. I see now how important this stuff is to you. I’ll get on it. I mean that.”

“And then what, Bryan? You’ll be”—I did air quotation marks—“good for a while, and then we have this conversation again? We’ve been there before. It doesn’t last. Or, because I made it clear your inaction has repercussions, you’ll note these things, and do better, but then something else will come up, I’ll share, you won’t pay it any heed, and I’ll have to get fed up to the point I need to do something extreme to get your attention, and only then I’ll get your attention? Is this the cycle you want to land on me? Is this how you want me to live?”

He was stuck, considering that was where he’d put himself, so to that, he just screwed up his mouth and remained silent.

I didn’t return that favor.

“Why do you get the girlfriend who folds your clothes when you leave them in my dryer, and rushes to court to bring you a new tie when you’ve spilled lunch on the one you were wearing? And looks after your dog when you’re in Vegas with your buds? And bakes cookies for your boss’s birthday to buy you points? Then I sit down to dinner with him and charm him when my family was having a get together and I wanted to be with them. But you were my guy, that was important to you, so I did my face and hair and put on an appropriate dress and sat at your side. And the man liked me so much, he told you to marry me and offered me a job. Why do you get that woman, and I get a man who doesn’t listen to me until I feel the need to shout, either literally or figuratively? The man who thinks he can decide for the both of us what’s important, and what’s not, deeming my wishes unimportant, then deigning to acquiesce to them, still thinking they’re petty, when they aren’t? They’re my wishes. So they matter.”

The cookie timer went off.

I moved to the oven, peered in, then opened the door, took them out and put the tray on a hot pad on the counter.

I returned my attention to Bryan.
He was staring at the cookies.
What he wasn’t doing was addressing my concerns in any real way.
“I’m sorry, Bryan, but I’m done talking, and I am because I’ve said all this before in one way

or another, and you didn’t bother to hear me. If you don’t mind, I’d like to get on with my night. So if you could leave my key and then grab your box and go, I’d appreciate it.”

His gaze darted from the cookies to me.

“That’s it? We’re together over a year, you decide we’re done, you kick my ass out and we’re d one?”

And again, I wanted to scream.
I also wanted to cry.
Because he spoke truth. We’d been together for over a year.
I went there with him at first because he was good-looking.
I stuck around because he was funny, smart, interesting, and at the time, attentive.
He was also a mover and shaker.
He was an attorney, and his goal was to make full partner by the time he was thirty-five. It

was a huge firm, which had been around for sixty years. The youngest they’d made someone a partner was at forty-two. It seemed an impossible goal, but he was going for it.

I liked a man with drive, ambition, because I was that kind of woman.
A woman with drive.
A woman with ambition.
He was also in killer student loan debt, and even though he made good money, he was living

on the cheap because he wanted them out of his life. He could sacrifice. He could save. He could be responsible.

I was a woman who could sacrifice, save, be responsible.

He dressed great, and because he worked hard, he played harder. He didn’t waste the small amount of downtime he had. He was busy and he was social, he had good taste in music and movies, and he made it a priority, being with me.

I had yet to have an excellent lover, and I knew that regardless of the fact I had yet to have one.

But he didn’t suck in bed. He cared that I orgasmed, and he put effort into it, so that was a plus.

In the beginning, even though I was young, too young (in my estimation) to commit, (I was twenty-three), I thought there might be a possibility I’d found my man.

So I might know my own mind, and that mind was made up we were over, but this wasn’t easy for me.

I just wasn’t going to cry and moan and whine and beg in front of him. I’d deal with those feelings when he left.

And this was another indication that he didn’t get it. Any of it.
“This isn’t easy for me, Bryan,” I told him.
“Could have fooled me, babe,” he returned.

Okay, this had to end.

“You know, unless you clue in, yes, I’m going to say it, unless you grow up and make changes, one day, you’re going to find a woman. And you’re going to be able to hold on to her because she will love you more than she loves herself. And that is not a good thing, Bryan.”

He stared at me.
I kept talking.
“Then, somewhere down the line, you’re going to look at her and see the light is out in her

eyes. She might find things to bicker with you about that make no sense, because they’re not what really matters. She’ll just be bitter she didn’t stand up for herself, she didn’t stop it before it was too late, and she’s going to find ways to take that out on you. But what really mattered was that every day, in little ways, you showed her she was not important to you, and she put up with it. You did what you liked, and she sucked it up, because she’d asked and asked, and you didn’t care enough to make the effort.”

The flush was coming back to his face.
I kept going.
“Eventually, you treating her like she’s not important will drive home the fact that she’s not.

