Outlaw:
Part 1
Harrison Street Crew #2
By Katana Collins
Genre: Gritty Erotic Romance
Release Date: March 7, 2017
Synopsis
Worse than bad.
Hotter than hot. These are the bad boys of the Harrison Street Crew, and they
answer to no one. They take what they want. And what they want is you.
Patrick Flanagan
lives outside the law. The cops don’t like him. The law doesn’t trust him. He
may come at you with a charm and a handsome smile, but make no mistake—he’s as
reckless and bad as they come. But when a total bombshell with stilettos and a
power suit comes blazing into his life, this bad boy is about to be so, so
good…
Ambitious lawyer
Michelle Chiccarini vowed like hell she is going to do her best to prosecute as
many criminals as she could. Even if that means trying to put away Patrick
Flanagan, a man who can make her pulse quicken and fill her head with dirty,
wicked thoughts just by looking at him. She’s got to put him behind bars. But
how can she do that, when she can’t even resist his touch?
Patrick Flanagan won’t go to jail. Not when he’s got a woman as gorgeous as Michelle aching for his every touch and pushing his lust for her past the boiling point. Even though she’s a lawyer tasked with putting him in prison, he can’t stay away from her. Michelle is falling fast and hard for Patrick, but is he guilty? Or is he innocent? She wants to trust her bad boy from the streets, but is he telling the truth?
Excerpt
Chapter One
Four Months Later
Patrick Flanagan came to quickly.
Or at least, he thought it was quickly. His head was resting on the steering
wheel, his shoulders and chest slumping forward like dead weight. He blinked
awake. What happened? Where am
I?
Brushing his fingers over the ram
like symbol at the center of the wheel, he glanced around, eyes darting back
and forth. He wasn't in his car; his Pantera. Why wasn't he in his own car? He
squeezed his eyes shut, thinking hard. The memory slammed into him, hard and
fast. Oh, that's right... he stole this one. Some poor
unsuspecting fool's Toyota that they left running in the parking lot of a
Hannaford. When will people ever learn? Leaving the car running is to a car
thief what an unattended t-bone is to a stray dog. It was irresistible. An
invitation to steal it. A big fat target with flashing lights that said: Take me! I'm easy!
Red and blue lights streaked into
Patrick's car. Two cop cars were just now rolling to a stop behind him. The
cops were just pulling up, so he couldn't have been out that long. Breathing
deeply, he pulled himself together, wincing as he pushed himself off the wheel
and sat straight up.
What the hell caused him to
wreck?
He backtracked the evening's
events—the meeting between Harrison Street Crew and Sauceda's Crew. He wasn't
at the meeting though. He was the decoy if cops came into the area. He saw the
cruiser and took off to distract them, pull them away from the docks and it
worked like a charm. Until—oh yeah. That's what happened. A fucking cat
darted across the road or... hell, for all he knew it could have been a
raccoon. And going sixty on a 35mph back road, he swerved, smashing into a post
office box. He must have knocked himself out.
Waiting, he watched in the mirror
as the cops in one cruiser jumped out of their car, holding their guns out.
Shouting some nonsense about getting out of the vehicle.
Thank God he'd thought to choose
to steal a car with tinted windows; they couldn't make out his face. And so he
smiled at them in the reflection, knowing they couldn't see a damn thing. They
couldn't see his HSC vest or who he was or even that he was flipping them off.
Wiping at the blood trickling
down the side of his face, he gave it another few seconds. The second cruiser
wasn't getting out. They were the smarter cops.
“Okay girl,” he whispered,
brushing his hand over the steering wheel. “Sorry to do this to you, but we
don't have a choice.” Hopefully this Toyota's tires were okay... because if
not? They were about to find out the hard way.
Punching into reverse, Patrick
backed off the Southie curb, tires squealing as he slammed the clutch with his
foot and put the car in gear.
He took off, leaving the officers
with guns pointed at him scrambling like Keystone Cops. The cruiser that was
smart enough to leave their engine running took off after him. The night air
cut in through the sun roof blowing his curls wildly around his face and
providing a much needed coolness to his sweat-damp strands. Felt fucking great.
The blue and red lights hit
against the reflective rearview mirror, nearly blinding him. He pushed harder
and could smell the smoke of the engine, but at least it seemed the tires were
holding up. Those damn police lights wouldn't have been a problem if he hadn't
been trying to push up to eighty miles an hour in the curvy back roads of
Southie. But at that speed? A momentary flash of lights blinding you in the
mirrors could result in your car wrapped around a telephone pole.
Oh, wait, he thought chuckling to himself. Been there, done that.
Instead of slowing down, Patrick
tightened his grip on the steering wheel and squinting through distraction and
the headache pulsing at his temples, he pressed even harder into the gas pedal.
He had a job to do; one job tonight to accomplish for Rig and the Harrison
Street Crew. And that was to intercept any cops in the area and get them as far
from the docks as he could—then get back to Megan's Pub in time for the money
drop off.
And pray to God that the two
tasks don't get in the way of each other.
He turned up his radio, Black
Betty blaring through the speakers and he couldn't help the little smile that
tipped at the corner of his mouth.
This shit was fun. No way around
that. Even if he got caught, there was an exhilaration to the getaway. One that
pumped adrenaline through his veins so fast that he could practically feel the
chemical change taking affect.
The blue and red flashing lights
were gaining on him, the two headlights nearly kissing his bumper. But that was
the plan. Keep them with him until they were out of the vicinity.
Maneuvering around the other cars
on the road was always the hardest. Slow pokes sticking to the 35mph speed
limit—good for them. Patrick slid from right lane to left grabbing the small
bag of pop rocks he'd left in the cup holder and pouring a bunch into his mouth
as a distraction to the blood dripping from the cut on his head and the
pounding headache.
The sizzle of retro hard candy
and sugar just increased his pulse as the on-ramp to I-93 came into view.
This was it. “Come on
piggies—time to huff and puff,” he said to himself with another glance in the
rearview mirror. Then, he slammed his foot down on the accelerator jolting
forward with an additional 15mph. Not so fast that they couldn't keep up... but
time to get down to business.
A 16-wheeler was in the right
lane of the highway moving slow enough to be a problem, but fast enough that
Patrick couldn't get off the on-ramp without hitting the brakes. With the cops
on his ass? Hitting the brakes was not something he wanted to do.
“Shit,” Patrick muttered and
nervous sweat trickled down his neck. Instead of sliding into the proper lane,
Patrick stayed where he was, the car lurching as the on ramp turned into a
texturized shoulder of the highway. Vibrations rumbled beneath his ass as he
overtook the truck and abruptly swerved in front of it and just behind a Volvo.
The right lane was packed with
cautious drivers slowing down at the sound of the police sirens; that's what
responsible citizens do... they pull over. Slow down.
The good news was that the left
lane was wide open.
With a quick glance over his
shoulder, Patrick slid into the left lane and the cop had fallen back a few
cars behind the truck. A
cakewalk, Patrick thought.
He dipped under the tunnel
funneling him from South End Boston taking him right into downtown.
Something—someone would be waiting for him on the other side of that tunnel.
He just didn't know what yet.
Up ahead, the light from the edge
of the tunnel came into view growing larger and larger. The cop tailing him
hung back... still close enough to follow, but significantly slowing down.
A second siren ahead of him
echoed in the distance. He exited the tunnel, traffic beside him slowing and
stopping at the sounds of sirens and lights coming up behind them.
He zipped beyond the tunnel, back
out into Boston Center. From the next exit's on-ramp, he could see another
cruiser entering the highway.
Reinforcements. A high speed
chase in the middle of Boston wasn't something the police overlooked. Not with
the tense political climate these days and with Jeremy Chiccarini actively
trying to eradicate the car clubs from Boston.
If I can smoke one cruiser, I can
smoke two.
Except, this cruiser up ahead
wasn't attempting to chase him; it was staying to the side... off the road and
blocking the shoulder. Glancing in the rearview, he noticed the cop behind him
had slowed down even more. Still on his tail, but much further off in the
distance, the blue and red lights little pinpricks in the dark night.
Up ahead he heard the whomp of a
helicopter and a quick glance confirmed that it was not a news helicopter, but
a police air monitor. Something was up. They had a plan.
Patrick chewed on what was left
of the Pop Rocks in his mouth, enjoying the crunch as he thought hard.
No one was on the road up ahead—his
tires. They must be trying to take out his tires. And that's why the
cruiser was blocking the shoulder, so that he couldn't go around whatever they
had set up.
Well, shit. This
wasn't good. Every exit was blocked leading up to the tire blowers and he was
already two exits beyond where he was supposed to get off, heading toward North
End now.
Patrick eased off the gas,
slowing down. Tension was palpable in the air and he could see the cops
positioned, guns ready from behind the car. The off ramp was just beyond the
road block and they had barricaded the other ramp, cutting off civilian access
to the highway.
Once he had slowed down enough,
Patrick gripped the E-brake and with a deep breath and quick Hail Mary, he
yanked it, spinning the car in the opposite direction. The flow of traffic
behind him was at a crawl, staying far behind the scene and the cop that was on
his tail continued its advance; this time face on. Shoving into fourth gear,
Patrick accelerated once more, heading in the opposite direction of the highway
flow and directly toward the flashing lights and headlights of the cop. It was
a daring game of chicken, but one he knew he'd win. They had no idea if he was
armed and shooting at him wasn't an option.