She’ll start believing it. And because she’s not important, she needs you. Because...who else would have her? She’s not worthy. She’s going to be a shell of her former self, striking out at random, making your life miserable, and you’re going to wonder what happened to the lively, awesome chick you first met, not understanding you buried her under your own shit. And it’s highly likely from there, you’ll scrape her off and find someone else you can smother with your neglect and self-absorption.”

I watched him swallow, but he still didn’t speak.

I wasn’t holding high hopes for his bid to make partner if he couldn’t even state his own damn case to his girlfriend.

But that was beside the point. And I wasn’t done.

“Or maybe you’ll remember this conversation, and you’ll realize the person you spend time with deserves for you to listen when they speak and give a damn about what they say. For you to take it into consideration. For you to make minor adjustments in your behavior to be a good partner and prove to the person you’re sharing time with she means something to you. And I hope that happens for you, Bryan. But I’m not putting in any more work. Someone else is going to have to guide your way on that. I have my own life to live, and I’m not going to do it in clothes that smell like pizza and stale beer because the guy I like needs me to tutor him in how to give a shit about me.”

He didn’t say anything for long moments after I quit speaking, but I said no more since I’d stated my case.

Finally, he asserted, “I can do better, Hellen.”
“This is the sad part for us both, Bryan. Because you’ve conditioned me not to believe that.” He dropped his head, tore his hand through his (very nice) hair (I’d miss pulling on that, and I

did, like I meant it, and he’d loved it), lifted his head, and declared, “Shit, fuck, I’m in love with you. Honest to God, I can do better.”

“I’ve made up my mind.”
“Goddammit, Hellen!” he shouted.
That was when it happened, to my shame.
The tears hit my eyes.
Upon seeing my emotion, his expression warmed with hope.
“And even now, you’re not listening to me,” I whispered.
His face froze.
“This isn’t easy, Bryan. But I’ve made up my mind.”
“Okay, I’ll go,” he said quickly. “We’ll give it some time. Take a break. I’ll text you in a

week.”
“Please remember to leave the key,” I replied.
His body jolted, and his face fell.
“Baby, you’re killing me,” he said raggedly.
I pressed my lips together and struggled to beat back the tears.

“I fucked up, I’m so fucking sorry,” he went on, pulling his keys out of his pocket. “I’ll give you some space. I’ll take my stuff.” He slid my key off his ring. “I’ll text. We’ll go out. Sit down and talk. I’ll listen, and I’ll hear. And we’ll work this out.” He set the key on the counter.

I didn’t say that wasn’t going to happen.
But that wasn’t going to happen.
“Can I have a hug before I go?” he requested.
Translation: If you hug me, then I know there’s still a shot. I’ll give you some space. I’ll come

back. Make a load of promises. Do better. Then backslide. But by then, I’ll have sucked more of your time and chipped away more of your confidence. I’ll have the chance to make you start wondering if you are being petty and then you’ll just fold my laundry and it’ll bug you, but you won’t mention it. And by the time you’ve realized you’ve subjugated all your needs to me, you’ll be menopausal and wondering what the fuck happened to your life.

Fortunately for me, my translation of going to him and giving him a hug was different.

He held me close and tight. He was tall-ish, and I liked that. He felt good and smelled good. I liked that too.

He kissed my neck.
I liked that too, even though, under the circumstances, it was an asshole thing to do.
I pulled at his hold, and he let me go.
Then he looked me in the eyes and made a promise.
“I see a future for us, babe, and I’m going to make that happen. Whatever you need. You

matter to me. I hate that I didn’t make that clear the way you need it. But I’ll prove it to you.”
I pitied the woman he trapped.
He gave me his cocky grin, which was a blow because I loved that grin, though I figured that wasn’t why he gave it to me.
It was just who he was.
“Can I have a couple of cookies?” he requested.
I stepped away so I was nowhere near the tray of cookies, or him, and he frowned. He didn’t

like that.
But I flicked a hand at them, an indication he could help himself. He took a handful, five stacked and cupped in his hand to be exact. So not exactly “a couple.”

But...whatever.

“Love you, Hellen,” he said, putting a lot of feeling behind that, and it cut me because it was genuine.

“’Bye,” I replied.
He didn’t like that either.
But he left.
When I heard the door close, I followed him.
I stood at the door and waited, and when he was sure to be away, I turned the deadbolt and put

on the chain.
I then went into the kitchen, sorted the cookies, put a lid on the dough, stashed it in the fridge, wandered back to my bedroom, curled up on my bed... And I cried.