He picked up speed, just above
seventy; not too crazy. In his rearview mirrors, he saw the cops that had set
up the barricade, scrambling to get into their car and chase him the other way.
The helicopter over head, stayed just above him.
Perfect. Fast enough to cause
alarm; but not so fast he would lose control.
Two thousand feet from the cop.
One thousand. And as he hit jut a few hundred feet, he pulled the ebrake again,
turning into the cove between the north and south highways where cops wait to
pull you over. The tires screeched beneath him and he could only imagine the
damage he was doing to this poor Toyota. A cop was waiting for him there, just
as he had anticipated—but with Patrick going sixty in that turn and the cop
standing still, it didn't stand a chance.
Patrick slammed into the stagnant
cop's back bumper and turned onto the opposite highway, going in the other
direction on I93, back with the flow of traffic.
No tire popping road blocks
there. And as suspected, the cruisers following him couldn't handle such a fast
and unexpected turn.
Two down, one to go, he
thought looking to the sky where the helicopter still tailed him. He took the
next exit, sliding off it easily and though still speeding, he was cautious not
to go too fast. Sticking about twenty above the speed limit. He was certain
that on the police radio, they were calling in other cruisers to cut him off
ahead. Patrick snaked his way through the city, traffic taking its toll on his
speed and he dodged, weaving in and out of the right and left lanes while also
taking unexpected turns that were completely unpredictable.
Though it took twice as long, he
finally pulled up to a parking garage in the Government Center. He slammed into
the red and white arm that was supposed to make you stop and take a ticket,
cracking the damn thing right in half. Completely covered from the helicopter,
he breathed a little easier as he raced up the ramp, curving around until he
reached the third floor of the parking garage, safely out of view. He could
hear the sirens behind him; the additional cruisers knowing just where he was
pulling up. There was no time to fuck around. He didn't even bother sliding the
stolen car into a parking spot. Pulling his baseball hat lower over his eyes,
he grabbed the rest of the Pop Rocks in his gloved hand, a few spilling onto
the driver's seat as he climbed out of the vehicle and slammed the door shut.
Peeling his vest off, he shoved it into a messenger bag he carried and
straightened his REO Speedwagon t-shirt, thankful that it wasn't a Celine Dion
concert that night at the Government Center. Walking quickly but casually, he
made it to the elevator, one by one hitting the fire alarms along the way.
A roar of panic swept around him
and below him at the government center as he stepped off the elevator into the
sea of people exiting the concert. Fear and anxiety was a potent force and the
crowd wasn't walking anymore—they were running toward the exits. Half of them
flooded the garage toward their cars to escape, the other half went to the
train station or just straight ahead; anywhere to get to safety. Patrick kept
pace with the crowd until he reached his car; his Pantera which he had parked
in a dirt lot outside of the concert earlier that day. He slipped the attendant
a twenty dollar bill and casually climbed inside, peeling his gloves off and
tucking them in the dashboard.
It was going to take Patrick
forever to get back to Southie, especially with all these road blocks. But if
he kept to the speed limit and didn't get pulled over, he should make it to
Megan's Pub in plenty of time to finish the drop off for Rig and the club.
He smiled, the exhilaration of
the chase causing a series of excited shivers convulsing his body. Pulling out
his burner phone, he texted Rig—his boss and President of HSC, his car club;
his family. His home.
All's well. No more cops should
be wasting time near the docks tonight.
It only took a moment for Rig's
response to come in:
Good. Get your ass back to
Southie. Deal is taking longer than I thought to secure, but I want you at
Megan's ready and waiting.
“Aye, aye, boss,” Patrick said
with a mock salute to the phone. Then texted confirmation that he was on his
way before he slid his vest back on and made his way back down to Southie.
And the night's only begun, he
thought.
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Meet the Author
Katana Collins is
lucky enough to love her day job almost as much as she loves writing. She
splits her time evenly between photographing boudoir and newborn portraits and
writing steamy romances in a variety of genres -- paranormal, contemporary, new
adult and suspense.
She bounces
between living in New York and Portland, Maine, with an ever-growing brood of
rescue animals: a kind of mean cat, a very mellow chihuahua, and a very not
mellow lab puppy... oh yeah, there's a husband somewhere in that mix, too. She
can usually be found hunched over her laptop in a cafe, guzzling gallons of
coffee, and wearing fabulous (albeit sometimes impractical) shoes.
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